Winning the Widow's Heart. Sherri Shackelford
Elizabeth attacked her food with a new vigor. Considering her appalling display of blubbering this afternoon, she must work harder than ever to prove her independence. In order to survive, she had to be strong. More than just blizzards and Indians threatened her home, and she had to be prepared.
* * *
Jack sucked in a lungful of frosty air, then kicked another enormous stump into place. Two days had passed during his self-imposed exile on the widow’s homestead. Two days of letting the outlaw’s trail grow colder. He stepped back, swinging the ancient ax he’d found rusting near the wood pile high over his head.
Exhaling a vaporous breath, he swung the tool in a neat arc, burying the blade three-inches deep into the dry wood. Repeating the motion, he circled the stump, kicking fallen pieces back into place until he had a satisfying jumble of split wood. His shoulder aching, he rolled another stump into position.
The physical labor, the satisfying crack of the blade, cleared his thoughts. The pile grew taller, but he didn’t slow his pace. Driven by a need to accomplish a useful task, he forged ahead. Someone had already cut the smaller branches. The pie-shaped pieces were neatly stacked in a long, sturdy wall covered in oilcloth and mounded over with snow. But the unwieldy stumps had been heaped together to rot, wasted.
Jack didn’t like waste.
The work put him in control, gave him a sense of pride and accomplishment. He swung the ax until his biceps burned and sweat trickled down his collar, until Elizabeth’s screams of pain during childbirth stopped ringing in his ears.
He knew she was fine, but he couldn’t shake his impotent rage at his own helplessness. He’d borne that same weight on his shoulders staring down at his sister-in-law’s prone body. Doreen had done nothing wrong. She’d been running her errands when she’d arrived at the bank on the wrong day, at the wrong time. She’d walked right into an armed robbery, and the outlaws had shot her. The senselessness of the act had shaken Jack’s faith, making him question God’s plan. Why Doreen?
The dark-haired beauty had married his older brother when Jack was barely sixteen. When he’d decided to join the Texas Rangers instead of working the ranch like his older brothers, she’d been the only member of the family to support his decision.
After the shooting, he’d let his emotions overtake his good sense. When an enraged posse had tracked down a man named Bud Shaw and declared him guilty, Jack had gone along for the ride. Even when every instinct in his body told him the man was innocent. During the following weeks, he’d split his time between the family ranch and a Paris, Texas, jail. Questioning the imprisoned man at length had only cemented his doubts. There were two Bud Shaws roaming the central plains, and the man rotting in jail, waiting for his own hanging, was innocent.
Jack had pulled every favor owed to him by the local judge to buy the wrongly convicted man half a year’s clemency. Three long months had passed since then. Every day without locating the real outlaw weighed heavy on his conscience.
His nieces and nephews deserved justice—but so did the innocent man sitting in jail. The one decent lead Jack had followed had led him to this isolated homestead in the middle of nowhere. Dawdling here wasn’t going to bring justice for anyone. Jack had lingered over the widow and her newborn long enough. He was party to a grave injustice, and he couldn’t rest until he set it straight.
He slid the last stump into place. Squinting at the horizon, he wiped the sweat from his brow with his leather-clad hand. The day looked to be overcast, but clear and calm all the same. If he left in the next hour, he’d be back in Cimarron Springs by lunch. His hands tingled with expectation. The familiar anticipation of embarking on another journey focused him, chasing away his lingering unrest. He had a goal, a purpose.
The widow and her child were none of his concern. Jo’s family, the McCoys, would see to her well-being. Besides, a pretty woman was never alone for long in this part of the country.
The ax missed its target.
Jack windmilled his free hand, managing to right himself just before he tumbled into the woodpile. Straightening, he darted his gaze to the house. No mocking faces appeared in the square windowpanes. Satisfied his gaff had gone unnoticed, he slung the blade over his shoulder.
“Guess that about does it,” he muttered to himself.
With his thoughts focused on the multitude of tasks to accomplish before his journey, he barely noticed the frigid, knee-deep snow on his trek to the barn. He’d saddle up Midnight, say his goodbyes and be gone. Simple as that.
A rare thread of regret tugged at his heart. He forcibly pushed aside the nagging concern. Mrs. Cole had survived this long on her own, there was no need to think she needed his assistance. He was a lawman, not a nursemaid. He had a job to do.
Jack slid open the barn door, relieved to find the cavernous space empty. He inhaled the pungent aroma of hay and feed. The scent reminded him of home, of his youth. He’d grown up mucking out barns, working from dawn till dusk on his family’s cattle ranch. The familiar sights and sounds released an unwelcome longing to work with hands, to build something lasting, to recapture the camaraderie he’d once shared with his brothers.
Chickens clucked and a cow lowed. Midnight, one of two horses in the four stalls, whinnied.
A sound outside the usual barnyard racket caught his attention. Jack paused, tilting his head to one side as he heard it again. He recognized that sound all right.
His jubilant mood fled. Someone was crying. Not the pained howling of a body in agony, but a quiet whimper of despair.
Jack groaned. There was only one person on the homestead who’d hide in a stall rather than cry out in the open. Determined to slink away before he got sucked into another emotional conversation, he backed to the door. He’d already dealt with one weeping female this week. His problem-solving skills were limited to things he could shoot or arrest.
He had one hand on the door when another faint sniffle doused his annoyance. Compassion for Jo dragged his feet to a halt. The code of honor ingrained in him as a child reared its ugly head. He pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose. He’d tackle this one last obstacle, and then he’d leave. After all, he’d comforted Elizabeth.
He was practically an expert on women now.
Chapter Four
Jack had an idea where to find the weeping girl. He crept through the barn, his boots silenced by the hay strewn over the floor. He should be saddling Midnight instead of chasing down the source of those muffled sobs, but his conscience drove him forward against his good sense.
Dust motes stirred in the shaft of light sluicing through the hayloft. The wind had blown the door open almost half a foot. No wonder he’d nearly frozen to death these past two nights. In his haste to escape Jo’s trap, he hadn’t fully latched the hayloft. He’d been so cold he’d almost hunkered down next to the milk cow for warmth.
He added another chore to his growing list. Better for him to climb that rickety ladder than risk having one of the women break a leg. The third rung from the top was nearly rotted through. Unfortunately, sealing his impromptu exit had to wait until he dealt with his current problem.
Stalling, Jack lifted his shoulders and stretched, easing the cramps from sleeping on the hard-packed floor. He tugged his gloves over his exposed wrists. The barn had given him shelter and little else. A feather bed in town called to him like a prayer.
He peered into the first stall, his gaze meeting the sloe-eyed stare of the caramel-colored milk cow. He inched his way to the second stall, glancing over the half door. Jo huddled in the corner, her thin arms wrapped around her legs, her forehead pressed against her bent knees. Two long braids brushed against the tops of her boots.
Midnight whinnied, stretching a velvety nose out the last enclosure. Jack saluted his companion with a finger to his brow. “Soon, I promise.”
The girl jerked upright, her face averted.