A Match Made in Texas

by Mary Connealy

  When she finally heard hooves approaching, the hour was well past Emilie’s usual arrival. The wagon wheels turned more slowly than Emilie’s quick buggy. Grace waited at the door for the person to disembark. Heavy footsteps meant it must be a man.

  “Miss O’Malley, how are you?”

  The voice was familiar. The barn door swung closed, alerting her that Clayton was on his way.

  “Fine,” she said, “but as you know, I can’t see you. To whom do I owe the pleasure?”

  “It’s Albert Newman, ma’am. Miss Emilie mentioned that she was coming out today, so I asked if I could have the honor and bring the food in her stead— Eh . . . hello, there.”

  “Good day.”

  Grace’s toes curled at the sound of Clayton’s voice.

  “Mr. Weber,” she said, “this is Mr. Newman. I had his two youngest boys in class. Mr. Weber was commissioned by the school board to spruce up the homestead.”

  “The school board?” Mr. Newman expelled what sounded like a juicy glob of spittle. “I don’t remember any such discussion arising at the meetings.”

  Grace frowned. “They didn’t place an advertisement?”

  “Not that I’ve heard tell of.”

  Clayton cleared his throat. “Miss Grace, I’m going to climb the windmill now. Just wave if you need me. I’ll be watching.”

  Wasn’t he always? Grace’s stomach twisted. So intent was she on his departing footsteps that she missed Mr. Newman’s first words, and he was obliged to repeat them.

  “I’d like to go inside. I could use a drink after being in the sun.”

  Grace could only imagine how sweaty Mr. Newman was. His fancy white shirt made an appearance at every school function, complete with yellowed crescents staining the underarms. “Right this way.” She would refrain from breathing through her nose.

  “I’ll put the food on your counter here,” he said.

  “That’s just fine,” she said, and then pointed him to the table and two chairs. Benny padded over to inspect their visitor while she got a cup of water from the jug on the counter next to her.

  “Nice little fellow you’ve got.” The small chain around Benny’s neck jangled. “There should be some scraps for him, I’d imagine.” He took the cup she offered. “You’re finding your way around here pretty easily, aren’t you?”

  Grace clasped her hands in front of her. “I’m learning. It’s an adjustment, but even being able to see light is a help.”

  His foot tapped the floor. “Well, I don’t want to waste my time. The reason I came was to see if you’d allow me to call on you. The children are nearly grown. They take care of themselves, so there’d be no worrying about them, but I get lonely and I can imagine that maybe you would be—”

  “Excuse me.” Grace held up a hand. As a school-board member Mr. Newman had never supported her, always questioning her methods and dedication. Had something changed? “I’m sorry, but I’m at a loss. You’ve never expressed any interest in me before. Why now?”

  “Look, Miss O’Malley. You’re a beautiful lady. I’m humble enough to admit I couldn’t turn your head, but now, well, maybe looks don’t matter so much. The balance could’ve tipped for me after all.”

  There’d sooner be a snake in Ireland.

  He snuffed, and she imaged the sleeve of his white shirt getting even dingier sopping up his nose.

  “I thank you for your offer, Mr. Newman, but I’m still adjusting to my affliction and don’t want to make any hasty decisions. I’m afraid I must deny your request.”

  The cup clinked against the tabletop. “You’ll be lonely soon enough, so don’t let your pride get in the way. You just let me know when you’re ready. I’m not one to hold a grudge.”

  “That’s a comfort.” He’d held a grudge when his son had failed his sixth grade examination. Or maybe this was his way of reconciling. “Thank you for bringing dinner, and I hope you’ll send my greetings to your children.”

  “Yes, ma’am. They are sorely worried about you, and that’s a fact.”

  She only prayed they didn’t know the nature of his visit. She’d hate to have the story spread throughout town, but she couldn’t consider Mr. Newman’s offer. Especially not with the way her heart soared at every thought of Clayton Weber.

  Grace followed Mr. Newman outside and waved as the wagon rolled away. What had she expected? A lot worse than the perspiring Mr. Newman could answer any notice she decided to run. Somehow, she’d grown more particular recently. If only Clayton weren’t afraid to speak to her again.

  Grace noticed the squeaking wheel of the windmill wasn’t raising its usual fuss, so she lifted her head and shaded her eyes. If he was watching as he claimed to be, he’d know she was looking for him.

  Boots thudded to the ground, raising a cloud of dust. Grace covered her face.

  “You need me?”

  Yes. Oh yes.

  “Mr. Newman brought dinner, and you already missed breakfast. Aren’t you hungry?”

  Silence. Grace lowered her hands to search before her but couldn’t make out anything besides Clayton’s dark form.

  “I’ll bring you a plate outside if you’re too busy.” Was he even there? Her eyes stung from squinting.

  “Do you want me to come inside?” His voice was tight. Uncertain. “I didn’t know how you’d feel after last night.”

  Grace’s heart did a somersault. Elated. Giddy. Even more curious than before. “I want you to come inside.” She bowed her head, too embarrassed to show her face. She should’ve been outraged by the liberties he took, but she was fair. Although she’d asked him for a candle and he’d given her a lightning bolt, she was willing to admit she shared the blame.

  “I’ll wash up out here,” he said.

  Grace followed the wind chimes to the house. She pulled the cheesecloth cover off the tin and took a deep whiff. Onion soup. By the time Clayton had taken his seat, Grace had ladled a bowl for him, eager to get past this initial awkwardness.

  He paused.

  “You’re awfully quiet,” Grace said.

  “I’m praying.”

  “Sorry.”

  She wasn’t hungry. She’d kept the pears and toast out all morning, waiting for Clayton, and had consumed more than she’d intended, but maybe she could eat a few crackers for an excuse to sit across the table from him.

  “What did the man want?” Clayton slurped a spoonful.

  “He brought the food from Emilie.”

  “He wore a fancy going-courtin’ shirt for that?”

  With yellow underarms? Grace grimaced. “Now that you mention it, he did ask if he could call on me.”

  Clayton’s spoon splashed in his soup. “And you said . . .”

  Judging from his voice he wasn’t smiling, but she hadn’t done anything wrong. Why should she feel defensive? Grace rocked in her chair.

  “I told him absolutely not. He never would’ve got the courage to speak to me before. Why does he think I’d accept him now?” Maybe she was overdoing it, but obviously Mr. Newman’s visit had upset Clayton. She’d set things aright. “Just because I can’t see doesn’t mean I want a husband who’d be rejected by everyone else.”

  “What do you mean by that?” His voice had cooled to January ice.

  “His appearance is disgraceful. I’d be ashamed to be associated with a man whose—”

  “Is that your criteria? You’d reject a man on his looks even though you can’t see him?”

  Grace’s mouth dropped open. “You want me to court Mr. Newman? Is that what you’re saying?” Did Clayton regret kissing her? Why else would he be so eager to get her off his hands?

  He stood. His bowl dropped into the sink.

  “I don’t know Mr. Newman, but if you’re going to find him lacking, it should be for his character, his personality, or his situation. Don’t mock him for his appearance.”

  “I’m not mocking him. He might make a fine husband for someone else, but that doesn’t mean I’m obligated to accept him. Ther
e’s a difference between tolerating someone and wanting to marry them. Shouldn’t I wait for a man who’s a better match?”

  Like you, she wanted to add, but didn’t have the courage. If only she could see Clayton. Was he glaring at her in disgust? Was he looking at the door, longing to leave?

  “I understand,” Clayton said. “Now if you’ll excuse me. I can’t afford to waste any more time.”

  Just as she’d feared. He’d recognized his mistake. Clayton had plans in Oklahoma Territory, and one kiss wasn’t going to change them.

  By the time Clayton reached the top of the windmill, he was out of breath. He stood, hands in fists, and looked down at the square cabin, all the hopefulness and sentiments from earlier that day vanished.

  She still didn’t know. She didn’t realize that the man who’d kissed her with abandon was himself disfigured. That if she wasn’t blind, he, like Mr. Newman, would have only admired her from a distance.

  A husband who’d be rejected by everyone else. Sooner or later she’d find out. Emilie would tell her. Someone would tell her. Or maybe she’d wonder why he avoided crowds and why he rarely spoke up in public. She’d wonder why her husband hid when people were around.

  If he had any hope of making the land run on Saturday, he’d better finish up and hit the trail.

  Clayton sat on the platform, his heels swinging in midair. He hadn’t thought about the land run all day. Hadn’t worried about getting the horse or running for a stake. No, his thoughts hadn’t left the little homestead outside of Dry Gulch. He loved Grace, possibly had loved her from the first moment she stepped outside and surprised him with her prying questions. And while he’d been prepared to love her from afar—admire her, help her, and then move on—at some time he’d come to the conclusion that this love was worth fighting for. Here was a place he could belong. And after last night’s kiss, he’d thought that she believed so, too.

  He was a fool. How could he fault Grace when he was so taken by her beauty? Hypocrite.

  And once again he cursed the men who’d scarred his heart even more than his face. When the son of a horse thief is accused of stealing a horse, no one believes his innocence. When he’s disfigured, no one gives him sympathy. Even worse than the actual damage was the shame it represented—his dead father’s crime forever imprinted on him. If Grace couldn’t respect a man because of the grubbiness of his shirt, she wouldn’t endure a man whose charges and punishment were visible for all to see.

  But what would become of her after he left? Maybe she’d finally post the notice and would have some candidates to choose from. Maybe Emilie would help. Either way, it wasn’t his concern.

  Clayton sat until his frustration demanded action. He’d get the windmill done, then he’d go to the bank and inform them that his task was complete. By tomorrow he’d collect his money and quit town. He’d already failed at this contest. The race was his last chance.

  Chapter 8

  Grace hefted the rocker, hooking her arm through its back, and made her way outside. While she didn’t have the nerve to approach Clayton, she wanted to be outside—to hear his labor, to know there was another human soul within miles. Her hopes of winning his regard had shriveled, so she wouldn’t get in his way, but she wasn’t ready for her isolation to begin.

  She’d just stepped onto the porch when he hailed her from the barn.

  “Where are you headed?” he asked.

  Her courage all but fled at his dark tone. “Needed some air.”

  He stepped onto the porch. “By my account, the work here would pass inspection from your mysterious donor. It’s time for me to buy a horse, get settled up at the bank, and move on. I’ve been underfoot long enough.”

  Was he watching her for a sign of encouragement or was he resolute? Oh, the frustrations of not being able to read him! But her memory of his dismissal reminded her that this man—as helpful as he was—wanted her off his hands. He had plans for a new start in the Cherokee Strip, and she was obviously in his way.

  “Are you coming back?” How she wished they were inside. Standing outside, the sounds of his movements were swept away by the wind, leaving her no clue to his stance.

  “Do you want me to?”

  How could he even ask that? She was practically throwing herself at him. Her arm gave way, and the rocker crashed to the ground. “Yes, I do. I mean, you might have to wait until someone inspects the work. There’s no reason for you to waste your funds on a hotel when you could stay here.”

  The rocker clattered against the porch as he positioned it for her. “If I get a horse you wouldn’t mind me keeping him in the barn while we wait, would you?”

  “Of course not.”

  He touched her arm and guided her to the rocker, still a gentleman even when irritated. “Let me see you settled then before I leave.”

  And leave he did. No lingering to explain what had upset him. Just an eagerness to put distance between the two of them, a distance her wounded heart felt keenly.

  With Clayton gone, Grace sat alone on the homestead, which was only a dot in the middle of the tableland. The dry, hot wind carried the smell of drought over the empty fields—fields that would be one man emptier by tomorrow.

  With a sigh, she went inside to tidy the house and let the day pass as quickly as it would. Without Clayton, her world would’ve been as small as the space inside her cabin. She owed him for expanding it to include the barn and grounds, but he’d also shown her that her borders weren’t only physical. Whole unexplored territories existed in her soul. Could she find the way on her own, or was she destined to be disappointed with the barren plot he was leaving her?

  From outside Benny yipped. His growl purred when it should’ve rumbled, but he’d gotten the message to her. A horse was approaching.

  Clayton couldn’t have gone to town and back yet. Grace locked the door as a precaution. She’d rather have it between her and her unknown caller until she knew who it was.

  “Hello? Be this the home of Grace O’Malley?”

  The sound of his voice carried Grace back to the wagon swaying across central Texas and to an emaciated waif fresh off the boat—hair tangled, clothes reeking, newly orphaned—thrust on the mercy of a big brother she’d never met. He’d been none too happy to see her then. Why had he traveled all this way to see her now?

  “Brian? Is that you?”

  A saddle creaked and the ground thumped as he dismounted. “Aye, lass. Come on out so I can take a look at you.”

  Grace straightened her collar. She wouldn’t cower to him. No longer did she need his begrudging help to survive.

  She opened the door, positioning herself squarely in the doorway. “I can’t fathom what’s brought you here.” She crossed her arms. “I don’t need your help, you know.”

  He cleared his throat, and when he spoke again, his words were measured, careful. “That’s good to hear, but I came on the off chance you might, after I received a letter from the school board.”

  “They sought you?” Grace shook her head. “It wasn’t my doing. I would’ve told them not to bother.”

  “Grace, don’t worry yourself. It’s glad I am to make this journey and ashamed that I didn’t make it sooner.” The voice was the same, but the tone had changed.

  What was he doing there? Throughout her childhood her brother reminded her daily that her care taxed his resources. That his life would be better without her. She’d never regretted her decision to leave. He’d never wanted her. Why was he here now?

  “You can pen your horse if you’d like. There’s water on the back side of the barn.”

  “Thank ye.”

  Grace waited for him to finish before she entered the house, mentally adjusting the image in her mind to the reality of the day. Seven years had passed since she’d seen him. His fair face would be fuller, his black hair thinner, perhaps . . . although Da hadn’t lost any before his death. Were Brian’s eyes as hard? Were his hands as impatient to strike? She’d know soon enough, although she didn�
��t fear him anymore.

  “You’re blind, they say.” Brian stepped inside and followed her gesture to the chair opposite hers. “That’s a blow to shake a mountain.”

  “Aye.” Grace smiled to hear the tones of her motherland, even if the speaker brought her no joy. “It’s a fearsome prospect, wondering which day will be the last that I see the sun. Still, I’m learning to get on without sight. Clayton—the man who helps me—insists I can make a go of it right here.”

  “And I don’t blame you for wanting to, especially considering how ye fared at my hands, but things have been different since you left.”

  “Oh?” She crossed her arms. “So tell me, what’s changed in Fort Worth?”

  Fabric whisked as he rested his elbows on the table, causing it to groan and slope toward him. “It’s not the town that’s changed, but me. To start, I realized how much I had to amend for. You remember those years of traveling. I couldn’t get past that Da and Mam never made it here, after all me hard work.” The familiar edge to his voice emerged and then just as quickly retreated. “I lashed out at everyone, kept the company of rough lads. I didn’t care who I hurt, but feeling entitled to me wrath, like the rest of the world owed me something. It was nearly my undoin’.”

  Whatever Grace had expected from a reunion with her brother, this wasn’t it.

  “Go on,” she said.

  “Before you left, I’d go out carousing with the boys of the evenings. One night we were burning over something—angry over a slight, angry over a hand of cards—I don’t remember, but we stoked it up until we had a rage going, picking a fight with anyone who stumbled into our path. At first we had a jolly time of it, but then I saw my hate on the faces of me mates, and it frightened me. I’d used my anger to control people, but it had grown until it controlled me, and it would destroy me if I didn’t check it.”

  Was this her brother? Grace had given up on him, never looked back, never considered the possibility that for all the maturing she’d done over the years perhaps God had refined him, as well.

  “Naturally I didn’t burden you with me troubles,” he continued, “but once you left, I couldn’t help but realize I was truly alone, and who would want something to do with a nasty piece of work like me? Then one day a lady stopped me, an angel from heaven. Said she’d watched me, knew I was troubled, and that God wouldn’t leave her in peace until she’d talked to me.”