Rancher to the Rescue

by Barbara Phinney

  “Perhaps you’re afraid this resentment is all you have left of your father. That’s why you won’t share it. But, Clare, you have good memories, too. You’ve mentioned that he was also a good man. Remember that and rise above those who want to condemn you.”

  With a nod and a slightly wobbly smile, Clare stood. Noah followed more slowly. He listened to her slightly off-key singing, and the way she stumbled over some of the words, all betraying her frayed nerves.

  And once again, he felt his jaw clench.

  Rise above those who want to condemn you. The words echoed in his head, convicting him.

  No, his situation was different. He was just overly sensitive because he was now intricately involved in Clare’s life.

  It wasn’t until after the service and the strange mix of condolences and congratulations that they were able to thread through the crowd to collect the boys from Sunday school. Clare finally asked her brothers how their first night at the ranch went.

  “He made us sit and not do anything all morning,” Leo complained.

  “For hours,” Tim added, his eyes wide.

  Noah rolled his eyes. “It took until after nine to get them bathed and cleaned up. Before that we fed the horse then ate breakfast.”

  “And Turnip?” Clare asked hopefully.

  “He still won’t come in. With the boys there, I wasn’t going to force him.”

  She looked sad. “I know how he feels. There are days I wish I could refuse to go into my house.”

  Noah smiled at her as they walked out of the church. Within a minute, they climbed into his wagon. It was already loaded with sturdy boxes ready to be filled and soon they were driving it down the street toward the Walsh house.

  Clare looked up at it. “Like now,” she whispered, staring up at her two-story home. Noah didn’t want to expose Clare to a lifetime of memories while she packed up her parents’ effects, but it had to be done. Immediately, she put the boys to work piling wood outside.

  “Why don’t you start in your parents’ bedroom?” Noah suggested gently as she opened the door and he carried some of the boxes upstairs. His shoulder still hurt, but this work could not wait until after he healed. “I’ll collect all the photographs and personal items from the living room,” he suggested.

  She nodded and disappeared up the stairs. He set about taking down the few photographs and one large tintype of people who must have been Clare’s grandparents. The afternoon passed slowly. Noah finished his careful packing and as he stowed the boxes into the wagon, he wondered how Clare was making out upstairs.

  As soon as he reached her parents’ room, he had his answer.

  Clare was sitting on a stool in front of her mother’s delicate and ornate vanity, weeping quietly.

  His heart lurched, the strength of the feeling taking him by surprise. Clare snapped up her head. Hastily brushing aside her tears, she stood. “I’m so sorry. I sat down here and started to sort through my mother’s personal things and then, well, I couldn’t stop crying.”

  He stood in the doorway, not sure if he should offer to help. “Take your time.”

  “No, no, I shouldn’t be like this.” She held up her hand as she turned away. “There will be plenty of time later for tears, just not now.”

  While that might be true, if she needed to cry, why shouldn’t she?

  Elizabeth had cried when he’d told her he wouldn’t marry her. Right before she’d turned the tables and demanded he tell the world that she had ended their engagement. She could say anything she liked. He would not marry her simply to line his father’s pockets.

  But here, Clare’s tears touched him in a way that Elizabeth’s had not. She demanded nothing from him. She’d merely apologized. She’d lost her parents, not injured her pride. She needed the time to grieve. Time eased all pain, he’d discovered.

  He paused. His anger at his father’s demands seemed less harsh. The time that had passed since he gave it serious thought had eased the bitterness, but was still short enough for him to be sympathetic toward Clare.

  Soon, the lawyer would let her know what was required to declare her parents legally dead. In the meantime, she needed to pack away their things and move out of her home.

  Even when she asked him if he was still offering marriage, the tone and attitude was quiet, thankful. Sad.

  Noah could not tear his eyes from her. This woman would soon be his wife. He gritted his teeth, hating that if he were to offer her comfort, she’d resent him all the more. But how could he stand there and not want to ease her pain? How could he just watch her cry?

  He couldn’t. She wanted to stand on her own two feet, but right now, she needed to be held. Noah drew her into his arms and held her there, gently, his face brushing against her soft hair and his nostrils filling with some faint, flowery scent that seemed as delicate as her slight frame felt.

  The moments passed, and Noah carefully cupped her chin to tilt her head upward. Her eyes were red and swollen and her tears had left pale, whitish tracks down her cheeks. Her nose was red as if she’d been outside in winter too long.

  His breath caught in his throat. She was so beautiful.

  When she’d started to work at the Recording Office last year, transcribing some damaged ledgers, he’d been the Assistant Recording Officer. She’d been bubbly, always smiling at him, and yet, determination to do her best poured from her with every stroke of her fountain pen.

  When he’d been elected Recording Officer, after his predecessor retired, she’d even baked a cake, and everyone at the town hall, including the sheriff even, stopped by for a slice. She’d blushed when she’d offered Noah the first slice.

  All through that time and during that celebratory day, he’d been so calm and nothing but polite, trying his best to remain the perfect conservative public official. He’d needed to be. His promotion meant a chance to build his ranch. He’d hired a ranch hand to come in every few days to clear the land and fulfill the requirements of the agreement between him and the state of Colorado, but someday he would hire full-time staff. One day his ranch would run itself.

  He shook away the thought. Right now wasn’t about him. Clare needed him.

  “Noah?” Easing away from him, Clare looked up, her soft, velvety brown eyes glistening. She had eyes like a young fawn.

  Noah inwardly grimaced at the foolish description. Sweet-talking was not his strength. What good would it do her anyway? She needed financial assistance, someone to help raise her two brothers, not some sappy man who couldn’t even remember his thoughts while holding her.

  Outside and below the window, somewhere along the side of the house, her brothers had begun to talk to someone, giving him and Clare a guarantee of privacy. He was alone with her for the moment.

  Noah swallowed. Theirs was a marriage of benevolence, offered to give security.

  Offered so he could rail against his parents.

  But in light of Clare’s deep grief, his anger suddenly felt shameful and self-indulgent.

  Still, for the moment, he could forget everything and stare into Clare’s eyes. In his mind, he could easily invent another type of marriage.

  The boys’ chatter faded away. In fact, all noise faded away as Noah dipped his head down.

  Clare blinked up at him, and despite the fact her face was mottled and blotchy, he could think of nothing he’d rather do than take in her beauty. Her lips parted, and a question formed in her expression.

  “Would you like me to kiss you, Clare?” He barely breathed out his question.

  Her eyes widened briefly, flaring with life in a welcoming way. She pulled in a sharp breath, and her gaze drifted down to his mouth.

  Yes, she wanted him to kiss her. His heart pounded fiercely in his chest.

  He lowered his head farther, his lips just beginning to brush against hers.


  “What on earth is going on here?”

  Chapter Ten

  Noah and Clare flew apart, both whirling toward the source of the brusque question. Noah heard Clare gasp.

  “Miss Worth!” she cried as she stepped toward the older woman now standing at the threshold to Clare’s parents’ room. She hastily wiped her face and smoothed her dress. “What are you doing here?”

  And how did you get in? Noah wanted to add. Then he saw the two boys’ heads pop up at the bottom of the railing that skirted the stairs. Ah. They had let her in. Noah had been so focused on Clare, her resplendent beauty and her soft eyes and her desperate need for comfort that he’d willfully pushed aside the world beyond.

  He took a step forward to stand slightly in front of Clare. So this was the esteemed Miss Worth, the author of those many sayings on women’s conduct that he’d heard repeatedly since Clare began to work at the Recording Office. The older woman stood erect in the doorway, her dark gray bombazine outfit as stiff as her expression. Any buttons or trim that he could see were fashioned from the same material, camouflaging themselves as if to prove that any frivolity or fashion was completely unacceptable.

  “I was on my way to the West Coast to visit a niece, and thought I would spend some time with you, Clare. I wanted to know how my star pupil was faring.” The last few words were heavy with disappointment.

  Clare’s mouth hung open for a bit too long, and when she did snap it shut, she forced a smile onto her lovely face. “How nice! I’m just surprised you didn’t wire me about it.”

  “I apologize,” Miss Worth answered so briskly that Noah questioned her sincerity. “It was a last-minute decision. I certainly do not want to appear spontaneous. But after I decided, I was unable to telegraph you, as the lineup at the station was unacceptably long and I needed to board my train.”

  With a back as straight as the lodgepole pines that encircled Noah’s ranch, Clare lifted her chin. “Regardless, you’re here and I am honored to have you visit.”

  “Good, then.” The woman pulled off her dark gray gloves as her frown deepened. “Now you can tell me why you’ve been crying and why I have found you in the arms of a man?”

  “I’m her fiancé,” Noah said. “Noah Livingstone.”

  “I see. Then you’re not married yet.” Miss Worth’s flaring gaze scraped up and down his frame, so harsh he could practically feel the abrasion. He lifted his brows to her but she ignored the action.

  “What on earth is going on that you need to forget what I told you about tears?”

  “Tears are the weapon of a weak woman,” Clare quoted quietly. “But I must say that my tears aren’t a weapon here, Miss Worth.”

  “Far from it,” Noah added. He received a short, scathing look from the older woman for his interjection but kept his expression cool. “Clare has recently lost her parents, ma’am. I was merely comforting her.” He refused to be cowed by this domineering woman. He took another step toward her and held out his hand to indicate that they should all leave the room. “It’s time for a break. Shall we go downstairs and have some tea? Clare can explain everything to you.”

  * * *

  Clare followed behind both Noah and Miss Worth, her heart thudding guiltily. Ahead, Tim and Leo, who’d obviously opened the door to the woman and led her upstairs, scampered down ahead of everyone and, as if sensing something unpleasant was simmering, now thankfully ducked out of sight into the kitchen, an act for which Clare was immensely grateful.

  At the bottom of the stairs sat a large portmanteau. For some reason, the sight of the luggage made Clare’s heart sink. Of course, Miss Worth would be expecting to stay here. But the house was in such disarray...

  “Please make yourself comfortable in the parlor, Miss Worth,” she said with brightness she didn’t feel. They’d all reached the front hall between the parlor and her father’s study. “I’ll start some tea.”

  She cringed as she hurried into the kitchen. She had so little food, having doled it out to the boys in what now felt like thimblefuls. Yes, she had enough tea, she decided as she stoked the fire to reheat the water, but her mentor would want something more substantial after her long train ride.

  Then she spotted it. A cake?

  Of course. She’d barely registered its existence when they’d come home from church. Now Clare lifted the small card sitting on top. It was from Mrs. Turcot, God bless her. Having learned of Clare’s sad news at the beginning of the service, she must have brought it over right after church while Clare and Noah were still dealing with those who offered both congratulations and condolences. Clare never locked her door, so it would be easy enough to slip in and leave it on the table.

  She undid the black crepe paper in which the cake had been hastily wrapped. It was a Washington cake. The recipe might be a bit too festive for the occasion, but it didn’t matter. Wrapped the way it was, the cake became suitable for a house of mourning.

  Clare swallowed. Hadn’t Noah told her not to give up hope for her parents’ safe return? It felt like she’d given up, and her life was getting more complicated each time she considered what she should or should not feel. Noah had also proposed a solution, quite literally, to the problems Clare now had, all the while telling her not to give up the hope that her parents would make it to Liverpool, England, any day now.

  So confusing.

  Standing in the center of her kitchen, Clare sagged. What if her parents arrived safely? What would happen to her when they finally returned home? She would be married to a man whose noble act had trapped them both. While hardly illegal, divorce would be considered a smear on both their reputations.

  She heard her mentor cough. How on earth was she going to explain all of this to Miss Worth?

  Don’t. Simply change the subject. With that cowardly idea, Clare hurried over to the counter and grabbed the cake. Thankfully, Miss Worth was not a stickler for tradition, despite her austere and conservative appearance. A cake that was traditionally eaten at fine holidays, like Washington’s birthday, would not go unnoticed by the older woman, but Clare fully expected her not to be bothered by the less than appropriate timing.

  Again, Clare cringed as she thought of what it must have looked like up there in her parents’ bedroom. She’d clung to Noah, readying herself for a kiss while her face was a mess from dried tears. And how could she so easily discard her mourning for the shallow comfort of a kiss?

  Had she really done that? Clare shut her eyes a moment, trying to answer the question.

  No time. Tim and Leo, who’d been sitting quietly at the table as if instinctively knowing the importance of the visitor, watched her intently. While the water was heating, Clare told them to get the good plates and the tea. Within a few minutes, she had sent the boys back outside with orders to stay clean, bribing them with the promise of a piece of cake. Then she threw back her shoulders and carried the tray of refreshments into the parlor.

  Miss Worth sat ramrod straight in one of the fine wingback chairs. Noah stood by the mantel, looking as closed off as he had when Clare had come to work the day after his proposal. Both appeared as though they’d just shared a lemon. She set the tray on the low table in front of her mentor before sitting down in the matching chair.

  She plastered on her best smile. “How nice of you to visit your niece on the West Coast. I hope she’s well.”

  “Never mind her, Clare!” Miss Worth threw out her hand to indicate Noah. “What’s going on? Why is this man here?”

  Clare glanced over at Noah, but he offered little help. She swallowed and recounted to Miss Worth what had happened. “My mother’s arthritis deteriorated. So my father made arrangements for her to visit a Kurhaus in Germany.”

  Clare pulled in a breath. “Unfortunately, their ship is now feared lost at sea.”

  She glanced around the parlor, suddenly wondering where
she’d placed the telegram. Had she left it at the Recording Office? No, she’d left it on the front hall table. Noah had brought it with him just before he’d first proposed.

  Clare’s heart hitched at the memory.

  “My condolences.” Those two words were brief and clipped. Clare knew the woman meant it, but catching a glimpse of her mentor’s suspicious glance at Noah, she also knew that Miss Worth expected an explanation for the intimacy she’d witnessed upstairs.

  Clare poured tea, spilling only a small amount. “Would you like a piece of Washington cake?”

  Miss Worth’s cool gaze fell on the cake. “It’s a bit late for a Washington cake? Isn’t Mr. Washington’s birthday in February?”

  “Well, yes, one of my church’s parishioners had made the cake for her own family, but after she found out about my parents, she brought it over. Surely a raisin cake isn’t reserved only for Washington’s birthday?”

  Miss Worth’s mouth a grim line, she made a low, short hum, the tone of it suggesting the idea of cake was simply too frivolous for any occasion. So much for guessing the woman didn’t stand on ceremony. “I no longer eat leavened bread or sweetened cakes,” she announced. “I have learned that the body’s digestion works best with a diet of only boiled vegetables and meat. But I will have a cup of tea. No milk or sugar, thank you. The food I have had to endure on the train trip has left me feeling poorly.”

  With shaking hands, Clare served tea, and standing, she cast a long look at Noah. When she handed him a piece of cake and a cup of tea, he brushed his hands across hers. The small smile and nod he offered were meant to encourage her. She felt heat rise into her face and hoped her mentor wouldn’t notice.

  “Thank you, Clare,” he said crisply, setting the teacup on the mantel and lifting the fork to take a hearty bite.

  “Mrs. Turcot has made this cake with a great deal of love,” Clare murmured. “She often has visitors on Sunday, so it was kind of her to sacrifice her dessert. I expect she realized what a difficult time I am dealing with.”