Winning the Widow's Heart

by Sherri Shackelford

  Elizabeth knew something was wrong the minute she reached the bottom step out the back door. An eerie hush had settled over the prairie. Not even the wind blew to rattle the hook dangling from the hayloft. She stumbled back up the step again, leaning one hand on the railing as she peered into the distance.

  No shadows stood out on the horizon, no ominous clouds hung in the distance. A muffled thump sent the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. She waited. When nothing out of the ordinary appeared, she took another cautious step.

  A crack sounded overhead followed by a shower of snow. Elizabeth shrieked, slipping and stumbling until, in her haste to escape, she teetered backward, flailing her arms and sitting down hard on the first step. Heart pounding, she scrambled to her feet.

  Her gaze snagged on a broken tree branch dangling above her head. The heavy weight of snow had snapped the limb. She pressed a hand to her breast with a sigh, slumping against the handrail. “Gracious, I’ve become a simpering ninny.”

  Feeling foolish for her cowardice, she retrieved her pail and set off for the barn. She’d had a revelation the night before, and she was anxious to share her newfound discovery with Jack. Her footsteps quick and light, she almost missed the trail of red splotches crossing the freshly cleared path.

  Paw prints accompanied the bloody trail, disappearing around the edge of the barn. The chicken coop!

  Elizabeth lifted the hem of her skirts and set off at a run. The prints looked fresh. A stray dog most likely. She rounded the corner and stumbled to a halt.

  Myrtle’s brown feathers with their distinctive white tips littered the ground in a sodden mass. “Oh, you naughty thing,” Elizabeth sniffled. “I told you escaping the coop would only get you into trouble.”

  She dug her nails into her palms. Myrtle might have been an annoying nuisance, but the poor thing didn’t deserve to end her life as dinner for a stray dog. Elizabeth straightened and stomped around the chicken coop, her boots crunching through the icy drifts, determined to scare away the beast that had eaten her mischievous bird.

  She lifted her pail. A dark form crouched in the snow. Her heart leaped into her throat, strangling her angry words.

  An enormous gray wolf bared its fangs as a low growl reverberated in its throat. Elizabeth took an involuntary step backward. A mammoth dusky paw inched closer. Her frantic gaze skirted the clearing. She had nothing to defend herself with except the flimsy tin pail clutched in her mittened hand.

  She’d encountered enough ruffians in New York to realize bullies sensed fear. Drawing herself up to her full height, she sucked in a shaky breath. “Go away,” she hollered. “Bad wolf.”

  The beast snarled in reply.

  “I said shoo!”

  Another beefy paw moved toward her in the snow. The animal slunk forward, its belly scraping on the frozen ground.

  So much for acting fearless.

  She gauged the distance to the barn door. How desperate and hungry was the wolf to be searching for food this early?

  Myrtle’s crimson blood darkened the animal’s snout, chilling Elizabeth. Where was the rest of the pack? Had this one become separated? Was it rabid?

  Her mind raced with possibilities. If she dashed to the safety of the barn, she still had to lift the heavy T-bar and shove aside the bulky door. The mangy beast would have her in shreds before she accomplished the task.

  A furtive movement caught the corner of her eye.

  The barn cat hissed.

  The wolf swung its scruffy head at the distraction.

  Elizabeth whirled, floundering in the deep snow, hampered by her long skirts. Not risking a look behind her, she dashed away from the barn. When the wolf’s fierce yelps didn’t sound any louder, Elizabeth chanced a glance over her shoulder. The cat had clawed its way up the side of the henhouse to perch on the roof. Beneath the overhang, the wolf danced in the snow, bounding from side to side, jaws snapping.

  Elizabeth skidded to a halt on the cleared path. Gasping, she pressed a hand to the stitch in her side. The house sat to her left, the bunkhouse and Jack farther to the right. Dare she lead the wolf to the house, even though the distance was shorter?

  The unmistakable gallop of padded feet pounded behind her, coming up fast.

  A plaintive howl spurred her into action.

  * * *

  At the sound of Elizabeth’s scream, Jack dropped his level and leaped over the carved wood pieces littering the floor. He fastened his gun holster around his waist while bolting to the door. In one swift movement he grasped his rifle from its perch and burst onto the porch.

  He slammed into Elizabeth with enough force to send them both sliding toward the shallow stairs. He caught her around the waist as they stumbled to the floor. Unable to cushion her fall, he jerked to lessen their blunt landing. Angling his body, he cracked his elbow against the wood, his sights focused on the animal bounding toward them. Ignoring Elizabeth’s cry of pain, he aimed the rifle and fired.

  The wolf yelped, its forward momentum halted as if it had smacked into a brick wall. Jack glanced around the uneven clearing formed by the three homestead buildings, searching for the rest of the pack. Where there was one animal, more were certain to follow.

  With raw fear rushing through his veins like a river current, he jerked Elizabeth to her feet. Half leading, half carrying the stunned widow, he dragged her into the shelter of the bunkhouse.

  Only when the door was safely closed and the latch firmly in place did he allow himself to search her trembling form for any signs of injury. Tears pooled in the corners of her eyes.

  Jack ran his hands down her arms. “Are you hurt?”

  “I’m fine, but—”

  Relief shuddered through him. He folded her in his embrace, wanting to wrap her in his warmth. With a muffled sob, she buried her head in his shoulder. Rocking her gently, he murmured soothing words against the delicate curve of her ear.

  “I must see to Rachel and Jo,” she said, her voice muffled against his shirt. She wrenched free of his arms.

  He managed to reach over her shoulder and slam the door before she exposed them both to certain danger. “You can’t go outside. Where there’s one wolf, there’s bound to be more. We have to be sensible about this.”

  “That wolf killed Myrtle,” she declared.

  He pressed his forehead against hers. “I’m sorry about Myrtle.”

  “I’m just so mad.”

  She actually stomped her foot.

  Sighing, Jack let her collapse against his chest. “I bet the old thing stuck in that wolf’s craw and choked him. Don’t cry.”

  “I refuse to cry. I didn’t ever used to cry.” She tipped back her head, her pale blue eyes standing out against her ashen face. “Having a baby has ruined me. I haven’t stopped crying in months. It’s ridiculous.”

  “You’re tired, that’s all. Things will look better when you get some rest.”

  “No. I’m not going to think like that any longer. Things have to change, now, or not at all. From this moment on, I will no longer be a simpering watering pot.”

  She set her chin in a stubborn line.

  “You’re the bravest woman I’ve ever met.” Once again he found himself wanting to rid the earth of every wolf and every danger that dared threaten her safety and peace of mind. “Wait here.”

  He circled through the bunkhouse, peering out each window to ascertain the level of danger. Three more wolves paced around the clearing. Fresh paw prints crisscrossed the snow, indicating additional animals.

  Jack spun the gun chamber. He had six rounds in his pistol, and more than three animals circling the homestead. They could wait it out in the bunkhouse until the wolves resumed their search for food elsewhere. He cut a glance at Elizabeth fidgeting near the door. No chance of that.
Keeping a mother separated from her baby was out of the question. They’d have to make a dash for it.

  He considered his options. The safety of three females depended upon him. If the pack was bold enough to attack the chicken house in broad daylight, he had to assume the worst. With food scarce for the winter, the pack was growing bolder. Gray wolves rarely attacked during the day.

  He reloaded the rifle with quick efficiency while Elizabeth paced the floor, chewing a thumbnail and peering out the windows every three paces.

  “It’s only been a few minutes?” Her tremulous voice rose at the end like a question. “They should be safe, right?”

  She didn’t have to say the names. “Rachel and Jo are fine.” He slid back the hammer. “If it came down to a fight, I’d put my money on Jo against a wolf any day.”

  Her face blanched. Jack leaped to his feet and wrapped his arm around her shoulder. “Don’t worry, they’re fine as long as they stay inside. I haven’t met a wolf yet who can unlatch a door.”

  “But what if Jo decides to check on us? What if she opens the door?”

  “I’ve never known two females so intent on creating trouble in their own heads.”

  “I’m not looking for trouble. I’m planning for the worst.”

  Jack gave her shoulder a quick squeeze. “We’re going to run the distance between here and the house.”

  Pulling away from her, he stilled his racing thoughts, drawing into himself, into the place where emotions and feelings weren’t allowed. A place where logic ruled.

  Emotions clouded judgment, and poor judgment got people killed.

  He carefully let the hammer down, squared his shoulders and settled his hat on his head. “How many wolves have you counted?”

  “I can’t tell for sure. They weave in and out of view.” Her head snapped up. “Will the rest of the farm animals be safe? Do you think they’ll get into the barn?”

  “Everything is locked up tight.”

  Relief flitted across her face. “I think maybe five or six wolves. I can’t tell for sure. They all look the same.”

  The twenty or so yards to the main house might as well have been a mile. Jack could manage the distance without much worry, but with Elizabeth, his options were restricted. “I’m going to step onto the porch and fire off a few rounds with my pistol to scare them off, then we’re going to make a run for the house. Stay behind me and don’t look at anything except where you’re going.”

  He handed her his rifle. “You’ve already managed the shotgun. This isn’t much different. It’s a Winchester Repeater. After you fire off the first shot, you’ve got a toggle action to load the second bullet. Ratchet back the lever arm. Make sure you hear the next round snap into place before you…”

  Her eyes had glazed over and her face was blank.

  “Uh.” She frowned at the gun. “A toggle action what?”

  “New plan.” He cocked the rifle, dropped the next ball into place and returned the gun. “You’ve got one shot. Make it count.”

  She nodded, her gaze fearful but determined.

  He propped the rifle against the wall and tugged on her hands. “Take off your mittens or you won’t be able to pull the trigger.”

  The minute their bare hands touched, his heart skipped over three whole beats. The barriers he had erected weakened. Taking a deep breath, he leaned his forehead on the door. A gentle hand touched his shoulder.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing. We’re going.”

  Determined to fight the distraction of her gentle touch, Jack handed her his gun. He grasped the doorknob, then paused. He caught Elizabeth around the waist and pressed a quick kiss to her lips. “Just follow me. You’ll do fine.”

  She stared at him, bemused. He couldn’t help himself. He kissed her again. The soft press of her lips, the way her body yielded, swaying into him, inflated his courage.

  “For luck,” he said.

  Right then, he felt like he could conquer the world.

  * * *

  Elizabeth didn’t know if her quickened pulse was from the thought of facing down a pack of predators, or Jack’s astonishing gesture. The minute he’d released her, his face had gone blank.

  “Are you ready?” he asked.

  The stock rested against her shoulder as she carefully aimed the sights away from him. For the second time in so many weeks, she risked shooting a Texas Ranger.

  “I’m ready.”

  Jack cleared his throat. “Dear Lord, keep us safe.”

  “Amen,” she murmured, wishing she had more words of wisdom to offer.

  He strode onto the porch first, firing off two shots in rapid succession. Elizabeth winced. He gestured to the left. “Keep an eye out that direction. I’ll focus on the right. Go!”

  Together they dashed across the clearing toward the cabin. Elizabeth struggled to keep her footing on the slick snow and still hang on to the rifle. As if attuned to her speed, Jack kept pace with her.

  A wolf bounded around the corner. Before she blinked, the animal lay dead from Jack’s bullet.

  He reached the porch first, then shouldered his way through the door and shoved her inside ahead of him. A rasping howl sounded behind them. The barn cat raced across the clearing, a mammoth gray wolf close on its heels.

  Jack bounded down the stairs, firing another shot. The wolf collapsed to the ground. The barn cat reached the bunkhouse, safely clawing its way up the porch support. To Elizabeth’s horror, a dark form appeared behind Jack.

  Gritting her teeth, she leveled the rifle and fired. The bullet caught the wolf in the hind quarters. The animal bellowed in pain, writhing in the pinkening snow. Jack pivoted on one heel and fired another shot, stilling the animal’s struggles.

  “What’s going on out there?” Jo shouted. “Is everyone all right?”

  “Don’t worry,” Elizabeth called. “I’ll explain everything.”

  Disturbed by the noise, Rachel whimpered. Elizabeth swung her gaze between Jack and the open door to the back bedroom. He loped up the stairs, brushed her aside and secured the door.

  She expelled her pent-up breath. After another quick glance at Jack to ensure he wasn’t injured, she rushed to retrieve Rachel. Moments later, she returned to the kitchen, bouncing the infant on her shoulder.

  Jack perched on a chair, casually inspecting his weapon. The daft man didn’t even have the sense to realize he’d narrowly escaped a fatal mauling.

  She paced before him. “Why on earth did you risk your life to save that silly cat! You might have been killed.” Her voice caught on the last word.

  He bent his head over the rifle. “I knew how upset you were over losing Myrtle. I didn’t want you to lose the cat, too. You’d never keep the mice out of the feed bin.”

  Her anger evaporated as she realized he’d actually been thinking of her the whole time. “I suppose she did save my life.”

  “Myrtle?”

  “No, the barn cat. Maybe it’s time I actually name her.”

  Jack appeared confused at the rapid change of subject. “You’re not still mad?”

  Elizabeth pinched her lips together. “Of course I’m still angry. I’m furious. That was foolish and foolhardy. You might have been injured.”

  “I’m fine. See.” He swept one hand down his chest. “Nothing happened. Tell me something. Why are women so bent on arguing about stuff that never happened?”

  “And why are men so determined to make even the simplest task a feat of danger?”

  She slammed into the bedroom with a huff. If she lived to be as old as Methuselah, she’d never understand men.

  Chapter Twelve

  Jack perched on a three-legged milking stool, his hands clasped before him, his knees
bent almost to his nose. The barn doors had been opened to the corral, letting the farm animals enjoy a rare slice of winter sunshine through fluffy white clouds dotting the brilliant blue sky. Ely McCoy paced before Jack’s view of the sunny afternoon, his arms folded over his barrel chest, a scowl darkening his heavily bearded face.

  “Strange business,” Ely said.

  “Yep,” Jack replied.

  The McCoys had appeared Sunday afternoon, distraught over the numerous gunshots fired and frantic to check on the women. Upon their arrival, the realization of Jack’s continued presence at the homestead hadn’t sat well with Ely McCoy.

  “’Spected you’d be gone by now,” Ely repeated for the third time in so many minutes.

  Jack sighed. “Couldn’t leave the women alone.”

  “Yep.” Ely bobbed his head. “I s’pose that’d be a problem.”

  The bearlike man resumed his agitated pacing. Jack was being called to task, and though he had a fairly good idea of the offense, Ely had yet to voice his exact displeasure. Jack’s confusion stemmed from Ely’s failure to form a coherent sentence. The neighboring farmer had paced and muttered for the better part of the last half hour. Every so often the burly man paused, opened and closed his mouth a few times as if preparing to speak, then muttered something unintelligible and set to pacing again.

  Jack puffed a warm breath into his cupped palms and chafed his hands together. He cleared his throat to defend himself, only to be halted by Ely’s stinging glare.

  Partially visible behind their father, the McCoy children roughhoused around the corral. One of the smaller boys climbed up the sturdy corral rail, spread his arms and plunged face-first into a snowdrift.

  Jack jerked to his feet. “Your son!”

  Ely swung around, then shrugged. “That fence will hold.”

  Jack pressed one hand to his throbbing temple. “It’s not the fence I’m worried about.”

  The youngest McCoy child, Adam or Abraham, had already scrambled back into position. His legs splayed for balance, he leaped into the air and belly flopped onto the packed snow.

  “Doesn’t that hurt?”