He patted her arm. “Humor me.” He saw a footstool against the wall and moved to retrieve it. “Here. Put your feet up.” He knelt at the edge of her chair and reached for the heels of her shoes, thinking to help her. She hurried to lift them on her own.
Soft leather brushed against his hand, and swinging fringe danced against his fingers.
He grinned up at her. “Are you wearing moccasins?”
Clara blushed and tried to arrange her skirt to more fully conceal her footwear. “They were my grandmother’s,” she muttered. “My feet have swollen over the last month, and my usual shoes pinch. These are more comfortable.”
“I’m jealous.” Neill teasingly tried to get another peek. “I always wanted a pair of moccasins. I figured if I had some, I’d be able to sneak up on my brothers without them hearing me.”
Clara shyly met his gaze. “You don’t find them . . . heathen?”
“Are you kidding?” He rocked back on his heels. “If God clothed Adam and Eve with animal skins when they left the garden, it seems to me He’d be in favor of such footwear. Don’t you think?”
She smiled, and the tension he’d been battling finally seeped out of the room. Then Clara leaned back in her chair and released a heavy sigh.
“Every day I pray that this child is a girl.” She wrapped her arms around her stomach. “I pray that she looks so much like a Comanche that Mack will take one look at her and want nothing to do with her.”
“Do you really think that would stop him?” Neill watched her hands as they made slow, circular motions over her belly. When she stopped, he leaned closer and covered her hand where it rested on the chair arm, half expecting her to jerk away, but she didn’t. Satisfaction surged through him.
“No. Mack is so desperate for an heir of his own blood, he’d probably take a girl, too. But I’m not giving up my child, Neill.” Tears clogged her throat. “I’m not!”
Neill rubbed the back of her hand with his thumb, then bent forward and dropped a kiss onto the soft skin. Clara sucked in a shocked breath, her gaze flying to his.
“I know you’re not.” He spoke the words without a single ounce of doubt. “I’m going to help you.”
“How?” she sputtered.
“I’m not sure yet, but I’ll think of something.”
She curled her free arm around her swollen abdomen in a protective gesture that solidified Neill’s resolve. “I have a little money set aside. Matthew never touched the funds I had left from my father’s estate. He only gambled with Mack’s money. It would be enough to see me through a year or two if I scrimped. Plenty of time to find work after the baby is weaned. But I fear Mack will try to force the issue. He’s threatened to take me to court if I fail to go along with his terms. Have me declared unfit.”
Her hand trembled as she lifted it to push a piece of hair behind her ear. “What chance would I have against him—a woman with no income, tainted by Comanche blood, against a rich white man who’s a pillar of the community?”
Neill dropped another kiss onto her hand. “He must worry that you’d have at least a small chance. That’s why he’d rather buy you off than risk a hearing.” He wanted to believe that honest men wouldn’t take a child from his mother’s arms just because another relative had more money, but he’d been out in the world long enough to know that wealth and power could sway a man’s ideals.
“Even so,” Clara said, the despair in her eyes tearing at his heart, “the odds will still be in his favor.”
Determination forged a hard knot in Neill’s gut. “We’ll just have to make sure we take away that option, then, won’t we?”
Chapter 6
Clara barely slept that night. Every time she drifted off, visions of her father-in-law wrenching her newborn out of her arms rose to torment her. She’d whisper fervent prayers, then huddle under the covers and try to find sleep, but little was to be found.
Her back ached, her head pounded, and the only comforting thought she was able to muster was the memory of Neill’s kiss upon her hand. It was comforting to imagine that this strong man with the big heart would step in and solve her problems. Her tattered spirit had soared at his tender touch, at the way he shielded her from Mack’s anger, at his teasing smile when he discovered her moccasins. If she had married a man like Neill instead of Matthew, how different her life would be. They’d be awaiting the birth of their child with joy and love instead of her standing alone, plagued with fear and desperation.
Yet no matter how strong the temptation, she couldn’t allow herself to rely on Neill to solve her problems. Using a man to solve her problems was what got her into this mess in the first place. No, as soon as the roof was finished, she’d thank him and send him on his way. Though the thought of facing Mack on her own held little appeal. Or likelihood of success.
Maybe she should run. Hitch up the buckboard and ride to Amarillo, where she could catch a train to somewhere Mack would never find her. But where would she go? She had no family. No friends outside of Dry Gulch. If she had to spend her inheritance on new lodgings and town food, her funds would be depleted in months. How would she feed her child then? Here, at least she had a garden, a new roof to keep them protected from the weather, a milk cow, and a handful of chickens. But all of that would mean nothing if Mack ended up with her child.
Lord, what am I to do?
Her mind too agitated to even contemplate sleep, Clara threw back the covers and padded across the cold floorboards. The early-morning air sent shivers from her bare feet up her calves. She grabbed the quilted throw from the foot of the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders. Then she plopped into the rocker and stared out the window into the dark, willing the horizon to lighten with the promise of day so she could finally put this horrific night behind her.
Turning away after several minutes of fruitless staring, she caught sight of the box she’d prepared weeks ago for her babe’s arrival. She’d found an old crate in the barn, the wood still strong, the sides and bottom solid. She’d sanded every inch of that crate until it was as smooth and soft as one of her grandmother’s fur-lined moccasins. Then she’d padded it with the thick flannel quilt she’d pieced specifically to cushion her child’s tiny body. The makeshift cradle lay on the floor in the corner, ready to receive the babe, yet hauntingly empty. Would her child ever sleep in the nest she’d created with such love, or would he be laid in a fancy, impersonal cradle somewhere on the Circle D?
Too weary to hold the tears at bay any longer, Clara finally stopped fighting and let them roll in rivulets down her cheeks. She’d be strong again when the sun came up, but right now—sitting in the dark—she wept.
Neill sat cross-legged on top of his bedroll, his head in his hands, elbows braced on his knees. He’d barely slept. Lifting his head, he grimaced at the sight of stars shining valiantly in the still-black sky. Would dawn never arrive?
Groaning in frustration, he tousled his hair with enough force to leave it standing on end, then tugged his boots over his stockinged feet and shoved his arms into the sleeves of his last clean shirt before pulling it over his head. Leaving his shirttails dangling and the buttons around the collar undone, he strolled out to the pump and worked the handle. Cupping his hands under the water, he let the icy liquid pool in his palms before splashing it over his face.
The bracing cold slapped him fully awake. Dampening his hair with his wet fingers, he found his gaze drawn to the house and his mind drawn to Clara and her predicament.
Only one solution had presented itself with any promise during his tossing and turning last night. He had to take Clara away from here—out of Mack’s reach. And not just anywhere. He had to take her someplace she would be protected should Mack track her down. Someplace Neill could guarantee her safety and that of her babe.
He knew of only one such place.
The Archer ranch.
He was still over fifty dollars short on his ranch fund. Twenty of that was supposed to come from this roofing job, but there was no way he’d leave Clara alone
long enough to claim his pay. The sooner they left, the better. And with Mack’s men watching Clara’s place, that would be no easy feat. They’d have to take the train out of Amarillo. It was the fastest way to Palestine. Which meant more money out of his pocket. Not that it wasn’t worth it.
Shoot, he’d give up his entire nest egg to keep his woman safe.
His woman. When had he started thinking of Clara as his?
Probably the moment he kissed her hand and she didn’t run screaming to the next county. The thought set him to grinning. Clara would never run screaming anywhere. She was a fighter, fierce and brave. Not afraid of hard work, either, as evidenced by her care of the animals and buildings left to her by her no-account husband. She’d make the perfect rancher’s wife. And he couldn’t say he’d mind growing old looking at her fine-boned face and dark eyes over the breakfast table every morning. Not to mention that glossy black hair of hers. Considering the thickness of the braid she wore coiled at her nape, it must hang clear to her waist. What would it be like to wrap its silky strands around his hand? To watch it sway as she brushed the long tresses out at night? To see it feathered across his pillow?
Neill suddenly choked on the air he was breathing. Best turn his thoughts in another direction before traveling any further down that path. He didn’t even know yet if Clara would accept his offer.
A tiny noise floated through the predawn air, one that didn’t fit with his surroundings. Instantly alert, Neill focused his attention on pinpointing its source. It came again, a soft cry, from the house. Walking on soundless feet, Neill cautiously crossed the short distance to the side of the house where Clara’s window stood partly open.
A small muffled sob escaped the room and pierced Neill’s heart. She was crying. His strong, stoic, determined Clara was weeping alone in the dark. He could make out her shadowy outline on the rocker at the foot of the bed, and without thinking he strode around to the front of the house and let himself in.
She’d shouldered this burden too long on her own. It was time for another pair of shoulders to take on the task for a while.
He knocked gently on her bedroom door. “Clara? It’s Neill. I’m coming in.” He knew if he asked for permission, she’d send him away.
“No, I-I’m fine.”
But he’d already opened the door.
“No, honey. You’re not fine.”
She frantically swiped at her cheeks and nose, as if she could hide the evidence of her weakness. “G-go away, Neill. You sh-shouldn’t be h-here.”
He hesitated. She was probably right. A man had no business in an unmarried woman’s bedroom. But blast it all, he couldn’t just stand by and do nothing while she cried her eyes out.
Travis would’ve already had Meredith in his arms by now if she’d been the one upset. Surely Neill could offer Clara the same comfort. It was better than standing helpless in the doorway watching her try to hide her misery. Each time she swiped at a tear, it felt like a lash flaying his heart.
Decision made, Neill squared his shoulders and trudged into the room. In two steps he was at Clara’s side, scooping her up, quilt and all. He carried her to the bed, sat down on the corner, and cradled her in his lap. She stiffened against him and made a halfhearted effort to push his arm away, but he didn’t budge. “Let me hold you, Clara,” he murmured in a gravelly voice. “Just until the sun comes up. Things will look better then. I promise.”
Her dark eyes shimmered with unspent tears when she finally looked at him. She peered into his face, as if his intentions were written there for her to read. Maybe they were, because after a moment she reached an arm around his waist and laid her head on his shoulder, her forehead coming to rest against his jaw. “Just until dawn.” The words escaped on a sigh that filled Neill with a satisfaction so deep he thought he’d drown in it.
Moments earlier he’d wanted to lasso the sun and yank it up over the horizon to end the torture of the night. Now he wanted to tether it to some spot farther east to prevent its rising. Forever wouldn’t be too long to hold his Clara. She felt so good in his arms, so right.
Neither said a word as time ticked slowly by. Neill lightly ran his fingers up and down the outside of Clara’s arm, enjoying the feel of her even breathing as she relaxed against his chest. Then a different movement registered, a rolling motion that pressed against his belly before advancing to his rib cage. He sucked in an awed breath, his hand stilling in midmotion to hover over Clara’s pregnant stomach. The baby.
How he longed to lay his palm upon her belly and feel the child move. He recalled Travis doing so with Meredith, the two of them sharing delighted smiles. Such a miracle. Such a bond between parents and child.
But this wasn’t his child. And Clara wasn’t his wife. Not yet. He had no right to touch her in such an intimate manner. Still, he couldn’t drag his hand away. For some inexplicable reason, he longed to be connected to this child he’d sworn to protect.
Then all at once her hand was there. Covering his. Positioning his touch to match the movement of her child and pressing his palm against her abdomen.
Something pushed against his hand. A foot, maybe? A knee? His breath caught. Afraid to break the spell, he kept his amazement to himself, not daring to even whisper. After a long moment, Clara removed her hand, and Neill reluctantly did the same.
He returned to the gentle stroking of her arm, his gut clenching in denial when he saw the hazy glow of dawn creeping over the horizon.
He didn’t want to let her go.
Ever.
Chapter 7
Knowing this would probably be Neill’s last day and wanting desperately to give him something in return for all the kindness he’d given her, Clara had offered to do his washing. Of course, he’d only agreed on the condition that she let him set up the tub and tote the water, as if she hadn’t been doing such chores throughout her pregnancy. Sweet, stubborn man.
His clothing now flapped in the breeze from her drying line. Three shirts, a pair of trousers . . . and a handkerchief that wasn’t really his. Clara reached into her apron pocket and fingered the handkerchief she’d found in his pocket. She’d pilfered it, replacing it with one of Matthew’s—an identical white cotton square. Neill would never notice. Or care.
But she cared. She pulled it from her apron pocket and lifted it to her nose, breathing deeply. It carried his scent. Not strong, but just enough to help her recall how it had felt to pillow her head against his chest. His shirt open at the neck, exposing the warmth of his skin. His strong arms supporting her as if she weighed nothing. The tender way he’d stroked her, and the tremble in his fingers when he felt the baby move inside her.
She had never felt more cherished in her life. In those few precious minutes with Neill she’d found everything her heart secretly longed for. Everything she knew she couldn’t have. Neill deserved a woman who would come to him untouched, not one carrying another man’s child. A woman who would bring him honor among his brothers and friends, not one people would scorn because of her Comanche blood. A woman who could bring him laughter and joy, not one who added to his burdens with the magnitude of her troubles. Even if he were crazy enough to offer her his protection and his name, she’d not take advantage of his compassionate nature. She esteemed him too highly to steal his chance at true happiness.
So she’d settled for stealing his handkerchief instead and would live off the memories of one perfect moment in time when a good man had cared for her.
Stuffing the handkerchief back into her apron pocket, she banished her melancholy thoughts and got back to work. Biscuits wouldn’t bake themselves. Clara jammed her hands into the flour-lined bowl and gently kneaded the soft dough until it reached the perfect consistency. Neill deserved the finest meal she could wrangle, and she aimed to give—
A warm gush of wetness between her legs cut off all thought.
No. Her dough-covered hands clutched at her stomach. Not now, little one. Not now. I’m not ready.
This couldn’t be happeni
ng. She hadn’t even felt any contractions. Clara massaged her abdomen as if she could somehow hold the baby inside. But a second smaller gush mocked her efforts.
Think, Clara. Think.
The midwife she’d consulted had told her that first babies took a long time to birth. Hours. So she had some time. Clara drew in a pair of deep breaths, willing the panic away. The midwife had also told her that many women found the birthing easier if they stayed active until the pains grew too intense to stay on their feet. That shouldn’t be too hard. Her pains hadn’t even started yet. She could finish dinner, feed Neill, then send him out to the barn early so she could retire. He knew how tired she’d been that morning. He’d not argue.
She’d have to close her window. It wouldn’t do for him to hear any cries that managed to escape her lips. She’d always planned to have this baby alone. Ever since Mack made it clear he wanted her child. He could easily pay off the midwife, the doctor, anyone in the area who might help her. Not only would they tell him about the birth, but for a big enough bribe, they might be induced to take her baby from her while she was lying abed after the birth. She’d be too exhausted and weak to stop them.
No, it was better to do as Jochebed and the other Hebrew women did when Pharaoh commanded the midwives to kill their sons in the days of Moses. Learn all they could, then have the babies on their own before the midwives arrived. She had no sister or mother to aid her, but she’d not risk losing her child because of such a small matter. She’d made do pretty much on her own for the last two years, handling things she’d never thought herself capable of. This was simply one more challenge. God helped Jochebed. He’d help her, as well. He had to.
Neill glanced across the supper table at Clara, trying to find a way to share his plan with her. An unusual tension vibrated in the air around them, though. They’d never had trouble talking over supper before. In fact, it was one of the things he’d enjoyed most about his time with her. But something was off. She seemed withdrawn, distracted. She had yet to meet his eye, despite numerous attempts on his part to garner her attention. Was she distancing herself because she expected him to leave now that the roof was complete? Hadn’t he vowed to help her? Did she have so little trust in him?
A Cowboy Unmatched Page 4