by Linda Ford
The longing for a husband and children of her own would have to go unfulfilled until she could successfully slay her hopes concerning Tom Leighton.
“I can’t dwell on the future. I have to focus on one day at a time.” The thudding of horses’ hooves against the hard earth alerted her. “He’s here.”
Retrieving her satchel, she looped it over her shoulder and entered the yard.
Jess followed. “Be strong, sister of mine. I’ll say a prayer for you.”
Tom guided the team to a stop. His motions fluid despite his impressive height, he jumped down and, after advising Clara to remain in the wagon bed, strode across the yard. Neat charcoal-gray trousers encased his long, muscular legs. A button-down shirt the color of spruce trees hugged his fit upper body, the rolled-up sleeves revealing corded forearms lightly dusted with fine hairs. His eyes glowed even brighter than usual. His dark hair hadn’t yet seen a pair of scissors, nor his chiseled jaw a razor. Strange. She’d thought he would’ve cleaned up for this first meeting with Megan. Personally, she preferred the rugged look. She linked her hands behind her back, away from the temptation of that beard, lest she succumb again to the need to touch him.
As he neared, his intense gaze lit on her, and he flashed an endearing smile she felt all the way to her toes.
She pitched her voice low. “Better pray hard, Jess. I’m going to need it.”
*
“I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
Beside him on the high seat, prim and proper and delicately beautiful in her high-collared russet-hued dress, she sat rigid with tension. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the wood.
“I wasn’t sure myself,” she said softly.
“I messed up, Jane. I was so absorbed in my own problems, I didn’t stop to consider your feelings.” If his brother was here, would he be saying the same things? How difficult would it be to come to a place of forgiveness? “I don’t blame you for being angry. Never should’ve asked Josh to keep my whereabouts quiet.”
“No more apologies, okay? What’s done is done.”
Frustrated at his inability to gauge her true state of mind, he dared take her hand. He wished he wasn’t wearing gloves so he could enjoy, however briefly, the soft texture of her skin. “You probably won’t believe me, but you were never far from my thoughts.”
Her gaze lifted from their joined hands to his face, searching, probing for answers. Opening up about what happened wasn’t easy. He’d do it for her sake, though.
“In those first months of trying to get my head on straight, I often asked myself what you’d think about this or that…if you’d appreciate the stark wildness of the land, the unending flatness of it all, a sky so blue it hurt to look at.” He smiled a little. “The ranch hands liked to sit out by the fire at night. There was one guy, Cookie, who played the guitar and sang the worst ditties you’ve ever heard in your life. Made me wish you were there to show them what a talented singer was supposed to sound like.”
Alone on his cot in the bunkhouse, he’d think back to those times he’d drifted off to the sound of her lyrical voice. Picnics with the O’Malley sisters, joined sometimes by Josh and his brothers, had been one of his favorite pastimes. Good food. Great company. When he could eat no more and the sun had lulled him into a sleepy state, he’d lain on a quilt, hat over his face, and listened to Jane’s soft singing as she poured her thoughts into her journal.
Jane didn’t comment. Face angled away, her attention was on the roaring river tumbling over moss-covered boulders and under the wooden bridge they were crossing. The air had a moist twang to it, a pleasant earthiness typical to this area. In the near distance, people bustled up and down Main Street conducting their daily business.
He was both surprised and pleased that she hadn’t removed her hand.
“The situation in Kansas…” His fingers subconsciously tensed on hers. “It deteriorated quickly after Jenny’s death. I found myself in charge of a very sad, confused little girl. Whenever I neared the end of my rope, tempted to give up, I’d think of you.”
Head tipping toward his, her fine brows crashed together. “Why?”
“You said it yourself. You finish what you start. You’re so strong, Jane. You handle difficulties with a grace I could only hope to mimic.”
“I would’ve given anything for one letter from you.”
She looked incredibly sad, and a little surprised she’d admitted it.
“That’s how I feel about Charles. He’s doing to me what I did to you. I’m not sure I’d forgive me if I were you.”
The wagon dipped to the side as the right front wheel hit a shallow depression. She didn’t flinch, didn’t remove her tumultuous gaze from his. “Our situations are vastly different. You didn’t owe me anything. Not really.”
“Our friendship mattered to me. You mattered. And I made you feel like you didn’t.”
He regretted that more than he could express.
Emotion slid behind her eyes. Mercy? Understanding?
Her mouth softened. “You’re home now. Let’s put the past to rest.”
She took her hand back then, and he stifled a protest.
Reins firmly in his grip, he glanced into the wagon bed to check on Clara, who’d been quiet the entire ride. Propped against the far side, she observed the passing scenery. Her springy curls were freshly washed—he winced at the memory of her protests as he’d tried to untangle them with a comb—but her yellow dress was too short, the puff sleeves a little too snug about her small arms. He was going to have to hire someone to fashion her a couple of new dresses. Maybe nightgowns, too. Even if he knew how to sew, there simply weren’t enough hours in the day.
Returning his attention to the rutted road, he said, “Something smells delicious. What’s in the basket?”
“Rhubarb pie.”
Tom groaned, his mouth watering at the prospect of sampling Jane’s cooking after so long a drought. “I sure hope your sister is in a sharing mood.”
At that, she stiffened. He wondered at the cause.
She twisted around to address his niece. “Do you like rhubarb, Clara?”
“I don’t know.”
He felt Jane’s speculative regard. “Did your sister-in-law not like to bake?”
“She did.” He lowered his voice. “Clara was only four when she passed and probably doesn’t remember a whole lot. And neither Charles nor I are that handy in the kitchen. We managed to get simple meals on the table. Nothing fancy.”
Lots of beans and corn bread. Slabs of pork fried in hog fat. Fried chicken. Sometimes vegetables made an appearance on their plates. Greens from the yard. Potatoes or carrots he’d purchased from a neighbor. After Charles lost himself in the bottle, preparing breakfast, lunch and dinner fell to Tom. The entire situation had exhausted him, mentally and physically. That wasn’t the kind of life he wished for Clara.
Not for the first time since he’d received guardianship, he considered the prospect of a wife. Clara would benefit from a woman’s presence. There were things he simply couldn’t teach her. With all the upheaval in their lives, however, he lacked the time and inclination to search for a suitable bride.
Admit it, marriage for convenience’s sake doesn’t appeal. You want the real deal. Like what Charles and Jenny had shared. Love. Mutual respect and affection. A true partnership.
As if she’d read his mind, Jane said haltingly, “Perhaps she could spend some afternoons with me and Jessica. I’d be happy to teach her the basics. She’s not too young to learn how to make dough for biscuits and bread. You’d have to tend the stove, of course.”
“I think that’s a fine idea.”
“Have you found a caretaker for her yet?”
Spying the turnoff to the Beaumont home, he shook his head as he urged the team onto the shaded lane. “Getting the farm into working order has dominated my time. You haven’t changed your mind, have you?”
“I wish I could help you.” She bit her lip. “I can’t.”
> He didn’t speak as the trees thinned out and there atop a gentle incline sat the grand yellow Victorian. A ribbon of colorful blooms hugged the front of the house. More formal flower gardens were laid out behind the two-story home, with winding walkways and hidden benches and fountains. This place had once belonged to Lucian Beaumont’s grandfather. Lucian had come to Gatlinburg with the intention of selling it. Meeting Megan had changed his mind.
They stopped beside the barn. Setting the brake, he rested the reins in his lap and angled toward Jane. The light freckles stood out in sharp contrast to her skin. Even her lips had gone pale.
“Are you all right? You’re not ill, are you?”
“Ill?” She plucked at her stiff collar. “No.”
“Then what’s the matter?”
“I had a restless night, that’s all.”
Her smile had a brittleness to it that troubled him. This was more than merely being upset with him. Was she hurting because of her deceitful fiancé? Was it the humiliation of the public revelation keeping her up at night?
“Is it Roy? Did he come to see you?”
“He has no reason to.”
Curving a rogue strand behind her ear, she adjusted one of the pins supporting her elegant hair arrangement, swoops and twists and miniature braids that made her appear older than her years.
She gathered up her skirts and made to descend on her side. He thought he heard her mumble, “Let’s get this over with.”
“Wait.” He left his gloves under the seat. “I’ll assist you.”
His boots met the ground and, after swinging Clara free of the bed and making her giggle with how high he swung her, he reached up to grip Jane’s waist. She balanced herself against his shoulders. Once she was on the ground, Tom discovered he was reluctant to release her. She was warm and supple beneath his hands, the raised design on her bodice rubbing against his palms. A tiny gold cross suspended from a thin gold chain nestled in the hollow of her collarbone. It was the only piece of jewelry she wore, and he recognized it as a gift from her deceased father.
Quickly moving out of his reach, she held out a hand to his niece. “My sister has a little girl about the same age as you. Her name is Rose, and she has a beautiful, handcrafted doll house and a number of dolls that I’m sure she’d let you play with. Would you like that?”
Clara’s eyes grew large. Slipping her hand in Jane’s, she nodded, contemplative as they headed through the short grass to the sweeping front porch. Having retrieved the basket containing the pie, Tom walked behind the pair, thoughts in turmoil. He had to get a grip. If Jane guessed these strange notions bombarding him, she’d be deeply disturbed. Josh would throttle him.
Tom rationalized with generic facts. It was natural for him to notice the physical changes in her. Any man would be thrilled to be near her.
His mind was on Jane as they ascended the wide steps, crossed the porch boards painted white and rang the bell on the fancy, carved wooden door. As a result, he wasn’t prepared for the sight of his former love standing in the open doorway. All social graces abandoned him, and he stood gaping at Megan like a nervous young buck.
“Tom.” She blinked. “Jane.”
She hadn’t changed at all. Petite, shorter than him by several inches, Megan possessed an ethereal beauty that ought to be preserved in a painting. Ringlets the color of moonlight framed a face unblemished by the sun, her peaches-and-cream complexion in contrast to large sea-blue eyes.
“Hello, Megan. You’re looking as lovely as ever,” he blurted, regretting it when color surged in her cheeks and next to him, Jane’s harsh inhale punctuated the silence.
Great. No doubt they both assumed he was still madly in love.
Pulling open the door, she gestured for them to enter the small alcove, the sleeves of her pink-and-white-striped blouse fluttering. An ornate wedding band adorned her left hand. At his insistence, she’d worn his ring for a short time while considering his proposal. The day she’d returned it was high on his list of painful memories. Only after spending time with his brother and sister-in-law and witnessing their devotion to one another had he recognized she’d been right to refuse him.
Megan hadn’t loved him. A truth that didn’t inflict pain like it had before.
“Lucian mentioned that you’d returned. Is this your niece?”
Pulling himself together, he introduced the two and asked after her husband. While he and the New Orleans native weren’t friends, he respected the man.
“He’s out hunting with Patrick, our son.”
Josh had told him that the couple had experienced difficulties having children. Years ago, when the wounds from her rejection were still fresh and his jealousy toward Lucian Beaumont had raged in him, he might’ve experienced a twinge of satisfaction. But no more. He couldn’t rejoice at their troubles. He was glad they’d found a way to have a family.
Megan enfolded Jane in a brief hug. “How are you, sweetie?”
“Perfectly well.”
Jane stood slightly apart from him and Megan, as if she didn’t want to intrude. The siblings exchanged a look he couldn’t interpret. What was going on? And why did Jane look so miserable?
Chapter Six
Jane had lied. She was ill. Very ill, indeed.
Her whole body felt as if it wasn’t quite tethered to the ground. Her limbs trembled. And a vise was squeezing her insides until she could hardly breathe.
In that initial moment when Tom saw Megan, his reaction had confirmed her suspicions…he still loved her. There could be no arguing the fact.
As they followed her sister down the long papered hallway to the back porch, Jane was once again confronted with a heartbreaking truth—she was not what he desired in a wife. The epitome of delicate beauty, Megan’s personality was such that people craved her company. She was comfortable reading storybooks to scores of children while their parents looked on. She even dressed like the characters! There wasn’t enough money in the world to induce Jane to do such a thing. No, she preferred solitude to crowds. Peace and quiet to outright attention.
It made sense that Tom would prefer a woman with well-honed social skills. He was open and friendly, able to strike up a conversation with anyone he came in contact with. That was part of why he’d been such a successful barber. He’d treated his customers like dear family members.
There were any number of such single women in Gatlinburg who’d welcome his interest. Best that she start preparing herself for that event. Once he got the farm situated, he’d be on the lookout for a wife. A daytime caretaker was merely a short-term solution for Clara’s needs.
As they exited the house, she stumbled over the doorjamb, and his hand came to rest against her lower back, guiding her over to the grouping of painted metal chairs with cushioned seats. The familiarity of his touch reminded her of old times, the weight and heat registering through her cotton dress and igniting a roaring inferno of longing within her chest. Such an innocuous gesture and yet devastating.
Urging them to sit, Megan waved to her daughters, who were inspecting a butterfly hovering above the patch of bleeding heart flowers. Seventeen-year-old Lillian said something to the small child at her side and, taking her hand, walked her over to the steps. Tom remained standing, his focus on the girls.
She knew what he was thinking. Lillian, with her waist-length blond curls and pale skin, could pass for Megan’s sister. Rose, on the other hand, had dark brown hair and olive skin like Lucian.
As the girls neared, Clara tucked closer into Tom’s side. He gently stroked her curls and murmured encouraging words. Jane winced. This was the reason she couldn’t be Clara’s caretaker. She couldn’t be in their presence every day, couldn’t witness his patience and affection without yearning to be included. To share in the care and nurturing of this sweet, vulnerable child. And, impossibly, to give him more children. Build a family with him.
Please, God, let this visit be brief.
Motherly pride on her face, Megan brought them over. “
Girls, I’d like you to meet a dear friend of our family, Mr. Tom Leighton. And this is his niece, Clara.”
Lillian blushed and smiled. “How do you do?”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Tom said warmly.
Rose observed Clara with keen interest.
“Girls, how about you show Clara the gardens?” Megan said.
“Certainly. Rose has some dolls on the table there.” Lillian pointed to the white wrought-iron setting on the garden’s perimeter. “Would you like to come and play?”
Clara looked up at her uncle, silently questioning. He bestowed her with a bright smile. “Go ahead, little bird. I’ll be right here.”
Megan lifted the basket Jane had given her. “I’ll have our treat dished out in a few minutes. I’ll prepare tea for you, sis. Tom, would you care for coffee?”
“I’d love some.” Striding to her side, he relieved her of her burden. “I’ll help you get everything ready.”
Jealousy flushed her skin hot, then cold. Jane hated that she was jealous of her own sister. Forgive me, Lord.
“I’ll stay with Clara,” she scraped out, throat burning. He’d invited her here to smooth things between them. Apparently he didn’t require her presence, as he’d initially thought.
Megan flashed her a look of apology. Tom thanked Jane, already leading the way to the door, holding it open like a proper gentleman.
Clara tugged on her sleeve. “Let’s go, Miss Jane.”
Gazing down into wide, solemn green eyes so much like Tom’s, she realized how immature she was being. This child had endured the loss of her mother. Her father had willingly abandoned her. She was in a new, unfamiliar town far from Kansas, surrounded by people she didn’t know. Jane’s shallow problems were inconsequential compared to Clara’s.
Summoning a smile, she squeezed her hand. “What shall we do first? Play dolls or explore the gardens?”
*
Two days later, Tom couldn’t get the image of Jane and Clara out of his head. He and Megan had emerged carrying trays brimming with pie and hot drinks and there, in the midst of the stone path flanked by a profusion of pastel blooms, sat Jane, his niece on her lap, heads bent as they studied a caterpillar in her cupped hands.
