by Stacey Kayne
A sudden silence fell over the dining room and Chance realized he hadn’t kept his voice as low as he should have.
“What?” He shoved the bowl into Mitch’s hands, annoyed by the shock on everyone’s faces and the wave of heat rising up from his collar. “Am I out of line for stating the truth?”
“You’d have to be blind not to notice,” Garret piped in.
“I’ve been meaning to ask,” said Mitch. “Are you spoken for?”
Chance stopped short of taking a bite of greens. Cora Mae visibly stiffened.
“You’re bound to have suitors,” said Tucker. “Single women don’t last long around these parts. If you’ve a mind to marry—”
“Certainly not,” Cora Mae answered with a speed and sternness that put instant frowns on the men, and nearly had Chance smiling.
“I have no interest in marriage,” she said, “so there’s no provocation for suitors. Or courtship. Of any sort,” she added, hammering a final nail into the courtship coffin.
That settled that.
“Do you have reason to leave soon?” asked Skylar.
“Well…no. But I don’t intend to wear out my welcome.”
“So,” said Duce, “if you was to take a shine—”
“I won’t marry.”
Chance admired the firmness in her tone, and had to refrain from kicking his temporary foreman.
“I don’t intend any insult,” she said, clearly noting the glum expressions around the table, “I just…”
“She’s not interested,” Chance interjected. “And we won’t tolerate any pestering.” His gaze pinned every man at the table. “Duce, did you finish bringing in the mustangs on the north side?”
“Not by half. We spent our morning tearing down the last of the Lazy J dam.”
The rest of the conversation was a hum in Cora’s ears as Chance’s protective words played over in her mind. He’d been her strength for so long. Even as children, he’d taken the sting out of her mother’s endless insults.
Your mama’s stupid. I like your orange hair.
She stole another glance at him. Perhaps he hadn’t changed so much. The blond hair reaching his collar and flipping up around his ears was darker than she remembered, his strong masculine features far more handsome than she could have imagined. Could the Chance she’d known as a child be buried somewhere beneath that rugged exterior?
His gaze caught hers. Flutters erupted low in her belly.
His brow furrowed as he looked away. Anger darkened his eyes. “Salina said what?”
Cora glanced at the shocked expressions around the table and realized there’d been a drastic shift in the conversation.
“That you’re courting her,” said Skylar. “Her words. And she was rude to Cora while making her announcement.”
Chance’s questioning gaze whipped toward her.
“It was nothing,” Cora quickly put in. “She was obviously staking her claim on you, which is none of my business or my concern.”
“Bu-shit!” Joshua slapped the tray of his high chair, capturing everyone’s attention. He shoved a soggy crust of bread back into his mouth and continued to babble incoherently.
Skylar glared across the table at Chance.
“Thanks a lot, partner,” he said to his nephew. “Mumble everything but the swear word.”
“Much like his uncle,” said Skylar.
Cora laughed into her napkin.
“You know,” said Mitch, “courting Widow Jameson ain’t a bad idea. You take over the Lazy J and maybe we can actually get some work done around here instead of just repairing the fencing.”
“I think I’d rather take my chances with Mad Mag,” said Duce, initiating a roar of laughter.
Cora leaned close to Garret. “Who’s Mad Mag?”
His hazel eye winked at her. “Crazy trapper woman who lives up on the mountain.”
Chance’s chair scuffed across the floor as he shoved away from the table. “Excuse me,” he said, tossing his napkin onto his plate. “I’ve lost my appetite.”
Cora couldn’t blame him. The thought of suffering through a forced marriage turned her stomach as well. At least Chance was aware of his situation and had his brute strength to fight off such unwanted advances.
She’d had neither the warning nor the strength.
Chapter Four
T he floors swept, the chopping block oiled and every other surface polished to a shine, Cora had run out of reasons to avoid heading upstairs. Skylar had bidden her good night some time ago. Tucker and Garret had also retired for the night. She set the dishcloth beside a sparkling sink basin and started toward the darkened stairwell.
Sheer exhaustion had afforded her some sleep last night. She doubted she’d be so fortunate tonight. A sense of dread washed through her as she climbed the stairs. Since the night she’d left her mother’s house, she couldn’t lie in a bed without remembering the foul scent of bourbon hot on her face, waking to darkness and a great weight upon her.
We won’t tolerate any pestering.
The steel in Chance’s voice rang clear in her mind, easing the fear gripping her throat like a vice. She was glad to find the oil lamp already burning in her room, the warm glow spilling into the hall, as well as an odd scent. She stopped in the doorway, surprised by the large bouquet of bright flowers on the bureau.
Garret.
She couldn’t fathom who else would have brought them up to her room. Shutting the door behind her, she approached the colorful cluster, unsure how to take the young man’s attention. She leaned close to the tiny flowers in yellow, white, lavender and pink and breathed in their rather earthy, medicinal scent. A smile eased her tense expression.
No one had ever given her flowers. Garret had been nothing but sweet to her and couldn’t be faulted for picking pretty weeds. They did brighten the room. She lifted the wildflowers from the water-filled jar and folded them into her apron. Once dried, they’d be a lovely decoration.
She knelt before her trunk at the foot of her bed, pushed it open and began sifting through her pride and joy—bundles of yarn and balls of thread in every color. When she’d fled, she’d simply shoved some dresses into her sewing trunk before lowering it out of the window. Her sole possession had given her the greatest comfort during her journey west, and had been her only escape during the month of imprisonment with her mother. Why couldn’t Winifred have just left her alone?
She often wondered if her mother would have treated her differently had she not inherited her father’s hair color and, presumably, his sturdy build. She’d never been given the name of her father, though she’d overheard enough whispers to surmise her existence was the result of her mother’s failed attempt to secure a titled Scotsman.
She took some solace in knowing her father had had enough sense to outrun her mother. Just as Cora had more sense than to marry some drunken laird simply on her mother’s say-so. She was finished being the martyr to her mother’s past. She only wished she’d run sooner. She’d been such a fool to believe, to hope, her mother could feel sincere affection toward anyone. Winifred had shunned the Morgan name the moment it had been of no more use to her, just as she’d dumped her own daughter off at the textile mill, until she’d found use for her.
“It doesn’t matter,” she told herself, fighting the unwanted memories from her mind and the ache from her chest. She was here, making a new start. Wyoming could bring no worse a fate than her mother’s betrayal.
She moved aside balls of yarn and stacks of small white flowers she’d crocheted during her travels. Once on the train west, she’d been thankful she’d shoved an armload of dresses into her sewing trunk before lowering it from her bedroom window.
Finding the lavender yarn, she quickly bound the stems. She left a long piece at the end and carried the bundle to the window where the colorful bouquet could dry in the sun.
The rod holding gingham fabric over the window was too high to reach, even on tiptoe. She pushed her sewing chest against the wal
l, climbed atop the curved lid, pushed back the curtains and stretched to tie the yarn around the wooden dowel. Outside, beyond the grassy lawn, the barns stood out like children’s blocks against an onyx sky. A figure moved into the light of a single lantern at the end of a stable. He shut one of the wide doors.
Chance.
He wore the thick coat she’d borrowed yesterday. Tucking his hands into the deep pockets, he glanced at the house. His gaze slid up to her window as if sensing her presence. Their eyes met. White teeth flashed behind his smile.
Cora’s heart bucked against her chest. Her fingers fumbled on the yarn.
Shaking his head, Chance looked away and blew out the barn lamp, cloaking himself in darkness.
Cora finished her bow and stepped down before she fell.
Good Gracious. It wasn’t as though he’d caught her in the midst of a crime…so why was her heart racing?
Perhaps because he still had an alarming knack of seeing right through her. She hadn’t really lied to him. In her mind, her mother was truly dead, buried with the memories of her deceit.
Too flustered to lie down, she pushed her sewing trunk back across the floor and opened the lid. She’d crocheted enough white blossoms to fill an apple orchard, figuring she could connect them later. Skylar’s long dining room table came to mind. She likely had enough to make a tablecloth and a stack of doilies—perhaps some hot pads connected with green leaves.
She grabbed a stack and began spacing them across her bed, visualizing the stitching she’d use to connect them. Going back to her trunk, she found her needles and a bundle of white yarn and set to work. The scent of floral soap followed her into the room.
A murmur of voices woke Cora with a start. Still sitting up in bed, a half-finished tablecloth draped out before her, she glanced about the room in a moment’s confusion.
“You take these to Margarete,” Chance said from beyond her door. “I’ll check the water on the stove.”
The babies!
In a flash she was across the room and jerked open the door. Chance and Garret glanced over their shoulders. Garret wore striped pajamas and held a stack of white bedding. Chance’s blue shirt was untucked, his feet bare.
“Are the babies coming?”
“Any minute,” Chance said as he turned and hurried down the stairs.
“Sky’s hurting something awful.” Garret’s eyes were dark with worry. “You should come. Margarete says she’s close.”
Cora didn’t know anything about birthing babies but followed as he rushed down the hall leading to the bedrooms on the east side of the house. As she neared Skylar and Tucker’s bedroom, she saw Margarete beyond the doorway, wearing a white robe, her black-and-gray hair pulled up in a thick bun at the crown of her head. She spoke in Spanish as she knelt before a settee draped in sheets at the foot of the bed where Skylar’s feet were braced wide. Skylar’s ragged breathing echoed from the room, and a rush of nerves nettled beneath Cora’s skin.
She hesitated a moment, before stepping into the room behind Garret. Tucker sat on his knees in the middle of the big bed, helping to support his wife as she gasped for breath, her long hair and white gown drenched with sweat.
“Here’s the clean linen.” Garret dropped the stack on the floor beside Margarete. “Cora’s here to help,” he said before bolting from the room.
“Almost there,” Margarete said, her focus on Skylar.
Skylar curled forward, groaning and gritting her teeth through the pain.
“Doin’ good, angel,” Tucker soothed, though his expression was tight with fear. She fell back against him and a shrill cry filled the room.
Cora stared in sheer fascination at the purple, glistening life in Margarete’s steady hands.
“A girl,” the woman said.
“A girl?” Tucker repeated.
Numb with shock, Cora glanced toward the bed. Still racked with the pain of childbirth, Skylar continued to breathe hard, her eyes pinched tight.
“Rápido, take the baby.” Margarete looked directly at Cora. “Vámonos!”
Cora stared at the wailing infant and the knotted cord protruding from its tiny belly. A hard rush of fear kept her rooted in place.
“I’ve got her,” Chance said, stepping in front of Cora. He knelt beside the old woman and wrapped the baby in a white blanket. “Sky, which color ribbon?”
“Green,” Skylar said in a pant. She opened her eyes, a smile touching her lips as she looked at her daughter. “For Emily.”
The name of Chance and Tucker’s mother. Tears stung Cora’s eyes.
“I’ll have you bundled and warm in just a moment,” Chance murmured to the squealing baby as he carried her past Cora to a chest of drawers. Water steamed from a bowl beside a stack of fresh cloths. Chance placed his niece on a bed of blankets and unwrapped her. Emily’s bleating cry increased as he dunked a rag into the water and began to wash her face before bathing her thin little limbs.
Cora moved closer, watching Emily’s skin flush to a soft pink beneath Chance’s gentle strokes, his hands appearing so big on such a little infant. He shook out another cloth and swaddled her bottom in a diaper with amazing precision and finesse.
“You’ve done this before.”
“I watched Margarete when Josh was born and caught on quick enough. I couldn’t expect Skylar to go back to working with the horses if I wasn’t willing to do my share of diapering.”
The thought of Chance playing the role of nursemaid brought a smile to her lips. He worked Emily’s little body into a gown with impossible ease. He pulled the soft white cotton down over her tiny pink feet and cinched the green ribbon threaded through the bottom. Finished, his big hand scooped up his tiny niece. The moment he cradled her close, Emily’s cry subsided. She nuzzled into him and drew a shuddered breath.
“There, now,” he said, smiling down at the wide contented blue eyes staring up at him. “Spread out that thick blanket,” he said to Cora, nodding toward the folded stack at the end of the dresser.
Cora rushed forward and did as he asked.
A second baby squealed behind them.
“Pretty as her sister,” said Margarete.
Chance stepped forward, rolling the bundled baby toward Cora’s bosom, at the same time positioning her arms around Emily’s tiny body.
“Got her?” he asked, his hands still holding her arms in place.
The most precious blue eyes blinked up at her. Cora swallowed her fear and nervousness and gave a firm nod.
A baby.
She didn’t know why the sweet bundle in her arms came as such a shock. But it did. She’d never seen anything so perfect and sweet.
Chance walked by her with Emily’s sister, saying, “Yellow for Grace.”
Cora stood beside him as he repeated the bathing process. Grace didn’t complain as her sister had, but watched her uncle with wide curious eyes as he rinsed her tiny blond curls and cleaned between all of her tiny fingers and toes.
“She likes her bath.”
“She must take after her mama,” Tucker said from behind them.
Cora turned to see Tucker stacking pillows against the headboard as he and Margarete helped Skylar into bed. Skylar leaned back, her usual tanned complexion frightfully pale against the mountain of white softness. “I want to see my girls,” she said, looking at Cora.
Tucker sat beside her and looked expectantly at Cora.
Carefully walking to the bed, she passed Emily to her father. His hand supported her head, the rest of her fitting in his other large palm.
“She’s so tiny,” he said, easing back and leaning toward Skylar so she could see their daughter.
“Seven pounds,” said Margarete. “Big for two.” She picked up a tin pail filled with bloodied linens from the end of the bed and started for the door. “I will bring the linens back por la mañana. Buenas noches.”
“Gracias, Margarete,” Tucker said, looking up from his daughter.
“Don’t thank me. Was your wife who did all
the work.”
He slid closer to Skylar and placed their daughter in her arms. “You done good,” he said, pressing his lips to Skylar’s sweat-dampened hair.
“Come get me if she takes to a fever or starts feeling ill.”
“Will do,” Tucker said, his eyes on Grace as Chance tucked her into Skylar’s arms beside Emily.
“How are you holding up, little brother?” Chance asked, glancing at his twin.
Tucker shook his head, his eyes bright with tears. “They sure are pretty.”
“Everything okay?” Garret stood in the doorway.
“Want to see your nieces?” Skylar asked, her tired voice barely carrying across the room.
“Do I ever.” He rushed over and crowded in beside Chance.
Cora stepped back and was instantly moved by the scene they created, a circle of family, the warmth and love shared between them nearly tangible. Emotion stole her breath. Tears stung her eyes. Not wanting to intrude on their moment, she slipped quietly from the room.
She hurried down the stairs to the great room, trying to stop the delayed rush of nerves. But it came nonetheless, in sharp gasps and scalding tears. She stopped in a patch of moonlight streaming through the front windows and clamped a trembling hand over her mouth.
“Cora Mae?” Chance’s hand closed over her shoulder.
She tried to turn away from him, unable to stop the overwhelming wave of emotion.
“It’s all right,” he said, taking her into his arms. His embrace shocked her, but she didn’t pull away, accepting his comfort, the heat of his body helping to calm her shivers. His chin touched the top of her head as he hugged her close. The feel of his breath against her ear steeled her spine. His strong arms pulled tighter, and suddenly his closeness was intolerable.
Chance seemed to sense the change in her and released his hold. He stepped back and stuffed his hands into his pant pockets, and her fear quelled as quickly as it had risen. Moonlight gilded his hair. His lips bore the hint of a smile, his expression revealing what she’d hoped to see in him since she’d arrived. Warmth.
