He scooted back from the dining room table. “Thank you, ma’am.” He nodded to Livvy who responded with a warm smile.
“You are quite welcome, Mr. Jacobs.”
To Mrs. Hutton, he added, “Whit’s offered us the use of his buckboard. I’ll be saddling up so we can get on the road and have your wagon repaired before dark.”
“I understand, Mr. Jacobs. Martha and I will help clear things away and be right out.”
If he had his way, he’d be taking Martha Hutton out to the porch and clearing things away between the two of them. He was too old for games and he wasn’t about to chase her like a spring calf. Either she’d have him or she wouldn’t. And the sooner he found out what was wrong, the better.
The axle was an easy fix between the men, and within a couple of hours, Haskell was driving to Cañon City, seated on the bench next to Mrs. Hutton. Martha rode Cache, who had decided to show his gentle side, and Whit was driving his wagon home with two youngsters in the back, as full of boyish pranks as Haskell had ever seen. He chuckled to himself and the sound drew Mrs. Hutton’s attention.
“Do you find humor in this situation, Mr. Jacobs?”
The woman’s voice so resembled her daughter’s that he cut a sideways glance to banish his doubts. Martha still rode next to the wagon with a stiff back and a stiffer jaw. She’d regret it come morning.
“Only in the boys, ma’am. They are quite a pair.”
At the mention of her grandsons, the woman’s formal attitude eased and she sent him a beaming smile. “Aren’t they? Oh, but they are so like their father when he was that age. Full of vinegar yet with little hearts of gold.”
Martha snorted.
Annie took to studying her hands, and Haskell couldn’t see past the sides of her bonnet. Something intangible shot between the two women. An unspoken regret. He skirted that badger hole and gave the reins a light slap as the yellow mare turned onto the main road.
By the time they pulled up to the parsonage, he wished he’d eaten more at dinner. Lights had still shone from the hotel dining room as they passed the St. Cloud, and he hoped they’d have something left after he unhitched the wagon and bid the Huttons good evening.
A saddled horse stood tied to the corral. He reined in the mare and the preacher bounded down the back porch steps.
“Ten minutes more and I was coming to find you.” His worried gaze took in first his wife and then his daughter seated atop Cache.
“What a day,” Annie said as she reached for her husband’s shoulders and allowed him to lift her from the wagon. “We have quite a story to tell you, but let’s get supper on the table first. Help me inside, dear. I’ve sprained my ankle and am not quite my quick-footed self.”
Haskell caught the parson’s suspicious look. He’d talk to the man later, after the womenfolk gave him their rendition of the day.
Looping the reins around the brake handle, he jumped down and offered his hand to Martha.
“Thank you, but I can dismount a horse, Mr. Jacobs.” If her chin jutted any higher she’d drown come the next rainstorm.
Considering himself an all-or-nothing sort, he linked one arm around her waist and dragged her from the saddle. She’d stomp into the house without a word if he set her down, so he caught her under the legs with his other arm and made no move to take her inside.
She had instinctively circled his neck with both arms and he liked it. She sucked in a breath and her heart fluttered against his chest like a bird in a hunter’s hand.
“Set me down this instant.”
If she screamed, he was done for, but her demands contradicted her actions. Both arms remained round his neck. Which signal did he act on—her words or her gestures?
“We need to talk.”
She blinked but held his eyes in a bold challenge. “About what, Mr. Jacobs?”
“About you calling me Haskell, among other things.”
She relaxed a hair.
“Very well, Haskell. Kindly set me down.”
The edge she added to his name confirmed that she’d bolt the minute her feet hit the ground. The warmth of her body seeped into his, melding them together. He intended to keep it that way for as long as possible.
“Do you promise not to run off?”
She looked away. “Yes.”
“You’re lying.”
She went rigid again and knifed him with a cold glare. He wanted to laugh aloud, swing her around in his arms and feel her lips against his. Instead, he bounced her up as if to drop her and she gasped again and tightened her grip, tucking her head against his shoulder.
Much more and he would taste those lips. Instead, he dragged reason to the surface and laid out the facts.
“Number one—I am not going to drop you.”
She raised her head and looked straight into his eyes.
“Number two—I am not your enemy.”
Her chin lifted a notch.
“Number three—When we arrived at the ranch you were sweet as molasses and when we left you were cold as stone.”
She swallowed hard, an act that drew his eyes to her slender throat.
“Why?”
Her arms relaxed but she didn’t let go and addressed her comment to her father’s horse tied to the corral. “Why what?”
He bounced her and her head jerked back to face him.
“Look at me and ask me that.”
Twins as close as her nephews shouted from her dark eyes—one anger and the other fear. The first he expected, the second set him back. He lowered his voice.
“You have nothing to fear from me, Martha.”
“Really? You are holding me against my will and yet you say I have nothing to fear? Were I to scream, my father and all our neighbors would be out here in a heartbeat ready to lynch you from the nearest tree.”
“Then scream if you’re truly afraid.”
She hesitated and his heart stopped.
At last she let out a defeated sigh. “Fine. I won’t scream.”
His arms ached, more from wrestling earlier with the upturned wagon than from holding her small, warm body. “Promise me you won’t run away and I’ll let you down.”
She nodded.
He couldn’t hold her all night, as much as he wanted to, so he lowered her feet, keeping one arm around her waist. She stood against him, her hands resting on his chest. Had she forgotten or did she want them there?
She looked up at him. “Why what?” The edge had softened, the tone deepened.
“Why did you distance yourself when we left the ranch—no—before that. At dinner. You had a word for everyone but me.”
Her dark eyes searched his. “Why do you care if I spoke to you or not?”
He let go of her waist. “You answer my question first and then I will answer yours.”
Her hands slipped away and the sensation left him feeling abandoned. She clasped her fingers and dropped her gaze. “I overheard you speaking to Whit in the barn about Tad Overton.”
Though he already knew about their past, her admission twisted a knot of jealousy inside him. “Are you still fond of him?”
A small laugh escaped her lips and she shook her head. “That was many years ago and I was a child. I haven’t even seen him since my return. But I don’t want to see him—shot.”
Her hand flew to her mouth and the two dark pools welled.
He reached for her other hand and held it between both of his. “Do you suspect he’s a horse thief? Is that why you think I’d shoot him?”
She did not pull away but lowered her free hand to her stomach. He leaned nearer.
“I’ve seen a man die from a gunshot wound. I don’t care to see another.” Her small hand stiffened in his. “Now you must answer my question.”
Chapter 12
Haskell linked his fingers with hers and Martha found herself responding. It was too easy to yield to his strength, to be swept up in his encompassing gaze. Three times he had held her, but this time not from necessity. Though she’d insisted her set her down out of propriety, she had felt safe in his arms, protected. More so than she had in months.
It was as if he knew. Had Whit told him about Joseph? Why had he thought she was fond of Tad? How much did he know?
As doubt and mistrust hefted themselves into a formidable wall, Haskell raised her fingers to his lips and held them there. His warmth invaded her. His chin was rough with a day-old beard, and she thought to lay her hand against his face.
Instead, he pressed it to his chest. His heartbeat pounded into her hand and down her arm until it mingled with her own.
“I care about you, Martha Hutton. I care that you talk to me, smile across the table at me like you do for others. I want to hear your voice and your dreams and—”
He stopped, startled by his own words, it seemed. Her temples pulsed and she grappled to maintain clarity of thought. Was Haskell Jacobs declaring himself to her?
Releasing her hand, he stepped back. “I apologize. I had no right to force myself upon you in such a manner.”
She wrapped her arms about her middle, suddenly chilled without his touch. The back door opened and her father stepped out. “Supper’s on, you two. Best hurry before it’s gone.”
Haskell reset his hat. “I’ll unhitch the wagon, settle your horse for the night and be on my way.”
Did she dare ask him to stay? She’d done so once before and regretted it. But this time she feared she’d regret not asking him. Make a fresh start, her mother had said. Oh, if she could just sort out her thoughts.
The jangling harness broke through her confusion.
“Stay.”
He turned his head toward her, his face shadowed. Martha held her breath. The quick jerk of his chin served as reply, and he finished unhitching the mare.
She looked around as if waking from a dream. The sun had long since set and night was creeping up against the house and barn. She gathered her skirts and took the back steps with care. Her heart raced as if she’d run all the way from the ranch. At the door she turned. Haskell looped his horse’s reins on the corral, then unsaddled her father’s horse and led it into the barn.
I care about you, Martha Hutton. So did her mother and father and grandmother. Did he mean what she hoped he meant?
She curved her fingers at her lips, the way he had held them against his own. Something stirred in her breast, broke through a stony sheath and spread delicate wings.
Livvy had stated the obvious. Yes, Martha had hopes. She just hadn’t expected them to materialize in the form of a Colorado Ranger hunting the boy she’d once cared for.
With a twist of the doorknob, she stepped into the welcoming atmosphere of the parsonage. Her parents’ affection for each other laced the room like a tangible thread. It had held her and her brother firmly to the family fabric in their childhood.
Tad had just the opposite—a gaping hole. His father’s death embittered his mother, and he had no one to teach him how to be a loving, helpful son. He had chosen the wrong path through the hard place of loss.
Choice.
Her father read at the table and glanced up as she moved past. She washed her hands at the sink and dried them on a dish towel. Of all the things she’d had no control over in her life, she still had the power to choose her response to those inequities.
She peeked at her father. How often she’d chosen to resent his involvement, his interference, she had called it.
At the stove her mother leaned heavily to her left, favoring her right ankle. Make a fresh start. Even by not choosing, one chose a path: a barren desert place or pastures full and green, like those at the ranch.
Martha pressed her mother’s arms from behind, brushed her cheek with a quick kiss and shooed her away. “Go sit and put that foot up. You know what Livvy said.”
Her mother groused but retreated to her chair at the table where her husband lifted her foot into his lap, much to her distress. Martha turned away from the intimate scene. What if Haskell walked in on such a display?
When he opened the door, her mother nearly turned her chair over. To no avail she tried to free her foot from a husband who took too much delight in her discomfort. His eyes sparkled in the warm lamplight, but he conceded by scooting closer to the table, hiding her foot beneath the cloth.
Haskell halted and shot Martha a look, his hand suspended above his hat on the way to remove it.
“Please, come in,” she said, failing to keep the laughter from her voice. Her parents were as lively as her nephews and always had been. She glanced sideways at Haskell and shivered at the memory of his earlier threat to drop her. Had he been playing? Heat climbed the back of her neck for even considering such an intimate question.
She hurried to the pie safe for two vinegar pies. In-between pies, the family had always called them, made prior to the apple harvest.
Their Arkansas Black trees were heavy with fruit, but not enough for the winter, not with her father’s sweet tooth and her mother’s fame for apple butter.
Four place settings already topped the table, and Martha added the pies and a tureen of leftover soup that might stretch among them. Another parental trait—making do with what they had and sharing even that with outsiders.
Somehow, there was always enough.
Haskell filled the room with his hesitation, no longer the decisive ranger or gallant knight come to rescue the ladies. He waited at the door, hat in hand, and combed his fingers through his dark hair.
“You can wash up right here.” Martha pulled a clean towel from a drawer, laid it on the counter and then moved out of the way. Far away. As far as she could go to the other side of the table to fill each cup with coffee and catch her breath. She set the pot on the table and took her seat as Haskell joined them with an unreadable expression.
Had he misspoken outside by the wagon? Did he regret hastily confessed emotions?
Keenly aware of him and feeling still the strength of his arms, his lips on her fingers and his breath on her face, she steadied herself as she raised her hand to his. Her father’s strong grip encased her other hand, and his deep voice carried them all before the Lord.
“Thank You, Father, for bringing these three home safely. Thank You for Haskell’s protection and help with the wagon, and for Whit’s generosity. And thank You for Your grace and this food. Amen.”
Mama must have told him about the snake. Martha prayed she hadn’t mentioned Livvy’s bold observations.
Her mother ladled soup into the men’s bowls and Martha sliced the first pie and set a piece on each person’s plate. The informality of their family meal relaxed her. An old Sunday school lesson came to mind of Jesus knocking at a door, asking to come in. As Livvy had that very day in her own home.
Martha regretted her immaturity and noted gratefully that everyone was intent on their meal and not her emotional fluctuations.
“So I hear you are a dead shot.” Her father lifted his spoon to his mouth and his eyes to Haskell who, in turn, gave Martha a quick look. Gripping her coffee cup, she raised it to her lips and hid behind it.
“On occasion.” Haskell spooned a mouthful.
“This one for sure, thank the Lord,” her mother put in. “He fired once and that was that. I can’t imagine what Martha and I would have done had we been alone.”
Martha focused on the coffeepot. One shot had killed Joseph.
Coffee splashed onto her plate. She eased the cup to the table and prepared to excuse herself when her father’s touch stopped her.
He leaned close, his voice a near whisper. “It’s all right, Marti. You can do this. You can face it.”
He held her with his dark eyes as well as his gentle hand. He was right. She could not keep running every time a gun was mentioned. She’d be running her entire life. She clasped her hands in her lap. Lord help her.
“Caleb, did I mention that Mr. Jacobs also rescued my apple butter jars unscathed from their trip over the gulley’s edge?”
Thank you, Mama. Martha puffed out a tight breath and picked up her fork.
“That is a rescue, indeed.” Her father raised a brow. “If you didn’t get a chance to sample it, then you’ll want to attend our fall basket social next Sunday after church. Annie always donates her last jars of the season to the fund-raiser. We’d love to have you.”
* * *
It was bad enough that this family welcomed Haskell into their home on such equal standing. It was bad enough that Martha had not rebuffed him for his earlier empty-headed ramblings and sat within arm’s reach. But now they had invited him to a social event. He, a gunman, a blatant reminder of what a bullet could do, and a man set on bringing in the one-time object of their daughter’s affection.
That must be it.
Disappointment soured the sweet vinegar pie on the first bite. The custard melted in his mouth and slid down to land on the Huttons’ ulterior motives.
With Tad Overton out of the picture, they could stop worrying about Martha and see that she was married off to a more respectable man. A younger, more stable person, like a banker or a merchant. Maybe that telegraph operator at the depot or a young farmer from their church.
As far as they were concerned, Haskell was just a hired gun with a badge, and they were paying him off with kindness. He choked on the pie.
All three Huttons looked at him.
“Did I add too much vinegar?” Concern edged Mrs. Hutton’s voice.
“No.” He set his fork down and coughed into his napkin. “No, pardon me. It’s very good. It just went down the wrong pipe.”
Martha’s mouth tipped in an appealing way. Reaching for his coffee, he cut a glance at her mother, a physical prophecy of Martha’s future. He stole a look at the pastor who, by all outward appearances, was a man at peace with God, himself and the world.
Romancing the Widow Page 10