A Match Made in Texas

by Mary Connealy

  Until now.

  As long as he thought her blindness covered him, he interacted openly. Now that she knew, he wanted to hide.

  She punched her feather pillow up and rolled to her side, afraid of what the morning would bring. Afraid to say good-bye, or even worse, to leave without a good-bye.

  And morning came too soon. Clayton was already at work, ax ringing. Grace rolled to her back and fought against the syrupy drag of exhaustion. She had to wake up. Get dressed. Get breakfast. Why was she so tired?

  She opened her eyes. Nothing. No light. No glow. Were her eyes truly open? Grace touched her face, felt her lashes. Her fingers met the wet orb of her eye, but all was black.

  With a jolt she sat up, searching for the illuminated squares that marked the windows. Nothing. Nothing to anchor to. She wrapped her fists in her sheets, holding on. Afraid that the whole room had disappeared. Afraid to stretch her foot downward, wondering what else had evaporated with her sight.

  The darkness had finally come, but this time it was permanent. Nothing more than she could see at this moment. No more searching. No more hoping to catch a glimpse. Just her alone in darkness.

  But there was one person who’d grown close enough he could stand in the circle with her.

  “Clayton?” She had to find him. She had to hear a voice, to know if the world remained unchanged for someone. The ax slammed again into a log. “Clayton!” she cried. What if the racket was her imagination? What if her hearing had become unreliable, too? What else would be taken from her?

  “Grace!” he called. “What is it?”

  Forgetting her hesitation she ran toward his voice and threw the bolt. With arms outstretched she rushed outside.

  The desperation in her cry burst through Clayton’s reserve. He ran to the house, ax swinging, ready to confront Grace’s attacker. Reaching her, he tucked her beneath his left arm and stepped inside, prepared for whatever had chased her, but there was only sleepy Benny blinking from his pillow.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” The sun was gone, but even in the moonlight he could make out her white gown and tear-stained face. His heart thundered, partly from his readiness to fight and partly from having her close again.

  “I can’t see. It’s all dark. Everything is gone.” Her arm wrapped around his back, her head pressed against his chest.

  A quick inventory of the dark room told him they were alone. He leaned the ax against the wall and cradled her head, her black hair cascading over his hand.

  Dark? Sometimes he forgot she was blind. She wasn’t a disadvantaged woman. She was the woman he loved. But now her loss splashed over him afresh as he imagined all that she’d lost. “I’m so sorry. So, so sorry.”

  Her back jerked with short, sudden breaths. “How long before I forget what my world looked like? Will I forget my friends’ faces? Will I forget light? Colors?” She shuddered. “Now I won’t even know if it’s day or night.”

  Maybe being isolated was the natural order of things. For a brief period he’d escaped his loneliness, but it’d only been temporary. He rocked her, a low-pitched hum rolling from his chest to replace the promises he wanted to make. But his promises wouldn’t help her. Not if she didn’t want him.

  “Maybe your light isn’t all gone. Come morning you might be surprised.”

  “Morning?” Grace’s spine straightened. “It’s not morning? But I heard you at the woodpile—”

  Taking a last deep breath of her fragrance, he released her and found the kerosene lamp. “It’s not morning. It’s still the middle of the night.” The match flared. He adjusted the wick and flooded the room with light.

  “Oh!” Grace covered her mouth. The flame reflected in her tear-washed eyes. “I see it. I can still see it.”

  And he saw her. Her soft cotton gown skimmed the tops of her bare toes. Her hair curled around her shoulder. As pleased as he was to vanquish her fears, he regretted that she wasn’t still in his arms.

  “That’s a simple enough fix.” He moved the lamp to the table. He might wish he could, but he had no right to stay. “I apologize for waking you.”

  Her gaze didn’t wander from the dancing flame. “I didn’t realize how frightened I’d be. I’ve known this was coming, but still I’m terrified. And now I understand why you want me to marry Mr. Newman. I understand now how hard it will be to face this alone.”

  Clayton’s head tilted. “I don’t want you to marry Mr. Newman, but does it matter that he’s not handsome? Does that mean he can’t provide and care for you? Does that mean he can’t love and cherish you?”

  She wrenched her face from the flame toward his. “But I don’t love him. I couldn’t love him, and it has nothing to do with his appearance. He’s slovenly. He’s careless with his children. He’s spiteful. Truthfully, I don’t know that I’ve ever noticed Mr. Newman’s features. It’s his lack of character that makes him unattractive. Besides, I’m surprised at you for taking his side. You haven’t let your scar affect you.”

  “My . . . my scar?” Clayton’s stomach turned inside out. He swallowed. “I knew your brother would tell you.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “He told me about its origin, but I already knew of its existence. I saw it myself, or bits here and there. That, along with your sea-green eyes and curly hair.”

  His mouth opened. Then closed. “I thought . . . if I’d known, I would’ve done a better job of hiding.”

  “Don’t hide. My sight may fade soon, but I want to see your face as much as I can before then.”

  She took the lamp by the base. Clayton stepped back.

  “Please,” she said.

  Clayton lowered his eyes. Would she regret her decision? Would seeing his face change her opinion of him? His throat hopped. What did it matter? He planned to leave by sundown. Too late to hide now.

  “I’m here,” he rasped.

  Grace held the lamp aloft. The flame warmed his cheek. He could taste the burning kerosene in the air.

  Her brows lowered and her eyes narrowed. She swung her head, trying to locate the injury. When she caught sight, he flinched.

  “No, don’t move.” She handed him the lamp and laid her palm against his cheek. Her eyes closed and she seemed to soak away all the bitterness that clung to the thin white line.

  He didn’t think he could speak while she touched him, but once started the words spilled out. “I was just a lanky, overgrown kid who loved horses. I hung around the livery stable all the time helping out. I never did any harm.” So many years of pain from an innocent pastime. “But that night some men took offense. Friends of your brother’s who thought I’d insulted them for being Irish. They accused me of being a horse thief.” He placed the lamp on the table. “My pa was hanged for horse thieving.”

  He waited for her to step away, for her face to harden in disapproval, but her expression softened. Now she held both sides of his face. “So brutal. So unnecessary.”

  “No one came to my defense. No one spoke up for me. They marked me for a thief, and from then on everyone who saw the mark would suspect it was the lash of justice I deserved.”

  “So that’s why you didn’t like my brogue?” Her fingers walked their way from his brow to his chin and met at his mouth.

  “I don’t mind it so much anymore.”

  “And when you see me, are you going to always think of my brother’s cruelty?”

  Her giant brown eyes, mostly unseeing, waited on his answer. O’Malley’s friends had taken much without his consent, but would Clayton give away even more? How could he deny Grace this peace at their parting?

  Or maybe this wouldn’t be a parting. Did he dare hope?

  “He’s your brother, and after today I doubt I’ll think of the incident much at all.”

  Grace traced his lips. She wanted him to speak. Anything that would cause them to move against her fingertips again. “And you’re sure you don’t want me to marry Mr. Newman?”

  She waited, expecting to feel a smile, but instead his throat worked as
he tried to swallow.

  “I want you to marry me,” he whispered.

  She felt the words leave his mouth. She heard them, too, and while her mind couldn’t believe, her heart soared. His lips parted once again. His head lowered, and Grace barely had time to slide her hands around his neck before his mouth met hers.

  Whether it was from their one rehearsal or because they were already so close, Clayton didn’t go awry on this kiss. He wasn’t experimenting but declaring all he wanted and all he offered. A happy sob rose in her throat. His arms tightened around her.

  “Marry me, Grace. There’s nothing I want more.”

  “You’d stay here with me? You’d be content with this homestead?”

  “I don’t care about the homestead. You can come with me to Oklahoma Territory, if you’d like. It doesn’t matter, as long as we’re together.”

  Her fingers reached the wavy hair at his temples. “Marrying you would make this all worth it.”

  Now she felt a smile so strong his ears moved. “Even losing your sight?”

  “If I could see, I would’ve never met you.”

  Before he could stop her, Grace stretched on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. He halted, stood stock-still as she followed his scar, covering it in gentle kisses all the way up to his brow. She pressed her cheek to his and held him until his breathing had evened.

  “I’m glad your brother found you.” Clayton burrowed his face into her unbound hair. “It’s not often we see the demons of our past defeated, but sometimes God lets us see them redeemed, and that’s even better.”

  “You can forgive him?”

  His chest rose and fell in a giant sigh. “I already have.”

  The sun pushed above the canyon, spilling its warm light over the backs of the two men riding toward the homestead. Clayton drove the ax blade deep into the stump and called Grace. At the doorway she untied her flower-printed apron and lifted it over her head before joining him. Her smile provoked his, even if she couldn’t see it. He positioned her to face the horses and wrapped his arm around her waist as they waited for them to reach the house.

  “There are two horses.” She wrung her hands.

  “You can see them?”

  “No. I’m getting better at listening.”

  Grace’s brother reined in before the banker’s son, Marcus Whitfield, reached them. One look at Clayton’s protective stance at Grace’s side, and Brian’s eyebrow rose.

  “Looks like you and I be needing a serious talk.”

  “Yes, sir.” Clayton said. “But first, it’s only fair to tell Mr. Whitfield that his inspection is unnecessary. Miss O’Malley and I are getting married, and it wouldn’t be right to take money for fixing up my own place.”

  Grace leaned into him, her shoulder digging warmly into his ribs.

  O’Malley tilted forward over the horn of his saddle. “Does he speak the truth, Grace?”

  She beamed. “Yes, he does. While I’d like to stay with your family, my future is with Clayton. From here, I’m his responsibility.”

  The face Clayton had detested eased into an amicable expression. “If it means anything, you have me blessing. And you’ll need a horse. I’ll see that you get one. It’ll be a wedding present to you, Grace. A gift to start afresh on, although I do wish me kids had a chance to meet their Auntie Grace.”

  How could Clayton deny anyone happiness when he’d been given so much? “I’ll bring Grace to visit. I promise.”

  The man ducked to hide the tears welling in his eyes. “You are compassionate, sir. A good man, and I’ll be honored to call you me brother.”

  “And about your payment,” Marcus Whitfield said, beaming, “this new development may affect your claim on the funds, but I assume you can still collect. I imagine the trustees will be very pleased with the outcome.”

  “The trustees?” Grace’s head lifted. “I’ve been wondering who set up that account. Did they place the advertisement, too?”

  But it was Mr. Whitfield’s turn to look puzzled. “I don’t know what advertisement you’re talking about.”

  As usual, Grace had her face lifted to the sun, but she turned to smile at Clayton, her happiness brimming over. “The advertisement that brought me a troublesome hired hand”—she nestled under his arm—“and a man I’m proud to marry.”

  Her arm slid behind Clayton and rubbed generous circles on his back. Clayton didn’t have words to express his thanks—not to the woman he loved, not to the man he’d hated, or to the God who’d mended the scar in his soul and made something beautiful from it.

  Chapter 1

  DRY GULCH, TEXAS

  FALL 1893

  Lucy Benson cleared her throat. “Walter proposed to me this morning.”

  Not one of the members of the Dry Gulch Ladies’ Sewing and Prayer Circle gathered in Prudence Whitfield’s parlor missed a stitch.

  One corner of Dottie Jackson’s lips quirked up. “Again?”

  Lucy jabbed her needle into the dresser scarf she was embroidering. “Again. And to tell you the truth, it scared me a little.”

  Emilie’s good-natured laugh echoed throughout the room. “This makes the sixth time Walter has asked for your hand. Or is it the seventh? I’ve lost track by now. It’s about as surprising as the sun coming up every morning. Predictable, but hardly frightening.”

  “It wasn’t the proposal that scared me,” Lucy shot back. “It was the fact that I was tempted to say yes.”

  Dottie and Emilie gasped.

  Mrs. Whitfield’s finely arched eyebrows soared toward the white hair coiled atop her head.

  Hannah Taylor, who had stopped by for a moment just to say hello, plopped into a chair and stared.

  Dottie found her voice first. “You can’t be serious! Marry Walter? How could you even consider such a thing?”

  Lucy pressed her lips together. “It isn’t like I have much choice, Dottie. It was wonderful of your family to take me in and give me a home after Papa died and left me penniless. But your wedding is only a month away. Once you’re married, I can hardly expect your parents to let me continue staying with them.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. You’re my oldest and dearest friend, and Mother and Father love you like a daughter. I know they would be happy to have you stay on. It would keep the house from seeming empty after I’m gone.”

  Lucy knew from long experience there was no point crossing Dottie once she’d made up her mind—even when she was wrong. She forced a smile to her lips and tried to lighten the mood. “You’ll be in charge of your own household soon. Maybe you should consider taking me on as your maid once you’re Mrs. Richard Brighton.”

  A ripple of laughter ran around the room, and Lucy flinched. She hadn’t intended her remark to be quite so humorous.

  Gertie Claasen laid her needlework down and wiped tears of mirth from her eyes. “What an idea! I can just see you trying to iron linens or clean a floor. Face it, Lucy, apart from embroidery, you’re utterly unsuited for doing anything along domestic lines.”

  Lucy ducked her head and focused on the dresser scarf, hoping her irritation didn’t show. Still, she had to admit the truth of Mrs. Claasen’s statement. “You’re right. I have no domestic skills . . . or any other prospects. Which is why I may have to take Walter up on his offer.”

  “Oh, my dear.” Mrs. Whitfield laid her knitting on her lap and reached over to press her hand on Lucy’s arm. “It takes more than money and land to give you happiness and a true home.”

  “I know, and believe me, that isn’t my first choice.” Or my second. Or my tenth. Walter Harris’s tightly controlled approach to life meant everything had to be done the right way—his way. If she gave in to his demands and agreed to marry him, her every action would have to fit that narrow mold, as well. Just the thought made her feel as though her chest were being squeezed in a vise.

  “But I don’t have any other place to turn. I simply can’t impose on Dottie’s family indefinitely. I’ve prayed about this ever since
I learned about the bad investments Papa made, but God hasn’t opened up any other doors.” Lucy drew a deep breath. “Maybe marrying Walter is His will for me.”

  Dottie clicked her tongue. “Pastor Eldridge keeps reminding us that God is a loving Father. I can’t imagine marrying Walter Harris being His will for anybody.”

  Hannah leaned forward, concern shimmering in her light blue eyes. “You truly have no other prospects?”

  Lucy shook her head. Hearing her predicament put into words made the situation seem even more disheartening. “I’m afraid not.”

  Mrs. Whitfield drew herself up and folded her hands. “Ladies, we need to take Lucy’s problem to the Lord.”

  After a round of heartfelt prayers, Hannah excused herself to go tend to her three little brothers, and the rest resumed their needlework.

  While the group chattered about a new shipment of fabric that had just arrived at the general store run by Mrs. Claasen and her husband, Lucy’s attention remained focused on her dilemma. And on trying to choke back the lump in her throat.

  It wasn’t her fault she’d never learned to be useful about the house. Being raised by a doting father who catered to her every need, she never had to acquire such knowledge. It wasn’t that she was unwilling to work hard. She just didn’t know how to run a home. But surely she could learn, if only someone would give her the chance.

  Dottie’s wedding was only a few short weeks away. The Jacksons could hardly be expected to extend their hospitality after their only daughter left the nest. Which meant Lucy needed to find another place to stay . . . and soon.

  She wrapped the navy embroidery floss around the tip of her needle to form another French knot. Was marriage to Walter the answer God had for her? A vision of her insistent suitor swam into her mind. Walter, with his watery blue eyes and the jutting Adam’s apple that made him look like a tom turkey. Walter, with the controlling nature that made her feel unable to breathe freely in his presence. True, his family had plenty of money. He could offer her a fine home and servants, every comfort her heart desired.