Wed Under Western Skies

by Carolyn Davidson

  His eyes widened as if this shocked him. And then he shocked her by smiling.

  Her breath caught as she stared. The smile transformed his face, making him seem momentarily kind. She leaned forward in wonder.

  “Me, too,” he admitted.

  She straightened. Him, too? He was afraid—of what—her? Impossible. No one could be less intimidating.

  “I don’t understand.”

  His smile changed into a roguish grin. “Why do you think I’m drunk?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Because I’d never have the guts to marry you sober. So if you’ve a mind to, you best marry me quick. I can only stay this drunk so long. Sooner or later I’m bound to pass out.”

  “But you didn’t know to expect me today.”

  He reached into his breast pocket. “Just got your acceptance.”

  She stared at the familiar envelope she had mailed three weeks prior to her departure.

  “Mercy.”

  “Not for me there isn’t.”

  Still she hesitated. He stared down at her, his face now vacant of his earlier anger.

  “My brother asked me to look after you both. I mean to do just that.”

  Yes, that was right. This was what Jacob thought best. She had always put her faith in him.

  She knew she hadn’t deserved Jacob, for certainly a fallen woman had no business marrying a minister. Perhaps that was why God had taken him from her. Possibly, she did not even deserve this drunken grizzly bear of a man before her. But her daughter deserved a chance at a better life than the one her mother had endured. She glanced downward at her child. Jacob’s daughter was worth any sacrifice.

  Nathaniel offered his arm.

  She drew a deep breath and clasped his elbow. The hard bulge of his bicep sent her stomach fluttering again. Never in her life had a man so rattled her composure. The butterflies in her stomach increased in number as she stood between her daughter and Nathaniel Justice.

  Doubts trailed her footsteps. What if this was not the man Jacob remembered? People changed and it had been years since their parting. Her mouth went dry and she paused.

  He glanced down. “Reverend’s waiting.”

  Chapter Two

  Her little hand rested in the crook of his arm. Nate could feel her heat clear through the fabric of his coat, and he trapped her fingers next to his body. Over the stink of mud and manure on the street came the unexpected scent of lilac. He thought of the ancient shrub laden with clusters of tiny purple blossoms back in Catskill. As a child he’d hidden in those branches. There in a place of beauty and peace, where the world smelled sweet and the petals rained down about him, he was safe.

  Clara smelled of lilacs. He leaned toward her and breathed in the fragrance. It suited her. She cast him a nervous glance, but continued marching beside him like a good little soldier.

  What did she think of him, this respectable little lady? Had Jacob told her of his childhood as the family’s whipping boy? His father had seen his spirit as the devil’s seed and had missed no opportunity to punish him. Jacob’s only beatings had come when he had tried to intervene. Between his livid father and stubborn little brother had lain dangerous ground. But Jacob often had placed himself on that very spot and afterward tried to understand why his little brother could not back down.

  Jacob had loved him.

  And now he was gone and all that was left of him on this earth was the child. He glanced down to study the girl. She had her father’s fair complexion and blond hair. His heart squeezed with remorse and he stiffened with conviction.

  I’ll take care of them for you, Jacob.

  Kitty skipped along, heedless of his attention, tethered to her mother by their clasped hands. On that side, Clara held her arm relaxed, allowing for the movement of her offspring. On his side, the hand clasping his arm felt as stiff as a corpse. He sighed.

  “This is my place,” he said.

  Together they crossed the threshold of the hardware store he had begun just four months after opening the saloon. Situated on the north side of Colorado Avenue, it stood on the respectable part of the street. His saloon lay on the other side with the gambling halls and brothels. No decent woman crossed the street to the south. ’Course, up until today, the only one here that fit that description was Lucy Maggard who owned the boardinghouse, also on the north. But Gunn’s wife was expected any day and others would follow.

  Soon the town would have a church, and he’d be thinking about moving on. He knew in his head that all folks who attended church weren’t like his father. Jacob had been proof of that. But his heart remained wary of such places, preferring the rowdy reality of the goldfields to the quiet hypocrisy of churches.

  His brother had chosen the opposite path as a minister in Catskill. Nate should have seen that coming. Jacob had loved peace and order and always had a charitable heart toward people. He’d seen a kind of goodness in the world that Nate never found. They had been different in all ways but one—their love for one another. How he missed him.

  Nate searched the room’s interior for the reverend, finding him waiting by the counter, his hat beside him. Dust coated his jacket, showing prominently on the black fabric. In his hand he held a small leather Bible. Just the sight of that book turned Nate’s stomach. His father had used the words first and then the leather spine in a vain effort to beat righteousness into Nate’s thick skull. He squinted at the black book. Jacob had found meaning in it.

  The dusty black crow motioned them forward, and Nate was impressed at the way he held his whiskey. The preacher neither wobbled nor swayed, but stood solid as the Rock of Gibraltar. Came from much dedicated practice, he supposed.

  “This here the bride?” he asked.

  Nate scowled. “Well, the other one is a might small, don’t you think?”

  The reverend frowned. Needing little excuse for a fight, Nate accepted the challenge, lowering his chin and silently daring this man to object.

  The padre cleared his throat. “You are here, Madame, with the intention to wed this man?”

  “I am.”

  “Then come forward and be joined in God’s name.”

  Nate felt sick to his stomach as the reverend began the ceremony from memory. What was she doing marrying him? Couldn’t she see he wasn’t good enough, never would be good enough, for the likes of her?

  The low ceiling of the log cabin pressed in upon him as the alcohol in his belly migrated to his bloodstream. His vision dimmed, and he fought to remain vertical.

  Beside him, his bride stood stiff as a fire poker. He glanced her way.

  Dressed in gray, like a mourning dove, she faced the reverend with her chin raised. Jacob had told him everything about her. He knew she could read and write thanks to Jacob’s teachings. Her favorite flower was honeysuckle, and she had named her daughter after a beloved grandmother.

  What he didn’t know was why she had agreed to marry him.

  He staggered back a step before catching his balance and thought he could not have made a worse impression. He was certain she found him as appealing as a slug on a rose petal. Unshaven, dressed in dirty clothes and stinking of whiskey, he made quite the bridegroom. How disappointed she must be.

  He glanced at her again.

  Why hadn’t Jacob mentioned how beautiful she was? Her perfect skin glowed pink with good health. Jacob had told him that her hair was ash-brown, but not that the strands escaped her pins coiled at the nape of neck and fluttered when she walked. Her form surprised him most of all. He thought a minister’s wife would be thin and rigid with piety. Instead, Clara had a figure for sin. Standing with shoulders back only accentuated her full bosom and flaring hips. She must have sorely tempted the males in her husband’s congregation with impure thoughts.

  Another surprise was her youth. Since Jacob was eight years his senior, he had assumed Clara would be of a similar age. Now he judged her to be several years his junior. Old enough to bear a child, he reminded himself, though barely more t
han a child herself.

  No, she was a woman. Her chest rose and fell faster than a person at ease, making her full breasts strain at the hook-and-eye closure of her dress. He swallowed back the lust that surged though him at the picture she made. His brother’s bride—now his.

  He would not fall upon her as if she resided on the south side of Colorado Avenue. She deserved respect. But with a body like that, respect would sorely press the limits of his sense of duty. That was a shallow pool.

  Jacob obviously had not married her for her figure, though it was reason enough in Nate’s mind. His brother had seen deeper than the woman’s stunning shape. How often had he written of her kind and gentle heart?

  Nate knew if he had sent his final letter she would not be standing beside him, clutching his arm. He vacillated between wanting her gone and wanting to nuzzle the soft skin at the base of her neck. Would she now look to him for support? He hoped so. He wanted to care for her and the child. He just feared his own limitations. Fatherhood, he shook his head in dismay.

  He swallowed at the sour taste in his mouth.

  “Do you have a ring?” asked the reverend.

  He exchanged looks with his partner. Harvey shook his head.

  Why hadn’t he thought of a ring?

  She stared up at him with worried gray eyes. “It doesn’t matter,” she said.

  The reverend belched. “Skip that part. Do you, Nathaniel Justice, take this woman to be your lawful wife? Will you—”

  “I do,” said Nate.

  “I ain’t finished yet. So hush up.”

  Nate felt his face heat and lifted his free hand to throttle the minister for embarrassing him before Clara. Then he saw her eyes widened in shock. His hand fell to his side.

  “Go on then,” said Nate.

  “Will you love and honor her in sickness and health and, forsaking all others, cleave only to her until death do you part?”

  Nate waited. Images of cleaving unto her set his blood racing. He stared down at Clara, who seemed to be holding her breath.

  “Now you say it,” prompted the reverend.

  His vision blurred again. He should have drunk beer instead of jumping into the eighty proof.

  “‘I do,’” prompted the preacher. “You do, don’t you?”

  “I already said so, didn’t I?”

  “Close enough.”

  He turned to Clara. “And do you—ah, what’s your name, child?”

  “Clara Stanton Justice.”

  “Do you, Clara Stanton Justice, take this man to be your husband? Will you care for him in good times and bad and promise to love, honor and obey him, forsaking all others until death do you part?”

  “I do,” she breathed the words like a kiss.

  Nate swayed, closing one eye to keep the room from spinning.

  “By the power vested in me by God Almighty, I pronounce you man and wife.”

  Nate couldn’t keep the room from swimming. He felt Clara pushing at his arm to keep him propped up.

  “You may kiss your bride.”

  Could he? He stared down at Clara’s beautiful, worried face and reached. He dragged her to him, feeling her lush curves against the plains of his chest. He threaded his hand through her soft hair and breathed the scent of lilacs as he lowered his lips to hers.

  She gasped at the contact, and he took full advantage, stroking her tongue with his. She pushed at his shoulders in an effort to escape, but he did not withdraw, and in a moment she was tugging at his neck. He trailed kisses down her soft cheek to the slim column of her throat and heard her soft sigh.

  His hand settled on her hip and then moved north toward her full breast.

  Before he reached his goal, he felt someone pulling at him. He broke away from Clara to punch whatever fool interrupted him and saw his partner shaking his head. What was he saying?

  Nate didn’t know because his words were drowned by a rushing sound like a waterfall. He lurched over the edge into blackness.

  Clara felt him listing and had the foresight to step aside. He toppled like a rotten tree, landing hard upon the packed floor. The ground beneath her feet shuddered, and she winced. Like Goliath, Nathaniel Justice had fallen to earth.

  Her lips tingled from his kiss. Never in her life had a man kissed her like that. Her mortification had quickly vanished in a warm sea of desire. Now the shame returned in full measure. She had kissed him like that in front of the reverend, Nathaniel’s partner and, Clara gasped, her innocent daughter. She had fallen prey to feral lust. She pressed her hands to her cheeks, trying to hide the burning flesh.

  To respond to him in that fashion confirmed all her worst fears. Had her time with Jacob gained her nothing? Even at his side she had often felt like a hypocrite, playing at the part of minister’s wife. She grew faint and retrieved her handkerchief, patting the moisture from her clammy brow. What must these men think of her? She lowered her gaze as humiliation burned her to the bone.

  This, of course, gave her a fine view of the object of her desires, snoring at her feet.

  “He’s drunk, ma’am, or I swear he never would have done such a thing.”

  Clara squatted beside her new husband, drawing her daughter in tight.

  “Is he asleep, Mama?”

  That was one way of saying it. “Yes.”

  Kitty curled beneath her arm. “I want to go home.”

  Clara’s stomach churned. There were some things from which she could not protect her daughter. The home they had known was gone forever. But she had saved her from the worst of it. Because of Nathaniel, they were not turned out onto the street.

  “We are home, Kitty.”

  Kitty looked around the cabin filled with picks and shovels. Traps hung from the ceiling by menacing chains, making the room seem like a house of torture.

  “We’re gonna live here?” The despair in her daughter’s voice broke Clara’s heart.

  Harvey stepped in. “No, sweetheart. Your new daddy has a house with planed wood floors and glass windows, and he’s got a bed just for you. I’ll bring you over and then come back for Nate. Reverend, you stay here.”

  The reverend smiled.

  “And in case you forget that stealing is a sin, I’ll tell you, I have an inventory down to the last bottle and recall to your mind the horse thief the town just hung.”

  The bright gleam of anticipation vanished from the reverend’s eyes. “Point taken.”

  Harvey motioned to the door and Clara lifted her child to her hip.

  They walked north one block and then east until they came to a one-story square box with a shingled roof. The hewn boards were rough, but it was the only building she had seen of such construction. Even the businesses on the main street made only their storefronts of planking, disguising the log construction behind. She lowered Kitty to the street and stared at her new home. The two windows and a front door made it appear to be staring back at her.

  “Gonna build another room in short order,” Harvey said as he opened the front door.

  Clara crossed the threshold and waited. Harvey did not enter.

  “I’ll be back directly.” He left her there.

  She spotted her trunk and sat upon the only familiar thing in her new world. Kitty snuggled in her lap, and Clara stroked her daughter’s pale hair as the afternoon shadows grew long. Opposite her lay his bed, constructed of logs lashed together and covered with a faded quilt. A smaller bed of new logs, topped with a Hudson Bay blanket, stood against the adjoining wall. Flour sacks had been tacked to the ceiling with horseshoe nails to provide a rough curtain between the beds.

  Clara had suffered many hardships in her life, but never had she seen such rough surroundings. Nothing Jacob had told her had prepared her for a home without a pump, sink, fireplace or cook stove. She glanced around. There was not even a table on which to make her bread, nor a Dutch oven in which to cook it. Her gaze fixed on the small cast iron box stove. Upon its blackened surface sat one dirty pot. This, apparently, was the source of heat
and only means to cook a meal.

  Tears burned in her throat, but she held back the sobs, continuing to stroke her daughter’s silky hair. Kitty would not know of her mother’s uncertainty. Clara’s own mother told her everything, leaving no shield between her and the terrors of the world. They had a roof above them, after all, and her new husband owned a store and a saloon. That was something.

  Kitty snored and Clara lifted her. The rough mountain roads had made sleeping impossible. She lay her daughter in the strange bed, grateful for this safe place for Kitty to rest.

  Her glance strayed to the other bed. Her place would not be safe. Nate’s kiss made it obvious what he intended in that regard. She pressed her hand to her lips, admitting that he had shaken the ground beneath her. One minute she’d resisted and the next she’d thrown herself into his arms. The memory of his scalding kiss sent a shaft of heat through her breasts, bringing her nipples to hard points. Shame washed her.

  The words of her tormentor rose in her memory. “You like it, Clara, were born for it, and men will pay anything to have that body. You’ll make me a fortune in the goldfields.”

  She shuddered. Ten years ago, and the memories of Carl Bickerfield haunted her still. How could she have trusted him? She had been young, so young that she had let him sweep her off the street with false promises of marriage. Stupid, naive and green as grass—that was what she had been. Her mother had been happy to let her go. One less mouth to feed. Carl had paid her mother ten dollars in silver. At the time Clara considered the money a gift to a woman in need. But now she saw it for what it was, the price of a fifteen-year-old’s innocence. For that sum, the man had bought her mother’s silence.

  Clara’s blood ran cold, and her gaze flew to the form of her sleeping daughter. She’d kill any man who touched Kitty.

  A thump outside the door brought her to her feet. Curses followed and then a gentle rapping.

  “Mrs. Justice, I have Nate here.”

  She opened the door to find her husband slung between Harvey and another man, his limp arms about their shoulders and his head drooping to his chest.