Winning the Widow's Heart. Sherri Shackelford
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her defensive posture. She wrapped her arms protectively around her distended stomach. “This is my home, and I want you to leave.”
“You and me both.”
He’d rather face an angry rattler than a fragile woman any day. But the sight of her pale face tugged at his conscience. Of course he’d do the right thing. He always did the right thing, especially when it came to women and children.
That code of honor had been ingrained in him since his youth. “I can’t go until I know you’re settled.”
Conscious of the dropping temperature and her growing discomfort, he backed his way to the broken door, his attention riveted on the woman. Snow swirled around his ankles, dusting the cabin floor with white flakes.
Her gaze skittered to the gun in his holster. “You’re trespassing on my property.” She tightened her arms over her rounded belly, highlighting the swell. “Return my gun this instant.”
He nudged the sagging door closed with his heel. Wind whistled through the cracked hinges. “I can’t do that. You might need my help, and I can’t have you shooting me.”
He rested her Colt on the sturdy worktable before the stove, then covered the weapon with his hat. “I might be a Texas Ranger, but my family owns a cattle ranch. I haven’t delivered any babies, but I’ve brought a passel of calves into this world, and I’ve got a fair understanding of the process. Once your bag of waters breaks, there’s no going back.”
She started, as if noticing the wet floor for the first time. “Oh, my goodness. What a mess. I—I need a cloth.”
She waddled to the side cupboard, swinging the door wide to rummage through the shelves.
Jack blew out a hard breath, letting her prattle about her chore. He’d seen that same vacant stare plenty of times before. His first year as a Ranger, he’d come upon a homestead after a Comanche raid. The woman of the house was setting the table for supper, her clothing torn and bloodied, while her husband and three young children lay slaughtered on the dirt-packed floor.
His chest constricted at the memory. He’d never forget the mother’s dark footprints circling her dead children’s bodies. From that moment on, he’d hardened his feelings to the suffering he witnessed in order to preserve his own sanity.
The pregnant woman faced him, her chin set in a stubborn angle, a square of linen clutched to her chest. “The man you’re looking for isn’t here, so you can leave now, mister.”
“What’s your name?” he asked, his tone deliberately brusque. Most decent folks responded honestly to a direct question.
“Elizabeth. E-Elizabeth Cole.”
He offered her another friendly grin. His questions had the added benefit of keeping her distracted. “See, that wasn’t so hard, Elizabeth.” He also found people answered to their own name, even when they ignored everything else. “Where’s your husband?”
Her eyes welled with tears. Sniffling, she blinked them away. “He’s dead.”
Jack bowed his head, shielding himself from the agony in her steady gaze. She definitely wasn’t lying now. The way her emotions paraded across her expressive face, she’d make a terrible criminal.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he replied.
She was awfully young to be a widow. Jack sometimes felt the good Lord had let evil concentrate west of the Mississippi.
He opened and closed his mouth a few times to speak, finally deciding to give her a moment to collect herself before any more questions. Judging from her condition, the man couldn’t have been gone for too long. In this harsh land, it was best not to get attached to anything, or anyone.
When she finally glanced up, he asked, “Do you have any family or friends in the area?”
“The McCoys live just over the rise.”
Hope sparked in his chest. “Is there a Mrs. McCoy?”
“There’s a Mrs. McCoy, a Mr. McCoy—” she ticked off each name with a finger to the opposite hand “—and five little McCoys.”
Relief weakened his knees. Delivering babies was best left to women and doctors—and he didn’t qualify as either. “Thank heaven for the McCoys.”
He’d find a way to contact the family as soon as Elizabeth was settled. With his immediate worry eased, he stepped forward, motioning with one hand. “Let’s get you someplace where you can rest, Mrs. Cole.”
She eyed him with obvious distrust.
Flummoxed by her stubbornness, Jack paused. Now what? Give him a raging outlaw or a drunken killer any day. He wasn’t equipped for this kind of sensitive situation. Those teary blue eyes were sorely testing his vow to remain detached.
She lurched to one side, clutching the ladder-back chair for support. “Oh, dear,” she moaned.
Feeling helpless and out of his element, he cupped her elbow. Her wary gaze swept over his thick wool coat, lingering on his stamped, silver buttons. Her jaw clenched. He had the uneasy sensation she had just sized him up, and found him lacking.
Jolted by her odd reaction, he dropped his hold. “I’m not going to hurt you, Elizabeth.”
She pinched shut her eyes against another pain, then fumbled for his hand, threading her fingers through his in a silent plea for comfort. His heart stuttered at the unexpected gesture.
How long since her husband had died? How long had she been pregnant and alone, solely responsible for the grueling work required to run this homestead?
After a long, tense moment, her delicate features relaxed. The grip on his hand loosened.
“That one wasn’t so bad,” she said, though her wan smile indicated otherwise.
“Let’s get you away from this breeze.” He nodded toward the back of the house. “Someone near broke your door in two.”
“I hope that same someone repairs the damage before he leaves.”
She lowered her head, then yanked her hand free, as if surprised to see their fingers intertwined.
Keeping his gaze averted, he flexed his fist a few times to shake off the lingering warmth of her skin. He didn’t want to look at her, didn’t want to see the raw edge of fear in her eyes. Didn’t she realize he was one of the good guys?
Following the strangely intimate moment, an awkward silence stretched between them. The widow was a curious mix of bold courage and heartbreaking vulnerability. She’d been in labor, isolated and alone, yet she’d met his forceful entrance with rare fortitude. Despite her blustery grit, he sensed her reserve of energy was running lower than a watering hole in July.
She brushed the hair from her forehead with a weary sigh. “Maybe I will have a rest.”
“That sounds like the best idea I’ve heard all day.”
She leaned heavily on his arm as he eased her past the cast-iron stove, through the doorway to another room. An enormous four-poster bed dominated the space. A wedding-ring quilt in faded pinks and dull greens covered the mattress. An old porcelain doll with matted chestnut hair rested between two fluffy feather pillows.
Jack scratched his forehead. “That’s quite an impressive piece of furniture.”
Her cheeks flushed pink. “My husband and I bought the homestead from another family along with the furniture. They made it almost six years before they gave up.” Avoiding his curious gaze, Elizabeth shuffled to a sturdy oak dresser. A red kerosene lantern with a floral-etched, fluted cover lit the room. She tugged on the top drawer, sending the flame flickering, then glanced at him askance. “I’m sorry I lied to you earlier. I didn’t want you to know I was alone.”
“I didn’t give you much choice.”