“At twenty-four I am no longer young or vibrant.”
Her mother’s brow knotted and she clutched her skirt in both fists as if fighting for Martha’s life. “Start over, Marti—Martha.”
The correction squeezed her heart anew. “But how could I ever love anyone other than Joseph?”
Again her mother reached out. “You make the fresh start and let the Lord take care of your heart, dear. Get involved at the mercantile or someplace else. Perhaps the Women’s Reading Club. Maybe you could lead a children’s group at church, or look into teaching at the school this winter. Or help your brother and Livvy up at the ranch. The twins are a handful for Livvy, you know.”
Children. Always someone else’s children. Or the mercantile.
Martha spread the damp hankie on her lap. “I don’t want to be a storekeeper, but I know Grandma could use my help.”
“And you could use hers. She knows what it means to lose your life’s companion.” Her voice thickened.
“I’m sorry, Mama. You must miss Grandpa terribly.”
“I do. But I concentrate on what he gave me, not on what I lost when he passed on. My prayer is that you will do the same. Joseph is with the Lord whom you both love. Trust that God will lead you as you face the rest of your life.”
Martha wrapped her arm about her mother’s shoulders and kissed her graying temple. “I love you, Mama.”
“I love you, too, dear. But not nearly as much as our Lord does.”
* * *
Haskell strode down the short lane to Main Street, paused for a mule-drawn wagon and crossed to the other side. He snatched up a crumpled roll of white fabric and swiped at brown hoof marks imprinted on the sturdy cloth. It would take more than the brush of his hand to make it right.
His gut twisted like the cloth. Making things right involved more than the widow’s apron. He wanted to make things right with her.
He was a fool.
Folding the roll in half, he turned up the street toward the laundry. If they couldn’t get it clean and like new, he’d have another one made to replace it.
Decision made. The knot in his belly eased.
Life had been predictable and simple when he came to Cañon City. He had a man to find, a duty to do and a plan to carry it out.
And then that woman stepped off the train.
In the time it took to cock his pistol or cuff a wrist, his life had jumped the track.
He stomped into the laundry and slapped the apron on the counter. A sweaty little man rolled it out to its full length and gave Haskell the once-over.
“Can you make it look brand-new?”
The man’s eyebrows dipped and he turned the cloth around. “Can do. Five cents.”
“Today?”
“Tomorrow.”
Haskell slammed a coin on the counter and turned to leave.
“Name!”
“Tillman.”
His stomach pushed him toward the café.
Few patrons remained this late in the afternoon and he took the table against the back wall, the chair facing the door.
A thick man with thicker hair brought coffee and a heavy mug, and poured without asking. Haskell nodded his thanks.
“Beef stew’s all we got left. And biscuits.”
Haskell’s mouth watered at the memory of the widow’s biscuits and molasses. “That’ll be fine.”
The coffee was charred, but it jolted him back to reality.
He was old. Too old and too hard for a woman like the widow. At thirty-three he’d taken part in more than his share of brawls and killings, and he wouldn’t know the first thing about settling down.
But that was what he’d been planning for the last few years. The exact reason he’d convinced the captain to let him take this job. He intended to scope out more than horse thieves and train jumpers. He wanted to drop his reins on a piece of cow country with a steady flowing creek and sweet grass. Grow a few fruit trees, raise a family. Stay in one place.
But men like him didn’t get to live that kind of life.
The waiter returned with a steaming bowl and set it before him. “There’s a little more where that come from if you’re still hungry.” He held out his hand. “Four bits. Coffee’s on the house.”
Haskell dropped a half dollar in the open palm. The man looked at the coin, glared at Haskell and left.
If the stew was palatable, he’d leave a short bit on the table.
The tack was cold and hard, but the well-seasoned beef and vegetables made up for it. He broke the bread into chunks and stirred them into the stew. Martha Hutton Stanton must be the only one around who could make a decent biscuit.
He jabbed at a chunk of meat and splashed gravy on the tablecloth. That woman wouldn’t let him be. She drew him off course at every turn. He needed to find his man and leave town.
A half hour later he headed Cache toward the Arkansas and turned upstream. Cottonwoods grew thick and green along the banks and Canada geese poked through pastures that sloped down to the water’s edge. Few fences blocked his path, but where they did, Cache easily took the lazy current at a slow walk. The water ran smooth and low this close to town, unlike the rapids farther up the canyon.
Again he reined Cache onto the bank. A canvas tent snugged against the trees and a dying fire sent wavering heat circling ’round a spider and tripod. A blackened coffeepot sat on the stones.
He called out.
An old man bent beneath the tent flap. From the looks of his hat and beard, a miner gone bust. He squinted at Haskell, stepped out and stood as straight as his old bones allowed.
“What kin I do fer ya?”
“You alone here?”
A bony hand slipped into the pocket of his dungarees. “Who wants to know?”
Haskell pulled his coat back, revealed the star on his vest. “I’m not looking for trouble. Just hunting a horse thief.”
A grin cracked above the unshorn beard. “’Tain’t me.” The other hand swept around the campsite. “As you kin see, I ain’t got no horseflesh here.” He bounced out a crackly laugh. “I hardly got any flesh o’ my own.”
The man hobbled to the fire, poked a stick under the coffeepot lid and peeked in. “I can give ya coffee and that’s about it.”
Haskell looked upstream. He should move on. Cache tossed his head in unspoken agreement. “I’ll take you up on that offer.” He stepped down and dropped the reins.
The grin widened and with a lighter step, the old-timer disappeared into the tent and returned with a tin cup. “Don’t get many callers down here like in the old days.” He pulled a rag from his pocket and lifted the pot.
Haskell straddled a log and took the offered cup. “Thank you.”
The man retrieved another tin from behind the fire circle and poured himself a drink.
“Here’s to good huntin’, son.” He raised the cup in a mock toast.
Haskell tested the brew with a cautious swallow. Second time today he’d been referred to as young. He snorted.
“Not to your likin’?” The old man’s eyes narrowed.
“No, sir. It’s fine. Just fine. I was thinking about something else.”
A cackling laugh. “Outlaws or women?”
Haskell shot a glance at the man. He didn’t need a prophet in the mix, but with different clothes, the old-timer fit the bill.
“Both are trouble, but one’s more fun ’n the other.”
Haskell took a swig of warm coffee. “I can’t argue with you there.”
The man wiped his coat sleeve across his bushy mustache. “Seen a fella walkin’ the river last night leadin’ a string o’ mighty fine ponies. Didn’t know I was watchin’ him.”
Haskell lowered his cup, focused on the old-timer’s story.
; “I figured he didn’t own any of ’em. Otherwise, why sneak ’em by here after dark and not ride ’em through town in the daylight?”
“Was he headed upstream?”
“He was. Had a full moon last night and after he passed, I follered him. He walked near the length o’ town before cuttin’ off into the trees. I figured we was at the other end of Main Street by that time.”
Haskell swirled the dregs. “Why’d you follow him?”
“Why not?” A toothy grin pushed through the whiskers. “Like I said, don’t get many visitors out here nowadays and I figured he was up to no good. Wanted to make sure he didn’t come back and cut my juggler.”
Haskell tongued coffee grounds out of his cheek and set the cup on a rock. He pulled a silver dollar out of a vest pocket and laid it one rock over. “Thank you for the Arbuckle’s.”
The miner’s eyes narrowed and he angled his head away, watching his guest out the side of his face. “What’s that fer?”
“The coffee.” Haskell stepped easy to his horse, aware of the old-timer’s hand still in his pocket. He gathered the reins, swung into the saddle and touched his hat brim. “And the information.”
The man reached for the coin and turned it over a couple of times before tucking it away.
Haskell rode upstream a half mile. At a clearing in the trees he turned toward Main Street and followed an overgrown trail that led to the barn behind Doc Mason’s place.
Chapter 5
Martha’s shoulder ached as she rolled to her left side and swung her feet over the edge of the bed. A restless night had left her weary and irritable. If Mr. Haskell Jacobs crossed her path today, she planned to tell him exactly what she thought of his horsemanship and his unseemly manners in the parlor yesterday.
And then she would stop thinking of him altogether.
Last night her mother had filled the copper tub with hot water and let her soak in luxury until the water cooled. It eased the pain and soothed her simmering temper, and she’d give almost anything to repeat the process this morning. But that was unlikely. One did not bathe in broad daylight in the kitchen.
At the washstand in her room she squeezed out a cloth with one hand and scrubbed her face and neck and shoulders—as much as possible. She needed her mother’s help with her hair, her dress and her shoes. Grateful that she hadn’t fallen on her left shoulder, she dipped a small brush in tooth powder and cleaned her teeth, then unfastened her braid and pulled it free. It hung over her shoulder and past her waist, and she pulled the brush through it, scraping the bristles against her body.
Joseph was gentler.
Would she ever complete the morning ritual without thinking of him?
You make the fresh start and let the Lord take care of your heart.
The words pushed against her memories, making room for themselves among other unpleasant reminders.
She’d thought the Lord was taking care of her heart. Yet all along He had known it would break when the bullet crashed into Joseph’s skull.
Her chest tightened, and in the mirror she stared at the fossilized bones edging her bookcase across the room. If God were to open her rib cage and lift out what remained of her heart, He’d find it as cold and hardened as her stony collection. Lifeless.
A tap on her door. “Mar—tha?”
“Come in, Mama, I’m up.”
Her mother walked straight to the window, pushed the curtains aside and opened the window as far as it would go. “It’s stuffy up here. And dark.”
Like me.
“May I help with your hair?”
Her mother waited, hands pressed flat against her apron as if holding herself back with an obvious effort. Would Martha act any differently if she were watching her own daughter flounder?
She’d never know. But that didn’t mean she had to be unappreciative and difficult. “Would you, please?”
The relieved light on her mother’s face nearly outshone the early sun. “How do you want it? Up or down?”
“Down. In a braid.”
Martha closed her eyes against the pain. Each tug of her mother’s nimble fingers pulled a stinging thread through her heart. As determined as she was to be independent, here she sat having her hair braided by the one who had done so before she could do it herself.
A cruel twist to come home bereft of husband and end up nearly helpless. She sighed heavily.
“Impatient?” Her mother smiled into the mirror. “I’m almost finished.”
“No, that’s not it at all. I’m frustrated. I feel absolutely helpless.”
“I can imagine. You’ve always been so active.” She tied a blue ribbon at the braid’s end and then helped Martha into her dress and fastened it. “Let’s turn this into an opportunity to get you a new dress.”
“My trunk holds several skirts and blouses. I’ve just not shaken them out yet.”
“And I’m sure they are lovely.” Her mother walked to the door and paused as if waiting for Martha to follow. “But you are just as much a woman as I, and I know how it makes me feel when I get something new to wear.”
The sparkle in her mother’s eye won her over, and Martha stooped to pick up her shoes. “Only if you’ll help me with these in the kitchen.”
“Of course.”
Martha handed over the shoes. At the stairs she gripped the handrail and headed down.
“Good morning, beautiful.” From the kitchen table, her father smiled over the top of the Cañon City Times.
“Thank you, Papa.” She kissed his cheek and pulled out a chair.
“I do believe your father was addressing his lovely wife.” Her mother planted a smug smooch on his lips and tossed Martha a wink. “Hold up your foot.”
She slipped one shoe over Martha’s dark stocking and buttoned it, and then repeated the process, ending with a gentle pat against her ankle. “I have tea, Martha, if you prefer.”
Sensing her father’s curiosity over her given name, Martha avoided his eyes as she adjusted her sling to a more comfortable angle. “I’ll take coffee this morning. I think I’m going to need it.”
Her mother set three cups and saucers on the table, each bearing a delicate pink rose pattern rimming the edges.
“These are new—they’re beautiful.” She didn’t miss the shy smile before her father hid once more behind the newspaper.
“Your father gave them to me for our wedding anniversary this year.”
Martha reached for the sugar bowl. “How thoughtful of you, Papa.”
The paper rattled. “I know.”
Her laugh erupted on its own, startling her with its spontaneity. Laughter and humor had nearly rusted away from neglect. A thin fissure ran up the hard spot in her chest.
Hot cakes, eggs and bacon were more than she wanted, but she nibbled the bacon and managed a few bites of syrupy cake. “Will you be making apple butter this fall, Mama?”
“Oh, yes. Our trees are quite full. But the Blanchards—you remember them—invited us out to pick as much as we could haul home. They insist this year’s crop is the best they’ve had in twenty.”
Her father gathered his flatware, napkin and plate and took them to the sink. “I have an appointment this morning at the church, so I need to be off. What do you ladies have planned for today?”
He came up behind his wife and wrapped his arms around her, kissing the top of her head.
Martha lowered her eyes. The affection her parents had consistently shown one another over the years was something she had longed for in her own marriage. Joseph had loved her, had been loving in his own way during their brief marriage. But he’d not met her expectations as far as affection was concerned. Now that he was gone, guilt chewed on her raw edges. Was she simply greedy and ungrateful by nature?
“We are going to visit th
e dressmaker.” Her mother leaned her head back against his chest and linked his arm with her fingers. “Who are you meeting so early?”
“Haskell Jacobs. Said he had something confidential he wanted to discuss with me about one of our citizens.”
Martha stilled like an unwound watch, waiting for her breath to catch up and flow freely. Her father noticed.
“Don’t be alarmed, Marti. It’s just a meeting. But I do think there is more to Mr. Jacobs than meets the eye.”
Her mother sobered instantly and stood to face him. “Why do you say that? Do you think he’s an outlaw?”
Her father chuckled in the way men did when thinking they knew better than a woman. Guilt gnawed at Martha for categorizing her own father as such.
He looped his wife’s waist with his hands and kissed her forehead. “I think he’s a good man and I will give him the benefit of the doubt until he proves otherwise.”
Martha snorted.
“I won’t turn my back on him, Marti, but I’m not often wrong about reading people. They are a lot like horses, you know.”
Immediately a long-eared equine relative came to mind, but she knew better than to voice her uncomplimentary vision of Haskell Jacobs. Her father gave her a light peck and headed through the house for the front door.
* * *
Doc Mason had been as forthcoming yesterday as Haskell expected: not at all. His assistant was worse. He’d never seen such a sour look on a woman’s face, as if his questions insulted her own kin.
Which led to a different perspective. He passed up the sheriff and other ministers in town, and caught Reverend Hutton exiting the mercantile. His gut told him Caleb Hutton was the man to see.
The preacher agreed to meet at the white clapboard church house this morning at eight sharp. Haskell flipped open his watch. Five minutes till.
He planted an elbow on the church hitching rail and watched the horses corralled across the street. Cache held his own in the livery pecking order and a lightning-quick kick sent a surly mare on her way. Haskell grunted.
At a metallic click he turned. The front door opened and Hutton stopped on the threshold. “Right on time. Come in.”
Romancing the Widow Page 4
