An Impossible Price: Front Range Brides - Book 3

by Davalynn Spencer

  “This is home. More home than I’ve ever had. I intend to settle here, buy my own place, and pay back the folks who gave me a leg up.”

  Garrett sobered. He remembered. He remembered everything, Clay was certain.

  The voice quieted, gray eyes softened. “Seein’ you turn out on the right side is all me or anyone else wants.”

  Hearing it from Garrett Wilson himself soothed a wound in Clay that ran deeper than skin and bone. Just like the man’s salve had soothed his lacerated back in that jail cell.

  His sense of direction solidified. Now all he had to do was convince Sophie Price he was worth her attention.

  ~

  Once Sophie made the outskirts of town, she’d nudged the mare into an easy lope, but not for long. The old girl was nearly Sophie’s age, which, thinking of it in those terms, made Sophie feel decrepit and slow the horse to a walk. She leaned over to pat its neck. Some things aged better than others. And some things blossomed with the years. Like her mother.

  Deacon Jewett had seen to that. The man lit up Mama’s face like a robin’s breast every time he rode out to the farm.

  Deacon was a bright spot in all their lives for certain. If not for him, much would remain undone around the farm, and their windmill would not be patched up, pampered along, and nursed back to health. She knew Mama didn’t like him climbing up to work on the persnickety old thing, but they needed water, and he’d horse-traded Todd into digging a ditch to the garden once the windmill worked consistently.

  That was miracle enough. Her little brother avoided sweat like hogs avoided butchers.

  No, Mama didn’t like Deacon working on the windmill. Sophie wasn’t fond of the idea herself, for a rotted board on the platform had caused her pa’s fall to his death. The memory cowered like a wounded animal at the back of her heart, and she fingered the corner of her mouth, wondering if Deacon knew.

  Of course it was allowed that he was sweet on Mama, but it made Sophie feel like an ugly spinster sister. What if he proposed before Sophie heard a similar question from anyone other than Clarence Thatcher?

  She had no prospects other than the ever-insistent hotelier, and she shuddered, preferring to end up like the mother she adored rather than that man’s wife. Travine Price had survived the last decade and more as a proud, wrinkle-cut farm woman, alone aside from her children.

  The only difference was Sophie had no children.

  Meadow larks called from one side of the road to the other, two echoing the first in a springtime trio. The lilting song lifted Sophie’s heart as she turned off the road where Parker Land and Cattle spread itself green and speckled with wildflowers. She’d promised Mae Ann she’d stop in on her way back from town.

  Doc Weaver had encouraged the visit as well since Sophie lived nearby. For a professional man, he did a poor job of hiding his concern over Mae Ann’s condition. But Sophie was glad to help. She’d grown fond of Mae Ann—so close to her own age—and the Parkers’ little boy, Willy. William Cade Parker, III, to be precise. There was no prouder papa than Cade Parker, unless it was Sheriff Wilson over little George.

  The sheriff hadn’t come home while Sophie visited Betsy, and it was just as well. Betsy would have certainly asked him straight out if he knew whether Clay Ferguson had returned to Olin Springs, and Sophie wasn’t prepared to avoid the man’s discerning eye.

  The mare broke into a trot, jarring Sophie from her musings that had clearly spread to the horse. If the mare knew, how easily would everyone else pick up on her pathetic pretense?

  In the brief year she’d known Clay before he left, she’d never heard him mention his own parents. Not a word about a mother who might have smoothed a boy’s rough ways and taught him gentle words. Nothing about sisters or brothers. It was as if he had no past, no connections. Yet one thing she knew for certain—he connected with animals. His kindness was evident. A firm kindness that stirred confidence in the horses he handled. Just like the stranger had with the stallion that morning.

  The man’s quiet strength eddied through her, drawing her to him in an unexplained way. But the memory of his blue gaze sent a shiver up her spine.

  The Parker barn rose ahead of her, its roof mimicking mountain peaks that rose to the west. She’d always admired the Parker ranch, its neat, sturdy buildings and corrals. Not a lazy thing on it as far as she could tell. Even the windmill worked. Maybe that boded well for Deacon’s help at her family’s farm.

  She looped her reins on the hitch rail at the big log house, much more impressive than her meager home at the farm. A flagstone porch spread invitingly before the wide front door, and unlit lanterns hung on either side, inviting and offering respite.

  The ranch dogs, Blue and Mae Ann’s Cougar, flagged about Sophie’s skirt, whining and squirming their welcome, happy as only dogs can be about a familiar guest willing to stoop and rub their backs.

  She looked up as Cade Parker came out the front door, disheveled and agitated, Willy in his arms and concern riding his features.

  “Sophie. I’m glad you’re here. Mae Ann’s upstairs not feeling well. Would you mind going on up? I’ll tend to your horse and bring in your bag.”

  Her pulse skipped. Mae Ann’s delivery of Willy had been hard, and Sophie had believed it was because he was the first baby. But maybe Doc Weaver was right to be concerned.

  She let herself in, relishing the cool shadows of the great room with its broad stone fireplace and hide-covered floors. A piano stood against one inside wall, and a large desk sat beneath a front window, bookcases lining the remainder of the wall. She took the log stairs that climbed to the second story, paying special attention to the peeled railing that edged them on both sides all the way to the landing. More had gone into this home than into an upstairs apartment in town.

  She knocked quietly on the master bedroom door and peeked in before entering. Mae Ann lay propped against several pillows, eyes closed. The window curtains wavered in a tepid breeze.

  “It’s Sophie.”

  Mae Ann’s eyes fluttered open as if she’d been in a deep sleep, but she reached out.

  Sophie pulled the rocker close to the edge of the bed, pleased to find Mae Ann’s hand neither clammy nor too warm.

  “Thank you for coming. I know you must be busy.”

  “Not too busy to check on you. How do you feel?”

  “Weak as water.” Mae Ann’s less-than-enthusiastic smile underscored her choice of words.

  Sophie had previously calculated the due date, which, if Mae Ann went the full forty weeks, would be early May. “Are you resting most of the day?”

  “Just as you and Doc Weaver ordered. Plenty of bed rest.”

  “And what about your food? Is Cade preparing meals for you?”

  At Mae Ann’s sideways glance, Sophie guessed the answer.

  “He has so much he needs to do. I hate to ask him to do more.”

  “I happen to know the man can cook. He survived before you came, remember?”

  Mae Ann laughed weakly, but no color flushed her cheeks.

  Sophie pulled her hand away and brushed Mae Ann’s temple. No fever, but a listlessness filled Mae Ann’s eyes. The woman was wearing herself out, and if she weren’t careful, Cade Parker would be cooking his own meals again, this time permanently.

  Sophie refused to let that happen.

  “May I have a look at you? See how you’re progressing?”

  Mae Ann nodded. “Then we can go to the kitchen for coffee.”

  “Or I can bring chamomile tea to you. Right now, I’d prefer you not try to maneuver the stairs until you get your strength back.”

  She didn’t want to frighten the woman—just as she hadn’t wanted to frighten Abigail Eisner. But neither seemed to realize what a fall could do. To both the mother and the unborn child.

  Sophie washed and dried her hands at the washstand and satisfied herself that Mae Ann was not facing a premature birth. Not yet anyway. The babe had not dropped into position, as best she could tell, but going u
p and down stairs had to stop. Which meant Sophie might be moving into Betsy’s old room at the end of the landing. She could prepare things here for Mae Ann and Cade, giving herself time to visit Abigail in town and be back by nightfall.

  And she’d pray that both babies didn’t come at the same time.

  Chapter 5

  The laundry was a block south of the hotel, so Clay stopped by the newspaper office and the mercantile before going back for his soiled clothes. Sure enough, a front-page headline read:

  MYSTERIOUS STRANGER RESCUES INJURED STALLION

  Avoids Disaster at Depot

  So much for mention of a veterinarian in town.

  With the paper tucked under his arm, he entered the bell-topped entrance of Reynold’s mercantile and straight back to his earlier days in Olin Springs. Tobacco, pickles, oiled leather, and spices filled his senses before he stepped around a display of fancy soap and into a gal bent over, unpacking a box.

  “Oh!”

  Without thinking, he grabbed her arms and helped her straighten. “My apologies, miss. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

  She brushed herself off, then looked up with a scowl that quickly faded into wonder. “Clay? Is that you, Clay Ferguson?”

  He wasn’t sure, but he thought she might be Fred and Willa Reynolds’ daughter, a gal in pigtails last time he’d seen her.

  “Yes. Miss Reynolds, is it? Clay Ferguson.” He doffed his hat. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. Again.”

  She offered her hand and with the other pushed at the back of her hair. “It’s Sarah. Please call me Sarah.”

  Her father cleared his throat—audible across the store.

  She batted her eyes. “I heard you went away to school. Veterinary school, is that right?”

  More batting.

  “Yes, ma’am. Miss.”

  “Sarah.”

  “Of course.” He tugged his hand from her not-so-gentle hold and took a couple steps back. “Just stocking up.” He plunked his hat on and headed straight to the canned goods for a few tins of fruit, then filled a sack with jerked beef.

  Fred Reynolds waited behind the counter drawing a bead on Clay’s every move. Either he’d seen the incident at the depot or he was keeping tabs on his daughter.

  “Afternoon, Mr. Reynolds. I’ll take a can of Bickmore saddle soap and a box of matches.” He eyed a black Stetson in a side display and a cotton-backed wool vest with deep pockets, but settled on another shirt and leather gloves from a glass-topped case. Recalling spring in Colorado, he also picked out a couple pairs of socks.

  While Reynolds wrapped his purchases, he snatched up the vest and tried it on.

  “You look very fine in that vest, Clay.”

  The sing-songy lilt of her voice made him skittish, but he managed a polite nod. He paid his tab and escaped the mercantile without getting corralled by Sarah Reynolds or shot by her pa. He wasn’t sure which would have been worse.

  After stashing his food and clothes in his hotel room, he took his laundry down the street and decided to pay Maggie Snowfield a visit.

  The trees in the woman’s apple orchard filled the air with perfume, in full blossom and promising a good crop if a late freeze didn’t kill things off. He opened the spired gate, recalling the last time he’d walked through, leading Garrett’s roan out with that sleazy lawyer draped over the saddle—Rochester. What a night that was.

  Mounting the steps to the wide porch, he hoped things were well with Mrs. Snowfield. He wanted to thank her while he had a chance.

  Her doorbell buzzed—another memory from his recent past—and soon footsteps approached the finely carved door that opened at Betsy Wilson’s hand.

  She stared, slack-jawed, then clapped her mouth shut and moved aside, all mannerly and proper. “Clay, please come in. I heard you were back in town.”

  He took off his hat and stepped into the entryway, taking in the fine furnishings, polished floor, and oak banister that led to the second floor. All the same as he’d left it. He and Garrett had dragged Rochester down those very stairs, out cold as a dead fish.

  “Mrs. Wilson, ma’am.”

  “Oh, for goodness sake, Clay, come here and let me give you a hug.”

  Betsy Parker Wilson always had been unconventional, and he guessed this was his day for meeting progressive women.

  “Betsy, did I hear you say Clay Ferguson?”

  A thin but authoritative voice cut out through the parlor doorway, and Betsy pointed him in that direction.

  Maggie Snowfield reclined on the settee, her white topknot in place and a shawl around her shoulders. Her face bloomed into a smile, and she extended both arms.

  “Clay, it is you. Come give this old woman a hug and let me have a good look at you.”

  He took a knee by the velvet couch, and she cupped his face between her cold hands. His heart hitched at the signs, and he was glad he hadn’t waited to stop by.

  “I’ll get another tea service while you two chat,” Betsy said behind him. “Or would you prefer coffee, Clay?”

  He stood to face her. “Coffee, if you have it, ma’am.”

  She raised her chin and plunked her hands at her waist. “Call me ma’am or Mrs. Wilson again, and I’ll lace that coffee with licorice root.”

  He laughed, inwardly cringing at the thought of such a mix. “Thank you, Betsy.”

  When she left, he pulled a fancy chair next to the settee and took Maggie’s hands again. “I want to thank you for what you did.”

  “Oh, posh.” She fussed and shook her head. “It was my pleasure. I have no grandsons of my own to encourage along in their future, and to see you here, looking so well, simply does my heart good. I know you finished your schooling, because the registrar kept me up to date. I couldn’t be more proud.”

  He swallowed around a lump big enough to lame a sound horse and had to clear his throat a couple of times. “I’ll never be able to repay you.”

  Pulling her hands free, she waved his words aside. “Say no more, young man. That is as it should be. You can keep an eye on my Lolly for me. She’s getting up in years, you know, just like me. And take a good look at my barn. See if it needs any repairs.”

  “I’d be happy to.” As he stood, he leaned in and kissed the top of her head.

  She blinked several times like she had something in her eye, and he pulled the chair to the foot of the settee as Betsy returned with his coffee.

  “Where are you staying, Clay? You know I have several empty rooms here in this big drafty house.”

  “I’m at the hotel for the time being, but I appreciate your offer. I’m looking to get my own place soon, but I’ll let you know how things go.”

  He tried the coffee and was relieved that it hadn’t cooked down like Hoss Bozeman’s.

  “A place of your own, you say? I have a friend on the Library Committee who is thinking of selling her small ranch. Her husband has passed on, you know, and it’s too much for her to look after and keep her hired help in line. I’ll ask her more about it and let you know. May I leave a message at the hotel?”

  No telling what small ranch meant to Maggie Snowfield, but he’d not turn down her kind offer. “You may, ma’am, and I appreciate it.”

  Feeling Betsy’s bold stare, he cut a sideways glance and confirmed his suspicion. “Good coffee.”

  She checked herself, as if she’d drifted off on some wild goose chase. “Pardon me, I’m just so surprised to see you. Especially after what Sophie said earlier—”

  Her fingers fluttered at her mouth, attempting to snatch back the words. But they’d already flown around the parlor and perched on his shoulder, echoing in his ear.

  Sophie had told her.

  ~

  The day’s spring warmth dwindled into the cool of early evening, and Sophie let her tension slide away with it. At the mare’s gentle plodding, she loosened her hold on events, slowing her thoughts to the same unhurried pace, looking at each one individually, rather than bunching them all together in a
wild stampede. She could do only one thing at a time. Why did she always try to do more?

  The mysterious yet familiar stranger.

  Abigail Eisner’s timidity.

  Clarence Thatcher’s idiocy.

  And Mae Ann’s weakness.

  She drew in the sweet breath of evening—her favorite time of day when earth and animal settled and night birds laced their lonely songs through scrub oak and cedar. A coyote called not far away, answered by another, and soon was joined by a yipping crowd, no doubt celebrating the demise of a hapless rabbit or two.

  And the deeper the sun slid into the western peaks, the deeper her conviction that the stranger was Clay Ferguson.

  She shook her head to clear his image. He should be the least of her concerns, the one that deserved the least of her attention. But he hovered above all other thoughts like an insistent hummingbird refusing to sink into the shadows where it belonged.

  She kept clear of rock outcroppings where snakes sunned themselves by day and cougars ambushed at dusk. But she also kept one eye on the mare’s ears, for the horse would tell her if danger lurked nearby.

  The country was never predictable. Gentle grasslands on one hand, a predator’s lair on the other. Everything around her seemed to sigh in expectation of rest, and she relaxed in her seat, unprepared for a dash from the left that set the mare back with a snort.

  Sophie yanked on the reins, and a doe bounded from a thicket and across the trail, two fawns on its heels. She waited, leaning forward to pat the old mare’s quivering neck, and two more mule deer sprang across in front of them. A family.

  So much for paying attention.

  “Easy, girl. We just got in their way. Best be getting on now.”

  She heeled the mare into a trot, and soon the windmill rose against the horizon, catching the falling sunlight on its wide blades. The slow churning came to her before she made the yard, its metallic moan a rough imitation of her own emotions.

  Daylight slipped undercover as she dismounted at the barn, and their old hound ran to greet her, baying his welcome, tail flailing to beat the band.