Sherri Shackelford - Winning the Widow's Heart

After pressing her cheek against Rachel’s smooth forehead, she laid the baby on the bed. Twisting, Elizabeth fluffed the pillows behind her, sank her hands into the mattress and shimmied backward until she sat up straight.

She cradled her daughter in her palms. Rachel cooed, the sound no louder than the purr of a kitten. Tiny fingers worked in the air. Elizabeth kissed all ten tips, captivated by the miniature oval nails. She’d never seen anything so small, so absolutely flawless.

She inhaled Rachel’s sweet essence, her heart swelling until she was sure it would burst right out of her chest. She’d been adrift for months, unsure of the future, and afraid to face the past. With Rachel, everything felt right. The way God had intended.

Mr. Elder returned a moment later with a steaming mug of coffee in one hand and a platter overflowing with food in the other.

“I can’t eat all that!” Elizabeth laughed.

“You might be surprised.”

Despite her protest, her gaze searched the plate, her mouth watering. He’d heaped a great mound of eggs next to a hearty slab of bacon. An enormous hunk of generously buttered bread balanced on the edge.

Worry dampened her enthusiasm. If this was what he had prepared for Elizabeth, how much had he eaten already? “Have you and Jo had supper?”

Purchasing more supplies didn’t worry her. She had plenty of cash. Following Will’s death, the somber undertaker had marched up to the house in his navy blue suit, his bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows drawn into a fierce scowl. He’d slapped a fat wad of bills he’d discovered in Will’s saddle bags into her limp hands. As if begrudging her the virtue of his honorable gesture, the disagreeable man had whirled and stomped away.

Money definitely wasn’t the problem. It was the trip to town that had her stomach in knots. Traveling to Cimarron Springs meant facing the people who resented Will, even after his death. The people whose money and property he’d won in card games. The people who thought Will was a cheat. She’d felt the hot sting of their accusations as she’d run her errands on previous visits. The way the ladies had sniffed and swept their skirts aside when she passed, as if afraid of being tainted by association, was painfully burned into her memory.

Even the sheriff, a man who’d shared more than one raucous evening with Will, had accused her husband of being a cheat. He’d even threatened to seize her homestead if he discovered proof.

“I had a tin of beans earlier,” Mr. Elder said, startling her from her gloomy thoughts.

Elizabeth blinked. “Wherever did you find those?”

“I packed them from town. I didn’t want to deplete your food supply,” he spoke matter-of-factly. “The weather has let up, but you never can tell in this part of the country. You’ve got enough to worry about without a full-grown man eating your winter supply. Might be a long season.”

“Oh, yes, of course. I didn’t think… .”

Confounded by Mr. Elder’s kindness, Elizabeth placed Rachel in the makeshift crib while he patiently held her supper. She accepted the plate from his outstretched hand. Their fingers brushed together. The dark hairs on the backs of his knuckles felt rough and foreign against her calloused fingers.

He set the mug on the nightstand. “Anything else you need?”

Surprised to note her quickened pulse, Elizabeth shook her head.

He gestured in Rachel’s direction. “She appears to be healthy and all. No worse for wear.”

“She’s perfect.” That same warm light shimmered around Elizabeth’s heart. “Would you like to hold her?”

He shook his head, backing up so quickly his hip slammed against the dresser. “I’ll pass.”

With a curt nod at Rachel, he strode out of the room.

Elizabeth glanced around the room. Was something burning? Certainly a big, strong man like Mr. Elder wasn’t frightened of a baby. Something else must have spooked him.

She shrugged off the Ranger’s odd behavior and returned her attention to supper. The nutty aroma of fresh-brewed coffee wafted from the night table, mingling perfectly with the scent of freshly toasted bread. She speared a hearty chunk of bacon, her taste buds dancing in anticipation. Chewing slowly, she savored the spicy, salt-cured meat.

An unexpected stab of guilt dampened her enthusiasm. She felt as if she should apologize to Mr. Elder. But for what? For assuming he’d eat her food? It wasn’t as if she’d actually accused him of anything. Still, no matter the circumstances, her lack of tolerance was unacceptable. So far, he’d been nothing but kind.

Her thoughts drifted back to the only other man who’d ever showed her the least hint of kindness. Hadn’t Will started out in a similar fashion? She’d been sweeping snow from the walk outside the bakery where she worked in New York when he’d tipped his hat at her while strolling by. The gesture had stunned her. She couldn’t recall a time when anyone had actually noticed her, much less acknowledged her with a greeting.

When he came back the following day, he’d called her “ma’am” and smiled so wide she’d blushed. By day three, she found herself jumping each time the bell chimed over the door, hoping he’d return. All day she waited, only to be disappointed. When she’d turned the closed sign for the evening, she found him lounging against the lamppost, his thumbs hooked in his pockets. Three weeks later they were married and on a train bound for Kansas.

He’d cared for her in the beginning, showering her with gifts and attention as if she were a shiny new toy. But after the novelty had worn off, he’d changed. Elizabeth was certain that the Ranger was no different. He’d reveal his true colors soon enough, and this time she wouldn’t be taken by surprise.

Elizabeth attacked her food with a new vigor. Considering her appalling display of blubbering this afternoon, she must work harder than ever to prove her independence. In order to survive, she had to be strong. More than just blizzards and Indians threatened her home, and she had to be prepared.

* * *

Jack sucked in a lungful of frosty air, then kicked another enormous stump into place. Two days had passed during his self-imposed exile on the widow’s homestead. Two days of letting the outlaw’s trail grow colder. He stepped back, swinging the ancient ax he’d found rusting near the wood pile high over his head.

Exhaling a vaporous breath, he swung the tool in a neat arc, burying the blade three-inches deep into the dry wood. Repeating the motion, he circled the stump, kicking fallen pieces back into place until he had a satisfying jumble of split wood. His shoulder aching, he rolled another stump into position.

The physical labor, the satisfying crack of the blade, cleared his thoughts. The pile grew taller, but he didn’t slow his pace. Driven by a need to accomplish a useful task, he forged ahead. Someone had already cut the smaller branches. The pie-shaped pieces were neatly stacked in a long, sturdy wall covered in oilcloth and mounded over with snow. But the unwieldy stumps had been heaped together to rot, wasted.

Jack didn’t like waste.

The work put him in control, gave him a sense of pride and accomplishment. He swung the ax until his biceps burned and sweat trickled down his collar, until Elizabeth’s screams of pain during childbirth stopped ringing in his ears.

He knew she was fine, but he couldn’t shake his impotent rage at his own helplessness. He’d borne that same weight on his shoulders staring down at his sister-in-law’s prone body. Doreen had done nothing wrong. She’d been running her errands when she’d arrived at the bank on the wrong day, at the wrong time. She’d walked right into an armed robbery, and the outlaws had shot her. The senselessness of the act had shaken Jack’s faith, making him question God’s plan. Why Doreen?