An Impossible Price: Front Range Brides - Book 3

by Davalynn Spencer

  If his memory served him, that was the same old nag she’d been riding earlier, as well as the first time they met four years ago, and it was just as worn out now as it had been then.

  She came around the back of the horse, her left arm curving over its rump, and kept walking toward him until she stopped a couple yards out.

  “Hello, Clay.”

  Her voice came weary, heavy. Like she’d worked all day plowing a field, but he knew better.

  “Sophie. It’s good to see you.” A regular speech-giver he was. His dripping hair and wet shirt probably didn’t make much of an impression either.

  She took a step closer and tipped her head, as if to see better in the fading light. “Are you staying here at Maggie’s?”

  “No, I just stopped by to look in on her and ended up staying for dinner and—”

  “Look in on her?” Another step. “Is she all right?”

  Her brows worried themselves together, and he fought the urge to smooth them. Brush the loose hair from her temples. Hold her.

  He rolled down his sleeves to give his fingers something to do other than what they shouldn’t. “She was resting earlier. I’ve been out here most of the day checking on her mare and tending to the barn. I don’t know if she’s up and around.”

  Sophie’s frown eased on its own and she let out a tired sigh.

  “Are you staying here?” Depending on her answer, he might take Garrett up on his offer. Then again, that’d be a bad idea.

  “Yes. For a day or so. I was in town helping Mrs. Eisner who …”

  Her voice trailed off and she looked past him to the pasture, dark now and quiet, and a ragged whisper finished her sentence. “She was with child. Until today after church.”

  That was an odd way to put it. Was Sophie midwifing?

  Her breath stuttered and a shaft of falling light caught a single tear trailing her right cheek.

  Unchecked pain cut through him, and against his better judgment he closed the distance between them, wrapping his arms around her. She melted into him as if she had no bones. No strength. A wrenching sob broke loose, and he cradled her head against his chest.

  Her fingers fisted into the back of his shirt, and he held her as she cried. He knew what it was like to lose new life—a foal or calf or lamb. But never a child.

  He brushed his lips across the top of her hair, catching the scent of lamp oil and the wintergreen tinge of willow bark. His voice rose like a burning whisper from deep inside. “I’m so sorry.”

  Chapter 7

  Sophie could barely breathe, much less resist the strong arms of this man who’d caught her when her legs gave way. He carried her inside Maggie’s house, set her gently in a chair at the kitchen table, then knelt on one knee in front of her, brushing hair from her face.

  His eyes ached. She could see it, as if they were drawing out her pain. What kind of man had compassion like that?

  At Betsy’s arrival, he rose and spoke close to Sophie’s ear. “I’ll see to your horse.”

  She hadn’t asked. She wouldn’t have asked. But he was out the door before she could object.

  Betsy pulled another chair next to her and glanced at the closing back door. “What happened?”

  Sophie rubbed her temples, scouring her memory for details, but Clay’s comforting embrace pushed all else aside. All but one thing. She squeezed her eyes against a rising flood of tears and buried her face in her hands.

  “Did he hurt you?” Betsy’s whisper sliced deep.

  Sophie couldn’t fault her, given the circumstances. She shook her head and spoke into her hands. “No. Quite the opposite.”

  “Tell me, Sophie. What’s going on?”

  With a jagged breath, she lifted her head and faced her friend’s worry. “I’m not the one who needs your concern. Abigail Eisner—”

  At the name, she saw the young woman’s grief-stricken face. Heard the keening wail of a heart-broken mother. Held again the body of a lifeless child.

  Sobs heaved from her chest.

  Betsy reached for her. “Oh, Sophie.”

  She straightened, pulling away from her friend. She was not the one who needed sympathy or comfort. She’d done nothing. Nothing.

  She’d not sent Hiram for Doc Weaver quickly enough.

  She’d not gotten to Abigail early enough.

  She’d not warned her sternly enough against pushing too soon.

  But would any of those things have made a difference? She’d never know.

  Spent and empty, she shook her head. “I can’t do this anymore.”

  Betsy handed her one of Maggie’s embroidered napkins. “I’ll put on some tea.” She didn’t press, but waited for the kettle to whistle, then brought china cups and chamomile tea to the table. “Is something wrong with Abigail or the baby?”

  Though soft as goose down, Betsy’s whisper tore through Sophie’s heart. She squeezed her eyes tight and drew a searing breath. “I told Abigail I would stop by today after church.” She looked at her friend. “Maybe if I had come in yesterday …”

  Betsy took her hand and leaned close.

  Raw and burning, the words came. “Their son was stillborn.”

  Soundlessly, the back door opened, and Clay brought her satchel and carpet bag and set them on the floor by the table. Then he laid his hand on her shoulder as he passed and left as quietly as he’d come.

  His gentle strength nearly overwhelmed her.

  Tears filled Betsy’s eyes. “You don’t hold the life of a child in the womb, Sophie. You’re not God.”

  “But I depend on Him to help me. To help the mother and baby. Why didn’t He?”

  “How do you know He didn’t?” Betsy’s tone had squeezed to a hush.

  At a knock on the back door, she rose.

  Doc Weaver’s voice slipped through the opening, and Betsy stepped aside for him to enter. A wiser man Sophie had never met, and by the deep lines carved in his features, he’d experienced much loss himself. He took the chair Betsy had vacated and leaned forward on his knees. “You did everything you could, Sophie.”

  At the kindness of his tone, she shook her head, refusing to accept absolution.

  He took her hands in his. “You did what I would have done and no different. Can you breathe life into a babe before it enters the world?”

  With burning eyes, she looked into his and saw the comfortless truth of his words. “I would have if I could.”

  He patted her hands—his own worn and wrinkled from caring for others, but still tender. “We don’t give life, but you know that. We give help and we give comfort. And what you need to do now is give yourself time to grieve but not to blame. You will heal, as will Abigail and her husband, though the scar will remain on their hearts and yours.”

  She flinched at his metaphor but didn’t draw her hands from his.

  “There will be more babies, I assure you.”

  She stiffened, anticipating something she did not want to hear.

  “But not all babies live. Not all children grow up, and not all adults see old age. It is the way of man. We can only do our best, and trust those who survive, as well as those who do not, to the hands of a loving God who knows all.”

  Not all babies live. If he had said that to her when she first became a midwife, she would not have continued.

  Heart heavy with truth that did not ease her pain, she saw clearly the high cost of her calling. She must choose whether to trust again, but tonight she didn’t have the strength.

  When the doctor left, Betsy picked up Sophie’s bags. “Let’s get you to your room. I’ll bring your tea once you’re dressed for bed.”

  She followed Betsy upstairs, feet leaden, each tread of the stairway a mountain. How could she take the risk again? How could she ever assure another woman that all would be well?

  Betsy led her into a darkened room, then quickly lit a lamp on the dressing table. “I’ll be back shortly.” After a hug, she quietly clicked the door closed.

  Sophie fell acros
s the bed as she was and stared up at the ceiling, where yellow lamplight flickered and thinned into the corners. Rolling onto her stomach, she buried her face in the feather pillow and wept until sleep overcame her.

  ~

  Clay stood at the window of his hotel room, staring across Main Street rooftops to the second floor of Maggie Snowfield’s grand house. A pale light shone in one small square, and he wondered if it was Sophie’s room.

  He wondered if he’d ever hold her again.

  He wondered if Mr. Eisner was holding his wife.

  No doubt he was.

  Clay pulled off his boots and laid his trousers and shirt over a chair, realizing he’d left his vest at Maggie’s barn. He’d get it tomorrow after he checked in with Erik at the livery.

  He lifted the window, relieved not to hear the Pike’s off-key piano banging away. Sunday night in Olin Springs was a sight quieter than Friday and Saturday nights. He knew that from experience.

  Lying back on the bed, he bunched his pillow and linked his fingers beneath it. Things hadn’t gone as he’d expected, but then again, he hadn’t known what to expect. Certainly not a remarkable stallion cutting itself open on the train. Or finding Maggie Snowfield so frail. Or holding Sophie in his arms as she cried her heart out.

  If he could, he’d take her pain on himself. And if he were a praying man, he’d lift her name to the Almighty. But it’d been a while since they’d talked, and it’d probably be a long while until they did again, in spite of his attendance in church this morning. He’d been there for one reason, and that reason was Sophie Price.

  Clarence Thatcher had thwarted that purpose, and an overwhelming need to protect Sophie nearly raised Clay to his feet. He didn’t trust the man and he didn’t know why. But one thing he was sure of. He didn’t want Thatcher anywhere near the woman he’d come home to find.

  ~

  Clay’s internal clock woke him as the sky grayed in the east. Something about approaching dawn had him up to see it most mornings, and he was dressed and downstairs before anyone else.

  As far as he could tell, no help stirred at the hotel, and only the case clock in the lobby made any sound at all. No coffee brewed in the restaurant, and it was just as well. He wouldn’t drink it anyway.

  The sweet morning air carried spring on its breath, and the brisk walk to the livery got his blood flowing. The big front doors were closed, which meant John was still asleep in the loft and Erik hadn’t come in yet. But the crack between the doors let Clay lift the bar that held them shut, and he slipped inside, lowering it behind him.

  Duster stuck his head over the stall door and whiffled a greeting.

  “Mornin’, old boy.” He rubbed the gelding’s neck and shoulder and up under its forelock, then scooped a can of oats from the feed barrel nearby.

  Scuffling in the loft dropped a dusting of straw. A wry smile tugged Clay’s mouth. He’d scrambled like that plenty of times. The boy’s feet hit the ground near the forge and soon a lantern flared to life. Made Clay jittery.

  “Morning, sir. I thought I heard someone talking down here.”

  “Just me and Duster. Good to see you’re up and at it so early.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  John tucked his shirt in with one hand while holding on to the lantern.

  Clay jerked his head at the light. “Works better if you hang that on a nail.”

  He walked back to the stallion and found it standing calmly, its right back leg cocked to keep pressure off the wound. The poultice patch remained in place, and that was what Clay had hoped for. When daylight streamed through the stable, he’d check the sutures and reapply the poultice.

  “He was quiet as a mouse all night,” John offered. “I didn’t expect that.”

  “He felt safe here. Plus you don’t have any mares. That always helps.”

  The boy smiled self-consciously. “Yes sir. I suppose it does.”

  “Did anyone come in yesterday asking about this fella?”

  “No, sir, but a few stop by just to look. Word’s got out about what you did.” He reached into his pocket. “And I’ve got the name of a man here who wants you to come out for his mare about ready to foal. Her first time, he said, and he wants you to look her over, make sure everything’s all right.”

  Clay palmed his eyes and the side of his face. There was no guaranteeing anything, as yesterday’s situation with Mrs. Eisner proved. “Tell me where he lives, and I’ll ride out there today after breakfast.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll have Duster ready when you get back from Bozeman’s.”

  Clay cocked his head at the boy. “What makes you think I’m goin’ to Bozeman’s?”

  With a sheepish look, John kicked at the dirt. “I didn’t figure you as someone who’d like the hotel’s food.”

  Clay slapped him on the shoulder. “You figured right. I’ll bring you some bear sign.”

  He perked right up. “Thank you, sir.”

  By the time Clay had checked on the horses and walked down the street, Hoss Bozeman was up to his elbows in customers. Clay took the nearest table, a full helping of steak and eggs, and a bag of bear sign back to the livery for John.

  Duster waited at the hitch rail, tacked up and ready to go, and he swiveled his ears at Clay’s approach. The stable doors were opened wide, both front and back, and daylight shot through the interior.

  John stood in front of the stallion’s stall, either talking to the horse or someone inside the stall with it. An uneasy feeling worked up Clay’s back and along his shoulders. He set the paper bag on a feed barrel and closed in on the conversation.

  The man was running a hand over the stallion’s injured leg.

  Clay’s hackles rose. “Don’t touch the horse.”

  Shoulders squared and tightened. “And you are …” The man’s tone and stance said he’d know who or what for.

  Clay checked his pocket for the poultice packet he’d brought, then flexed his hands. He didn’t go huntin’ fights, but he’d defend his work as well as the animal if it came to that.

  “I’m the one who stitched up the stallion and applied that poultice, and I’ll see that you don’t undo what I’ve done.”

  “Will you now.” Gravel edged the voice, and the man turned, hat brim low, shielding his eyes. He stepped through the stall door and thumbed his hat up.

  “And it’s a fine job you did, Clay. What do I owe you for saving my horse?”

  Chapter 8

  The dressing-table mirror in Sophie’s room told her to get back in bed and hide under the covers until her eyes looked normal. But that might never happen, so she splashed her face with tepid water from the washstand and did the best she could to make herself presentable.

  At the stairs, the aroma of frying bacon drew her stomach as tight as a reticule cord. Food was not what she needed. Hot coffee was.

  Maggie sat at the kitchen table sipping tea and attempting to spoon mush into George’s rosebud lips while Betsy prepared breakfast.

  The baby grinned a toothless welcome, dribbling his mush, and pounded the tray of his highchair. Sophie was helpless but to smile at him.

  Two hand-painted teacups waited upside down in their matching saucers.

  “Good morning, dear.” Maggie turned over the nearest cup and scooted it closer to the chair at her left. A flush brightened her cheeks, but Sophie suspected a rouge pot had something to do with it.

  Betsy glanced over her shoulder. “You’re just in time. Biscuits are almost done.”

  Sophie held up a hand that Betsy missed. “Coffee is all I need. If that’s a pot of it on the back of the stove, I’ll help myself.”

  Maggie shook her top-knotted head and approached George with another spoonful. “I’ll never understand you stout-hearted country women drinking coffee in the morning rather than tea.” She waived a frail hand. “But to each his own.”

  Sophie filled her cup and added sugar from a matched set at the table. “I’m glad to see you up this morning, Maggie. It looks as though Ge
orge is as well.”

  He screwed up his little face and expelled the previously introduced mush.

  Sophie laughed. “Give him a piece of bacon to suck on. I wouldn’t want mush either with that smell wafting right under my nose.”

  “I thought you said you weren’t hungry.” Betsy leaned across the table with a cooled slice for her son.

  “I’m not, but someone else is.”

  Halfway through breakfast, a particularly sober look settled on George’s face, and he turned beet red and grunted.

  “Oh no.” Betsy shoved from the table and snatched up her son. Hurried footsteps on the stairs drew laughter from both Sophie and Maggie, but Sophie’s was short-lived.

  Abigail Eisner was not enjoying such antics this morning, nor would she for quite some time. Sophie’d best be leaving to check on the poor woman. She scooted her chair back.

  Maggie stopped her with a touch and a look in her eye that said she knew what happened. Sophie needed sympathy like she needed a plateful of bacon in her traitorous stomach.

  “There is a two-sided coin in the Bible that I have always considered quite valuable, though at times difficult for me to hold.”

  So much for dreaded sympathy. True to her nature, Maggie had successfully garnered Sophie’s attention, for she could not imagine anything being difficult for the resolute Maggie Snowfield.

  “You are a bright young woman, Sophie, and gifted. As such, I am sure you have noticed that I’ve never mentioned children or grandchildren of my own.”

  Sophie’s throat constricted as tightly as her stomach, and she hid her hands in her lap.

  “I once had a son.”

  Sophie stared at the woman who seemed to age before her very eyes.

  “His little body lies in our family plot in Illinois.” One thin hand fluttered to Maggie’s bodice. “But he lives here. In my heart with his father.”

  Sophie couldn’t move. She couldn’t rise and run from the conversation, nor could she sit at the table upright without quaking with grief.

  Maggie’s eyes filled with tears, something Sophie had not witnessed before. “‘Weep with those who weep and rejoice with those who rejoice.’ That is the coin, my dear, and you are gifted with this treasure. It is one that women crave when they are at the peak or valley of their careers as mothers. Remember that when you visit Mrs. Eisner today. The gift is beyond price and will help soothe what cannot otherwise be soothed.”