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Updated: Jun 13th, 2011 - 13:42:09 |
Winning the Widow's Heart- 2nd
A piercing scream from inside the homestead split the frigid air.
Jack Elder flattened his back against the rough-hewn logs, his Smith & Wesson drawn. Icy fear twisted in his gut. He couldn’t think about the woman inside, couldn’t let himself imagine what had ripped that tortured sound from her. He needed his thoughts clear.
Cocking his head to one side, he listened for voices. How many men were inside? Was Bud Shaw one of them?
Fat heavy snowflakes sheeted from the sky, pillowing in heaps on the frozen ground. Dense clouds obscured the sun, draping the afternoon in an unnatural twilight. Jack nudged the slush with his boot. No footsteps showed in the fresh covering. No animal prints either.
The windows had been covered with oil cloth to keep out the cold air and prying eyes. He edged around the house, hunching his shoulders as a sharp gust of wind sucked the breath from his lungs. Jagged bark snagged his sleeve. Reaching around the corner, his seeking hand bumped against the raised surface of a door latch.
Another harsh shout of pain mingled with the howling wind, curdling his blood.
It didn’t matter how many men were inside, he couldn’t let that woman suffer anymore. “No time like the present,” he declared.
Heaving back, he kicked open the door. Wood splintered. A gust of warm air scented with fresh-baked bread kicked up his hat. He lunged inside, his pistol arm outstretched.
A woman’s startled blue eyes met his shocked gaze over the silver barrel of her Colt .45.
Jack froze.
The lady standing before him was young, and nearly as round as she was tall. Her pale blonde hair clung damply to her forehead, and a shapeless gingham dress in drab-brown hues swathed her from head to toe.
Her hands shaking, the woman wrestled back the gun’s hammer. “Take one more step and I’ll blow your head off, mister.”
Rooted to the spot, Jack struggled to grasp the situation. He thought he’d planned for everything, but staring down the barrel of a quivering Colt .45 was proving him woefully wrong. An armed woman hadn’t been on his list of contingencies.
Slowly pointing his own weapon at the ceiling, he cleared his throat. “I’m a Texas Ranger,” he called out loud enough to reach anyone who might be hiding. “You’re safe now, miss.”
Her face screwed up in pain. She tipped forward, clutching her stomach. The Colt waved a dangerous path in the air. Fearful of a wild shot, Jack extended his arm toward her.
She squeaked in alarm, jerking away. “Don’t touch me!” she shouted, a thread of hysteria in her voice.
He searched her panic-ridden features for any sign of injury. “Where are you hurt?”
“Nowhere.” She warned him back with a wave of her gun. “So get out.”
Jack gaped at the terrified woman. She was obviously in pain, not to mention she’d been screaming loud enough to wake a hibernating grizzly moments before, yet she still refused help. Nothing about her reactions made sense. His instincts flared. Was she trying to warn him? Had the outlaws set a trap?
Jerking his thumb, he indicated a door on the far side of the room. “Is he in there?” he asked, his voice hushed. “Where’s Bud Shaw?”
“No one here by that name,” she gasped. “Now get out. I don’t want any trouble.”
Liquid splashed onto the plank-wood boards at her feet. Her face paled, and her eyes grew as large as twin harvest moons. As his shocked brain pieced together the source of that water, frigid air swept through the broken door, sending a plume of steam drifting off the damp floor.
His jaw dropped. She wasn’t plump, she was pregnant. Very pregnant. The truth hit him like mule kick. Her confusing reactions suddenly made sense. He hadn’t stumbled onto Bud’s hideout, he’d barged into a peaceful home. The lady of the house was understandably spooked, and about to give birth at any moment.
He pinched the bridge of his nose to collect his thoughts, then sucked in a fortifying breath. What in the name of Sam Hill had he gotten himself into? He didn’t need a sawbones to tell him the woman’s bag of waters had just broken. Jack raised his eyes heavenward and offered up a quick prayer.
“Lady, you got a heap o’ trouble,” he said at last. “But I ain’t part of it.”
She staggered to the left, the Colt still clutched in her hand.
With a quick sidestep, he dodged the business-end of the barrel. This situation required a touch more finesse than his original plan. “Ma’am,” he spoke, keeping his voice quiet and soothing. “I’m holstering my gun.”
The awareness of their isolation had his anxiety rising like bile in his throat. Nothing was more unpredictable than a frightened civilian with a gun. Not to mention she was unsteady on her feet and in obvious pain. This whole volatile situation was a disaster on top of a catastrophe, and the sooner he disarmed her, the better.
His decision made, he crept forward, his arms outstretched to display his empty hands. “Where’s your husband? Has he gone to fetch help?”
She glanced away, as if considering her answer.
His stomach sank. “You’re alone here, aren’t you?”
Her full, rose-colored lips pursed into a thin line. She shook her head in denial.
Jack grunted, annoyed by her refusal to look him in the eye. If he thought this day couldn’t get any worse, she’d just proven him wrong. He could guess the meaning of those loaded pauses and hesitant answers.
His sharp gaze surveyed the room once more. An enormous cast-iron stove dominated the space to his right. A single pine table and four crude chairs filled the corner behind the woman, a side cupboard and a pie safe flanked the open kitchen area.
No masculine boots rested on the rag rug. No overcoat hung on the sturdy hooks beside the door. Ten years as a Texas Ranger had given him a heap of insight into people.
Everybody lied, just not for the same reasons.
“I’m Jack Elder,” he said calmly. “And I’m not going to hurt you. I’ve been tracking a gang of bank robbers through Kansas.” He assumed his most charming smile to put her at ease. “You haven’t been robbing any banks these past few months, have you?”
She scowled at his joke, then another pain wracked her body. She doubled over, pressing one palm against the side of her belly.
Taking advantage of the distraction, Jack lunged forward, grasping her forearm. Her startled gaze flew to his face. Though her wild, frightened eyes pierced his rigid control, he held firm. Careful to keep his touch gentle, he pried the Colt loose from her trembling fingers, swiftly releasing the hammer with a seasoned flick of his thumb.
“Are you really a Texas Ranger?” she demanded, her voice thin but determined.
Jack stepped away, hardening his heart against her suffering. Emotions clouded judgment—and poor judgment got people killed. Hooking his finger into the gun’s trigger guard, he flipped back the collar of his jacket to reveal the silver star he’d carved from a Spanish coin. Her eyes narrowed, but she appeared satisfied by the tarnished evidence of his profession.
“Ranger or not,” she said. “You have no right to be here.”
Habits honed from years on the trail had heightened his senses. The woman had a curious lilt to her voice, the barest hint of an accent in the way she spoke. She wasn’t from around these parts, but then again, who was?
Jack let his coat fall back into place. They could debate the law another time. “Ma’am, you need to lie down. That baby is fixing to come.”
“No,” she cried. “It’s not time, it’s too soon.”
Marvelous.
She was delusion and in labor. He definitely hadn’t planned for this. She appeared oblivious to the mess at her feet, to the growing chill in the cabin, to, well, to everything. As if ignoring the situation might somehow make it all go away—make him go away.
He shifted his weight, considering his options. Best not to push her too hard, Mother Nature would deliver the full realization of her circumstances soon enough. Then again, a little nudge in the right direction never hurt.
He quirked an eyebrow. “You look plenty ready to me.”
Her expression hardened.
She was a little too ready for his peace of mind. Wherever her husband had gone, it didn’t appear the man would be returning home anytime soon. Without another person to watch over the woman, Jack’s options were limited. Unless he took control of the situation and found a plausible way to extract himself, they were both in trouble.
Suddenly hot, he slid the top button of his wool coat free. He’d just come from Cimarron, and it was forty-five minutes to town for the doctor. Leaving the woman alone for that long was out of the question. Jack released the second button, grateful for the breeze from the busted door. Surely someone was watching out for the woman? Even in this desolate land a person was never truly alone. She must have friends or family in the area.
A teeth-chattering shiver rattled her body. She wrapped her arms protectively around her distended stomach. “This is my home, and I want you to leave.”
“You and me both,” he muttered with a roll of his eyes.
He’d rather face an angry rattler than a fragile woman any day. But the sight of her pale face tugged at his conscience. Of course, he’d do the right thing. He always did the right thing, especially when it came to women and children.
That code of honor had been ingrained in him since his youth. “I can’t go until I know you’re settled.”
Aware of her discomfort, he backed his way to the broken door, his attention riveted on the woman. Snow swirled around his ankles, dusting the cabin floor with white powder flakes.
Her gaze skittered to the Colt in his hand. “You’re trespassing on my property.” She crossed her arms over her rounded belly, highlighting the swell. “Return my gun this instant.”
He nudged the sagging door closed with his heel. Wind whistled through the cracked hinges. “I can’t do that. You might need my help, and I can’t have you shooting me.”
He rested her Colt on the sturdy worktable before the stove, then covered the weapon with his hat. “I might be a Texas Ranger, but my family owns a cattle ranch. I haven’t delivered any babies, but I’ve brought a passel of calves into this world, and I’ve got a fair understanding of the process. Once your bag of water breaks, there’s no going back.”
She glanced down, as if noticing the wet floor for the first time. “Oh my goodness. What a mess. I—I need a cloth.”
She waddled to the side cupboard, swinging the door wide to rummage through the shelves.
Jack blew out a hard breath, letting her prattle about her chore. He’d seen that same vacant-eyed stare plenty of times before. His first year as a Ranger, he’d come upon a homestead after a Comanche raid. The woman of the house was setting the table for supper, her clothing torn and bloodied, while her husband and three young children lay slaughtered on the dirt-packed floor.
His chest constricted at the memory. Though he’d never forget those dark footprints circling the dead bodies, from that moment on, he’d hardened his feelings to the suffering he witnessed.
The pregnant woman faced him, her chin set in a stubborn line, a square of linen clutched to her chest. “I’m not having a baby, so you can leave now, mister.”
“What’s your name?” he tested. Most decent folks responded honestly to a direct question.
She blinked. “Elizabeth. E-Elizabeth Cole.”
He offered her another friendly grin. Asking questions kept her distracted. “See, that wasn’t so hard.” He also found people answered to their own name, even when they ignored everything else. “Where is your husband, Elizabeth?”
Her eyes welled with tears. Sniffling, she blinked them away. “He’s dead.”
Jack bowed his head, shielding himself from the agony in her steady gaze. She definitely wasn’t lying now. The way her emotions paraded across her expressive face, she’d make a terrible criminal.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said.
Judging from her condition, the man couldn’t have been gone for too long. If there was one truth Jack knew for certain, it was that the world never lacked for suffering. He sometimes felt the good Lord had let evil concentrate west of the Mississippi. In this harsh land, it was best not to get attached to anything, or anyone. “Do you have any family or friends in the area?”
“The McCoy’s live just over the rise.”
“Is there a Mrs. McCoy?”
“There’s a Mrs. McCoy, a Mr. McCoy.” She ticked off each name with a finger to the opposite hand. “And five little McCoys.”
Relief weakened his knees. Delivering babies was best left to women and doctors—and he didn’t count as either. He’d find a way to contact the family as soon as Elizabeth was settled. “Thank heaven for the McCoys.”
His immediate worry eased, he stepped forward, motioning with one hand. “Let’s get you someplace where you can rest, Mrs. Cole.”
Give him a raging outlaw or a drunken killer any day, he wasn’t equipped for this sort of delicate situation. Those teary blue eyes were sorely testing his vow to remain detached.
She lurched to the side, clutching a ladder-back chair for support. “Oh dear,” she moaned.
Feeling helpless and out of his element, he cupped her elbow for support. Her wary gaze swept over his thick wool coat, lingering on his stamped-silver buttons. Her jaw clenched.
He had the uneasy sensation she had just sized him up, and found him lacking. Jolted by her odd reaction, he dropped his hold. “I’m not going to hurt you, Elizabeth.”
Her eyes pinched shut against another pain. She fumbled for his hand, threading her fingers through his in a silent plea for comfort. His heart stuttered at the unexpected gesture.
Aware of his disabling lack of skill when it came to providing solace, he ached to pull away, but he sympathized with her need for compassion, even from a stranger. How long since her husband had died? How long had she been pregnant and alone, solely responsible for the grueling work required to run this homestead?
After a long, tense moment, her delicate features relaxed. The grip on his hand loosened.
“That one wasn’t so bad,” she said, though her wan smile indicated otherwise.
“Let’s get you away from this breeze.” He nodded toward the back of the house. “Someone near broke your door in two.”
“I hope that same someone repairs the damage before he leaves.”
She lowered her head, then yanked her hand free, as if surprised to see their fingers intertwined.
He flexed his fist a few times to shake off the lingering warmth of her skin, keeping his attention glued to the floor. He didn’t want to look at her, didn’t want to see the raw edge of fear in her eyes. Didn’t she realize he was one of the good guys?
Following the strangely intimate moment, an awkward silence stretched between them. The widow was a curious mix of bold courage and heartbreaking vulnerability. She’d been in labor, isolated and alone, yet she’d met his forceful entrance with rare fortitude. Despite her blustery grit, he sensed her reserve of energy was running lower than a watering hole in July.
She brushed the hair from her forehead with a weary sigh. “Maybe I will have a rest.”
Grateful she had broken the impasse, he said, “That sounds like the best idea I’ve heard all day.”
She leaned heavily on his arm as he eased her past the cast-iron stove, through the doorway to another room. An enormous four-poster bed dominated the space. A wedding-ring quilt in faded pinks and dull greens covered the mattress. An old porcelain doll with matted chestnut hair rested between two fluffy feather pillows.
Jack scratched his forehead. “That’s quite an impressive piece of furniture.”
Her cheeks flushed pink. Avoiding his curious gaze, Elizabeth shuffled to a sturdy oak dresser. A red kerosene lantern with a floral-etched fluted cover lit the room. She tugged on the top drawer, sending the flame flickering, then glanced at him askance. “I’m sorry I lied to you earlier. I didn’t want you to know I was alone.”
He nearly sagged against the doorjamb, vowing to examine the sweeping relief he felt at her honest revelation another time. “I didn’t give you much choice.”
She kept her eyes downcast, her discomfort palpable. While he appreciated the awkward impropriety of the situation, his nagging concern for her welfare took precedence over their mutual embarrassment.
They had a bigger problem to deal with. “Is this your first baby?”
She nodded.
“How long have the pains been comin’?”
“About four or five hours.”
The knot of anxiety in his chest eased. The birthing processes took hours, sometimes even days. “If there’s one thing I do know, it’s that first babies take their good sweet time. I’ve got three older brothers, and they’ve blessed me with two nieces and six nephews. Not a one of them took less than twelve hours to be born.”
She met his gaze, her pale-blue eyes full of hope. “Then you can go to town. Cimarron Springs has a doctor. Two of them.”
“Ma’am, there’s a snowstorm blowing in. I’ll be lucky to make it to the McCoys, let alone town.”
Her shoulders slumped and his heart went out to her. Pain and fear had a way of sapping a body’s strength.
“Look,” Jack began. “This isn’t exactly a church social, I know that.” He paused, searching for a way to alleviate her fear. “Tell you what, I’ll get my horse out of the weather and check on the animals. Won’t take me more than a minute. You can change and lay down for a rest. Keep track of the pains, though. They should keep coming closer together. When you’re settled, I’ll skedaddle over to the McCoy’s for help. With five children, they should be well-versed in delivering babies.”
Giving a distracted nod, she pressed her knuckles into the small of her back with a grimace.
He scooted to her side, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Don’t hold your breath through the pains. Just let ‘em come.”
“Is that what you tell the cows?” She scowled.
Jack grinned at the fire in her voice. “I heard the doc tell that to my sister-in-law.”
After pacing the floor with his brothers through several births, he knew Elizabeth was going to need all the humor she could muster. “You’ve got about six to eight minutes before the next pain. I’ll be back lickety-split.”
A feather-light touch on his sleeve stilled his retreat. “When you return from the McCoy’s, you can bunk down in the barn until the weather clears.” She swallowed, glancing away. “But that’s all. I expect you to clear out at first light.”
Jack nodded his agreement. The widow was still a might skittish about his intentions. Considering their less-than-cordial introduction, he couldn’t blame her. Being mistaken for an outlaw had him heavy-hearted with remorse. “Don’t worry, Elizabeth. Everything is going to be all right.”
She cut him a sidelong glance full of disgust. “Easy for you to say, mister, you’re not the one having a baby.”
Jack couldn’t help a wry chuckle, charmed by her sense of humor given their grim circumstances. Fear and pain had a way of revealing a man’s character, and he was encouraged by her fortitude. “You’ll manage. You faced down an armed intruder, after all.”
She flashed him a doubtful look before turning away. He found himself inexplicably annoyed with her cool response. When had his social skills started slipping? Usually, a few charming words and a friendly smile were enough to put most women at ease. Disarmed by her thinly-veiled derision, he closed the door to allow her privacy, then crossed through the kitchen. He loped out the splintered rear exit, snatching his hat on the way.
Driving snow pelted his face, stinging his bare cheeks. He tucked his scratchy wool collar beneath his chin, fighting through needle-sharp wind to his disgruntled horse. The gelding snorted a smoky breath, tossing its head. Icicles had already matted in the horse’s thick mane and tail.
Jack tugged on the reins. “Sorry, Midnight. I’m just as frustrated by the delay as you are. I should have known that rickety old sheriff in town couldn’t tell a homestead from a hideout.”
The mare nuzzled his shoulder.
“If I’d known the weather was going to change faster than a sinner on Sunday, I never would’ve risked the journey. Almost makes a fellow believe in divine providence.” He tipped his head to the sky. “Mrs. Cole needs us to fetch help, even if she doesn’t want to admit it yet. I know as much about the surface of the moon as I do about childbirth, and that ain’t saying much. ”
The quicker he got the widow help, the quicker he could continue on his journey. The more time passed, the colder the trail out of Cimarron Springs grew. He couldn’t afford any additional dead ends and delays. If an innocent man hung because of Jack’s mistake, he’d never forgive himself.
His thoughts dark, he fought through growing snow drifts, sinking to his calves with each step. It occurred to him that he hadn’t checked the outbuildings yet. Years of training had him drawing his gun as he approached the barn. Wouldn’t that just be the bee’s knees if the outlaw was squatting right under his nose?
He chuckled to himself, knowing things never turned out that easy. Once he’d secured the barn, he’d take a look at the horses inside. The outlaw he was searching for always rode a distinctive bay mustang. Men around these parts knew horseflesh better than humans, which might explain the sheriff’s confusion.
Another thought sent him stumbling. A curtain of snow slid off his hat.
He’d left the Colt sitting on the worktable. Elizabeth’s suffering had shaken his concentration, making him careless. That’s why it was important to stick to the rules. For both their sakes, he hoped she’d given up the idea of shooting him.
He swung up the bulky T-bar latching the door, then heaved the sliding panel to one side. The hayloft hook twirled in the wind above his head, banging forlornly against the loft door. Even before Midnight whinnied, shying to one side, Jack sensed a trap.
*****
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