Forever in My Heart

by Jo Goodman

  There was a flash of something in his eyes that hinted at his amusement. "That would be a first," he said dryly. Rushton wasn't disappointed as Beryl rose to the bait instantly. He reached for her hand, holding on when she would have jerked it away. He pulled her closer so she was sitting beside him and tucked her arm under his. "All right," he said soothingly. "All right. Tell me again what you have in mind."

  Beryl laid her head on her husband's shoulder. The wide lapels of her dressing gown gaped, revealing the perfect roundness of one breast. She didn't cover herself. "We haven't been back to Colorado. We never even talk about going. I love New York, Rushton, but I have family in Denver that I haven't seen since I married you."

  "I thought that's the way you wanted it," he said.

  "I did... I do... I don't know."

  "You rarely write to your mother."

  "I don't like to write. It doesn't mean that I don't want to see her." She rubbed his arm with the palm of her hand. "You don't write to Connor and I know you'd like to see him again."

  "You know that, do you?"

  "Credit me with some sense," she said. "You might not get along with him for more than two minutes, but I don't think for one of those minutes that you wouldn't like it to be different. Don't you wonder how he and Mary Margaret are faring? Aren't you the least bit curious?"

  "I know how Maggie's doing," he said. "She writes to her parents. Jay Mac told me he and Moira received a stack of letters just a few weeks ago. Some of them date back to the middle of the summer."

  "No one at the Double H must be going to town much to post them."

  That's what Rushton had thought, too. At first. Jay Mac had let his friend read Maggie's letters, and Rushton found them curiously lacking in detail in regard to the Double H. In some cases, when description was supplied, it was just plain wrong. His daughter-in-law's letters were also lacking information about his son. Maggie never wrote about the things that Connor did on the ranch that might have interested her parents. She never mentioned any odd bit of laughter that may have passed between them. She never sought her mother's advice about an argument. If Maggie were to be believed it was the most idyllic marriage on the face of the earth.

  Which made Rushton Holiday wonder if it existed at all.

  He had said nothing to Jay Mac. He didn't want interference from that quarter. But he had been curious, and now he listened to Beryl with more interest than she might have believed. "Tomorrow's the first of November," he said idly.

  "Hmm. The Double H is probably buried in drifts."

  "Probably." He let silence settle between them for a moment. "I could leave the mills later in the winter."

  "Christmas?" she asked hopefully.

  "No. Later than that. February, maybe."

  Beryl raised her head and looked at her husband.

  She made a small moue. "But that's so long from now. And we still couldn't get to the Double H."

  "I wasn't thinking so much of the ranch," he said, "as I was of your desire to see your mother. The train should make it quite easily to Denver. We'll stay with Grace until the spring thaw clears the passes."

  Beryl almost wailed, "But that could be March, even April."

  "I know, dear," Rushton said solicitously, his eyes grave. "But I can't get away any earlier. And this way you'll have all the time you need to spend with your mother." He saw Beryl blanch slightly but he managed to temper his smile. "Why don't you do something with the lamps, Beryl?" he asked, brushing his lips against her forehead. "You've gotten what you want." His hand slipped inside the gap in her dressing gown and cupped her breast. "Now it's my turn."

  She moaned softly when his mouth covered hers.

  * * *

  Maggie sat up in bed as Connor brought the feast to her. He showed her the tray, teasing her with the contents before he set it on the side table. Her mouth watered from the smell of silver dollar pancakes and bacon, hot honeyed tea and warm muffins.

  "I can't eat all of that," she protested. However, her eyes followed the tray hungrily.

  Watching her, he laughed. "I'll finish off what you can't, though I don't think I'll get much." He gave her a fork and the plate of pancakes and bacon. She tucked into it while he pressed a napkin into the neckline of her chemise. It was a pleasure to watch her eat with such relish. He said as much to her.

  Maggie spoke around a mouthful of food, surprised by his observation. "I eat all the time," she said. "I'm as big as—"

  "As a woman carrying a child ought to be."

  She swallowed, smiling. "You're very gallant. But I like it."

  "Then I'll do it more often."

  Biting off the end of a crisp strip of bacon, Maggie was moved to add, "You're also a very good cook."

  He grinned. "You're not going to get me to say I'll cook more often. Before you came to the ranch we hadn't had a decent meal here in weeks. No one wanted the job permanently."

  "It's a job?" she asked innocently. "I hadn't realized. There's no wages."

  Connor's smile faded. "You're right," he said. "We haven't been fair."

  "It's not as if I could help out here in any other way," she told him. "Really, I haven't minded."

  "No matter what it looks like, I didn't bring you to the Double H to cook."

  "I'm not a good rider. And I don't know anything about roping and branding. The truth is, I don't think I want to learn. What I know about cooking, I learned from Dancer. He's been keeping a low profile around here, playing up his injury, but when no one else is around, he's the one giving me direction in the kitchen. So you see, Connor, I'm something of a fraud."

  He took one of the pancakes, rolled it up so it looked like a cigar and dipped it in some syrup. "Imagine that," he said. "I wonder if Dancer would want to stick around after his leg's healed?"

  "Why don't you ask him? He's settled in here more comfortably than I would have thought. Ben and the others have been very kind and no one stares at him. He can't get back to his cabin now anyway, especially not with the snow, and he wouldn't leave before the baby's born. He might like hiring on as the Double H cook, at least until he can return to his mines."

  "I'll talk to him."

  Maggie reached for her mug of tea. "I suspect I'll be a lady of leisure again," she said, sighing.

  "Somehow I don't think that will happen. You'll be plenty busy until the baby's born, then you'll be busier."

  * * *

  Three days before Christmas Maggie's thoughts drifted back to Connor's words. He'd been right, of course. Work on the ranch didn't stop just because the valley was blanketed with snow. The men still worked long hours feeding the cattle, clearing the stables, smoking meat, and forging tools for the spring. When wolves threatened the herd, they went out to run them off. They hunted and fished and practiced rope tricks in the corral.

  Maggie's days had been equally full. She washed and ironed and mended clothes, chores that were not entirely unsatisfying once they were actually completed. She made things for the baby. She no longer did the daily cooking, but no one tried to stop her from baking. When Buck was laid low with coughing and chest pains it was Maggie, not Dancer, who tended him. Pressing garlic cloves in a tablespoon of honey, she made him take the mixture four times a day to loosen the congestion in his chest. She prepared chamomile tea for him at bedtime and added an extract she'd made from wild cherry bark.

  Maggie sanded and repainted a cradle she'd found in the attic. She worked sporadically on a new quilt for their bedroom and let Ben teach her how to play the harmonica. She read a little in the evenings, sometimes sharing the space in front of the fireplace with Connor. She usually fell asleep with the open book on the floor beside her. She liked it when Connor carried her to bed.

  Now, remembering his words about staying busy, she wished he was around to carry her to bed. She straightened slowly, tightly gripping the jar she was holding as another pain struck her lower back. When the pain faded Maggie returned the jar to its place on the pantry shelf. The task of rearrang
ing the contents suddenly faded in importance.

  Maggie backed out of the pantry and looked around the kitchen. Dancer wasn't there. She opened the back door, wincing as another pain, a cramp this time, took her by surprise. "Dancer?" There was no answer. She wondered where he had hobbled. Shrugging, she returned inside.

  She went to the bedroom and stripped the bed of its good sheets and quilts and replaced them with three old sheets she found in the linen closet. She chose two books from Connor's study that she had been meaning to read and set them on the bedside table. She stood in front of the wardrobe for several minutes, debating about the nightshift she wanted to wear. She finally chose one with a narrow band of lace on the neckline and laid it out at the foot of the bed. She started to unbutton her gown. Her water broke when she sat down in the chair to remove her shoes. The cramp that followed took her breath away. It was all very interesting, she thought, as long as she could think about what was happening to her and not have to feel it. She padded back to the linen closet, found some towels, and began to clean up.

  Connor discovered Maggie on her hands and knees in their bedroom. She had a towel in each hand and her chemise was stained dark with water. Most interesting to him, however, was the silly smile on her face when she glanced over her shoulder to look at him. "I'm sure there's an explanation," he said casually, leaning against the doorjamb. "Did you overturn a bucket in here?"

  Her smile widened. "Do you see a bucket?"

  It took him a moment to take her meaning. "Oh, my God." He didn't hesitate after that. Scooping Maggie up, he put her beside the bed, stripped off her chemise and drawers and helped her wriggle into her nightgown. He waited until she crawled into bed and was comfortable before he left to find Dancer.

  "She's got hours yet," Dancer told him after he'd examined Maggie. "She's reading now." He stepped into the hallway outside the bedroom and shut the door. He saw the worry creasing Connor's brow and shook his head, scratching the whiskerless side of his scarred face. "Ain't no cause to look like that," he said. "You delivered foals before. It don't happen all at once."

  The waiting was interminable. Connor stayed with Maggie until Dancer threw him out, then he waited in the parlor, taking turns pacing the floor with Luke, Ben, Buck, and Patrick, looking toward the hallway expectantly each time the door to Maggie's room opened.

  Her cries were the hardest for them to bear. When Connor wasn't pacing, he was slumped in one of the armchairs trying not to hear her intermittent cries of pain. Buck was pale. Ben and Patrick knocked back shots of whiskey. Luke, usually stoic, actually winced.

  Then there was the cry that was unfamiliar, yet known to all of them. Connor came to his feet, shot from his chair like a cannonball. Buck's face was flushed again with color. Ben and Patrick began pouring drinks for everyone and Luke's handsome features were creased by a grin.

  When Dancer appeared on the threshold Connor didn't wait to hear what he had to say. He rushed past the prospector to get to Maggie.

  She was sitting up in the middle of the bed. Her hair was damp and dark around her forehead and temples. There were shadows just beneath her lowered lashes and her complexion was pale, but when she raised her face her eyes were bright and her smile was simply radiant.

  She raised her cradled arms as Connor approached the bed. "I want to name her Meredith," she said. "Mary after my sisters and Edith after your mother."

  "Meredith," he repeated softly, reverently. He looked down at his daughter. There was a sheen of tears in his eyes. "I like it."

  Chapter 14

  Meredith Dancer Holiday was six weeks old when the weather broke long enough to forge a pass out of the valley. The hired hands, all a little stir crazy, drew cards for the privilege of making the trip to Queen's Point. Luke and Buck won. Dancer decided to take the opportunity to make sure his cabin was still standing and he followed the others. Except for Meredith's lusty mealtime cries, the ranch house seemed oddly quiet after the trio's departure.

  That was why Maggie was surprised when she heard footsteps pound across the front porch and then the door open and slam shut. She stopped rocking and Meredith was dislodged from her breast. The baby gave a mewling cry and began rooting again. Maggie held her protectively as the door to their bedroom was flung open.

  Patrick stood in the doorway, clutching his hat in his hand. He sucked in air in great gulps and stuttered as he tried to speak and catch his breath at the same time. His freckles stood out even on his flushed face. "There's been an accident, Mag. You've got to do something. Connor's bringin' Ben now. He said to get Dancer's bed ready and then you'd know what to do."

  Maggie didn't know what had happened, let alone what to do. She stood up, turning modestly to remove Meredith from her breast, and covered herself. She ignored her baby's wail, although she felt her breast leak immediately. Cradling Meredith, she shooed Patrick out of her way and made him follow her to Dancer's vacated room. "Help me make up this bed," she said. "I can't do it with only one free arm. And tell me what happened."

  Patrick grabbed the sheets and snapped them over the bed, tucking in the corners while he spoke. "Something popped in the forge and shot a ball of fire at Ben. Connor tackled him when he came runnin' out, put him right down in the snow, but he's burned bad."

  Maggie closed her eyes a moment and thought of Dancer's face. Her stomach turned over. "Help Connor get Ben in here," she told Patrick with more calm than she felt. "He didn't mean for you to dawdle with me." She realized she could have saved her breath. Patrick was off like a shot at her first command.

  Maggie put Meredith in her cradle and carried it to the kitchen. The baby was still squalling but Maggie pretended she didn't hear. She set a kettle of water on the stove, fired the kindling, and then began searching her pantry for dried elder flowers, leaves, and berries. She was putting out what she needed when she heard the front door open again. She met the men in the hallway. Ben was supported between Connor and Patrick. His large, barrel-chested body sagged and his head lolled forward. The odor of burned clothing, hair, and skin could be smelled in the air. Patrick kicked the door shut with his heel.

  Maggie pointed to the bedroom. "Take him in there. Try to get some of his clothes off, but don't pull them where they're burned to his skin." They disappeared into the room. She went to the parlor, retrieved a pair of scissors from her sewing basket, and gave them to Connor. His hands, she noticed, were steadier than Patrick's and fear had settled over him with a rigid calmness that was helpful in a crisis. "Cut his clothes where you have to," she said. "Patrick, get the hip bath and bring it here. Fill it a quarter full. Cool water. Don't bother to heat it. And you might find some bandages, too!" She had to call after him. He was quick to respond to the first order and barely heard the second.

  Maggie gave Ben a cursory glance. His condition wouldn't be clear to her until Connor removed most of his clothes. She could see that his left leg was badly burned, mostly from the knee to his ankle. The leather apron he'd worn protected his chest, groin, and thighs from injury, but both his arms were scorched. "I'm going to make a wash for his skin from elder leaves," she told Connor. "It will take a little time. When Patrick gets back here with the water, use it to soak the threads of clothes sticking to Ben's skin." She thought Connor blanched. "Or I can do it," she offered.

  "No," he said tersely. "I'll manage."

  She hesitated, saw that he was determined, and nodded. "All right." Meredith was sleeping fitfully when Maggie returned to the kitchen. Maggie rocked the cradle with her toe while she prepared the wash. By the time she was finished Meredith was deeply asleep.

  The wash had to cool before she could apply it to Ben's burned flesh. She used the time to prepare a variety of teas that would ease Ben's pain as well as help him sleep.

  "You've done well," she told Connor when she returned to the bedroom. He moved off the bed to make space for her. A sheet covered Ben's unburned middle and left his arms and most of his legs free for her inspection. She picked up the sponge that C
onnor had been using and dipped it in a pan of cool water. She cleaned the burns carefully, looking for bits of thread that might cause infection later. In spite of her cautious ministrations, Ben jerked and groaned under her touch.

  "Give him some of the white willow tea, Connor. It's in the blue sponge ware mug." She returned to cleaning the burns. "You're lucky, Ben," she said gently. "These aren't nearly as bad as Patrick described to me."

  "Probably told you I looked like a damn fireball," he growled. The effort to talk made him cough and the coughing shook him on the bed. He groaned again in pain.

  "Don't say another word. Use your energy to drink what Connor's giving you."

  Connor listened to the quiet authority in his wife's voice and saw Ben obey. Over the course of the next week Connor heard it again and again and saw the effect of her unassuming confidence in Ben's gradual recovery. He watched her sit at Ben's bedside, comforting her patient with her presence, holding the untouched palm of his hand when Ben could do nothing but cry in agony. She changed his bandages, cleaned his wounds, and applied the cool and soothing elder wash to his raw flesh. She prepared garlic balms for infection and brewed cups of poppy and white willow tea. Sometimes she sat with him alone. Other times she breastfed Meredith at his bedside.

  She was available to Ben at any time. She spooned broth to him when he couldn't manage himself, read to him while she cradled Meredith in her arms. She bathed him, combed his hair, and shaved his broad and craggy face.

  At night she fell into bed, into Connor's arms, exhausted. He liked those times. He liked having her close, all to himself. Knowing how rare they were and rare they were likely to be, Connor counted those moments as precious and savored them.

  After watching Maggie at Ben's side, healing with her skill and her will, the one thing borne home to Connor was that his wife didn't belong at the Double H.

  * * *

  "Dancer would be proud of you," he told her as she was readying for bed. Connor was already lying on the edge of the mattress, his head propped up by an elbow. His eyes drifted from his wife to the nearby cradle where his daughter was sleeping soundly, her tiny bottom pushed in the air. At eight weeks Meredith was getting too big for the cradle. He and Patrick were working on a crib for her. It was still in the barn where they were hiding it as a surprise for Maggie, too. Ben's accident had given them more chores and less time for finishing the crib.