The Courting of Widow Shaw

by Charlene Sands

  “Morning, Mattie,” Steven said to the cook as he entered the large kitchen. Two cast-iron stoves banked one wall, next to a pie safe and a full-sized pantry. The cupboards held dishes and serving pieces from all around the world. A good meal was something Lorene Harding believed in. And the cook she’d chosen for the job had been her latest rescue, a sixteen-year-old girl who’d run away from an orphanage. She’d displayed culinary skills that had simply amazed Lorene.

  “Morning, Mr. Harding.” She cast him a shy smile and turned back to her preparations. The ladies usually didn’t rise until noon or later, so Mattie always had time to fix up something mouth watering for supper.

  “Mattie, how long have you worked here?”

  She whirled around, wiping her hands on her apron. Her slightly freckled face held a perpetual flush of color. Steven presumed the heat of the kitchen caused it. He’d rarely seen her anyplace else but the kitchen. “I’ve been here six months, sir.”

  He smiled and kept his tone light. “And how many times have I asked you to call me Steven?”

  “Oh,” she said on a giggle. “I’m sorry, sir. Yes, sir. Steven.” She nodded, and the rosy color in her face intensified. She turned around to stir something in a pot. “Are you here for breakfast? I’ve got oatmeal cooking, and I can warm some bread to have with peach preserves.”

  Steven poured himself a mug of coffee and sat down at a rectangular table that went nearly the length of the kitchen. “That sounds fine.”

  He took a sip of coffee, allowing the steamy liquid to slide down his throat and fill his empty stomach. “I’ll need some broth later on, to take up to our…guest.”

  “Yes, sir. Is she…is she going to be all right?” Mattie continued stirring what he knew now to be oatmeal. “I heard about the fire and the…beating.”

  Steven’s gut clenched every time he thought about Glory’s injuries. “I think she’ll recover just fine. At least Emmie seems to think so and she’s a good judge of these things. But Mattie, it’s important that you don’t speak about her to anyone. I’ve asked Ruby to tell the girls the same. I know I can trust all of you.”

  “Yes, sir. I won’t tell a soul about her.”

  “Good, I appreciate it. And Mattie?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Don’t call me sir.” He chuckled quietly to himself when her face flamed again.

  With his belly full, Steven climbed the stairs again, anxious to see if Glory had woken up. She had had no fever last night, which he thought a good sign. But the bruises to her body had been unsightly in the dark and he could only imagine what they looked like in the light of day.

  Steven entered his bedroom to find Glory taking peaceful breaths as she continued to sleep. On the bedside table, he found a jar of salve that had been deposited by Emmie, no doubt. She’d told him to wash Glory’s body, then apply the salve to all the bruises. Steven had hoped Emmie would have done the deed herself, leaving him in the clear. But Emmie, like Ruby and all the others, wanted no part of the woman who’d love nothing better than to run them all out of town.

  Steven sighed. He couldn’t blame them. Gloria Mae Shaw had made a nuisance out of herself, but he believed she had never posed any real threat to Rainbow House. Lorene hadn’t worried about it, but then his mother wouldn’t find fault with the Reverend’s daughter, no matter what she’d wanted to do.

  Steven poured water into a bowl and set it down on the bedside table. He took a seat on the edge of the bed, carefully peeling back the covers. Glory’s long hair covered most of the skin exposed by the ripped garment she wore. The dark-brown dress, tattered now, had to come off.

  Perhaps it was a good thing she was in a deep drugged sleep or he doubted she’d let him come anywhere near her. But her bruises needed tending and Steven was the only one to do it.

  He came around to her backside and unbuttoned the dress. With care, he lowered the dress down, exposing her shoulders, and lower yet to uncover most of her back. He slipped the dress off easily after that, deciding to leave the chemise, her cream-colored undergarment, on for her modesty and his own sanity.

  Steven’s hands trembled as he lifted the chemise to peer down her back. Thankfully, there were no bruises, only the sight of soft glowing skin that led down to the curve of her spine.

  He took a deep swallow.

  Doctoring a woman like Glory made his nerves go raw.

  Sensations ripped straight through him, but he fought them off. The woman needed help, not his schoolboy gawking.

  He knew, judging from the swollen purple marks on her face, that most of Glory’s injuries had occurred facing her attacker. She’d taken the brunt of his abuse head-on. So Steven lifted himself off that side of the bed to come around to Glory’s front. He sat down and gazed at her, noting her skin discolored in many places, the god-awful marks of aggression all over her lovely body.

  He took up a cloth, dipped it into the bowl and pressed it to her face first, bathing her with coolness.

  She let out a small sigh. Not a cry this time, but a whimper of slight pleasure. Steven let out a breath, relieved he hadn’t caused her more pain. “Glory, can you hear me?”

  She sighed quietly again but her swollen eyes remained closed.

  Steven kept the cloth on her face, gently dabbing at her bruises for long minutes. Then he moved the cloth down to cover a bruise on her left shoulder. He dipped and redipped the cloth several times, cleansing and cooling the area all the while his muscles tensed at the unjust brutality the woman had suffered.

  He couldn’t fault her if she had killed her husband.

  They’d get to the truth eventually, but for now, she needed to heal.

  Steven dipped the cloth once more and noted three dark and slightly elevated bruises on her chest. He bathed those as well, allowing the water to seep down under her chemise, keeping her modesty intact, somewhat. But his plan went awry, since the chemise, when wet, lent a view that Steven couldn’t tear his gaze away from. Small, round ripe breasts exposed by wet cotton held his complete attention, nearly knocking the stuffing out of him.

  “Lord help me,” he mumbled as he held his breath and continued to bathe her. His groin went tight. His mind rebelled. Rosy peaks pressed against the flimsy fabric outlined Glory’s beautiful form, and try as he might, Steven hadn’t the willpower to shift his attention. He sat there, mesmerized. How on earth was he to rub her skin with salve? Wasn’t that too much to ask of an honorable man?

  Steven covered her, then bounded up from the bed. Moving to the window, he glanced out, seeing nothing but the image of Glory, lying in his bed, nearly naked and needing his attention.

  “God almighty,” he cursed, willing his body back to normalcy. Steven wasn’t a man to lose control. He wasn’t a man who feared the very sight of a woman.

  She made a sound. Not a moan or a cry, but words. She’d mumbled words. Steven whirled around abruptly, her low raspy voice startling him. “Glory?”

  Had she spoken? Was that voice hers, or had he imagined those words only in his addled brain?

  He moved to her side. “Glory?”

  The woman struggled to open her eyes, but didn’t quite achieve her goal. Instead, another whispered sound came forth. “Where…am…I?”

  Chapter Two

  Through a haze of pain, Gloria heard a man’s voice. She wrestled with the sound, her mind too clouded to recognize who was calling to her. But whomever it was kept calling her Glory.

  Glory.

  No one ever called her Glory—except her beloved father and then only within the confines of their home. To the outside world ever-prudent Reverend Jonathan Caldwell had used her birth name of Gloria Mae.

  Perhaps it was her father calling? Perhaps He was ready to take her and the good Lord saw fit to send her father as messenger.

  “Glory.”

  The voice called to her again, but it wasn’t her father. This time she was certain. How often had she dreamed of hearing his tone and tenor just once more? But his life
had been taken abruptly and far too soon. Sadly she realized she’d never hear her father’s voice again.

  Gloria battled to open her eyes, but it was as though clay bricks weighed them down. The effort cost her too much energy so she gave up for now. It hurt to breathe. Everything ached. And she remembered nothing of what had happened to her. But she felt safe, for some odd reason. And cared for. Even though she didn’t know where she was.

  “Glory?”

  It was the man’s urgent voice again, calling to her.

  Her lips were swollen, her mouth dry. “Water.” She breathed out, and the weak muted sound of her voice surprised her.

  A cool wet cloth was pressed to her lips. “Drink up the moisture for now,” the man said. Gloria obeyed, allowing the liquid to seep through her lips. It soothed her parched mouth and slid down a throat that was sore and hoarse. She tried opening her mouth just a little wider to take in more water, but she couldn’t do it, the pain nearly cracking her face in two.

  She begged her mind for answers. What had happened to her? Who was this man tending to her? A doctor? Was she in a hospital? The last thing she remembered was standing over the cookstove making Boone his evening meal. He’d been unusually unsettled, discouraged with the progress of his staked claim. He’d gone outside to have a smoke, as he often did when he’d had an unproductive day. He’d all but given up on his claim.

  Things hadn’t gone as planned in their marriage. Boone had been unhappy with the little money he’d made on his claim. He’d been so sure, so very certain he would hit a rich strike. Ore had been plentiful in Virginia City, the Comstock Lode making many men wealthy. Boone had wanted a part of that wealth for himself.

  Gloria searched her mind, hoping to recall what had happened after that, but it was as though her mind refused to remember. Her head ached terribly. Maybe later, once the throbbing stopped, maybe then, she’d remember.

  “Do you want more water?”

  The man spoke softly, but she heard the rich deep tone of his voice. Again, she wondered about him. Who was he? And where had he taken her? What had occurred that had wiped all memory from her mind? Slowly, for it was the only way she could answer, she shook her head.

  She felt his presence on the bed, could hear him breathing, then pausing to inhale deeply. She heard a whoosh when he let his breath rush out. “I have salve for your wounds,” he said. “It will help you heal. Don’t be afraid. I have to touch you.”

  Glory nodded slightly, the best she could do. She couldn’t fight him if he had ill intentions, but somehow she didn’t believe that to be the case. She only wished that he had answered her question, one that took all of her effort to ask.

  Where was she?

  A strong but ever-so-gentle hand came to her face as he worked foul-smelling liniment into her cheek, her lips and her chin with light fingers. Gloria’s father had once used an Indian remedy on her as a child when she’d taken a terrible fall, hurting her knee. When she’d protested, he told her, the worse it smelled the faster she would heal.

  Gloria decided if that were true, she’d be good as new very soon. And as the salve soaked into her skin, she did feel a bit better, its healing effects already taking hold.

  “You have bruises on your chest that need tending,” the man stated with quiet regard. “It has to be done.”

  And then, after a long pause, he added, “I won’t hurt you.”

  Why she placed her faith in him, she couldn’t fathom. Except that she’d been with only one man in her lifetime. And this man, this stranger had already displayed more tenderness toward her than Boone had, the husband who’d pledged his life to her.

  Gloria wondered about Boone. Where was he? Was he hurt as well? And if not, why wasn’t he here, tending to her? Fitful imaginings stirred in her brain, too many disturbing questions to deal with now. She closed off her mind, emptying it of worrisome images.

  The man brought her covers down and as the air hit her chemise she realized she had been bathed. Moisture still clung to her, plastering the garment fully up against her body. The sour odor of the salve drifted up, flavoring the surrounding air.

  “Try to relax,” he said. “I’ll be quick.” And he rubbed the ointment into the skin just above her breasts.

  She pressed her eyes open.

  At best she saw him through swollen slits. He sat so close, his gaze focused on his task. She didn’t know him. Or did she? She couldn’t tell, her eyes blurred from sharp light and clouded vision.

  But the tingling sensation created from his light caresses traveled clear down to her toes. His fingertips, the slight pressure on her bruised skin caused uncanny goose bumps to erupt on her arms as he continued the massage.

  Gloria had never exposed herself to a man this way. She’d never felt so vulnerable, so at a loss. She was at his mercy. Outwardly, she remained calm, for it hurt to move too much, but inwardly, Gloria panicked. His large hands worked on her tender skin, in the valley between her breasts and farther down, nearly grazing her nipples from under her chemise, bringing shame and desire, even through the pain. Surely this was sinful.

  Surely, she shouldn’t feel pleasure from a man other than her husband. She squeezed her eyes shut, unsure and not ready to meet his gaze.

  “I’ve got to get to your stomach.” He removed his hand from her chest and as he lifted the chemise up high on her torso a rush of air cooled her stomach. He covered her with the sheet then slipped his hand under, rubbing salve to the bruises there. A mortifying minute passed, as she laid upon the bed, completely helpless, placing ill-advised trust in the stranger.

  “All through,” he said with obvious relief. Perhaps the task had been as daunting to him as it had been to her. “Emmie says this will help you heal. You’ll feel better soon.”

  One sole finger caressed her cheek, trailing down to her throat in a soft touch of encouragement. “I’ll be back later. Get some rest.”

  Through closed eyes, Gloria gave a slow nod.

  Her waking minutes had been exhausting.

  And soon after he closed the door, she slept.

  Steven stood at Grady’s Saloon at the juncture of C Street and Union, sipping a cold beer. He’d spent the better part of the day with Glory, watching her, checking on her, hoping she’d awaken so that he could speak with her and maybe give her some of Mattie’s beef broth. But Glory hadn’t woken and he needed to get out of the house for a breath of fresh air. And a drink.

  Thoughts of Glory Shaw had blistered his mind. He went from thinking her a murderer, a faultless one at that, to a saintly woman, Reverend Caldwell’s beloved daughter, to a lovely creature who’d sparked his mind and body with lusty images.

  “Ready for another?” Grady asked, reaching for the beer pitcher.

  Steven figured the whole dang pitcher wouldn’t help what ailed him. He refused. “Nope. One’ll do me fine.”

  He had to keep his wits together. If there were talk about Glory, about the death of Boone Shaw, he’d want to know. So he stood by the bar, sipping beer and listening.

  As luck would have it, Sheriff Brimley entered, curling a finger around his long mustache and greeting Steven with a nod. In a town where men outnumbered women more than one hundred to one, just about every man in town knew Rainbow House, the sheriff being a patron himself.

  The sheriff took up space next to him at the bar. Steven immediately tensed, but sipped his beer as he leaned against the top of the bar. “I saw Lorene leave on the stage a few days ago. She still out of town?” Sheriff Brimley asked.

  “Yep. She took a business trip. She’ll be back soon though. She’s bringing the girls some fancy duds from San Francisco.”

  The sheriff ordered a whiskey. “That’s a good thing, then. I got some news she won’t be happy to hear, being as she feels responsible for that young gal losing her father. It seems Boone Shaw, that placer miner who married Reverend Caldwell’s daughter, is dead. House burned down to the ground, but seems Boone didn’t die in the fire.”

 
; Steven took another sip of beer, keeping a calm disinterested tone. “How do you suppose he died?”

  The sheriff shrugged, a frown yanking at his mustache. “Knife wounds. He’d been cut up some. And worse yet, a neighbor found the knife that done it. Seems Gloria Shaw is missing. It don’t look good for her.”

  “Why’s that?” Steven asked, looking straight ahead, trying not to appear to eager.

  “Everybody in town knows that girl got a wagon-load of grief when she married Boone. He wasn’t the husband she thought she was getting. Now with Boone dead and her missing, well… I’d hate to think it of her, being Jonathan Caldwell’s daughter and all.”

  “You said there was a fire. You sure she didn’t die inside the house?”

  “Nah. I just got back from checking out there with my deputies. There ain’t no bodies in that house. I’m putting the word out to bring Gloria Mae Shaw in for questioning. She’s got a whole lot to answer to.” The sheriff finished off his whiskey then shook his head, sighing. “Sometimes, my job just ain’t easy.”

  “I’ll be sure to let Lorene know, when she gets back in town.” Steven gulped down the last of his beer. “Good talking to you, Sheriff.”

  Sheriff Brimley nodded. “Same here.” Then he turned his attention to the barkeep. “Hey, Grady. I’m asking all the saloon owners to put the word out. Gloria Mae Shaw is wanted for questioning and the possible murder of her husband. Anybody who’s seen her should let me know immediately. I’d appreciate it if you asked around, and kept your eyes and ears open.”

  Grady nodded, wiping dry a glass. “Will do, Roy. I’ll listen up good, but I only saw that girl once in a while coming out of church on Sunday and she don’t appear to be no killer.”