From the ruins of a burned plantation, they built a farm big enough to meet their needs and feed the family they planned. Bennett Delaney, Jr., came first, a strapping boy with a shock of dark hair like his mother and a fierce streak of stubbornness like his father. Three winters passed after Bennett’s birth, and with each one they buried a small blanket-wrapped bundle together and mourned the loss, only to find in the spring another child would be on the way.
Her husband loved babies, as did she, and what Texas took from them, they bore with the knowledge that the children were in a much better place. Finally, two summers ago, Mary had been born. Theresa, the former slave who now served as Grace’s friend, confidant, and house help, presided over all the births with concern. At the last confinement, she had stood toe to toe with the oversized Irishman and declared to Ben that Mary should be the last of the Delaneys.
No more babies or Grace would suffer for it.
Grace let the folds of crisp cloth slip from her fingers and slowly squared her shoulders. As much as she would love to give in to the bitter tiredness in her bones and the inescapable pain in her heart, she had no time for such luxuries. The steamer Lehigh would arrive at the landing midmorning tomorrow. With only Uncle Shaw and the day help to fill the order, time would be tight. She and Theresa would have to see to the garden, a job that would make for a long afternoon under the best of circumstances.
Today, with the ache in her back and the heaviness in her belly, it would be downright unbearable. And yet, she would manage.
She always seemed to manage.
“Oh, Ben, why did you have to leave me like this?”
A question she’d asked a thousand times, of him and of God, and yet no answers had been forthcoming. Dead men don’t speak, and obviously the comforting arms of the good Lord didn’t reach as far as Delaney’s Landing anymore.
He hadn’t been with her husband the day lightning struck him and knocked him off his horse to die alone in the dirt at the age of thirty-two. And now, with more work to do before tomorrow than half a dozen men could perform in a week, He couldn’t possibly be with her either.
No, the Lord of Theresa and her husband, Uncle Shaw, was not the Lord she knew. Their Lord showed patience and kindness and offered them peace and comfort. Only the blackness of exhausted sleep offered Grace comfort anymore.
Shaking off the thought along with the chill that had gathered in the small room, Grace stood slowly. Theresa met her at the door with a wool cloak and a tin cup filled with hot coffee.
“You tell those folks they’d best be treatin’ you right, Miz Grace, or they’ll have the Good Lord and me to deal with.”
Grace mustered a weak smile and shrugged into the cloak. The faint scent of wood smoke still clung to it from yesterday’s work in the fields.
Unfazed at her lack of response, Theresa slipped the tin cup into Grace’s hand and frowned. “Now don’t you mind what they say about a woman running Delaney’s Landing. Womenfolk, they’s a lot stronger than men, anyhow.” Her dark gaze settled on the curve of Grace’s belly. “Just let one of them try and push a young’un into the world.”
With a nod, Grace pressed past her to emerge onto the broad front porch of the home Ben built long ago. The door shut with a resounding crack, and in an instant the thick, cold air swirled around her, almost visible in the first shimmering lights of dawn.
As she’d done every morning since Ben’s death, Grace left her coffee untouched on the porch rail and made the trek down the path along the edge of the fence until she reached the giant pecan tree that marked the southeast corner of the Delaney property. Beneath its spreading limbs stood four simple wooden crosses, one newly planted and bearing the name Bennett Delaney, Sr.
Ignoring the protest of her sore muscles, Grace knelt at the edge of the fresh soil and smoothed the edges of the ragged blanket covering the mound. The quilt had been Bennett’s idea, a way to keep his pa warm when the weather turned cold a few weeks back. Already the sky blue blanket had begun to dull a bit, and the edges of the white lamb Grace had embroidered on the center square showed evidence of fraying.
She leaned forward a bit to touch the corner of the quilt and allowed her mind to tumble back in time to her son’s birth. The baby inside her shifted and pressed against her in protest. A moment later, the familiar pains shot up through her back and settled there. With difficulty she sat back on her heels to seek a measure of relief.
“Be patient, Little One,” she whispered. “There’s much to do before you come.”
And there was much to do. A garden to tend, orders to fill, and books to balance—these were just a few of the items she knew she must attend to before she could sink back into the blissful oblivion of another night’s sleep.
If only she had help. Uncle Shaw and Theresa had both become indispensable, each in their own way, but neither could ease her burdens completely.
Already news had traveled up and down the Brazos, and more than one captain had bypassed Delaney’s Landing in the mistaken impression that without Ben Delaney in charge, the landing would be closed and the warehouse shuttered. Those who did stop were surprised to find Ben’s widow had taken over the running of the warehouse and the filling of orders.
None of them were pleased.
Many refused to deal with her. Some made lewd comments or ignored her outright when she tried to conduct business as she’d seen Ben do. A captain by the name of Stockton had even suggested she pack up and leave Delaney’s Landing, offering her what he called a first-class deal for the property. She’d called it something else entirely and sent the man on his way with a few choice scalding words and a request never to return.
Only afterward did she give any thought to the danger she would have been in had the captain not gone willingly. Uncle Shaw, while strong of body, was getting on in years and could have done little to stop a man who didn’t want to be stopped. The day help, a dozen during harvest and less most of the time, were hired out from neighboring plantations and held a loyalty that was doubtful at best.
“Oh, Ben, what am I going to do?”
The silence rumbled thick around her, broken only by the occasional call of a gull. Her gaze skipped from Ben’s grave to the three others lined up beside him. Her husband and her babies, all waiting for her in heaven.
Heaven? Since when had she given the mythical place any consideration? Surely Ben’s death had caused some small bit of concern about it, but to give it any serious thought?
There had been no time.
Nudged by another insistent kick in her belly, Grace shifted to her knees and bowed her head. The north wind teased her hair and lifted the edge of her cloak to blow a chill air across the black muslin she wore.
It would be so easy to give up, to let the land win and let Delaney’s Landing become a thing of the past. Her family in New Orleans, if any of them still remained, had never quite forgiven her for leaving polite society to marry a Texas Ranger. Ben, on the other hand, had no family left on this side of the ocean. Besides, she could never leave Texas and the landing Ben loved.
On the wind came a thought, one more frightening than the threat of an angry steamboat captain. “Face it, Gracie, old girl. You’re on your own. At least as long as you’re able.”
What about the children? Like it or not, she had a family to take care of. Bennett and Mary depended on her, as did Theresa and Uncle Shaw. If she gave up, what would happen to them?
Too soon her time of confinement would come. Theresa already looked at her with baleful eyes, concern brimming on her face when she thought Grace couldn’t see.
And if the unthinkable happened and Theresa proved right?
“What will I do?” she repeated.
You will pray, came the soft yet insistent answer.
“Pray?”
Surprisingly, the idea seemed to set right. She tugged at the strings holding her cloak together and tried to conjure up just the right words to speak to the Lord. After all, it had been quite awhile s
ince she’d made the attempt.
“God,” she finally managed, “I’m not asking this for me, because I can handle whatever life gives me. I’m asking for the babies.” She touched the gentle rise of her belly. “This one included,” she added.
Her eyes searched the sky, now fading from dark gray to a silver blue as the dawn gave way to morning. The distant whinny of a horse alerted her to the presence of a rider coming up the main road, most likely one of the day workers.
“Lord,” she whispered, “if You’re up there, I’d be mightily obliged if You’d send me a man to give me some help.”
Her boldness surprised her, and yet again, it felt right. She touched the back of her hand to the sky blue blanket.
“He’d need to be strong of health and a dead aim with a pistol. A ranger like Ben would be fine if You’ve got one. Just to keep the babies safe and the landing going until I’m up and around again. Amen.”
She sat back on her heels once more and waited for the answer. The limbs of the old pecan tree rustled and a squirrel skittered across the clearing ahead, but nothing earth shattering happened.
No answer came.
“Silly, I suppose,” she said as she rose with difficulty and shook out her aching limbs.
Grace wrapped her cloak around her and turned to take the long, slow walk back to the house. In a few hours the sun would stand high in the sky and the steamer would dock at the landing. No amount of wishful thinking would get the ship loaded and the bill of lading in order.
She looked up at the sky, barely visible through the canopy of dark green leaves overhead. A profound sadness settled around her like a mist. With a weak wave of her hand, she attempted in vain to push it away.
Mindful of her tender state, she stepped gingerly over a fallen limb and headed toward the fence line and the grassy path. What had seemed like a short walk earlier now felt like an almost impossible hike.
If only she could go home and fall into the soft feather bed she’d only just left. If only the Lord heard her pleas and answered.
“What did you expect, Grace?” she asked as the sound of horses’ hooves grew louder. “Did you think the Lord, if He exists, would hear your pitiful prayer and send someone just like that?”
Of course not, came the answer. First you must have faith.
“Faith?” She shook her head. “Lord, if that’s You talking to me, You ought to know I’m trying. For the babies, if not for me.”
A moment later, a sorrel mare stepped out of the brush into the path in front of her. Its rider, an oversized dark-haired man in dusty, trail-worn clothes, lay slumped over the saddle horn, a ribbon of blood flowing down the end of his outstretched arm.
As she crept closer to the horse and recognized the man in the saddle, she realized the Lord had sent her a ranger. Unfortunately, it looked like He had sent her a dead ranger.
Chapter 2
The morning sun had climbed over the porch rail and now brightened the front parlor with ribbons of gold shimmering across the flowered needlepoint carpet. At the center of the light lay the ranger, silent, solid, and most likely bound for his reward at any moment.
Matted hair covered one eye and a dark purple bruise the other. His skin wore a paleness even the many layers of Texas trail dust couldn’t hide.
Grace tried to remember what Ben had said about Ranger Harte. They’d ridden together as new recruits, and Jed had stayed on at the landing long enough to see to it that Ben Delaney’s New Orleans sweetheart, should she agree to marry him, would come home to a real house and not a tent, like so many ranger wives.
He’d fussed over the porch rail so many times Ben had declared him soft in the head. When she arrived at her new home, she had been greeted by a hand-lettered note on the back of a reward poster asking them to please be careful of the rails until Ranger Harte could return to finish the job.
True to his word, he’d come back a week later to mend a wobble in the posts only he could see and ended up staying until past the last frost. Harte had claimed it was the carpentering that kept him there, but Ben had declared it to be Grace’s cooking.
Grace smiled at the memory. She hadn’t seen Jedadiah Harte in almost a decade, although Ben had spoken of him on occasion. While her husband had been content to stay near the landing and nearly give up the life of a ranger altogether, Jed Harte had pursued justice and glory until he reached the rank of captain and led his own group of men.
“Oh, Ben.”
Why could she go for hours, even days, once, without feeling the grief, then out of nowhere, it would return? She felt it now, the blinding abyss of dark hurt chasing her, threatening her, nearly engulfing her. Only Theresa’s sudden movement kept her from tumbling in.
“Let’s git him comfortable, then I kin see what’s what.” Theresa eased a rolled blanket beneath Ranger Harte’s neck, then began matter-of-factly to undress the lawman, starting with his boots, which she handed to Uncle Shaw. “Wonder who he is?”
“Harte,” Grace said, almost numb with grief. “Jedadiah Harte.”
“The ranger?” Uncle Shaw whistled softly and held the boots at arm’s length. He wrinkled his nose. “Been on the trail, awhile too, I’d guess.”
Grace nodded and took the coat from Theresa. Waves of nausea threatened at the smell of the trail-worn woolen garment and the sight of the blood staining the collar and sleeve. Quickly she draped it over Uncle Shaw’s arm and stepped back to sink onto the stiff cushions of the rosewood settee.
“See that these are taken care of, please,” she managed. “If we don’t have enough to feed him, we can at least make sure he’s clean.”
“Shame on you, Miz Grace.” Theresa bent over the patient and eased his blue flannel shirt off a broad shoulder caked with blood. “You can’t be worrying about whether we can manage. You know the Lord’ll provide.”
Grace looked away, suitably chastised. Still, concern bore hard on her. When she petitioned the Lord for a ranger, she thought she’d made it clear she needed a healthy one who could wield a revolver and maybe scare up some game or plow under a row or two in the garden. She certainly hadn’t bargained for the one now lying half dead in her parlor.
“Looks like it went clean through.” Theresa lifted Mr. Harte’s shoulder and examined his wounded upper arm, causing him to groan softly. “Sure did, and that’s to the Lord’s glory, I’ll say for sure.”
Grace handed a strip of clean cloth to Theresa. “So he’s going to live?”
“He might. I ’spect the chill air’s hurt his chances a bit, though.”
Theresa began to bind his wound, lifting his arm each time to reach beneath it. Throughout the process, he showed no indication of noticing.
“It don’t take but one bullet to stop a feller, even one as big as this ’un.” She made a soft clucking sound. “Looks like he hit his head on somethin’ and near put his eye out. Probably done it after the bullet got him.”
The ranger’s good eye flickered, and his lips, parched and cracked, began to move as if he were trying to speak. With strong hands and soft words of comfort, Theresa settled the man and covered him with several layers of quilts. She reached for a cloth and the basin of water warming near the fire. A noise above made her look up sharply.
“Them young’uns are awake.”
Grace sighed and climbed to her feet. Too many things demanded her attention—the landing, the farm, and the complaints of her tired body—but her children came first. They always would.
“I’ll see to them, Theresa,” she said slowly. “You’ll let me know if there’s any change with Mr. Harte.”
Theresa shook her head. “I’ll get the babies. You don’t have no business climbin’ those stairs no way. When I get back we gonna talk about the help what’s comin’ this mornin’.”
“Help?” Her hopes rose. “With the landing?”
Theresa shook her head. “With the chilluns, Miz Grace.”
Yet another mouth to feed; not what she’d had in mind when she asked
the Lord to send help. Grace opened her mouth to protest, but Theresa waved it away with a sweep of her hand. Handing her the cloth and a razor, she pressed the basin in her direction.
“I love those babies like I birthed ’em myself an’ you know that, but your time’s a comin’. I can’t worry about them and take care of you.” She hefted her bulk off the floor and started toward the staircase. “The Lord’s so good, Miz Grace,” she tossed over her shoulder. “I asked Him for help, and out of the blue He answers my prayer by sending my grandbaby, Ruth.”
Grace nodded meekly and eased to her knees beside the patient. It was hard not to compare whatever help Theresa got with the help He had sent her.
While Theresa’s heavy steps sounded on the stairs, Grace set to work on the ranger, determined not to allow her stomach to rule her hands. She did not have the luxury of illness.
Resolutely, she lifted his head into her lap, or at least what remained of her lap, and began to shave away the dark beard. As she worked, a ruggedly handsome face began to appear, first with the firm, square jaw and finally with the soft curve of a set of cheekbones that could have been chiseled in granite. When she dropped the razor in the basin, his features contorted into a tight grimace and a lovely amber-colored eye flickered open only to disappear once more beneath a frame of thick black lashes.
“Pray for me,” came in a thick whisper between cracked lips.
“Pray?” She wrapped the muslin over his injured eye and settled his head gently on the blankets. “Is that what you said?”
Wouldn’t the Lord be surprised to hear from her again so soon? What would she say? She shook her head. “I don’t know if I can, Mr. Harte.”
His good eye opened again, and after a moment, his gaze settled on her. “You must,” he said with what sounded like the last of his strength.
“Of course,” she said. Lowering her head, she cleared her throat and cast about her somewhat addled brain for the appropriate words. “Lord, I ask You to come and help the man You sent us. I know my aim was to ask for a body to protect us and see that the babies do fine no matter what happens to me. I’d be much obliged if You would see to it that this ranger—”
Texas Brides Collection Page 14
