Only a whisper could she wrench from her throat, so intense was her gratitude. “Again, your timing was impeccable.”
He wrapped his arms around her, crushing her against his chest. His heart still hammered, whether from exertion or anger she couldn’t tell. Likely both.
“I was foolish to go with him. The signs were there, telling me something wasn’t quite right. But when I thought of the chance that a woman really was laboring for her life and the life of her child, I couldn’t refuse.”
A feral groan rumbled from Clay’s chest and bled into her own. She clung to him, thanking God for His rescue. For the man He sent to her aid. For the fact that Clay—at her request—had relented from killing her attacker.
She captured his right hand in both of hers—already swelling. Blood clotted along the cuts opened with the force of his blows. She brushed her lips across the sun-browned skin on the back. “Let’s go to Maggie’s, and I’ll look after your injuries.”
With his other hand, he tilted her chin upward. “What about you?” His eyes tightened at the corners and his voice dropped to a cavern’s depth. “Did he hurt you?”
Holding his gaze, she shook her head. “He wrenched my arm, and my lip cut against my teeth, but he did not hurt me.” She tugged Clay’s vest tighter, and her voice thinned to a whisper. “Much.”
Clay’s whole body tensed and the muscle in his jaw bulged. He was still angry enough to inflict more punishment, and part of her wanted him to. The other part was glad Garrett showed up when he did.
Her fingers grazed his unshaven cheek. “Let’s go home.”
He turned his head and pressed her fingers against his lips, setting the see-saw on a dizzying race from fear to relief to longing. “We’ll go to Maggie’s first. There’s something I need to ask you.”
~
Clay swept Sophie up and carried her downstairs and through the lobby without a glance at the clerk. From the corner of his eye, he saw the man still shaking behind the counter—a coward who knew all along what Thatcher’s intentions had been.
He should come back and work him over too.
Sophie’s words rose at the edge of his mind. That’s not who you are.
He tugged her closer and kissed the top of her head nestled at his neck. How could she say that when he’d not responded to her gentle probing into his past?
Outside, he clicked his tongue at Duster, who waited untethered at the hitch rail, and the gelding fell in behind, following them all the way to Saddle Blossom Lane and Maggie Snowfield’s. They snagged more than a few curious looks as they passed, but Clay wasn’t letting Sophie out of his arms until she agreed to be his wife.
Not that he’d coerce her. It’d still be her choice, of her own free will. And if she chose not to, he’d sell the Fairfax place and move on. He’d never be able to live there without her.
Duster turned aside in the apple orchard, nibbling at grass sprouting beneath the trees. Clay continued around to the back steps and tapped his boot against the door.
Sophie turned the knob, then smiled up at him. A good sign.
“Oh, Sophie, you’re hurt!” Betsy charged toward the door. She’d been crying, and Clay didn’t feel too bad about that. He needed to cool down some before he stopped blaming her for letting Sophie go with that slimy excuse for a human. Though he knew Sophie did pretty much what she wanted, especially when it came to helping someone.
“Clay, I’m so sorry.” Betsy’s voice broke.
He gave a quick nod, unable to talk to anyone other than Sophie. He eased her into a chair, noting her lip, swollen now, and new red marks rising on her face and neck. It was all he could do not to go back to the hotel and finish what he’d started.
“I’m not going to break, Clay.”
Afraid that he might, he took a knee before her.
She touched his bent leg fencing her in at the table. “Let me up so I can see to your injuries.” Her voice was stronger.
“Bossy thing, aren’t you?”
A schoolmarm glare made a brief appearance but melted as he cupped the side of her face and ran his thumb over the permanent hitch in her left cheek.
She turned her head away, but he gently turned it back. “I know you see a scar here.” He touched it again, caressed it.
Her chin quivered beneath his touch.
“But I see a smile. Anticipation of joy.”
At last, her lips pulled into the real thing, and she grasped the hand that held her chin. He turned it so his fingers were on the bottom, hers on top.
Surprised his hat hadn’t come off at the hotel, he set it crown down on the table.
Betsy brought a damp cloth to the table, and at a sober glance from Clay, she scurried from the kitchen. The woman definitely read sign.
Finally alone, he focused on Sophie. “The widow Fairfax is gone. I’ll be moving into the house.”
He stroked the top of her fingers, and she watched the slow sweep of his thumb.
“Making repairs on the place. Branding calves and hauling that one-eyed milk cow back.”
Her mouth turned up, but she didn’t look at him.
“Watching the sunset from one of those rockers on the back porch and reaching for you so I can touch you like this.”
Her breath caught on a gasp and the pulse at her bent wrist quickened.
“Will you be there?”
Her fingers tightened, and she looked into his eyes till he knew she could see clean through to all the past he’d hidden from her. All the scars that cut deeper than flesh.
“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, Sophie Price, and I’ve loved you for a long time.”
She bit her lower lip, then flinched, fingering her mouth with a frown.
He corralled his thoughts, focused on her and their future. “I want to live the rest of my life with you, protect you, provide for you. Work alongside you and share the Fair View Ranch with you if you’ll have me.”
Her eyes welled.
“I know there’s a lot I need to fill you in on, and if you want to wait until after that to give me an ans—”
“Yes.”
He closed his mouth, afraid he’d not heard right.
“Yes, Clay Ferguson. I will have you, and be your partner, and take your hand when you reach for it.”
Her gaze washed over him like morning on the high parks. “I’ll even milk that old cow because I love you.”
Her breath came warm and inviting as she touched her tongue to her swollen lip.
He read sign too.
Gently he kissed her, seeking to cause her no pain.
And he didn’t know if it was her willing response that shook him clear to his boots—or the light that broke through him fading every shadow in his soul.
Chapter 25
It was either share the hay loft with John at the livery or take Garrett’s old room behind Maggie’s kitchen. No deliberation required.
Clay tossed his bedroll and saddle bags on the narrow quilt-covered bed and did something he hadn’t done but a few times, all in recent days.
He thanked God.
That morning after church, he’d asked Bittman about what his ma had said. He wanted to know if the words were something she’d come up with or if she’d read them.
The preacher led him back inside, took his Bible off the lectern, and turned right to them.
“It’s a powerful verse, Clay, one worth memorizing. Lamentations 3:22 and 23.”
He read the whole thing, and Clay choked up on the first line—“It is of the Lord’s mercies that we are not consumed.”
He fisted his hand, the skin still raw but covered with Sophie’s tender care and bandages. He’d been nearly consumed by hate when he found her, and that hate would have killed both himself and Thatcher. Just like Parker said, it was eating him from the inside out.
Thankfulness came easier than forgiveness, but he was working on it with God’s help, Bittman’s, and Sophie’s. Parker was right about that too—it came w
ith a hefty price, but a price Clay was willing to pay.
Sore and bruised, Sophie hadn’t gone to church. Neither had Clarence Thatcher. Doc Weaver spent quite a while stitching up the hotelier before Garrett planted him in a cell at the jail house. A sign hung on the ornate door across the street: “Soon Under New Management.”
Maggie opened her rooms to a few of the displaced guests but kept this one for Clay, and a knock at his open door brought him round.
“Dinner will be on the table soon. Are you hungry?”
The look in Sophie’s eyes reduced him to more than hunger. He was starving for her, and by the sudden flush in her cheeks, she must have read his desire.
“Yes, ma’am. But can I tear you away from your kitchen duties for a leisurely walk in the apple orchard?”
She fingered the coiled braid at the back of her neck and gave him a shy glance. “They won’t let me do anything to help, so I think I can fit a stroll into my schedule.”
Blossoms had given way to full leaves, and the grass around the trees grew ankle deep, brushing Sophie’s skirt as he led her to the center of the tiny orchard. He’d earlier relocated the iron garden bench, after tying Pearl in the barn, and it waited for them, secluded by trees and birdsong.
Sophie smiled up at him, pleased with the surprise, and took half of the narrow seat, tucking her skirt beneath her in invitation.
He accepted, took her hand in both of his, and started with the fire. By the time he recounted finding Willy and the memory of his ma’s voice the next morning, tears washed Sophie’s bruised cheeks and trailed into her crooked smile.
“How could he blame you, a child, for knocking over the lantern?”
Clay wrapped an arm around her and drew her closer, drinking in the scent of her hair and the soft yield of her surrender. “I’ve asked that question a thousand times every year that I’ve lived, and I still don’t have an answer. I doubt I ever will. But now, since God broke through my stubbornness and hate, it’s not as important anymore.”
She eased away and looked up at him with an uncommon passion. “I have one thing to say, and then we never have to speak of it again.”
Stirred by her gentle fervor, he swallowed hard and took hold of his fledgling faith. “And that is?”
“Your name. Other than your eyes, it was the first thing I noticed. It made me think of God’s creativeness.”
If she’d slapped him, he couldn’t have been more surprised, but she gestured around them, sweeping an arm toward the trees.
“Think about it. Everything He made—trees of every kind, animals, mountains, clouds—everything—He spoke into existence. But man He formed from the dust of the earth, from clay. Made him pliable in His hands. Touched him. Breathed life into him.”
Her gaze returned to his with an intensity he’d not seen a woman wield. “That’s a very intimate moment with the Creator, and you, Clay, get to wear the reminder.”
~
On the first Saturday in June, Sophie stood before the cheval mirror in her room at Maggie Snowfield’s. Abigail Eisner tucked and folded the beautiful cream-colored dress that flowed gracefully from Sophie’s waist in a skirt wider than fashion dictated. But she had requested the simple square-necked bodice, lace sleeves, and fuller skirt. She needed it for riding Pen home to the ranch with Clay. Their ranch.
He hadn’t balked when she said she wasn’t interested in a wedding trip. Hotels held no appeal to her—or to him, for that matter—and they agreed that their new home was where they wanted to be.
Abigail smiled up at her in the mirror, a threaded needle sprouting from her seamed lips ready for a last-minute stitch. Mama loosely braided her hair according to the directions of Mae Ann, who held Madeline in one arm and little George gently between her knees. He was enraptured with the infant girl, and Sophie watched him in the mirror, wondering if his would someday be a tale of love at first sight.
Willy was with the rest of the men doing whatever Betsy told them to do at the church. Such a picture of possibilities splashed in Sophie’s imagination.
Maggie bustled into the room as lively as ever, though Sophie suspected the little woman would sleep the afternoon away.
“I have something borrowed and blue,” she said with an endearing look at Mama. “Your mother is sharing you with me for this occasion, and I dearly appreciate it, having no daughter of my own.”
Sophie’s heart squeezed at what Maggie had shared of her infant son, and she loved her own mother even more for her generous spirit.
Maggie offered a soft blue hankie edged in white tatting. “I carried this at my wedding, dear, and I’d be honored if you would carry it at yours.”
Moved beyond words, Sophie pulled away from everyone fussing with her hair and dress and hugged the little woman. “You are a dear,” she whispered, “and I am honored.”
When each person was finished with their appointed task, they stepped back to admire the finished product. Sophie had never felt so obviously the focus of attention and was a bit discomforted.
Mama must have known, and she slipped forward, lifting her hands over Sophie’s head. A fine gold chain with a small oval pendant dropped from her fingers and she fastened it at the base of Sophie’s neck.
Tears threatened as she fingered the treasured keepsake, her mother and father’s wedding portrait. “Oh, Mama.”
“Don’t cry. You want to look your brightest so you can put your own lovely wedding picture on the other side of the locket.” She finished by tucking wild sunflowers into Sophie’s hair and pulling soft tendrils loose around her face.
“Now you are complete,” Maggie announced with her customary cheer. “In that lovely dress you have something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue.”
But those treasured gifts were not what made Sophie feel complete. The other side of her heart waited for her at the church. The man she’d loved without realizing just how much. A man who was courageous enough to not only rescue her from attack but share his deepest wounds with her and the painful story behind them.
She would have loved him even if he’d told her nothing, but now she understood what cruelty had formed his childhood, driven his desire for kindness in his work, and been redeemed when God broke through his pain with the promise of light and mercy.
Anticipation of joy, indeed. She fingered her own scar, blessed beyond measure for how Clay saw her imperfections.
Maggie left in a rush and returned with a long burgundy velvet cloak. “Put this on, dear. I know it’s warm out, but you don’t want to muss that lovely dress on your way to the church.”
Such an elegant garment made Sophie wonder again about the woman’s mysterious past before coming to Olin Springs. She really needed to temper her curiosity, though that might be a part of her that she never completely controlled.
Todd waited outside with Maggie’s buggy, looking pleased and polished and ready to drive Sophie to the church. As they neared, she marveled at the tables and chairs spread across the church lawn, each decorated with fruit jars full of sunflower bouquets and filled with food. The Women’s Society had been busy preparing a meal, no doubt at Maggie’s bidding.
A garland hung above the church house door, and inside more sunflowers adorned the end of each pew. But most breathtaking of all was the handsome horse handler who waited beside Pastor Bittman at the front of the church, his shirt starched and creased, new trousers, and a handsome new vest bearing a sunflower boutonniere. She couldn’t suppress a grin, realizing he had succumbed to Betsy’s insistence that he sport a flower on his person.
A touch at her elbow turned her toward Deacon, who had taken his place beside her. With a fond tug on her heart for her own father, she gladly accepted Deacon’s arm as the church organist began to play.
Betsy and Garrett took their places at the front, and it seemed an eternity before she joined her hand with Clay’s and stood before Pastor Bittman.
The humming of her heart drowned most of what the kind man
said until he repeated the words Clay had shared with her.
“Through the Lord’s mercies we are not consumed, because His compassions fail not. They are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness.”
Surprised by the gold band Clay placed on her finger but not the promise-filled kiss he pressed to her lips, she held tightly to his strong arm as they walked out of the church as man and wife.
Dinner was a festive affair with every imaginable dish on hand, including a beautifully decorated cake from the storekeeper’s wife, Wilhelmina Reynolds. But summer heat pressed through the shade trees and Sophie was soon ready to leave the party behind.
Clay, attentive as ever to mood and gesture, motioned to Todd, who soon appeared before the church with Pen and Duster, both horses festooned with garlands around their necks and bright sunflowers twisted into their manes and forelocks. Pen shook his head but didn’t try to rub the garlands off on the fence.
She laughed and squeezed Clay’s arm. “You let them put flowers on these manly horses?”
He scowled and flicked at his own. “Just this once,” he said leaning close, his voice banked low and warm.
She desperately needed to get out of the heat.
To the applause of those gathered, Clay linked his hands for her booted foot. “I know you don’t need my help, Mrs. Ferguson, but for the sake of those looking on … ”
“I am most honored, Mr. Ferguson,” she said and easily swung her leg over the back of the saddle when he hefted her aloft.
As they reined their mounts around, Sophie looked back to see her mother beaming, tears glinting from her cheeks and Deacon holding her close. Maggie, Mae Ann, and Betsy all waved, as did everyone who wished them joy.
Anticipation of joy. The phrase wrapped around her like the garland on her horse, twining in and out of her heart with every step. When they came to the turnoff, Clay’s blue eyes bore into her with all the intensity of a perfect summer’s day, and they both lifted their horses to an easy lope until they crested the low saddle. The pins in her braid had loosened and she shook her hair free, scattering sunflowers around her.
An Impossible Price: Front Range Brides - Book 3 Page 22