“No.” He began to thrash about beneath the blankets. “Not ranger…”
His declaration startled her, and only her hand on his forehead stopped the man’s movements. “What is it?” she whispered.
“Pray,” he said, obviously struggling to keep his eye open. “For Jed Harte.”
“I tried,” she said, exasperated. “I asked the Lord to take care of you and heal you so you could ranger again and maybe—”
“No,” emerged from his lips like the howl of a wolf.
“What in the world is going on here?” Theresa appeared at the door with Mary on her hip and Bennett at her side. At the sight of her, the children wriggled away and ran to her.
“Mommy, why is the man on the floor?” Bennett asked, wide-eyed.
“Big man hurt?” Mary added.
Ranger Harte settled into a quiet calm and stared at the children. The children, in turn, stared back.
Grace glanced up to see that Uncle Shaw had returned. In place of his usual bland expression, he wore an uncharacteristic look of worry.
“S’cuse me, Miz Grace, but you be needed real bad down at the warehouse.”
The story unfolded on their walk to the landing. Ruth had arrived only moments earlier. Sadly, trouble had tagged along in the form of the obstinate steamboat captain Stockton, the same man who’d given Grace trouble a week ago. Shaw told him of the lawman’s arrival and led him to believe Harte would be running things soon. Stockton left in a hurry, although Shaw had a suspicion they hadn’t seen the last of the man.
Grace responded with a nod and a word of thanks, seating herself behind Ben’s desk to begin yet another long day of work.
When she finally pushed away to begin the short walk to the house, she wondered where the day had gone. Her stomach complained at the emptiness and her muscles ached. Only a meal and a few hours’ rest stood between her and repeating the whole process.
She thought about the ranger’s Bible, retrieved from his saddlebags, and the words she’d seen circled there when she opened it. “Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew a right spirit within me, ” she whispered as she trudged the last few steps to the back door.
Shame flooded her as the meaning of the words emerged. Should the Lord come today, neither her heart nor her spirit would stand the test of His all-knowing mind. Right there in the middle of the dusty path, Grace knelt and opened her thoughts to the Lord.
“Oh yes, Lord, I do need a clean heart. Forgive me for losing sight of You and blaming You for all my troubles. Ben and my babies are in a better place, and I know I’ve got a long way to go to get there.” She paused and lifted her gaze to the purple twilight as Ben’s child shifted and squirmed beneath her ribs.
“I love You, Lord, and I love my Ben. Don’t let me forget him, but please, if You could, teach me how to live without him.”
The back door slammed and Grace looked over in time to see Theresa running her way, skirts held high and her petticoat rustling. Grace’s blood ran cold at the wide-eyed look on the older woman’s face. “What’s wrong, Theresa? Did something happen to the babies?”
“Oh, Miz Grace, I done thought your time had come, and you couldn’t make it t’ the door.” She fanned her ample bosom despite the chill air and seemed to have trouble catching her breath. “I declare you scared the life right outta me.”
“You mean that’s why you came running out of the house?” Grace stifled a grin as her racing heart slowed to nearly normal. “I thought something had happened to one of the children.”
“Oh, lands sakes no,” she said with a chuckle as she reached to help Grace up. “My Ruth, she’s already got those sweet angels fed and nigh t’ sleep. Don’t you worry about them, not at all.”
Grace took the hand Theresa offered and stood gingerly, allowing her body to settle and the baby to stop moving before attempting to walk toward the house.
The mention of Ruth caused her to remember the Bible she’d forgotten on Ben’s desk. This sent her thoughts reeling to the ranger, and a stab of guilt reminded her she hadn’t given his health any concern. She’d only thought of herself and the selfish pity she’d wallowed in. The shame of it burned deep. A clean heart, she repeated to the Lord. Please teach me, Father.
Theresa slowed her pace to allow Grace to catch up. “You worried about Mr. Harte?”
The question pressed further the point of her guilt. “Any improvement?” The baby shifted positions to jolt her insides.
Theresa gave Grace a sideways look. “No,” she whispered. What a cruel irony that she’d asked the Lord to send this ranger to her, and now he, too, could die. At least it seemed that way to her.
Grasping the stair rail for support, Grace shook her head. “I’ll tend to the ranger tonight.”
Theresa opened the door and held it wide so Grace could enter, then closed it softly before hurrying to the stove to stir the pots left simmering there. “I’ve known you too long to argue, Miz Grace, so I won’t even try. Set yourself down and see to that baby of yours with some supper afore you tend to the ranger. That’s all I ask.”
Grace nodded. Satisfied, Theresa reached for the sassafras root and began to chop it into the mixture bubbling in the pot. Grace inhaled a deep breath of the exquisite smells of Theresa’s cooking and sank into the slat-backed rocker by the fire, resting on her elbows to relieve the pain in her back. It would be gumbo tonight, Theresa’s way of using the last of yesterday’s hen in a meal along with the meager contents of the pantry, but it would be good. It always was.
As the flames licked and jumped beside her, the tiredness seeped into Grace’s bones and settled there. The baby protested her bent-over position with a swift kick to her insides, so she accommodated him by shifting to a less confining position.
Instantly the little one stilled, although Grace’s back muscles began to protest. Stifling the complaint she wanted to voice, she turned her thoughts back to Ranger Harte while Theresa began to slice the corn bread.
How could she consider offering to spend her precious sleeping hours taking care of a man who might die before morning? Yet, under the circumstances, how could she not?
“Renew a right spirit.” The verse from the ranger’s Bible came tumbling back to her, along with the surprise that Jed Harte even owned a Bible, much less read one. What had happened to her right spirit? Had she ever had it in the first place?
A shiver of guilt snaked down her spine. She and Ben had a Bible, a beautiful book Ben had brought in his trunk from Ireland. She’d accepted the Lord based on that book. Now she would be hard-pressed to know where it was.
A forlorn wail punctuated the silence, followed by a crash. Grace struggled to her feet despite the screaming protest of her muscles.
“Oh, Lord preserve us, that’s the ranger.” Theresa bustled out of the kitchen. “He done hurt hisself, I just know it,” she said as she disappeared into the hallway and headed toward the parlor with Grace trailing more than a few steps behind. “Sakes alive, would you look what he’s gone and done?”
Grace pressed past her to see Jedadiah Harte half sitting and half lying across her rosewood settee. The blood seeping from beneath his bandaged arm had already begun to stain the cushion a bright crimson. Her rosewood side table, now reduced to splinters, lay in a heap beneath one long leg.
“Lands o’ Goshen, Ranger Harte,” Theresa said as she eased him into a sitting position on the settee. “You done gone and made a mess of yourself for sure. Why in the world you wanna be a doin’ that?”
Chapter 3
Why indeed? Jed took in his surroundings through one eye, in a haze of pain and a swirl of faces. Two faces, one dark and the other light. He blinked and the pain sharpened. His head tilted and the world went with it.
“Whoa there, Mr. Ranger,” the dark one warned. “You ain’t gonna break yourself along with the missus’ table. Not if I have somethin’ t’ say about it.”
“Break?” He caught the word and tossed it around in his addled brain unti
l he made sense of it. Beneath his feet came the crunch of the most perfect piece of rosewood he’d seen this side of New Orleans.
“Excuse me, Mr. Harte. How do you feel?”
Jed blinked again, and the lighter of the women came into focus, robbing him of his thoughts. She touched his forehead with the back of a pale hand, and he nearly reeled backward with the cool relief it offered.
“Mr. Harte? I asked how you felt.”
He licked his lips and shut his eye, then thought hard to make out the words and understand them. Formulating an answer seemed to take forever. “Weak as a newborn calf,” he said slowly.
When he opened his good eye, the woman smiled and removed her hand from his forehead. “The fever’s broken.”
“Praise the Lord,” the dark one exclaimed.
Jed nodded, confused. The pain swirled around him in a thick fog with his shoulder and left arm at the center. Atop the source of his discomfort lay a thick pad of muslin and a wrapping of red-stained bindings.
“What happened?” he asked, attempting with clumsy hands to investigate the situation.
The woman’s pale fingers stopped him. “You’ve been injured,” she said softly in the honeyed tones of a woman of culture. “Shot, actually.” Her hand led his to the spot of greatest irritation and gently set it upon the bindings. “The bullet went through your left arm just below the shoulder.”
In a few simple words, the woman told him of how he came to be in her parlor. Understanding dawned along with a white-hot burning beneath his brow. The events began to roll back in a slow progression beginning with his ride out of San Antonio and ending with a shot, which must have taken him down near the Delaney property.
“Ben’s wife,” he murmured.
She acknowledged the fact as if it pained her. Worry etched lines across her face where age did not. When she pulled a chair next to him and sank into it, he saw the evidence of the babe she carried.
“Well, well, old Ben’s gonna be a daddy,” he mumbled, a mixture of envy and pain flooding his heart. “Grace, isn’t it?” he managed.
She nodded, stiffly rising to accept a bundle from the dark woman. “And this is my friend Theresa.” She began to tear off a length of fabric. “You’ll need to let me change the bandages now, Mr. Harte.”
Jed watched Grace Delaney as the bindings loosened and the bandage fell away to reveal a decent bullet wound. What kind of ranger was he to be blindsided by a stray bullet? Then it came to him. He was no ranger at all; he’d given himself over to the Lord and promised to put away his weapons. The Lord had made him clean.
How long ago now had he given up the life that had carried him off the docks and into the law? Not long enough to put the past behind him. Straining to fight the blackness chasing him, he leaned forward, then fell back when the blinding pain hit him between the eyes like a runaway steer.
“God bless you for coming to save us, Ranger,” were the last words he heard before he gave in to the dark waters of sleep.
He’d come to save them, beckoned by desperation and prayer. Many times during the busy daylight hours, Grace felt a pull of worry concerning the ranger but could do nothing about it. The duties at hand kept her mind tossing back and forth between the patient in her parlor and the never-ending chores.
Morning work in the garden had given way to afternoon work at Ben’s desk when the pains began. She pushed away from the desk and stood in the hopes they would leave as quickly as they arrived.
When standing didn’t alleviate them, she began to walk, first a few halting steps around the desk and eventually, after tucking the ranger’s Bible under her arm, across the warehouse and out into the remains of the daylight. Still the discomfort chased her. Grace held a hand to her brow and squinted into the sun to find the distance to the house.
“You’re an impatient one,” she whispered through gritted teeth to the child in her womb. At least her other two children were not a worry tonight. With Ruth and Theresa, they were safe and well taken care of.
Grace lifted her gaze skyward and said a word of thanks for the two women, telling the Lord just what they meant to her. Later, when she managed the trek to the house, she made a promise to tell Theresa and Ruth at the first opportunity.
Ignoring the plate left warming on the stove, she left the Bible on the kitchen table and went upstairs in search of her children. To her delight, she found them sitting at Ruth’s feet, eyes wide and listening to a tale about two birds and a squirrel in a pecan tree.
When Ruth saw her standing in the hall, she ended the story with a promise to tell another in the morning after breakfast. The children began to protest but squealed with glee when they saw Grace.
“These children sure love their mother,” Ruth said with a smile.
“I love them, too,” she said as she eased onto the floor and gathered Mary into her arms, then settled Bennett beside her. The children smelled of soap and sunshine, a heavenly combination. “And I couldn’t manage without you, Ruth,” Grace added.
The girl offered a shy smile. “It’s me who’s blessed, Ma’am,” she answered softly. “And it is you and the good Lord who should be thanked.”
Unable to answer, Grace sent Ruth downstairs while she took over the duties of readying Bennett and Mary for bed. After listening to the stories of adventures they had during their afternoon walk in the woods, she kissed the children good night, tucked them in, and read to them from a book of their favorite tales from Ireland.
Mary fell asleep first, her two middle fingers planted firmly in her mouth. Grace kissed her daughter once more, gently removing the tiny fingers from her pink, bow-shaped mouth. Quietly, she moved to Bennett’s bed, where, true to his nature, the boy lay awake.
Grace sank heavily onto the bed and kissed his forehead. Sometimes it seemed as though the Delaney men had perfected stubbornness. Tonight this one wore it all over his face.
“Mama, Ruth says I can’t sleep in the parlor.” He pronounced his dislike of the statement with a face intended to convey the sentiment.
As she had done so many times before Ben’s death, Grace climbed onto the bed next to her son and stretched her legs out, feeling the strain of her muscles and the pull of her belly. “You’ve got to listen to Ruth,” she said while she fussed with the blanket then smoothed her son’s curly locks. His nose wrinkled in protest, and she pressed it lightly with her fingertip. “Go to sleep, precious.”
Grace curled her arm beneath her head and reclined, feeling the baby inside her begin to dance a jig in protest. At least the pains had stopped. For that she could be grateful.
Silence fell in the little room, only the usual chatter of the forest to keep them company. By degrees Grace felt her eyes slide shut and her body become heavy. Even the babe settled. Just before sleep overtook her, Bennett tugged on her arm with a soft whisper of “Mama.”
She blinked and shifted positions to see him better, then instantly wished she hadn’t. In the long shadows, with only the flicker of the lamp to light him, Bennett bore so much resemblance to his late father that it made her want to cry.
“Mama,” he repeated.
She gathered her memories into a tight ball and shoved them into the corner of her mind. Later, in the privacy of her room, she might take them out again. Better still, she might not.
“Yes, darling,” she answered softly, hoping her son missed the catch in her voice. “What is it?”
“It’s about Ruth.”
Ah, the Delaney stubbornness again. She sighed. “Remember how we talked about her being in charge when I’m out at the landing or working in the garden?”
Bennett nodded, but his frown told her he remained unconvinced. “The ranger’s sleepin’ in the parlor, and if I’m gonna be a ranger someday, I gotta learn how to make do, too.”
“Boys belong in their beds, darling,” she whispered. “And I’m sure that if the ranger had a choice, he’d be sleeping in a soft bed like yours.”
“Your mother’s right. A man alw
ays picks a mattress over a bedroll if he gets the choice, ranger or not.”
Grace nearly jumped out of her skin as she turned to look over her shoulder at the doorway and the man who filled it. She stifled a gasp and scrambled off the bed, covering her legs and her embarrassment as best she could. To her horror, she nearly stumbled before she caught hold of the bedpost and righted her ungainly body. A shaft of pain sliced across her abdomen and nearly buckled her knees.
“Mr. Harte, what in the world are you doing up?” she said, when she could manage words.
Bennett bolted upright, and his cry of glee caused little Mary to stir in her bed. Grace limped to her and smoothed the blankets beneath her daughter’s tiny chin, hoping to send her back to dreamland without the drama an early wake always caused. Despite her best efforts, Mary shook off the blankets and frowned while Bennett began a barrage of questions directed to the ranger.
“Mama?” she asked in a sleepy voice. “Is the big man all better?”
“I’m just dandy,” Ranger Harte said quickly.
Too quickly.
She looked over her shoulder to see the ranger sway, then catch hold of the door frame to remain upright. Intuition told Grace something was very wrong, something beside the fact the ranger shouldn’t even be up and walking, much less all the way upstairs.
Proper folk didn’t go exploring a house without an invitation. Ben had always said she had an active imagination, and she gave it free reign as she worked to settle the children as quickly as possible.
“You two hush now,” she said. “Our guest ought to be plenty tired.”
Mary began to complain, while Bennett put his stubborn look back on. The ranger leaned forward slightly, and the dim yellow glow of the lamp illuminated his features. Like Mary, he wore a frown. Unlike her, his looked to be etched with worry.
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