Winning the Widow's Heart

by Sherri Shackelford

  She’d carved out a life for herself and a future for her daughter, a carefully maintained, brittle sense of safety. But Jack chipped away at the foundations of her security with his lack of faith in her. No matter what happened, she didn’t want to be wrong about a man again. She couldn’t risk her own heart, and she definitely couldn’t risk Rachel’s affection.

  “Why won’t you just leave?” she whispered, blinking frantically against the sting of tears behind her eyes.

  He studied her for a moment, then offered a tired smile. He tugged one hand from behind his head and gently brushed away the moisture from her cheek with the pad of his thumb. “I can’t. You know why.”

  Her heart turned in response to his gentle caress. Being here like this wasn’t proper. She should flee, but her limbs refused to budge. Jack was right again. The pig wasn’t much of a chaperone.

  “What about your case?” she asked, hoping to change the subject, to dissipate this frightening intimacy.

  “For the first time in my career, I’ve failed.” A shadow flitted across his eyes. “I’ve run out of leads.”

  His obvious distress struck a chord. He’d helped deliver Rachel, he’d chopped wood and shoveled snow. He’d even mucked stalls, and she had never once thanked him for his help. There was no way to repay him, unless…

  An idea sprang into her head. “What if I help you? I’m good with puzzles. I’ve seen your newspaper clippings.” The more she thought about the idea, the more enthused she became. “Perhaps I can discover a pattern.”

  He rolled his head from side to side in a negative motion. “There’s nothing you can do. I’ve been looking at those clippings for months. What makes you think you can find a connection?”

  She braced her hands on either side of his head, daring him to hold her gaze. “What makes you think I can’t? I’m a fresh perspective and I don’t have any emotions attached to the case.”

  His eyes narrowed in thoughtful consideration. Another emotion she couldn’t define flitted across his face. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to let you try.”

  She grinned, pleased with the opportunity to prove her abilities. The idea was inspired. If she found a new lead in his case, he’d be forced to leave. Without his interference she and Rachel returned to their safe, orderly world.

  After seeing the box, she feared he suspected the truth about Will’s gambling. Perhaps if Jack solved his case, he’d forget all about the watches. “Bring your newspapers to the house this evening. We’re having turkey for supper.”

  “My turkey?”

  “My turkey. I’m assuming you shot it on my land.”

  Elizabeth’s coat sleeve had torn during her ordeal, and the frayed material parted to her elbow. Jack caught her arm, turning her hand to reveal the arrow-shaped scar on her skin. She quickly brushed her sleeve down to cover the mark.

  “How did you get such an odd scar?”

  “It was a long time ago,” Elizabeth mumbled.

  The escaped chicken pecked at the ground near Jack’s head.

  “Myrtle,” she called to the chicken, shooing the bird away with her outstretched hands. “Back to the henhouse with you.”

  She glanced down to discover her skirts draped intimately over Jack’s legs. She quickly brushed them aside, but not before he quirked an eyebrow at the hasty motion.

  Rolling to one side, Jack stood, then brushed the dust from his pant legs. “You name your chickens?”

  He pulled her to her feet and quickly dropped his hand to his side. She noted how he flexed his fist a few times, as if disgusted with the contact. Her heart sank.

  Elizabeth knelt before the brick of hay, tugging the bailing twine free. “That hen is very memorable. I call her Myrtle the Mouser because she’s always escaping the chicken coop to chase down mice with the barn cat.”

  “Please tell me you’re joking.”

  “I’m perfectly serious.”

  She scooped Myrtle into her arms, then whirled to face the Ranger. He towered above her, an incredulous grin on his handsome face. She had the distinct impression he was laughing at her and not the chicken.

  “Here.” She thrust the bird at his chest. “Make yourself useful and put Myrtle away. I’ll get the turkey started.” She patted the chicken’s feather-soft head. “I’ll clean your cage tomorrow.”

  “Not tomorrow.” He juggled Myrtle in his hands. “It’s the Sabbath.”

  “Of—of course,” Elizabeth stuttered, not sure of the reference, but afraid of looking foolish. “I guess I just forgot.”

  Myrtle struggled, feathers flapping in the Ranger’s face. Grimacing, he shrugged. “It’s hard to keep track of the days.”

  “Yes, well, I’d best get back inside. I’ve left Rachel alone for too long already.”

  She paused, unable to tear her gaze away from the tall man. At his murmured assurance, Myrtle settled into his arms. Jack had an affinity with animals and children. A way of charming them with his amiable smile, though she knew a layer of steel rested beneath that friendly grin.

  “Supper is at six,” she said hastily. “And don’t forget your newspapers.”

  She had stumbled upon the perfect solution. Reviving his interest in his case would surely focus his attention on something other than her. The sooner he moved on, the better.

  Right?

  * * *

  Jack dunked his face into the bucket of ice-cold water, quickly straightened, then flung back his head, sending a shower of water droplets raining over the floor.

  He ran his hands through his drenched hair, smoothing down the mass. Rubbing his face, he groaned at the stubble already covering his chin. Perhaps he should shave again. He shook his head. No, that was foolish. He wasn’t attending a church social. Then again, this was the first invitation he’d received to dine in the house since his return, and his beard was a bit long.

  Reaching for his shaving kit, he studied his face in the tiny mirror. The reflection showed a man in his early thirties, not handsome certainly, but not ugly, either. There was nothing fundamentally wrong with any of his features. Certainly no one would call him handsome, but women had fawned over his older brother, Robert, and people often said the two of them bore a passing resemblance. The comparisons had to mean something.

  A glint of sliver caught his attention. He squinted, tilting his head farther to the right. Several gray strands stood out in stark relief. His fears realized, he whipped around to the left and studied the opposite side of his head. He was graying at the temples! When had that happened?

  With one calloused finger, he smoothed down the offensive outcropping. Surely he wasn’t old enough for gray hair. Thinking back, Jack mentally ticked off the years. His father had been forty-five with a full head of silver when he died.

  But his father had been old. Not much older than Jack was now, though.

  The realization stunned him. He arranged a hunk of hair over the gray spot, then brushed it back into place again. He wasn’t old, he was seasoned. The look was distinguished. He squinted into the mirror. Besides, who wanted to be young and impulsive?

  With that thought firmly in place, he reached for his shaving kit again. He lathered his face and carefully pulled the razor over his rough beard, idly wondering how the widow thought of him. Did she see him as mature? Or old? He stilled his hand. He’d never considered Elizabeth’s age, but she was definitely younger than him. In her early twenties perhaps.

  She had a brisk, efficient way about her, a maturity beyond her years. The thought of her living in an orphanage sent his stomach dipping. She had such a wide-eyed innocence about her. As if she refused to be broken by the evil she witnessed in the world.

  A pot of water boiled merrily on the stove to his left. The steam drifted over the shirt he’d hung from the center beam, sm
oothing out the wrinkles. Jack grunted at the sight. His fellow Rangers would have a heyday if they saw him now, primping like a debutante for her first dance.

  He studied his face in the mirror again, checking every angle for missed whiskers. Satisfied with the results, he wiped the excess foam from his face. Of their own volition, his hands went to the minuscule vial of aftershave tucked in the corner of his bag. A gift from his sister-in-law, though he couldn’t recall which one.

  He did remember the gift had been accompanied by a whole lot of ribbing from his brothers, and not a few hints from his mother that she was ready for another daughter-in-law and a passel more grandchildren.

  Embarrassed by his uncharacteristic vanity, he dropped the vial, snatched his shirt from its perch, then snapped out the last of the wrinkles. He swiped a drop of cologne on his pant legs. It was a turkey dinner, not an audience with Queen Victoria.

  He had to stay focused. Elizabeth’s offer of assistance had haunted him all afternoon. Why had she finally decided to help him? This dinner was about finding out how much she knew, and questioning her about her husband’s activities. It wasn’t as if he was going courting or anything. This was business.

  He strode across the clearing to her door, not bothering to don his wool coat for the few steps to the widow’s house. His gaze lingered on the shiny, unweathered hinges he’d replaced only weeks before. He knocked sharply. His job was to free an innocent man from the hangman’s noose, not deliver babies.

  The door swung open. A puff of warm air scented with roasting turkey sent his mouth watering. He glanced up. His heart jolted. All thoughts of outlaws and interrogations fled his brain. He’d just seen Elizabeth hours ago, yet she’d done something different with her hair, or maybe it was a new dress. She was so beautiful, she’d rooted his feet to the floor. Jack swallowed. Doing his job had just gotten a whole lot more difficult.

  Chapter Ten

  Elizabeth soon discovered one thing about the lawman—he sure knew how to eat. She heaped a third helping of apple pan Dowdy onto his scraped-clean plate while he looked on with rapt interest.

  “I couldn’t possibly have any more,” Jack protested, drawing the plate closer to his chest, his fork poised in the air. “But since you’ve already served some up, I’d hate to see it go to waste. I’ve never eaten a finer meal, Mrs. Cole.”

  His formal address set her back a notch. “You’re welcome.”

  He’d been different all evening, though pinpointing the exact difference eluded her. His manners remained impeccable, yet a hint of solemnity colored his actions. His conversation stayed smooth and rigidly correct—almost too correct. Perhaps that was the problem. On the one hand, his deference made her feel important, cherished. On the other hand she felt as if he was holding something back, keeping a part of himself hidden.

  The change in his attitude had her off balance, unsure how or why their relationship had altered. Instead of alleviating the tension between then, their encounter in the barn had heightened the strain.

  She fussed with her apron, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle from her skirt. “My mother always insisted on starting at the beginning whenever there was a problem. Let’s review what we know for certain. You’re looking for a man named Bud Shaw because he’s a bank robber.”

  “There’s more to it than that.” Jack’s knuckles whitened where he gripped his fork. “I put the wrong man in jail. If I don’t find the real Bud Shaw, an innocent man will hang. I can’t live with his death on my conscience.”

  Elizabeth’s hand flew to her chest. His raw confession lent her a rare glimpse into his vulnerability. He sat stiffly, as if waiting for her to accuse or berate him. But for what? She certainly wasn’t his judge and jury.

  After a moment she asked, “How can Bud Shaw prove this man’s innocence? I thought he was an outlaw.”

  “Because Bud Shaw is also in jail.”

  Elizabeth widened her eyes. “You’re searching for Bud Shaw. And Bud Shaw is in jail?”

  Jack pushed his empty plate forward, set his forearms on the table and clasped his hands together. His somber gaze fixed on a point just above her left shoulder. “I’ll start at the beginning.” He exhaled a heavy breath. “There was a string of bank robberies from Kansas through Colorado last year. They crossed into Texas sometime during the spring. My brother’s wife was shot during one of the robberies.”

  “Is she all right?”

  The stark agony in his exotic hazel eyes rocked her. He must have been close to the woman for such a reaction. An unexpected shaft of jealousy stabbed her. She pressed her hand tighter against her chest, quelling the hateful emotion. What kind of person was jealous of an injured woman? What was wrong with her?

  Certainly she was no stranger to jealousy and envy. Growing up she’d watched other families with yearning in her heart. She’d even noticed how Will had paid particular attention whenever a pretty woman passed by, but she’d never experienced this sort of spite in her heart.

  Jack seemed to gather himself, shrugging his shoulders as if divesting himself of the somber memories. “No. She didn’t make it.” He cleared his throat. “Emotions got involved during the initial hunt for the outlaws. People wanted justice, and they wanted it fast.” He finally met her sympathetic gaze. “In our rush to capture the outlaws, we made a mistake. There’s an innocent man set to hang, and I can’t save him.”

  As if physically weighted by the burden, his shoulders sagged. The gesture touched a place deep within Elizabeth’s heart. She understood the wearing pressure of guilt.

  She lowered herself to perch on the edge of her chair and leaned over the table. While she longed to reach out and press her hand over his, to absorb his pain, instead, she said, “Why do you think this man is innocent?”

  “Instinct.”

  She dug her fingernails into her palms. How nice it must be, to trust in one’s self. She’d lost that confidence the moment she agreed to marry a man who cared more for personal appearance than he did for his wife. She missed the sure knowledge of right and wrong, and her ability to judge the difference.

  “Did you investigate the other robberies?”

  He shook his head.

  “Why not?”

  “I only got involved because of my sister-in-law Doreen. My brothers are ranchers. I’m the only one in the family who had the background to investigate. Except that it’s not really what I do. I’m more of a negotiator. I’m good at tracking.” He stared at his hands. “At least I used to be. As for the other robberies, the Rangers had already done their job. Wasn’t much more I could do.”

  He appeared reluctant to elaborate on his job duties. Though she didn’t understand why, she decided not to pressure him. “Tell me what you think happened.”

  Jack cleared his throat. “We captured the wrong Bud Shaw.”

  “Two men and one name.”

  “Yes, but only one of them is a killer.”

  “It says here the Texas Rangers captured two outlaws.” She glanced at his jotted notes. “Certainly they can identify each other.”

  “Pencil Pete says the man sitting in jail is Bud Shaw, all right. Says Bud is the one responsible for shooting a clerk up in Colorado Springs, too.” Jack’s eyes grew cloudy, distant. “But I don’t buy it. Old Pencil Pete is too gleeful, too fired up about selling out one of his own gang. I’ve put plenty of men away for doing crimes. I’ve watched them trample each other to cut a deal. But I’ve never seen a man so eager to identify one of his own with nothing in return. Something isn’t right.”

  Heat from his simmering frustration washed over her in waves. She’d been around him long enough to see the subtle signs of his distress. The way he kept his palms flat on the table. The muscle that ticked along his jaw.

  She forced her own tightly clenched hands to relax. “Then we’
d best find the killer. I owe you that much.”

  Whether she wanted to admit it or not, he’d been a help around the farm. He’d cut wood and mucked stalls. He patiently instructed her on loading Will’s gun, he’d even kept Jo company, distracting the younger girl from the crushing boredom of laying in bed all day.

  Elizabeth hadn’t asked for the Ranger to barge into her life, but he’d made himself useful none the less. Assisting him in discovering a new lead served two purposes—she’d repay her debt, and she’d remove his reason for staying.

  She forcibly squelched the nagging doubts that sprang up each time she thought of Jack leaving. This was the right thing to do. He was a drifter and a loner. Men like that didn’t change.

  If her thoughts lingered over the way his voice gentled when he talked to Rachel, or the way the baby seemed to instantly calm in his presence, then she blamed the weather. The long winter had left her fatigued, and more prone to melancholy. Things would be better in the spring. There’d be more people around. Life on the homestead would be less lonely.

  The longer Jack stayed, the less she’d want to let him go. “Let’s start with the bank robbery.”

  She stood, crossed to the kitchen cupboard and swung open the door. For the first time in a long while, she had a concrete goal. A purpose. Her thoughts raced as she pulled down a lead pencil and one of her precious sheets of paper. “We’ll start with the last robbery. How many outlaws were involved?”

  “Three.”

  “How many people were injured?”

  His lips drew into a thin, white line. “Just Doreen. She was reaching for her reticule. One of the men spooked at the movement. He shot her.”

  She gave his hand a quick squeeze. “I’m so sorry about your sister-in-law.”

  “Thank you,” he replied, his voice husky.

  To ease the tension, Elizabeth jotted down several notes before flipping over the paper. “Sketch the inside of the bank and where everyone was standing. To the best of your knowledge at least.”