Martha palmed the tears from her face and stepped back. “Amen.”
A whinny floated to them on the cooling breeze and Martha looked east. A beautiful bay stallion stood next to the road, head high, reins still around its neck.
Haskell whistled and the bay flicked his ears and tossed his head. As if making clear the decision was his, he turned toward them and trotted to the wagon.
“Dodger.” Haskell held his hand out as the horse approached and greeted them with a deep rumble.
“You’re definitely a runner.” He slipped the reins off and dropped them to the ground, then he hooked a stirrup on the saddle horn, checked the cinch and started to shorten the strap.
Martha stopped him. “Not this time, Haskell Jacobs.” She pulled the stirrup down and patted it against the horse’s side. “You’re not walking back to town. You’re riding. We’re both riding.”
His slow smile swirled through her.
“Don’t look down,” she said.
Her request doused the heat in his eyes and his brows raised in question.
“Better yet, close your eyes.”
She lifted her skirt and wiped the dirt from his face. His eyelids fluttered.
“No peeking.”
He gripped her wrist and his eyes flew open—two fiery blue gems in a sea of sweat and grit. “A bit forward, don’t you think, Miss Hutton?”
“Not at all, Mr. Jacobs. I can’t have my apple-picking escort looking like we chased halfway across Colorado.”
Curses flew from the back of the wagon. Martha turned away abruptly, yanked at her petticoat and tore off a wide strip. “It’s ruined anyway. We might as well do something constructive with what’s left.” She stuffed the fabric in Haskell’s hands. “Do you mind?”
He jerked his nod. “With pleasure.”
Haskell gagged their captive and left him flopping like a trout in the wagon bed.
“I recommend you stay facedown or the buzzards’ll gouge your eyes out before the sheriff gets here.”
At that, the flopping ceased, but not the guttural noises Martha equated with ungentlemanly expressions of wrath.
Haskell gathered the bay’s reins, swung into the saddle and held out his hand. “Grab my wrist and I’ll pull you up.”
She complied and landed behind him astride the saddle’s apron. Wrapping her arms around him, she laid her head against his broad back and they turned toward the sunset and home.
Grief puddled in her heart like a bitter rain. She had come so close to finding what she’d lost.
* * *
The dust cloud at the top of the first rise had to be the sheriff, Pastor Hutton or both. With daylight slipping behind the far ridgeline, Haskell couldn’t make out the riders.
They met in the first arroyo he came to. Hutton rode up close and reached for Martha. “You’re safe.” His voice was thick with emotion. “Thank God, you’re safe.”
“Yes, Papa. Haskell got to us in time.”
Hutton wiped his eyes and looked at Haskell. “Blanchard told us what happened. The sheriff telegraphed Pueblo and he should be along soon. He’s got a few men riding with him.” He looked up the road and back to Haskell.
“The wagon’s behind us about two miles. Overton’s tied in the bed.”
“With my boot laces.”
Haskell bit back a grin at the pride in Martha’s voice. He wasn’t sure how her father would take such talk, but she pressed on.
“And that strip of white you’ll find in his mouth—that’s my petticoat.”
Shock swept Hutton’s features, but he held his tongue.
“Overton’s gun is somewhere out in the cholla,” Haskell said. “I didn’t look to see where I tossed it.”
“And Papa.” The pride drained from Martha’s voice. “Dolly’s nearly done in. Tad drove her like a fiend.”
Haskell softened his tone. “She ran her heart out and buckled where we stopped. I don’t know that she can make it back to town.”
Hutton rubbed the back of his neck. “Better her than the two of you.” He reset his hat and gave Martha a sad smile. “She was a good horse. Helped bring your ma and me together.”
“I know, Papa. She was the little yellow filly, wasn’t she?”
“That she was.” He reined away. “I’ll ride on and hitch the wagon to my horse, see how Dolly’s doing.”
Haskell shifted in the saddle. “She’s tied to the off-side wheel.”
Hutton left and they continued on. In another mile, the sheriff and his posse reined up in a galloping dust cloud.
“Overton’s in the wagon bed, trussed and ready for shipment, maybe three miles on.” Haskell thumbed over his shoulder. “I’ll testify against him to charges of kidnapping, assault and attempted murder. I also believe he’s the horse thief I was trailing, but we’ll need a confession unless we can find those horses.”
The sheriff pulled his hat brim. “Said you were the man for the job, didn’t I?”
The eager group rode off and Haskell headed Dodger toward the orchard. At the turn, the stallion tried to lope, but he kept a tight rein to make Martha’s ride as easy as possible.
Light filled the farmhouse windows and two lanterns hung at the barn doors. Haskell threw his right leg over the bay’s head and jumped to the ground, then turned to help Martha. With her hands on his shoulders, he pulled her to him, holding her close in the stillness.
“I’ve got you now,” he whispered against her hair. “You’re safe.”
She wriggled against him. “Put me down, please.”
With a quick squeeze and a chuckle, he set her on her feet. “I’ll put you down, but I’m not letting you go.”
A shadow swept her face and she averted her eyes and stepped back. She’d done it again—switched leads without so much as a stumble. What happened?
Blanchard came out of the house, his wife on his heels and three youngsters trailing behind.
“Lord be praised,” he said, slapping Haskell on the back like a long-lost relative.
A little pigtailed girl peeked around her mother’s skirts. “You really a ranger, mister?”
Blanchard pointed at Haskell’s vest. “See that, Priscilla? That’s a ranger’s star. He’s the real thing.”
“Would you stay to supper?” Blanchard’s wife asked.
Martha moved her way, lightly touching a youngster’s hair. “Thank you, Sarah. You are so kind, but I expect Mama is beside herself with worry since we missed the evening service, and I hate to keep her waiting any longer.”
The woman embraced Martha in a brief hug. “You’re right, you know. She’s near frantic, according to what Foster told me when he got back from town. But you two take our wagon home. The one there in the barn. The children and I gathered all your apples and loaded them in fresh bushel baskets for you.”
Martha covered her mouth with her hand.
“Thank you, ma’am.” Haskell tipped his hat. “That’s mighty generous of you.”
“Can’t have all that good fruit go to waste,” Blanchard said, putting an arm around his wife. “Not when Mrs. Hutton’s apple butter is at stake.”
Haskell envied the man for his family, but pushed such thoughts aside. “You’ve got a fine horse here, Blanchard. As good as you said, if not better.”
The man’s chest swelled. “Got him for a song, I did. About two years ago, down in Raton. Off some fella who said he was fast as sheet lightning and sure-footed as a dance-hall gal.”
“Foster!” Mrs. Blanchard clapped her hands over Priscilla’s ears.
Blanchard himself blushed and ducked his head. “Sorry, Miss Marti. His words, not mine.”
Haskell swallowed a grin and headed for the barn. Blanchard hurried forward and took the reins. “I’ll take care of him. You get Miss Marti and t
hose apples home. I can get the other horse and the wagon when I come to town Sunday.”
Haskell shook his head at the man’s generosity. “Thank you, Blanchard. I’m much obliged.”
The wagon held baskets filled to the brim. More than they’d started with, if Haskell’s count was right, and a horse stood ready and harnessed. He extended his hand to Martha who came to his side with eyes downcast. His heart twisted. Something had sapped her joy and left her fragile and weak.
He helped her to the seat and settled beside her. With a flick of the reins, they drove out of the open barn, past the family and into the night. He ached to feel Martha’s warm body against him, but she sat apart, straight and stoic.
If it were a man who had stolen her tenderness, he could fight him, defend her. But his foe was beyond the reach of his gun or his fists.
His gut told him words were the culprit, and words had never been his weapon of choice.
As helpless as a lost pup, he headed out of the valley and up the rise toward Cañon City.
Chapter 19
The evening star hung alone and bright in the paling sky, a single ornament strung above the mountain silhouette. Solitary, like Martha, though she sat inches from a man to whom she’d gladly give her heart and life. She breathed in the cooling air and her insides chilled. Brimming like the new bushel baskets behind them, she was bursting with love for this man who had risked his life for her. He was so much more than she could have ever hoped for.
And she was so much less than he needed or wanted.
Once he knew the truth, he’d not be so eager to marry her.
A shiver rippled up her back.
Haskell pulled her beneath his arm. “You cold?”
Frozen rigid. “A little.”
Unable to resist his warmth, she tucked against his side.
“It won’t be long. The lights of town are just ahead.”
He squeezed her arm, pressing her closer. The gesture deepened the pain of what she would lose again—the love and warmth of a caring man.
As they drove into the quiet town, the horse’s plodding hoofbeats echoed off closed storefronts. No light shone from the church, the service canceled with her father gone. But through the trees, the parsonage’s glowing windows promised warmth and comfort. Haskell turned down their lane and drove into the open barn. Martha straightened and pushed at her hair, discovering more of it worked loose from her twisted braid than captured by it. She must look a sight.
He jumped down and stood beside the wagon with his hands lifted for her, his eyes dark and churning as she imagined the sea in a storm. Her heart reached for her throat as she reached for his shoulders, and he set her lightly on the ground.
Consuming her with his gaze, a question formed on his features. “Martha, you—”
“Oh, thank God.” Her mother’s voice broke with a sob as she hobbled into the barn, clutching a shawl around her shoulders. “Thank God you’re safe.”
He groaned and quickly kissed the top of Martha’s head before stepping back.
Her mother’s eyes were red with weeping. Martha palmed her cheek. “Don’t cry, Mama. We’re safe. The Lord took fine care of us.”
Her mother squeezed Haskell’s forearm, then tugged her shawl closer with one hand and drew Martha with the other. “The apples can wait. Come inside, get warm and have something to eat, both of you.”
“I’ll tend to the horse. You go ahead.”
The remark drew her mother’s notice and she threw a questioning look at Martha. “Where’s Dolly?” A closer inspection of the green wagon raised her brows. “And our buckboard?”
“Dolly nearly died running her heart out, Mama, but let us tell you all about it inside.” She turned from Haskell with as much detachment as she could summon. “Haskell spared her.”
She understood his compassionate gesture to end Dolly’s suffering, but she’d never have been able to tell her mother Haskell had shot the horse she’d raised from a filly, old though she was.
Enclosed in the barn, the wagon load of crisp, ripe fruit filled the air with a cidery promise.
“You certainly picked a lot today.” Martha’s mother pulled out several apples and tucked them in her shawl. “These will make a fine pie for tomorrow’s dinner.”
“We didn’t pick them, Mama, but that’s all part of the story. Come on.”
By the time Haskell came in and washed for supper, they heard horses outside. Moments later, her father trudged in, dusty and tired from hard riding and harder worry. He held a hand out to Haskell and topped it with his other in a hardy grip. Then he pulled Martha into his arms. The breath caught in his chest and the sound pushed a knot to her throat.
Finally, he held her back with a loving smile. “Thank You, Lord, and thank you, Haskell.”
Haskell’s features sobered. “My pleasure, Pastor.”
Martha kept her eyes from meeting his. She would refuse him, spare him the pain of retracting his proposal once he learned she could not give him what he longed for.
Oh, Lord, let me not bleed to death right here at the table.
They all took their seats and hands reached out to either side for prayer. Haskell’s swallowed Martha’s, as always, and he squeezed her fingers. Her heart split like an apple beneath a boot heel.
At the Amen, her father picked up his coffee and held it with both hands, elbows pitched on the table as if for support.
“Dolly’s in the barn.” His eyes latched onto his wife’s. “She’s in bad shape, Annie. I don’t know if she’ll make it through the night.”
Her mother’s face crumpled into a silent cry and she hid behind her hands.
He rubbed her shoulder. “She had a good life, sweetheart. You know that.”
Her mother nodded and sniffed. Martha thanked God again that Haskell had not shot the old mare.
“And Tad Overton is behind bars.”
At the news, Haskell’s lips curled and he reached for the butter crock.
He had to be starving after all he’d been through. With a start, Martha remembered his ear and leaned forward to see it, catching uncertainty in his eyes. He’d sensed her withdrawal.
Grief surged through her like a fever. “Your ear. We should dress it.”
Her parents looked at Haskell and he fingered the dried blood. “It’s just a flesh wound.”
“I didn’t even notice, Mr. Jacobs.” Her mother wiped her eyes with her napkin and drew in a broken breath. “I was so glad to see the both of you, I guess I didn’t look any closer. What happened?”
“Tad shot him.” Martha shuddered. “At least that’s what I think happened. I didn’t exactly see it.”
Her mother’s jaw went slack.
“Is that what happened?” Her father directed his question to Haskell.
“Yes, sir. Overton had Martha in the wagon. He’d chloroformed her and I was gaining on them while he was shooting.”
“Chloroform? Shooting?” Her mother’s voice hit a rare note and her face blanched.
Her father moved his chair closer to his wife and tucked her beneath his arm. “I think you’d better start from the beginning, son.”
To hear the event retold from Haskell’s perspective, he’d hardly lifted a finger. He failed to mention risking his life to save her. The more she listened, the more she loved this man so deserving of everything he dreamed of. She scooted from the table.
“Excuse me, but I’m exhausted.” She faced Haskell but kept her eyes down. Maybe he would accept this parting as her refusal and be on his way. “Thank you for helping me today. I trust you’ll have a safe journey to Denver with your prisoner.”
Silence hung in the room like the evening star over the mountains. She laid her napkin in her plate and went to the parlor. Tired, yes. Tired enough to sleep, no.
She’d lay on the settee, put her feet up, perhaps doze. There would be plenty of time to sleep later. Alone.
She closed the parlor doors behind her and her parents’ voices blurred to concerned mumbles. She imagined them questioning Haskell about every detail.
His deep tones answered theirs and, at times, rose with a curious urgency. What could he be discussing at such length? Surely it was time for him to leave.
She placed a cushion beneath her neck as Haskell had that pivotal day he’d nearly trampled her in the street. The irony bit. As it turned out, he’d merely trampled her heart.
Her eyes closed against the darkness and the muted voices drifted beyond her ears.
* * *
Haskell pushed the parlor doors apart and the kitchen light spread across the room to Martha’s sleeping form. He moved to her side and pulled the small stool beneath him as he had once before. Reaching for her hand, he took it in both of his, hoping, praying she’d not be frightened by his nearness, but would welcome it.
And he prayed for wisdom, for compassion. Not only had he missed the importance of her not having children, he had also misread her parents. They did not see him as a hired gun, not as far as Martha was concerned, but they did endorse his decision to return to Cañon City and run for sheriff.
After a trial in Cañon City, and if he could prove Overton was the horse thief, Haskell figured on a month to transport his prisoner, testify in Denver and make it back to Cañon. In that time, Pastor Hutton promised to look for a house Haskell could rent until he bought a place of his own in the country. A place of their own.
If she’d still have him.
“Martha.” He whispered her name and brushed her cheek with the back of his hand. She turned her head and her eyelashes fluttered with a dream.
“Martha.” He squeezed her hand. “Wake up. I need to ask you something before I leave.”
She jerked and her eyes flew open, dark and wide in the dim light.
“It’s me. Don’t be frightened.” He pressed his lips against her tightened fingers and helped her sit up.
“What happened? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong. Everything is right. At least I hope so.”
Romancing the Widow Page 16