Winning the Widow's Heart. Sherri ShackelfordЧитать онлайн книгу.
“Don’t get all riled up, Ranger. You’re spooking the animals.”
Jack pressed the brim of his hat tighter to his head with both hands. Women confounded him. He had one female concerned about naming a baby that was too young to answer, and another looking for a solution to a problem that hadn’t yet occurred. What was a man to do?
Gritting his teeth, he forced a smile. “Well, you did real good delivering that baby.”
“Better than you. I thought you were going to throw up.”
“So did I,” he retorted, his voice more forceful than necessary.
She tossed back her head and laughed at his shouted confession. Jack scowled and crossed his arms over his chest. Her infectious laugh soon had him chuckling. The sound rumbled low in his chest, rusty and neglected, then bubbled to the surface. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d truly laughed, especially at himself.
He used to laugh with his brothers all the time—when they weren’t beating the tar out of each other. They’d roll around in the dirt and blood, bent on killing each other, until one of them said something smart-alecky and the whole group erupted into raucous laughter. He missed that. Missed the camaraderie of his family.
Things had changed after their pa’s death. His older brothers had ceased brawling, and started slicking back their hair. Weddings had followed, and then a new niece or nephew every year after. His mother had reveled in her role as grandmother before she’d died. Lord knew they’d all been lost without her. Jack was too young to take over the ranch by himself, and too old to be ordered around by his brothers.
He’d joined the Texas Rangers instead, and Doreen had supported his decision. Jack pictured his sister-in-law the last time he’d seen her. How the white-linen pillow had framed her ashen face, the growing pool of red seeping through the bandages.
His smile waned. Three months, and he wasn’t any closer to catching the real Bud Shaw than the day he’d ridden out of town. He’d failed the one person who had always believed in him.
“You okay, Ranger?” Jo asked.
“Yeah, sure.”
“You look like someone just walked over your grave.”
“Not mine,” he growled.
He’d crushed all the joy from their exchange, but he didn’t care. “How far does a man have to go to find some peace around here?”
He pivoted on his heel, stalking out of the barn. The sooner he brought the right man to justice, the better.
* * *
Elizabeth hoisted the empty laundry basket onto the bed. Her weakened body protested the exertion. The past two days had been so chaotic, so full of change, she craved a task to ground her. A mindless chore. Something familiar and comforting.
She turned, catching her disheveled reflection in the looking glass above the dresser.
“Oh, my,” she groaned.
Her hair hung in a tangled mess down her back. Her cheeks were flushed a bright pink in stark contrast to her pale face. Dark circles rimmed her eyes. She looked no better than one of the beggars she used to pass on her way to work in the city. She lifted her brush from the dresser. Tugging the bristles through the snarls, she worked the knots loose. The heavy mass soon smoothed and shined.
Elizabeth didn’t approve of vanity, but even she had to admit her hair was pretty. She had the same blond hair as her mother, thick and long. Wispy tendrils usually framed her face, falling in soft curls around her cheeks. The past days’ toil had left her forlorn ringlets drooping and lifeless. She’d love nothing more than another thorough washing and a decadent soak in the galvanized tub, but that would have to wait.
She braided her long strands with practiced fingers, twisting the coil over the top of her head and securing the thick rope with pins. She rubbed her lips together to add a flush of color, unsure why she bothered. There was no one here to care about her appearance, least of all her sleepy daughter.
The extra effort buoyed her spirits, though, and she needed all her mustered strength to face the mess the Ranger had surely made while she’d been laid up.
She reached behind her for the basket, her gaze drawn to Will’s trunk. The domed black chest sat just where he’d left it six months ago. He’d always been possessive of the battered piece of luggage. He never opened the lid in her presence, and he kept the hinge securely locked when he was away.
In the early days of their marriage she’d been obsessed with the contents, curious as to why he kept secrets from her. When the undertaker had delivered Will’s personal belongings in a wooden crate, she’d expected to find a key.
Instead, the grim-faced undertaker had ignobly presented her with his grim bounty. An enormous sum of cash carelessly wadded together and secured with a band. The funds for Will’s escape from domestic responsibilities.
Later, at the funeral, the undertaker had looked her up and down, suspicion in his lifeless gray eyes. The amount of money had been too excessive for a humble railroad worker, especially given Will’s propensity for spending his paychecks before the ink had dried on the paper. Only a cheat could have acquired that much money, the undertaker’s eyes seemed to accuse.
She’d decided then and there that what she didn’t know couldn’t hurt her. From that moment on, she lost all desire to peer into the trunk. The more details she discovered about Will’s hazy past, the less certain she became of herself, of her judgment. By opening the trunk, she risked opening wounds that had only just begun to heal. Later, when she wasn’t feeling so fragile, she’d delve into the skeletons he’d left behind during his hasty exit.
While Rachel dozed, she lined the laundry basket with another patchwork quilt she’d sewed especially for the baby, then laid the swaddled infant snuggly inside.
“A basket and a drawer.” Elizabeth clicked her tongue. “We should have named you Laundry Day instead of Rachel Rose.”
The baby blinked, her somber gaze trusting and innocent. A disarming tide of emotion rolled over Elizabeth. The awesome responsibility of shepherding this new life into the harsh world stunned her once again. She didn’t know anything about babies. The years before her job at the bakery and then her marriage had been spent in an orphanage where the children were segregated by age.
While most of the older girls had chosen to work with the infants, Elizabeth had taken a job in the kitchens. Seeing those helpless babies, abandoned and alone, had been unbearable. She shuddered at the memory of sparse iron beds lined up against cold, bleak walls. The endless rules and constant chores. Thank heaven Rachel Rose would never have to suffer that life.
Elizabeth tipped her head to the timbered ceiling. “I think I know what you were trying to tell me. I was praying for myself when I should have been praying for others.”
God had never been a presence in her life. Maybe that’s why He hadn’t answered her prayers. Mrs. Peabody from the orphanage had marched them to church on Sundays, their smocks pressed and their hair brushed smooth, but the service had been in Latin. Though Elizabeth had been entranced by the sheer beauty of the church, she’d never understood the words.
She’d been anxious to attend a service in Cimarron. Unfortunately, despite his earlier pious claims, Will had harbored an aversion to churches. They’d even been married by a justice of the peace. A ceremony so rushed, she’d barely registered the event before Will had whisked her to the train depot and settled them on a Pullman car bound for Kansas.
Elizabeth shook off the unsettling memories. Living in the past was a dull and lonely business. One thing was for certain, she’d never trust another man until she had seen a true test of his character.
She lifted Rachel’s basket, then marched to the kitchen, her weary body braced for a full day of scrubbing. She raised her head, jerking to a halt. Every surface shined. Even the copper kettle gleamed in a shaft of light streaming through