Winning the Widow's Heart

by Sherri Shackelford

  Elizabeth straightened her spine. “What next?”

  “Squint your left eye, and focus your right eye on that shrub in the distance. You’ve got a near sight on the barrel, and a far sight on the muzzle. Line them up against your target.”

  She concentrated on his instructions, willing her thudding heart to slow. The wind kicked up again, ruffling her skirts around her ankles. Focusing her attention on the target, she ran the tip of her tongue over her parched lips. The arm holding her steady stiffened.

  Jack audibly cleared his throat. “That’s it. Now bring your cheek to rest on the stock and line up the sights.”

  His scent enticed her—a distracting combination of wood smoke, shaving lather and something musky.

  “There’s going to be a kick when you pull the trigger. Keep the stock tight against your shoulder, or it’s going to hurt.”

  “Okay,” she replied, blinking against the wind.

  Her courage drained away as the memory of her last experience returned with startling clarity. How her ears had rung from the thunderous report. The way her shoulder had stung for a week. Elizabeth pinched her eyes open and shut a few times to release the tension, then shifted her feet.

  “Take your time,” Jack murmured.

  He waited patiently while she gathered her nerve. When she nodded, he released his hold on the gun, letting her steady the weight while still maintaining his comforting position behind her. She felt his chest move with his deep, even breathing. Her sporadic heartbeat grew more even. She concentrated on the present, clearing her thoughts to focus on the target.

  Anticipating the kick, she tightened her grip, then slowly squeezed the trigger as Jack had instructed. Buckshot roared from the barrel with a thunder-clap burst. Fire exploded in her shoulder, launching her backward. She stumbled hard against Jack’s chest.

  He steadied her with a hand to her hip, then reached around to pull the smoking barrel from her limp hands.

  Elizabeth pressed icy fingers to her ears. How she loathed loud noises. Jack appeared before her, propping the gun against his leg before tugging her stiff hands away from her head.

  “That’s enough for today.” He rubbed warmth into her raw fingers. “You need better gloves.”

  “I thought these would make it easier to pull the trigger.” Her teeth chattered. “I’ve got my m-mittens in my pocket.”

  She drew back her hands, but he held firm, cupping them in his palms. He tipped his head forward, blowing a warm burst of air over her tightly clenched fists. A shudder coursed through her body.

  “Is that better?”

  His tender voice slipped over her like a caress. She jerked her head in a nod.

  He nudged her chin up with his gloved hand. “You did well.”

  She had to pull her lower lip between her teeth to keep it from trembling.

  Her heart pounding, she met his steady gaze. His eyes fascinated her. In the dim light of the cabin, they appeared dark and mysterious. A vague brown. In the hazy afternoon, his irises flared over the brown-and-gold flecks, highlighting the green edges. Whiskers already darkened his cheek, though a blot of red dotting his chin indicated he’d nicked himself shaving that morning. How quickly his beard must grow.

  Elizabeth tilted her head to shake the spell. “The prairie is fascinating, isn’t it? In the city, I never noticed how the clouds roll in for a thunderstorm like black smoke puffing from a train engine. Out here, you can see a storm coming for miles.” The nervous words tumbled off her lips.

  “I don’t know.” Jack shook his head with a sigh that sounded suspiciously like self-reproach. “Sometimes a downpour sneaks up when you least expect it.”

  His eyes filled with a curious sorrow, Jack stepped away to crack the shotgun and rest it over his horse’s saddle. He returned to stand before her, his arms crossed over his chest.

  A peaceful calm settled over Elizabeth. For the first time in a long while, she was all right. She was shaken, but proud. Proud of herself for taking aim and firing. Proud of herself for overcoming her fear. Giddy exhilaration stirred in her chest. “I did it!”

  “You did real good.” He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “You killed that bush dead.”

  Suddenly jubilant, she raised up on her tiptoes and quickly bussed him on the cheek. That might have been the end of it, except he turned his head at the last moment, and instead of finding the rough stubble of his cheek, their lips collided. His mouth was firm, but surprisingly soft. Shock held her immobile for a beat.

  She leaped back, groaning in embarrassment as he blinked at her spontaneous gesture. “I’m so sorr—”

  The intense look in his eyes silenced her apology. Jack caught her around the waist, splaying his hand over the small of her back. He gathered her close to him, gently, ignoring what was only a halfhearted resistance. A muscle in his jaw ticked, the fisted hand at her back tightened.

  Blood roared in her ears. She tipped her head back, craving the comfort of his embrace. Her lips parted.

  With an abrupt grimace, he thrust her away. “We should get back.”

  His gaze didn’t quite meet hers.

  “Yes.” His rejection stabbed her heart, hurting more than the throb in her shoulder from the gun’s kick. “Of course.”

  What on earth had come over her? No longer cold, her flaming cheeks could melt the frozen tundra. Kissing Jack had felt like the most natural thing in the world, as if she’d been anticipating this moment her whole life. Knowing he didn’t share her feelings sent a hard knot forming in her chest.

  She’d been tempted to kiss two men in her twenty-three years, and neither of them had truly wanted her affection. The realization stung.

  Desultory small talk accompanied their return to the house, each of them attempting to cover the embarrassment of Elizabeth’s spontaneous, foolish behavior. Knowing the day couldn’t get any worse, she removed Will’s revolver from its place in the empty lard tin and held the stock with two fingers, the barrel dangling to the floor.

  “Will you help me load this, too?”

  “Careful with that.” He accepted the gun, flipped out the cylinder, then gave it a spin. “This gun has never been fired. There’s not even a speck of grease on the cylinder. Still, you have to remember the first rule of gun safety. Treat every gun as if it’s loaded.”

  Elizabeth rolled her eyes. That was the whole problem in a nutshell. “Not this one.”

  His expression grew thunderous. He rested the gun on the table with a grim twist of his lips. “You have a child in the house now. Every gun is loaded. Period. You treat every weapon you pick up, put down or point at someone as loaded.”

  Cords of tension formed in her neck. She willed herself not to shrink away from his censure. “Fine. It’s loaded.”

  “Excellent.” His gaze slid over her face. “I didn’t mean to snap at you, but with a baby in the house we can’t be too careful.” He nodded to the back bedroom where Jo rested and Rachel napped. “Where are the bullets?”

  “I—uh—I don’t know.”

  Frowning, he flattened both palms against the table. “I thought you wanted me to load this?”

  Elizabeth immediately regretted her impetuous decision to request his help. No matter how hard she tried to forget, every corner of the house was fraught with reminders. Even searching for bullets stirred up recollections of a past she’d rather forget. Will had always been so possessive about his property.

  Though he’d been gone for more than eight months, longer even than they’d been married, she still felt his disapproving presence each time she searched his belongings. Her time with Will had been blessedly short, but the echoes lingered. Folding her arm across her stomach, she unconsciously touched the arrowhead scar on her arm over her sleeve.

  Will wa
s gone, she reminded herself. He had hurt her for the last time.

  If she wanted to maintain control of her home and her property, she had to learn how to defend herself. Considering Jack’s dramatic entrance all those weeks ago, she had to force herself to learn a new skill, even if she was mocked for her ignorance. The next stranger who visited might not be a Texas Ranger with chocolate-brown hair and hazel eyes. She had her daughter to think of now. If it took her all winter, she’d perfect the skill.

  Memories or not, it was time to face her future. “I think the bullets are in here.”

  Heart thumping, she crossed to the pantry, then let her hand linger on the knob. Taking a deep steadying breath, she pushed open the door. Neat rows of mason jars lined the shelves; apples, peaches, pickles and a rainbow selection of various other preserves. She took down the heavy galvanized bathing tub that hung on a hook on the outside wall.

  “Odd time to take a bath.”

  Shrieking, her hand flew to her chest. The tub banged to the floor with a metallic clang. “You startled me.”

  “I see that.” He quirked an eyebrow, reaching for the tub. “You want me to put this some place for you?”

  “No, no.” Elizabeth shook her head. “I need to stand on it. I think the bullets are up there.” She indicated a crude wooden crate teetering on the top shelf.

  He easily reached over her head, dwarfing her with his superior height. Crowded together in the confined space, his unique male scent enveloped her once again. Without his coat she caught a clean, crisp scent like freshly washed sheets. A lock of hair fell across his forehead, lending him a rakish appearance. She envisioned him as Mr. Darcy in the Jane Austen novel her mother had loved. Yet she couldn’t picture Jack sipping tea in an ornate parlor. He belonged on the open range, herding cattle, not confined indoors. He exuded a strength and assurance at odds with his cautious gentleness.

  Her breath quickened. She was hot and cold at the same time, the sensations nothing like fear. An anxious anticipation stirred in her limbs. She needed something, wanted something from him, but the yearning was elusive, ethereal.

  He grasped the box, turning on his heel in one swift motion to exit the room. She blew out a long breath, shocked at the way her blood surged through her veins. By the time she’d gathered herself enough to follow him out, he’d set the box on the sturdy worktable.

  The forlorn sight of Will’s legacy robbed her of breath.

  Here was an emotion she understood. Sorrow. The color of the leather had leached away, giving Will’s saddlebags a dull, lifeless appearance. How quickly the vibrant material had faded.

  Jack cleared his throat, startling her back to the present. Her numb fingers tugged the buckles loose.

  Hooking his thumbs into his belt loops, Jack lowered his head. “How long has your husband been gone?”

  Her mind slid over the memories. “Just over eight months.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  She couldn’t force her gaze higher than the mother-of-pearl buttons at his chest. “Thank you,” she replied simply.

  How did she explain this confusing whirl of emotions to Jack when she didn’t even understand the feelings herself? “We were married for only six months. It’s strange to think he’s been gone longer than we were together.”

  Avoiding Jack’s sympathetic gaze, she lifted out each item, a dismal accounting of Will’s life—a knife, matches, the hollow swish of liquid from his engraved flask, a deck of cards and finally the paper-wrapped bullets. What must the Texas Ranger think of the telling assortment?

  The second bag bulged with a large object. Feeling safe in the Ranger’s presence, she checked inside to discover a Bible. She paused, her hands trembling. She’d never thought of Will as a man to carry around a Bible. He’d never gone to church once in the entire time she’d known him. She recalled all his promises during their whirlwind courtship. He’d talked of God and church, but his words had been brisk and shallow. She’d thought he would guide her on her faith journey, but his wisdom had proved false.

  Jack rested a warm hand on her drooping shoulder. “I didn’t mean to bring up sad memories.”

  Tears burned behind her eyes. “They’re not sad, so much. Not like you’d think. In some ways, it’s like he’s on another trip.”

  Jack let his hand drop back to his side. “He traveled a lot?”

  “For his job with the railroad. Even after he died, I felt like I was waiting for him to come home after another long absence.”

  Crushing guilt erased her prepared speech. The one she’d murmured to the few kind ladies from town who’d braved their husbands’ censure and brought her cakes and condolences after Will’s death. She’d been so alone for so long, that all her dammed up conversation jostled to be unleashed.

  She cleared her throat, driven to talk to someone, anyone. “I had to get used to him being gone, you see. I must have gotten too good at forgetting.”

  “I think I understand.”

  Elizabeth started at his revelation. She’d expected his censure, his disgust at her admission. “You do?”

  “I felt that way when I first left my family’s cattle ranch. When you’re away from the people you love, you have to lock away those feelings, or the memories eat away at your joy until you’re not happy any place.”

  His deep voice soothed her battered senses. His quiet understanding drove her to speak of the long buried memories. “Once I forgot to set a place for him at supper. It was a habit, you know? One bowl, one plate, one spoon. I didn’t even realize what I’d done until he came in to wash up.”

  Jack scuffed the toe of his boot along the braided edge of the rag rug beneath the worktable. “What did your husband do when he realized he didn’t have a plate?”

  “He didn’t even notice. He just sat down to eat. I guess he thought I wasn’t hungry.” She glanced up, quickly ducking away from the pity shimmering in the Ranger’s eyes. “You can teach me how to load the gun another time.”

  In truth, even when Will had been home, he’d never truly been there. He was always off to town, always making grand plans for the next adventure. She’d told him time and again that she was satisfied with their little slice of the prairie, but she hadn’t been paying attention to his unspoken replies, his restless need to escape her. She’d thought she’d done everything to be the perfect wife, but she hadn’t done nearly enough. Will was never going to be satisfied. Especially not with her.

  Jack donned the fake smile she had begun to think of as his Texas Ranger grin.

  Her confession had obviously made him uncomfortable.

  “I really should teach you how to load this gun,” he said. “No time like the present.”

  A yeasty smell teased her nostrils, providing her with a much-needed distraction. “I need to check my baking.”

  Brushing past Jack, she plucked a fragrant loaf from the warm oven. Carefully holding it in a towel, she tapped the golden-brown crust, satisfied with the hollow report. “It’s perfect.”

  Jack’s face lit up at the sight. “Ma’am, I don’t think I’ve ever eaten so well, and I’ve traveled all over the country.”

  His praise ignited a warm glow in her chest. She couldn’t remember anyone actually complimenting her. “I should bake well. I must have baked thousands of these when I apprenticed in New York.”

  “Mind if I have a slice?”

  “Buttered?”

  “Is there any other way?”

  She laughed at his horrified expression. “I guess not.”

  Leaning one hip against the worktable, he crossed his arms over his chest. “What’s it like, New York?”

  “Crowded.” A delicate shudder sent the serrated knife in her hand trembling. “You can’t believe all those people live in one place. The noise and c
ommotion never stop.”

  “Must have been quite a way to live.”

  “In some ways, it was more lonely than living out here. When you see people together, families and married couples, friends, it reminds you of what you don’t have.”

  She’d thought she’d conquered the loneliness, making do with Jo’s company and the occasional visit to town or a trip to the McCoys.

  But she missed this, talking to someone. Just talking. “All I ever wanted was a family. Something to call my own that couldn’t be taken away. But nothing lasts forever, right?”

  His eyes darkened. “You have to hold on to the memories. The Bible says, ‘All go unto one place, all are of the dust, and all turn to dust again.’”

  “I like that.” She considered his solemn visage. “That’s all we really have, isn’t it? Our memories.”

  The corner of his mouth tipped up. “The good and the bad. Seems the longer I stay away from home, the more I cleave to the fond memories. The bad ones seem to fade away in their place.”

  “I wish I could say the same.” She sighed.

  Exchanging this easy banter unleashed a yearning for human companionship. She wanted to immerse herself, to hang on to the light and never let go.

  “Where are you from?” he asked. “Originally, that is. You still have an accent.”

  “My father would be proud to know that I still carry a piece of his homeland.” She thought back to her own fond memories. “My family is originally from Bucklebury, England. We lived with my uncle just outside the village. My father was a baker, but as the youngest son, there wasn’t much room for him in the family business. We traveled to America when I was five so he could open his own store.”

  She hadn’t thought of England in years, but images came flooding back like pictures behind a scrim, hazy and diluted. She envisioned the rolling green hills, the misty fog that hung over the fields at first light.

  She slathered butter onto the steaming, soft bread. “My father started a pastry shop in New York. For a few years he worked from dawn to dusk. When I was nine, a fire burned down the whole block. We lost everything. My—uh—my father went to work for someone else after that.” She let her voice trail off.