Winning the Widow's Heart. Sherri Shackelford
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“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.”
“I saw her in the barn earlier.” His boots scuffed the floor.
Elizabeth suppressed a grin. He probably didn’t even notice his own nervous fidget, the boot scuffing that reminded her of a young boy, but she found the gesture charming.
Her somber mood lightened like a leavened pastry. “Tell Jo I’m making bread.”
She squelched the urge to slap her forehead. Of course she was making bread. Why had she said such a silly thing? What was wrong with her? She was behaving like a giddy schoolgirl.
Jack cleared his throat. “I will.”
“Where will you go after this?”
She didn’t even know why she’d asked, except that talking meant he wasn’t leaving just yet, and she missed the company of another adult.
“I’ve got to see the sheriff.”
Her effervescent mood plummeted. Clearing her throat, she stood up straighter. “Tell him we’re doing fine. Just fine.”
He nodded.
Another moment laden with unspoken words passed between them. She grasped for an elusive farewell, a way to thank him that encompassed her diverse emotions, but no words came. Jack pinched the brim of his hat between two fingers, tipping his head in a parting gesture before the door closed quietly behind him.
She pressed the back of her hand to her brow. The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Those pesky, annoying, infuriating tears were clogging her throat once more. What on earth was wrong with her?
A lank strand of hair had fallen across her forehead, and she shook it away with a sigh. She was tired, that was all. Rachel had awakened three times last evening to be fed and changed. All this weeping must be due to her exhaustion.
The growing fatigue pulled her to slump on the stool before the worktable. She didn’t need a man around the house.
Rachel’s face pinched up a like a dried apple, her lips trembling in distress. The infant’s faint mewling reverberated in Elizabeth’s chest.
Better that Jack left now. Keeping this home meant keeping her family together, and a wandering lawman asking questions about her past didn’t bode well. She was glad he was gone. For good. She was doing just fine on her own.
Just fine.
If she repeated the mantra often enough, maybe she’d even believe her own lies.
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