An Impossible Price: Front Range Brides - Book 3 Read online

  “About that,” she said, seating herself a safe distance from fine woolen fabric held in place by the machine’s needle. It looked to be the sleeve of a man’s suit coat. “How far along are you exactly? When did you have your last monthly time?”

  Abigail blushed again, obviously with child yet clearly uncomfortable discussing the details that led to her condition. No wonder she didn’t want Doc Weaver’s help.

  “I believe you say August?”

  “Do you know the exact date?”

  Abigail’s dark brows pulled together as she considered an answer. “The end.”

  “All right, that’s good. That means that you are between thirty-eight and forty weeks along.” She laid a reassuring hand atop Abigail’s. “Your baby will be here soon. Very soon. Do you have family anywhere nearby?”

  The woman blinked rapidly and shook her head, tears gathering in her lovely eyes. “In Chicago.”

  “I see.” Sophie gave her another pat. “Everything will be fine, don’t you worry. I will be with you every minute.”

  In as assuring a tone as possible, Sophie conversationally plied Abigail with questions to determine her understanding and readiness. They discussed clothing and flannels, early signs of labor, and what to do should things come on quickly. But rather than overwhelm the young mother-to-be all at once, she promised to return for another visit and picked up her satchel.

  “I will call again in a day or so. Until then, I want you to rest as much as possible. Perhaps you can go up early and lie down while Hiram closes the shop. You are wise to not attempt the stairs more than once each day. And no lifting anything other than a fork of food to your mouth.”

  “A cup of tea?”

  Encouraged by the spark of humor displacing earlier tears, Sophie laughed as she drew aside the curtain. “Oh, if you insist. Chamomile tea, preferably.”

  At the front of the shop, Hiram took the measurements of a man who stood with his back to them, arms out like a scarecrow.

  Sophie stopped several feet away, unwilling to cloud happy expectations with unnecessary worry, but neither did she want her client falling down the stairs.

  She lowered her voice. “Does Hiram have time to attach a railing to the wall along the staircase, all the way from the bottom of the stairs to your apartment?”

  Abigail shook her head, lifting wisps of wavy black hair at her temples. “Oh no. He is very busy. And not so good with building things other than clothes.”

  “Of course.” Sophie smiled at the image of building clothes. “Perhaps he knows someone who could do the job. I really don’t like the idea of you climbing up and down without a handrail. If he doesn’t know anyone who can do the work, I’ll see if I can find someone.”

  “I would be happy to help in that department.”

  Scarecrow Man turned around, his sleeves bearing marks from the tailor’s chalk, his eyes roaming Sophie’s person as if he sought ownership.

  She shuddered but held tightly to her poise. “Mr. Thatcher. I didn’t realize it was you being fitted.”

  He dipped his head in greeting, never taking his eyes off her, like a snake watching its prey. “Please, call me Clarence. And forgive me, but I couldn’t help overhearing what you said.”

  Overhearing my eye.

  “The part about the stairs needing a handrail,” he hastily clarified at Sophie’s less-than-friendly stare.

  No doubt he’d eavesdropped on the entire conversation, and here she was casting the first stone, as guilty as he. But this was a private conversation of a personal nature between women. He should be ashamed of himself, regardless of how close the quarters were.

  He drew himself up. “I did quite a bit of the repair on my hotel following that devastating conflagration a few years back. Stair railing is something I am quite good at if I do say so myself.”

  And of course he would say so himself. The man irritated the fire out of her and made her skin crawl. Mama’s training alone held off what she really wanted to say.

  “I’m sure I can find someone not quite as busy—”

  “Oh, but I insist.”

  Sophie managed to hold her tongue and not insist that he mind his own business. She glanced at Abigail, who was nodding appreciatively.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Sophie wanted to gag, but she managed to hold that back as well. Turning away from the men, she whispered, “I will check with you the day after tomorrow, right after church. Is that convenient?”

  Abigail glanced at her husband and leaned closer. “We do not attend the services on Sunday.”

  For a moment Sophie was at a loss, but the couple’s accent and now this bit of information all served to explain.

  “Of course,” she said, laying her hand atop Abigail’s, which rested habitually on her stomach. “Would you mind if I knocked on your door late Sunday morning?”

  “Not at all.” A quick smile. “Knock loud.”

  Sophie left without speaking again to Mr. Thatcher—her second breach of social propriety in less than an hour—but the man’s untiring pursuit drove her to distraction. She refused to do or say anything that might be construed as encouragement.

  At twenty-four, her opportunities were dwindling, but Clarence Thatcher cornered her at every church function, reminding her how challenging it was to run the Olin Springs Hotel all alone. She was no stranger to all alone, and if he mentioned that phrase to her one more time, she might throttle him in front of God and the whole congregation.

  Encountering him today in such close quarters left her feeling boxed in. Like that stallion must have felt in the railroad car.

  A clear image of the strapping handler left Mr. Thatcher wilting in the shadows and Sophie thinking things she had no business thinking.

  Her old mare waited good-naturedly at the hitch rail, where she secured her satchel, swung up, and took the cross street leading to Maggie Snowfield’s mansion and Betsy Wilson. It wasn’t really a mansion, but that’s what she and Betsy had called it as schoolgirls, dreaming of romantic encounters with suitors in the cupola atop the magnificent house.

  An old barb pressed deeper into Sophie’s breast, throbbing like a lesser heartbeat.

  Betsy, as most women their age, had a family. But for some unknown reason, the Lord had gifted Sophie not with a husband and children of her own, but with delivering the children of others. Doc often sent for her when mothers preferred another woman at their side, as in Abigail Eisner’s case.

  Helping the helpless filled Sophie with a sense of purpose. But the longing never went away. It remained silently permanent. Just like the scar on her left cheek.

  She rode around to the back of Maggie’s home and tied the mare in front of the small barn and buggy shed Clay Ferguson had helped raise after a fire here. He could make a handrail for the Eisners.

  That quickly, the handler strode through her mind, fast on the heels of a gangly young man who’d landed in town on the wrong side of the street. Sheriff Wilson had taken an immediate liking to Clay after jailing him for being “drunk and disorderly.” Yet his quick turn-around had made her sit up and take notice. Like the day he joined the men of Parker ranch to gather mares.

  With a sudden flush of heat, she recalled the bright blue of his eyes on that brisk fall day, the same flashing blue that held her a breathless moment at the depot.

  Tamping down the memory, she palmed her damp forehead and took the five steps to Maggie’s back stoop. The door opened before she had a chance to knock.

  “Sophie! What perfect timing.” Betsy Wilson thrust her chubby infant into Sophie’s arms. “Would you please hold George for a moment while I dash to the water closet?”

  Betsy hurried out of the kitchen and down the hall to a door beneath the stairs.

  Sophie wrinkled her nose at the youngster in her arms, and he responded in kind. “I’d rather go out to the privy, wouldn’t you?” she whispered conspiratorially, nuzzling his neck and drawing a giggle.

  When Betsy returned, Georg
e was in his highchair gumming one of Maggie’s ginger thins, hands and face sufficiently gooey. His mother wiped his mouth and chubby fingers with a rag from the table. “Why don’t you move to town, Sophie? You could stay here. Maggie has several empty bedrooms upstairs, and I’m sure she’d love to have you.”

  “I’m grateful for the invitation, and that’s one of my reasons for stopping by.”

  Betsy gave her a subtle glance and set the kettle on for tea. Maggie Snowfield’s tact was clearly contagious.

  “I stopped by Eisner’s Tailor Shop and Haberdashery today and met with his wife, Abigail—the expectant seamstress you mentioned last Sunday.” Sophie helped herself to two tea sets from the cupboard and set them on opposite sides of the small kitchen table, preferring the incongruent intimacy in the large kitchen rather than the sprawling dining room or formal parlor. “You were right. She is very much in the family way.”

  Feeling remiss, Sophie took down another tea set.

  “We won’t need that. Maggie is resting.” Betsy’s voice betrayed uncommon concern.

  “Is she ill?”

  “I don’t believe so, though she wouldn’t tell us if she were. She sleeps quite a bit these days. ‘Resting her eyes,’ she calls it, though when I check on her, she is always sound asleep and curled into a ball like a kitten. A quilt covers her, regardless of the season.”

  Betsy brought another tin of ginger cookies from the pantry and placed them in the center of the table. “Between you and me, I worry about her. I’ve no idea of her age, nor have I the courage to ask.”

  Sophie laughed. “No courage—you? After fighting fires, winning shooting matches with men, and being held at gunpoint? Not to mention, marrying the sheriff.”

  The kettle hissed, and Betsy brought it to the table with a hot pad. “Compared to wrangling private information out of the petite but formidable Margaret Snowfield, all those accomplishments pale pathetically.” She took the chair next to George and gave him another ginger thin. “I don’t know what I’ll do if she passes.” Her voice had thinned to match the cookie.

  Based on the intensity of her friend’s emotion, Sophie made a note to check on the elderly woman herself and, if necessary, ask Doc Weaver to stop by. Betsy wasn’t one to puddle up so easily, though childbirth had softened her to some degree.

  “I might take you up on your offer to stay in town, at least for a week or so.”

  Betsy brightened. “Is Abigail Eisner that far along?”

  “She is. And I’m concerned about the stairs she has to use between their second-story living quarters and the shop. There is no handrail.”

  “Can her husband make one?”

  “In Abigail’s words, he builds only clothes.”

  Betsy laughed quietly and wiped George’s face and hands yet again.

  “Just let the boy enjoy his food, for heaven’s sake.”

  Betsy scowled. “You’ve no idea how tiresome it is to constantly wipe down the walls or chairs or my own clothing from grimy little hand—”

  The barb hooked flesh before Betsy realized what she’d said.

  Her eyes widened. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  “Please don’t apologize. I refuse to let everyday conversation ruin my life.” The life that had turned out quite unlike Sophie’s cupola dreams. “And I’ve no doubt I will be able to afford room and board.”

  “You know there is no charge, Sophie. You are always welcome here.”

  She dipped her head, acquiescing to her friend’s insistence, but determined to pay her way regardless. “Well, with the only clothing store in town, aside from what the mercantile offers, I believe the Eisners are doing quite well.”

  Betsy sipped her tea. “And?”

  Sophie looked across the narrow table.

  “You said one of the reasons you came was to discuss staying in town. What is the other?”

  Now was not the time to bring up her suspicions about a handsome stranger. But evading Betsy’s inquisition was right up there with querying Maggie Snowfield on her personal life.

  Sophie returned the dainty cup to its floral-edged saucer. “There was a disturbance today at the train station. I doubt you heard it this far from the depot. But from Abigail’s store window, we saw what seemed like the entire town rushing toward the ruckus, so I went too.”

  A smile tipped her friend’s mouth. “Of course you did. What was it?”

  “When I got there, everyone was watching a stock car from which came chilling screams. Screams of horses. More specifically, one horse. A stallion.”

  A ginger thin stopped halfway to Betsy’s mouth and her eyes flashed with alarm. “What did this stallion look like?”

  Surprised by the response, Sophie chose her words carefully. “It was a dark bay. One of the most beautiful horses I’ve seen. But it had a deep gouge in its back right leg, I’m guessing from kicking through a wall.”

  Betsy groaned. “Did you see Cade there?”

  “No, why? Was he expecting a horse on the train?”

  Betsy laid the cookie on her saucer. “Yes, he was. But if he wasn’t there, it must not have been his. He bought a stallion sight unseen from a breeder in Missouri—quite unlike Cade. But he wants new blood for his mares, he told me last month, and this breeder has a sterling reputation.” Lifting the teacup to her lips, she added, “Evidently, the expected horse cost a pretty penny. Prettier than my brother was inclined to pay at first.”

  Sophie’s collar grew tight and she slipped the button free at her throat. It could still be the expected horse. Perhaps Cade had simply missed the train’s arrival.

  “A man led the horse off the car, through the crowd, and to the livery stable without incident. According to a woman I spoke with at the depot, his handling of the animal was near miraculous. Erik’s tack and stable boy felt the same way.” As did she.

  “So you followed them to the livery?”

  Sophie took a cookie from the tin. “I did. I had to know.”

  “Know what?” Betsy raised one eyebrow. “What did this man look like?”

  At Sophie’s hesitation, Betsy leaned forward in expectation.

  Sophie snapped her cookie in half, seeing the tall handler as clearly as if he stood in the kitchen with them. “He looked very much like a grown-up Clay Ferguson.”

  Chapter 3

  It was her.

  Clay studied the horse before him, its right back leg bent, keeping weight off the injury and breathing more calmly than it had in the stock car.

  But Clay wasn’t. The sight of Sophie Price at the front of the crowd lining his exit from the train station had burned into his brain.

  He stroked the stallion’s neck, murmuring as he eased the lead rope around a support beam, but not snubbing it tight. Confinement had nearly driven the horse mad, and it needed a little slack in its life at the moment.

  Sophie had been staring like everyone else, but the moment her eyes connected with his, her reaction gave her away—an event he’d long anticipated, though it clearly caught her by surprise. For some reason, that pleased him.

  If he’d had any doubt about her identity, the slight tilt of her mouth would have confirmed it. She hadn’t smiled, but a faint scar lifted the left side of her lips. He’d always sensed it made her self-conscious, but it was as much a part of her as her caring nature and summer-brown hair. Like his limp was a part of him. More so when he was stiff and tired like today.

  Pushing her image aside, he focused on the injured horse. Rather than throw it down right away, he wanted to hobble its front legs and scotch-hobble the back left. He’d run a cotton rope through the halter, allowing some lateral movement but preventing it from bogging its head enough to buck and kick.

  Time was something they didn’t have, not with every beat of the animal’s heart pumping blood onto the straw-covered floor. If it came to a fight, the horse would win. Clay had to win its trust instead, and he knew from firsthand experience that trust was not easily won.

  Kee
ping his voice low and calm, he asked Erik for a can of oats. “Sprinkle them along the top of the wall brace here above his head. And if you have a rawhide lariat, tie it high around this first beam, but not out of reach.”

  “You think to distract him?”

  “Hope is more like it. There’s no distracting him from the pain, but maybe we can take his mind off it for a minute. If not, we’ll need to cast him down. But we’ll have a head start on it by scotching up his good leg.”

  “Where do you want your saddlebags?”

  Clay glanced at the boy outside the stall. A couple years shy of manhood, he’d handled Duster well. “Hang ’em over the stall door here, then bring me a pan of soapy water. If you can warm it first at Erik’s forge, that’d be good. Make it as soapy as you can get it.” Looking at him straight on, he added, “You do have soap here, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He’d not been called sir when he was here last, and the word felt misplaced. The boy was a mirror image of himself at that age.

  Clay washed his hands, then cleaned the wound, as well as his needle and surgical instruments, with carbolic acid before attempting to probe for splintered wood. Erik’s brute strength anchored the rope holding up the tied leg. Without leverage, the horse couldn’t fight as well, but they had to throw it anyway.

  An hour later, Clay washed his hands and instruments again and rolled his sleeves down. A slippery elm poultice for swelling and pain lay snug against the sutures, held in place with twisted rags tied around the stallion’s leg.

  “Is gut.” Recognition had fired in Erik’s eyes halfway through the procedure, and now he offered a meaty handshake. “You are a fine doctor. Willkommen zuhause.”

  “It’s good to be home.” Not many men would call a livery home, but it’d been Clay’s for a good while. The familiar smell of hay and grain, the warmth of the animals, their shuffling and whickering. It all added up to an odd sense of security.

  They loosed the stallion slowly, and it lunged to its feet. Clay kept a running murmur going, his voice smooth and even, and when the horse grew accustomed to the bandages, he brought fresh water and forked hay into the rack. “Do you know anything about this horse? Who it belongs to?” He rolled his instruments into a leather pouch and returned it to his saddle bags.