If Sherwood had learned anything since his arrival in Bethlehem Springs, it was that Cleo Arlington didn’t care much what traditional wisdom said a woman should do or not do. He might as well relent. Besides, her arms and back were undoubtedly stronger than his. Not to mention her two good legs.
“You can help me. Take over fastening the trees for clearing away while I spell one of the men felling them.”
Cleo nodded, but stopped him with a hand on his arm before he could turn away. “I couldn’t see Dad or Morgan. Do you know where they are?”
He shook his head. “I believe Morgan sent Griff back into town.” He motioned toward the sky. “We were afraid being in the thick of this smoke wouldn’t be good for his lungs. Because of the influenza.”
Relief flickered across her face.
He wanted to give her even more peace. He wanted to promise her that the fire would be stopped, that the town would be saved, that no one would lose their possessions, that there would be no loss of life. But he couldn’t make such a promise. The odds were stacked against them. The fire burned too hot and was coming too fast, creating its own wind on top of that made by the storm. It would take a miracle to save the town—and Sherwood couldn’t remember a time when he’d believed in miracles. If ever one existed, it had been blown to smithereens on the battlefield.
He was about to turn away from Cleo when something strange happened. The wind died down. He seemed to feel it in his chest even more than on his skin. And then it began to blow again, but this time it was cool and came from the north. Seconds later, rain stung his cheeks. Not a light rain either. A downpour. He was drenched clear through almost at once. The sounds of chopping and dragging and plowing ceased as others realized what was happening. From the top of the hill that separated them from the town, someone shouted something. Words he couldn’t make out.
Cleo grabbed for his hand. “I think he said the fire’s stopped.”
Impossible.
“Come on.” She pulled on his arm. “Let’s see for ourselves.”
He didn’t try to resist. He had to see it to believe it.
The rain-slick climb up the angled hillside was made more difficult by the pain in his bad leg, but he gritted his teeth and somehow managed to keep up with Cleo. When they reached the crest, they stopped and turned in unison.
It was true. Even through the sheets of rain, he saw that the wind had pushed the fire back upon itself. Back to where the fuel had been consumed. Flames that had burned high and hot minutes before were fizzling in the cloudburst.
“It’s a miracle,” Cleo cried. “God sent us a miracle!”
A miracle. Sherwood looked up, squinting against the rain. Did You do this?
Somebody cheered and others joined in.
“It’s okay!” Cleo grabbed hold of both his hands, a huge smile lighting her face, almost as if the sun had broken through the clouds. “The fire’s dying! We’ve won!”
Sherwood didn’t know how it happened. One moment he was holding her hands while she grinned and shouted for joy. The next, his arms were around her and he was kissing her, a kiss that stirred something inside of him, something he’d never felt before, something far more intense than physical desire. Something in his heart. Something that felt a great deal like—
Cleo took a small step backward and stared at him, her hair and face dripping with rain, her eyes wide with surprise. But she couldn’t be more stunned than Sherwood himself. Perhaps if he kissed her again, the shock of it would go away. Perhaps if he kissed her again, he would understand that foreign sensation in his chest.
“Cleo!” The sound of Griff’s voice shattered the invisible bonds that had held them motionless. “Sherwood!” They turned toward the town and saw her father climbing the hillside, along with a number of other citizens. “Is it true? The fire’s out?”
“It’s true,” Cleo answered. “The danger’s over.”
Sherwood looked at her again.
Was the danger over? Or had it simply changed its form?
TWENTY-ONE
Eyes closed, Cleo sank down in the tub of hot water until it covered all but her nose. Here, in this liquid cocoon, there was silence. Nothing to intrude upon the memory she wanted to savor—the memory of Woody holding her in his arms, the rain pouring down upon them, his lips locked upon hers.
She hadn’t expected him to kiss her. Why would she expect it? He’d given her no reason to think he might be fond of her.
Fond? Was that the right word?
No, she might not know much about kissing and wooing and the fine art of flirtation, but if what had happened between them on that hillside today expressed only fondness, she’d eat her hat.
A frisson of pleasure moved through her.
Could this be love?
She sat up and opened her eyes.
Love? No. Loving Woody would be a fool thing to do, no matter how much she liked kissing him. Yes, he’d come a long ways in the weeks he’d been here. He wasn’t snooty, like she’d expected him to be, and he wasn’t lazy. But he would never be a cowboy, and she was sure as shootin’ that it would take a real cowboy to make her happy.
And yet…
She shook her head, driving off whatever thoughts might have followed. Then she reached for the soap and began to scrub away the dirt and soot she’d brought back with her from town—perhaps hoping she could wash away the memory of that kiss. Fifteen minutes later, she left the bathroom, clad in a clean pair of Levi’s and a pale-blue cotton shirt.
The front door was open, and through it she saw her father, standing on the porch. She went to join him there.
“Your turn in the tub if you want it.” She stopped beside him.
“I want it.
There were smudges of ash on her dad’s forehead and cheek. “How do your lungs feel?”
“I’m fine, Cleo.” He met her gaze. “What about you?”
Did he mean something more than the effects of the fire? Had he seen Woody kiss her? “I’m okay.”
“I sent Randall and Allen into town to help watch overnight for hotspots. Stitch volunteered to go with them.”
Cleo glanced toward the bunkhouse.
Her father continued, “I invited Sherwood to join us for dinner. No reason for him to eat alone.”
“He wouldn’t be alone in the kitchen. Cookie is there.” She sounded cold and uncharitable, but she couldn’t help it. She wouldn’t be able to eat a bite with Woody seated at the same table with her. Every time she looked at him, she knew she would remember that moment on the hillside in the rain. She would remember and want him to do it again.
“All the same,” her father said as he turned toward the door, “he’s going to eat with us.”
Cleo remained on the porch, stepping closer to the railing and wrapping an arm around a post as she stared out at the barnyard. Overhead, the sky continued to weep, and suddenly she felt an overwhelming desire to do the same.
Sherwood sat on the edge of his bunk, his forehead cradled in the palms of his hands, elbows on knees. Regret burned hot inside him. He should never have kissed Cleo. He’d confused her. He’d confused himself.
Why had he done it? Why had he lost his head?
Because in that moment, he’d believed in miracles. Because in that instant, he’d forgotten the fears and the smells and the sights that he’d carried around inside himself for the better part of a year. Because when he’d looked at her, he’d seen a woman who laughed and loved and embraced life with abandon, and he’d wanted to do the same. Because she’d made him feel alive.
Because he cared for her. Perhaps cared too much.
He feared he’d begun to love her.
Once it had been amusing to imagine the duke’s reaction if he were to meet Cleo Arlington. It wasn’t amusing now. Sherwood’s father would be horrified by her manner, by the clothes she wore, by her speech. He might not hold his youngest son in high esteem or even warm regard, but he would never allow him to become entangled with an American nobod
y. The proud name of Statham must be protected at all times. That was, after all, why Sherwood had been sent to America, so the Statham name wouldn’t be sullied by his reckless behavior.
A groan rose from his chest.
Cleo was wonderful. She was an original. And the aristocrats of England, his family, his friends, would cut her to shreds the moment they met her.
Sherwood had to do the honorable thing. He must protect her. He must emotionally distance himself from Cleo even if he couldn’t do so physically. He mustn’t allow her to know his feelings about her.
Above all, he must not kiss her again. Never again.
There was no doubt in Griff’s mind that something had happened between Cleo and Sherwood earlier today—sometime between that first roll of thunder and the moment he’d found them on the hilltop in the pouring rain. He was fairly certain that whatever it was, at least one broken heart and probably two of them would be the final result.
As Cleo’s father, he’d wished, hoped, and prayed for her to fall in love, marry, and have a family because he knew it was what she wanted. But he didn’t want her to know the same heartache he’d experienced. He’d made the mistake of marrying a woman too different from himself. Elizabeth hadn’t wanted the life he could offer her, and after four years of marriage, she’d returned to her parents’ home in the East rather than spend another year with him in Idaho.
Three weeks ago, he’d decided that he couldn’t protect Cleo from the hard things in life, that he would have to let her make up her own mind, make her own mistakes, love whoever she loved. Now he feared he’d made a poor decision. Sherwood and Cleo came from worlds far more different than even Griff’s and Elizabeth’s had been. Sherwood had managed to adjust to ranch life without too much difficulty—at least it seemed so—but the young man also knew his time in America was brief. And Cleo would never fit into the kind of life Sherwood led in England. Not in a million years.
God help them.
Cleo was a lot like Griff. When she loved, she loved without reserve. She held nothing back. She was like that with her family. She was like that with her friends. She would be even more so with the man who won her heart.
But neither of those two young people were foolish or stupid. They had to know all the reasons an alliance between them was fated for catastrophe. Which must be why they’d both sat at the dinner table earlier in the evening, silent and miserable.
God help them both.
TWENTY-TWO
Cleo rested her arms on the stall gate and looked at the palomino mare inside. By the look of her, she was set to foal soon. Could be tonight. Might not be until tomorrow morning.
“It’s gonna be fine,” she said softly. “You wait and see. You’ll be nursing your colt real soon now.”
This would be the mare’s first foal. Since the horse was a bit high strung, Cleo planned to keep a close eye on her to make sure all went well.
“Cleo.”;
Her heart hiccupped at the sound of Woody’s voice.
“Is it her time?”
She turned toward the barn doorway, hungry for the sight of him. She hadn’t seen him all day. He must have avoided her on purpose because most days their paths crossed often. Yesterday, after the kiss, she hadn’t wanted to see him, to talk to him, or to be near him. Today she hadn’t seen him, talked to him, or been near him…and she’d been miserable.
Ignoring his question, she said, “You were extra long at the spa today. You missed dinner.”
“I went into Bethlehem Springs to mail some letters on my way back from the resort, and I saw Reverend Barker in the post office. He invited me to dine with him at the Gold Mountain.” He moved toward her, his limp more pronounced today than it had been in a while. “Everyone in the restaurant was talking about how close the fire came to the town. People are still nervous.”
“I can imagine.” I’m feeling kinda nervous myself, only not about the fire. She turned toward the stall, trying to calm the storm in her belly.
“Cleo.” He spoke her name again, softly this time. “I need to apologize for yesterday.”
“Apologize?” As if she didn’t know what he meant.
“My actions were less than gentlemanly. I shouldn’t have…I shouldn’t have forced myself upon you.”
“I wouldn’t say you forced anything.”
“But I did, and I am sorry. It will not happen again. You have my word on it.”
His words hurt. They shouldn’t but they did.
Bravado seemed the best course of action. “It’s already forgotten. Don’t give it another thought.” She cast a smile in his direction. “I know I won’t.”
The last was a lie. She would think of his kiss again and again and again.
The mare snorted and moved in a tight circle, rustling the straw with her hooves.
Woody placed his forearms on the top rail. “She’s restless.”
“Yeah. She wasn’t interested when I tried to feed her earlier.”
“Are you going to stay with her until the foal is born?”
“Reckon so.” She felt Woody watching her but stubbornly kept her eyes on the mare.
After a lengthy silence, he said, “I hope the birth goes well.”
“Thanks.”
“Goodnight, Cleo.”
“Night, Woody.”
When he left, it seemed to Cleo that the oxygen was sucked from the barn right along with him.
It was too late, she realized as she pressed her forehead against the top of the gate. It was too late to keep from falling in love with him. There was no doubt—she loved him already, and she would continue loving him even after he returned to his home in England. She wouldn’t get over this. Her infatuation with Tyler had ended the instant she’d learned of his true character. But what she felt for Woody was greater than infatuation. This was love and it was strong. Even his absence wouldn’t diminish it. She knew that was true, deep in her soul.
Straightening, she whispered to the restless mare, “But we’ll have until next spring. We’ll have at least that much.”
Until spring would have to be enough to last her a lifetime.
After turning his saddle horse into the paddock to graze, Sherwood went into the house, entering through the kitchen. The door to Cookie’s room was open, and he saw the man sitting in an easy chair near the window, an open book in his lap.
“Good evening, Cookie.” He rapped on the doorjamb.
“If you’re wantin’ dinner,” the cook answered without looking up, “you’ll have to make do with something cold from the icebox.”
“I’m not hungry, thank you. I ate in town.”
Now Cookie raised his head, his eyebrows cocked, as if to say, Why are you bothering me, then?
“I have some matters to attend to in the office. Enjoy your book.”
Cookie made a sound of dismissal in his throat as his gaze returned to the printed page.
In Griff’s office, Sherwood set a few pieces of mail on the desk. One letter was for him. Jack Cummings, a former school chum who had served with Sherwood in France, had written. He sat and opened the envelope.
Dear Sherwood,
I received a letter from Haywood this week. I suppose you know that my sister Kate is in his parish, and knowing that you and I were in school together, she asked after you and gave him my address. Haywood wrote that you had recovered enough from your injuries and have gone to America. You always were a lucky bloke. Better there than here.
Last week C Company went in lorries to a country place a few miles behind the firing line. The weather was good, and we enjoyed the ride as we have had a rough time of it, going out at night to dig trenches. We haven’t lost any men in ten days but that last battle was fierce and many died that day. Harry got a slight wound from shrapnel but he did not need to go to the doctor.
The rations have been very low lately, and I told Kate not to send any cigs as we get plenty of them. Anything to eat is received with joy. Sardines, biscuits, chicken paste, chocola
te are always good. Very different from how we ate at school.
Do write, as letters are always welcome, and you still have friends in the company who want to know how you are faring. Tell us about America and if you think the Yanks will ever join us here in France.
With best regards,
from Jack
Sherwood folded the letter and returned it to the envelope. It was good to know his friend was alive and well. Or at least he had been when he wrote this. Considering how long it took a letter to make it from the front to England, let alone to America, Jack Cummings could be long since dead and buried. But he hoped not. He hoped Jack would make it through the war alive. He would like to see him again, perhaps sit down over a pint and celebrate together that they hadn’t died along with so many others.
He looked up, eyes toward the window, but in his mind he remembered the night Jack had saved his life, risking his own in the process. He could still taste the blood on his tongue and feel the smoke searing his nostrils. And the pain. The memory of that unbearable pain never quite left him. It seemed decades since that night, yet at the same time it felt like yesterday.
He released a shuddered breath, forcing his thoughts back to the present.
It was because of men like Jack Cummings that he’d wanted to go back to France, that he’d wanted to fight again, that he’d wanted to kill as many Germans as he possibly could. It had taken him a long time to admit his injuries would prohibit his return to active service. And it was knowing that many more good men like Jack would die before it was over that had made him half crazy in those first months out of the hospital.
May God protect you, Jack.
He’d heard it said that there were no atheists in the trenches. Maybe so. Maybe not. He couldn’t say he’d turned to God for comfort or guidance when he was at the front, as he’d seen others do. How different might his experiences have been—in the trenches, in the hospital, and back in England—if he’d been a man of faith? A man like Griff Arlington? Very different, he was sure.
The Sisters of Bethlehem Springs Collection Page 38