Hearts Entwined

by Karen Witemeyer

  Pieter held her gaze for a long moment before nodding slightly. Then, apparently realizing they were starting to draw a crowd, he gently took her arm and steered her down the street in the direction she’d been heading. They walked in silence until they reached the livery.

  She drew to a halt in front of the open barn doors and mumbled a quiet explanation. “Mr. Porter, a friend from Harper’s Station, gave me a ride to town this morning, but since he had deliveries to make for his freight business, he made arrangements with his brother for me to borrow a horse and cart from his livery for the drive home. I should probably be checkin’ on it and seein’ about returnin’ to Harper’s Station. That way ye can get on with the rest of yer business.”

  “You are my business, Claire.”

  She jerked her head up, questions racing through her brain. Questions that must have shown on her face, for Pieter smiled. That small, private half-smile of his that never failed to turn her insides to mush.

  “Delivering Liam wasn’t my only reason for coming.” He ran a finger along the edge of her face, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her skin tingled at his touch. Then he moved on to the babe, gently cupping the lad’s downy head and rubbing back and forth.

  The contact soothed the boy, but it had the opposite effect on Claire. For as Pieter stroked the child, the back of his knuckles also brushed the underside of her chin, leaving not only her heart in a puddle from his tender, fatherly treatment of Liam, but the rest of her longing for another caress meant just for her.

  Once the baby ceased his fretting, Pieter withdrew his hand. “When Polly finally admitted to me that your mail-order marriage never took place, I began making plans.” He met her gaze, his eyes clear and intent. “Plans to win you back, Claire. To prove myself worthy of you.” He retreated a step and shifted his weight, but his eyes never left hers. “When Polly approached me about Liam, I already had a train ticket to Texas in my possession. I would have come for you with or without the little man as an excuse.”

  He’d been coming for her all along? Even after the way she’d sliced him from her life? Her heart gave a leap, yet her head argued caution. He’d hurt her before. He could hurt her again.

  “I’m not asking you to forget all that’s happened between us. I’m simply asking you to give me a chance to explain and own up to my failures. After you’ve heard what I have to say, if you still want no part of me, I’ll respect your wishes and leave you to your life in Harper’s Station with no more than monthly visits to remain connected with Liam.”

  Claire’s forehead scrunched. Monthly visits? From New York?

  “I have no doubt that you’ll be a wonderful mother to him,” Pieter hurried to reassure her, as if he feared he’d insulted her with his comment. “But Liam is a van Duren. His father might have abandoned him, but I will not. He’s my blood. I intend to see that he receives the love and support such a connection deserves.”

  This was the man she had fallen in love with, a man of deep honor and commitment, a man she had always been able to depend on. Had she painted him a full-fledged villain when perhaps he’d simply been a good man who’d temporarily stumbled? No one could be perfect all the time. Yet that was what she had expected of him. To never let her down. Ever.

  “I would be glad to have ye involved in Liam’s life.” She swallowed another chunk of pride. It scratched as it went down, but it lightened her soul a little. “He’ll need a . . .”—she nearly said father, but that would be inviting too many pictures of domesticity that she wasn’t yet ready to contemplate—“a strong man in his life to look up to as an example. But I don’t understand how ye think to visit every month. The time away from work plus the train fare would make visiting once a year barely feasible.”

  Pieter grinned and rocked back on his heels. “It won’t be so bad. I thought to visit over a Sunday, get a local lad to milk the cows for me while I’m gone. And if the cheese and butter business goes as well as anticipated, I’ll have extra ready cash for the train fare.”

  “Extra cash? Have ye gone daft, Pieter? I had to pay Mr. Fischer seventy-five dollars to reimburse him for the ticket he purchased to bring me out here. And ’twas only one way!”

  Something lit Pieter’s eyes. A sparkle—dare she believe it was a touch of mischief? “Don’t worry. The fare will be manageable. The trip’s only a couple hours.”

  “Whisht! Now I know ye’re daft.”

  He chuckled. “No. Not daft. Only calculating distance from a different starting point.” His face grew serious. “I bought a piece of land, Claire. And I’ve money to start a small dairy herd.”

  His own land? Heaven be praised. He’d worked so hard for so long. She knew how much that meant to him. To his family—to be the first to own land in the New World. To escape the tenements and make a life for himself. No matter what trouble had come between them, she was truly proud of his accomplishment.

  “Oh, Pieter, I’m so happy for ye. I know ’twas yer dream.”

  “Part of my dream,” he corrected, and a little shiver danced along Claire’s nape at the implication. “I didn’t just bring Liam with me on that train. I brought all my worldly goods. The land I bought is in Texas, Claire.”

  Texas? Who ever heard of a Texas dairy? Dairies belonged in places like New York and Wisconsin. Why in the world would he choose Texas?

  But as her heart thumped in her chest, she recognized the answer. He’d come for her. To prove himself. Hadn’t he said as much? Yet to go so far as to purchase something as permanent as land with no guarantee that she’d change her mind. ’Twas like throwing the deed to the farm into a poker pot when the final cards had yet to be dealt. Unaccountably foolhardy.

  Yet incredibly romantic.

  The blighter was cheating. Trying to manipulate her.

  Or maybe he was sacrificing everything he had for love. Not only for her, but for the nephew they shared.

  How could she possibly be expected to remain unaffected by such a grand gesture?

  Claire stared into the tender brown eyes of the man she’d loved for half her life and felt the stone of her heart start to soften and yield. Remaining unaffected was obviously not an option. But keeping her wits about her was. She would listen to his explanations. Perhaps even offer forgiveness. Heaven knew her soul could benefit from the release of that burden. But it would be her head, not her heart, that would decide how they moved forward. Her heart had led her astray once. She wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

  Chapter

  5

  An hour later, Claire had decided that Bart and Addie Porter were ministering angels sent by God to ease her way through the cyclone of change whirling through her life. Not only did Bart have the horse and cart ready for her, but while the men were off collecting the luggage from the depot and tracking down a goat she could purchase, Addie gave Liam what Claire could not—mother’s milk. While her own six-month-old daughter rolled about on the bedroom floor, exploring table legs and sucking on blanket corners, Addie nursed Liam and freed Claire to cut the diaper cloth she had purchased into ready-to-use squares. She even had time to hem them on Addie’s Singer sewing machine.

  By the time Pieter returned and stored his extra trunks and crates in a back corner of Mr. Porter’s livery, Liam was fed, changed, and fast asleep in a padded baby basket Addie had insisted on loaning them. With no other baby details to address, Claire was free to relax.

  Only she couldn’t. As soon as Pieter climbed up beside her on the small, two-person cart seat, his wide shoulders and long legs taking up more than his fair share of the space, all she could think about was him. The feelings he stirred confused her, despite her efforts to maintain a practical perspective. As her feet straddled the baby basket on the floorboard, she became far too aware of his thigh pressing against hers. And his smile—hopeful, yet a tad nervous—had an unsettling effect on her pulse.

  It was too much. Too familiar and comfortable. Too reminiscent of other times they’d been together. Walks h
ome after work, church picnics where she’d sat close enough to brush his arm every time she reached for her plate. Even now she wanted to touch him, to reassure him that he had nothing to be nervous about, that she would always stand beside him. Yet it was his very failure to stand beside her that had brought them to this particular juncture.

  Desperate to busy her hands and distract her mind, Claire reached into her handbag for a piece of embroidery. She always stashed a small project in her reticule, hating to be idle. She was working on a bread cover for Bertie Chandler’s birthday next month. In each corner of the linen cloth she’d fashioned stalks of wheat in golden-brown thread, waving in imaginary wind. She’d finished three of the corners already and started the fourth this morning—started but quickly abandoned. Her anxiety about her errand combined with the jostling of Ben Porter’s freight wagon had made it nearly impossible to stitch with any level of precision. Thankfully, the plodding pace Pieter had set in order to allow the goat to keep up with their cart offered more stability.

  Sliding the threaded needle from the fabric, Claire eyed the base of the wheat stalk she’d started that morning. Only three back stitches tall, poor thing. Time to fill it out with some satin-stitched leaves and grain heads. Yet when she set her needle to the linen, her fingers trembled enough to require three attempts before she found the right hole. All because the man sitting next to her chose that moment to inhale in a particularly portentous manner.

  She held her breath with him, not even realizing she did so until he finally exhaled and freed her to breathe on her own. Little good it did her, though, when he opened his mouth and stole her breath altogether.

  “I love you, Claire.”

  The quiet words caught her so off guard, she jabbed her needle into her finger. She’d been expecting explanations, apologies, pleas for forgiveness. Not a declaration. Especially not one that made her heart weep and sing at the same time.

  Pieter turned to look at her. She could feel his regard, though she kept her gaze focused on her needlework.

  “I know I have much to explain,” he said, “but I wanted you to hear that truth first. I love you. Only you. I’ve never loved another.”

  Claire tightened her left hand into a fist, her injured finger throbbing just as her heart throbbed with a betrayal that had never fully healed. “Then why did ye spend all of last spring escortin’ Miss Josephine Ellmore about town as if ye were courtin’ her?”

  She hadn’t believed the rumors at first. The Pieter she knew would never be so shallow. So deceitful. He’d gone to Rochester to learn the workings of the dairy industry, to make business connections, to earn the funds he needed to buy his own land. For their future. He’d gone to better himself, and she’d trusted him. Even when the neighborhood girls delighted in reminding her that the best way for Pieter to better his prospects was to leave the Irish trash that persisted in clinging to his shoe in the gutter where she belonged.

  Not Pieter, her soul had cried. Not steadfast, steady, dependable Pieter. His word was his bond, and he’d vowed to come back for her. To marry her. As soon as he had the money put by to provide the life they had planned.

  Yet when Polly came to her, concerned about something she’d overheard Pieter’s brother Diederick saying to some friends about Pieter finally figuring out how to get ahead in life, Claire had no longer been able to sustain blind faith in her man. She’d craved validation. Vindication against the cruel taunts and salacious gossip. She’d taken half a day off work and traveled to Rochester. Wearing her best dress, her hair twisted in a fancy style that had taken Polly an hour to arrange, she’d stepped off the train and walked through town, determined to prove her man faithful.

  Only to prove the opposite.

  She’d found them exiting an ice cream parlor. Pieter, solid and stoic as an oak, while a vibrant butterfly clung to his arm. The beautiful blonde laughed and fluttered and leaned intimately close, her expensive blue walking gown floating about her like delicate wings. She teased and cajoled and slapped Pieter playfully on the arm, as if scolding him for being too serious. And he’d smiled. A wide, toothy grin, bigger than the paltry half-smiles he’d always bestowed on Claire.

  Never had she felt so shabby. So . . . second-class. Her Sunday dress, which had filled her with confidence a few hours earlier, now seemed faded and lifeless. She swore she could feel every last one of her freckles pushing out from her skin, announcing her flaws and imperfections to the world.

  And in that heartbeat of keenest vulnerability, Pieter had glanced up and seen her. The color had drained from his face, and his eyes had gone as wide as silver dollars. Fitting, since dollars were apparently what he’d had his eyes on all along.

  He had called her name and taken a step toward her, but she turned her back and ran. Less than a hundred feet had separated them on the boardwalk, but it had been crowded, and she eluded him by ducking into a millinery shop with a group of giggling girls, then disappearing out the back. He hadn’t caught up to her that day. Nor any day since. Until now.

  Pieter’s gaze continued searing the side of her face, willing her to look at him. She felt the heat of it. Even saw a hint of his intensity through the corner of her lashes, but she refused to give in. A girl could get lost gazing into those earnest, honey-brown eyes. She needed all the control she could muster if she hoped to keep her mind functioning at full capacity. She jabbed her needle through the fabric and ignored the knot in her midsection that matched the tangle she’d just created in her thread.

  A heavy sigh was Pieter’s only response to her stubbornness. He turned away to face the road, and Claire swore the temperature of her cheek fell several degrees at his action, as if the sun had moved behind a cloud.

  “I was never courting Miss Ellmore,” he finally said. A long silence stretched after that pronouncement, only the creak of wagon wheels and an occasional birdcall meeting Claire’s straining ears. Then he cleared his throat. “But I did make an effort to curry her favor.”

  Claire snuck a peek at his profile. His nape had a ruddy glow to it, his head hung low, and his shoulders slumped. He must have sensed her attention, for he started to crane his neck toward her. She yanked her eyes back to her embroidery and thrust her needle into another stitch, uncaring that it wasn’t in the right place and that she hadn’t yet untangled the thread from her last attempt.

  She wanted to shout at him. To accuse him. To beg him to explain how he could love her while flirting with, if not outright pursuing, another.

  But she held her tongue, as much out of fear of what she might reveal as a desire to make the telling just a bit harder on him. She’d decided to listen. She hadn’t promised to pave the way with rainbows and rose petals.

  “It was during my second year of apprenticeship at the Ellmore Dairy that Jo started acting odd.”

  Claire cringed at the nickname. What happened to Miss Ellmore? Now she was Jo. Claire pushed her needle upward into the fabric, huffing out an impatient breath when the knot she’d created on the back side refused to allow the thread to pass through.

  “At first, she just looked at me differently, smiling far too often and too . . . brightly.” The discomfort in his voice soothed her pride a bit, but the memory of his own bright smile—aimed at Jo—kept her from softening her stance. “Then she started coming by the dairy late in the afternoons, supposedly to visit her father, but it was my aid she enlisted in helping her return to the house without soiling the hem of her fine gowns. Why she wore such garments to a muck heap in the first place never made a lick of sense to me, but I couldn’t ignore her request. Especially not with her father looking on.”

  Claire shook her head at Pieter’s ignorance of feminine wiles. True, she’d never been one to employ them herself, much preferring to speak her mind than play games, but even an innocent like Pieter must have caught on eventually that Josephine Ellmore had been angling for a strong arm to lean on.

  “During the rainy months, it was faster just to carry her back to the house an
d avoid the mud altogether.”

  Claire rolled her eyes as she flipped her fabric over and started picking at the knots. “Yet somehow she managed to get to the dairy without assistance,” she muttered under her breath. “Daft man.”

  “Did you say something?” Pieter’s gaze warmed her cheek again.

  Claire wagged her head from side to side. “Continue on with your woeful tale of carryin’ fine ladies in your arms. ’Tis surely warmin’ me heart towards ye.”

  And that was why she needed to keep her mouth shut. He’d be a fool not to hear the jealousy behind the sarcasm. Then again, he’d been fool enough to fall for the Oh, I can’t possibly dirty my hem ploy.

  “Well, anyway . . . it became apparent that she harbored some . . . interest in me.”

  Ye think so? Claire ground her teeth together and jerked her needle. A separated thread pulled without its partners, increasing the size of the knot. Good grief. Why would this thread not cooperate? No matter how she picked at the loose ends, the tangle only grew worse.

  “And her father seemed to approve, despite the fact that I had mentioned having a girl back home.”

  As if that would matter. Pieter was intelligent—about most things—driven to succeed, and the hardest worker in ten counties. Ellmore would have recognized that right away. He’d no doubt been grooming Pieter to become a partner in his business. How better to solidify the future of Ellmore Dairy than to tie Pieter to it through marriage to the man’s daughter?

  “Then I made the mistake of listening to my brother.”

  “Diederick?” Claire’s head came around at the tightness in Pieter’s voice. His disapproval and disappointment in his sibling could not have been more evident. Yet judging by the way he lifted a hand from the reins to tug at his collar, there was some disapproval and disappointment aimed at himself as well.