Winning the Widow's Heart. Sherri Shackelford
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in town had lost money or property to him at one time or another. Yet despite the sheriff’s threat to confiscate her property, he’d been too lazy to prove his suspicions.
She didn’t need him spurred into action by another lawman.
Jack wiped his feet on the rag rug before stepping into the room. He jostled the wood in his hands for a better grip. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I had some chores left.” He jerked his head in the direction of the splintered hinges.
“That’s very kind of you, but there’s really no need… .”
Their eyes met and held for a long moment. She’d thought Will handsome, but her late husband paled in comparison to Mr. Elder. While Will had been fair with washed-out blue eyes, the Ranger’s features were bold, exaggerated, not at all perfect. His crooked nose indicated he’d broken it, more than once judging by the flattened bone. A faded scar ran the length of his strong jaw, visible through the stubble shadowing his chin. Deep lines creased his forehead between the dark slash of his eyebrows.
Taken separately, the imperfections should have lessened his attraction, but each one of those minor flaws worked together to lend him a rugged, earthy appearance. His scars revealed a man who had been tested and lived to tell the tale. The realization sent a tingle of apprehension down her spine. She sensed the Ranger’s restless need to leave, his barely leashed discontent, even while he lingered, making minor repairs he might have abandoned with impunity. The discrepancy confused her.
Unsure what else to say, she tore her gaze away. She opened the oven door, and stoked the scarlet embers before setting a pan on the stove and pouring in a measure of fresh milk to warm.
Mr. Elder trudged through the kitchen three more times while she arranged her workspace, his arms heaped with a new batch of wood on each trip. She dusted her hands together and shook her head. At this rate, she wouldn’t need to refill the woodpile until next fall.
Grasping a tin scoop, she heaped flour along with two generous pinches of salt into an enormous creamware bowl, then pressed her fingers into the mound, digging a hole. After brushing her hands on her apron, she reached into the pie safe and pinched off a corner of yeast, crumbling the moist leaven into the center of the flour. With the milk properly scalded, she added a dollop of bacon grease, stirring until the ingredients melted together.
While the mixture cooled, she wiped down the table with a damp rag. Once she’d gingerly tapped the side of the pan to ensure a lukewarm temperature, she poured the thickened milk into the well of flour. Waiting for the yeast to dissolve, she gradually added a generous handful of sugar.
The Texas Ranger pounded on the back door as she worked. Elizabeth winced at the hammering. Rachel barely stirred.
He paused his work at one point, stepping into the snug kitchen with his hat in his hands. “Is the noise too much? Am I disturbing your daughter?”
Her heart jolted. Hearing someone else call Rachel her daughter made the whole experience real. This is my family. Something no one could take away. “Looks like this child would sleep through dynamite.”
He gestured toward her face. “You’ve got a bit of, umm, flour on your…”
Elizabeth’s hand flew to her warm cheek. She scrubbed at the mark. “I didn’t notice.”
His own cheeks red and chapped with cold, he cleared his throat with a curt nod, then backed away to resume his work inside. She took in his appearance, smiling at the way his expensive wool coat with a fresh tear in the shoulder stretched over his broad shoulders. He was a large man with an enormous chest tapering down to a lean waist, but he kept a respectful distance, never using his size to intimidate.
He glanced over his shoulder on his way out, catching her curious regard.
Confused by the fluttering in the pit of her stomach, she ducked her head to tighten the apron around her waist. With the Ranger gone, she focused her attention on the liquid mixture foaming merrily in the center of the flour. Satisfied she’d waited long enough for the yeast to develop, she folded in the dry ingredients, invigorated by the familiar process. Making bread was her favorite chore.
She loved the silky texture of the flour, the way the dough gradually came together beneath the heels of her hands to form a smooth, elastic ball. The way the yeast smelled like a summer’s day, warm and comforting.
Mr. Elder returned again, his saddlebags slung over his left shoulder. He’d packed to leave. To her chagrin, that curious fluttering resumed.
He snatched off his hat. “I replaced the hinges. You shouldn’t have any problems.”
“I appreciate that.”
“I cut the stumps for kindling.”
“Thank you.”
An emotion she couldn’t quite read flitted across his face. “Well, then. I filled the woodpile in the parlor.”
The barren room was hardly a parlor, but she appreciated his concern. “I saw. Was there any room left to sit?”
He flashed a lopsided grin. Not the charming smirk he’d plastered on his face that first night to put her at ease, but a genuine smile. “Just enough.”
She was struck by how young he looked without his usual scowl. His abashed expression softened the lines of his face, smoothing the customary crease of worry between his eyebrows. His hair wasn’t black, as she’d supposed that first night, but more of a deep chocolate. His hazel eyes sparkled with flecks of gold around the irises, lightening the somber effect of his austere demeanor.
She was unaccustomed to such relaxed behavior in a man. Though he’d been delayed on his journey, he didn’t prowl around the house like a caged animal, or burst into action with unleashed energy. He held himself straight and tall. Even when he feigned casual indifference, she sensed a stiffness in his spine, a certain resolve in his stance.
A sudden need to capture this moment overwhelmed her. She wanted to remember the way he circled the brim of his hat in his hands, the way he kept peeking at Rachel when he thought she wasn’t looking.
There had been so few moments in her life she had tucked away, saving like priceless treasurers. Why this one? She glanced at Rachel Rose, swaddled in peaceful slumber. This unfamiliar emotion bubbling to the surface, this sensation of warmth and safety wrapping around her like a velvet cloak must be attached to the infant.
Elizabeth floundered for something to say, anxious to avoid the troublesome feelings Mr. Elder aroused. It was best he left now, before she was disillusioned, before time and familiarity revealed the cracks in his facade.
He stuck his hat on his head, lowering the brim to shield his eyes. “I should be going.”
Elizabeth busied herself with separating the dough. “Thank you for everything you’ve done. Someday I’ll tell Rachel the story of her birth. How you thought I was a bank robber.”
They both chuckled, her own forced laugh hollow and strained.
When the awkward silence fell once more, he peered at her from beneath the brim of his hat. “When I tell the boys this story, I’ll be painting a more heroic picture of myself.”
“You did just fine, Mr. Elder.”
“After all we’ve been through, I think you can call me Jack.”
Suddenly shy, she met his sheepish gaze. The name suited him. It was strong and solid. Elizabeth let her gaze skitter away from those compassionate, hazel eyes. “Goodbye, Jack.”
“Goodbye,” he replied. “I’ll just be going.”
Neither of them moved.
A sharp sorrow robbed her of breath. She attacked her kneading with renewed vigor.
“Jack,” she spoke, prolonging the moment, “can you check on Jo? I don’t know what’s taking her so long with chores.”