Inheriting a Bride

by Lauri Robinson

  White sheets draped the furnishings, and dust motes floated in the shaft of light as if they’d been sleeping for years and just awakened. In the center of the room was a long couch, and the impressions in the sheet said someone had lain upon it, perhaps slept there.

  Why would Clay sleep here, when the upstairs had to contain bedrooms? She walked to the far end of the room, to a wide staircase hugging the wall. No light brightened the landing, making her assume all the windows upstairs were covered as well. She turned and made her way back across the room. The house had an oppressed, empty feeling. Pushing the chair back where it belonged, she let out a sigh as the curtain fell back into place, shrouding the area in darkness once more. Or maybe it was just her that felt empty. Though she wanted to meet Sam—after all, her greatest wish in life had been to have brothers and sisters—she felt browbeaten.

  If someone had told her that her grandparents had lied to her her whole life, she’d have called him a liar. Yet that’s what Clay had told her, and she knew he wasn’t fibbing. It all made sense. Gramps’s trips to Colorado. How highly strung Grandma was during his absences, how excited she would grow, anticipating his return, and then how sad she’d be for weeks after he finally arrived.

  Kit left the big front room, released the wedge beneath the kitchen door and dropped it in the wood box, and then, feeling fidgety, gathered the cups and pot from the table. After depositing the cups in the sink, she carried the pot to the back door, and discovered it led to a porch that ran along the entire side of the house, complete with railings. She walked to the far edge, where the mountain continued to climb upward several yards away, and dumped the contents over the rail. After taking several deep breaths to calm the crusade going on in her head, as well as fuel her dwindling spirits a touch, she turned.

  This side of the house faced the stamp mill, and on a narrow path that curved around a few large boulders, she spotted Clay. He was hurrying—not running, but not walking casually, either. The trail went from the mill to the house, with a little offshoot that led to the back of his office. There was a paddock, too, behind his office, and that’s where he stopped. She watched him open the gate and cross the corral, patting horses as he went. When he entered the barn on the far side, she carried the coffeepot back into the house.

  There were a thousand things she could be thinking about, yet wasn’t. Her mind was focused on one thing. Why didn’t Clay live in this house? Why would he “usually stay at his office” when he had all this just a short walk up the hill?

  She washed the coffeepot and cups, dried them and returned everything to the places she’d seen him take them from. Her fingers lingered on the cupboard doors. The cabinets, finished with a thick coat of glossy white paint, ran along one entire wall. She spun, taking in the room in a long, thoughtful gaze. The room was full of furnishings, everything needed for preparing meals, yet it gave off an untouched feeling. Kit shook her head, partly to dispel the loneliness of the room, partly in confusion. A house like this needed to be lived in. It cried out for love, for a family.

  A wave of sentiment stopped in her throat. It wasn’t the house crying out for a family, it was her. She always had been. Ever since she was a child, it was all she’d ever wanted. A real family. With a mother and father and brothers and sisters. The hole inside her hadn’t come about when Gramps and Grandma died, it had always been there. Their love had just kept it from consuming her.

  One would think that when she finally discovered something deep and profound about herself, she would feel a sense of relief, because now she could set about making changes to obtain what she had always wanted. But that wasn’t how it was for Kit.

  Not at all. The more she thought about it, the sadder she grew.

  Needing air, she walked out the back door and moved to the stairs, breathing deeply. She sat on the top step and covered her face with her hands. What if Sam hated her, wanted nothing to do with her? That might be worse than never meeting him. Tired and confused, she found her mind grew more jumbled with each breath she took.

  “Ready?”

  When she lifted her head, her insides seemed to burst open at the gentle concern on Clay’s face.

  “Hey,” he said, climbing off the horse. “What’s happened?”

  “Nothing. Everything.” She wiped her cheeks with both hands, sniffling and swallowing, trying to block another wave of sadness from engulfing her. It all seemed so useless. Her. Her life.

  “Kit.” He sat down next to her. “I know this has been a lot to take in.”

  She nodded, unable to speak.

  His arm slid around her shoulders. “Come here,” he whispered, tugging her closer.

  She leaned against him, gladly accepting the comfort his arms offered. It was like a blanket, warm and protective, a shield against all the pain bearing down on her.

  He twisted, tucking her into his chest. “Let it out, honey. Bottling it all inside isn’t good for you.”

  His gentle tone, and the way he rocked her, slowly, soothingly, broke through the final inner obstacle. With a shudder, she let the sob out, and then cried, burying her face in his shoulder. She wept for it all—her mother. Gramps and Grandma Katie. The not knowing. The knowing.

  Clay held her the entire time, rocking her and whispering little words of comfort she didn’t hear, but felt. They helped, as did the way he shifted slightly and folded his arms all the way around her. The pain eased, slowly but surely, and when the storm inside her settled, dissolved into little more than a mingling ache, she let out a deep sigh and twisted her face, fitting her cheek against the solidness of his shoulder.

  They sat there a while longer, as if he knew her spirit needed time to rebuild. It did, and when she finally had the strength to lift her head, Clay’s flower-blue eyes were there to meet hers.

  Filled with understanding, his gaze never wavered from hers. “Better?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “Good.” He leaned closer and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

  The action touched her deeply, set off a gentle flood of contentment. Crying so should embarrass her, but his compassion alleviated any shame.

  He sat back then, rubbing her shoulders. “Did you still want to go see Sam? We can wait for another day.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I mean yes, I want to go see him. I don’t want to wait.”

  One of Clay’s hands went to her cheek. “You know, Kit, sometimes we can’t understand why people do what they do. We can’t comprehend what they were thinking or feeling.”

  Closing her eyes, she nodded.

  His lips touched her forehead again. “So don’t go blaming yourself for any of this,” he whispered.

  His strength, his benevolence and generosity must have somehow transferred themselves to her, because willpower seemed to grow inside her. Or maybe she just didn’t want to disappoint him. Either way, it made the gloom dissipate. Glancing at him, she nodded. “I won’t.”

  “Good.” Smiling, he said, “Then let’s go see Sam.”

  The warmth of Clay’s palm and the gentleness of his voice were so precious. “Thank you,” she whispered. The gratitude she felt was beyond compare. Feeling renewed, refreshed even, like the air smelled after a rain, she lifted her face to the sky. She might not have had the family she dreamed of, but at least she’d had a family. Gramps and Grandma had loved her so much, and it was more than many orphans had. She wouldn’t resent it. Nor them for the choices they’d made.

  Holding both her elbows, Clay assisted her to her feet, and with a nod, gestured toward the horses standing in the grassy area near the railing. “You remember Andrew?”

  The smile on her face was genuine. “Yes. Hello, Andrew.” She greeted the big, red-brown horse as she walked down the stairs.

  The animal tossed his head and let out a little nicker. She patted his neck and then moved toward the silver-colored horse next to him. “And who do we have here?” Holding up one hand, she turned to Clay. “No, don’t tell me. Martin. After
Martin Van Buren, the eighth president of the United States.”

  Clay grabbed her hand, tugging her around Andrew. “No, this is Rachel.” Leaning close, he whispered, “She’s a mare.”

  “Forgive me,” she said to the animal. Patting the horse’s silky mane, she asked, “Rachel? Andrew Jackson’s wife’s name?”

  “Yep.” Clay patted a blanket rolled up behind the saddle. “The seat’s padded, but I brought a blanket just in case you get, uh, tender. Let me know and I’ll strap it to your saddle.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “But I think I’ll be fine. It was the wool britches I had on that caused the problem last time.” Since his gaze was on her brown velvet skirt, she added, “This dress will be fine.”

  “You sure? We can stop at the hotel if you want to change.”

  She grabbed the saddle horn. “I’m sure.”

  He bent over, cupping his hands. “Here, step in and I’ll hoist you up.”

  Unsure exactly how he would do that, she lifted a foot. He caught it with both hands, and it was as if she flew right into the saddle, landing with a plop that caused her to emit a tiny squeal.

  “You all right?” He touched her knee as worry filled his eyes.

  “Yes,” she assured him, while adjusting her skirt around her legs. “I’m fine. I just didn’t expect it to be that easy.”

  He looked as if he was contemplating something deep and hard, holding her gaze the entire time. “Not everything in life should be difficult, Kit.” He reached down and grabbed the reins. Flipping them over Rachel’s head, he handed Kit the ends. “Some things should be easy. Just fall into place as they’re meant to be.”

  She took the reins, but before he pulled his hand away, he squeezed her fingers. “No worries?”

  Kit shook her head. With him beside her, it was easy to believe the world was a wonderful place. “No worries.”

  “All right, then.” A second later he mounted Andrew. “The trail’s not too bad, but it’s slow going in some spots. I’ll warn you before we get to those.”

  She nodded, following his lead.

  They traversed the narrow space between the back of the house and the mountainside, and then met up with a well-worn trail. Rachel’s gait was smooth and Kit found herself relaxing in the saddle, even when the trail went straight up in places and sloped downward in others. “Why do you name your horses after presidents? And their wives?”

  Riding beside her, Clay shrugged. “Named the first one George just for the heck of it. From there, it just kind of happened. Rachel was the first wife, though.”

  “She’s pretty.” Kit ran her fingers through the horse’s long mane. It was nice, talking about inconsequential things that gave her mind a reprieve. “Did you know Rachel Jackson had been married before she and Andrew wed?”

  “Yep,” Clay replied. “And I know they thought her divorce was final when they got married, but it turned out it wasn’t. Three years later, they got married again.” Giving her a wink that made her breath catch, he added, “Makes you wonder about those three years, doesn’t it?”

  When the silliness inside her slowed, Kit asked, “How do you know that?”

  “I read it.”

  “You like to read?”

  “Yes, very much.” He propped one hand on a knee as the horses plodded along. “Oscar encouraged that. Every visit he’d bring both Clarice and me a book or two. We’d look forward to them all year.”

  Happy to recall good things about Gramps, and be thankful for them, Kit nodded. “Books were his favorite gifts. He always brought them home for me, too. From his trips out here.”

  “Did you really talk to the city about starting a library in Chicago?” Clay shrugged and glanced aside as he added, “Jonathan mentioned it while you and Clarice were in the bedroom last night.”

  She felt a twinge in her heart, and willed herself not to focus on it. The library wasn’t the bright spot it once had been. “It’s …” She paused, not understanding what she felt. “It was just a silly dream.”

  Andrew stopped, as did Rachel. Kit glanced around, wondering why, until she caught the way Clay looked at her. Her heart skipped a dozen beats all at once.

  He shook his head. “Dreams aren’t silly, Kit. We wouldn’t have the world we do if people hadn’t had dreams and pursued them.”

  Another dream flooded her mind. The one she’d had upon arriving in Nevadaville, about her living in the house she now knew was his. The staircase leading off that dark front room was exactly like the one in her dream had been.

  He clicked his tongue, urging Andrew forward, and she kneed Rachel, staying beside him. They rode in silence, which only gave her more time to contemplate things.

  When he glanced her way, her mouth opened. “Why don’t you live in your house, Clay?” She bit her tongue, but it was too late; the thought had already voiced itself.

  Air lodged in his chest. He knew she’d eventually ask, yet he still hadn’t figured out what he’d say. No one knew, not the whole story, and he liked it that way. However, there was a part of him that wanted to tell someone, knew it would be the final step to putting it all behind him.

  He took a chance and glanced her way. Her brown eyes, what he now saw as windows to her soul, looked at him gallantly, yet he noted the hint of apprehension, as if she hadn’t wanted to say what she had. It was then he realized she was the one he wanted to tell his story to.

  “I didn’t build it for me,” he said, looking back at the trail ahead of them. It was rocky, and though the horses were surefooted, he needed to pay attention to every step.

  “Who’d you build it for?”

  He scratched at the hairs on the back of his neck, now standing at attention, irritating him. “For a woman.”

  “Oh.”

  That was it. All she said. What had he expected her to say? Tell me about her? Who was she? He let out a sigh, wishing he’d never said anything. Should have just kept his mouth shut. Holding her while she’d wept had made him think of things he hadn’t thought of in a long time—mainly, how empty his life really was.

  “Who was she?”

  He’d let his guard down, that’s what had happened, and that was a foolish mistake. The desire to talk left him. “Just a woman.” Pointing ahead, he said, “The trail gets rough up there. You’ll have to follow behind me. Plant your feet deep in the stirrups and hold on to the horn.”

  “All right,” she said.

  He nudged Andrew, getting ahead of her, even though the trail was plenty wide enough for a ways yet. There was no rhyme or reason to how his insides were reacting. Nor his mind. Last night, when he’d arrived at his house, he’d expected Miranda memories to meet him at the door. But they hadn’t. All he’d thought about all night was Kit, and the confusing things she stirred up inside him. Plus how badly he wished things were different …

  Over the past two years, he’d spent a lot of time thinking about Miranda while traversing back and forth to the mine. Yet right now, he couldn’t recall why. He knew she had long black hair and blue eyes, yet no image of her formed. Then again, everyone knew her hair and eye color, because that’s how papers described her when reporting a show she’d been in the night before. Until last year, he’d had a stack of those papers, each one proclaiming the outstanding performances of Miranda McCoy. Actress extraordinaire. Now performing with a troupe in Paris. Not even the thought of that, her departure, wrangled up old feelings.

  The treacherous section of trail he’d mentioned appeared. It went straight down, barely wide enough for a horse to traverse, with perpendicular cliffs stretching straight up on both sides.

  “You doing all right back there?” he asked without turning around.

  “Yes.” Kit’s answer sounded solid, and moments later she asked, “How long is it like this?”

  “Not far. Just keep your seat in the saddle. I don’t want you flipping over Rachel’s head.” He pinched his lips, wishing he hadn’t said that last sentence.

  “Yeah, well,
you keep in your seat, too. I don’t want to have to pick you up off the ground after these horses trample you.”

  Her gruffness tickled him. “Anyone ever tell you you sound like your grandfather?”

  “Yep. Grandpa himself.”

  “You’re made of tough stock, Kit Becker.”

  “And you best remember that, Clay Hoffman.”

  He laughed, enjoying the banter and the sound of humor in her voice. “There’s a couple rough spots ahead. Hang on.”

  “I am.”

  He planted his feet deeper in the stirrups and leaned back as Andrew headed down the steepest point. It was a tedious ride, but the last piece of this trail was the worst. A three-foot dropoff left only a small chunk of flat terrain for the horses to land on, and it was edged by a cliff that ended miles below. Once they made that final corner the hilltop evened out into a long plateau that led almost all the way to the Wanda Lou.

  “Kit, coming up is a dropoff. I have to be all the way through before you step off it.” He glanced over his shoulder. “I’ll tell you when, all right?”

  “All right.” With a nod, she added, “Turn around and watch where you’re going.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he teased. The tricky spot was just ahead, and he patted Andrew’s neck. “You’ve done it a hundred times, boy,” he whispered. The words were as much for him as they were for the horse. Normally the jump didn’t faze him, but the thought of Kit doing it made his heart thud.

  Less than a minute later, he instructed, “Pull Rachel to a stop.”

  “Here?”

  “Yes.” He brought Andrew to a halt so she had to stop. “The dropoff is just ahead. I’m going to jump down and then come back for you.” There was no reason to take a chance when it wasn’t necessary.

  “I thought you said we’d step of fit.”