A knock on the back door turned them both.
“Would you get that please, dear?” Maggie patted Sophie’s arm and then brushed at her own eyes.
Opening the door, Sophie faced the last two people she expected to see that morning.
“Come in, come in,” Maggie called from behind her.
Sophie pulled the door wider and stepped aside, at a complete loss for words. A malady she rarely suffered.
Cade Parker and Clay Ferguson doffed their hats and stood awkwardly by the door, filling the kitchen with their presence and diminishing its spaciousness.
“Coffee?” She managed the single word with as much effort as it took to keep her eyes off Clay and on Betsy’s brother.
“We’d be obliged, Miss Sophie. Maggie.” Cade Parker nodded politely to each of them.
Sophie removed the two teacups and saucers and searched the cupboard for mugs she’d seen earlier. Chair legs scraped the floor behind her as the men took their places at the table.
And a frightful cry from the second floor drew them all to their feet.
Sophie ran up the stairs and straight to the nursery, followed by Clay. Betsy was leaning over George’s crib, where he lay screaming.
“Oh, Sophie, he’s burning up.” Betsy attempted to lift him, but he screamed all the louder.
“Strip him down and I’ll get water and rags.” Sophie unbuttoned her sleeves and pushed them up. “We’ll give him a cooling bath.”
Clay was already down the stairs and in the kitchen when she got there, filling a pitcher with cold water from the tap.
She went through drawers for towels and rags, then lifted the warm tea kettle from the stove.
Clay took the kettle from her and she let him. Now was not the time to argue.
His long strides took him up the stairs ahead of her, but he waited for her to enter the room first.
Betsy had George stripped down, holding him against her chest.
Clay poured cold water into the washstand basin and added warmer water from the tea kettle.
Sophie spread a large towel on the crib bottom. “Let me have him,” she cooed as she took the feverish babe from Betsy’s arms. She laid him on his back on the towel and accepted wet rags as Clay soaked and squeezed them out. Without her saying a word, he knew what she intended to do.
Cade Parker assisted Maggie into the room, and she slipped an arm around Betsy’s waist.
Sophie draped George with a thin cloth and then another, amazed as always at the effect on the baby. Releasing a stuttered breath he looked up at her, his big green eyes pools of trust.
With his screaming stopped, he didn’t feel as feverish, and she gently ran the tip of her finger along his gums. He bit down hard and then whimpered.
Clay handed her another thin rag, and she twisted it into a soft knot and placed it over the baby’s gums. Immediately he started chewing and grabbed the cloth with his chubby hands.
Triumphantly, she smiled at Clay, who captured her with a look that left her as feverish as George had been and more than a little shaken.
~
Sophie’s eyes were puffy, and Clay could guess why. But in spite of that, she was prettier every time he saw her.
She dropped her gaze and turned to Betsy. “He’s still a bit warm, but I think he cried himself into that. He’s cutting a tooth. Comfort is what he needs right now.”
Her calm demeanor inspired confidence in everyone in the room, including Clay. He wasn’t close to being a medical doctor, but he’d learned about fevers in foals, and Sophie had headed in the same direction as his instincts for cooling the child.
They’d made a great team.
As that thought stampeded through his brain, he picked up the pitcher and kettle and made tracks downstairs.
Sophie wasn’t far behind him with a pile of wet rags and towels that she set in the sink. “Thank you for your help.”
“I’m glad I was here.” In more ways than one.
With her hands on the sink’s edge, she leaned against her braced arms and looked over her shoulder. “Why did you come?”
To see you. “To finish in the barn and get my vest. I left it here last night.”
She blushed and fingered the back of her hair—remembering, he hoped. The moment they’d shared had been one of empathy more than intimacy, but he had no regrets. “And Parker wants to talk to Betsy about the stallion.”
The change of subject brought her around. “So it is Cade’s horse. Betsy wondered when I told her, but when I said he hadn’t shown up to claim it, she thought perhaps …”
Apparently she’d said more than she intended and shifted her gaze to the stovetop.
He filled the empty space. “I saw you there. At the train station.”
She met his eyes then, but cautiously. “You handled that situation well.”
“Thanks to Deacon.”
That brought a smile to her lips in the lopsided way he remembered.
“The coffee has overcooked, but I can add a little water to it if you’d like a cup.”
“Suits me fine.” Nothing could be as bad as Bozeman’s brew this late in the morning.
Parker came in with Maggie on his arm, followed by Betsy and the baby. Clay pulled out his chair for Maggie.
“Thank you, dear. Would you please bring another from the dining room so we can all squeeze in here? If there’s one thing I like, it’s a full kitchen.”
He complied and kept the extra chair for himself, sitting back from the small square table. He had yet to understand why Maggie didn’t have a decent-size kitchen table. It wasn’t like she couldn’t afford it.
Sophie filled a mug and brought it to him before serving the others, but kept her beautiful eyes to herself.
Betsy settled George in his highchair, his pudgy fingers still gripping the knotted rag. “I’m so glad you were here, Sophie. I wouldn’t have known what to do otherwise.”
Sophie dodged the comment and busied herself at the stove.
“So what brings you men by this fine morning?” Maggie was in her element, and it flushed her cheeks. Clay hoped all the fuss wasn’t too much for her.
“I came to get my horse and heard quite a tale about its arrival,” Parker said.
“Why weren’t you there at the train station after what you had to pay for that stallion?” Betsy voiced everyone’s question but Clay’s. He wanted to know why it came without a handler, but he’d hold on to that for another time and place.
Parker rubbed the back of his neck and studied the tablecloth. “Mae Ann wasn’t her usual self that morning. I was afraid to leave her. Today she’s better, and I told Deacon to keep an ear to the door and ride for Travine Price if need be.” He cut a look at Sophie. “I’m hoping you’ll come out and stay for a while. I’ve got calves to brand and a trip to Denver, but with her time so near, I’m afraid to leave her alone.”
Sophie’s face blanched, and she swallowed so hard Clay could see the effort.
“I … can’t come … for a few days. I … have someone else I must see to first.”
She glanced at Maggie, who smiled in an odd way and slowly nodded her head.
“I need your help too, Clay.” Parker looked right at him. “You can hold things down at the ranch while Deacon and I sort and brand. Then I’ll be leaving for a couple weeks or more. Depends on how things go in Denver.”
Clay’s turn to swallow hard.
Parker stood and set his mug in the sink. “Thanks for the coffee.” He chucked George under the chin. “Tell your mama to come out to the ranch and take a look at Xavier.”
“Who?” Betsy’s voice pitched high enough to draw her son’s attention.
“The stallion. Not a name I’d pick, but that’s what his papers say. He’s good blood for the mares, and I think he’ll give Blanca a fine foal.”
He motioned for Clay to follow him out.
“Miss Maggie, thank you again. Sophie.” Hat in hand he paused at the door, addressing her. “I know you ha
ve other women who need your help, but as soon as you can come, I’d appreciate it if you’d stay with Mae Ann while I’m gone.”
On their way to the barn, Clay considered what Parker was asking, entrusting Sophie with his wife in his absence and Clay with the ranch. He found his vest where he’d left it, and met Parker standing beside his horse, one hand on his saddle horn as he looked across the seat to Clay.
“Will you do it?”
Clay stepped up and reined Duster around, facing one of the men who’d given him a hand when he needed it most. He reset his hat with a single nod.
Parker pulled a roll of bills from his pocket and held it out. “A month’s wages, plus what I owe you for Xavier. If the trip takes longer, I’m good for it. And keep track of anything extra you need for the stallion’s care. You’re in charge.” He mounted and held his horse in check. “You’ll bunk in Deacon’s cabin. If you can be at the ranch by tomorrow, you can help us bring in the saddle horses the next day.”
Clay didn’t know how he’d do it—start a business, hunt a place of his own, and look after the Parker ranch for a month—but he’d do it. And Sophie Price living on the same spread takin’ care of Mae Ann didn’t hurt his outlook any.
They headed for the livery, where Parker took possession of a horse called Xavier and Clay settled with Erik. After the maiden mare call, he’d come back to Maggie’s and finish what she needed.
On his way out of town, he stopped by the mercantile for dried beans and coffee in case he’d be cooking for himself. He also bought a few tins of peaches and a sack of barrel crackers, and since Miss Sarah wasn’t working, he made it out of the store unscathed.
But his neck and shoulders knotted as he approached the hotel, where an old mare waited at the rail, a satchel tied to her saddle. He stepped down and laid rein, standing between the horses, clearing his head and flexing his hands. No reason to go in half-cocked, not seeing things as they really were.
And he sure enough needed to see what Sophie Price was doing at the Olin Springs Hotel.
Chapter 9
“No, thank you. I did not come for brunch or anything else from your restaurant.”
Sophie’s already taut nerves stretched even further at the offended look on the desk clerk’s face.
“I came simply to leave a message for Mr. Thatcher.”
“Excellent!”
Her tightest nerve twanged at the hotelier’s appraisal ringing from the staircase he casually descended.
“Ah, Miss Price. I see that you have finally agreed to let me show you Olin Springs’ finest.” He offered his arm expectantly.
She did not take it.
He was so bold as to reach for hers, and she stepped back, astounded by the man’s audacity.
“I believe the lady has other plans.”
At the deep voice from behind, her knees weakened with relief, and she fought to hold her position.
Mr. Thatcher’s features hardened to stone, then quickly veiled with an ingratiating smile. “Mr. Ferguson, I believe. Am I correct? How may I assist you this fine morning?”
Clay stood beside her, and she drew strength merely from his presence, something she’d never experienced with anyone and for which she had no explanation.
“I’ll be checking out today.”
Thatcher’s expression brightened. “I see. You may take that up with my assistant here who will prepare your bill for you.”
“You mean refund. I paid in advance for a week.”
The muscle in Mr. Thatcher’s jaw flexed. “As you wish.”
“But we don’t give re—”
Thatcher’s brusque turn startled the clerk. “See to Mr. Ferguson’s request.” With a tilted nod to Sophie, he added, “Another time, then, Miss Price.”
“I came to let you know the Eisners will not need your assistance with stair railing.”
A light snapped in his eyes as if he’d found a chink in an opponent’s armor. “How unfortunate that you lost their child.” He shook his head, tsking.
Clay took a step forward.
Sophie grabbed his arm, hard as steel above his clenched fist. “How unfortunate that you believed misinformation, Mr. Thatcher.”
The man visibly bristled at her rebuke.
Clay rested his hand at the back of her waist and addressed the clerk, whose mouth hung open like a carriage door. “I’ll be back for my refund.” Then he gave Thatcher a cold stare and with the lightest pressure, urged her toward the door.
Once on the boardwalk, Sophie rushed to the hitch rail and braced herself, shaking with fury over Clarence Thatcher’s callous remark.
She dragged in as much fresh air as her lungs would hold. “You have an uncanny sense of timing.”
Clay moved in, shielding her, his hand on her shoulder. “He had no right to say that to you.”
Deep, yet soft as a baby’s breath, his voice warmed her as much as his touch, seeping through the fabric of her dress, her skin, and slipping into her veins.
For the briefest moment she relished the idea of a man like Clay Ferguson in her life. A man of strength, character, and compassion.
Loosing the mare’s reins, she moved from his protective stance and around to her horse, facing him with the hitch rail between them. Earnest eyes met hers, as blue as the sky, yet capable of icing into steely gray when focused on an enemy. He was not looking at an enemy now.
“I’ll see you home if you want me to.”
Oh, how she wanted him to. His manner, his tone made her want it very much, but she shook her head. “I suspect you have other things to do, like collecting your refund.” She attempted a smile.
He returned it, his glance flitting to the left side of her mouth and back to her eyes.
Inwardly, she cringed, recoiling from such pointed notice, and stepped to the saddle. “I’m not leaving for a few days, and then only if Abigail Eisner is doing well. But I appreciate your offer.”
She turned the mare toward the north end of town and the tailor shop. Some things she needed to do alone. Grieving with Abigail was one.
Grieving over a scar she couldn’t hide was another.
~
Since it was a business day, she tied the mare on Main Street and entered the shop’s front door, satchel in hand. No call had ever been harder, but she kept running Maggie’s words through her mind—weep with those who weep. Clearly, that would not be hard to do.
Hiram came from the back, older than he’d appeared yesterday. He had difficulty meeting her eyes.
“Mr. Eisner, I’m here to check on Abigail. She is still in need of care …”
He turned away before she finished and indicated that she precede him. At least he hadn’t chased her off.
Taking to the treacherous stairs, she clutched her satchel with one hand and trailed the other along the unforgiving wall, breathing easier once she stepped into the couple’s apartment.
Abigail appeared to be sleeping, but as Sophie approached the bed, the young woman turned a tear-ravaged face to her, eyes swollen and red, yet she was smiling.
Smiling? How could that be?
Sophie pulled a spindle-backed chair close, set down her satchel, and reached for the limp hand Abigail held out to her.
“I hoped you would come.” Tears welled, her voice coarse and broken from crying.
“There are still things for you to be aware of, and I want to help you in your recovery in every way that I can.”
A slight pressure on her fingers had power to break Sophie in two.
“You have been with me in my grief, as has Hiram, though his wound may take longer to heal than mine. Not that I love our son any less than he does, but I have found comfort in the words of a very wise man.”
Had Doc Weaver returned this morning? Regardless, Sophie could not imagine anyone bringing comfort to this poor woman other than God Himself.
Abigail’s eyes closed and her hand relaxed. Sophie thought she had drifted into a healing sleep, but in moments, they opened.
“I know your Bible has some of the writings favored by people of our faith. One is called Job.”
Sophie was not very familiar with the Old Testament book, but she opened her heart to hear what Abigail wanted to share.
“‘The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away.’” Tears quivered at Abigail’s lashes. “‘Blessed be the name of the Lord.’”
“Blessed be His name.” Hiram’s hushed tone drifted across the room.
Sophie let her own tears fall as she held Abigail’s hand, unsure as to whether God had taken the baby and more inclined to believe He had received it. However, the words rang with the same mystery that Doc Weaver had mentioned. Yet she hesitated to tell Abigail there would be other children, especially when the wound was so fresh. How did she know? How could she or Doc Weaver himself make such a promise? They didn’t know the future.
But you know Me.
Sophie stilled at the unspoken words, then glanced behind her, finding only Hiram in another spindle-backed chair at a small table, head in his hands.
Oddly soothed by the voice, she spent the next half hour with Abigail, listening to her talk about her life and dreams. Then she told her what to expect in the following days and left her with a packet of elderberry as well as willow bark tea and instructions for brewing them. She felt no childbed fever in Abigail’s brow or body, but things could shift suddenly, and the next few days were critical.
“The willow helps with pain and tenderness, and elderberry fights fever. But should you have any difficulties this evening, send Hiram to the Snowfield home on Saddle Blossom Lane. I’m staying there for a day or so.”
After promising to return the next morning, she bid them both goodbye and saw herself out.
Grateful she’d ridden the short distance to town rather than walked, she rode north past the church and the library, out where the meadowlarks sang and the sun warmed the grass and wildflowers. Out where no one but God would hear her cry.
An Impossible Price: Front Range Brides - Book 3 Page 7