What an ordeal she’d put him through. Yet he’d done exactly what he’d promised. He’d stayed by her side every minute. How had she ever doubted his commitment, his steadfastness? One mistake did not define a man’s character. Actions over a lifetime did. And Pieter van Duren was nothing if not dependable, faithful, and honorable to the core. Maybelle was right. She’d be a fool to let fear steal him away.
Claire sighed. Then wrinkled her nose as a horrid smell wafted upward into her nostrils. What was that? She sniffed again. Garlic. She tilted her chin down to examine her chest. A garlic plaster. Smeared from her neck to places unknown beneath her nightgown.
She couldn’t tell Pieter she’d changed her mind about marrying him while covered in dried sweat and garlic. A woman had her standards.
Rolling quietly out of bed, she stood on legs as wobbly as a new foal’s but managed to maintain her verticality long enough to fetch a clean dress from the wardrobe and undergarments from the dresser. An urge to cough rose in her chest, but she managed to restrain it until she was in the hall and had closed the door behind her. She lifted her arm to muffle the rasping as the spasm wracked her chest. With much less pain than she’d previously experienced. In fact, besides a slight rub in her throat, it didn’t hurt at all.
Thank ye, Lord. Then, thinking of Pieter and the noise she’d just made, she added to her petition. Let him sleep. Please. He needs the rest.
And heaven knew, she needed a bath.
Pieter rolled onto his back and froze. Instantly awake, he tore open his sleep-roughened eyes, heart pounding.
Claire.
He couldn’t hear her. He jolted to a sitting position and scanned the bed. Empty.
“Claire?”
Where was she? He scrambled to his feet and hurried to the opposite side of the bed. No, she hadn’t fallen onto the floor. So where had she gone? And how could he have slept through her leaving? For two weeks he’d been attuned to every breath she took. Every twitch of muscle. Every sound. How could he have just . . . lost her?
He rushed to the door, tore it open, and bellowed for Mrs. Curtis as he raced down the short hall to the kitchen. The sight there pulled him up short.
“You know, Claire,” Mrs. Curtis said idly as she lifted a spoonful of soup from the bowl sitting on the table in front of her, “you really ought to train that man of yours to keep his voice down. This is a clinic, after all. It’s not good for our patients’ nerves to have wild men running about unshaven and rumpled. It’s unsettling.”
“I don’t know about that,” Claire said, her gaze drifting to Pieter as her lips quirked in a smile. “A bit of wildness now and again can be good for the circulation. Gets the heart pumpin’, ye know.”
Pieter just stood there, drinking her in. Claire . . . healthy, beautiful Claire. Alive. Radiant. Perhaps still a tad pale and thin, but that would right itself with time. Her fiery hair glowed in waves down her back, damp and drying in the heat emanating from the kitchen stove. The red measles spots had finished fading away, leaving only her adorable freckles to dance across her cheeks.
He blinked against the overwhelming gratitude threatening to spill from his eyes. She had made it through. He’d never be able to thank the Lord enough.
Mrs. Curtis stood and walked to the stove, taking a third bowl from a nearby cupboard on her way. She ladled out a healthy serving of what smelled like chicken soup, though Pieter didn’t take his eyes off Claire to verify. The healer strode up to him and pushed the bowl into his hands.
“Her fever broke sometime last night,” she said in a low voice. “I listened to her lungs after she finished her bath, and they sounded clear. She might have a lingering cough for a few days, but she’s on the mend. The worst is past.”
“Thank God.” Pieter fit his hands to the bowl, the warmth traveling from his fingers to his heart, melting away the fear he’d tried so hard to ignore during the last fortnight. Finally, he turned his attention from Claire to the woman before him. “And thank you, ma’am. I wouldn’t have known what to do. If there’s ever anything I can do for you . . .”
She touched his arm. “Just take care of my girl, Mr. van Duren. That’s all I ask.”
He nodded solemnly. “I will, ma’am. You have my word.”
She patted his arm, then turned and moved toward the front room. “I’ll be in the clinic if you need me, Claire.” She tossed a wink over her shoulder at Pieter. “But something tells me you won’t.”
Feeling grubby compared to the sweet vision sitting at the table, Pieter needed a moment to get his feet to work, but his compulsion to celebrate Claire’s recovery eventually drove all self-consciousness from his mind. He pulled out the chair next to hers and folded himself into it. Glancing at her bowl, he noted that she’d eaten almost its entire contents, and another wave of thanksgiving swelled inside. Fever gone. Appetite returned. And her bright blue eyes had reclaimed their sparkle. His world was back on its proper axis.
His stomach rumbled, but before he reached for a spoon, he covered Claire’s hand with his. “Thank you for not leaving me.” His rough, emotion-clogged voice shook slightly as his heart poured out its raw truth.
She squeezed his hand, tears shimmering in her eyes. “I’ll not be leavin’ ye ever again, Pieter. I swear it.” Her vow, so fervent and heartfelt, made his blood surge with triumph. Then that sassy smile he loved so well flashed at him. “All ye got to do is put a ring on me finger, and I’ll be yours forever.”
His breathing stilled. “Does that mean . . .”
“Aye, ye daft man. I’ll marry ye. If’n ye’ll still have me. There’s no one on this earth I trust more with my future than you, Pieter van Duren. It’s always been that way. I simply . . . forgot for a while, is all.”
Pieter beamed at her, his smile wide enough to swallow his ears had they not been attached to his head. Then he yanked his hand away from hers, jumped to his feet, and dug into his trouser pocket for the item he’d carried on his person since the day he left New York.
“Heaven preserve us, Pieter. What kind of strange jig are ye—”
Her words died away as he finally grasped what he’d been searching for and dropped to one knee.
Between thumb and forefinger, he extended the silver ring he’d purchased nearly a year ago, the one specially crafted into the shape of a Celtic symbol Polly had told him about.
Claire’s blue eyes misted over and her hands trembled as she reached out to cup both sides of his proffered hand. “’Tis a love knot,” she whispered, one finger tracing the simple figure-eight design at the center of the ring. “Oh, Pieter. ’Tis the most perfect thing I’ve e’er seen.”
“I’ve carried it with me every day since I left home. And while I understand we need time for you to fully recover and for me to find a parson before we wed, would you let me put it on your finger now? So I can make you mine forever, just as you said?”
Her gaze melded with his. She bit her bottom lip, then nodded. “’Twould be me honor to wear yer ring, Pieter. To tie my future to yours and follow ye all of my days.”
Gently, Pieter clasped Claire’s left hand and slid the ring onto her finger. “I love you, Claire Nevin. And I pledge to do everything in my power to make you happy as we live out our days together.”
She watched the ring slide into place, then lifted her face to meet his eyes. “Just love me, Pieter. That’s all I need.”
Pulse pounding, blood thrumming, Pieter pushed to his feet and swept Claire along with him. Holding her close to his heart, he bent his head and kissed her with all the love surging through his veins. Her arms wound around his neck as she leaned into his chest, her head tilting back to give him better access.
The girl he’d loved for half his life was finally his, and he would never let her go.
Epilogue
ONE MONTH LATER
Dearest Polly,
Two weeks after the wedding, I’m still not used to people calling me Mrs. van Duren. After nearly nineteen years with one name,
it feels odd to be addressed by another. Yet I couldn’t be happier about the change.
You were right all along, sister. Pieter is everything I ever wanted in a man. Not perfect, but wonderful just the same. And Liam is such a blessing to us. He’s pushing up on his elbows these days and has figured out how to roll onto his back. Such a clever lad. Soon he’ll have the entire roll mastered, and I’ll really need to stay on my toes.
Life in Snyder is good. It’s a rougher town than Harper’s Station, but that’s to be expected in a place founded by a former buffalo hunter. Word has spread about my work as a healer, though, and some of the women around town are seeking my advice.
Pieter’s dairy business is gaining ground. He wants to teach me how to make cheese. Can you imagine? An Irishwoman making Dutch cheese. I told him he’s daft, but I think he believes that to be a term of endearment, for he just smiles and drops a kiss on my cheek whenever I call him that.
I was so thankful to hear that Miss Fester took you on. Not that I doubted she would. She recognizes a fine hand when she sees it and knows your beadwork will fetch her a pretty penny. I pray for you often and hope one day you’ll find—
Liam began to fuss, waking from his morning nap earlier than expected. Claire set down her pen and started to get up from the desk, but Pieter was faster.
“I’ve got him,” he said, picking up the baby from where she’d laid him in the middle of the bed. Pieter made shushing noises and cradled the child in his arms. He paced the small room, his deep voice crooning a Dutch lullaby.
Slaap, kindje, slaap.
Daar buiten loopt een schaap.
Een schaap met witte voetjes,
Dat drinkt zijn melk zo zoetjes.
Something about a sheep with white feet walking and drinking sweet milk. Claire smiled to herself as she listened to her husband’s fine voice. ’Twas a fitting song for a dairyman’s son.
Her old room at the clinic was barely large enough for her husband to take four steps before he had to change direction, but Pieter didn’t seem to mind. They’d arrived in Harper’s Station last night for the groundbreaking ceremony scheduled for this morning, and Maybelle had been kind enough to welcome them back to the clinic.
Claire glanced around the small space. So many memories in this room. In this town. Dear friends—some of whom she hadn’t seen in months.
“Is he settled enough for an outing?” she asked, suddenly desperate to reunite with the women who had meant so much to her when her life had been falling apart. She crossed the floor to meet Pieter pacing back from the door. “I know it’s a bit early yet, but I’m dyin’ to see everyone. Surely at least Emma will be out and about, settin’ everythin’ to rights afore the ceremony. Would ye mind if we took a stroll through town to see?”
Pieter smiled that heart-melting half-smile of his and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. “Lead the way, my love.”
Oh, how she loved this man. On impulse, she rose up on her tiptoes, grabbed his face with both hands, and kissed him. He cooperated with admirable enthusiasm, despite the fact that his hands were tied up with Liam. By the time she pulled away, both of them were breathing a touch more raggedly than before.
Claire laughed, then spun away from him, dancing toward the door.
“It’s not nice to tease a man like that, wife,” Pieter growled.
Full of mischief, Claire twirled back to face him, a saucy retort on her tongue. A retort that never made it past her lips, for her husband had deftly shifted their son to one arm, freeing his other to wrap around her waist with unyielding strength. He pulled her tightly to him and took his turn in their war of kisses.
A war that raged far longer than either of them had intended. By the time they finally left the clinic, Liam was wide awake, and all of Harper’s Station had gathered at the groundbreaking site—including the Clark family, Claire was happy to see, fully recovered from their own bout of measles. She waved to Beulah as she walked past the station house where the children were climbing the fence, trying to pet Malachi’s horse.
“Claire!” Helen Dunbar, the dark-haired woman who had always been so reserved and somber, grinned wide enough to rival the Wichita River as she approached. “Look, Lee.”
The tall man at Helen’s side pivoted to face the late arrivals. “Miss Nevin.” He dipped his chin. “Good to see you again.”
“’Tis Mrs. van Duren now,” Claire corrected, nodding to the man at her side. “This is me husband, Pieter, and our son, Liam.”
Helen frowned. “But you weren’t expecting when I left town a few months back. How . . . ?”
Claire smiled, not embarrassed in the slightest. How could she be, when her sister’s gift had granted her the family she’d always longed for? “Liam is my nephew by blood but the son of me heart.”
Mr. Dunbar limped slightly as he made his way to Pieter’s side and extended his hand. “Good to know you, sir. Did your wife tell you about the time she saved my life?”
Pieter’s eyes widened as he shot Claire a look.
“Don’t be lookin’ at me like that, Pieter van Duren. A girl has to have a few mysteries about her to keep life interestin’. Besides, Helen did all the real nursin’. I just sewed him up and applied one of me mam’s bread poultices to help clear out the infection.”
The Pinkerton grinned. “I don’t think either of us will have to worry about life ever being dull with these two spitfires running circles around us.”
Pieter nodded, his eyes warm as he met Claire’s gaze. “Nope.”
Emma Shaw surged into their midst, making an immediate grab for Liam. “Give me that boy, you thief.” She mock scowled at Pieter before turning her full attention on the babe who had lived with her for nearly a month during Claire’s quarantine. “Auntie Em missed you, Mr. Liam. Yes, she did.” She held him in front of her face and buried her nose in his belly, cooing all the while. “I can’t believe your mean old daddy stole you away from me and took you off to Snyder. So far. You better make him bring you back to see me on a regular basis, or I’ll sic Uncle Mal on him. Yes, I will.”
Everyone chuckled, including Malachi himself, who traipsed up behind his wife and slipped one arm around her thickening waist while offering a finger to Liam to grab. The babe giggled and clasped the offering, shaking his prize as if he’d just captured a dragon’s tail.
“Can I play with the baby, Ma?” A young lad bounded up to the group, headed straight for Emma and Liam.
“Maybe after the ceremony, Lewis. If his mother says it’s all right.” Tori Porter smiled an apology to Claire as she followed in her son’s wake. “He’s missed having Liam to boss around and share all his manly wisdom with.”
Claire chuckled softly, and Liam gave a squeal when Emma lowered him to Lewis’s level. “Judging by the sound of things, I’d say the missin’ was mutual. We’ll definitely get them together after the groundbreakin’.” Claire leaned close to Tori and whispered, “Get Lewis some practice for bein’ a big brother, hmm?”
Tori’s fair skin turned pink. She hadn’t intimated anything, but there was a secret glow about her that made Claire’s imagination spark.
A newcomer approached the group, sparing Tori from having to answer—a quiet, petite woman escorted by a man in a dapper suit and spectacles.
“Grace!” Claire cried and immediately moved to embrace her friend. “I haven’t set eyes on ye in ages! ’Tis so good to see ye. And on such a wonderful occasion.” She stepped back and motioned to the shovel that someone—Emma, no doubt—had tied a giant red bow around and propped against the west end of the station house paddock fence. “This women’s aid refuge is such a grand idea.”
Grace blushed prettily, then nodded toward her husband. “Amos is the true mastermind. I wanted to donate the funds back to the town as thanks for being my sanctuary for so many months, but Amos came up with the idea for a building to provide shelter for ladies in similar circumstances. He’s quite clever with things like that.”
Mr. Bledsoe cover
ed the hand Grace had laid upon his arm with his own, the movement brimming with such affection that Claire couldn’t help but move a step closer to her own man, seeking the same connection—one Pieter readily supplied by placing his warm hand on the small of her back.
“A refuge seemed like the best way to honor what Harper’s Station stands for, especially now that citizens of the male persuasion are working their way into the community,” Amos said, his eyes lighting with humor as he glanced from one man to another in their circle.
Grace grinned at the ladies. “My Amos is very forward-thinking.”
“He rides a mean bicycle, too,” a crotchety voice added to the convivial gathering. “And don’t think I’m going to let you leave without giving me another lesson, young man.” Henry Chandler shook a scolding finger at Amos Bledsoe. “You still haven’t taught me how to do those leaping stops of yours.”
“Heaven forbid, Aunt Henry,” Emma exclaimed before Mr. Bledsoe could give an answer. “You’ll give me heart palpitations. And you know that’s not good for me in my condition.”
“Bah! Your condition’s as hearty as ever. You take after my side of the family.”
Claire grinned at the two older ladies who’d joined the group. As the elder Chandler sister matched wits with Emma, Claire focused on the younger. “How I’ve missed ye, Bertie.”
“And I’ve missed you, dear. All of you.” Bertie Chandler, the rounder, softer of the two Chandler sisters, embraced Grace and Helen on her way to Claire. She encircled Claire in a warm hug, then released her to clasp her hand. “I think of you every time I use that beautiful bread cloth you embroidered for me, but it’s not the same as seeing your lovely self in person. Still knotted to that young man of yours, I see.” Her knowing smile brought an answering grin to Claire’s face. After her recovery from the measles, she’d shown Bertie the original bread cloth covered in knots and explained why she’d not had the heart to take them out.
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