Widow Woman (25 page)

"This is my baby, isn't it?” he demanded.

"It's
my
baby.” Her fierceness penetrated to some part of his mind, but didn't stop him.

One of his arms wound across her chest and his big hand clamped her elbow to her side. Her other arm was between her body and his chest. With her immobilized, he spread his free hand over the swell of her stomach, and spoke, low and hard into her ear.

"You carry my child, don't you?"

She tried to twist away, but he held her firm. From below her breasts, the coat couldn't button. The tails of a scarf trailed beneath the closed top part of the coat in a feeble attempt to cover her stomach. He pushed aside the streamers of scarf, and positioned his hand against the fabric that covered her. He thought he could feel heat against his hand.

"I gave you this child when we were in the shack."

"Stop it, Nick."

"Tell me."

"You're hurting me. Leave me alone."

He released her so abruptly, she had to steady herself against the rough door of the nearest stall.

"I'll leave you alone. I'll leave you and the child alone. The way a stallion leaves the mare and the foal alone, once he's served his damned purpose."

He mounted and rode past her with a haze of anger still so hot he barely took in the figure of a woman standing at the open door of the main house.

Before his eyes came the image of Rachel that first day at Jasper Pond. Straight and sure in the saddle. Eyes open and honest as she had looked at him. And his inexplicable need to show himself to her. To let her see him, let her see
in
him. And for that long moment when she had accepted, he had a sense of triumph. Broken only when the pull of lust brought confusion to her eyes. She had run then. Not from him as he had told himself for so long—told himself because believing that eased the ache of not having her—but from her own desire.

He'd realized that during the long months journeying to Texas and back. Nearly every night, in the darkness, he'd thought of Rachel. Of how she'd made love with him in the shack. Of the way she'd shed her shyness and fear, and opened to him.

That was when he had realized that her turning from him at the pond, her accusing questions in the hotel in Hammer Butte, had come from fear. That was when he had accepted he was returning not only to his land, but to her.

You're hurting me.

His gut heaved.

He remembered the red marks his hand had left on her wrist that night by the creek during calf branding. And he remembered the faint green, yellow and purple colors her skin had still worn the next time he'd seen her. That was what he did to her without even thinking about it.

And this time he'd meant to inflict hurt. He'd done it with words, and he'd done it with his touch. A woman carrying a child. Probably his child.

Stop it, Nick ... You're hurting me.

Rachel's voice blended with the cries of his mother in his head, then echoed away to Alba's moans.

And now Nick Dusaq had joined those other men. The father he'd hated. The man he'd killed. How much better was he?

Leave me alone
.

Yes, he would leave her alone. It was all he could give her. It was a much lesser punishment than he deserved.

For the third night running, Nick and Davis came in for supper long after dark.

Alba wasn't concerned about the meal—she added broth to the stew when it threatened to become too thick, and she waited the biscuits until she heard them ride in.

Alba was more than concerned about the men.

An unnaturally warm, bright spell had opened December, and Nick was driving himself and Davis to bring in more hay. Alba found herself scouting the sky for signs of clouds. Hoping it stayed fair, a little afraid it would.

The cabin door opened, and Davis entered with Nick on his heels.

"Evening, Miss Alba.” Davis took off his hat and dragged a hand through his fair hair.

"Evening—Oh!” The biscuit pan she'd been preparing to put in the oven clattered to the table.

Both men froze.

Alba darted forward and caught Davis's face in her hands. He looked as if he'd absorbed a charge of lightning.

"You're bleeding! What happened?” She touched a corner of her apron to where blood streaked red through his pale hair. Where was the wound?

"Bleeding? I don't know..."

Their eyes met and held. The air in Alba's lungs seeped away.

Nick, coming closer after hanging up his jacket, looked over her shoulder and said matter-of-factly, “It's his hands."

Davis automatically turned his hands palms up, and Alba gasped at the raw flesh. She spun to her brother and snatched his hands before he could prevent it. His were nearly as bad.

"Don't fuss, Alba. Give us supper."

"There will be no supper until I tend these hands. I will—"

"Alba—"

"—wash them,” she finished, glaring at her formidable brother. “And then, yes—Davis, do you have that healing salve you put on the mare's cut?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"You will get it now, if you please."

He glanced toward Nick, but didn't hesitate. “Yes, ma'am."

By the time he returned with the jar. Alba had gotten Nick seated, poured heated water into a shallow basin she balanced on her knees as she sat across from him and washed his palms with a soft cloth. The water was tinged red.

Now, she took the jar from Davis and gently spread salve. Movement to the side made her turn her head, and she saw Davis trying to stifle a wince as he dripped one hand into water.

"Stop. I will do it. There,
hermano."
She wrapped a strip of cloth around each palm. “You are done.” As Nick rose she repeated, but with a different intent, “You are done. No more haying until your hands heal, both of you."

Nick didn't look at her. “If the weather's fine tomorrow we cut. Both of us."

The door thudded closed behind him, setting off a spate of Spanish from her, words she hadn't even known she knew, and surely hadn't learned from the good sisters.

"Sit,” she snapped at Davis when he would have helped her pour fresh heated water into the pan.

He sat.

She put the pan on her knees and pulled his left hand toward her.

"Why did you not wear gloves?” she demanded.

"We wore gloves. It's a matter of doing the same thing so many hours in a day when you haven't done it before. Or least not in a long while. I used to do haying in Iowa, on my daddy's farm."

His clear blue eyes met hers, and she read there a shy willingness to open a piece of himself to her in friendship, to give her some of his past for the asking.

She could not ask. Because she would not—could not—give him any part of herself in return, especially her past.

She finished with the water, then spread salve on his left hand. She glanced up, seeing in his face only acceptance.

Bending once more, her heart felt both lighter and strangely constricted.

She had seen his hands touch animals in his care with such tenderness. She had also seen them strain.

Which would his hands show with a woman? The tenderness or the strength? Or could he bring both to a woman?

She had begun on his right hand when he spoke again.

"He's worried about there being enough hay to winter over the stock, that's all."

She paused, fingertips resting lightly on the heel of his open hand, and brought her eyes up to meet his. “That is one part. But that is not all."

Davis's eyes flicked away, then came back. “No,” he agreed. “That is not all."

Their eyes acknowledged an understanding. More, a connection.

Davis's bandaged left hand cupped hers, still resting so lightly on his right.

She pulled her hand from his featherlight hold and reached for the final bandage. When she finished, he stood immediately.

"Thank you, Alba."

"You are welcome, Davis."

Their formal exchange did not hide from her that for the first time he had called her solely by her name, not “ma'am” or “Miss Alba", but as a man to a woman.

"Mama, Doc Prescott isn't coming.” Olive Chapman's voice wavered from the doorway. “Billy just rode in and said Doc got called out yesterday to a lady clear the other direction. Joe-Max went on after him, but with it snowing, it'd take near two days for him to get here."

Rachel heard the words, but didn't care. It would probably take Doc Prescott longer than that, if the weather was as bad as the last time she'd taken note.

After a few bright, warm days, December had slid into cold and ice, taking a heavy toll on the cattle. Gordon had ridden out to assess how much of a toll, wearing such a deep frown that she'd wondered about Natchez's finances. But now she didn't care about that, either.

She was going to die.

She'd accepted that some time back, though she couldn't have said when. The way a blizzard erased the most familiar trail, the pain had wiped away her everyday landmarks of time.

Was it last night this had started, some twenty-four hours ago? Or was it the night before? Or a week before?

She was going to die.

As her mother had. As Millie Birch over on the Bar CB Ranch had last year.

She was going to die. Without a doctor to ease her way. Without her husband to mourn her passing. Without Shag to tell her to hang on. Without her pa to give her a lesson. Without...

"Nick."

"What was that, dear?” Myrna Chapman leaned over to catch her murmur. “Oh, no, dear, we can't give you a bath now. You don't want to catch a chill."

What did it matter if she caught a chill, since she was going to die?

Still, Myrna was a good soul. Rachel hoped Myrna would care for her baby, rather than Esther, who stood at the foot of the bed and stared at her stoically.

Baby...

Her baby...

Rachel felt its movement inside of her, but not as forcefully as before. Was the baby catching her weakness? If she died before the baby was born, it would never have a chance to live. She couldn't die. Not yet.

"No doctor. We must do this, then,” came Esther's voice, from far away. “You must do this, Mrs. Wood."

Rachel heard the sound before she felt the sting on her cheek. She blinked her eyes open to find Esther's face practically in hers.
Slap.
The woman had
slapped
her.

"Oh! Esther!"

Rachel heard Myrna's protest, but it had no impact on the housekeeper.

"Rachel! You hear me. You must do this. You must do this even though it will hurt more."

Rachel's eyes dropped closed, “So tired."

The woman was shouting at her. “Rachel!"

Rachel! Rachel, stay awake, dammit!

"Nick?” She opened her eyes, looking for the intense black eyes. “Am I dreaming?"

No. I'm here, Rachel. I'm going to get you out of this, but you have to help. You understand? Rachel! Goddammit, you stay awake.

Nick.

Hands shook at her. “You must do this, Rachel. You can't be weak or your baby will die. You must do this. For your baby."

Her baby
. The baby she and Nick had created in a white-hot blaze amid the blinding white of a Wyoming blizzard.

"Baby."

"Yes. Your baby needs your strength now."

Rachel locked into the dark eyes of the woman shouting at her.

"For ... baby."

"Yes. For your baby."

The commotion downstairs woke Rachel. Her son slept in the crook of her arm, contented after nursing his fill. The bed linens were cool and clean, the pillows behind her smelled of lavender.

Though her son was only five days old, the hours of sweat and pain and blood that had brought him into the world felt distant and dim. As did the fear.

The rumble of voices below informed Rachel that Gordon had returned, and he'd been told of the birth of the baby he would claim as his son. Heavy footfalls sounded on the stairs.

"Well, where is this baby?” he demanded jovially.

She heard the combined hushing from Myrna and Esther on the landing, and smiled faintly as she feathered a kiss to the downy head of her baby.

The door opened, with the two women entering first, perhaps to demonstrate the proper soft-footed approach to the big man who followed.

Gordon's lined face was florid with the wind and cold. He hadn't stopped to take off his bulky buffalo coat, though he held his hat between his gloved hands.

"Hello, Gordon,” Rachel said softly. She would ask him shortly what conditions he had found during his survey of Natchez and Circle T lands. For days, she had existed in a cocoon that included only her son, herself and the few people necessary to their well-being. But that was temporary, and her concern for her land was not. Especially since someday it would be her son's.

"My dear.” Gordon's voice thickened as he stopped just inside the door. “I am sorry you have had such a difficult time, Rachel. Are you all right?"

"I will be, Gordon, before very long.” She held a hand out, touched to see this big man so tentative. “But come see the newest arrival at Natchez."

If he noticed she shied away from calling the baby his son, he gave no sign. He smiled broadly, tossed his hat on a chair, followed by his coat, then came to her bedside.

She shifted the bundle in her arms, holding aside the blanket, to give Gordon a better view of the sleeping baby.

"Isn't he the sweetest thing,” cooed Myrna from behind Gordon.

Esther said nothing, though her leathery face softened.

But Gordon made no move to touch the baby, standing utterly still and staring.

"Leave us.” His words were so low, both Myrna and Esther looked uncertain if they'd heard right.

"Leave us!” he bellowed.

The baby flinched, a frown tucking his tiny eyebrows, but he didn't open his eyes.

Myrna, after one horrified glance from Gordon to Rachel, scurried out. Esther moved more slowly, her eyes never leaving Gordon's face. He seemed unaware, staring only at the child, long after the door clicked closed. Rachel, too, held her silence.

Fear came first, but it didn't last. If he wanted out of their bargain, she would take her child and leave. And she would do whatever needed doing to keep her baby safe. There was no room for fear.