Romancing the Widow Page 8

  But a snake didn’t wear a look so full of longing that she wanted to clutch it to her breast. She met his gaze without deferment. He stepped closer, smelling of sweat and dust and horses. His coat had been tossed aside and the star on his vest lay flat and dull with his back to the sun.

  “Can you ride?” His eyes tore away any possibility of pretense on her part. There was no place to hide, no words to shield her from his scrutiny.

  “Yes. It’s been a while, but yes. So can Mama.”

  “Good. I’ll put you on Cache. You can trust him. And your mother will be more comfortable on her own horse. She’ll be bareback, but she has two good arms.”

  Again Martha’s foolishness came home to roost and she flexed her right hand against the stiffness. “What about you?”

  “I have two good legs.” A near smile pulled at his mouth, but he strode away to her mother.

  Martha followed.

  “Do you think you can ride the mare, Mrs. Hutton?” He knelt on one knee before her, like a knight before a lady. The image shocked Martha, but she pushed it aside and listened for her mother’s reply.

  “Dolly? Oh, yes, I believe I can. I raised her. If I can’t ride her, I’m a poor excuse for a horseman’s wife.” She stood, favoring her right ankle, and brushed dirt from her torn skirt and sleeves. “If you’ll help me get on her.” Raising her chin with a characteristic air of determination, she limped toward the horse now freed from the dead wagon but still quivering from the accident.

  Haskell had cut the reins shorter and knotted them for easier handling. Her mother stood close to the mare, stroking its neck and calming the animal with soft murmurs. Haskell handed her the reins, she nodded her acceptance and with his hands around her waist he hefted her up. She threw her right leg over and perched atop the old yellow horse as if she did it every day.

  Martha nearly cheered.

  Then he led Cache to where she waited, looped the reins over the horse’s head and linked his fingers together like a stirrup.

  “Grab the horn, step into my hands with your left foot and I’ll lift you high enough to throw your leg over.”

  His mention of her limbs brought a blush to her face, but this was no time for proprieties. If it were not for Haskell Jacobs, she and her mother would be walking.

  A sudden truth speared her. Were it not for Haskell Jacobs, she and her mother could be dead beneath an overturned wagon.

  “Well?” He looked up from his stooped position, and his expression betrayed impatience with her dawdling.

  “Yes, thank you. I shall do just that.” She hiked her skirt, stepped into his joined hands and had barely a moment to grab the saddle horn before she shot into the air above the horse. She swung her leg over and landed unceremoniously in the seat. Taking a deep breath, she felt for the stirrups with her toes.

  “If you will allow me,” he said with that near smile, “I will set the stirrups for you.”

  Burning with embarrassment, she hiked her skirt again and bent her leg at the knee. Haskell quickly shortened the leather straps and then repeated the process on the other side.

  “You are a mite shorter than I am,” he said as if he appreciated it.

  “Mr. Jacobs.” Martha’s mother reined the mare around. “I had a satchel with me on the seat. Is there any way...?”

  Haskell’s jaw flexed. Her mother asked too much, but Martha kept her thoughts to herself. Let the knight prove just how gallant he could be.

  He adjusted his hat and walked around the back of the forlorn wagon. It teetered at the top of a steep draw, and Martha feared the slightest movement might send it rolling down the embankment. It wasn’t worth a few jars of preserves—or Haskell’s life. Anyone’s life, she corrected, as if her feelings were on display.

  For several moments Martha and her mother sat silently waiting for Haskell’s return. Martha strained her ears for any indication of his success or hazard, but only the wheeling hawk pierced the hot silence, along with an occasional chirp from a ground squirrel and the trickle of loose rocks tumbling down the ravine. She wiped her face and neck with the hem of her skirt.

  Finally he came up at the wagon’s front end, balancing his climb with one hand and holding the satchel in the other. The sight of his dusty clothes, sweat-soaked shirt, and that satchel must have weakened her mother’s reserve, for she nearly fawned over the man as he lifted the battered bag.

  “Oh, Mr. Jacobs, you are so kind.” She reached for the satchel. “Thank you for your help. I so appreciate—”

  “You can’t ride and carry this, too.” He walked to Cache and tied the bag to the saddle with leather thongs that hung from the fork. His armor may not be shining—not even his star shone—but he was definitely winning the joust with her mother.

  * * *

  Small talk had been Haskell’s chief concern. He grunted.

  Yes, there were more reasonable ways to get to the ranch. Martha could ride behind her mother, but she had only one good arm to hold on with. The same reason he had for not pulling her up behind him on Cache. And he did not ride behind a woman. Which meant he walked.

  From his conversation this morning with the parson, he guessed they were about four miles from the ranch. He’d hoofed it farther and in worse conditions.

  At least he had a hat. He looked over his shoulder to Martha bringing up the rear. Her face was reddening but she rode well enough. Her mother was in obvious discomfort with her swollen ankle dangling low, but at least it bore no weight.

  His presence had turned out to be rather providential after all. What else could account for his being nearby with a gun when the women needed one most?

  Providence. A word that didn’t often visit his thoughts. He kicked a stone from the path.

  He knew what the Good Book said about man being alone and had sure enough felt the pain of it since the widow stepped off the train. If he ever prayed again, he’d ask about the parson’s daughter.

  From the position of the sun, it was dead noon or thereabouts as they trudged into the ranch yard. Two young boys and a black-and-white dog came running to greet them, the dog more cautious than the boys.

  Its bark must have called an alarm, for a fair-haired woman appeared round back of the long, low ranch house, a basket on her arm and a hand shading her eyes. When she recognized the lead in their procession, she dropped the basket and came running.

  “Annie! Whatever happened? Are you all right?”

  The mare tossed her head as Mrs. Hutton reined her to a stop. The younger woman grabbed the headstall and pegged Haskell with a blistering glare.

  “Oh, Livvy.” Mrs. Hutton reached over the mare’s neck. “It’s so good to see you, but we hadn’t intended to come dragging in like this.” She turned to Haskell with an expectant look. “Would you be so kind as to help me down?”

  If Martha aged as well as her mother, she’d still be a fine-looking woman in twenty years. Haskell shelved the thought and slid Mrs. Hutton from the mare’s back. Livvy came round to catch her mother-in-law’s arm across her shoulder.

  “Let’s get you inside with a glass of lemonade and you must tell me what happened. Did you fall? Look at your skirt—it’s torn, and oh—your head.”

  She fussed and bustled and Haskell left her to it. He turned to see Martha attempting to dismount and made it to her just as she lost her balance. She landed in his arms rather than in the dirt. He suspected her dignity took more of a beating than her backside would have, and he bit his cheek to squelch a chuckle.

  “Oh,” she blurted out. “Thank you.” Righting herself and brushing at her dusty clothes, she met his eyes again with that bold, unabashed gaze that weakened his knees.

  “What would we ever have done without you?”

  What would he do the rest of his life without her?

  The words nearly fell out
of his mouth.

  “You must be parched. Please, come inside for some lemonade.” She touched his arm.

  “I will after I see to the horses.”

  The two youngsters chose that moment to offer their assistance and as they approached, the dog joined the ruckus and sniffed about Haskell’s boots and trousers.

  “We’ll help, mister. We can each take a horse.”

  “You must be Whit and Livvy’s boys,” Martha said, as she’d never met them.

  Two grins popped out beneath their blue eyes, a reflection of their mother’s. The dark hair must have come from Whit.

  “You kinda look like Grandma,” said one.

  “But younger,” said the other, more diplomatic of the two.

  Unoffended, Martha spread her good arm. “Come give your aunt Martha a hug, boys. And tell me who is who.”

  A knot in Haskell’s gut tightened.

  The boys obliged.

  “I’m Cale.”

  “And I’m Hugh. I’m the oldest.”

  “Just by a minute.”

  Martha embraced each in turn and then tousled their hair. Haskell’s children might look like that if he ever had any. But that required a wife and right now he was looking at the likeliest prospect he’d ever met.

  Squirming in their aunt’s affection, they politely ended the encounter and turned to Haskell.

  “Our pa taught us everything there is to know ’bout horses,” said one.

  “That’s right,” said the other. “Ask us anything.”

  Rubbing his jaw, he feigned consideration and then posed his query. “Which eat more, black horses or white horses?”

  Puzzled, the youngsters discussed it between themselves.

  “Seems as we don’t rightly know,” the first one said.

  “Well, now. I thought you knew everything.”

  One kicked the dirt and the other stuck his chest out at the challenge.

  Chuckling, Haskell made them an offer. “If you’ll rub down our mounts, give them water and turn them out in that pasture over there, I’ll tell you how to find the answer.”

  They each grabbed a horse’s reins and were on their way before one thought to yell back, “Thanks, mister.”

  Maybe if he had a lick o’ luck, they’d someday call him “uncle.”

  “Now you have no excuse.” Fatigue edged Martha’s voice as she tugged at his arm. Her touch shot through him like a fire. “Come in the house, have something to drink and rest. You must be weary from that long dusty walk.”

  Was this the same woman who had scorned him three short days ago from the blue velvet settee in the parsonage?

  Or was this the woman he longed to take in his arms and into his heart and never let go?

  Chapter 10

  A covered porch had been added to the front of the ranch house, but when Haskell opened the heavy front door for Martha, it still led directly into the old dining room. She withdrew her hand from his arm and stepped through time to Whit and Livvy’s wedding in that very room. A new carpet covered the floor, setting off the same elegant furniture Livvy’s grandmother had brought from England. A crystal vase on the dining table held a fistful of bright sunflowers, and their upright, happy faces momentarily eased Martha’s weariness.

  Haskell removed his hat and waited, observing her without watching. He did that a lot, a trait she now assumed had to do with his work.

  Voices drew her to the kitchen where Livvy tended her mother, a bare foot resting in a basin of water. Annie’s face colored at Haskell’s approach and she lowered her skirt around the basin.

  If Martha were not so worn out, she’d mention her mother’s undying sense of propriety. But the woman had borne enough today, and it was all Martha could do to drop into the nearest chair.

  Livvy squeezed out a cloth and pressed it to her mother-in-law’s brow, chattering like an old maid on Sunday morning. She glanced up as Martha joined them and reached for her hand.

  “Oh, Marti, I didn’t mean to ignore you.” She drew back, eyeing first one woman and then the other. “You two look like you had a time of it getting here.” She glared at Haskell who stood apart and aloof.

  Defensiveness fired in Martha’s breast, a need to inform Livvy that Haskell was not the cause of their unkempt condition but the savior of their lives. She gestured toward him but avoided his eyes. They had power to open the door of her affections.

  “Livvy, this is Mr. Haskell Jacobs, a friend of my father.”

  In spite of the gun he carried—thank God he carried it today—he seemed less intimidating than before, less daunting. His stony expression remained in place, but he jerked his quick nod and worked the brim of his hat with one hand.

  Martha flipped her braid behind her shoulder. “Haskell, this is my brother’s wife, Livvy.”

  “Nice to make your acquaintance, ma’am.”

  A bowl of lemons sat on the counter next to a wooden press—not yet the refreshing drink she expected. Martha went to the sink where she filled a cup with cool water and handed it to Haskell. He’d parch to death if he had to wait for the lemonade.

  She felt the burn of his eyes on her face as he took the cup, careful not to touch her fingers in the process. She risked a glance and confirmed her instincts.

  “Thank the Lord, Mr. Jacobs was with us today.” Martha’s mother appraised him from a more relaxed and dignified position, but true appreciation shone in her eyes.

  “What happened?” Livvy handed the damp rag to Martha. “Can you do this while I get the sugar water off the stove?”

  Her mother snatched the cloth. “I am perfectly capable of washing my own face.”

  Livvy set the syrupy mixture aside and brought the bowl of lemons to the table with a pitcher, knife and press. “Did you meet with outlaws on the road to the ranch?”

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Hutton?” All three women looked at Haskell.

  He cleared his throat. “That is, Miss Livvy—is Whit about?”

  She sliced a lemon in two, clamped half into the wooden press and held it over the pitcher. “He must be out with the cattle or he would have come up at all the commotion.” She stopped and turned with a pensive look. “If you don’t mind riding out, you might find him down at the lower corrals. Just head for the rimrock east of here and watch for the windmill. You can’t miss it.”

  He donned his hat. “Thank you, ma’am.” He slid a look to Martha and all her insides backed up against her spine. She swallowed hard and accepted his empty cup. He jerked another quick nod and that near smile tipped one side of his mouth.

  Now she was noticing his mouth.

  “Let me help you with that lemonade, Livvy.” She set down the cup and dragged the bowl and knife toward her as the front door clicked shut.

  The knife blade slammed against the wooden table and lemon juice squirted her mother.

  “Martha—use the board or you’ll slice right through Livvy’s table.” She rubbed her eyes with the damp rag and sloshed her foot in the pan. Hiking her skirt above her knee, she leaned over to assess the damage.

  “Swelling’s gone down some.”

  “But it should be raised,” Livvy put in. “Since the men are all gone, let’s get your foot higher.” She lifted the basin to a low stool beneath the table and helped Annie transfer her foot. “Pop used this stool to rest his bad leg. Good thing I kept it.”

  Martha halved three more lemons and picked up the press but couldn’t manage it with just one hand. “What have you done with the old Overton place Whit bought before you were married? Did he ever finish the cabin?”

  Livvy fetched the sugar water and dumped it in the pitcher. “Oh, yes. But since we moved back here, he just uses it as a branding camp. We didn’t live there long, not after Pop got so crippled up and needed us closer.
”

  “Give me a spoon,” Martha’s mother said. “I can at least stir while I’m sitting here like an invalid.”

  “It’s so good to have you both here.” Livvy handed her a long wooden spoon and took the press from Martha. “I’m just so surprised, that’s all. I didn’t know you were coming back to Cañon, Marti, though it seems like the natural thing to do.” Her blue eyes rested on Martha with compassion, and she lowered her voice from its cheerful pitch. “I was so shocked to hear about Joseph.”

  Martha inhaled deeply, hoping to head off the old pain. “Thank you. I wanted to finish the school term and then I lingered in St. Louis for the summer. Uncertain, I suppose.” She sighed and adjusted her sling, disgusted with its limitations. Tentatively, she lifted the knot over her head and pulled the cloth from her right arm. She hunched her shoulder and straightened her elbow.

  Her mother watched with concern. “How does it feel?”

  “Tight,” Martha said. “Like I haven’t used it in a few days.”

  “Well, you haven’t. And you probably want to keep it in that sling until we get home this evening.”

  Martha tensed at the mother-hen response, but she had no chance to reply.

  “How long have you known Haskell Jacobs?” Livvy squeezed another lemon into the pitcher.

  Martha glanced at her mother who merely regarded her with a stoic expression and kept stirring.

  She took another deep breath, intent on hiding the little flame that stirred in her belly at mention of his name. “Just a few days.” Since she stepped off the train and into his scrutiny.

  “Well, I think he’s taken with you.”

  Martha stared. “What makes you say that?”

  “He looks at you as if the sun and moon and all the stars rose in your face.”

  The heat rose, that was for certain, as did Martha before walking to the kitchen door and opening it to the clear mountain air. She pushed at her mussed hair with both hands. How could she ache for Joseph with one breath and have her heart race for another man in the next?