by Ginny Aiken
Echoes of his life swirled around him, and he found himself fighting an intense internal battle. He couldn’t stop the clock now any more than he could have cured Adele on his own. If he’d had his choice, his wife never would have fallen ill and would still be the one using the wheel. Instead, here he sat next to a lovely, distracting stranger who stared at him as though he’d conquered the greatest army, simply because he knew how to turn animal hair to yarn. A woman who made him stare into his future and find it lacking.
She looked up from his hands, her green eyes dancing and sparkling like the brightest shooting stars the western night sky had ever known. “That is marvelous! I’m so impressed by you, that you can do something like this…”
Peter found he couldn’t tear his own gaze away from hers. The moment lengthened, and he again recognized how much danger Emma posed for him. Still, he didn’t look away, but instead soaked up her admiration as his land had soaked in the moisture once the rain had broken the drought.
A man could get used to being looked at like that.
He could risk too much just to hear a compliment like hers.
He could lose his fool heart and not even mind, on account of a woman like her.
It occurred to him then he’d come close enough to the distracting Emma that if he moved all of an inch or so to the left he’d find himself within kissing distance of his unwanted guest. Still, if she was so unwanted, then why did he, at that moment, want most to bridge the gap and kiss her?
Why did he feel his drought was at the point of breaking?
Chapter 17
Every evening that followed the spinning lesson, Peter watched Emma hurry through her chores, take Pippa out for her last constitutional of the night, and then march straight to the wheel. At first, what she spun onto the bobbin looked like a mass of knots strung together by a thread from a spider’s web and fell apart from little more than a passing look sent its way. Not what anyone would even think to use to knit or weave a single, useful thing.
But again, with that determination he was coming to know, she kept up her efforts, and in a shorter number of days than he’d expected, she began to fill the bobbin with a respectable beginner’s yarn. Each new batch looked better and better to his fairly critical eye.
That night, she followed her routine again, and now sat at the wheel, working the wool into yarn. It would appear she, too, knew how much progress she had made, since, after a glance toward him, she took her foot off the treadle and brought the soothing whir of the wheel to a stop.
“Well, Peter.” She pointed to the bobbin. “What do you think?”
He felt himself blush, certain she’d caught him staring at her. At least he could blame his fixation on his interest in her progress, not something he could do any of the many other times he found himself following her every move. “That looks right even and strong,” he said. “Do you knit?”
She shook her head. “I’ve always preferred petit point embroidery. The colors of the silk threads are so lovely, and the patterns so intricate and charming. Why, you can make a complete picture, like an artist paints with oils, out of nothing besides needle and thread. But, I must admit, unless one is making a tapestry to upholster a chair cushion, and that does take an eternity to make, then I don’t see any practical use for all those pieces that took up so much of my time. Will you teach me to knit?”
He laughed, relieved. “Oh, no. That I can’t do. I’ve never picked up a pair of knitting needles, not once in my whole life. You’ll have to turn to Colley for that. I reckon she can teach you to make some of those socks of hers. Maybe you’ll learn to make them where they aren’t quite so scratchy.”
She arched a brow and crossed her arms. “Now that I’ve spent some time with wool and yarn, I would have to wonder if the scratchiness comes from the quality of the wool itself, since that would seem to make a great deal of difference in the yarn.”
How dared she? “Are you questioning the quality of my product? I’ll have you know, I raise fine Merino sheep. They produce good, tasty meat, and their wool is strong and long-fibered. We shear about twelve pounds per ewe. An excellent yield—”
“Goodness! I didn’t think my simple comment would set off a lecture on the merits of your flock.”
“And why not? I have plenty of reasons to feel right good about my work. Up until those years of drought and the grasshopper plagues, I had no trouble getting fine, healthy animals to market, and selling them and their fleece for fair sums.”
“How long ago was the drought?”
He told Emma how it had been five years earlier, right around the time Robby was toddling around the ranch, when the weather turned dry and harsh. The land became an endless expanse of dust. The next spring, while young shoots braved the conditions to work their way up through the soil, bathed by the few welcome spring showers that fell, swarms of hungry grasshoppers descended on the area and left nothing but memories of the hints of green. After those years and the hard hit from the loss of his wife, he’d almost sold out.
“I’m glad you didn’t,” she said in a soft voice, careful not to wake Robby. “I don’t know what would have become of me if you hadn’t been up here with your flock this year. I’m so glad you came and rescued me from that cave.”
Her comment shouldn’t have pleased him such a great deal, but it did. He shrugged, not wanting to let her know just how much it meant. “Someone would have been here. I would have sold to another fella with the same dreams. No one would just up and leave his animals and his ranch.”
“But whoever you sold to might not have cared what became of me once he’d found me.”
“Well, you’re right about some other fellas,” he answered, mischief bubbling up in him. “My conscience wouldn’t have let me be if I hadn’t done right by you, no matter how irksome you might be at times. And here I thought you found me harsh—stern, I recollect was the word you used. Maybe that other fella would have had fewer of those stern words for you. You might already be back at Bountiful, owing to that other fella, too.”
She didn’t snap back at him straight away, but rather gave his half-jesting words careful thought. “I must confess it hasn’t been a real hardship here for me. Different? Oh, indeed. But it hasn’t been nearly as dreadful as I first feared. If it weren’t for Papa, I think I wouldn’t be so distressed, since everything here is so… interesting. But Papa must be heartbroken by now, and so full of sadness, too. I fear he thinks he’s all alone.”
The love for her father rang deep and sincere. Peter had fought her insistent pleas to return to Bountiful from the moment he’d found her because of the demands of his ranching life that asked so much but also could give back such a good existence. His reasons had been and still were valid, seeing as how he was a father and had taken on responsibility for everything around him. But now that he’d come to know her better, he realized how much she truly ached for the way news of her loss would have affected her father, and the grief he must continue to feel.
“I’m sorry, Emma.”
She met his gaze. “I think you are. Thank you for that.”
“Please think how much more it will mean to your father when you return. His joy will come as an enormous relief.”
Her smile looked a mite crooked. “And all of this came to be, just because I felt the need to prove how much of an adult I’d become. It was my first time to travel without him at my side.”
His brows went up. “I’ve often wondered what kind of father would send a beautiful young woman like you on such a long journey West all on her own.”
At first she gaped, and then she glared. “Nothing of the sort, sir! Be careful what you say about my papa. He sent me with Reverend Strong and his wife, who were headed to Portland as well. They’re friends of my uncle’s family in Denver, and they’re a perfectly sober, proper, and serious couple, too. For him to even let me do that much, I’ll have you know, I had to beg and beg. I assured him many times I could indeed care for myself, that I was no long
er his little girl.”
Peter tried but failed to keep the knowing smirk off his face. “And now that you’ve been through all these… experiences… how well do you think you can care for yourself on a journey to Portland?”
Although she blushed a bright rosy red, she also bolted upright as though she’d been jabbed by a pin. “I’m doing quite fine for myself these days, I’ll have you know. You’ve even said so, yourself.”
It was his turn to give her words careful consideration. “I’m happy to see your experience with Sawyer has left you no scars.”
Emma shuddered, and for a moment he almost regretted his comment. The attack had happened, as had Sawyer’s murder, and no one had mentioned the event since, not even Emma. He’d waited, hoping someone would let something slip that he could grasp, but nothing. It was Emma who surprised him most. She was the one who’d been attacked, and she was the one who chattered all day about every last little thing, likely just to keep her ears from growing lazy on her head. And still she’d said not a word about the attack. Had she been able to just forget it all? What did that say about her? Did it mean she knew more about the outlaw’s death than she’d let on? That it didn’t bother her on account of that knowledge?
He waited out her silence.
After a bit, she shut her eyes tight then shook her head. “I have tried hard to forget that man. And what he was bent on doing to me. But at the oddest moments it all comes back. At those times, I make myself think of something much better, of going back home and seeing my father again, of reading to Robby, of playing with Pippa out in the sun. Other times, I go to Mrs. Beeton to find a new recipe to try, or I’ll work harder to spin a better yarn. I find something to do—anything—that takes more time and thought than simpler, more thoughtless things might.”
Her words caught him by surprise. “Is that why you’ve worked so hard since that night?”
“It’s one of the reasons. I haven’t lost my mind or any such thing to wish for an experience like mine with Sawyer, but I learned a great deal that night, about myself and about… well, about God. I called out in prayer, and then… there you were, and—well, we know what happened after that. But while you were injured, I was not. I know God heard me cry out to Him. He protected me. Now, I’d rather think and try to understand why you would have to suffer the pain Sawyer meant for me.”
He shrugged. “I don’t know, but I’m glad it happened that way. I’d much rather put up with a broken leg than try and put you back together, had Sawyer gotten his wish. I’m just waiting to see how God will turn all this into something to the good.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “To the good?”
“Scripture says, ‘And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are called according to His purpose.’ ”
“I have heard that, but…”
“But we will have to see how He takes that moment and then works something good out of it for all of us who do love Him.”
“I grew up at church every Sunday, and I heard many verses during all that time, but I know now I didn’t pay as much attention as I should have.” She smiled. “I must have learned enough to know to call on God when I had no other hope. I suppose deep inside of that action is a form of love. I’ll have to work on my understanding of it…”
“That might be the best of all the work you do. You can always trust Him when you reach the point where there’s no one else to trust.”
She sighed and grimaced. “I suppose I must admit to you, of all possible people, that wasn’t my finest moment. I never should have trusted Sawyer even so much as to walk with him to the cabin door, never mind consider, if only for a few crazed, furious minutes, he might be someone I could count on to see me safely to Bountiful.”
He thought back on the moment when he’d realized Sawyer had died. He supposed he, too, had refused to come to terms with what had happened, since he couldn’t make himself mourn the man too deeply. Still, no matter how great a sinner a man might be, none should have to face death by another’s hand. That was up to God, who called His children to cherish life, to never kill.
Someone had killed Sawyer.
Since he hadn’t done it, it had to have been either Ned or Wade. While Peter didn’t feel about Ned the same way he cared about Wade’s fate, he was coming to have a soft spot for the inept outlaw. He’d never known a man with a less criminal nature than Ned, never mind his lack of smarts and cunning. Peter doubted the young fella had the wits to pull off a misdeed on his own. Without a doubt, he’d fallen in with the wrong sorts. And yet, just like Wade, the would-be sheep rustler had fallen under Emma’s bewitching spell.
Had either of them killed Sawyer to protect the woman they wished to win?
Emma’s soft voice broke into his thoughts. “I haven’t let myself dwell on it, even if the thoughts do come up many a time. I know someone must have done it, and only a certain number of us are here. But I can’t see anyone I know doing such a thing.”
He gave a humorless laugh. “You couldn’t see Sawyer turning on you the way he did either.”
“No, I suppose you’re right. I didn’t like him, but… no.”
To his dismay, he couldn’t shake the nagging thought he’d missed something, something that didn’t quite fit.
He took hold of the splint and eased his leg up onto the bunk again. The relief from the discomfort he’d ignored while he’d spent all that time talking to Emma was such that a heart-deep sigh burst out from him uninvited. He’d held the leg out at an odd angle from his body, seeing as he couldn’t bend or move it in any normal way. But lying about in bed during a conversation with a lady hadn’t seemed right, certainly not proper. It did surprise him how easy it had been to talk, just talk to her.
Too easy, he reckoned. Too easy for his own good.
“There’s not much more to be said about that night, Emma, so I’ll just say goodnight.”
She gave him an odd look, but didn’t answer. She stood, stored the spinning wheel in its corner, tucked the chair she’d used back in its place at the table, and then stepped to the door to Colley’s room. She opened it, and only then did she speak again.
“I can never thank you enough for what you did that night for me. If you hadn’t come after me, regardless how much I’d irritated you, if you hadn’t fought Sawyer off me, I… I—”
“Don’t.” His heart felt squeezed with the mix of emotions the memory brought up in him. To think of such a lovely, delicate woman debased in such a way by a brute like Sawyer was more than Peter could stomach. “I’ve thanked God more than once that He led me to you at that moment. I don’t know if I could have faced myself or my God if you’d been harmed because I’d behaved in a terrible way since the day we met.”
“It wasn’t your fault. It was Sawyer who made his choice.”
“But it was my fault that I chose to speak to you in a way that made you run away from the barn. For that, I will always be sorry. Please forgive me.”
“I did, right from the start.”
Her words warmed a spot Peter hadn’t realized held a chill. “That means a whole lot.”
“Goodnight, Peter. I’m glad we talked tonight.”
With great reluctance, but also with total honesty, he said, “So am I. Goodnight.”
As soon as she closed the door, Peter dropped back down onto the pillow. What was that woman doing to him? How had she torn down his defenses in such a way that he was having heart-to-heart chats with her? And why had she moved into even his dreams of late? Wasn’t her constant presence in his home and his days enough?
His cabin rang with her voice and her laughter at all times. His son sang her praises morning to night. His crusty ranch manager thought the world of her, and his ranch hand wanted to woo her. It would seem Emma Crowell had taken over every inch of Peter’s life in only a matter of a very few short weeks.
What troubled him most was how easily she’d done it.
Stern? Him?
Hah!
Not around her.
Maybe his words had been thoughtless and hurtful, but, him? Stern? A stern man wouldn’t be fighting his every stray thought to keep it from flying right to her.
Colley came inside for the night. As she stood in the doorway, scraping her boots, with a satisfied grin turning her weathered face into a pleated wreath, Peter realized he’d been had. Up until a short time after Emma had invaded the camp, his ranch manager had always been in an all-fired hurry to make her way to her room after a hard day’s work. Ever since his injury, however, Colley had made herself scarce until right around Peter’s bedtime.
Who would have thought he’d have to fight a denim-and flannel-clad matchmaker as well when it came to keeping his heart intact?
At first, Emma had been reluctant to do much more than take Adele’s Bible out of the trunk to reach inside for something else. But after the night Sawyer died, she’d gone straight to the trunk and retrieved the leather-bound book. She’d wanted to explore the matter of God answering, specifically her prayer. Of course, she’d always heard it said that the Lord listened, and she’d also heard, all her growing-up years, that He delighted in giving His children good things, but she’d never experienced such a direct response to a plea. She’d seen her family’s many blessings as God’s way to answer prayers for provision and protection.
She’d begun to read random sections, but soon found herself consuming chapter after chapter, if only to learn what would happen next in the biblical tale. But what she read weren’t stories like one of those in Le Morte D’Arthur. Oh, sure, they were full of just as many fascinating characters and multiple twists of plot, but the Bible stories made her think, they kept her pondering the reasons why they’d turned out the way they had. Each time, she came back to one simple answer. It had always been as a result of the Father’s touch. Just as had happened with her.