Romancing the Widow

by Davalynn Spencer

  “I don’t mean to say he’s besotted with you. More like watchful. Protective, as if trying to anticipate your moves. But adoration is definitely lurking.”

  Her mother laughed nervously. “It’s a bit early for that. We’ve known Mr. Jacobs such a short while. Though I must say, he is quite gentlemanly, in spite of his attire. Which reminds me—” She scooted her chair around. “Martha, did you bring in my satchel?”

  “No, I left it on the saddle. I’ll get it for you.” Anything to escape Livvy’s speculation on Haskell Jacobs’s unsettling observation.

  * * *

  From the way the approaching rider sat the saddle, Haskell pegged him as the son of Caleb Hutton.

  The cowboy pulled up and dismounted, eyeing him with caution. “You lookin’ for someone?”

  Haskell extended his hand. “Haskell Jacobs, Colorado Ranger. Pastor Hutton suggested I see his son, Whit, about a matter. I accompanied the pastor’s wife and daughter here today. I take it you’re Whit?”

  The man scanned the empty yard, the pasture, pausing on the boys stroking two strange horses.

  Haskell read the question. “A rattler spooked the mare. The wagon’s tipped at a deep gully just after the turnoff. Broke the front axle. Mrs. Hutton and her daughter rode my horse and the wagon mare the rest of the way here.”

  At that, the cowboy swept Haskell’s dust-covered clothing with a quick appraisal. “Let’s see what I’ve got in the barn in the way of an axle and you can tell me why my father sent you.”

  One way to answer a direct question.

  From the corner of his eye, Haskell caught Martha in the shade of the ranch house. Eavesdropping on what her brother might say about Tad Overton? Disappointment wedged itself between his hopes and better judgment. He followed Whit to the barn.

  “Was the snake coiled or sunnin’ itself?” Whit dropped his horse’s reins at the corral, unsaddled it and draped his rig over the top rail.

  “Coiled.”

  Whit stepped into a tack room just inside the barn door, came back with a brush and glanced at Haskell’s sidearm. “I take it you solved the problem.”

  “Changed its mind.”

  Whit snorted. “Best solution I know of.”

  The twins were pulling grass and feeding it to the horses. Whit brushed his mount and turned it out. “Nice gray.”

  “Thanks.” Haskell couldn’t agree more. Cache was the closest thing he had to a friend, besides the captain. The realization made him feel old and lonely. “He’s sound and true.”

  Whit took his rig to the tack room, and they walked the brief alleyway to an open area where a buckboard sat between two wide doors on either side of the barn. Haskell paused at the last stall and glanced back at the ranch house. Martha was nearly to the barn.

  “So what does my father think I know?” Whit set a bucket of axle grease in the buckboard and pulled a spare axle away from a pile of timber against the wall. Haskell hurried around to get the opposite end, and they hefted it into the wagon.

  “I’m trailing a horse thief rumored to be holed up in the area. Your father thinks there’s a possibility that he could be the son of Doc Mason’s nurse.”

  The remark hitched the cowboy’s otherwise smooth and easy movements, and his expression hardened. Evidently, he didn’t think kindly of Tad Overton.

  Whit took his hat off and wiped the sweat from his head with his sleeve. “More than a possibility. He was through a couple of days ago with a string of four horses. Tried to sell ’em to me, but the freshly run brands told me they weren’t his to sell.” He muttered something under his breath. “Like he thought I wouldn’t notice.”

  “How well do you know him?” Haskell said.

  Whit made a sound in his throat. “Better than I care to.”

  “Do you know which way he headed?”

  The hat landed hard. “West, toward Texas Creek.”

  “How far is that?”

  “Half a day’s ride.” Whit eyed him “From town, not here. You could make it quicker from the ranch.”

  “Sounds like you wouldn’t mind seeing him caught.”

  Whit snorted. “I couldn’t just take off and ride into town to tell the sheriff. Overton’s been a no-account all his life. Left his ma in the lurch and got himself shot during the train wars, abandoned a good dog when it was a defenseless pup and now he’s stealin’ horses. Yeah, I’d like to see him get his due.”

  “I understand he fancied your sister at one time.” What that had to do with Haskell’s manhunt he was unwilling to admit.

  Like a bullet, Whit’s look burned through him. “Fuel for the fire.” He grabbed a heavy hammer and tossed in the wagon. “Let me know if you need help bringing him in, and I’ll ride with you.”

  Haskell appreciated the cowboy’s willingness, but he didn’t need a gut-driven vigilante shooting his suspect. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  A clearing throat turned both their heads to the alleyway. Martha stood with hands clasped before her—minus the sling—and her chin reaching for the rafters. “Excuse me, but have either of you seen my mother’s satchel? You remember, Mr. Jacobs. You tied it to your saddle as we were leaving the wagon.”

  Mr. Jacobs. She’d heard enough to learn his intentions but not enough to know the intention of his heart.

  “Your nephews may know its whereabouts. I asked them to care for the horses.”

  She turned with a sharp jerk of her head and the braid snapped like the tail of a bullwhip. Before he could reach her, the twins came running through the alleyway and nearly knocked her down in their hurry.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” She snagged each one and flinched when one boy hit the end of her right arm’s reach.

  He stepped forward. “What’d you boys do with the satchel that was tied to the saddle?”

  The pair stopped wiggling and looked as if they didn’t know what he was talking about.

  He nailed each one with a hard glare. “Where’s the saddle?” If it was lying in the pasture it would take more than the presence of their father to prevent him from whipping them both.

  One pointed sharply to the tack room and the other’s mouth opened as if attached to the finger. “It’s hanging on a rack in there. With all the other rigs.”

  His jaw relaxed. “Good work, men.” He clapped one on the shoulder as he squeezed past the boy and Martha.

  Giving his eyes time to adjust to the dim interior, he pegged his saddle on the bottom rack, the satchel still attached and looking like it’d been dragged up the ravine again. He untied the leather thongs and brushed off the dirt. When he turned for the door, she stood at the threshold, her face a study in sculptured control.

  And beauty.

  She held out her hand. The chin remained aloft. “Thank you.”

  He wanted to explain, but he doubted she’d listen. He handed her the bag without letting go. His grip forced her to look at him and cold water could not have doused him more than her icy regard. He released the bag and she marched from the barn.

  Whit joined him in the alleyway. “She heard us.” He looked at Haskell. “Didn’t she know what you were riding out here for?”

  “She didn’t even know I’m a ranger.”

  “That matters?”

  Haskell broke from his personal thoughts and forced himself back to the issue at hand. “It could.”

  “I take it you don’t know how her husband died.”

  Haskell cut him a sideways glance and then watched her stride toward the house.

  “A stray bullet caught him in the head. Died right there in a St. Louis street. He was a preacher, too.”

  The news hit Haskell like the lead that dropped Martha’s husband. Not only had she been the wife of a decent, God-fearing man, she was the widow of one brought down by a gun.
>
  No wonder the sight of his Colt filled her eyes with terror.

  He didn’t have a chance.

  Chapter 11

  Hot tears clogged Martha’s throat. So much for the gallant Mr. Jacobs. He was convinced Tad Overton was a horse thief and no doubt planned to shoot him down in the street the first chance he got.

  How dare she give a gunman a second glance—lawman or not. She should have known better.

  She burst through the kitchen door, dropped the satchel on the table and hurried through to the dining room, away from curious eyes. With no place to hide in her humiliation, she stepped inside the adjacent study, closed the door and leaned against it.

  A man’s study. The smell of leather and oiled wood filled the room, shooting fine pinpricks against her already aching sensibilities. She locked the door and turned the large desk chair to face the window overlooking distant bluffs and green pastures. Dropping onto the worn leather seat with a hiccup, she let the tears slip down her face unchecked.

  Betrayal crawled in and curled up next to her heart.

  She didn’t cry for Tad. Her childish infatuation with him had dissolved years ago when she fell in love with Joseph. She didn’t even cry for Joseph. He was with the God he loved, as her mother had said. The God she loved. But sometimes the Lord felt so distant, so in cahoots with every other man in her life, like her father who had turned Haskell Jacobs onto Tad’s trail.

  A few tears, she admitted, were for the tall ranger. What a fool she’d been to think something might grow between them.

  She sniffed and wrapped her arms around her middle. She cried for herself, fully aware of pity’s suffocating grip. Fishing in her skirt pocket for a hankie and finding none, she wiped her eyes with her sleeve, pulled up her petticoat hem and blew her nose. Her mother would have been appalled.

  All she wanted was a loving marriage like her parents had. And children. Fresh tears burned and she coughed against the tightening in her chest.

  At a knock on the door she flinched and her shoulder tightened with a sharp stab.

  “Marti?”

  Livvy. “Yes?” She cringed at the soggy edge to her voice.

  “Are you all right?”

  No, she was not all right. “Yes. I’m fine.” The break in the last word ruined her prospects for taking up lying as a profession.

  The doorknob rattled, then lay still in its place. “May I come in?”

  Martha pulled her petticoat up again and pressed it to her face. Livvy was asking to come into a room in her own house. Humiliation flared. “Just a moment.”

  Taking a deep breath, she stood and smoothed her skirts. At the door, she turned the key and stepped back. Martha stiffened at Livvy’s worried expression. They were so close in age, yet so far apart in wisdom and experience.

  “Of course you may come in. This is your home. I apologize for locking the door.”

  Livvy stepped inside, shut the door and pulled Martha into her arms. The gesture drained every drop of resolve from Martha’s body.

  Groping inwardly for composure, she pulled away and held her sleeve against her eyes. Livvy took her other hand and pressed a hankie into it.

  “Thank you.” Martha’s nose and head were so clogged with tears that she didn’t recognize her own voice.

  Livvy pulled a side chair to the end of the desk. “Come and sit,” she said, leaving her grandfather’s desk chair empty. “What is it that has you tied in such a knot?”

  Martha walked to the window and stood for a long moment drinking in the expansive blue sky, verdant meadows and rocky bluffs. Such contrasting elements that balanced the scene rather than warring within it. So unlike her inner landscape.

  With a wavering breath, she returned to the leather chair and faced her sister-in-law. Not long after Livvy and Whit married, Martha had left for school. She’d not had much chance to get to know her brother’s wife and she steeled herself for an inquisition.

  Instead, a kind smile settled in Livvy’s eyes and she said nothing, and simply waited, unhurried and unflustered.

  Martha sucked in a broken breath. “I have no life.”

  The declaration informed Martha herself as well as Livvy. She’d not faced it head-on, but as she sought to explain, she realized the depth of her problem.

  “I have no husband, no children, no substance.”

  Livvy folded her hands on her apron and looked out the window over Martha’s shoulder. Her yellow hair reminded Martha of Joseph’s. They could have been siblings.

  “I am not surprised you feel that way.” Livvy’s gaze took in the same ranch land that Martha had regarded. “When I first moved here, I was running away from the mundane life of a preacher’s daughter entombed in a city. My heart longed for something else, I just didn’t know what.”

  She looked at Martha. “Until I saw the ranch and your brother.”

  Martha huffed. “You knew Whit when we were all children.”

  “Not the Whit he became as a grown man.”

  Martha still considered him an overbearing big brother, though she’d tried to cut him free of that image.

  “But it was more than that,” Livvy continued. “I took care of Pop, fed the crew here, tended to the garden and chickens and canning and cooking. I had a sense of purpose.” She returned her gaze to the window. “And I had your mother’s encouragement to trust the Lord with my heart and stop trying to figure things out on my own.”

  Shame bent over Martha and breathed heavily down her neck. She’d not listened enough to her mother’s counsel. Usually she bristled against it.

  “I know you see her differently than I do.” Livvy laughed. “I certainly don’t view my own mother with the same regard, and for that I confess my sin. It’s often difficult to see a parent’s wisdom when you know them so well.”

  Martha’s back eased, the tension in her shoulder lessened. Whit had made a good choice for a wife.

  “But it is worse for you.”

  Martha locked her eyes on Livvy. Maybe she had judged too soon. She waited for the ax of accusation to fall.

  “You have had a purpose and a life, as you put it, and lost it. No wonder you feel bereft.”

  Martha blinked hard. She had no more use for tears. They swelled her face, blurred her vision and did her no good.

  “But never doubt that you have substance. I know what your mother would say—‘Faith is the substance of things hoped for.’ You have faith and you have hope. Therefore, you have substance.”

  Martha sat numbed by the simplicity with which her sister-in-law spoke. The verse she referenced had been one of Joseph’s favorites. Why had it not come to mind since his death?

  * * *

  Haskell’s head turned at the brilliant clang coming from the ranch house. He’d nearly forgotten the sound of a stirring call to dinner and envisioned the woman rounding the bar against the triangle. Little hope was left to paint in the face of Martha Hutton.

  He and Whit had worked amicably for an hour, switching out a broken pole in the corral, laughing at the boys as they scattered hay in a mock brawl and then grumbled their way through raking it into a neat pile.

  “If you ever change your mind about the Rangers, you’d do all right on a ranch.” Whit leaned his shovel and the boys’ rakes against the wall. “Might even hire you on myself. If you can rope from horseback, that is.”

  The younger man pushed up his hat up with his arm. A wide grin broke through a week-old beard. Haskell suspected Livvy would soon be after her husband with a straight razor.

  Whit turned to his sons. “Go wash up. Don’t keep your ma waiting.”

  “But Mr. Jacobs owes us for takin’ care of his horses.” One dark-haired youngster stood his ground and held a narrowed eye on Haskell.

  “You’re right.” Haskell snagge
d his gun belt from a high nail, strapped it on, then rolled down his sleeves.

  “And what might that be?” Whit said to the boys. “You’re not takin’ money for being hospitable.”

  “’Tain’t money, Pa.”

  “It isn’t.” Whit hammered the words with a frown. “Your mother’ll have my hide if she hears you talking like that.”

  Haskell sucked his cheek between his teeth and grabbed his hat.

  “He said he’d tell us how to figure what kind of horse eats more—a black one or a white one.”

  Whit scrubbed his face and made a rough noise behind his hand.

  Haskell squatted before the boys and looked one in the eye and then the other. “Count ’em.”

  Two dark brows tucked down in puzzlement and they turned to each other as if pulled by the same string.

  “Count what?” said the narrow-eyed challenger.

  “The horses. How many white ones, how many black ones?”

  Light cracked in the blue eyes of the other boy and he let out a whoop. “Ha! You got us good.” He hopped around on one foot and slapped his brother on the back. “Don’t you see? If you got more white horses than black ones, the white ones eat more. And the other way round if you got more black horses.”

  Whit laughed, grabbed each boy by a shoulder and turned them toward the house. “Off with you. Dinner’s waitin’ and don’t forget to wash.”

  The pair ran off, shoving each other like two unruly racehorses on the final stretch.

  “Cale! Hugh!” Like a whip crack they stopped their antics and walked the rest of the way until they rounded the corner of the house and were out of sight. A high-pitched “Hey!” rolled across the yard to the barn and Whit shook his head.

  “They’re good boys,” Haskell said, heading for the house.

  “But they’re a bucket full o’ bobcat, I tell you what.” The disclaimer did nothing to dim the pride in the young father’s eyes. Haskell tasted envy on his tongue. A bitter and unpleasant flavor.

  Nearly as unpleasant as dinner with Martha sitting feet away and miles apart. She refused to meet his eye, yet was a lively conversationalist with everyone else. It was as if he didn’t exist, and she made it clear that she wished it were so.