Romancing the Widow

by Davalynn Spencer

  Haskell mounted the steps and pulled off his hat. “Thank you for meeting me this morning, Pastor.”

  “Caleb.” The parson extended his hand in greeting. “I’m more comfortable on a first-name basis.” A genuine smile warmed his features. No snake oil dripped from the corners of his mouth.

  Haskell felt oddly at ease, considering how long it had been since he’d been in a church.

  Sunlight filtered through the eastside windows, buttering the pews with a yellow glow. Hutton walked to the front of the room and sat in the first pew, turning slightly to the side. Haskell joined him—again, hat in hand. It was getting to be a bad habit.

  “I’d like to begin by telling you I know what happened yesterday with my daughter.”

  Haskell slid his lawman’s mask across his eyes and gave no response one way or the other. He had yet to categorize the parson, and a father’s reaction to his daughter’s injury was not to be underestimated.

  “Thank you for bringing Marti home and fetching the doctor.”

  At that, Haskell’s jaw eased a notch and he let his gaze slide to his hat. “I’m sorry about the accident. I should have—”

  “That is exactly what it was, I believe. An accident.” The preacher’s dark eyes drank in every inch of Haskell’s face but didn’t give away his own thoughts. The man had the makings of a ranger. He crossed a boot on his leg and stretched one arm along the pew back. “You wanted to ask me something.”

  Haskell dangled his hat on his fingers. “How is she doing today?” The question surprised him as much as it did the preacher.

  The preacher smiled politely. “She’s her old sharp self. A little stiff, that’s all. I expect she’ll be slowing more at the street corners now.” The smile waned. “But that can’t be what you had on your mind yesterday afternoon.”

  No, it wasn’t. He just wished it were. He pulled his coat back to reveal the star. Hutton caught the movement without surprise. He’d probably heard and seen just about everything in his line of work.

  “I’m with the Colorado Rangers out of Denver, and I’m looking for a horse thief who’s said to hole up in these parts.”

  “There are a lot of places for a man to hide around here. Plenty of abandoned mines and narrow canyons in this country.”

  “Yes, sir. But you might know him.”

  The preacher’s right eye twitched.

  “Without knowing he’s a thief.”

  Hutton uncrossed his leg. “How do you figure? Think he’s one of my congregants?”

  “I think he’s connected to Doc Mason.”

  Both eyes twitched and the preacher rubbed the back of his neck.

  “I rode along the river yesterday afternoon and came upon an old man camped back in the cottonwoods. He told me a fella traipsed through the night before with a string of four good horses. Said he followed him and the man turned toward town at the other end of Main Street.”

  Hutton nodded. “That would be Goldpan Parker you met. Went bust years ago, but seems content to live down there on the river.” He looked hard at Haskell. “But if there were strange horses in town I’d know it. And I haven’t seen any.”

  “No, you haven’t seen them. They’re stabled in Doc Mason’s barn. Four nice head, haltered and filling themselves on mountain hay.”

  Hutton held his gaze.

  “I followed Parker’s lead, ended up at Mason’s barn and looked inside.” The partial truth jabbed Haskell in the preacher’s presence. “I went inside. That’s when I saw the fresh brand on their shoulders, recently burned with a running iron.”

  “You think Mason’s a horse thief?” Hutton squinted.

  “No, I don’t. But I think he’s housing one. When I rode down there yesterday to bring him back for Marti—I mean your daughter—Doc and his nurse were working on a fella in the surgery. I didn’t see him, but I could hear him. He was hurting. When the nurse came out she was curt and hostile. Had a bloody towel in her hands. She and the Doc had been talking about laudanum and I heard them shuffling someone to another room before she came out to see me.

  Hutton frowned and rubbed his neck again. “Have you talked to the doctor?”

  “Yesterday before I found you. He wouldn’t tell me anything about his patients. Said he couldn’t talk about them, even if they were outlaws or horse thieves. Especially to people who weren’t kin.”

  “Does he know you’re a ranger?”

  “Yes.”

  Hutton blew out a breath. “I’m bound by a similar standard. I can’t talk about other people’s problems and troubles. But I can tell you this much—the nurse is Delores Overton. Several years ago her son Tad got himself shot during the Railroad War here between the Denver & Rio Grande and the Santa Fe. A lot of good men got caught up in that, but there was always something about her boy Tad that didn’t set right with me.”

  “Can you put your finger on it now?”

  A shadow crossed Hutton’s face and he turned his gaze toward the windows.

  Haskell clenched his jaw and waited. He needed information.

  “We sent Marti away to school about that time. She was sweet on him.”

  But not that kind of information.

  Chapter 6

  Martha cleared the table, scrubbed the counter and returned each piece of china to the dining room hutch—work that required only one hand. She placed the delicate dishes just so, arranging them as her mother had, obviously proud of such finery.

  “Let’s walk to the dressmaker’s, Mama. It’s been so long since I’ve done anything physical—other than stepping in front of a horse.”

  Her mother hung her apron on a hook and tucked a smile between her lips. “We shall stay to the boardwalks this morning. How does that sound?”

  “Wonderful. And let’s stop in at Mr. Winton’s curio shop. I want to ask if he is still taking people up to the dig.” She noted her mother’s frown. “Is his shop still open?”

  “Oh, yes. And he is still exhibiting remarkable fossils from the Garden Park before they are boxed and shipped out on the train to the university. But going to the dig in your condition could be dangerous, and not just because of the footing. Vandals are smashing some of the bones, and poor Mr. Finch—the farmer who’s leading the dig—is beside himself. Plus he lost another son since you’ve been gone.”

  Martha stiffened at the news. Not uncommon to lose a child, but grieving over one’s beloved children must be worse than grieving over children never born.

  “Mr. Finch reopened the second quarry across from the first one and Yale sent a paleontologist to help him with his work. But from what I hear, the site may be exhausted.”

  Old dreams stirred in Martha’s heart as she and her mother left through the front door. She had to make it out to the dig at least once before it was shut down, sore shoulder or not.

  Her mother swept her with a worried look. “Are you sure you’re up to walking today? We can just as easily take the buggy.”

  “Nonsense. I am fine and I need the exercise.” At the edge of Main Street, she glanced toward the open church door. Haskell Jacobs sat inside with her father talking about—what?

  She huffed a short laugh. It did not matter. She twisted her reticule drawstring around the fingers of her left hand and stepped up her pace. “My arm is not broken. Doc Mason said as much. Maybe this sling is too confining and I should be working out the stiffness.” She tugged at the knot behind her neck.

  “Leave that be.” Her mother’s hand swatted hers away. “You don’t want to make matters worse. Give it a week and we’ll have the doctor check it again.”

  A week. In a week she’d lose what little of her mind remained if she did not find some outlet for her restlessness.

  They turned left and kept to the south side of the street. Smart storefronts replaced wh
at Martha remembered, and several new establishments boasted brightly painted signs. In the next block they turned in at the dressmaker’s, which looked like a shop straight from St. Louis.

  Evidence of scented soap and sachet hit Martha square in the face as they entered, but it did not overwhelm her any more than did the countless hats, parasols, gloves, reticules and petticoats that covered every inch of counter, wall and shelf space. Women clustered in every nook and cranny, chattering over the latest fashions and patterns.

  Her mother laughed. “It is surprising, isn’t it? I reacted just the same the first time I visited with your grandmother.”

  Martha didn’t know what to consider first—material for a dress or a new hat. With feathers, ribbons or lace? Nothing in the store said schoolmarm, that was for sure. They headed for the back where fabric lay stacked on the counter.

  Her mother picked up a length of lightweight wool and held it next to Martha’s face. “This would be lovely with your hair.”

  The exact color of Haskell Jacobs’s eyes.

  And what if it was? He was not the only blue-eyed man in the world. Just the only one to have captured her attention.

  Martha tugged at a dull gray. “What about this?”

  Her mother dropped her hands to her side and pegged Martha with a warning glare.

  “Must I spell it out for you? I’m trying to cheer you. Look at this place.” She twirled around like a girl in a candy store. “Have you ever seen anything like this?”

  Martha picked up the blue fabric and held it to her chin. “Five lengths?”

  While they waited for Martha’s turn to be measured and sized, they fondled delicate thread for tatting, several soft yarns and the most beautiful hair combs Martha had ever seen. Her mother pushed thoughtfully at the combs she had worn since time immemorial and Martha made a mental note for Christmas.

  By the time the seamstress finished, Martha’s stomach was growling like a cur. “I’m starving, Mama. Let’s save the curio shop for another day and go home for dinner.”

  Outside, her mother linked arms with her and turned toward the heart of town. “Let’s not.” She marched up the boardwalk and Martha was obliged to follow. “I’ve heard about the wonderful food at the café. I think we should give it a try. What do you say?”

  Apparently, it mattered not what Martha might say, for they were already at the corner, stepping into the street. She quickly looked to her left and flexed her right arm, which shot a pointed reminder to her shoulder.

  “But what about Papa?”

  Her mother chuckled. “Did I ever tell you how he lived before we were married?”

  “Yes, you’ve told me.” That rhetorical question had been discussed countless times during Martha’s younger years. “I could recite it by heart.”

  “Well, then, no need to ask. I dare say your father will fend for himself. It’s not every day I get to step out on the town with my daughter.”

  A departing couple exited the café as Martha and her mother approached, and a most delicious aroma followed them out the door. Martha’s empty stomach noticed and she pushed against her waist to stop the rumbling.

  A waiter seated them at a window table in clear view of the busy street and boardwalk. Fewer freight wagons rumbled by than she remembered, no doubt replaced by the train that cut through the mountain to Leadville and points beyond.

  “We shall have whatever it is that smells so delightful,” her mother said.

  Martha turned her attention to the waiter who poured coffee into two mugs.

  “It’s pork chops, ma’am, with gravy and beans and potatoes.”

  “Wonderful.” She looked at Martha for confirmation.

  At the moment, Martha could eat almost anything. “Perfect,” she said. “May I have extra gravy, please?”

  The mustached waiter smiled and bowed briefly before turning on his heel for the kitchen. Amused by the man’s formal attitude, Martha relaxed and reached for her coffee. She lifted it to her lips and looked up. With a sharp intake she jerked and coffee splashed onto the checkered cloth.

  Her mother leaned toward her, worry darkening her eyes. “What is it? Are you all right?”

  Martha set down the mug and dabbed at the stain with her napkin. “I’m fine.” She shot a glance over her mother’s shoulder, relieved that Haskell Jacobs was too busy dismembering his pork chops to notice her. At least she hoped so.

  She scooted her chair to the left and met her mother’s concerned gaze, which now blocked her view of the arrogant Mr. Jacobs. “I just recognized someone I did not expect to see, that’s all.”

  Her mother turned.

  “Mama!”

  She stopped at Martha’s frantic whisper and cocked a thin brow. “And why not?”

  “It’s Mr. Jacobs. I don’t want him to see me.” She’d said too much.

  Her mother leaned back in her chair and tilted her head. “Is your father with him?”

  “No.”

  Martha squirmed again, feeling like a schoolgirl beneath her mother’s scrutiny. The woman expected some sort of confession, admission of, of...what? Martha would gladly bare her soul if only she understood the situation herself.

  * * *

  Haskell saw them enter the café. He saw everyone who entered the café. It was his job to be aware, take note. But his bucking pulse at Marti Hutton’s arrival was not.

  He busied himself with the meat, forked a bite in the gravy and kept his head low as he chewed. Haskell Jacobs backed down to no man. So why did he react to the presence of the young widow wearing a sling?

  Maybe it was the sling. He’d been thinking of her and not paying attention when she stepped in front of Cache yesterday morning. Distraction could get him killed. It nearly got her killed.

  He cut off another bite and stole a look. She caught his eyes and flinched. Spilled her coffee. The mere sight of him distressed her.

  He looked again. She had moved to her left, positioned her mother between them.

  The meat turned to wood in his mouth and he laid down his fork. He was not a man to run from trouble, and this situation with Marti Hutton or Martha Stanton or whatever her name was, was trouble. It was taking its toll on him, costing him precious time and dulling his observational skills.

  Decision made. He’d take the apron to her this afternoon and confront her head-on.

  About what, he had no idea.

  He caught the waiter’s eye, paid for his meal and tugged his hat down as he left. Outside on the boardwalk he blew out a breath, feeling he’d escaped a fate worse than being shot. A strange sensation.

  He loosened Cache’s reins from the hitching rail, swung up and rode toward the west end. He needed to think about something other than the widow and her one-time affection for a possible horse thief.

  Tad Overton. The pastor said his son, Whit, knew the man. Whit ran cattle about ten miles out of town and a visit appealed to Haskell. Might give him a chance to see the country, maybe locate a few acres that needed a new owner.

  But did he want to settle in Cañon City near a woman who drove every reasonable thought from his head and made him weak in the knees?

  He slowed Cache to a walk at Doc Mason’s. A buggy waited in front and the surgery door was open. Busy man.

  The prison walls rose ahead, and a ways beyond them, across the river, the Hot Springs Hotel. Fifty cents bought a bath in the thermal waters. The steamy image appealed to him—a good hot soaking after dark, followed by a slow walk behind Mason’s barn on the way back to the St. Cloud.

  He turned north up First Street and rode in the shadow of the penitentiary walls. Seemed like a waste of time to drag a horse thief back to Denver when Haskell could just as easily chuck him over the high stone battlement. He grunted at the idea. Quite a sight for the town’s residents.
/>   But due process was due process. Even a thief deserved a trial.

  Grand homes faced the shady streets running north of and parallel to Main, and Haskell passed fanciful structures of rose quartz and granite. Two-and three-story houses boasted yellow or green gingerbread, reminiscent of Denver’s grandeur. Much gaudier than the Huttons’ parsonage with its simple white clapboard and broad porch.

  His house would have a porch. And a swing for summer evenings when the sun washed coppery gold over the Rockies. And a wife with hair the same color.

  He kicked Cache into a lope, disgusted with his slack discipline. The sooner he got the chore over with, the better. He yanked the horse around the corner nearest the laundry, dismounted and stomped inside.

  Voices chattered from behind a wide curtain, but no one manned the darkened storefront. His hand slapped the counter and the voices stilled. The curtain moved, and dark eyes peeked through a slit, followed by the fellow who had told him the apron would be ready today.

  The little man pulled a bundle from below the counter and handed it to Haskell.

  “Thank you.” He strode to the door, then stopped and turned. “Was it ruined?”

  “Just dirty.” The washer man grinned. “Now clean.”

  Haskell nodded and shut the door, then pulled the reins from the post and swung up.

  By late afternoon, traffic had thinned and the boardwalk emptied. He tied Cache at the livery, tucked the parcel under his arm and walked to the parsonage. The widow sat on the porch swing and stopped its motion when she saw him.

  He, too, stopped, expecting her to flee indoors to her mother. Instead, she pushed against the porch floor and resumed the swing’s movement. His heart resumed beating.

  “Evening,” he said as he took the steps and stood before her.

  The widow looked at the bundle. “Good evening, Mr. Jacobs.”

  No wind whisper or prairie sigh tonight. Her tone raised a wall as cold and stony as the prison’s. He held out the paper-wrapped package. “Here’s your apron.”

  Surprise raised her brows. She stopped the swing again and reached out with her left hand. A question lit her face and rather than wait for her to ask, he answered.