Romancing the Widow

by Davalynn Spencer

  “What is it?” Concern deepened Haskell’s voice and he reached for her hand. He must have discerned what taunted her, for he smiled and bent her fingers in his elbow. “This way.”

  He watched the ground as they walked. Of course. He was tracking their steps. Martha studied the path he took between the trees but saw no signs of anything other than grass and bird-pecked apples fallen from their branches. The sun bore straight down upon them. So much for her mother’s garden hat.

  And then she heard the mare nicker.

  “Oh.” Relief huffed out and she fingered her bodice. Haskell’s hand tightened atop hers and she looked up.

  Stopping, he turned to face her and took both her hands in his. “I told you once before that I will never hurt you. I meant that. Nor will I let anyone or anything—like being lost—hurt you.”

  Never. That was a long time. A word she’d cautioned her students not to bandy about. Did Haskell use it lightly or did he mean it?

  Without taking his eyes from hers, he lifted one hand to his lips as he had before. Her breath fled at the gesture and she fought for stability. Which was more demanding—running through the orchard or yielding to his touch?

  His stomach growled and Martha giggled, setting them both free from the moment. She withdrew her hand and hurried to the wagon for the picnic basket. He followed and retrieved the quilt.

  Kneeling on the bright patchwork Haskell spread on the ground, Martha unpacked two small crocks of chicken potpie, molasses cookies and a jar of lemonade. She gave him a fork, a napkin and one of the pies, and set the cookies and lemonade between them. Two empty apple-butter jars served as glasses.

  Martha poked through her pie crust, but Haskell waited. She looked at him, expecting some disappointing word about chicken. But he’d eaten it at the social on Sunday. Surely he wasn’t put off by what her mother had packed.

  Then she remembered and set her pie aside. “Would you like to offer thanks or shall I?”

  He held out his hand and she took it. He linked his fingers through hers and bowed his head. “Thank You, Lord, for this day and this food and this company. Amen.”

  She kept her eyes shut tight, but the smile burst from within. Haskell had followed her father’s lead on prayers that were brief and to the point. “Amen.”

  Mama had outdone herself. If Martha ate all of her serving, she’d not be able to finish filling the few bushels that remained empty in the wagon. Already she longed to lie back on the patchwork quilt and nap in the shade.

  But a lady did not fall asleep in an orchard alone with a man other than her father or husband, regardless of how honorable that man might be. Goodness, as it was, Mr. Blanchard was sure to set the gossip fires burning over her traipsing into his orchards unescorted by a family member.

  But she was no young, inexperienced girl. She glanced at Haskell, who had given in to the urge to stretch out and close his eyes. He’d linked his hands beneath his head and dark lashes rested on his tanned face. How tempted she was to lean down and return the kiss he’d given her. How easily she could lay her head on his broad chest and close her eyes to the beating of his heart.

  Heat rushed up her neck and she reached for the lemonade. Such thoughts should be reserved for one’s husband. And what made her think he’d ever consider a match between them? He knew little of her background and she knew less of his, and nothing of his intentions for that matter.

  A kiss or two did not a proposal make.

  What if he intended to leave after he caught the horse thief? As much as she had resisted believing that Tad was the culprit, she could see he fit the pattern. His sudden appearance with a twenty-dollar gold piece laid suspicion at his feet. He could have been stealing horses for years and Martha wouldn’t know any different. Maybe the Colorado Rangers had good reason to be on his heels.

  She reached again for the lemonade jar and Haskell’s eyes opened. He sat up and stretched his arms overhead, flexing his shoulders and hands.

  “So when will you arrest Tad?”

  Her question stilled his movements and his eyes narrowed. A ranger’s mask slipped across his face, just as it had the first day she’d asked him what he was doing in Cañon City.

  “Does it matter?”

  Blunt, if nothing else. At least he spoke his mind. In that way, they were much the same, except propriety kept her from speaking her mind as far as he was concerned.

  “I suppose not,” she lied, careful to look anywhere but into his piercing gaze. “I just thought you’d take him back to Denver or wherever you take your prisoners and go home to...wherever home is.”

  He watched her for a long moment and she dreaded what he might say—leaving tomorrow, never returning, moving on to the next assignment. She sipped her lemonade.

  “I’d like to settle down here.”

  Coughing like a sick cow, she sloshed the contents of her short jar onto her lap and the quilt. She covered her mouth with one hand and sopped up the spill with her apron.

  “Would it be that bad to have me around?”

  She flashed him an embarrassed look and saw that he was dead serious.

  “No. You...you just surprised me. I expected...”

  “What did you expect?”

  She’d better close her mouth before she talked herself into a corner.

  “I don’t know what I expected.”

  “But you do know you’re a terrible liar, don’t you?”

  The heat in her face rivaled the cookstove with a full kettle of apples, and she regretted not grabbing her hat. Very well. If he wanted to play this kind of chase, she’d join him. She untied her wet apron and stuffed it into the picnic basket, then began packing their dishes and leftovers. He snatched the cookies before she got to them and shoved one in his mouth whole.

  “I expected you to leave. To go on to your next assignment. I dare say Cañon City does not often draw infamous hoodlums to the river’s banks, though we have had some trouble with vandals up at the quarry lately.”

  He crossed his legs Ute-fashion and bit into another cookie while watching her. She closed the basket and made to stand. He stopped her with a light touch.

  His gaze brushed across her hair and cheek and neck, leaving as much heat in its wake as the summer sun at noon.

  “The sheriff asked if I’d be interested in running for office. He’s going back to Missouri after the election.”

  Haskell Jacobs had a knack for stealing her breath, either with his lips or with what those lips had to say. “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him I’d think on it.”

  “Well.” Profound for a schoolteacher. She could have said nearly anything, like “Please do” or “Would you?” or “You’d be a wonderful sheriff.” The last phrase nearly slipped out but he stopped her short.

  “What do you think?”

  * * *

  The verbal chopping block’s rough surface scraped Haskell’s neck and he swallowed hard. Never once had he asked someone other than his father what they thought he should do. But he wanted to know, needed to know this time. It meant the difference between riding out and coming back or just riding out.

  He’d catch Tad Overton, that was certain. Either in the act or through a witness. But what he did after that was up to Pastor and Mrs. Hutton’s widowed daughter. If she’d have him, he’d stay. If not, he’d never look back.

  Fear took a choke hold on his belly.

  Mixed emotions warred across her features—the fear and doubt he’d seen when she thought they were lost, and another he hoped was yearning. One word, just one was enough.

  She fumbled with her skirt and folded and unfolded her hands. Each gesture tightened the grip on his gut.

  Finally, she took a breath and held it in, then met him eye to eye. “I’d like it very much if you decided to run
for sheriff.”

  The grip broke with such force he felt gut-kicked. The air rushed out of him and he held up a hand and waited as breath seeped into his lungs. “There’s only one problem.”

  She wadded her skirt in her fists and straightened her back as if bracing for a blow. He should have told her and her parents long ago.

  “Different people in town know me by two different names.”

  She stared, her lips parted, her brows drawn. “What do you mean?”

  “My name is Haskell Jacobs. But it is also Haskell Tillman Jacobs. Sometimes I go by Haskell Tillman—at the hotel, the café, the livery. With others, I use Haskell Jacobs.”

  A sigh escaped her perfect mouth and her shoulders relaxed. “I see.” One hand fingered her bodice. “You frightened me. I thought you had deceived us.”

  “In a way I have. I should have told you and your family the whole truth. Then I wouldn’t have to explain it when I ask for your hand.”

  Her fingers stilled and she regarded him with doubt.

  He reached across the picnic basket for those fingers. “If you will have me.”

  She blinked, rolled her lips together and peered into the orchard behind him. Interlocking her small hand in his, she drew her eyes to his and favored him with a warm smile. “Yes, Haskell Tillman Jacobs. I will.”

  He laughed and pushed the basket aside. She came willingly into his arms, and he kissed the top of her head. To do more would lead him into dangerous territory, and he had given his word.

  Could it really be this easy? Had God really answered his prayer?

  She eased back and spread her skirt over her feet. “Did Whit tell you anything about my marriage?”

  Uncertainty edged her voice. Guilt called for his confession, but he wanted to hear her version, get that glimpse into her heart. He resisted the urge to pull the pins from her hair and let the braid fall over her shoulder. “I’d like to hear it from you.”

  She tugged at a loose quilt thread. “I was Mrs. Joseph Stanton for two wonderful years. Joseph pastored a small church in St. Louis and I taught school. One afternoon early last fall, Joseph was in town on church business and left late to come home. Near dark.”

  She drew in a shaky breath and continued in a careful tone, as if unfolding an old and faded letter. “He stepped out to cross the street and a bullet from a drunkard’s gun hit him in the back of the head.” Her voice dipped. “We had no children.”

  Haskell ached to hold her, to kiss away the pain that etched her face, to shield her from the world’s evil.

  “Your gun put me off for quite some time, but I am grown-up enough to know that not all men who carry guns use them for ill purposes. It may take me a while to become accustomed to one so close, but I am willing to try.”

  A smile trembled on her lips and his heart twisted. He would die protecting her, if need be. But he preferred to live out his life as her husband.

  “I’ll not be able to set it aside if I am elected sheriff.”

  She closed her eyes. “I know. But it’s who you are. I cannot ask you to be anyone other than who you are.”

  He pulled her to him and simply held her until the mare whinnied them back to the moment. Time had kept its steady pace and already the sun had slipped past its zenith. He stood and helped her to her feet, and they packed the basket and quilt in the wagon bed. She leaned over the back, surveying what they’d accomplished.

  Only two bushel baskets remained empty. They could hurry to fill them or come back another day, but he might not get that chance. It was his fault they hadn’t finished.

  He lifted a bushel over the edge.

  “It’s all right, Haskell.” She moved to the mare and stroked its shoulder. “We have plenty. We’ll need to unload before dark anyway, and I’d rather enjoy the trip back than overwork Dolly trying to get her home too quickly with a full load.”

  A metallic click lifted the hair on Haskell’s neck. The basket dropped and he slapped his holster.

  “Ah-ah-ah.” The voice closed in and a gun barrel pressed between his shoulder blades as a hand slipped his Colt from the leather. It landed among the trees with a dull thud. “Have a seat, Ranger Tillman.”

  Martha froze beside the mare, her face pale as death. “Tad.”

  “Why, darlin’, I’m so glad you’re happy to see me.”

  The man walked around in front of Haskell and pointed the gun at his chest. “I said, have a seat.”

  Haskell lowered himself to the ground, keeping his eye trained on Overton’s trigger finger. Anger at his own stupidity nearly overrode his good sense.

  Overton waved the gun. “Take off the vest.”

  Haskell’s hand went automatically to the pocketed watch.

  “Now.”

  He shrugged off the vest and held it on the tips of his fingers, ready to drop when Overton reached for it.

  The man smirked. “Toss it to me.”

  Haskell ground his teeth and tossed the vest. Overton bent to retrieve it with his eyes and gun steady on Haskell.

  Martha stepped away from the horse and snapped a twig.

  “Stay right there, Marti, darlin’, unless you want me blowin’ a hole in Ranger Tillman here.”

  She stilled without a sound, her face cold, her eyes focused. Not again for her, Lord, please. Not another killing.

  Overton put on the vest, felt in the pockets and pulled out the gold watch. “Nice timepiece ya got here, Tillman.” A guttural laugh passed his lips. “I guess I should say I got here.”

  The smirk broadened as he dropped the watch in the pocket and tugged at the oversize vest.

  “Marti, got any rope in that wagon?”

  “No.” She raised her chin and crossed her arms at her waist.

  “Then tear off the bottom of that pretty little petticoat you’re wearing and bring it over here nice and slow like.”

  Haskell fisted his hands and leaned forward.

  “Don’t even think about it, Tillman.” The gun raised to Haskell’s face. “I’m not above killin’ ya right here among all the ripe fruit.”

  “You don’t want a poster with your name on it for murder, Overton. Stop now and come back with me, and you’ll just be tried for stealing horses.”

  Overton hacked out a sharp laugh and shook his head. “You’re right funny, Tillman. What makes you think I’m stealin’ horses?” He stepped back at an angle that put both of them in his line of vision. “Hurry up with that petticoat. We don’t got all day.”

  Martha turned her back and lifted her skirt. The tearing sound ripped Haskell’s heart open and all his regret and anger spilled out in a bitter gall.

  Lord, please. You listened once, please hear me now and help me keep this man from harming the woman I love.

  Chapter 17

  Fear screamed in Martha’s head, but she’d not give Tad Overton the satisfaction of hearing it.

  Grasping the seam in her petticoat, she ripped it open, tearing away the bottom three inches and shredding her nerves. Birdsong mocked from the trees. Overly ripe apples vexed her nose, and a breeze tangled loose hair across her cheeks.

  “Good girl.” Tad waved the gun barrel toward Haskell. “Now tie his hands. Good and tight, mind you. You don’t want me shootin’ him ’cause he got loose and followed us, now do ya?”

  She gripped the torn cloth with fisted fury. His voice repulsed her, and his arrogance stoked a fire fit to scorch the orchard, were she able to loose it. How had she ever found anything appealing or attractive about Tad Overton?

  And how could she help Haskell now, here?

  He held his hands out, crossed at the wrists. Overton cackled.

  “Nice try, Tillman.” The gun fanned the air. “Behind your back.” He straightened his arm, aimed at Haskell’s heart and steele
d his voice to a deathly quiet. “You think I’m stupid?”

  Don’t answer. Don’t answer. Please, Haskell, don’t speak your mind, just this once. Martha knelt behind him and bound his hands with the eyelet-edged strip. Never had she dreamed the delicate trim would find such purpose as this.

  She laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed as she pushed herself up.

  “Get away from him!”

  She hurried sideways, toward the mare, and clawed through her mind for a way to stop Tad, free Haskell and escape.

  Overton pulled off his neckerchief and dropped it. Then he drew a small vial from his trousers’ pocket, pulled out the cork with his teeth and quickly turned his head. Stooping, he emptied the contents onto the neckerchief. Even at a distance, the pungent odor wrinkled her nose. Chloroform.

  Panic filled her throat. He’d stolen the drug from Doc Mason and she doubted he knew its potency. Fully expecting him to use it on her, she gasped as Tad picked up the neckerchief and walked to Haskell.

  With a sickening grin he circled behind his victim and reached around, covering Haskell’s mouth and nose with the soaked cloth.

  Tears fell involuntarily as Martha watched Haskell’s weakening struggle. Finally, he slumped sideways. Tad knelt and held the rag against his face again.

  “Stop it! You’ll kill him!” She started forward and the gun quickly pointed her way.

  “Not to worry. He’s a big boy. Look at him.” Overton grinned down at his helpless target. He laughed—the harsh, cold bark of a feral dog. “If a little is good, more is better, right?”

  Martha bit her hand to keep from screaming.

  Overton stuffed the rag in his back pocket, picked up Haskell’s hat and shoved it on his own head with a smirk. “Not so tough, are you now, Ranger Tillman?” He landed a stiff boot against Haskell’s back and walked to the wagon.

  Martha shook with rage. God forgive her, but if she had a gun she’d gladly shoot Tad Overton where he stood. She gripped her hands to steady them.