Rekindled (11 page)

When Mr. Taylor rose, Kathryn rose with him. He looked her way and, with a slight nod, she thanked him for his kind words.

“Nevertheless, here we are.” Kohlman spread his arms wide as though a banquet had been set before him.

Kathryn got the impression he was almost pleased with himself. Something inside her rebelled. She would fight to keep this ranch if it cost her everything else she possessed. If for no other reason than to give the child secreted inside her womb—Larson’s child—a tangible legacy of the father he might never know.

Kathryn waited outside the bank building while Mr. Taylor retrieved the wagon from the livery. The sun played hide-and-seek behind a cloud-dotted sky, and the unseasonably warm temperatures in recent days promised rain instead of the customary snow.

Her chest tightened when she thought of Mr. Kohlman’s deception. And that’s clearly what it had been. He should have told her about the preexisting lien on the homestead the day she secured her loan. Regardless, as he’d declared so glibly, that didn’t change the situation.

Seeing Mr. Taylor bringing the wagon at a distance, Kathryn stepped off the boardwalk and into the street. As she walked toward him she froze, unable to move forward. She stared at the back of a man on the boardwalk on the opposite side of the street. The sight of his broad shoulders and thick mane of unruly dark brown hair made her heart leap.

Larson
.

Dodging wagons, puddles, and deposits of sludge and muck, Kathryn tracked his path through the crowd. She could barely contain her joy as she climbed the stairs to the crowded boardwalk. Still several paces away, she felt a flutter in her stomach and knew God had heard her prayers. Then the man turned and her breath left her in a rush.

She stopped short when she saw his ruddy, pocked complexion and heavily lidded eyes. Though clean-shaven like Larson, the man lacked any hint of her husband’s rugged charm and handsome features. She slowly bowed her head and turned away.

Jostled by the crowd, she felt a hand to her arm. Expecting to see Mr. Taylor, Kathryn turned and came uncomfortably close to another man. She took a step back and raised her eyes. As he had been the day she’d met him outside the bank, Mr. MacGregor’s suited attire was immaculate and his eyes chilling.

“Mr. MacGregor.” She forced a polite nod.

He raised a brow and his eyes shone with obvious pleasure. “You remembered, lass. Now that does give me fresh hope.”

The weight of the day’s events bore down, and Kathryn’s patience evaporated. “If you’ll excuse me, please.” She brushed past him, ignoring his flirtatious smile. She searched the street for Mr. Taylor.

“Looking for someone, are you?” He followed closely, shadowing her steps.

The remark roused fresh pain from the disillusionment of moments before. She stilled. She’d been so sure the man was Larson. As Matthew had stated inside Mr. Kohlman’s office, over three months had passed. He should have returned by now. Kathryn bowed her head to hide her emotion. At the same time, she knew this trick her heart was playing. In past years, she’d caught glimpses of her mother in the way another woman would brush back a strand of hair from her temple or check the brooch at her neckline. It was simply the heart’s way of trying to hold onto something that was lost forever.

MacGregor tipped her chin with his forefinger. “Is something wrong, Mrs. Jennings?”

She turned her head slightly to evade his touch. Surprisingly, his compassion appeared to be genuine, but Kathryn’s instinct told her otherwise. She wasn’t about to share her most private thoughts in the middle of a crowded boardwalk, and certainly not with this man.

“I assure you, I’m fine.”

“Well, that’s good to hear, because I’d hate to think you were distressed in any way.” His gaze dropped from her eyes, lowering briefly before lifting again.

Kathryn felt a blush start in her neck and move upward.

“Would you allow me the honor of your company for lunch today, Mrs. Jennings? And that of your husband, of course. I’d like to discuss a business proposition with you both.” He looked up and down the street. “Your husband is with you, is he not? I assume that’s who you’re waiting for.”

For an instant, Kathryn almost believed that he’d spoken the words with intentional cruelty. But when he turned back, she searched his face and knew that her own sense of loss was coloring her judgment.

She spotted Mr. Taylor on the opposite side of the street. “I’m sorry, Mr. MacGregor, but I must decline. Good day.”

She crossed the street quickly. Taylor assisted her into the wagon, then climbed up beside her. The horses responded to his command. “Why were you talkin’ with him?”

Kathryn wondered at the coolness in his tone. “I wasn’t really. He approached me about—”

“Do you know who he is?”

Knowing little more about the man other than his name, she shook her head.

“That’s Donlyn MacGregor. He owns the largest ranch in the Colorado Territory, and he’s been buyin’ up all the land around here for the past few years.” He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “I only know what I’ve been told, but I’d advise you to steer clear of him. He’s a powerful man, and word has it he’s not above bending the law in order to get what he wants. Plus they say he has friends in high places, and I don’t mean that to his credit.” With a flick of his wrist, Matthew Taylor urged the team of horses to a trot.

Kathryn turned around to look behind her and spotted Donlyn MacGregor walking through the doors of the Willow Springs Bank. Facing forward again she stole a sideways glance. The stiff set of Matthew’s broad shoulders told her he didn’t invite conversation on the matter. Her own instincts partially confirmed Matthew’s warning, yet another part of her couldn’t help but wonder. . . . A powerful man with friends in high places might be just what she needed to help keep Larson’s ranch.

CHAPTER EIGHT

H
IS BREATH CAME HEAVY, but at Isaiah’s insistence and against his own will, Larson tried again. The muscles in his legs screamed from the effort just as the makeshift weights slipped again from his ankles. The padded bricks landed on the wooden planks with a thud.

Exhausted, Larson clutched the chair he was sitting in and let his feet fall back to the floor, barely reining his temper. “Like I told you before, it’s too soon for this, Isaiah. My legs aren’t strong enough.”

Isaiah said nothing for a moment, then moved to pick up the bricks. “That’s what you said two weeks ago when you tried the walker.”

“Yeah, and I couldn’t do that either.”

“You took a few steps with it. That’s a good start.”

“I took
two
steps and fell flat on my face!”

Isaiah sighed heavily, but it didn’t hint at exasperation. Larson had yet to see the man lose his temper, though they’d been following Isaiah’s regimen of exercise for nearly a month now with little to show for it.

Isaiah cradled the two bricks in one massive hand. “Your lack of strength doesn’t lie in your body, Larson.” With his free hand, he slowly traced the place over his heart. “It lies here.”

Larson threw him a scathing look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you don’t want it badly enough yet.” The patience in Isaiah’s eyes matched the quiet of his voice, and kindled Larson’s anger.

He gripped the sides of the chair and bit back a curse. They’d been doing this for the last hour, and he’d barely managed to lift his feet more than four inches off the floor before his muscles would begin to tremble and the bricks would fall. Despite Isaiah’s encouragement, he doubted he’d ever regain use of his legs. Between the gunshot wound, the fire, and the weeks he’d spent in bed, his muscles had weakened to the point where Larson hardly recognized his own body.

“Let’s try it once more before supper.” Isaiah reached out to reposition Larson’s legs.

Larson suddenly wished he had the strength to kick him. “No.”

Isaiah’s hands stilled. He looked up. “What?”

Larson kept his head down and licked his parched lips. “I said no. I’ve had enough for today.”

A moment passed. Isaiah gently laid the bricks aside and stood.

Larson sensed Isaiah’s eyes on him but didn’t lift his head. His chest tightened as he prepared himself for another of Isaiah’s miracle stories meant to bolster his spirits. The tales always stemmed from either the mining camps or the Bible, but whichever the source, Larson knew they contained only false hope. The truth of his situation was undeniable.

Larson cringed as he looked at his legs. He’d never walk again, much less be able to run his ranch. And Kathryn. Why would she ever want such a broken shell of a man?

“You hungry?” Isaiah asked, pulling Larson’s thoughts back. “I bet Abby’s got some of her warm corn bread and stew ready by now.”

Larson nodded, thankful for the unexpected reprieve. “Sure, that sounds good. I’m starved.” Humbled both by Isaiah’s understanding and his own need for assistance, Larson held out his arms.

Isaiah placed the walker in front of him. “Come on in when you’re ready, then. We’ll wait for you.”

Larson’s head shot up just as Isaiah disappeared through the doorway. He looked from the walker to the door and back, disbelieving. He knew Isaiah well enough to know what he was doing, and it galled him to the core.

He squeezed his eyes shut against a sudden burning sensation and swore aloud. Did Isaiah see this as some sort of game? Or challenge perhaps? Larson gripped the sides of the chair again and shifted his body till his spine was flush with the back of the chair. Part of him wanted to call out an apology and get it over with. Another part of him knew that no matter what he said, Isaiah wasn’t coming back. And neither would Abby. Not with Isaiah standing in the gap.

He heard the clink of dishes and Abby’s soft voice in the next room, but he couldn’t make out what she was saying. Isaiah responded, but their conversation was indistinct.

He reached for the walker with his left hand and dragged it closer. The pine wood was smooth and well sanded, not that Larson could feel any imperfections with his scarred palms. It was obvious Isaiah had painstakingly crafted this for him. That realization did little to quell his anger at the moment.

Larson positioned the walker over his legs. He could move his legs—that wasn’t the problem. Sustaining his weight was another story. He gripped the sturdy pine and pushed up, but he barely got out of the chair before his arms burned from the effort and gave way. He fell back with such force that the chair almost toppled over, taking him with it. Catching himself just in time, rage pulsed through his body. He clenched his jaw until it hurt.

Larson positioned himself in the chair again, winded from the exertion. “God, why on earth am I here?” he growled through clenched teeth. Blowing out a breath, he rubbed his hands over his face, noticing the occasional spot of facial hair that was growing back in, patchy and thin. Abby had said she would give him a shave tonight.

He listened for noises coming from the other room. Nothing.

He could well imagine Isaiah sitting at the table, large hands clasped, waiting for him, watching the door and ready to smile in triumph. Larson huffed in disgust and caught a whiff of Abby’s stew. His mouth watered at the savory scent of meat.

Adjusting the walker, he managed a firm grip and tried again. His arms trembled from the exertion, but he held on. Once up, he locked his arms and took a second to catch his breath. He gradually transferred a portion of his weight to his legs, certain that at any moment his bones would snap.

A trickle of sweat ran down his left temple.

Thankfully, he was facing the doorway so he didn’t have to negotiate a turn. He took one step and paused, then took another. His heart pounded so heavily he thought he might pass out. But at least he hadn’t fallen. Not yet.

He shut his eyes and willed his right leg to move again. His muscles signaled back to his brain and he let out a gasp. Weary from the exertion, Larson leaned forward until his forearms rested on the walker.

“Your lack of strength doesn’t lie in your body.”

With renewed resolve, Larson refocused all his energy on his right leg—and finally, it moved! He half dragged it forward, but still it moved. By the time he made it to the door, his chest heaved with exertion, his arms felt like wax. He slumped against the doorframe for support, able to make out the edge of the table but nothing else.

He took another step and another, each staggered shuffle a begrudging testament to the determination he thought he’d lost.

He spotted Abby first, seated at the table. Their eyes met and the light of hope filled her gaze. When she smiled, he managed one back. But Isaiah was nowhere in sight. No matter. Determined not to be bested, Larson struggled forward. He lifted his left leg and was midstride when his right knee buckled beneath him. His grip went slack. He braced himself for the impact, but it never came.

Strong black arms like bands of tempered steel came from nowhere, taking hold of him. After a moment, Larson dared to look into Isaiah’s face.

“You did it,” Isaiah whispered, beaming.

“Oh, Larson,” Abby spoke from across the room, tears glistening. She chuckled.

Isaiah squeezed his shoulder tight, and Larson drew from his strength. “I knew you could do it. You and the Almighty.”

Surprising himself, Larson laughed in relief and wondered again at how the man holding him could trust so steadfastly in a God who had allowed him to experience such heartache in his life. Abby too. Isaiah had told him the other night that Jesus held him and Abby safe in the palm of His hand, and Larson found himself wanting to believe that.

But how could you trust in someone who promised to shelter you safe in the palm of His hand, when sometimes He still let you fall?

The next morning the three of them shared breakfast at the table. Larson caught the furtive glances Isaiah and Abby shared, along with their secretive smiles. When he finally questioned them about it, Isaiah took something from beneath his seat and laid it by Larson’s plate.

Larson glanced at the book, then returned his attention to his food, keenly aware that they were watching him, waiting for his reaction. His first thought was of Kathryn and how she cherished the words that lay beneath a similar well-worn cover. His second thought, mixed with an odd pang of emotion, was that he’d never seen the benefit in reading the Bible. Still didn’t.