Romancing the Widow

by Davalynn Spencer

  “Martha?”

  Mama might push into her affairs, but she never burst through her closed door.

  “Come in, I’m up.”

  Aproned and wide awake from preparing breakfast, her mother sat on the edge of the bed and smoothed invisible wrinkles in the colorful quilt. “I remember when we made this and how often I had to soak out bloodstains from your pricked fingers.”

  Martha chuckled and sat down to pull on her boots. “It took me a while to get the feel for the thimble, didn’t it?”

  Her mother had not come up before breakfast lately, so something itched to get out beyond Papa’s hearing. Martha pushed a stockinged foot into one boot and began pulling the laces.

  “I’m sorry I can’t go with you today.”

  Martha paused, then continued tightening the laces. She’d never known her mother to be untruthful, but the woman was stretching the facts as tight as Martha stretched the black strings in her fingers.

  “Please be careful.”

  Tempted to jump into a tirade about her parents manipulating the entire situation, Martha sat up and regarded her mother. Two lines creased between the woman’s brows and unruly gray wisps flared from her hairline.

  “If you are truly worried about me in Haskell’s company, why did you and Papa work so hard at getting him to take me to Blanchard’s orchard today?”

  Her mother spread reddened fingers on her lap and studied them against her apron. “What I meant to say is, be careful with your heart.” She glanced at Martha’s small fossil collection. “Don’t keep it on a shelf as a monument to the past. Be open to what the Lord might have in store for you.”

  All the breath left Martha’s chest. This was not the usual mother-daughter talk she had suffered through during her schoolgirl years, pining over Tad Overton.

  Her mother folded her hands and raised her chin. Martha tensed.

  “God has given us a great capacity to love, but the choice is ours. I love both you and Whit more than I can explain. Differently, yet the same. One of you is not loved more than the other. And now Livvy and the boys have my love as well.”

  Martha tied off the first boot and reached for the second. “But you’ve had only one husband. Could there ever have been anyone else?”

  “That’s a hard question, I know. And I’ve not been faced with that loss, as you have.” Her voice softened and yearning filled her eyes. “You will always love Joseph, but you have enough love for Haskell as well. And loving him in Joseph’s absence from this earth does not mean you are betraying Joseph.”

  Martha tugged on the laces as her heartstrings tightened in her chest. Her doubts did not suddenly fly out the window, but they tested their wings.

  She tied off the second boot, then stood and held out her hands. “Thank you, Mama. I think the Lord must have sent you up this morning.”

  A quick embrace and she stepped back to press one more question. “But why Haskell? You don’t know him any better than I do.”

  Her mother pushed at her hair combs, then turned to smooth the bed where they had been sitting. Straightening, she looked Martha in the eye—a mirrored look that sent chills up Martha’s arms.

  “I have never seen you more yourself than when you are in his presence.” With that she turned and left Martha standing by the bed, feeling less a daughter and more a woman than she ever had before.

  By the time they finished washing the breakfast dishes, the clop of horse’s hooves echoed off the barn. Towel in hand, Martha looked through the door glass. Haskell dismounted at the corral and looped his horse’s reins over the rail. Papa was readying the wagon and Haskell led Dolly from the barn, already harnessed, and backed her between the shafts. The men worked in tandem, as if each read the other’s thoughts. Like Martha and her mother.

  She dried her hands and patted her hair.

  “Take my new hat.” Her mother lifted the broad-brimmed straw from the hooks by the door. “You don’t want to look like a baked apple after spending all day in the sun.”

  “Thank you. I really need to get one of my own, but I don’t think of it when I’m at the mercantile.” She tried it on and hurried to the mirror in the front hall. With a nervous giggle, she tied the ribbons beneath her chin. All she needed was a daisy in the hatband.

  The back door opened and Martha’s heart stopped. Why did such a divided pathway seem to stretch before her? Only one road led to Blanchard’s apple orchard east of town, but she sensed she’d be choosing between two that day.

  Lord, help me choose well.

  When she entered the kitchen, Haskell’s face warmed with—what? Was he laughing at her foolish hat, spreading nearly over her shoulders?

  “You’re ready.” A pleased expression pulled at his mouth and his eyes darkened. He curled the edge of his hat brim, held loosely in one hand.

  Her mother handed her the picnic basket and gave her a peck on the cheek. “Don’t be late for services.”

  “We won’t.”

  Haskell gave his characteristic nod and stepped aside for Martha to exit.

  A crisp fall morning greeted her. Stacked bushel baskets filled half the wagon bed and she set the picnic lunch beneath the bench seat and shoved it to the center. A handy distance for reaching from the ground, plus a safe divider.

  The memory of Tad’s inappropriate advances at the social on Sunday shuddered through her.

  “Martha.” Her mother stood on the back porch holding a quilt and Martha’s light wrap.

  “I’ll take them,” Haskell said, reaching for the bundle.

  He laid the quilt and Martha’s cloak in the nearest bushel basket, then offered his hand. Warm and strong, it gripped hers as she climbed up, and he steadied her elbow with the other.

  Safe. He made her feel safe. Protected.

  The wagon creaked and swayed slightly when he pulled himself in and settled beside her, kicking the picnic basket with his foot. He looked down and a slight twitch tugged at his mouth. A warm blush swept her cheeks and she turned her head, grateful for the wide brim.

  He gathered the reins, flicked the mare’s rump and they set off at a lazy pace down the lane, east onto Main Street and into the open country that stretched between town and the Blanchards’ farm. It would take at least a half hour before they reached the sheltered valley where apple orchards quilted the fertile landscape.

  The sun warmed her hands and her body, and cloudless skies promised a fine clear day. As they jostled along, Martha looked over her shoulder and counted the bushel baskets. They assured several hours of hard, hot work in the kitchen. Love’s labor, her mother called apple harvest, with its cooking and canning and drying and baking.

  The hat prevented any sideways glances at her companion, but on pretense of scanning the countryside, she turned her head enough to study his profile. Strong. Kind. No tension in his jaw. No coat, just his vest but without the star. He seemed genuinely relaxed, and a slow smile lifted his mouth. Quickly, she looked ahead.

  A soft laugh rumbled deep beside her. She straightened her back and stared at Dolly’s bobbing head.

  “This road is smoother than the one to your brother’s ranch, wouldn’t you say?”

  She felt his gaze and chanced a quick glance. The coil that was her stomach loosened. “Much. Even if we came across a sunning rattlesnake, we wouldn’t risk turning over.”

  Startled by her unwitting mention of the snake, she looked at his hip. As always, his gun lay easy there. She hadn’t spotted it earlier. It was such a part of him that she no longer noticed it at all.

  Feeling bundled up tight, Martha untied the ribbon and set the hat aside.

  “Much better.” He washed her hair and face with a look that rippled clear through her.

  Her cheeks warmed again, but replacing the hat would send the wrong message. “I’ll need the
hat later, when the sun is higher and relentless. Right now it feels good on my face.”

  “It looks good on your face.”

  Leave it to Haskell to speak his mind so easily. This outing might turn out to be more than she expected. She needed to keep the conversation on safe ground. “Have you picked apples before?”

  He laughed aloud. Free of mockery, the sound encased them, drawing them together in a shared and secret moment. Something feathery brushed against her heart.

  * * *

  Haskell slapped the reins on the lagging mare. At this point in his life, he figured he’d done most everything that qualified as new and adventurous. Apple picking wasn’t one of those things, but he fully counted on it to top the list.

  “No, this is my first venture to an apple orchard, but I’m sure it will be worth the day’s work for the pies and apple butter I’ve sampled at your table.” And the uninterrupted time spent with a woman whose cheeks bore the same tender glow as the smooth, firm fruit.

  They topped a rise and orchards spread before them in blocky green patches, some edged with a tarnished warning that the season was changing. Farmhouses and barns peeked out of scattered clearings, and dogs barked in the distance. Martha clapped her hands.

  “I love this part—the surprise of seeing the valley so green and full and awaiting harvest.” She took a deep breath. “Can you smell it? The rich, sweet nectar?”

  He inhaled and drew in only dust from the mare’s steady hoofbeats. “Not exactly.” He coughed.

  Martha laughed and leaned toward him. That picnic basket would not be between them on the ride back to town.

  “I’m sure it’s my imagination. Or anticipation. But this is the only fun part of picking apples. Everything else is a lot of hard work.”

  “But it has great rewards.” He glanced at her sideways.

  “As you said, you’ve never picked apples. Wait until you’re up a tree with the fruit just out of reach and you risking your neck if you take another step.”

  He groaned at the irony. She looked at him full-on. “Is something wrong?”

  “No.” He shook his head and chuckled. “You just have a way with words.”

  “Well, I was a teacher, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t.” But he should have. “Why aren’t you teaching now, here in Cañon City?”

  She folded her hands and straightened her back. “I wanted to do something different, at least for a while. So I joined the Women’s Reading Club and I went on an excursion to the fossil dig and I hope to teach drawing to anyone interested in landscapes.”

  At least he knew some of those things. “Sounds like you have plenty to do without adding teaching to your list.”

  She smiled up at him and his backbone turned to applesauce. She had more power over his nerves than any gun slick he’d ever faced.

  “Maybe after Christmas. Mama and I will be busy enough canning and preserving for the next few weeks. November and December are full of preparation for the holidays. In January it will be too cold to go up to the quarry. Maybe the schools can use an extra teacher when classes start again.”

  “How did you become interested in dinosaur bones?”

  She cupped her hands like a bowl on her lap and gazed into them. “Years ago the curio shop in town had fossils displayed that area ranchers had dug up on their land. It was like a miniature museum. Professors from eastern universities came to see the massive bones and they eventually set up digs in a heated race over who could find the best specimens. Wagon load after wagon load of gigantic bones were shipped to museums around the country. I was fascinated by the evidence of creatures that lived so long ago but no longer roamed this country. Or any country, for that matter.”

  The wagon’s wheel hit a washout and at the sudden jolt, Martha gripped his leg. Catching herself, she quickly withdrew her hand and looked away. “Pardon me. I guess I’m jumpier than I thought.”

  If that infernal picnic basket wasn’t wedged beneath the bench, he’d pull her closer.

  “Don’t worry. You won’t hurt me.”

  She gasped at his presumption and shot him a wicked glare that quickly turned mischievous. “Wait until I’ve got you up an old apple tree, Mr. Jacobs.”

  Wait until I’ve got you in my arms. He rubbed a hand over his face, hoping to clear the fog. He hadn’t even checked for anyone following. Where was his head?

  He glanced behind them to an empty road. His best opportunity was the top of the hill, but they were already down the far side and into the valley.

  “Turn into the next farm on the left. That will be the Blanchards’ place. He has ladders in his barn that we always use, so stop there first.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He flicked the mare into a trot and they turned down a tree-lined lane that rivaled groves he’d seen in the East. Driving into a different world, they were immediately swallowed by apple trees. A winelike perfume suffused the air. “I smell it now.”

  “Told you.”

  Her childlike anticipation infected him. Surrounded as they were by a lush orchard, it was easy to forget his job as a ranger. And he planned to do just that. At least for a day.

  He pulled up at a neat red barn with green wagons parked nearby, and Blanchard himself ambled through the broad double doors in his dungarees, a pitchfork in hand. He swiped his head with a forearm but failed to hide his surprise at Haskell’s presence.

  “Mornin’, Miss Hutton. I see you’ve come to get those apples.” He took in the bushel baskets. “I expected your mama to be with you.”

  Haskell jumped to the ground and waited at the mare’s head.

  “She wanted to come, but her ankle still bothers her from a fall she took the other day.” Martha gestured to Haskell. “Mr. Jacobs here kindly agreed to help. May we borrow one of your ladders?”

  Apparently satisfied that Haskell hadn’t kidnapped Martha and brought her out against her will, Blanchard grunted something and motioned for Haskell to follow him into the barn. A moment later Haskell shouldered a ladder and a long pole and laid them in the wagon bed.

  “Thank you, sir,” he told the farmer. “We’ll bring them back before we leave.”

  He climbed in and picked up the reins. “Which way?”

  Martha twisted in the seat and looked around. “I want the Gano variety. They ripen first and are good for nearly everything, but if I remember correctly, they’re out a ways.” She pointed to a narrow lane that led away from the barn. “Take that path.”

  They drove deeper into the orchard where most trees hung full with green apples just beginning to ripen. As they continued, the fruit darkened to a bright red. “Here,” she said. “Pull up here and we can pick a few and see how they taste.”

  Before Haskell had a chance to loop the reins on the brake handle, Marti hopped to the ground, hiked her skirt and made a beeline for the nearest tree. The woman wasted no time once she saw what she wanted.

  Would she ever want him?

  * * *

  By midday, he’d climbed enough trees to appreciate good footing. He’d poled branches, knocked apples to the ground and helped Martha scoop them into an apron she’d brought and dump them into the baskets.

  As she took off toward the next tree, he raised both hands in surrender. “Enough!”

  She whirled and rested her hands at her waist. “Are you surrendering? Is that it, Mr. Ranger?”

  He’d soon be loco with that playful look and taunting voice. No child on a schoolyard had a chance with her, much less a man like him.

  “Guilty as charged.” He dropped his hands. “I’m starving.”

  Her eyes flashed and she stooped to pick up a fallen apple. One eyebrow cocked like a pistol, and she bounced the red orb playfully. “Why not have an apple?”

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
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  Innocence washed over her features and she tilted her head. “Do what?”

  He ducked and the apple hit him in the arm. “That.”

  Laughter bubbled into her eyes and out of her mouth and she grabbed her skirt in both hands and bolted away.

  He was supposed to be chasing an outlaw, not a red-haired beauty flying through an apple orchard with her lace-up boots peeking beneath her skirts. Her laughter rolled behind her like the Sirens’ song and he was helpless to go anywhere else but after her.

  Out of breath, she stopped behind a tree and circled one way as he circled the other. He lunged, then switched back, catching her off guard. She screamed and turned, but too late. He caught her left arm and she jerked around into him, falling against his chest, laughing and gasping for breath.

  Without thinking, he cupped her head in his hand and pressed his mouth against hers. Sweeter than any apple, the taste of her drowned all reason.

  He lifted his head and pulled her closer, her chest heaving, her hands pressed against him but not resisting. Then she looped her arms around him and laid her head on his chest. And all of heaven and earth stood still in the circle of his arms.

  Chapter 16

  Martha’s heart pounded against her ribs and Haskell’s hammered in her ear. He held her as if she might fly away, and, at that moment, she did not doubt that her emotions had taken flight.

  He played. Without hesitation, he’d chased her and laughed with her and kissed her senseless. She had yet to judge if he was merely toying with her.

  If her parents’ approval was any indication, Haskell Jacobs was an honorable man. The day would tell.

  She pushed gently. His arms fell from around her, but his eyes imprisoned her in a blue gaze she had no desire to flee. Yet like a jealous child, doubt whispered in her ear, He’ll soon be leaving. The truth of the words weighed on her spirit and she shook the dust from her skirts to shake the words from her mind. “We’d best be getting back to the wagon and our lunch.”

  She turned to lead the way and stopped short. In the chase, she’d lost all sense of direction. Even the mountains were hidden from view, surrounded as they were by row after row of apple trees. Fear sneaked in and pressed close to doubt.