In His Will

by Cathy Marie Hake

  They stared at each other in shock. His impulsive action left her speechless, and he felt as amazed at his behavior as she was. For a long moment, they stood almost a yard apart in taut silence. Then the whole place shook with his bellow. “You’re pregnant!”

  Five

  “Thanks for telling me. I hadn’t noticed.”

  “Don’t you have any sense at all? You can’t ride!”

  “You invited me to!”

  “I didn’t know you were in the family way!”

  She scowled at him. “Of course you did. How could you possibly miss it?”

  He impatiently flailed an arm in the air. “How could I tell? You always roam around in that dumb shirt.”

  Her eyes shot sparks.

  He glowered right back. “Trying to heft that kind of weight when you’re carrying a baby is insane!” Long moments passed in tense silence. His gaze slowly dropped to her middle as he wondered aloud, “When did your husband die, anyway?”

  Sondra stared straight through him.

  He sucked in a noisy breath. Everything went stock-still for a moment, then Dylan grated, “That’s it, isn’t it? You hardly even show, and your husband died months ago. Whose baby is it, Sondra? Miller’s? Is that why he left you everything?” When she didn’t answer, Dylan kicked a post and smacked his Stetson on his thigh in exasperation. Slamming it on his head, he stomped out without a backward glance.

  ❧

  Sondra turned back to work. All her life, people held low opinions of her—after all, her own parents neglected her so badly, she’d been removed from their care. If her own family felt she was worthless, why should anyone else consider her of value? She’d learned to ignore the sly looks, whispers, and pity of others. Protesting usually didn’t solve the problem; it often cemented the wrong notion in folks’ minds.

  None of that matters. It doesn’t. Christ paid the ultimate price for me. I don’t have to worry what others think, because in His eyes, I’m priceless.

  That night, Dylan Ward’s voice seeped into her dreams and kept taunting her, Whose baby is it? Whose? By morning, she wanted to curl up into a tight ball, pull the covers over her head, and forget the world. She couldn’t do that, though. Sondra Thankful was not a quitter. She’d do anything within her power to succeed—she had to, for her baby’s sake.

  It would be smart to hire a manager to help, though. Surely, Miller would understand—especially after what happened yesterday. Until she found that elusive person, though, she would keep going. If she secured someone soon, he’d get a chance to find his stride with the men and get the feel of the ranch. Then, when Dylan walked off with his share after the year was up, she wouldn’t be left high and dry. With great resolve, she determined to see to the matter, then left the house to start her day as a know-nothing rancher.

  She popped into the coop and swiftly filled the basket. The fear of finding another snake lurked in the back of her mind, but Sondra kept reminding herself that the hens were calm. When the snake was there, they’d been wild. Reassured with that observation, she finished the task and moved on to the stable.

  Howie tipped his hat ever so slightly before resuming mucking the stalls.

  Sondra tried hard to ignore the odor and turned to grab a spare shovel.

  Howie swiped the shovel from her hands as his face puckered into a scowl. “You ain’t got no call doin’ that these days.”

  “I’ve been doing it!”

  “Not anymore, you’re not. Why didn’t ya tell us you’re in a delicate condition?”

  Sondra looked down at her waist. “I can’t for the life of me understand this. You’re acting like I intentionally kept it a big secret, and I’m showing!”

  “Not much. Not much at all. Coulda been that you needed to shed a few pounds.”

  “It’s not a deadly disease. I’m a normal, healthy woman.”

  “Practicin’ lullabies,” he added hastily.

  His choice of words amused her, but Sondra was careful not to hurt his feelings by laughing. “I’m not going to laze around. What can I do?”

  “How ’bout”—He seemed a bit surprised she wanted to work, but he looked around to come up with something—“if I show you how to take care of the horses?”

  “Great!”

  “I’ve gotta finish up here first.” Plop. A shovelful of muck punctuated his comment.

  Sondra fought the impulse to step back a bit. The smell nearly overpowered her. “When do the eggs get picked up?”

  “Couple or three times a week. To my reckonin’ Chris Ratliff oughtta be by today.”

  “Fine.” She smiled. “I’ll go box up the eggs; then I’ll be back to learn about the horses.”

  He paused and leaned on his shovel. “Think you’re up to that?”

  “Without a doubt.”

  Just as she finished readying the eggs, an old truck with “By His Hand” painted along the side pulled in to take her supply. Chris Ratliff gently set her aside and insisted on lifting the crates of eggs into the truck himself. He then surprised her by pressing a carton of milk into her arms.

  “What is this for?”

  “Ma’am.” He gave her an assessing look and his mouth crooked into a sheepish grin. “A mother-to-be needs to be drinking plenty of milk. Dylan asked me to bring by half a gallon twice a week. More often if you say so.”

  Sondra laughed and waved her hand toward the pasture. “I have hundreds of cows. Not to sound ungrateful, but isn’t this like taking sand to the beach?”

  “No, ma’am. You’re not supposed to be drinking raw milk. Most city-folk don’t care for the taste of it, but even if you did, it’s not pasteurized.” He shook his head. “Now you let me know if you need more milk. Got that?”

  “Yes, and thank you. Let me go get my purse.”

  He frowned at her. “We’re neighbors.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Ma’am, you’d best talk to Dylan so’s you’ll get the picture. We all chip in and help each other out. Our extras go to the By His Hand food bank, but we swap goods as a matter of course. Just makes sense.”

  She felt awkward. “I’m sorry if I offended you.”

  “Dylan’ll fill you in. You didn’t get a garden in this year, so my family’ll send over tomatoes and squash and the like.”

  “That sounds wonderful. When we slaughter a steer, I’ll be sure to send over some beef.”

  A smile lit his face. “Ma’am, you just might fit in.” He glanced back at her belly and nodded as if to punctuate his opinion. “Things’ll turn out just fine.”

  She held the milk carton and stared at the back of the truck as he left. Dylan Ward, for seeming like the quintessential cowboy-of-few-words, sure didn’t waste a moment before spreading gossip about her.

  The chill from the carton sent her into the kitchen for a moment. As she put the milk into her refrigerator, the abundance of all she’d been given hit her. Gratitude swelled. She went back out singing “For the Beauty of the Earth.” Most often, it was a Thanksgiving hymn, but it fit her mood perfectly.

  She spent the balance of the day in the stable, happily rubbing saddle soap into the leather until it shone and brushing a few of the geldings and one of the mares. She chided Crackers for whipping her with a swish of his tail and giggled at the way the beasts twitched their skin to get rid of flies.

  Though far more important things needed to be done, she lacked the experience to accomplish them—or the men wouldn’t allow her to. She determined to pitch in with whatever tasks they wouldn’t fret about and help everywhere she could. If she could free a man up to put his hands to something more pressing, she’d be satisfied. She buffed a saddle horn and nodded to herself. Yes, she was going to learn as much as she could, jump in wherever possible. This had to work out. Her son’s future was riding on it.

  “Howie?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “Why wouldn’t Dylan let me ride? I thought it was okay.”

  “Not if you don’t have a clue about what
you’re doing. A fall could cost you the babe you’re carryin’.”

  She bit her lip and asked nothing more for a while. Howie whistled the same tune over and over as he repaired a harness until she finally gave him a sidelong glance. “What did Dylan tell you? About the baby and me?”

  “Ward don’t talk all that much. He’s a closemouthed sorta man. Just said you’re in a motherly way, and we’d better look out for you because. . .” His voice died off.

  Her cheeks tingled with heat. “Because?”

  “Well, ma’am. . .” He paused uncomfortably, then blurted, “Dylan said to look out for you because you ain’t got enough sense to watch out after yourself!”

  It should have been an insult, but considering the fact that she’d wondered if Dylan might have spread word that the baby was Miller’s, she could only laugh.

  After stopping by the coop to sneak a minute of cuddling a few chicks, she plodded back to the house. Her energy level needed a boost. Nuking and eating a frozen dinner would help. She felt too tired to do any cooking.

  Sondra fussed around the house late that night. It took a lot of patience and concentration to make a place look just right. Too exhausted to stay up any longer, she eventually collapsed into bed, then regretted those late hours the next morning. Knowing she had no one to blame but herself for feeling weary, she had her morning devotions, then started off on her chores.

  Edgar checked in on her at the coop and gave her a thumbs-up gesture. Heartened by that small sign of approval, she gathered the eggs and filled the feeders as she tried to decide how best to hire a manager. Even after she had one, she planned to continue to take care of the chickens. She loved scooping up the chicks and cradling them in her palm, petting their downy bodies, lifting them to brush their softness against her cheek. In those moments, she felt close to Miller again. He’d brought so much sunshine and laughter into her life with these balls of fluff.

  The day already started building into a scorcher, and Sondra thought about changing into a lighter blouse after finishing here. First, though, she needed to add oyster shells to the feed. Searching around the barn, she spotted a small bag leaning against the wall next to the chicken feed. Unsure how much to use, she sat on the floor and cocked her head to read the bag. Still tired, she momentarily rested her cheek against another sack as she decided what else needed to be done.

  ❧

  “Luna’s still sick.”

  Her eyes shot open at the sound of Dylan’s voice.

  “I noticed you already took care of the chickens—any questions?”

  “No, I’m just getting oyster shells. I was figuring out how much, but it’s here on the label, so I’m set.”

  Dylan fought to keep from shuffling his boots like a naughty eight-year-old. “Ma’am, I owe you an apology.”

  He paused a moment when her face went a shade paler, but maybe after he cleared the air, she wouldn’t look quite so. . .wary. “I don’t hold with a man using his strength against a woman. The other day—well, I gave you ample cause to be scared. Not that I would ever do you any harm, but you don’t know me well enough to trust me yet. I stepped way over the line, prying into your personal business, too. You can be sure from here on out, I’ll keep my hands to myself and my big mouth shut.”

  Her head dipped, and she mumbled something that sounded vaguely like, “Thanks.” Dylan figured that was the best he’d get out of her—better than he deserved.

  He headed out to give the men their daily orders. When he finished, he remembered he needed to tell Sondra about the feed bill. Dylan looked around and realized he hadn’t seen her come back out of the barn. He found her exactly where he’d left her—sitting on the floor, her temple resting against a green-and-white-checkered feed sack. Sleepy-eyed, she stared at her hands in her lap.

  She didn’t even realize he’d come close enough to touch her, so he quietly hunkered down to keep from startling her. Apparently, she’d lost track of the last twenty minutes. Dylan noted the dark circles under her eyes and her marked pallor.

  He had stayed away all day yesterday in order for his temper to cool. At first, he could hardly fathom how a gent-down-to-the-sole-of-his-boots like Miller ever set aside his scruples enough to dally with a woman one-third his age. Then he admitted to himself that Sondra happened to be a stunning woman, and Miller probably didn’t stand a chance against her feminine wiles. At least he now understood why Miller left the ranch to her. His child should inherit the land. The fact that he’d been generous enough to leave Dylan any land or livestock bespoke a deep level of personal regard.

  Dylan used that time to face the cold, hard truth and came to accept the disappointment—after a year, he wasn’t going to be able to buy the rest of the ranch. He owed it to the old man to help keep the place in prime condition until his child could take over. The years of commitment were staggering, but he’d do it for Miller.

  Having arrived at that decision, getting along with Sondra ought to be easier. Certainly a working relationship between them needed to be forged. He’d offended Sondra. Now that he looked at her again, he revised his thinking once more. She seemed more like the lost-and-lonely variety. Presumably, she gravitated toward Miller in her grief, and things just kind of happened.

  He felt guilty as a hound with a mouthful of chicken feathers. He’d spent the last thirty-six hours bitterly recriminating himself for how he’d treated her. He’d acted on sheer impulse and scared the daylights out of her. Dylan couldn’t remember ever being so out of control, and it disgusted him that he’d frightened a small, pregnant woman. He’d never been more serious in his life than when he’d vowed he’d never do that again.

  Watching her now, Dylan purposefully kept his voice low and mild. “Ma’am, if you’re this miserable with morning sickness, why don’t you stay in bed until a bit later?”

  “I haven’t had morning sickness for months,” she muttered.

  He shelved that piece of information to process later. For now, helping her seemed to be the priority. He’d been foolish enough to give her cause to loathe his contact. Limited to making a connection with speech, he ventured, “You’re not sleeping worth a hoot, are you?”

  Sondra gave him a helpless look, but she said nothing. Her defenseless expression cut him to the heart. The eloquent ache in her eyes transcended language. As if too exhausted to do or say a thing, she leaned back into the feed sack, and her eyes drifted shut.

  Dylan eliminated the small space between them. “Bedtime, city-girl,” he whispered in Sondra’s fiery hair as he hitched her high against his chest. In just those few seconds, scorching heat burned through her shirt and his. Resting his jaw along her temple, he confirmed her fever. “Why didn’t you tell me you’re sick?”

  Six

  “Not sick,” Sondra muttered, “just pregnant.”

  “You’re hot as the devil’s skillet.” He strode toward the door. “Luna probably gave you whatever he has.”

  “Just hot.” Being jostled seemed to awaken her a bit. “Need to change into a cooler blouse.”

  “Sondra, you’re burning up.”

  “No time to be sick. I’ll just get a drink of water and—”

  “Go straight to bed,” Dylan cut in. “If you want, I’ll even bring you a baby chick to hold.”

  “Don’t start being nice to me now,” she whispered brokenly. “Don’t you dare. I can’t take it.”

  His heart twisted. The woman in his arms was weak and small as a freshly hatched chick, and—his thoughts stalled when her baby somersaulted. Dylan felt the movement clearly to the marrow of his bones. No matter what feelings he had about getting saddled with watching her ranch and missing the chance to purchase the land he craved, he still couldn’t abandon his basic protective urge.

  “Put me down. I can walk. I promise I’ll take a nap in a little while.”

  “Shush. You’ll take more than a nap. You’re staying in bed ’til Doc gives you an all clear.”

  “The doctor in town won’t
take care of me.”

  He carried her across the barnyard, and Nickels hightailed it to intercept them. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing,” Sondra whispered faintly.

  “Nothing, my foot! She’s taken sick.” Dylan kept right on moving. He shouldered his way into her door. Suddenly, Sondra’s fingers scrabbled across his chest as she weakly tried to push away. Dylan reflexively tightened his hold.

  Sondra let out a garbled, frantic, “Sick!”

  That one word turned out to be a very pale warning for how violently ill she got. She’d been weak before that episode; afterward the woman was positively helpless. Dylan carried Sondra to the master bedroom, laid her on the bed, and gritted his teeth at the sight of her. The woman was just plain too thin. Dylan turned her face back to his. “Where do you keep your nighties?”

  “Don’t fit anymore,” she quavered. “I wear Kenny’s T-shirts. Second drawer.”

  Dylan yanked open the drawer. A dead man’s shirts lay there in two neatly folded stacks. They’re just shirts. “Here.”

  “Thank you.” Hotter than hot, she still took the thin cotton garment from him.

  Dylan left her some privacy, then stalked back in the room only long enough to take her temperature and follow it up with a glass of water. Needing to put some space between them, he went back out to the living room and plopped down on the couch as he grabbed for the phone.

  It wasn’t until then he noticed the stacks of boxes with a moving company’s name emblazoned across them. Here and there, she’d already set out a few things. The place smelled of fresh-baked bread and lemon furniture polish. Instead of the well-worn, slightly dusty-and-rumpled look, the living room now carried a tidy, welcoming air. The woman acted like a little hen, setting up her nest.

  Dylan mentally kicked himself. He should have asked his sister to round up a few neighbors to come help Sondra settle in. As soon as she got well, he’d pass the word that the little gal needed a bit of company and a helping hand to finish sprucing up the place. In spite of her feisty streak, he sensed a shyness about her. He’d nudge Teresa to help Sondra move in and make friends. She wouldn’t be well enough to go to church day after tomorrow, but he’d invite her to start going to worship once she recovered. The worn-looking Bible on the end table told him her heart was in the right place.