His eyes never left her, and her skin stung. Her lungs tightened. “I’ll send Pen back with Todd tomorrow.”
His brow pinched in question.
She leaned over and patted the gelding’s neck. “I call him Pen. But you can call him whatever you want now.”
“No.” The word came harshly, and his horse stepped forward until they were close enough that his knee brushed her skirt. “He’s a gift. I gave him to you.”
Her heart was shattering. She had nothing left to say, but she refused to cry in front of him. Lifting the reins, she touched her heels to Pen and he responded quickly, so much more quickly than her old mare.
They loped along the creek, and taking her bearings from the windmill, tiny and frail-looking in the distance, she cut across the grassland. Her heart was only slightly heavier than her satchel tied to the saddle, for she’d left most of it in pieces at the knoll.
She drew up before she reached the barnyard and sat looking at the old house. Deacon would probably spruce things up if Mama asked him. He seemed to think the sun rose and set in her smile.
Tears charged and Sophie squinted against them. She’d not go home to her mother weeping over her own tattered emotions. She’d not rob her of the happiness that had finally come her way.
She walked Pen to the barn, where she unsaddled him and turned him out with Todd’s horse. Clay was right about one thing. She wouldn’t send Todd with Pen to the ranch tomorrow. She’d wait until after the wedding.
The hum of Mama’s treadle sewing machine greeted Sophie when she walked in the back door, and she followed it into the parlor.
“Sophie!”
Her mother opened her arms in welcome, and Sophie stepped into them like a lost child.
“I’m so glad you’re home.”
“I couldn’t stay away, Mama.” She knelt on the floor beside the chair. “I couldn’t miss helping you get ready for your wedding day.”
“Oh, that.” Her mother’s face broke into her spring-robin look, and her cheeks flushed to match the dress lying across her lap.
“What a lovely color. It suits you.”
Mama hadn’t had a new dress in ages.
“I’m just reinforcing the waist and cuffs, then I’ll add a little lace at the neck.” She looked at Sophie, her brows knitted. “You don’t think that’s too much, do you? This isn’t some big fancy affair, just a simple exchange of vows. I don’t want to be pretentious.”
“Mama. You’re getting married, for heaven’s sake. The bride has every right in the world to be beautiful.” Laying a hand against her mother’s weathered cheek, she smiled. “Has Deacon not told you how beautiful you are?”
At that, her mother blushed deeper. “He said I’m pretty as a filly in a flower garden.”
“High praise, coming from that cowboy.”
They laughed and chattered like close friends rather than mother and daughter, and Sophie convinced her to put on the dress and parade through the parlor. Then Shopie did her hair up, trying different styles and promising to weave wildflowers through it Sunday morning.
When Todd didn’t come in for dinner or supper, Sophie became concerned.
“He’s staying at Deacon’s cabin so I can get ready and have a few days to myself.”
Laughing, Sophie took up an apron. “That’s more consideration than you’ve had in years, I dare say. Sit there at the table and attach that lace you want. I’ll fix supper.”
In the next few days, Sophie helped her mother wash and prepare her clothes, press her wedding dress, and give the house a good spring cleaning—a lot to do in little time. But Mama and Deacon had no reason to wait. They’d known each other for years and were well-suited. They were not youngsters, and companionship would soften the approach of their later years.
Life would be much the same around the farm, since Deacon was there most of the time anyway, but things would be very different for Cade and Mae Ann. Deacon had been more family than employee, nearly a surrogate grandfather. What would Cade do without him, and who would ever be able to fill his shoes? Or boots, as the case may be.
One person came quickly to mind, but he’d recently bought his own place and would be even farther away now.
On Sunday, Sophie was up at dawn cutting flowers from the garden and those that grew wild along the fences. She kept thoughts and questions of Clay to herself. It was Mama’s day, and she’d not detract from that.
While she did up her mother’s gray-streaked hair, they ate biscuits with butter and honey and drank more coffee than anyone should be allowed. But jitters were jitters, and sipping hot coffee was better than stewing the morning away until they set out for town.
Bittersweet her mama’s marriage and bittersweet her fondness for Pen as she tied him to the back of the farm wagon. She needed him for just a little while longer. With Cade Parker’s generous gift, she could get a horse from Erik at the livery. And maybe he would let her leave Pen there until Clay picked him up.
“Deacon told me about what happened to the mare, poor old girl.” Mama climbed up to the seat. “Are you borrowing this handsome fellow from the Parkers?”
Sorrow crawled into her heart and curled up in a corner. “He’s an early birthday gift from Clay.”
Mama’s quick glance said a mouthful, but Sophie managed to keep conversation off herself and on the pending event.
The day was as bright and clear as Sophie’s hopes for her mother. Todd and Deacon met them at the church, Deacon in a clean starched shirt, string tie, and a smile that stretched his mustache from ear to ear. The shirt bore a crease pressed into each sleeve—Mama’s signature touch.
He handed Mama down, and Sophie drove the wagon around back, where Betsy and Maggie Snowfield waited with garlands of spring flowers and slender branches from Maggie’s apple trees. Sophie joined them, too distracted to sit through the sermon anyway.
“Here,” Betsy said. “Hold this while I wrap the back of the seat.” She handed Sophie one end of the garland. “Can you stay over tonight? We haven’t visited in ages, and now would be the perfect opportunity.”
“I concur,” Maggie said. She laid more garland along the top of the tailgate, eyes sparkling with conspiracy. “Or you could stay two days. All week?”
As spry as she used to be, the woman seemed to thrive on social activity and get-togethers.
“I might take you up on that, Maggie,” Sophie said. “I’d feel rather uncomfortable at the farm with Mama and Deacon newly married and all. They should have some time to themselves.”
Which was exactly the reason she had brought Pen. Being the spinster daughter was bad enough without being a tag-along too.
When they finished with the wagon, they slipped inside and squeezed together in the back pew. Pastor Bittman was preaching from the Sermon on the Mount, reminding folks how God sent sunshine and rain on both the evil and the good, and how people should love their enemies.
The closest thing Sophie had to an enemy was Clarence Thatcher. She shuddered, drawing Betsy’s glance in their cramped seating. Enemy or no, Sophie could not fit Mr. Thatcher in the same sentence with the word love. Clay, on the other hand, fit as neatly as the riding gloves he’d given her.
Oh, Lord, what a fix her heart was in.
~
Mama had hoped everyone would leave as they usually did after the service and not make a big fuss, but that wasn’t to be. Everyone stayed.
At the back of the chapel, Sophie took her mother’s hands in both of hers. “I love you, Mama,” she whispered. Her mother’s true beauty shone from the inside out and filled Sophie with pride as well as hope that she would someday bear the same inward loveliness. “You are a beautiful bride.”
Her mother’s grip tightened, and she swiped at her eyes.
“The Lord has someone for you too, Sophie. Never doubt it. We may not understand His timing, but we can count on His faithfulness to give us what we need if we wait for Him.”
Sophie had heard the sentiment all her life
, more frequently after her father passed than before. And though it stung to admit it, she knew that the Lord’s answer might not necessarily be a husband.
Pastor Bittman honored Mama’s request with a brief and quiet ceremony, hardly a ceremony at all. Sophie stood beside her mother and Cade beside Deacon as they repeated their vows. After a sweet kiss and embrace, Mama and Deacon waited as congregants went outside where the Women’s Society had sweet punch and lemon cake set up under a tree. The ladies were determined, it appeared, to not miss out on any opportunity to celebrate. Weddings were not an everyday occurrence, and the more reasons for celebration, the better.
Sophie helped herself to cake and looked for Clay, disappointed that he hadn’t come. She forked off a corner bite and glanced up in time to see Mrs. Fairfax working her way through the crowd. Hoping to escape the woman’s regard, Sophie turned quickly—right into Clarence Thatcher, sloshing his punch against his green brocade waistcoat.
“Oh! I am so sorry.” Instinctively, she pressed her napkin against the spill. He leaned into her efforts, so close that she detected alcohol on his breath.
She took a step back, mortified. “My apologies.” Betrayed by the heat climbing her cheeks, she cringed at his probable misreading of her embarrassment for feminine ardor.
“My dear Miss Price, do not bother your pretty head.” His voice slid around her like a snake through grass. “I have other attire.” With glimmering eyes, he boldly considered her dress and hair, leaving her with the same slithering sensation. “You look absolutely ravishing today.”
She coughed at the bite of lemon cake stuck halfway down her throat.
He took her elbow and steered her toward a shade tree. “Wait here while I get you a glass of punch. I had my chef create it especially for this occasion, and I am sure you will be delighted.”
She was sure she was going to be sick. How dare he even speak to her after his cruel remark at the hotel. And how clumsy of her to bump into him and then appear remorseful. Lord help her, Clay would not be coming to her rescue this time.
“Miss Price.” The widow Fairfax appeared as if by divine appointment. Sophie nearly kissed her. “What a lovely bride your mother makes.” An eyebrow raised. “Even if she is beyond marrying age.”
From the corner of her eye, Sophie saw Mr. Thatcher returning with the promised punch. She linked her arm with Mrs. Fairfax and made a sharp turn.
“Thank you for showing Mr. Ferguson and me your property the other day. It is a lovely place that you have kept in good repair. I do hope you will enjoy your new home with your daughter as much as you did the one here.”
The woman leaned into Sophie’s blatant flattery, though the wish for her future happiness in Denver was sincere. Patting Sophie’s arm with a gloved hand, she whispered, “And I hope you and Mr. Ferguson will be as happy there as my Albert and I were.”
~
Clay had dropped rein on the south side of the church and taken up position at the back of the sanctuary. He picked out Deacon and Travine, Garrett, the Reynolds and their daughter Sarah. Sophie, Betsy, and Maggie sat in the last pew, but they hadn’t heard him slip in. Every seat in the place was filled. Either word had gotten out about the wedding, or Pastor Bittman had honed his skills in the last few weeks.
“The Lord tells us to love our enemies,” Bittman said. “That’s not so easy.”
Clay’s left knee throbbed. Fine sermon topic for a wedding day.
Words jumped at him from the pulpit—“those who hate us … spitefully use us … persecute us.”
The skin on his back twitched, and he straightened from the wall.
“Why should we love our enemies?” the preacher asked.
Good question. Clay’s recent revelation of God’s love had been a comfort. But this?
“So we may be sons of our Father … ”
That’s asking too much.
He escaped through the open door, lungs screaming for air. He squeezed his shoulders and flexed his neck, twisting out a tight kink.
You’re nothing but dirt. Just like your name—dirt!
The taunt snapped against him, rope on raw skin, and he balled his fists, fighting a vengeful impulse. He’d never raised his hand to the man who beat him, but he’d finally left—days before he’d ridden into Olin Springs four years ago.
He made the cottonwood tree at the fence and fell against the rough bark, temples throbbing with his heartbeat.
Sons of our father.
He’d spent most of his life aiming for the opposite. How could Bittman preach something he didn’t know anything about? There had been no father. No pa, no one to teach him what a man did—other than drink and hate, curse and kick.
Music filtered through the haze of pain, and someone called his name.
He came round with a fury that set the girl on her heels. Sarah Reynolds. He shook his head, trying to clear the fog, and wiped a hand across his face, drawing sweat in his palm. “Beg pardon, miss.”
“I—I wanted to ask you a question about Filbert.”
He shifted his weight to both feet, squared himself. “Filbert?”
“Yes. My new puppy.” She took a step back. “I was going to ask if you might look at him and tell me if you think he is doing well.”
Uncertainty stained her features as well as her tone. “But I can see that you are otherwise detained, so—good-day.” In a swish of skirts, she joined her parents, glancing nervously over her shoulder as people filed out of the church.
Several men headed for him. Farmers and ranchers who plied questions about their livestock. The talk brought him up from a dark pit and back to daylight. Back to purpose and direction. Not until one of them mentioned food did he realize he’d missed the wedding.
The others paired off with their wives and closed in on a table spread with cake and punch. Everyone had stayed for the nuptials, even the widow Fairfax, who was dabbing her eyes with a hanky.
He searched for Sophie and found her talking to Clarence Thatcher.
Suddenly, he wasn’t hungry. His hands balled into fists again.
Thatcher took her by the elbow and steered her—without resistance—toward a bench in the shade.
Blood pounded in Clay’s temples. His breakfast threatened to make an appearance. He cut around the side of the church, grabbed his reins, and swung up. Main Street was empty, and he buried his heels in Duster’s sides.
Chapter 22
Clay had failed to show up for her mother’s wedding.
How could he? Clarence Thatcher was there, of all people, and she still cringed at the memory of his touch.
And then Mrs. Fairfax’s comment about Sophie’s future happiness with Mr. Ferguson. That hadn’t helped at all.
Pen waited drowsily where she’d left him, and after every remnant of the wedding was gathered and put away or taken home by church matrons, she rode to Maggie Snowfield’s.
Clay’s absence weighed down the selfish side of her heart’s remains. The side that fought jealousy. Lord help her, how could she be jealous of her mother’s happiness? Yet without Clay there, she felt twice the loneliness.
She slipped in the back door of Maggie’s kitchen like an intruder. No one greeted her other than the tell-tale fragrance of lemon cake baked earlier that morning. Regretfully, it brought Clarence Thatcher to mind. She might never eat lemon cake again.
Maggie was likely resting. Betsy and George too. Heaven only knew where Garrett was, for his dog wasn’t tied to the garden bench.
She’d been invited to stay, she reminded herself, yet she felt she didn’t belong. Nor did she belong at the farm. Though Deacon had spent at least half of his time there, it would now be his home with Mama as his wife. Everything would be different, she the outsider. The unwanted party in the home of a newly wedded couple.
She felt ill.
As quietly as possible, she took the stairs to the room she’d last occupied and eased the door closed behind her. She pushed the curtains aside, and late afternoon light c
ut through and into her eyes.
Of course Clay hadn’t come to the wedding. Not after what she’d said the evening before. Unless he’d been called away.
She straightened, a sliver of relief darting in like sunlight from the window. Certainly, that must be the reason. He’d been called upon by a rancher, or farmer, or Erik at the livery to an urgent situation. She would do the same for a woman in need.
The tightness in her stomach eased a bit, and she set her carpet bag on the bed and unpacked her clothes. With no intention of going downstairs for supper, she laid her dress over the back of a chair, removed her stockings and corset, and slipped into a shift. Leaving the curtains open, she raised the window, then took several quilts from the bench at the foot of the bed and layered them atop the mattress.
The sheets were cool against her legs and she curled into a ball, waiting for her body warmth to spread to her coverings.
The curtains lifted with a breeze, so different from the brutal winds of the recent storm. She shivered, thankful for Willy’s safety and how Cougar had shielded him. For Cade’s return, the reuniting of Mae Ann’s family. Mama and Deacon’s new start in life. And the little white house and ranch Clay had bought—Fair View Ranch. Her mind’s eye easily saw a sign hanging above a wide gated entry. She also saw herself in the kitchen fixing breakfast, the aroma of fresh coffee filling the small space as morning light crested the hill beyond the pasture.
The image was unbearable. So were the memories of Clay’s tenderness—the way he squeezed her shoulder on occasion, held her after he’d found Willy … kissed her at their picnic. Yet a wall remained between them that he was not willing to remove.
She wanted to yell and rant, shake her fists, and stomp out her frustration. She wanted to demand he open up and share things with her. Yet that wasn’t how it worked, was it. One did not demand trust and intimacy.
An Impossible Price: Front Range Brides - Book 3 Page 19