She stepped aside. “Bring him in.”
The men hustled forward, panting under the weight of their burden. At the bed, they released him, and he toppled face-first onto the quilt. The ropes beneath him groaned in protest as he came to rest.
Harvey stood over him a moment, then turned to her.
“Is there anything else you need?” he asked.
“No, Mr. Winkleman. I thank you for your efforts.”
Harvey reddened. “Mrs. Justice, don’t judge him harshly. He’s rough, I’ll admit, but a good man.”
“So his brother told me. Still, I do credit my own eyes.”
Her husband’s partner lowered a satchel from his shoulder. “He asked me to give you this.”
He held out the bag. Inside she found fragrant soaps, men’s hair tonic and a silver toothpick.
She eyed Harvey with suspicion. “These are from you.”
He dropped his gaze and patches of color stained his cheeks.
“Do you spend all your time cleaning up his messes?” she asked.
His eyes met hers. “I wouldn’t if he wasn’t worth the effort.”
She smiled at that. Jacob said much the same, as she recalled. “I see. Thank you, Mr. Winkelman.”
He hesitated and then withdrew. She bolted the door behind him then went to check the box stove, rousing embers hidden in the ash. She found a pot and skillet, coffee, oats, honey, flour, salt, soda, bacon and beans.
Kitty awoke, and Clara cooked them biscuits and bacon. She hoped that Nathaniel would rouse to the smell of supper but he remained motionless. After their meal, Clara heated water and bathed her daughter in a washtub. Clean of the dusty road, she dressed Kitty for bed and tucked her beneath the new blanket before singing her a lullaby.
The traveling had been hard on them both, and her daughter’s eyelids grew heavy as she struggled in vain to stay awake. Her breathing told Clara she slept so she rose from the tiny bed, feeling suddenly exhausted.
She stretched her aching back muscles and went to fill the bucket from the rain barrel beside the front door. As the water heated, she removed her dress, washed and quickly changed into her nightgown. She glanced toward his bed that would be large enough for two if he did not lay squarely in its center. She removed his muddy boots and set them by the stove to dry. She lit a lamp to chase away the shadows as the day rolled into night.
They would share this bed, and he would have rights to her person. That was the bargain she’d struck when she agreed to be his wife. A small price to pay for all he offered. An unexpected quiver of excitement stirred in her belly as she remembered his lusty embrace. There was no denying the effect he had upon her. She had never experienced so strong an initial attraction.
She folded her arms about herself, shamed by her reaction. What would Jacob think of her now?
“But he wanted this,” she whispered. “He insisted. Made me promise to go to him whether he agreed to take us or not.”
What was it he had said? Go to him. He needs you now.
From what she saw, the man required nothing she could provide. Need her? She would be well satisfied if he merely tolerated her and was kind to her daughter.
Regardless of his present state, this man had taken her when no one else would. Gratitude filled her. In slumber, he did not seem menacing. She took a step closer. Was this what Jacob had seen when he’d looked at his younger brother?
In his state of unconsciousness he slept peacefully. She studied his face, becoming familiar with the sharp angle of his jaw, the square chin and faint lines etched at the corners of his eyes.
Feeling tender, she leaned forward to whisper in his ear, “I’ll be a good wife to you, Nathaniel, and make this house a home.”
She straightened, waiting for some flicker of acknowledgment. Receiving none, she glanced about the rough plank walls and sighed. The task would be difficult. This place was so wild. She turned to Nathaniel once more. The surroundings suited him. He seemed half-wild and as imposing as the Rocky Mountains.
She lifted a hand and stroked the rough skin of his cheek. Jacob had told her he had a restless heart, never staying in one place for long. What was he searching for?
Could she help him find it?
She wondered if she should remove his clothing and then decided she couldn’t manage that. She sighed. His boots would have to do.
The way he sprawled facedown upon the bed made it impossible for her to squeeze beside him. Tapping did no good. Nudging or shaking gained her no reaction.
She studied his position, then grasped his shoulder and tugged, succeeding in lifting him only a few inches from the mattress before releasing him. Her second attempt failed as well. At last she rested his near arm up over his head and this time managed to roll him toward her. She fell panting upon his chest and, as he stirred not at all, she allowed herself to rest there a moment, enjoying the steady beat of his heart.
She felt hopeful for the first time since Jacob’s passing. Perhaps he did know best. This was his brother, after all, no matter how different in appearance. And if he was half the man her late husband had been, she would be lucky indeed.
A crackling sound beneath her caused her to draw back.
Letters spilled from his coat onto the quilt between them. She recognized the writing, and her breathing caught. Jacob’s last letter—the one he’d written when he was so ill. She ran a finger over the uneven scrawl. He had struggled with the pen and with his words, refusing to let her perform this final task for him. The envelopes propped against Nathaniel’s side were both addressed in her hand. Her chest constricted as she recalled composing those dreadful messages. The trapped, desperate feeling returned, and she forced a long breath as she collected herself. Then she noted a final letter peeking from his breast pocket. She inched closer.
It was addressed to her.
Chapter Three
Clara reached for the letter with trembling fingers. She recognized Nathaniel’s hand by his tight even letters. The arrival of such an envelope had brought great joy to Jacob, who loved to read about his brother’s adventures in the cavalry and later in the California goldfields. But this letter was addressed to her. He appeared to have used pencil rather than pen for this particular correspondence.
She sat beside him upon the bed and lifted the slim envelope from his pocket, tilting it toward the lamplight.
He had not sealed the flap.
She drew out the folded page and scanned the date, written just two days past. She glanced at the formal greeting as her gaze galloped over the words and then came screeching to a halt. She released her grip upon the page and the letter fluttered to the floor.
A mistake. That was what he called it. He promised sufficient funds for their support, but did not wish to marry her.
But he had. She balled her fist and thrust it into her mouth to keep from screaming as the truth of her situation rained down upon her like hailstones.
He didn’t want her.
What had he said to her earlier? I’d never have the guts to marry you sober.
Out of duty to his brother or pity for his child, he had married her. But he had second thoughts strong enough to ask her not to come. She lifted the letter and read his words again.
Sorry to have made such a rash offer.
Jacob must have told him. This letter removed all doubt.
No wonder he needed to get drunk to meet her at the altar. It was the only way he could stomach saying his vows. The kiss he gave her told her plainer than words what he thought of her. No man with an ounce of respect for his bride would kiss her in such a scandalous manner, unless he thought her a prostitute. A man could kiss that kind of woman any way he liked.
Deep in her heart, she had never believed the words that Jacob had said to her, that she was good and pure and that she was not responsible for what had happened but merely the victim of a lecherous, evil man. Now that he was no longer here to reassure her, she listened to the other voices, the ones that whispered in her ear that no amount of
learning or starch could change what she was. She knew it, and her new husband knew it as well.
Nate woke to the sound of singing and wondered where he was. His head ached and he reeked of alcohol. He squeezed his eyes closed against the sunlight and rolled to his side. His gut heaved.
For the next several moments he remained motionless, trying to convince his stomach not to release its contents. The song came again, sweet and high, followed by a woman’s voice telling her to hush.
“Your daddy is sleeping.”
Daddy? He opened one eye and found a blond child staring at him, her lip thrust out in a pout.
“That’s not my daddy. My daddy died of fever.”
Why did his pillow smell of lilacs?
A looming sense of dread rose with the contents of his stomach. He hurtled to his feet and charged across the floor. The little girl screamed, running to her mother as Nate cleared the steps and vomited into the street.
He stood with one hand propped against the rough exterior wall, sweating and panting and then heaved again, releasing the bile wrung from his guts.
Finished at last, he sank to the stone step. He covered his eyes with the pads of his fingers, trying to stop the pulsing pain behind his eyeballs. Remembrance crept into his foggy brain.
Clara had arrived. He recalled her standing in the street surrounded by the scent of lilacs. Harvey had been there and the preacher.
Oh lord, no. He had done it.
He released the pressure on his eyes, surprised his skull did not crack open like an eggshell. He patted his chest. He didn’t feel married—just hungover.
But he was married. God help her, she’d said “I do.” How dire must her situation be that she would marry a slobbering drunk? His hand went to his clammy forehead as another memory emerged. He’d kissed her. Not just kissed her, he’d—he’d…
He rubbed his head and groaned. What must she think of him?
Then he stiffened as another possibility struck him. What else had he done to her?
Nate searched his mind, but he couldn’t remember a thing after that kiss. That he’d remember until they put him in a box. He had kissed his brother’s widow as if she worked in a brothel. Embarrassment filled him, and his head sunk another notch.
He had no right to wed this woman. He could think of hundreds of men more deserving, men with honor and morals who would know how to treat a lady.
But Jacob hadn’t asked some other man. He’d asked his brother. He believed Nate was capable of being a proper husband. Lord help him, he didn’t have the first clue.
And he’d certainly made a grand start.
He heard the swish of her skirt on the planking as she came to him and wished he could crawl under the stone step he’d laid with the help of a winch and ox. Instead, he turned his gaze upon her only to see her bearing down upon him with a full bucket of water drawn back like a notched arrow. Instinctively, he ducked as she hurled the water. It sailed past him and into the street, eliminating evidence of his disgrace. She returned the way she had come. He breathed a sigh of relief that he had not been the target of her assault, though it was no more than he deserved after yesterday.
He closed his eyes a moment and when he blinked them open, he found her standing beside him with his coffeepot in one hand and a tin cup in the other. He accepted the cup, and she leaned forward to pour.
Oh, she had a fine figure, prettier than he remembered from yesterday. She wore a deep blue dress today. His heartbeat accelerated as she stooped before him. He could smell her again and breathed deep.
Suddenly he was glad he had not mailed that letter.
“Thank you,” he said.
She nodded and stepped back.
“Will you be joining us for breakfast, Nathaniel?”
No one called him that but his parents. He didn’t like the sound of his full name, since it often foretold of his catching hell for some damn thing or another.
“Call me Nate.”
“If you like.”
She stood beside him, waiting. He glanced up and saw her red, swollen eyes. He blinked as understanding crashed down upon him. She’d been weeping.
Of course she had and why not? She’d married a drunk who kissed her like he owned her and then passed out. He groaned again.
He opened his mouth to apologize and then shut it. Where to begin?
“Breakfast?” she asked again.
He tried to judge if there were other signs of damage. Her lips did not look swollen. She moved without apparent discomfort.
“Clara, did I, that is to say, did we…”
The woman did not make it easy on him. Her eyes and her silence accused him.
He stood and reached out a hand toward her and she stepped back.
“If I’ve hurt you, I am sorry for it.”
“You have not hurt me in that way.”
His shoulders slumped in relief. He was so thankful he had not molested her that it was not until she had returned to the house that he wondered what she meant.
He stood staring after her as she pressed dough into biscuits on a small board that rested on a wide plank placed over two barrels. Over half of this plank, she had spread a white linen cloth embroidered with bluebells. He blinked in disbelief. The cloth looked as out of place in his cabin as snow in July.
He stripped off his coat and shirt, leaving them on the step as he walked to the creek and dunked his head, wishing he could drown himself rather than face her again. After a moment he righted himself and then shook like a dog. Returning to the cabin, he dressed once more. He retrieved his cup from the step and downed his coffee like a shot of whiskey. Then he gathered wood from the woodpile, delaying his return to her as long as possible.
Somehow the smell of biscuits, the tablecloth and cutlery she furnished transformed his cabin, making it now seem more hers than his.
He stood before the table as if it were an altar. Nate fingered the raised pattern on an unfamiliar spoon and then drew his hand back as she turned. The child sat silent before him with watchful eyes.
“Did you wash your hands?” Clara asked.
He hesitated only a moment before lying. “Yes.”
She looked surprised. “I was speaking to Kitty.”
He nodded, grateful for the child’s name. For the life of him he could not conjure it from his befuddled mind.
“Yes, Mama,” said the girl showing clean palms to her mother.
She turned to her daughter and mopped her face with a wet cloth as if she were polishing a teakettle. He hoped he would not receive similar treatment.
“Sit,” she ordered, and he did so.
The meal stretched on for centuries. Glaciers moved with greater speed. The scrape and squeak of cutlery on tin offered the only respite from the silence. If this was married life, he planned to start work on a new cabin forthwith.
“I’m finished, Mama,” said the child.
She received another mopping before being released like a trout to the stream.
“Go sit on the step with Rebecca.”
He wondered who Rebecca might be as the girl whirled across the floor as if dancing with some invisible partner. Did the woman have a baby he had not seen? Dread filled him at that possibility, and he craned his neck to watch the girl.
Kitty went to the small bed he had completed before deciding he could not go through with this farce. She grasped the arm of a doll with porcelain head.
Rebecca, he decided as relief flooded him.
“Stay on the step, Kitty.”
The child sat in the doorway, chattering to her doll as she pointed toward the street.
Nate turned his attention back to the woman. He gave himself a little shake—not the woman, his wife. A sense of pride he knew he did not deserve grew within him. She was a woman to make any man proud. He planned to start this morning and make things right with her. He’d care for her the best he could and look after the child.
She laid something on the table before him. His stomach dr
opped as he recognized the page. It was the letter he had never sent.
Chapter Four
He stared at the damning evidence and understood the accusation in her eyes. She knew.
His ears tingled with heat as if he’d been caught in some crime. But he had written it for her own good. This town was no place for the likes of her. They had no churches and no schools. He met her gaze. She’d be better off elsewhere.
She drew a breath and then began, “I know you do not want us and that you only married me out of duty to your brother. I am sorry to be an imposition upon your sense of honor. No doubt you deserve better than me.”
What did that mean, better than me? According to Jacob there was no better woman in all of New York State. Before he could say so, she was speaking again.
“Regardless of what you may think of me, I would not have married you had I known your feelings on the matter. I do have some pride.”
Shame and sorrow curled within him like smoke. How could he tell her that he did not find her lacking—that the fault lay with him? He had not the first notion of how to be a husband, let alone a father to a little girl. And he couldn’t be the kind of husband Jacob had been. Even knowing it was wrong for Clara and the girl, he had done as his brother wished.
Now this good and trusting woman stood before him, offering herself. Pearls before swine, that’s what his father would say, and he had gobbled them up.
He cleared his throat. “I’ve come to know you through Jacob’s eyes, Clara, and now I behold you with my own. Any man would be lucky to have you.” He was about to tell her the reason he wrote that damn letter, but he stopped short.
No. He had his pride as well. He stared into her gray eyes, watching them fill with tears.
“Yet you asked me not to come.”
Nate could not deny it.
“If not for Kitty, I would leave on the very next stage. But on her account, I cannot. Jacob thought it best we come and I respected his wisdom. I ask that you do not fault my daughter for the foolishness of her parents. It is for her sake and in deference to my husband that I will stay and honor the contract of our marriage.”
Wed Under Western Skies Page 22