“Good boy, Dudley.” She scratched his back and patted her approval, then unsaddled the mare, brushed her, and turned her out in the near pasture.
Take care o’ your horse afore yourself. Another of Deacon’s lessons. The ornery old cowboy was full of stories and proverbs, and often kept the family laughing of an evening around the supper table. Riding home in the dark didn’t hinder him from staying as late as possible.
Truth be told, Sophie could no longer imagine her mother without him.
Two sides of her heart tugged against each other, threatening to tear in half as she mounted the back-porch steps. How could she be so double-minded where her dear mama was concerned—jealous on the one hand and happy on the other? Sweet water and bitter hadn’t ought to flow from the same spring, Pastor Bittman once said.
“Sophie. I was worried about you.” Her mother looked up from the table, where she was setting plates and cups, lamplight rinsing her grayed temples with a soft ochre glow. “It’s near dark. Did everything go all right in town today?”
Sophie left her satchel on a stool in the corner by the shotgun, washed her hands at the sink, then tied on an apron. “Yes and no.”
Todd and Deacon stomped in the back door before she could elaborate.
“You boys wash up.” Her mother tipped her head toward the sink. “Then help yourself to coffee. Supper will be ready in no time.”
“We ain’t boys, Ma. We’re men.” Todd took offense at any comment he considered a slight to his manhood, delicate though it was in Sophie’s opinion.
“Speak for yourself,” Deacon said, blue eyes sparking as if he were fourteen with peach fuzz on his face rather than a full silver mustache.
Mama swatted his shoulder as she passed behind him, failing to hide her Deacon-smile, as Sophie called it, though not out loud.
“I forgot to bring in more milk.” Her mother dashed out the screen door.
Deacon caught it before it slapped shut. “I’ll help.”
Todd rolled his eyes and dried his hands, then poured a mug of coffee. His reaction to the pair was the one opinion he and Sophie shared without reservation.
She broke sausage into the skillet Mama had heating, then pulled the flour canister closer to the stove.
Laughter danced through the screen as Deacon opened it. Mama entered first and set the milk jar on the counter, her cheeks blooming like summer roses in the lamp’s orange glow, tempting Sophie to jealousy.
Shamed by her self-centeredness, Sophie sprinkled a handful of flour over the crumbled sausage, stirred until it browned in the hot grease, and added milk, salt, and pepper.
Biscuits fresh from the oven, hot coffee, and a bowl of sausage gravy would help them all sleep well until sunup.
Seated next to Mama at the table, Deacon held out his hands, one to her and one to Todd, and Sophie caught the little squeeze he pressed into Mama’s fingers. “Thank you, Lord, for this family, this food, and this farm. ’Men.”
Sophie kept her head bowed an extra beat, repeating the brief prayer, burying it deep within her for future reference. She had much for which to be grateful.
“Who did you see in town today?” Mama took a biscuit and passed the pan to Sophie.
Clay Ferguson. “Mrs. Eisner, the tailor’s wife. She’s near her time, and I stopped by Betsy Wilson’s to see if I could stay with her for a week or so to be closer. All the Eisners’ family is in Chicago.”
Deacon glanced up in the subsequent silence. “Cade’s missus is nearin’ her time as well.” He mumbled in his mustache, plainly uncomfortable about the subject. So why had he mentioned it?
Sophie knew for a fact that he’d delivered foals and calves himself, but talking about such things with women at the table made him squirm like bait on a hook, worse than Abigail Eisner.
Sophie was doing her own share of secret squirming. “You’re right, Deacon. I stopped there on my way home. That’s why I got in so late.”
“Just so’s you know, spring brandin’s comin’ up and then Cade’s goin’ to Denver to talk beeves with a buyer up there for this fall. Last he said, he’ll be pullin’ out in a week and gone for two or three.”
The news didn’t help supper settle, and again Sophie felt herself pulled in opposite directions.
“I wanna help gather,” Todd said, looking all of six begging for an Arbuckles’ peppermint stick instead of his full sixteen years.
Deacon met his gaze. “I know ya do, son, but your ma needs ya’ here while we’re tied up.” His pale-blue eyes shifted to Sophie. “And the missus is gonna need you with her at the ranch.”
“Oh dear.” Mama said.
Sophie’s thoughts exactly. How could she stay down-the-hall close for Mae Ann and in town for Abigail Eisner at the same time?
Chapter 6
Sunday morning, Sophie packed a carpet bag with extra clothes and tied it with her satchel to the mare’s saddle just in case.
Todd had brought the wagon around to the house, and Mama climbed in, none too happy about everyone not riding together.
Deacon had left last night after dark, insisting Cade needed him. Sophie’s guess was he needed Deacon to ride for help if the baby came early.
“It’s better this way, Mama. If Abigail is as far along as I believe she is, I’ll be staying in town. And I’ll be more comfortable knowing I can ride out to the ranch if Mae Ann needs me. It’s simply easier to ride than drive the wagon.”
“I know.” Mama smoothed her skirt and fussed with her hat pin. “I just don’t like it is all.”
Her mother had always kept the family close and together, ever since Pa died, but times were changing. Sophie was a grown woman, and it wouldn’t be long before Todd made his own decision about staying on at the farm. Honestly, Deacon was the only thing Mama had to look forward to. Sophie wouldn’t be giving her grandchildren anytime soon.
They all set out for town, riding into the sun. Sophie lagged behind the wagon, and every so often Mama looked back, no doubt making sure she was still there.
Wild primrose, pasqueflower, and sagebrush buttercups sprinkled pink and yellow and white across the greening countryside. A few meadow larks called to one another, but the closer to town, the farther apart their melodic echoes. They sang where noise and activity were silenced, and Sophie missed their song as she rode onto Main Street.
The field next to the church was packed with buggies, and horses lined the hitch rails. She looked for a handsome buckskin, realizing both Deacon and the horse handler rode one, but none were there. She tied the mare to the back of the wagon.
Todd handed Mama down, and the three of them entered together. Sophie hadn’t expected Cade and Mae Ann, due to Mae Ann’s condition, but Maggie Snowfield wasn’t there either, for Betsy, Sheriff Wilson, and little George sat by themselves in the back row.
Antsy throughout the songs and sermon, Sophie couldn’t keep her mind from wandering from Mae Ann to Abigail to Clay Ferguson. She itched to know if he’d come in late and stood at the back but couldn’t bring herself to turn around and look. Sometimes decorum was just plain annoying.
Clay used to come to church when he lived there before, but he and his past habits were not the topic of the morning. What was that Scripture Pastor Bittman just read? She glanced at her mother’s Bible, open to Isaiah 66. Something about peace like a river.
Shamefully overflowing with impatience rather than peace, at Bittman’s closing amen, Sophie was out of the pew and marching toward the back.
And there, next to the door, stood the horse handler, hat in hand, watching her.
She stopped and stared. Clay Ferguson in the flesh, shoulders straight, feet planted wide. Today there was no doubt.
A near smile eased into his blue eyes, but they sobered as his gaze shifted beyond her.
“Excuse me, please.”
Startled by the voice, she glanced back to apologize for blocking the aisle, only to bite down on the words. Clarence Thatcher smirked like he’d won the ring toss at t
he country fair.
“Miss Price. How fortuitous that we meet this way.” He extended his hand toward the exit as if she might not find her way otherwise. “Perhaps we could visit for a moment about the Eisner’s handrail.”
When she looked ahead again, several men had corralled Clay, and her expectations wilted. Passing by, her eyes drifted his way and found him deep in the moment, discussing fever and punctured lungs.
It was just as well. What would she say? Oh, Clay, how you’ve grown! Heavens.
Once outside, she turned rather abruptly, lacking societal grace and completely devoid of Christian charity.
“Mr. Thatcher. I believe I explained the situation quite plainly to you earlier. Take the matter up with Mr. Eisner. Good day.”
If he followed her around the side of the church, she might inflict bodily harm.
Fortunately for the hotel owner, he did not follow her.
By the time Mama and Todd reached the wagon, she was in the saddle gathering frowns from church matrons who clearly disapproved of her riding astride in her Sunday best. She blew a kiss to her mother who waved and nodded, and then turned down the street toward the Eisners’ shop.
At the corner, she opted for the alley entrance. The stairs were closer to the back door than the front.
She tethered the mare to a hitching post, climbed two steps to the small stoop, and banged on the door, still riled over Clarence Thatcher.
After a few moments, Mr. Eisner appeared.
“Miss Price.” His tight greeting was no less comforting than the pinch of his brows. “Thank you for coming. Abigail is upstairs …” He rubbed his left arm. “It is good you have come.”
Satchel in hand, Sophie hurried up the stairs fully appreciating the lack of railing that would have provided some comfort at the sharp turn near the top. The treads diminished into pie-shaped slices, leaving less foot space on each one than the already narrow passage offered. The situation was intolerable. Abigail Eisner was the one who belonged at Maggie Snowfield’s spacious home, not Sophie.
The stairs led not to a landing, but into an open area that served as kitchen, sitting room, and bedroom. Abigail lay on the bed in obvious agony, clutched in the tight grip of birth pangs. Hand railings were no longer important.
“Mr. Eisner.” Sophie placed her satchel at the foot of the bed and faced Abigail’s husband, short on time and chit-chat. “Heat water and pour it in the wash basin. Bring me a bowl of cool water and whatever towels you have, then go downstairs and wait until I call for you.”
The man stood nailed in place, mouth ajar, eyes wide.
“Now, Hiram, if not sooner.”
Once he started moving, Sophie closed her eyes and whispered an urgent prayer. Something was not right. “Oh, Lord, I know You are with us in our hour of need. This is Abigail’s hour.”
A high-pitched squeal brought her about, and she leaned close to the woman, taking her hand. “Don’t push, Abigail. Not yet.”
As was always the case regardless of a woman’s strength or stature, the young mother’s grip would have shamed the blacksmith. Sophie wrenched her hand free, twisted one of the towels Hiram brought, and wrapped Abigail’s fingers around it.
He set the washstand near and poured water in the basin, then pulled a small table closer, upon which he set the bowl of cool water.
“Thank you, Mr. Eisner. I will call for you soon.”
And she did. Much sooner than she’d hoped.
~
Clay welcomed the local inquisition after church, but the men blocked his view of Sophie and kept him from speaking to her outside. They also kept him from shoving the sneer down Clarence Thatcher’s throat—the one he’d thrown at Clay as he followed Sophie out the door. Clay desperately wanted to turn the man’s other cheek, but that was likely a misinterpretation of a Scripture he’d heard a few years back.
Sophie and nearly everyone else was gone by the time he left to walk back to the hotel. He hadn’t seen Maggie at the service, though the Wilsons were there. Concern skirted the back of his brain, and since witnessing her frailty the other day, he changed course and walked to her home on Saddle Blossom Lane instead.
Garrett met him at the front door, as did a waft of roasted beef and homemade bread.
“You’re just in time, Clay. We intended to invite you for dinner, but you were pretty well cornered at the church.”
Clay hooked his hat on the entryway hall tree. “Much obliged. I came to check on Maggie. Is she still not feeling well?”
“Still?” Garrett threw a look toward the kitchen.
Clay filled him in on his earlier visit as they made their way to the dining room.
“Have a seat and I’ll get coffee.” Which translated as “sit down while I talk to my wife.”
Not much had changed since Garrett and Betsy’s reception. The same massive table anchored the room, covered in a fancy cloth and surrounded by matching chairs. Three place settings were laid in the center of the table rather than at the ends, and he took a chair facing the kitchen door.
“Hello, Clay.” Betsy entered with a platter of sliced roast.
He stood. “Betsy,” he offered, recalling her threat if he used ma’am or Mrs. Wilson.
Garrett followed with a gravy bowl and mashed potatoes, and Betsy went back for green beans with salt pork and onions, and that fresh bread Clay had smelled.
Clarence Thatcher’s fancy chef could learn a thing or two.
A squall sent Betsy upstairs, and she soon returned with a tow-headed youngster who lit up Garrett’s face at the sight of him.
He took the boy and dragged a highchair from the corner in between two seats on the opposite side of the table. “George, say howdy to Clay Ferguson. Olin Springs’ new veterinarian.”
Mussed hair framed two watery eyes that stared across the table at Clay.
He chuckled. “Howdy, little fella. Looks like you just woke up.”
Serious as an undertaker, the boy never blinked.
A half hour later, after eating enough to fill his saddle bags, Clay thought he might not make it back to the hotel. He hadn’t eaten so much in he couldn’t remember how long. “As fine a feast as I ever had, Betsy. Thank you.”
“She’s a good cook,” Garrett said with a wink at his wife. “Had to let my belt out.”
She blushed as she wiped off the baby’s hands and face. “I learned everything I know from Maggie.”
Clay figured he was sitting in the widow’s seat. “Does she miss many meals?”
Betsy flicked her husband a look. “She’s been overly tired lately. I’ll take a little something to her room when she wakens.”
Clay laid his silverware on the plate and rose. “I’m gonna check on Lolly and then poke around the barn. Maggie charged me with keeping them both in good condition.”
Garrett lifted George from his chair. “We’ll go with you.”
Tied to an iron bench behind the house, Garrett’s gangly dog lunged as they skirted the length of its lead.
George slapped his hands against Garrett’s head and squealed.
Garrett grabbed the youngster’s hands. “Pearl. Can you say Pearl?”
Surprised to see the dog, Clay laughed. “I see she’s still with you.”
Garrett huffed. “Much to Maggie’s delight but not Betsy’s. I keep Pearl with me at the jail during the week, but Maggie dotes on her ever since she snagged the fire bug who torched her barn.”
Clay remembered well. He’d nearly been mistaken for that bug himself.
The afternoon sun cut through his new vest with a summer-like intensity, and he hung the vest on a nail in the barn and rolled up his sleeves. Lolly was a sweet old mare that had definitely seen better days, and in Clay’s line of work, he understood all too well the inevitability of old age.
He checked her teeth and felt for heat in her legs. She was sound in spite of her age, but an aloes drench would help against parasites, and she could stand to be exercised more regularly, though not overw
orked. A buggy ride around town once or twice a week would do.
Garrett shifted George to his shoulders, and the little fella’s legs bowed around his daddy’s neck.
Clay shifted his focus. Daddy was a term he’d never used himself. He hadn’t known a man like that, and George was too young to understand how lucky he was.
“Why don’t you stay here in my old room?”
Clay laughed. “You mean that screened-in porch, with spring snows guaranteed for another month or two? I don’t intend to freeze to death.”
“It’s not that bad, and the shutters are on. In fact, you can come back and help—”
Garrett flinched and shrugged George from his neck with a disgusted look. “He sprang a leak.”
Clay laughed and gave a mock salute as Garrett headed to the house. If he’d done that to his father, the man would have …
Leaving the thought in the past where it belonged, Clay started in on the loose boards. He appreciated Garrett’s offer, but wanted his own place. If he got too comfortable, he might quit looking. He hadn’t gotten rich from selling the farm, but with that and what he’d saved from his year working in St. Louis, he had enough for a small stake, a place with no memories of a past he’d just as soon forget.
By early evening, he had most of the loose boards nailed down. He’d come back and finish in daylight. The idea of a lantern in the barn didn’t set well.
He returned the hammer and nails to the storage room, then went to the water trough, where he pumped out a clear, cold dousing and drenched his head and arms. Not as soothing as the hot bath he’d soaked in the other day, but good enough to wake a man after a few hours’ work and inspire a walk back to the hotel.
The sun snagged on the western ridge, giving notice that the day was over. Clay flung his hair back, needing a haircut—and stopped short. A steady plod on soft ground behind him brought him round to a silhouetted rider. He could tell from the outline it was a woman, but that was all he could tell.
Aware that he was clearly lit by the setting sun, he held steady and watched her approach. When she rode through the shadow cast by the house, he saw it was Sophie. She looked right at him, like she had at the train station and at church that morning, but instead of stopping, she rode on by and dismounted at the hitch rail.
An Impossible Price: Front Range Brides - Book 3 Page 5