Rocky Mountain Widow (Historical)

by Jillian Hart

  The dressmaker’s smile was reserved, but there was no mistaking that she was pleased with Betsy’s response. “I wanted to surprise you. I promised you that I would have this done in plenty of time for the wedding. And I have a little surprise, too. An early wedding gift for your trousseau.”

  Mrs. Jance laid a package wrapped in dainty white paper on the counter next to Betsy’s tea. She then turned her kind eyes to Claire. “I have saved up a whole box of my nicest remnants for you. Come into my office and take as long as you like to go through it. How are you feeling?”

  She doesn’t know about the miscarriage. Grief lifted in a fresh wave, but she managed to answer almost normally. “I was hoping to look at your remnants, thank you.”

  Betsy surprised her by reaching out and squeezing her hand. An unexpected touch of comfort, something a friend would do. Claire’s throat ached. Unable to find her voice, she had to let silence answer, but the steady empathy in Betsy’s eyes spoke of understanding.

  As she followed the shopkeeper through the busy store, she felt hope wrap around her like a wool blanket. Hope that the future ahead of her would not always be bleak and lonely.

  Joshua gritted his teeth, knuckled down his hat and nosed General straight into the cutting wind. It came from the east, gaining speed as it sailed across the high prairie plateau. A mean wind, and it was making his cracked ankle complain something fierce. He’d give just about anything to be inside right now soaking up the heat from a snapping fire.

  But bad weather was on its way and he wanted the last of the livestock rotated into the pastureland close to home. Rustling wasn’t big this time of year, but he’d lost a few animals to predators and they’d be safer off the open grazing lands.

  Not that the steers understood that. The sheep had been easy—get the leader going in the right direction and the entire herd would follow placidly along. But cows, hell. They had twice the smarts of a sheep unless they were stampeding, and you couldn’t keep the bunch of them together.

  “Stop lollygaggin’, Jordan!” he hollered, in no mood for the youngest brother’s inattention. “Bring that red steer in toward the others. Hell!”

  Too damn late. The young steer took off for the open prairie and Jordan after him, leaving the entire right flank open. A few other steers took notice and headed off that way, too.

  “He’s not a cattleman.” James shook his head in disappointment. “Or much of a sheep man, either. You want to ride up and close the gap?”

  “I’ll take it.” James had a patient eye and was good riding the tail and keeping the herd paced. As for Jordan, well, hell, he didn’t know what in blazes to do about his youngest brother. The wind seemed to hurl at him faster, damn near freezing the blood in his veins. And that had been a hell of a hard thing to do once he’d kissed Claire Hamilton. His temperature had seemed well above normal ever since.

  Maybe that’s why he was working hard. He told everyone who’d listen that he’d fallen behind keeping an eye out for the widow, but in truth, working hard kept his mind off her. Because any thought he had seemed to center on that kiss and roll on from there. And what good could come from that?

  Not one bit of good.

  He convinced a few strays to mosey on back to the herd and then he set out for Jordan, who’d been distracted over one single steer. “Get your ass over here, little brother, and—”

  The prairie rolled downward, giving him a sudden view of the iced-over creek bed below. And horse tracks. Shod draft horses. He got a tickle deep in his gut. Looking around, he tried to figure out whose land bordered the road to town. Not the Hamiltons’. And Deputy Logan’s land was farther south.

  But if they cut across this quarter section, it just might come out on Logan’s land. Logan. The image of him astride Claire’s sturdy Clydesdale made his stomach burn. It was a long shot, and those tracks were fresh. “Jordan, get back to the herd. I’ll bring this one in.”

  “Uh…sure.”

  It was simple enough to convince the tenacious steer with a few light whacks of the lariat to head on back. Joshua met up with James, sitting his saddle as easily as if it were temperate weather. James was a tough one. “You’ve been keepin’ watch on the deputy’s place?”

  “Every other night after midnight, just to see. Not a sign of the Clydesdales Miz Hamilton lost.”

  “You think he’d corral ’em up on someone else’s land?”

  “This time of year, why not? Most ranchers have their livestock close in.”

  “Are you up to a midnight ride tonight?”

  “You mean, you want company?” James gave him a knowing wink and pulled his muffler up over his face as if he were hiding a grin. “All this effort for a pretty widow. Some might think you had some reason to be sitting on her hilltop making sure she could sleep safe and sound.”

  Joshua’s conscience gave a kick. No one, not even James, knew he’d shot Ham that night. Maybe not the bullet that killed him, but he’d played a role in that night. And judging by the way James was laughing, he’d already drawn his own conclusion. “I’m not sweet on the widow,” Joshua said.

  “Sure, you’re not. We do this for every new widow.”

  “Glad you think it’s so funny.” He didn’t have time for this. Didn’t his brothers know him better than that? He was immune to love. Or more accurately, immune to the effect of a woman’s wiles, because that’s what love was. A man giving in to his need for sex, that simple. He was smart because he’d figured this out long before other men his age. Maybe because he had so much responsibility, he’d been too busy to fall when his school buddies had. They were tied down, dominated, and their very happiness every single hour of the day depended on how happy their wives were. That was a man’s lot.

  But not his.

  “Say, how’s the little wife of yours, James?” He waited until he heard James groan. “Has she thawed out from being pissed at you for going down to the Great Falls auction? Or are you back to sleeping in your warm bed?”

  “Be careful, Brother.” James yanked down his muffler to speak, but he was grinning as if he found something tremendously amusing. “You just might be singing a different tune. You never know.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Liam hauled back as the river of cattle kept moving forward. “I think he means that you just might have a woman controlling you before the end of the year.”

  “I say by Christmas,” Jordan hollered over the herd.

  What the devil? Were his little brothers taking bets about when he’d get married? He’d never heard of such a fool notion. “Get back to work. All of you.”

  “A hundred bucks for right after Betsy’s wedding.” James sounded…as if he were trying not to choke on his laughter.

  Damn it. “This isn’t one bit funny. Liam, there’s a calf heading off—”

  “I see it, don’t get your drawers in a twist.” He waved one gloved hand as if he was dismissing the house servant. “I’ll match your hundred.”

  “I think I can come up with that much!” Jordan chortled from the sidelines. “Oh, ho! Big brother married. We all knew this day would come.”

  “And then I won’t be the only sorry cuss with a wife to appease.” James seemed to think this was hilarious.

  Everyone laughed as if it were the best joke.

  When it wasn’t one bit funny. “All right, I can take a joke. Let’s get back to work. And keep your money in your billfolds.”

  “It’s a free country. A man can bet if he wants.” Liam drew up his mare. “I say we give the whole pot to Granny and let her be in charge of it. Sorry, big brother. This is what you get for taking a spark to a pretty woman. A very pretty woman. It happens to every good man eventually. Sure, you think no one can see the way you’re feeling, when it’s about as subtle as a bonfire at midnight.”

  “More like a prairie wildfire,” James added. “Joshua has gone a long time without a woman. He was bound to fall hard.”

  There was nothing amusing in
this at all. They’d gone too far, and it was about all he could take. “I haven’t fallen hard, and damn it, Jordan, I’d better take over.”

  Joshua was glad for the chance to retreat. It wasn’t every day his brothers got the best of him. They were mistaken, but it was a logical assumption. He supposed he’d take more ribbing before this was over.

  And it almost was. This consoled him as he took over point. He and his brothers had handled the Hamilton brothers—no big deal. It had taken five minutes out of an evening, and now he was a step closer to returning her horses to her. She was safe, her cattle were sold and this last piece would be the end of it.

  The absolute end of it. No more widow, no more infatuation, no more physical intimacy. Hell, it had been only a kiss. It wasn’t any big deal. Not at all. Just two lips touching. That’s all.

  It didn’t mean he wanted to throw away every last bit of his good sense and propose.

  It didn’t mean that he even wanted to kiss the woman again.

  It certainly didn’t mean his brothers were right, because they weren’t. He never had to see Claire Hamilton again, plain and simple. And he wouldn’t.

  Well, as soon as he’d returned her horses to her, of course. One accidental impulsive kiss was a mistake.

  But giving in to temptation and giving himself a second opportunity to do that again—why, that would be a calamity. He was too careful a man to come close to that kind of woman-made disaster.

  So, why couldn’t he stop the feeling that he was riding to keep ahead of a storm? Behind him the horizon was clear and the Rockies speared up like giants from the prairie floor. Their glacier peaks shimmered. The sun was shining, and not a snow cloud in sight. It wasn’t that kind of storm.

  It tailed him all the way home.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The next few frosty days blurred by. Working alongside Betsy had proven exhausting, but Claire didn’t mind hard work. What she minded were her sore muscles unused to scrubbing vigorously at a washboard for hours on end.

  She winced at the muscle pain in her arms as she tacked the curtain into place. The pretty light pink calico pearled in the lamplight. Claire backed off the chair and, when her feet were firmly on the floor again, she admired her work. She loved the delicate pattern of green leaves and pink rosebuds.

  Mrs. Jance always had the prettiest fabric. And she suspected Betsy had informed the shopkeeper of the miscarriage, since the seamstress had bustled into the back room with more boxes of remnants.

  Some losses never heal, she thought as she took the chair back to the kitchen table. Certainly her losses remained as palpable as the shadows surrounding her. The rustle of her skirt and the pad of her shoes echoed as she put the kettle to boil for tea water, and those movements clinked and stirred the silence.

  Maybe she wouldn’t always be alone, but for now it suited her fine. She snapped open the canister. The crisp aromatic scent of tea was like a comfort. Just right for a dark November evening like this one. The wind howled like a wolf outside the window, and the tiny hairs on her arms stood straight up, as if remembering the wolves that had actually been outside. She’d spotted a few prints in the morning snows off and on, but nothing as aggressive as that first night.

  Still, instinct had her turning down the lamp so the flame glowed a dying orange on the wick and peeked through the edge of the curtains into the lucid darkness. Nothing stirred, and yet she sensed something.

  Joshua. That’s what she felt. That odd, tingling awareness she experienced in his presence. She let the curtain fall into place. That is over and done with. Why did it feel as if a part of her was holding on to him? And for what reason?

  She didn’t want separate lives, separate paths, separate everything. There was great goodness in his heart. She’d seen it. Felt it. Admired the man he was. But he was a man, and no matter how charming or wonderful a man seemed, there was another side to balance it.

  Let him go, Claire. She’d made a hero of him in her mind, and her hungry heart had simply wanted to love. It was as if through the long years of her marriage, that part of her had been waiting, like a seed in the cold earth waiting for winter to end. Waiting to grow and bloom.

  But men don’t want a woman’s love, she knew from hard experience as she remembered her wedding night. Yes, a very harsh lesson that was.

  She filled the steeping ball and plunked it into the bottom of the teapot. Now that Joshua’s cousin had kept the Hamiltons from maneuvering her out of her home and thanks to Betsy’s upcoming wedding, Claire had a new job and a real home. This cabin wasn’t much, but it kept the cold winter snows out and she’d managed to create a comfortable space. Perhaps, in time, she could find a child in need of a home and of love. Heaven knows there were a lot of children who had no one.

  Hope. It rose within her like a tender new sprout. The shadows in her heart seemed less barren. Yes, a little girl, she thought, imagining how that would feel. Like the brightest light, the sweetest warmth. She pictured a little tea party in progress and a dolly’s things in the corner.

  After crossing the living room, she knelt to fit more wood into the fire, but the tentacles of the past slipped away. As she broke apart the flaming skeletons of wood, the embers glowed bright orange, feeding on air. Like her life, she thought, as she emptied the wood bin and wedged the cut lengths on top of the old. She was satisfied when the flames licked around the moss and bark, snapped and popped. Flames roared higher.

  A bang rocked the door. The poker tumbled from her hand as she startled. The clang as the iron poker hit the stone hearth rang discordant and foreboding. This time of year, it was too late for visitors to come so far to call, and she wasn’t expecting anyone.

  Aside from Betsy, whom did she know to come by? During her marriage, it had taken all her energy to keep Ham as calm as possible, and that had left no time for friendships. The knock came again, and the odd tingling with it. The one that skittered like a pond’s current through her soul whenever Joshua was near.

  “Claire?” His baritone rumbled with the power of spring’s first chinook. “Claire, are you in there?”

  Joshua. Her heart sang his name and, without being aware of it, her hand was on the knob. She’d loosened the latch and there he was, his sight a relief as if she’d been thirsting for it. Tall and dark and protectively powerful.

  Affection rippled through her soul. She had to fight it. She had to hold it back. She had to keep from caring. But how did she hold back her heart?

  “I didn’t mean to scare you.” He swept off his Stetson, snow tumbling from the brim. The lamplight from inside glinted on the snowflakes clinging to his long dark hair and the wide expanse of his broad shoulders. “It’s coming down so hard out here I didn’t think you’d hear the horse. Hope you don’t mind me droppin’ by like this, but I need a favor.”

  Anything, her heart answered. And she feared that answer appeared on her face too fast for common sense to rear up.

  Joshua went right on. “I found your workhorses.”

  “Thor and Loki?” That wasn’t what she had expected him to say—she wasn’t sure why he was here, but her horses! “You have them?” Were they safe and sound? She peered around him into the darkness, but the snowfall and night blocked all view of the barn.

  “No, but I know where they are.” Sheepish, he gave her a one-sided grin.

  Why did that simple crook of his mouth make her senses spin? Because he’d kissed her with that mouth. Because she wanted him to again.

  It was a good thing reason prevailed as she stepped aside. “Come in out of that wind. I’ve got some tea water heating.”

  “I’d sure appreciate that, Claire.”

  When he said her name, his voice dipped in note and resonated with warmth. Or was it her imagination? Either way, she didn’t want to stay to find out. She left him and the open door and shivered into the kitchen where the cookstove’s heat chased away the chill. She snatched the rumbling kettle just in time. The whistle began and died in the same
moment.

  She refused to observe him as the sequence of sounds identified what he was doing. The click of the door, the thud of his shoes as he removed them, the tinkle of icy snow on the floor as he slipped off his wraps.

  Then there was no sound. Only feeling. No pad of footsteps, only the tingling awareness of his approach like a lover’s whisper. It moved through her, like some fable out of her beloved novels, and she fought to corral it. To section off the foolish whimsy of her romantic wishes.

  Not dead after all, but alive and as vibrant as the man.

  Why on earth had he come? Her dazed mind fumbled for reality. Oh, yes, the horses. Her dear horses. How had she forgotten? She filled the teapot, unhappy with herself. She’d never felt like this about Hamilton, ever. Not even when he’d courted her, when he’d been so charming. Falsely charming, as it had turned out.

  “This heat sure feels good.” He cracked his thick knuckles and held his hands to the stove’s heat. The scent of bitter ice and winter wind lifted from him.

  The kettle hit the trivet with a clink and she backed away, taking the teapot with her. The boiling water turned the ceramic to an almost unbearable heat and she quickly slid the pot onto the edge of the table. But not fast enough. She felt Joshua’s curious gaze like a weight on the back of her neck and then he was behind her.

  “You have a piece of moss in your hair.” His wide hand curved to fit the round of her shoulder and his touch seared more than fire. Rocked her more than a punch. He spoke and his low pitch fanned the bare skin of her nape. “There. I got it. You want to know something?”

  Her soul sighed. No. I want to know how I can breathe when I’m near you.

  “My brothers and me, we’ve been watching this piece of property. More wilderness, really. It backs into the Big Paw Range, but it’s fenced. Seems yours are there in a small herd. There’s one problem.”