The doc continued his brisk walk in the opposite direction. Jack turned on his heel to follow, drawn to say something more, to send a message. He slowed his pace. His job was not to babysit the woman, his job was to pick up on the outlaw’s trail.
He’d heard from another man in town that a foot of snow had fallen up north. With any luck, the killer was holed up in Wichita because of the weather. Jack’s brothers were counting on him, and he never let family down—not for anything, or anyone. Not even a pretty little widow with laughing blue eyes.
After all, she’d been fine on her own up to now.
* * *
She was a failure. In six short weeks, her life had descended into bedlam.
Elizabeth glanced around the chaotic room, taking in the overwhelming mess. Recently laundered rags set to dry littered every available surface. Tin plates and cups overflowed the sink. Dirt tracked in by muddy shoes streaked the floor in spokes away from the back door. A pan of fragrant winter-vegetable stew bubbled on the stove.
She laid Rachel against her shoulder, patting the infant’s back. The baby had been crying for almost twenty minutes. Not the sweet mewling sounds from previous weeks, but great squalling sobs that had Elizabeth’s stomach churning. What if something was wrong with her daughter?
The firewood Jack had left for the stove, the supply she’d thought would never end, had dwindled. She needed to gather more kindling to keep the house warm enough for Rachel, but each time she began a task, a fresh crisis distracted her.
The doc had stopped by several weeks before, giving Rachel a clean bill of health. He’d also hinted that a certain Texas Ranger had been asking the sheriff a lot of questions about Elizabeth’s late husband and her living situation. She’d spent the days after Doc Johnsen’s visit on pins and needles, terrified the sheriff would start threatening her ownership of the property again.
As if sensing her tension, the infant wailed louder. Elizabeth gently rocked the baby. “Shh, shh, shh,” she cooed.
She bent to set down Rachel, determined to remove the boiling stew from the stove before dinner burned. While she suspected the sheriff was using his threats as leverage to marry her, she still feared his retribution at her continued refusal.
Alarmed to note Rachel’s face turning a brilliant shade of red, Elizabeth paused midair.
What in heaven’s name did that mean? Had the infant taken ill? Gracious, fourteen-year-old Jo knew more about babies. But with all the young McCoy boys full of unleashed energy from their forced confinement and causing mischief, Jo had been too busy at home to tutor Elizabeth on child rearing.
At least the younger girl had managed to slip over this afternoon to help with chores. The assistance was invaluable, and the company kept Elizabeth sane.
She rose wearily to her feet, doing the only thing that seemed to work to quiet Rachel. Back and forth she paced, patting and shushing. Her steps chewed up the distance between the kitchen and the parlor. No amount of soothing comforted the infant.
Exhausted, she slumped onto a chair and attempted to feed the baby, but Rachel wouldn’t latch on. Elizabeth set to pacing again, tears of frustration gathering in her eyes.
Jo stepped through the back door, an armload of kindling in her hands.
“I was going to do that,” Elizabeth grumbled over Rachel’s howling cries.
“That baby sure is squawking. What’s wrong with her?”
“I was hoping you would know. I’ve tried everything, but nothing soothes her.”
“She might be colicky.” Jo raised her voice to be heard over the wailing infant.
“What’s colic?”
“It’s when their stomach gets upset.”
Certainly if the problem had a name, there was also a solution. “Is there a cure?”
Distracted by their conversation, the baby’s sobs relaxed into snuffled hiccups.
Jo shrugged, not pausing on her way to the parlor. “I can’t rightly remember. I’ll ask my ma when I go home tonight.”
Rachel burped. The baby brought her fist to her mouth with a contented coo, and snuggled into Elizabeth’s shoulder.
Elizabeth blew out a sigh of relief. Who knew there was more air in that tiny body? She’d already been burped before. Elizabeth did everything on a schedule. Unfortunately, her daughter didn’t seem to like schedules. Everything Elizabeth knew about child rearing would fit into a thimble, and she’d exhausted her limited knowledge weeks ago. She hadn’t realized raising an infant was so intense, so grueling. She had to learn faster. Rachel Rose was depending on her.
A pungent odor teased Elizabeth’s nostrils. She glanced up to find a haze of smoke floating near the ceiling. Something in the kitchen hissed and popped.
The stew!
She dashed to the stove and found dinner bubbling over. Dark brown blobs streaked down the sides of the pan, igniting in the grate.
Elizabeth whirled, colliding with Jo.
The girl rolled her eyes. “I’ll take care of it.”
Jo snatched a flour sack off a loaf of bread, then wrapped the cloth around her hand before reaching for the pot. Grasping the handle, she scooted to the exit. Elizabeth balanced Rachel on one shoulder, holding open the door with her free hand.
Jo crossed the threshold, searching for a place to drop the scalding pan. She stepped off the landing to her left. Her toe skidded along a patch of ice. Her feet slipped out beneath her. Limbs flailing, Jo struggled to right herself. The pan flew into the air. Vegetable stew rained down, splotching into the snow like blobs of mud.
A sickening thud accompanied Jo’s shriek of pain.
Chapter Six
The forlorn town of Cimarron Springs huddled in the distance beneath dismal clouds signaling yet another snowstorm. Jack reined Midnight to a halt on a ridge overlooking the Arkansas River. The horse’s muscles bunched beneath him as the animal stomped and snorted.
Thoughts of the pretty widow buzzed relentlessly in his head like fireflies trapped in a Mason jar.
Nervous anticipation scratched beneath Jack’s skin the closer he traveled to Cimarron Springs. More than a month had passed, and he had nothing to show for his time. Plenty of the locals around Wichita knew of Bud Shaw in passing, but no one had seen the outlaw in months.
He teetered infuriatingly close to a capture, yet the killer eluded him. Compounding his difficulties, only a few hundred dollars had been recovered from the Wells Fargo robbery. If Bud Shaw maintained control of the balance, there was no telling how far and how fast the outlaw had run.
With the threat of snow hanging heavily in the air, he couldn’t afford any delays. Even if he wanted to linger in Kansas, an innocent man faced certain death if Jack dawdled over a blue-eyed widow and her infant like a lovelorn fool.
“Lord,” he spoke, his voice lost in the blustery wind. “If you’re looking down on me, now would be a good time for some help.”
Midnight stumbled over a slick patch of ice. Jack tugged on the reigns, struggling to regain his balance in the saddle. “Don’t worry, old boy. My ma always used to say, ‘God doesn’t mind if your prayers are long or short, He hears them all.’”
The horse snorted a vaporous breath as it skittered over slick, packed snow, jerking to a halt where the wagon tracks split. One road stretched west, to Cimarron Springs. The other meandered south, over the border into Indian territory. Jack urged the horse forward. Midnight shied, dancing to one side.
Reaching back, Jack slapped the obstinate animal’s hindquarters. “No more stubbornness. We have a long way to go before there’s rest for either of us.”
Midnight pawed at the frozen ground. Jack sighed. At least the delay gave him another opportunity to study Cimarron Springs. Black smoke drifted from the multitude of chimneys burning coal and wood against frig
id north winds.
An elusive thought teased his brain. A piece of the puzzle that didn’t quite fit. What was he missing? Rubbing at his eyes, Jack sucked in a deep, icy breath. He’d seen the gaudy innards of so many seedy saloons, the stench of rancid cigar smoke still clung to his coat.
He needed something—anything: a name, a rumor, even another sighting of that bay mustang. The next best thing to Bud Shaw was someone who knew the outlaw well—someone who knew where the killer had holed up. Outlaws weren’t known for their honor.
According to Sheriff Stanton, Elizabeth’s husband had run with coarse company, and a lot of it. Gamblers were bound to cross paths. Perhaps Will Cole had mentioned his card-playing buddies to Elizabeth.
The hairs on the back of Jack’s neck stirred.
She hadn’t recognized Bud’s name all those weeks ago, but she’d been awfully distracted. It was a long shot, but what did he have to lose? At this point, he was desperate for another lead. Anything but these infuriating dead ends and false starts.
Jack studied the cluster of buildings.
There had to be a reason why every clue led to this sleepy little town. His plan wasn’t totally without merit. Cimarron Springs was the last place Bud Shaw had been spotted, and where the trail had grown cold. And if Jack was wrong, Kansas was as good a place as any to rest. After sending out a few telegrams, he’d pay a visit to Rachel Rose and her mother.
A new plan formed in his mind, the steps laid out like a bricked path in his brain.
His plan served two purposes. Inquiring about the widow’s late husband gave him a legitimate reason to check on her and the baby. If her husband had played cards with Bud Shaw, she was a link to the killers and their stolen loot. She might even be in danger.
The outlaw was a braggart, and there was no telling who else was looking for that money—or who else was following the same leads.
Jack’s gut twisted. The face of every victim he’d ever buried, every child whose grave he’d marked with piles of stones flashed in his mind. A sudden image filled his brain. He pictured the smudge of flour on Elizabeth’s cheek, and a new urgency drove him forward. Kicking Midnight into a canter, he gave in to his growing impatience.
This surge of anticipation had everything to do with finding Bud Shaw, and nothing to do with his rampant worry for a tiny infant girl and her beguiling mother.
* * *
Elizabeth bent her head against the ferocious wind. How long had she been walking? Over an hour at least. The deep wagon ruts she usually followed to the McCoys had been whipped smooth with snowdrifts, forcing her to search for familiar landmarks, instead. Only the spindly cottonwood trees lining the creek bed kept her from straying completely off track.
She pressed her mittened hands to her face. At least the painful stinging in her cheeks had faded into a dull ache. No matter the discomfort, she had to keep moving. Thoughts of Jo and Rachel drove her forward. They were depending on her, and time was running out. Elizabeth concentrated on lifting her numb feet, placing one foot in front of the other in a relentless march through white oblivion.
A flash of light caught her attention. Rubbing her eyes, she squinted, then glanced behind her. Nothing appeared on the horizon. Probably just the wind playing tricks on her. She yanked her hat closer over her ears, forcing herself to focus on moving from one landmark to the next, rather than crossing the whole overwhelming distance.
Rippling hills of relentless snow and ice stretched on forever. Studying the flat terrain kept her thoughts from wandering into all the frightening consequences of her perilous journey.
Her scattered thoughts drifted back to her journey West only a year ago. This was how the prairie had looked when she’d first arrived from New York—the grasses flattened and windblown. After the bustling crowds of the city, the barren landscape had overwhelmed her with its lonely visage.
When the golden mantle of spring had finally settled over the desolate prairie, she’d practically wept with relief. By mid-summer, stalks of wheat grasses had rippled in the wind, moving like golden waves on the ocean.
Spring seemed an eternity away. No matter how far she walked, the distance to the next rise refused to shrink. She longed to sit and rest, just for a moment. Time had become her enemy.
A low rumble vibrated beneath her feet. Thoughts of Indians and outlaws robbed her of breath. Heart pounding, she jerked around to find a great black horse charging across the plains. Elizabeth froze. The apparition galloped over the white snow, chewing up the distance. Her brain told her to move, but her feet refused to obey.
At the last moment she stumbled to one side. Covering her face, she braced for a blow from those enormous, coal-black hooves. The horse skidded to a halt, kicking up a shower of snow. A great bear of a man in a familiar dark wool coat leaped down, stalking toward her as if he’d materialized straight out of the blowing storm.
Elizabeth backed away, terrified by the low menace in his approach. He raised his arms. Her hands flew to her face in a protective gesture.
“Fool woman,” Jack shouted over the wind.
Something heavy wrapped around her shoulders. She peeked with one eye to find her shoulders swathed in a tartan fabric. He’d covered her with a wool blanket. Her apprehension waned a notch.
“What are you doing?” Jack demanded.
Fear, relief and annoyance jumbled together in a confusing churn of emotions. “Getting help,” Elizabeth snapped back through chattering teeth. “Jo fell. She’s hurt her foot and her ribs. I think she’s broken her ankle.”
Tightening the comforting blanket around her shoulders, she noted how the cold had seeped through her coat. With the Ranger’s sudden appearance, all of her physical discomforts came rushing back.
Jack grunted. Only his eyes showed between his hat and his muffler, but those hazel orbs sparked with exasperation. “You were fool enough to walk out in this weather?”
“It wasn’t snowing when I started.”
“You left an injured kid to mind your baby. What were you thinking?”
The obvious censure in his question sent her stumbling back a step. “R-Rachel was sleeping. I wasn’t going to be gone that long.”
Her first instinct had been correct. He wasn’t annoyed, he was furious. Anger radiated from his enormous body like steam rising from a hot spring. For the first time since he’d barged into her life, she feared him.
He looped the reins around his leather-clad hand with a scowl. “You’re going home.”
Afraid or not, he had no right to order her around.
“I’ll do what I please.” Elizabeth ducked away from his outstretched arm. “You go back to town and fetch the doctor. I can walk home on my own.”
“You’ll ride with me.” His expression dared her to disobey his order. “Then we’ll decide if Jo needs a doctor.”
“You’re not in charge of me.”
“As long as you’re behaving like a lunatic, I am.”
Trembling with the accumulated tensions of the past days, Elizabeth knotted her fists at her sides. “What did you just call me?”
“You heard me. You left an infant and an injured kid alone so you could freeze to death in a snowstorm. That’s a lunatic decision if ever I heard one.”
“How dare you question my decisions? What else was I supposed to do? Send the milk cow?”
He hooked one finger into his woolen muffler, tugging the material down to reveal the full force of his disapproving glower. “Look, lady. If you die, Rachel is an orphan, and we both know how you feel about that option. You coming or not?”
A stubborn denial sat on the tip of her tongue. Swirling flakes battered her face. Searching the distance, she was shocked to discover the group of trees she’d been aiming for completely obscured by churning snow.
She pictured her daughter’s wise, trusting eyes and Elizabeth’s stomach sank. The Ranger was correct, her life was no longer her own to gamble. Pride clogged the words in her throat.
“Let’s go,” Jack declared, softening his demand to a brisk instruction. “I’ve already checked on the house, and Jo and the baby are fine.”
“You what?”
“How do you think I found you? I stopped for a visit on my way out of Cimarron Springs. By the looks of the place, I assumed something awful had happened.”
Elizabeth huffed. Of course he’d already been to the house. Hadn’t he mentioned that Jo was minding the baby? Nettled, she refused to dignify his remark with an answer. The condition of her home was none of his affair. He wasn’t exhausted from raising an infant. She’d like to see how well he’d fare after taking care of a baby all alone with only a few squandered hours of sleep each night.
He hoisted himself onto the horse, holding out a hand. Floundering in the gathering snow, she shook her head. The thought of climbing atop that enormous animal terrified her almost as much as the man sitting astride it.
He beckoned impatiently. “Put your foot in the stirrup and I’ll pull you up.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“‘When pride cometh, then cometh shame. But with the lowly is wisdom.’”
“Are you mocking me?”
“The Bible isn’t meant to mock you, Elizabeth.”
Once again, her own ignorance condemned her. She’d opened her Bible plenty of times. The worn copy had been bestowed upon her by Mrs. Peabody from the orphanage. Banished to find work in the city at sixteen, all the girls had received a Bible and two dollars. The orphanage had given her plenty of training in working hard, and little else. Elizabeth had treasured the book, one of her few possessions, but she hadn’t studied the scriptures as much as she would have liked. Sure of her unworthiness, she’d been humbled by the wisdom the book contained.
Winning the Widow's Heart Page 8