She reached behind her for the basket, her gaze drawn to Will’s trunk. The domed black chest sat just where he’d left it six months ago. He’d always been possessive of the battered piece of luggage. He never opened the lid in her presence, and he kept the hinge securely locked when he was away.
In the early days of their marriage she’d been obsessed with the contents, curious as to why he kept secrets from her. When the undertaker had delivered Will’s personal belongings in a wooden crate, she’d expected to find a key.
Instead, the grim-faced undertaker had ignobly presented her with his grim bounty. An enormous sum of cash carelessly wadded together and secured with a band. The funds for Will’s escape from domestic responsibilities.
Later, at the funeral, the undertaker had looked her up and down, suspicion in his lifeless gray eyes. The amount of money had been too excessive for a humble railroad worker, especially given Will’s propensity for spending his paychecks before the ink had dried on the paper. Only a cheat could have acquired that much money, the undertaker’s eyes seemed to accuse.
She’d decided then and there that what she didn’t know couldn’t hurt her. From that moment on, she lost all desire to peer into the trunk. The more details she discovered about Will’s hazy past, the less certain she became of herself, of her judgment. By opening the trunk, she risked opening wounds that had only just begun to heal. Later, when she wasn’t feeling so fragile, she’d delve into the skeletons he’d left behind during his hasty exit.
While Rachel dozed, she lined the laundry basket with another patchwork quilt she’d sewed especially for the baby, then laid the swaddled infant snuggly inside.
“A basket and a drawer.” Elizabeth clicked her tongue. “We should have named you Laundry Day instead of Rachel Rose.”
The baby blinked, her somber gaze trusting and innocent. A disarming tide of emotion rolled over Elizabeth. The awesome responsibility of shepherding this new life into the harsh world stunned her once again. She didn’t know anything about babies. The years before her job at the bakery and then her marriage had been spent in an orphanage where the children were segregated by age.
While most of the older girls had chosen to work with the infants, Elizabeth had taken a job in the kitchens. Seeing those helpless babies, abandoned and alone, had been unbearable. She shuddered at the memory of sparse iron beds lined up against cold, bleak walls. The endless rules and constant chores. Thank heaven Rachel Rose would never have to suffer that life.
Elizabeth tipped her head to the timbered ceiling. “I think I know what you were trying to tell me. I was praying for myself when I should have been praying for others.”
God had never been a presence in her life. Maybe that’s why He hadn’t answered her prayers. Mrs. Peabody from the orphanage had marched them to church on Sundays, their smocks pressed and their hair brushed smooth, but the service had been in Latin. Though Elizabeth had been entranced by the sheer beauty of the church, she’d never understood the words.
She’d been anxious to attend a service in Cimarron. Unfortunately, despite his earlier pious claims, Will had harbored an aversion to churches. They’d even been married by a justice of the peace. A ceremony so rushed, she’d barely registered the event before Will had whisked her to the train depot and settled them on a Pullman car bound for Kansas.
Elizabeth shook off the unsettling memories. Living in the past was a dull and lonely business. One thing was for certain, she’d never trust another man until she had seen a true test of his character.
She lifted Rachel’s basket, then marched to the kitchen, her weary body braced for a full day of scrubbing. She raised her head, jerking to a halt. Every surface shined. Even the copper kettle gleamed in a shaft of light streaming through the clear glass windowpanes freed from the dimming oilcloth.
Her eyes wide, Elizabeth glanced around the room. Jo must have been up all night to have accomplished such a feat. The brightly polished tin pots and pans hanging against the wall had been neatly arranged by size.
Setting Rachel on the worktable before the stove, Elizabeth made a note to give the girl extra wages this week. Will’s money might as well benefit someone deserving of the blessing.
While she admired the spotless kitchen, Mr. Elder shouldered his way through the back door, his arms full of split wood, his hat set low on his head. A gust of frosty air swept a dusting of snow in his wake.
“I thought you’d be gone by now,” Elizabeth blurted, astonished to find her heart thumping against her ribs. Certainly she wasn’t afraid of him any longer. He’d shown himself to be honorable, if a tad overbearing. Heaven knew he’d had more than ample opportunity to take advantage of them.
His silver star caught the sun, reflecting light. The sight of the lawman’s badge caused the memory of the sheriff’s threats to explode in her head. There was more than one person in Cimarron Springs who’d like to recoup their losses with the sale of her belongings. Will had been a gambler, and everyone in town had lost money or property to him at one time or another. Yet despite the sheriff’s threat to confiscate her property, he’d been too lazy to prove his suspicions.
She didn’t need him spurred into action by another lawman.
Jack wiped his feet on the rag rug before stepping into the room. He jostled the wood in his hands for a better grip. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I had some chores left.” He jerked his head in the direction of the splintered hinges.
“That’s very kind of you, but there’s really no need… .”
Their eyes met and held for a long moment. She’d thought Will handsome, but her late husband paled in comparison to Mr. Elder. While Will had been fair with washed-out blue eyes, the Ranger’s features were bold, exaggerated, not at all perfect. His crooked nose indicated he’d broken it, more than once judging by the flattened bone. A faded scar ran the length of his strong jaw, visible through the stubble shadowing his chin. Deep lines creased his forehead between the dark slash of his eyebrows.
Taken separately, the imperfections should have lessened his attraction, but each one of those minor flaws worked together to lend him a rugged, earthy appearance. His scars revealed a man who had been tested and lived to tell the tale. The realization sent a tingle of apprehension down her spine. She sensed the Ranger’s restless need to leave, his barely leashed discontent, even while he lingered, making minor repairs he might have abandoned with impunity. The discrepancy confused her.
Unsure what else to say, she tore her gaze away. She opened the oven door, and stoked the scarlet embers before setting a pan on the stove and pouring in a measure of fresh milk to warm.
Mr. Elder trudged through the kitchen three more times while she arranged her workspace, his arms heaped with a new batch of wood on each trip. She dusted her hands together and shook her head. At this rate, she wouldn’t need to refill the woodpile until next fall.
Grasping a tin scoop, she heaped flour along with two generous pinches of salt into an enormous creamware bowl, then pressed her fingers into the mound, digging a hole. After brushing her hands on her apron, she reached into the pie safe and pinched off a corner of yeast, crumbling the moist leaven into the center of the flour. With the milk properly scalded, she added a dollop of bacon grease, stirring until the ingredients melted together.
While the mixture cooled, she wiped down the table with a damp rag. Once she’d gingerly tapped the side of the pan to ensure a lukewarm temperature, she poured the thickened milk into the well of flour. Waiting for the yeast to dissolve, she gradually added a generous handful of sugar.
The Texas Ranger pounded on the back door as she worked. Elizabeth winced at the hammering. Rachel barely stirred.
He paused his work at one point, stepping into the snug kitchen with his hat in his hands. “Is the noise too much? Am I disturbing your daughter?”
Her
heart jolted. Hearing someone else call Rachel her daughter made the whole experience real. This is my family. Something no one could take away. “Looks like this child would sleep through dynamite.”
He gestured toward her face. “You’ve got a bit of, umm, flour on your…”
Elizabeth’s hand flew to her warm cheek. She scrubbed at the mark. “I didn’t notice.”
His own cheeks red and chapped with cold, he cleared his throat with a curt nod, then backed away to resume his work inside. She took in his appearance, smiling at the way his expensive wool coat with a fresh tear in the shoulder stretched over his broad shoulders. He was a large man with an enormous chest tapering down to a lean waist, but he kept a respectful distance, never using his size to intimidate.
He glanced over his shoulder on his way out, catching her curious regard.
Confused by the fluttering in the pit of her stomach, she ducked her head to tighten the apron around her waist. With the Ranger gone, she focused her attention on the liquid mixture foaming merrily in the center of the flour. Satisfied she’d waited long enough for the yeast to develop, she folded in the dry ingredients, invigorated by the familiar process. Making bread was her favorite chore.
She loved the silky texture of the flour, the way the dough gradually came together beneath the heels of her hands to form a smooth, elastic ball. The way the yeast smelled like a summer’s day, warm and comforting.
Mr. Elder returned again, his saddlebags slung over his left shoulder. He’d packed to leave. To her chagrin, that curious fluttering resumed.
He snatched off his hat. “I replaced the hinges. You shouldn’t have any problems.”
“I appreciate that.”
“I cut the stumps for kindling.”
“Thank you.”
An emotion she couldn’t quite read flitted across his face. “Well, then. I filled the woodpile in the parlor.”
The barren room was hardly a parlor, but she appreciated his concern. “I saw. Was there any room left to sit?”
He flashed a lopsided grin. Not the charming smirk he’d plastered on his face that first night to put her at ease, but a genuine smile. “Just enough.”
She was struck by how young he looked without his usual scowl. His abashed expression softened the lines of his face, smoothing the customary crease of worry between his eyebrows. His hair wasn’t black, as she’d supposed that first night, but more of a deep chocolate. His hazel eyes sparkled with flecks of gold around the irises, lightening the somber effect of his austere demeanor.
She was unaccustomed to such relaxed behavior in a man. Though he’d been delayed on his journey, he didn’t prowl around the house like a caged animal, or burst into action with unleashed energy. He held himself straight and tall. Even when he feigned casual indifference, she sensed a stiffness in his spine, a certain resolve in his stance.
A sudden need to capture this moment overwhelmed her. She wanted to remember the way he circled the brim of his hat in his hands, the way he kept peeking at Rachel when he thought she wasn’t looking.
There had been so few moments in her life she had tucked away, saving like priceless treasurers. Why this one? She glanced at Rachel Rose, swaddled in peaceful slumber. This unfamiliar emotion bubbling to the surface, this sensation of warmth and safety wrapping around her like a velvet cloak must be attached to the infant.
Elizabeth floundered for something to say, anxious to avoid the troublesome feelings Mr. Elder aroused. It was best he left now, before she was disillusioned, before time and familiarity revealed the cracks in his facade.
He stuck his hat on his head, lowering the brim to shield his eyes. “I should be going.”
Elizabeth busied herself with separating the dough. “Thank you for everything you’ve done. Someday I’ll tell Rachel the story of her birth. How you thought I was a bank robber.”
They both chuckled, her own forced laugh hollow and strained.
When the awkward silence fell once more, he peered at her from beneath the brim of his hat. “When I tell the boys this story, I’ll be painting a more heroic picture of myself.”
“You did just fine, Mr. Elder.”
“After all we’ve been through, I think you can call me Jack.”
Suddenly shy, she met his sheepish gaze. The name suited him. It was strong and solid. Elizabeth let her gaze skitter away from those compassionate, hazel eyes. “Goodbye, Jack.”
“Goodbye,” he replied. “I’ll just be going.”
Neither of them moved.
A sharp sorrow robbed her of breath. She attacked her kneading with renewed vigor.
“Jack,” she spoke, prolonging the moment, “can you check on Jo? I don’t know what’s taking her so long with chores.”
“I saw her in the barn earlier.” His boots scuffed the floor.
Elizabeth suppressed a grin. He probably didn’t even notice his own nervous fidget, the boot scuffing that reminded her of a young boy, but she found the gesture charming.
Her somber mood lightened like a leavened pastry. “Tell Jo I’m making bread.”
She squelched the urge to slap her forehead. Of course she was making bread. Why had she said such a silly thing? What was wrong with her? She was behaving like a giddy schoolgirl.
Jack cleared his throat. “I will.”
“Where will you go after this?”
She didn’t even know why she’d asked, except that talking meant he wasn’t leaving just yet, and she missed the company of another adult.
“I’ve got to see the sheriff.”
Her effervescent mood plummeted. Clearing her throat, she stood up straighter. “Tell him we’re doing fine. Just fine.”
He nodded.
Another moment laden with unspoken words passed between them. She grasped for an elusive farewell, a way to thank him that encompassed her diverse emotions, but no words came. Jack pinched the brim of his hat between two fingers, tipping his head in a parting gesture before the door closed quietly behind him.
She pressed the back of her hand to her brow. The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Those pesky, annoying, infuriating tears were clogging her throat once more. What on earth was wrong with her?
A lank strand of hair had fallen across her forehead, and she shook it away with a sigh. She was tired, that was all. Rachel had awakened three times last evening to be fed and changed. All this weeping must be due to her exhaustion.
The growing fatigue pulled her to slump on the stool before the worktable. She didn’t need a man around the house.
Rachel’s face pinched up a like a dried apple, her lips trembling in distress. The infant’s faint mewling reverberated in Elizabeth’s chest.
Better that Jack left now. Keeping this home meant keeping her family together, and a wandering lawman asking questions about her past didn’t bode well. She was glad he was gone. For good. She was doing just fine on her own.
Just fine.
If she repeated the mantra often enough, maybe she’d even believe her own lies.
Chapter Five
If Jack hadn’t been so furious, he might have seen the humor in his current situation. First off, he’d never seen a man so partial to drab brown—the exact color of the hindquarters of a bay mare. Dressed head to toe in the unflattering hue, Cimarron Spring’s sheriff resembled a great mound of lumpy, oozing mud.
The older man’s dirty-blond hair was saturated with gray, and his eyes mirrored the washed-out beige of his stained and wrinkled shirt. An extra-long pair of suspenders stretched over his shoulders. A leather belt hooked on a freshly notched hole, perilously near the ragged tip, strained to cinch his spreading waist. Ferretlike eyes took Jack’s measure.
The sheriff smacked his flabby lips together. “You shoulda to
ld me you was lookin’ for a live horse,” he cackled, his enormous belly undulating with laughter. “Now, that’s a different story.”
Clenching his teeth, Jack let his molten anger cool into hardened steel. He failed to see the humor in sending a fellow lawman on a wild-goose chase. “I’m looking for a live horse and a live man. A man who murdered a woman during a bank robbery.”
Jack had been in Cimarron Springs for several days, waiting for a meeting. Both the sheriff and the town doc had been unavailable. While Jack understood the doc’s busy schedule causing a delay, he’d yet to discern the cause of the sheriff’s stalling. As far as Jack could tell, the only pressing item on that man’s schedule was his next meal.
Under Jack’s unyielding scowl, the jovial smile on the sheriff’s face gradually dissolved into a blank stare. “Don’t get all uppity on me, Ranger,” the man spoke, his tone defensive. “I’ve got a lot going on here. There’s a flu epidemic crippling the town. We’ve had six deaths already. The undertaker had to pile the bodies in the lean-to. Good thing it’s winter or we’d a had a putrid smell.”
The sheriff thoughtfully rubbed at his drink-reddened cheeks. No doubt concerned about the effect of such a noxious odor on his appetite.
“I’m sorry for the town’s losses,” Jack replied, though nothing in the sheriff’s demeanor suggested he had suffered unduly. “But you knew I was searching for outlaws, and you sent me to a homestead.”
Jack kept out the part where he’d aimed his gun at a woman in labor—for Mrs. Cole’s privacy, and his own credibility. He might have lived an uncommitted life, never staying long enough in one place to let the gossips sink their teeth into his hide, but Elizabeth didn’t have the luxury of escaping a scandal generated by his stay on her property.
“You asked about a horse,” the sheriff pointed out. “I told you the truth. Will Cole was partial to a distinctive bay mustang.” The older man snorted. “’Course, they’re both dead now.”
Jack reigned in his growing frustration. Incompetence was no excuse, and the sheriff’s feigned ignorance had his teeth on edge. Elizabeth’s husband certainly wasn’t a bank robber. Enough money had been stolen during the Wells Fargo job to leave a man set like a king. Jack had yet to meet a thief capable of restraining his natural desire to immediately spend his ill-gotten gains. A fellow with that much money didn’t live on an isolated homestead with only one milk cow and a bunch of scrawny chickens.
Winning the Widow's Heart Page 6
