She stared at the derrick. Was it making that noise?
Again the tapping started, and it drew her ear and eye to Deacon’s cabin.
Clay knelt atop a lean-to that very much leaned to the cabin, nailing shingles onto the roof. Rhythmically he hammered, three taps followed by a pause each time he reached for another shingle. A pouch at his side held nails, she guessed, and he worked as if he’d been a carpenter all his life.
Folding her arms, she leaned against the door frame, assessing his measured movements and unwasted effort. He could certainly have made a handrail for the Eisner’s apartment, and would not have boasted about it like a certain hotelier. Sophie might hire Clay for the job herself, just to see that it was done and done right.
Was there anything he didn’t do?
She eased the door closed and returned to the kitchen, where she moved the tea kettle to the hottest spot and retrieved the honey crock from the pantry. It’d be easy enough to sweeten a starter cup of strong tea, then add cold water from the pump. A cool drink while working in the sun was the least she could do for a man Mae Ann considered so considerate.
A smile tugged at the phrasing.
Another batch of oat cookies wouldn’t hurt either. If she couldn’t find currants or raisins, she’d dip a spoon of preserves into the middle of each mound.
Within the hour, she had sweet tea in a tin pitcher, warm cookies in her apron pocket, and a roast in the back of the oven. Armed with the tea and a tin cup, she went out the back door and around the end of the house.
Tap, tap, tap.
Clay’s back was to her, shirtless in the sun where he knelt on one knee atop the low roof. Closing in on him, she slowed her steps, hesitant to simply appear unannounced before a man half-dressed. Not that he was doing anything improper, for the sun bore down with a summer-like insistence, casting irregular marks across his back. Odd, since no trees shaded the cabin.
He stood then and flexed his neck and shoulders, a sheen of sweat defining the stature he’d gained. The muscled strength. The long whip-like scars that ran old and puckered from his right shoulder to the opposite hip.
Cold shock held her in place and her lungs froze on a gasp.
He turned.
~
Some things couldn’t be erased. Hopefully, the horror on Sophie’s face wasn’t one of them.
Clay snatched up his shirt and pulled it on, bothered not so much by what she’d seen as her reaction to it. He jumped the short distance to the ground.
Stone-like, she held a pitcher in one hand, a tin cup in the other, her mouth uncharacteristically ajar.
He buttoned his shirt. “I didn’t hear you coming.”
Her jaw clapped shut and expressive eyes roamed his face as if seeing him for the first time. Sorrow, wonder, curiosity all played in them, though not the one thing he hated most—pity.
“I—I should have called out. Let you know I had something for you.” She raised the cup and pitcher as if they were prizes, but her expression didn’t fit the gesture.
He took the cup from her and held it while she poured dark tea. What could he say? Please excuse my brand?
The cool sweetness refreshed him, and he downed it all at once. “How’d you know that was exactly what I needed? It’s hot up there.”
She gathered herself a little more and refilled his cup. Again he drank it all, while she watched him like he might do something unexpected.
He offered a smile. “One more, if you don’t mind.”
She poured with one hand and reached into her apron pocket with the other. “Dinner will be late, so I thought you might enjoy something to tide you over until then.”
Three cookies covered her upturned palm.
As he took them, his fingers brushed her skin. Warm and smooth and full of caring.
“This will hit the spot.” He raised one in a mock toast, then bit into it. Warm and soft, like its baker.
“Are these what you rushed out to Deacon this morning?” Not that it was any of his business, but he had to say something, the way she was looking at him, other than what he knew she wanted him to say.
A near laugh escaped, but not from her eyes. “Whether he shares with the others is up to him, but at least they’ll keep him happy while he’s driving.”
A step took her back, farther away. “I can bring more if you’d like.”
He’d like, but she had her own work to do.
“Well, I best be getting inside. Um, keep an eye on Willy, you know. And Mae Ann.”
He nodded, holding her eyes with his, wishing she wouldn’t go so soon. “How’s your hand?”
Puzzlement flashed before she remembered and switched the pitcher to her left hand. “It doesn’t hurt at all.” She flexed her fingers. “But I should probably change the dressing. It’s gotten dirty just working in the kitchen.” Another step back, yet still she faced him, opening an invisible door. Waiting.
“I appreciate you thinking of me.” He had a lot more to say, but now wasn’t the time. Not with the question filling her eyes that he couldn’t answer.
“Of course. I mean …” Her brows tucked together and she fumbled with her apron.
He’d never seen her so unsure of herself. So distracted.
“All right, then. Roast for dinner. And potatoes.” Another backward step.
“And more sweet tea?”
“Um, yes. Of course. Tea.” At that, she turned and walked to the end of the ranch house rather than going in the front door, and at the corner hitched her skirt and ran out of view.
He would never understand women. But it didn’t matter, as long as one in particular was somewhere close.
~
Flattened against the back door, Sophie clutched the cold pitcher against her middle and stared up at the hill behind the house. A regal pine spread its arms protectively over two grave markers. Based on the hammering of her heart and head, she might not be far off from that state herself.
Who had done such a horrible thing to Clay? And when? Where? Why? Questions bunched like cattle before a storm, but she had no right to ask them. No wonder he’d never mentioned his past.
She fingered the scar at her mouth, instantly hearing the snap of wood, her father’s cry, and the sound of his body hitting the ground where she’d been standing. She squeezed her eyes shut against the image of his twisted form, yet still she saw his eyes open in death and the crushed bucket beneath her. Milk pooled on the ground near her head, bright red spots marring its purity. A sting at her mouth had drawn her fingers, and when she lowered her hand, it was covered with blood.
Mama held her tight as a cradle board while Doc Weaver stitched her mouth. And the wagon bed held Papa’s body while they took him to the undertaker. All the stitches in the world would not bring him back to her or mend her ten-year-old heart.
She’d borne both scars more than half her life, but in light of Clay’s scars so much worse than her own, she cringed. Mama had warned her about comparing herself to others and, as was usually the case, Mama was right. There would always be someone with more or less than she. More skill or less. More insight or less. More pain or less.
Comparison is futile and self-defeating, Mama had said. Focus instead on what God has blessed you with.
Sophie blew out a breath and rubbed the back of her hand across her eyes. Enough reminiscing. She seldom went to that place in her memories for just this reason. It always left her spent and worn.
Opening the back door into the kitchen, she heard a loud thud and set the pitcher on the table. Another thud, and she ran for the stairs.
~
Sophie forgot the cup. Clay debated whether to take it to the house or wait until she called for dinner. He never wavered over such simple decisions and, in fact, didn’t qualify them as decisions. More like reactions. What made sense. The shortest distance between two points.
And yet …
He tipped the cup to catch the last drop in his mouth and headed for the house.
; Stomping his boots on the stones out front, he held the door open, giving Sophie a chance to hear him coming. Then he stepped inside, listening for pots and pans, chairs scraping the floor. A broom. Dishes being washed.
Nothing.
“Sophie?” His pulse picked up and he walked around the dividing wall into the kitchen. Roasting beef tainted the air and the tea pitcher sat on the table, dripping a ring of moisture onto the wood. The back door stood open. He checked the porch and yard but found no one.
Mae Ann.
He took the stairs two at a time.
Chapter 12
Sophie forced a calm she wasn’t feeling into her voice. “Wait. Don’t push yet. Let me see how far along you are.”
“I—am—wait—ing!” Mae Ann hissed through clenched teeth.
Willy sat on the floor near a knocked-over chair, a pout quivering his bottom lip. Never had Sophie felt so unprepared. She could not deliver a baby and watch a lively three-year-old at the same time. What had she been thinking?
How could she get Clay’s attention—throw her shoe through the window? And thereby teach Willy that such behavior was acceptable?
With a towel from the washstand, she bathed Mae Ann’s neck and arms. In less than two minutes, her face reddened, her breathing stopped, and she went rigid.
“Breathe, honey. You must breathe.”
Mae Ann’s rock-hard belly eventually eased beneath Sophie’s touch, and she fell back on the pillows, gasping for breath.
Heavy steps charged up the stairs, and a man’s arms snatched Willy from the threshold.
“Oh, Clay, thank God. Please—bring my satchel from the room at the end of the landing. And a pitcher of cool water as well as a kettle of hot. And all the towels you can find.”
He delivered livestock, for heaven’s sake.
He understood, she told herself.
His mere presence in the house somehow encouraged her. And he had Willy.
In less than a minute, he set her satchel in the room and gave it a shove across the floor, then hurried down the stairs. God bless him. Yes, God bless him and Mae Ann as well. It was all Sophie could do to keep images of the Eisners from invading the moment.
“You’re doing just fine.” She pushed damp hair from Mae Ann’s brow and reached deep for that peaceful river Pastor Bittman had talked about last Sunday. Lord, she needed a gushing spring flood.
Lifting Mae Ann’s skirt and petticoat, she discovered things much farther along than she’d expected this soon. She discarded stockings and everything else except the loose-fitting house dress and draped the skirt protectively over Mae Ann in case Clay returned.
He’d better return. This baby was coming today.
She patted Mae Ann’s arm. “You’re little one must be eager to get here and see the world.”
Clay charged in with pitchers, towels, and Willy, and set everything except the boy within Sophie’s reach. With a reassuring hand atop Sophie’s shoulder, he left as quickly.
She was beginning to cherish that gesture.
Mae Ann pulled up again. Sophie went to the foot of the bed and checked once more, then offered her hands.
“All right, you can push on the next contraction. Take hold. I’ve got you.”
Again and again, they repeated the steps. Sunlight shifted on the floor, time inching by and Mae Ann’s grip growing weaker with each contraction.
God, help her. Help me. This is Your plan—life, the way You have set things in order. Bring life. Please, bring rejoicing, not weeping.
Mae Ann’s grip suddenly clamped vise-like onto Sophie’s fingers and she pulled as if to dislocate arms from shoulders.
Another clenching squeeze and screaming groan, and the baby swished out onto the bed.
Sophie broke from Mae Ann’s grasp, her fingers near numb. Quickly, she cleared the infant’s mouth and held it by its heels for a slap to its tiny wet bottom.
No response.
Oh, God—please.
With prayer racing as fast as her heart, she repeated the process until a startled gasp ushered breath into newborn lungs.
Sophie held her own until the most beautiful sound in all the world broke through—a baby’s first cry. The spring flood she’d prayer for swelled from her own heart and ran down her cheeks. Life—precious life. No moment lived on earth was better than this.
With two narrow strips from her satchel, she tied off the cord, then swaddled the babe in a clean towel. Mae Ann had fallen against the pillows in utter exhaustion, eyes closed, chest heaving.
“You have a little girl.” Sophie leaned close, watching Mae Ann’s face, praying she was conscious and able to hold her child.
Her eyes fluttered, and Sophie laid the babe against its mother’s breast.
“The Lord has blessed you again with the fruit of the womb—His reward.”
Mae Anne’s tears mingled with sweat as she kissed her daughter’s soppy hair.
Sophie’s tears continued to fall as they always did at the miracle of birth. And this one truly had been a miracle, the timing so unexpected. Everyone, Doc Weaver included, thought at least a week remained. But this sweet little girl had other ideas.
Sophie’s arms and heart ached anew, not only for herself this time, but for the Eisners as well.
“Do you need anything?”
Clay’s voice came from the hallway, calm and deep. Strong and comforting like his hand on her shoulder.
“I’m about to cut the cord.”
“How?”
How? The way she always did. “With scissors from my satchel.”
“Wait. Please—I’ll be right back.”
Somewhat irritated by his request, she followed his uneven but hurried descent of the stairs, the banging swing of the front door, and through the window, his dash to the cabin without Willy, who must be downstairs.
In less than a breath, he was back, running through the great room, then bounding up the stairs. “May I come in?”
She threw an extra quilt over Mae Ann who nodded her consent.
“All right.”
Sheepishly he entered with Willy, a giant holding a child’s hand, and turned his gaze away as he held out a rolled leather pouch. “You’ll find an exceptionally sharp scalpel and a small bottle of carbolic acid. Hold the scalpel over a towel and pour the acid on both sides of the blade. Don’t dry it off or touch anything with it before you cut the cord.”
She took the pouch, found the short, pointed knife and bottle, and hesitated.
“The acid will purify the blade and reduce the risk of infection.” He paused, softened his voice. “Trust me.”
Had Clay learned this at veterinary school? She’d never heard of such a thing. Pain was not a factor in the procedure, but the precaution was new to her. Steeling herself, she unwrapped the babe, uncapped the bottle, and poured the sweet-smelling liquid over the scalpel.
Trust Me, another voice whispered in her heart.
The cord cut easier than any had before.
Boot steps left the room.
“Clay?”
They paused outside the door.
She wanted to say more than thank you. She wanted to fling her arms around him and shelter against his solid chest. “Would you please take the roast out of the oven?”
“Mama?” Willy’s little voice called pleadingly.
Sophie went to the door. “Will you wait while I take him to her for just a moment?”
At Clay’s consent, Sophie led him to his mama’s bedside, too weary to carry the boy.
“I love you, Willy.” Mae Ann’s whisper drew her son’s eyes, so like her own. He looked from her to his sister and back again. “A baby.”
“That’s right, sweetheart. We love her too.”
Bursting inside and fighting to contain it, Sophie leaned toward Willy. “Let’s go now so Mama can rest. Would you like a cookie?”
“Yes, and tea, pease.”
Sophie’s heart squeezed anew, and she led Willy back to the door, where Clay w
aited tall and powerful and protective.
He lifted Willy with a hidden tickle that drew a little-boy laugh. But his eyes held so much more than she had seen there before, and she laid her hand on his arm that encircled the child. He covered it with his own and gave a light squeeze before turning for the stairs.
Feeling as worn as Mae Ann looked, Sophie washed the baby while Mae Ann napped, then gently laid her in her mother’s arms. “Time for dinner, little lady.”
Mae Ann opened tired but smiling eyes and held her daughter close. “Thank you,” she said, “for being here again.”
~
Clay pulled a lidded kettle from the oven. A peek inside revealed a dry roast, but the aroma filled the kitchen and his brain with promise of a meal better than he could make.
“Let’s go for a ride.” He handed Willy a cookie, took one for himself, and went out the back door. Sophie wouldn’t be down for a while, and he had a three-year-old to entertain.
He set the boy in the saddle, then swung up and lifted him to his lap. They climbed the gentle slope to the knoll that overlooked the ranch, Willy laughing at the yellow dog running ahead, flushing rabbits out of the brush. Clay figured the little fella had ridden with Parker, the way he sat easy, hands on the saddle swells. Born to it.
The play of light across the land made it all look different than it did at sunrise. Fewer shadows, greener. Snowy peaks sharper cut against blue sky. Scrub oak huddled beneath an outcrop of red sandstone, and the dog bellied in under an arched branch, sniffing and snuffling. Clay drew rein at the top, taking in the wide sweep of high park between two cedar-covered ridges. Jays squawked, and a fly chased itself around Duster’s flicking ears.
“Someday this will all be yours, Willy. Your papa’s land. Your inheritance.” Clay looped an arm around the boy, who had no way of knowing how good he had it.
Memories shrouded the sun, dimming the view …
A boot swipe cut Clay’s legs out from under him and sent him face down. “You killed her, you no-account dirt-licker.”
An Impossible Price: Front Range Brides - Book 3 Page 10