Romancing the Widow

by Davalynn Spencer

  “Push those baskets out o’ the wagon.” The gun raked the air.

  “No.”

  Without taking his eyes from her, Overton pointed the gun at Haskell’s head. “What was that?”

  With her jaw clamped so tight she feared she’d faint, Martha climbed to the seat and into the bed. One by one, she shoved the baskets off the opened end. They smashed onto the ground, bursting apart like Martha’s memories of the day with Haskell. Apples bounced and rolled, and all their hard work, all their laughter and joy spilled across the grass and dirt until the wagon was empty and dry as her throat.

  “That-a-girl. We don’t need that extra weight holdin’ us back.”

  She straightened and glared at him, her fingers balled into trembling fists. “I’ll never be a part of your we, Tad Overton.”

  His laughter stilled the birds and scratched Martha’s ears like little-boy nails across a chalkboard. “Take a seat, darlin’.”

  He climbed in beside her and scooted close as he reached over her lap for the reins. “Now ain’t this cozy. Just like old times.”

  Remorse flooded her veins as his odor flooded her nostrils. If she hadn’t fallen for his charms years ago, Haskell would not be lying in a heap in the orchard, his wrists bound and God knew how close to death. She glanced his way and tears filled her eyes. Please, Lord, have mercy.

  With a loud yah!, Tad slapped the reins hard against Dolly and she lunged forward, startled by such abuse.

  Martha jerked back and gripped the end of the seat with her right hand. “Where are we going?”

  “Why, the Pueblo train depot, of course.” The wagon rumbled down the narrow lane between the trees. Tad slowed little as they neared the barn. He pulled the hat low, laid his gun across his lap and shoved the barrel into her thigh. “You tell old man Blanchard thank you and smile real pretty when we go by, ya’ hear? Don’t make no signs if you plan on walkin’ again anytime soon.”

  Martha’s last hope of escape melted at the end of Tad’s revolver.

  Blanchard must have heard the wagon coming, for he stood at his barn entrance leaning on a pitchfork. Martha waved and raised her voice.

  “Thank you, Papa Blanchard.”

  Tad glared at her and cocked the hammer. She glared right back as if she always called the church treasurer by such a familiar name. Lord help the man pick up on her hint. “See you Sunday.”

  She hoped.

  Tad nearly lost control of the wagon at the turn and she rocked against his shoulder. When she looked back, Blanchard was trotting after them.

  “What about my ladder?” Winded, he stopped and stood scratching his head as if he’d just seen a peculiar sight. She prayed he had and would do something about it.

  At the main road, the wagon wheels skittered in a hard left turn. She had to leave a sign—anything for someone to follow. Something like the breadcrumbs from the storybook tale of two frightened children. But she couldn’t reach the picnic basket in the back, and wagon wheels left no footprints. They would merely blend in with every other horse and wheel that traveled the hard-packed dirt to Pueblo.

  Frantic to drop something, she bent over and fumbled with her boot laces. Tad said nothing and continued to drive the mare hard. Her mother’s hat had fallen to the wagon floor and she eased it up and over the edge praying Tad wouldn’t notice the flutter.

  Another yah! and Dolly lunged again. Soaplike lather clung to her neck and sides where the harness rubbed. She’d never keep up the pace. Swallowing the guilt, Martha dared to pray the poor horse gave out before they reached the depot. Otherwise, there might be no chance of escape once they boarded the train out of town.

  * * *

  Haskell winced as he rolled to his back, crushing his bound hands beneath his weight.

  Bound?

  He blinked and squinted into leafy branches, trying to remember where he was and why.

  Martha. Her fear-filled eyes.

  He jerked up and the orchard spun, forcing him to his back. She was in danger. Of that he was certain, but nearly everything else was a blur. Everything except Tad Overton’s mocking laughter.

  He eased up and pulled at the cloth binding his hands, but it held fast. Heaving himself to his feet, he waited for the spinning to stop, then stumbled toward a rough-barked tree. The cloth quickly tore and he jerked free. Rubbing his wrists, he walked in widening circles until he found his gun. He spun the cylinder—six cartridges remained. Overton hadn’t thought to unload it.

  Anger warred with objectivity and he steeled himself against the rising emotion. He’d promised Martha he’d protect her and then he let a sniveling thief get the jump on them. Rage was a formidable enemy if allowed to overtake him. He needed hard, cold detachment to get Martha back, and he trained all his thoughts on that one purpose.

  Holstering the Colt, he gathered his bearings and walked toward the lane. His pulse pounded at the sight of their morning’s labor strewn across the ground—bushel baskets smashed in their heavy fall from the wagon and fruit scattered and damaged.

  Forcing himself to breathe through his nose, he walked steadily in the direction of the barn, and by the time he arrived he was in a full trot. He needed a horse and he’d take one at the business end of his gun, if necessary. His badge lay in a hidden pocket in his vest. Another blunder.

  “Blanchard,” he hollered, approaching the barn. The man ran out leading a saddled horse with one hand holding a shotgun in the other.

  The long double barrels raised. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Haskell Jacobs, Colorado Ranger. I was wearing a hat and vest when you gave me the ladder.”

  Blanchard’s ruddy face went white. “I knew something wasn’t right.”

  The shotgun dipped, but the glare held steady. “Then who was that with Miss Marti?”

  “That was the man I’m tracking, Tad Overton, in my vest and hat.” Another step. “I need your horse to go after them.”

  Blanchard gave him the once-over. “How do I know you’re really a ranger?”

  “If my badge weren’t in my vest, I could prove it. You’re going to have to take my word.”

  Blanchard rubbed his chin, still holding the reins. Haskell’s palms began to sweat. Time seeped by, stealing Martha farther away. He lowered his hands and rested one on the butt of his gun. “I need your horse, Blanchard. They’re getting away—and I don’t know which way they went.”

  Blanchard’s eyes flicked to Haskell’s gun hand. “I should have stopped them when they shot through the yard here without returning my ladder.” He handed the reins to Haskell, stepped back and cradled the shotgun in his arm. “I was gonna ride into town and see if Miss Marti was all right.” He shook his head and stared down the lane.

  Haskell swung into the saddle, itching to dig his boots into the bay’s side and run for the wind. “Why do you say that?”

  “She called me Papa Blanchard when they flew by.” He looked at Haskell. “Why would she say that when we’re no relation?”

  Lightning fired through Haskell’s skin and his fingers tightened to iron on the reins. The bay pranced, picking up its rider’s agitation. “If you have another horse, I advise you ride in like you planned and tell Pastor Hutton and the sheriff. I doubt Overton’ll go in on the main road. And he may have headed for Pueblo or Raton or God knows where.”

  Yes, God knows where.

  Blanchard raised his hand. “You best be goin’. I’ll let them know what’s happening and send a telegram on to Pueblo just in case.”

  “I’m much obliged.” The spirited bay reared under Haskell’s tight hand. “I’ll get your horse back to you.”

  “He’s a good one. Dodger, I call him, ’cause he can dodge a prairie-dog hole before you know it’s there.”

  Haskell leaned forward and rubbed the bay’s neck, already s
lick beneath the reins. With a flick of his wrist, he whirled the horse around and it charged down the lane to the main road.

  God, You know where they are. Please, show me. Help me find Martha. Keep her safe.

  Haskell had prayed more in the last few days than in the ten years since his father took sick. And he prayed he’d get a different answer this time than he did to those long-ago prayers that failed to keep his father alive.

  At the crossroad, he reined in and looked both ways. The nearest depot other than Cañon City was Pueblo. Overton wasn’t known there. He could catch a train south to Raton or north to Denver. Or he could go east.

  From the valley floor, Haskell saw only orchards, fields and distant mountains—a poor vantage point.

  “Which way, Lord? I need Your help like I’ve never needed it before.”

  The bay swiveled its ears at his voice and pranced in a full circle. Haskell followed what he’d always thought was his gut and heeled the horse left toward Pueblo.

  With the sun at his back, he chased his shadow. Just as he’d chased Tad Overton—always pursuing, never catching. But this time he pursued much more than a thief.

  Something in the road ahead caught his attention and he pulled up.

  The bay danced around it, its ears and nostrils strained at the wheel-flattened straw hat. Martha’s hat. Did she throw it out on purpose or was she hurt?

  His heart lurched and he flexed his fingers against their steely grip. “Steady, boy, steady.” He rubbed the horse’s lathered neck but the words were for himself. His father’s words.

  The hat was evidence that they’d ridden this way—not evidence that Martha was hurt. Don’t give your anger free rein. Steady. Hold steady.

  Leaning over Dodger’s neck, he dug in his heels and the horse stretched into a dead gallop. The wind whipped the sweat from Haskell’s face as soon as it formed and blew dust and grit in his eyes. He pushed on the reins, giving the horse its head, counting on Blanchard’s confidence that the animal could dodge a chuck hole if need be.

  The road crested a small rise and in the arroyo below the Huttons’ wagon raised dust as the old mare kept to a frantic pace.

  Joy leapt from Haskell’s heart to his throat on its way to a shout. But celebration was premature. He had to reach them first.

  “Catch them, boy.” The wind tore the words from his lips but their urgency telegraphed into Dodger’s straining muscles. As if the bay knew, it charged into the dip and up the other side. With the heavy pull, the mare had slowed on the upward climb. Haskell was gaining on them.

  A loud pop and hot air brushed his cheek. He ducked. Another bullet whizzed by.

  Two shots. Four left. Haskell reached for his Colt. A few more yards and he’d be close enough to fire.

  And close enough to hit Martha if the wagon veered. He holstered the gun and squinted into the wind. She didn’t look back. She wasn’t sitting straight, but was slumped against Tad.

  He’d chloroformed her.

  Haskell slapped leather against his mount. His spurs were at the hotel, not needed for a peaceful wagon ride to an apple orchard. Another mistake. He knew better than not to be prepared. Never again.

  Another pop and heat grazed his ear. He flinched and jerked the reins left. Dodger swerved and Haskell quickly pulled him back to center. Another crest and the wagon disappeared over the top, picking up speed.

  But the mare was fading. As Dodger chewed up the distance, curses shot past Haskell like bullets. When a wagon’s length yawned between the buckboard and the bay’s head, he kicked free of the stirrups.

  Just a few more strides. Keep it up, boy, a little closer...

  Haskell flung himself into the wagon. Overton swung his gun hand back as the wagon hit a rut and his bullet fell short, biting wood from the bed.

  Two shots left.

  Overton shoved the gun against Marti’s chest and screamed. “Jump out or I’ll kill her.”

  Haskell leapt over the seat, knocking the gun forward. The bullet shot past the mare’s head, frightening her into a death race.

  Haskell twisted the gun from Overton’s hand and threw it out of the wagon. Then a fisted right hook sent the man over the back of the bench seat. Overton fell unconscious into the wagon bed.

  The mare flattened her ears against her skull and her head bobbed with her efforts. Globs of white sweat flew back off her lathered hide.

  Haskell snatched the reins with one hand and reached for Martha with the other. She slumped forward onto her knees and bounced against the end of the bench. One misstep by the faltering mare, and she could be thrown out.

  He looped his right arm around Martha’s waist and pressed her limp body against him as he reined in the mare. She slowed to a painful lope, then a trot, and he pulled her to a walk at the road’s edge. Her sides heaved, her head hung and her forelegs buckled. She went down and the wagon jerked to a standstill.

  Haskell turned Martha to face him and cradled her lolling head. Enfolding her in his arms, he rocked back and forth as he prayed, frantic that he’d reached her too late.

  “God, please. Don’t let me lose her.”

  His vision blurred as he drank in her pale features and smoothed her hair from her face.

  “Don’t leave me, Martha,” he whispered. “I love you. Marry me. Be my wife and fill our home with your beauty and laughter and love.” His voice broke on the last word and he crushed her limp body against him.

  Chapter 18

  Hoofbeats of pain pounded through Martha’s head. Her face rubbed against a sweat-drenched shirt, a strong heart pulsing behind it. Steady, masculine, comforting. Haskell?

  She pushed against the hard chest and looked up. The sun backlit the man and her eyes squinted against the light. But the smell, the tenderness, the substance of him said Haskell.

  She breathed his name and felt a moan at her ear. The arms that encircled her set her upright. Rough hands cupped her face on each side. She blinked, trying to see, and raised a hand to shield the sun.

  “Haskell?”

  “Thank God.” His voice choked and again his arms tightened around her. The throbbing in her head lessened and she surrendered to his embrace.

  Reluctant to leave his comfort, she scooted back to sit on her own. Without the sun in her eyes, she clearly saw the tear trails on his dirty face, the shining, sky-filled eyes and blood atop his right ear. “You’re hurt.” She ran her fingers through his wind-whipped hair and laid a hand on his cheek.

  “Just grazed. I’ll heal.”

  “Oh, Haskell. I was so afraid he’d killed you.”

  He pulled her to him and pressed his lips against her forehead. “I’m sorry I didn’t protect you.”

  “But you did.”

  He held her at arm’s length and searched her face.

  “You showed me how to leave a sign, a trail to follow.” He laughed and kissed her forehead again.

  “You saw it, didn’t you? You saw my hat?”

  A smile broke white in his dirty face. “I’ll make a ranger of you yet.”

  She sniffed and straightened. “I should hope not. One rough ride like this is entirely enough for me.”

  A groan from the wagon bed jerked their heads in unison.

  “Give me your boot laces,” Haskell said as he climbed over the bench.

  Martha untied her boots, stripped the long black laces and handed them to Haskell, who straddled Tad facedown on the wagon’s floorboards. He pulled the vest from Tad’s back and bound his hands. Then he pulled off the boots and bound his ankles.

  Haskell grabbed his hat and returned to the bench seat where he slipped on the vest and felt the pockets. He drew out a gold fob anchored by a beautiful watch with scrollwork engraving the case in a fine TJ.

  Martha laid her hand on his arm. “
Where is the H?”

  “There is no H. This was my father’s watch—Tillman Jacobs. A Jefferson Ranger. He gave it to me the day he died. Someday I’ll give it to my son.”

  Her heart clenched. How could she stand in the way of what he really wanted? She wrapped her arms around her middle to keep from breaking in half. “I’m so glad you got it back.”

  He returned it to the pocket and searched the vest’s lining. Halting with discovery, he withdrew the ranger’s star and pinned it to the front of his vest. “Blanchard wants proof I’m who I say I am when I take his horse back.”

  At that, he looked to Dolly who lay awkwardly in front of the wagon. Martha had been so woozy she hadn’t noticed that the poor thing had fallen in the harness.

  Haskell helped Martha from the wagon and together they stripped away the rigging.

  She knelt at the mare’s head and stroked her sweat-soaked neck. “You poor thing,” she whispered. “You dear, faithful thing.”

  The smooth slide of steel against leather turned her head and she looked up as Haskell cocked his gun.

  He reached for her. “Stand behind me. You don’t need to see this.”

  “No. Please, no. Can’t we help her in some way?” Fresh tears squeezed up from Martha’s soul, bitter with regret for having prayed for the animal’s demise.

  Steel-etched eyes and a stern jaw met her pleading. “What would you have me do? Leave her here to be eaten alive by coyotes and buzzards?”

  Martha gripped his arm. “We can get her up, get her standing. Oh, Haskell, please. I know she may not make it, but not now. Not like this.” She covered her mouth with both hands to hold back the sob.

  He looked down at his boots, shook his head and eased the hammer back. He holstered his gun, and together they pulled the winded mare to her feet. Haskell set the brake and tied her off to the front wheel.

  “Thank you.” Martha rested her forehead against his chest and looped her arms around him. He stroked her hair and in a low voice thanked the Lord for the mare’s faithful heart and service.