Winning the Widow's Heart. Sherri Shackelford
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She met his gaze, her face revealing nothing. “The baby’s head is crowning. I’ll need a pan of water and some fresh linens.”
He hesitated to leave the women alone.
“Sometime today, Ranger!”
Jack stumbled to his feet, clumsy and out of his element. He rushed to gather the supplies, grateful for something to do besides worry.
He fled to the kitchen and gingerly tossed the contents of a sturdy creamware bowl out the back door. His fellow Rangers often chided him on his cool, collected demeanor, saying icicles ran through his veins instead of blood. They’d eat their words to see him now. Returning to the sink, he pumped the lever arm to prime the well, his hands stiff and uncoordinated.
After filling the bowl, he pawed through his saddle bags, searching for the whiskey. Fear strummed through his body with each of Elizabeth’s jagged cries. He yanked a handful of linens from the side cupboard, sending the rest of the neat stack tumbling to the floor. His arms full, he returned to the bedroom, then knelt beside the perspiring widow.
Jo glanced up. “Scoot in behind her and help her brace when she pushes. This baby’s a might stubborn.”
Beseeching him with her eyes, Elizabeth jerked her head in a nod. Her silent plea humbled him. She looked on him as if he might actually soothe her pain—as if he was something more than a giant lump of useless male. For a moment, he wanted to be everything she needed.
Jack snorted softly to himself.
Who was he fooling? He was about as much use in this situation as a handbrake on a canoe. He rubbed his damp palms against his pants’ legs, wishing he’d never followed those bank robbers out of Texas. Wishing he’d stayed in town. Wishing that potbellied sheriff had directed him anywhere but here. Even as the traitorous thoughts filled his brain, he helped Elizabeth sit up, his work-roughened hand dwarfing her slim shoulder. He slid one leg behind her back, bracing his boot against the dresser as he hunkered down.
The pungent smell of alcohol stung his nostrils. Jo rubbed the whiskey on her hands, then wiped them clean with a dry cloth. The girl’s fingers trembled, but she managed a wobbly smile. “When the next pain comes, I want you to push as hard as you can.”
For a moment Jack didn’t know who was more frightened—the widow, the kid or him. Like a battalion of warriors mustering for war, the three of them nodded in unison.
Elizabeth clasped his hand in a now-familiar gesture. He cradled her against his chest, willing his strength to infuse her exhausted body. Her blond hair had tumbled loose from its bun, catching on his coat buttons. He carefully untangled the strands, then brushed the silky locks aside.
“You know how to pray, Ranger?” Jo asked.
This time he didn’t hesitate. “Dear Lord, if you’re looking down on us, now would be a good time for some help.”
“Amen,” JoBeth murmured.
Elizabeth’s body stiffened.
“You’re almost there,” he soothed. “You can do this, Elizabeth. You’re almost done.”
Curling forward, she squeezed his hand, her whole body straining with effort. Her agonizing shout of pain ripped through him like a bullet.
“Oh, my goodness,” Jo cried. “It’s a girl. It’s a girl, Mrs. Cole! You have a beautiful girl.”
Following her announcement, a heavy silence filled the room. Jack waited, hearing nothing but the sound of his own heartbeat thundering in his ears. Jo carefully wiped the child dry with a towel. Her worried gaze met his over Elizabeth’s head. At the stricken message in her eyes, his heart seized.
The bundle squirmed. A lusty squall exploded from the infant, startling them all into relieved laughter.
Jo carefully placed the baby on Elizabeth’s chest. The widow cradled her bellowing child, laughing and crying at the same time. “She’s so beautiful.” Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder, catching his gaze. “Isn’t she beautiful?”
His eyes stung. He cleared his throat, recalling all the times he’d teased his older brothers for their weeping and wailing every time a niece or nephew was born. He’d never understood the vulnerable emotions those wet, froglike creatures inspired. Seeing Elizabeth’s joy, her newborn, the miracle of life where there once was none, something in his chest shifted.
“Yes,” he said, his voice husky. “She’s beautiful.”
While the two women laughed, awkwardly hugging each other over the baby, the walls crowded in around him. The air in the room turned dank and suffocating. His nerves tingled, warning him of an attack. He needed to escape.
This time, though, he feared the danger rested within his own heart.
Chapter Three
Elizabeth awoke in darkness to the clang of pots and pans and the mouth-watering aroma of frying bacon. Stiff and sore, she gingerly rolled to her side to check on the baby. The surge of energy she’d experienced immediately following the birth had plummeted soon after. A rare fatigue had overcome her, sapping her of strength and leaving her weak and listless.
Barely able to keep her eyes open, she’d mustered just enough energy to change out of her ruined dress with Jo’s assistance. Her legs had proven too weak to hold her weight, so Mr. Elder had assisted her onto the bed. Silent and flushed red from his neck to his ears, he’d lifted her with treasured care.
He’d lingered to help Jo change the linens and tidy up the room, both of them waging a hushed, muttering war on the proper way to accomplish even the most minuscule task. Each time the Ranger had chanced a glance at Elizabeth, his cheeks had darkened to such a deep crimson, she’d feared he would burst into flames.
After ensuring the newborn was settled, a gown lovingly drawn over her body and crocheted yellow booties covering her feet, Elizabeth’s two helpers had left mother and daughter alone in the hushed glow and hiss of kerosene lamps.
The infant had nursed voraciously, then stretched and yawned before falling into the peaceful slumber afforded only the very young, and the very old. Cocooned in a blanket of serene contentment, Elizabeth had been reluctant to surrender her gift from God. She’d dozed off with the infant cradled in her arms, her daughter’s gentle breath whispering against her neck.
Swaddled tightly, the baby now rested beside the bed in a drawer Jo had extracted from the dresser and lined with blankets. Sighing, Elizabeth extended her hand over the edge of the mattress. She brushed the backs of her fingers over the supple, downy softness of the baby’s cheek, then buried them in the shock of dark hair covering her head.
“How did I create something so perfect? So beautiful?” she whispered. “Thank you, Lord, for this is Your work.”
Her heart swelled. Now more than ever, she needed to be strong. The awesome burden of responsibility weighed upon Elizabeth alone. Her daughter’s survival in this wild, untamed land was at the mercy of her mother’s courage. The prairie was brutal, especially for women and children.
Elizabeth glanced toward the darkened window, the glass panes frosted over like sugared candy. A tangle of memories pulled her into the past.
Her first month in Kansas, she’d stumbled between a cow and her calf. The animal had butted her to the ground, knocking the wind from her lungs. Will had been angry at her carelessness, chastising her for coming between a mother and her offspring. Elizabeth finally understood his warning.
The changes in her life over such a short time threatened to overwhelm her. In one short year, she’d been a wife, a widow and a mother. Last November she’d married Will after a three-week-long whirlwind courtship in New York and moved West. Three months later she was pregnant and three months after that Will was dead. The entire year had brought her full circle to this new life.
She might not know anything about raising children, but she loved her daughter