Why don’t you let me ride for Doc Brookston? I could be back with him within the hour.”
Reining in, Rachel shook her head, doing her best not to wince as she dismounted. “Thank you for your concern, James. But I’m fine.” She took deep breaths and held on to the saddle horn until she was certain she had her balance. Pain shot up and down her leg. Perspiration broke out on her forehead. “All he’ll advise is to elevate my leg and keep cool compresses on the wound.”
“Which you’re not doing.” James gave her an older-brother look and followed her into the barn.
“Which I am doing . . . when time allows, and which I’ll have more of this evening, thanks to you for helping me round up the strays.” Already looking forward to the cool compresses on the bruise, she led Chaucer to his stall and reached to unstrap the saddle, but James beat her to it.
“Go on inside and get some rest. See to the boys. I’ll do this.”
Part of her wanted to argue, but the greater part of her didn’t. Not with the way her leg was hurting. “Thank you, James. For everything. I appreciate you coming out today.”
“My pleasure.” He unsaddled Chaucer, a conspiratorial smile stealing across his face. “I have to admit . . .” He paused and took a deep breath. “I’ve missed this place.”
She laughed and settled herself against a stool, enjoying the time with him. She saw him in town often enough, but moments like this when they could talk, just the two of them, were rare these days. “Yes, the smell of manure and sweaty horse holds such appeal. Not to mention the endless work and scant profit.”
Laughing softly, he began at Chaucer’s neck and moved the curry brush in a circular motion over the horse’s hair to loosen the dirt. “I’m serious. I was telling Molly last night that I was looking forward to getting back out here. Then when you and the boys weren’t at church this morning, she encouraged me to come on out and check on you.” He sighed. “I’m glad I did. I love the feel of this place. Being in the open air, working with the cattle, seeing the new bulls . . .” He gestured toward Gent, the bull that Lady had given birth to, in the opposite stall. A second heifer had given birth earlier that morning—another bull—and, thankfully, it had been an easy birth. The bull remained as yet unnamed by the boys, which suited Rachel fine. Best they not get too attached.
“Well, you’re welcome out here anytime. Molly and Jo are too.” She glanced back toward the cabin, hoping what she was about to say would come out right. “I miss you, James. Part of me wishes Molly would’ve moved out here with us after you were married— instead of you moving into town. I mean . . . not permanently.” She shrugged, seeing surprise in his expression. “Just for a little while. I would have liked that. But . . .” She sat up straighter and tossed him a wink, not wanting to give the impression that she wasn’t managing things well on her own. “You needed your space with your new wife and precious little daughter. And it’s good for the boys and me to be on our own again.” She purposefully deepened her smile. “We’re doing fine, and I couldn’t be happier for you.”
“Thanks, Rach.” James paused from his brushing. “I don’t know how you made it through. . . .” He briefly bowed his head. “Already, I can’t imagine life without Molly.” He looked her way, his expression going tender. “Having Molly in my life, being married now . . . It’s given me a better understanding of what you must have gone through in losing Thomas.” He shook his head. “I . . . I just can’t imagine.”
Rachel held his gaze and let the silence between them say what words couldn’t. She was reminded again of how much she had relied on her brother’s strength and support when Thomas had died. She and James had always been close, but the time he lived with her and the boys had brought them closer.
She wanted to discuss the financial standing of the ranch with him, get his opinion on decisions she faced, but she knew him well enough to know that if she admitted her plight, he would feel obligated to do anything and everything he could to help her. And he had a wife and a daughter now. He was no longer first and foremost her older brother. He was a husband, a father, and a sheriff. His life was his own, and it was crowded enough.
She stood to leave, gritting her teeth against the stiffening pain in her leg. She’d never known a bruise could hurt so much. James had turned back to his task, not noticing. Just as well.
“Rachel?”
Almost to the door of the barn, she looked back to see him standing in the opening of the stall, the expression on his face hard to decipher.
“I’m going to ask Deputy Willis to add his name to the ballot for sheriff.”
She stared, not understanding. “Why would you do that?”
“Because Mayor Davenport is buying up votes for his candidate all over town. And also because”—hesitance crept into his tone— “in the past couple of months, people have started to express doubt about whether they want me to continue in the position.”
Sensing what James wasn’t saying aloud, Rachel’s thoughts turned to Molly. There was no question in Rachel’s mind that God had directed Molly’s path to Timber Ridge last year, even though Molly, by her own admission, hadn’t perfectly followed God’s path for her life. What person had? Molly had asked everyone’s forgiveness for what she’d done and had worked to mend relationships. All of that was in the past now, for Rachel anyway. She just wished people would be as forgiving about Molly’s mistakes as they were about their own. But some folks seemed bent on making Molly pay. And, evidently, making James pay too.
“You’re the only sheriff Timber Ridge has ever had. Of course people still want you.”
He eyed her, his response saying he wasn’t so sure. “I’d rather give people another option, just in case. Dean Willis is a good man. He’s honest and fair, and I know for a fact that Mayor Davenport doesn’t have Willis in his back pocket like he does Bart Shaker— though Davenport tried hard enough. Willis stood up to him. Davenport’s also managed to delay the election. He’s already received approval from the town council, so the balloting won’t take place until this summer. He wants more time to get his man in place, is my guess.”
Rachel wouldn’t put anything past Mayor Davenport. The man was a snake. James had stood up to the mayor’s underhanded ways and backroom dealings and had publicly called him out, more than once. Davenport wanted nothing more than to have James out of his way. Still, she knew this town could have no better sheriff than her brother.
“When it comes down to it, James, I believe people will vote for the best man. And I believe that’s you.”
His sigh held reservation but also what sounded like a measure of acceptance, maybe even peace. He shifted his weight. “Daniel and Elizabeth were at church this morning,” he said a little too casually, watching her a little too closely, and Rachel felt her defenses rise. “Daniel asked about the boys. And about you.”
“Please . . .” She shook her head, not wanting their time together today to end on a dissonant note. “I’m too tired for this today, James.”
“Rachel, this has gone on long enough between you and Daniel. He wants to make things right. And frankly, he’s tried. It’s you who can’t seem to—”
“Thomas is dead!” she said with more force than intended. Weariness moved through her. Tears rose.
He heaved a sigh. “Despite what you think, Daniel is not responsible for what happened. Thomas decided to go hunting that morning. On his own. He wasn’t ready. Daniel had said he’d go with him anytime. But you know as well as I do that once Thomas decided something, nothing could change his mind.”
Deep inside, Rachel felt the inexplicable urge to flee—from James, from the conversation, from the accountability he was forcing upon her. But she made herself stay, knowing he would only pursue her if she tried to retreat. She let out a held breath. “How many times must we have this conversation . . . ?”
“As many times as it takes until you see the truth.” He stepped closer. “I don’t understand why you’re so intent on laying the blame at Daniel’s feet. It doesn’t seem that there’s anything to forgive him for, but if there is . . . can’t you at least try?” His gaze leveled with hers, and her mouth went dry at the boldness of his stare, at the unwavering love and sense of justice it held.
How could her brother be right about so many things and be so completely off the mark about this? But he was wrong. She knew it. He just couldn’t see it because of his love for his childhood friend. She had loved Daniel too, and had tried to forgive him. But whenever she thought of Daniel, when she remembered how Mitch and Kurt used to go on about his hunting escapades in front of Thomas . . .
“Uncle Daniel can track anything in these mountains. He can hunt anything too! He’s the best hunter in all the Rockies. I want to grow up to be just like him!” All the keepsakes Daniel brought back hadn’t helped either—animal pelts, snakeskins, antlers . . . How was a father supposed to compete with such adulation? And why should he have been made to?
“I know you mean well, James, but . . . I need for you to leave this alone. Please.”
“You said something to me, Rachel, one night not long after Thomas died, about how you wished you could go back and live that last morning with him over again. Do you remember saying that? Do you remember what you meant?”
She did remember. Only too well. She also knew that nothing could change the past. What was done was done. James could do nothing to alter it, neither could this conversation, and neither would his trying to mend things with Daniel. “You said something to me too, James, last fall. You told me I was trying to fix things between you and Molly. Do you remember saying that?” she said, using the same tone he just had.
A muscle tightened in his jaw.
“You told me, ‘This isn’t something you can fix.’ ” She swallowed. “Well . . . this isn’t something you can fix either. So, please . . . leave it be.”
Not wanting the time with him to be ruined, she forced a brightness to her manner, knowing full well he would see through the pretense. “Thank you again for coming by, and for helping me with the strays. I’ve missed your company . . . very much.”
Disappointment shadowed his features. He fingered the bristles of the brush. “I’ve missed you too. You sure you’re doing all right?”
Somehow she held her smile. “Absolutely,” she whispered, not trusting her full voice.
He looked around the barn. His gaze lingered near the workbench, and she wondered whether he could picture Thomas standing there as easily as she still could. The image of her late husband came, and she cherished it, but time had diminished the pain of his passing.
“What you and Thomas built here together, Rach . . . It’s special. Thomas really loved it. He told me so . . . many times. He’d be proud of how you’re carrying on, and of how you’re doing this for your boys.”
Conviction stung, and Rachel summoned fresh courage to bolster her confident façade. “Thank you, that means a lot. This ranch was his dream,” she said softly, the next words threatening to stick in her throat. “And mine.”
“Ranching can be a challenge, Mrs. Boyd. Especially in this part of the country. But you don’t need me to tell you that, now, do you?” Mr. Fossey paused as though searching for his next words, his expression one of compassion. His bushy gray brows knit together as the clock on the mantel behind him sliced off the seconds.
Muted conversation from the bank lobby drifted through the closed office door, and Rachel wondered whether Mr. Fossey’s secretary could overhear their exchange. She hoped not. Yet if what Mr. Fossey had told her a moment ago held true—she felt a humorless laugh—it was only a matter of time before everyone in Timber Ridge would know about her predicament. I’m sorry, Thomas. . . .
She shifted in the chair, the ache in her leg nearly unbearable.
Since last night, the wound on her thigh had turned purplish black. The poultices she’d applied hadn’t eased the swelling or discomfort, and routine chores were next to impossible. Wriggling her toes sent pain shooting up into her back and made walking excruciating. Even seated and still, she could feel the blood pulsing hot through the bruise. She’d finished the last of her willow bark tea yesterday and would have taken laudanum for the pain last night, if she’d had any. She’d honestly thought it was just a bruise.
Now she wondered. . . .
She eyed her grandfather’s cane resting against the arm of her chair and felt a subtle stirring inside, a yearning for days past, when she was younger and life was simpler. Or perhaps those days only seemed simpler in the remembering.
“Your late husband, God rest his soul,” Mr. Fossey continued, warmth softening the lines wreathing his eyes and mouth, “was a fine man. Thomas managed his accounts with this bank in an exemplary manner, just as you have done.” He raised a hand, as though reading her thoughts. “Yes . . . you have been late in repaying your loan, but you’ve also kept me apprised of your circumstances. You informed me your payment would be delayed, which makes my responsibility in answering to the bank’s shareholders a much easier task.”
Rachel looked down at her gloved hands. “You’re kind to offer, Mr. Fossey. With the death of Thomas’s prized bull, I’ve lost the income I would have gained from leasing him to neighboring ranches this spring.”
“And I know you were counting on that money.” Mr. Fossey’s tone reflected regret. “That bull came from fine stock.”
Rachel nodded. For the integrity of her own herd’s bloodline, she knew she couldn’t have bred the bull to her cows again. But losing the potential income from the bull as a herd sire, along with the loss of cattle she’d sustained in the previous two winters, placed her finances in dire straits.
Her gaze slowly lifted to the letter lying faceup on his desk, a letter she’d penned last night after comparing her bills to the ever-decreasing balance in her bankbook. “Regarding my request for more money, and time in which to repay it . . . do you think the board will give it consideration?”
Gilbert Fossey pushed back from his desk, and Rachel tried not to interpret his distancing himself as a bad omen, telling herself it wasn’t a deliberate act on his part.
“I assure you the board gives every lender’s request serious consideration. They’ll be fair in their final rendering. But keep in mind, Mrs. Boyd . . . these men are not philanthropists. They invest their money in order to receive a return on that investment, as you pledged to them at the outset of your loan.”
Rachel nodded, trying to appear confident while feeling as if she were treading water. Perhaps her request wasn’t such a good idea after all. Perhaps she was only prolonging the inevitable, getting in over her head. Still, she couldn’t simply give up. Not when giving up meant she would be forced to sell half of her land, and not when recalling all she and Thomas had sacrificed through the years. “I understand completely.”
Mr. Fossey opened his mouth, then closed it again, giving obvious consideration to whatever thought occupied his mind. “Mrs. Boyd, would you permit me an observation? A most personal one that runs the risk of overstepping the bounds of propriety?”
She stared, completely trusting this man yet not knowing where he was leading.
“Rest assured that my observation issues from the heart of a friend, and not as an employee of this bank. And that it comes with the deepest respect for your late husband.”
Now Rachel guessed what he was going to say.
As though knowing she’d read his mind, he smiled. “Have you considered the possibility of remarriage? I know . . . for a fact,” he said, his tone confident, “that there are successful, wealthy men in this town who would court you on a moment’s notice, if you would but give them one look of encouragement. Surely one of them would suit you. If not in a match of the heart, then perhaps one of friendship. Not that you would marry for money, of course, but the fact is, the chances of retaining ownership of your ranch would be greatly improved were you married.”
Rachel returned his kind look, not the least offended. She knew of many marriages built on an alliance of wealth or family name. It wasn’t uncommon. “I’d be lying to you, Mr. Fossey, if I said I’d never entertained that thought. But Timber Ridge is a small town, and I believe I’ve already met every man in the county.”
He flinched playfully. “You are being most severe on my gender, Mrs. Boyd.”
She laughed. “Not at all, sir.” Her smile turned inward. “I was simply very much in love with my husband.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment, but if Rachel wasn’t mistaken, a subtle glimmer of admiration shone in his eyes. He stood and she followed suit, wincing at the pain in her leg.
She’d checked with Lyda at the store earlier that morning for willow bark, hoping to find the pain-relieving herb in stock. But Lyda informed her that Rand had purchased all they had. What were the chances she could stop by his clinic for the medicine without him being there? He’d done nothing wrong. Quite the contrary, in fact. While she wasn’t ready to relinquish all of her misgivings about the man, he was certainly giving her reason to. She would pay him for the willow bark, of course—she just preferred not to see him so soon, knowing he would inquire about her leg.
But there was one thing she would change about the current situation—Rand Brookston was all Mitch talked about. How Rand “rescued” the calf. She sincerely appreciated what he’d done, but she would just as soon undo the impression he—or rather, his profession—had made on her older son.
Mr. Fossey rounded the corner of the desk and glanced down at her cane. Concern crept into his features. “Are you certain your injury isn’t more serious, my dear? You look as though you’re in a great deal of pain.”
Rachel squared her shoulders and stood a little straighter. “I’m fine. I need to work out the soreness—that’s all.”
He stared as though debating her self-diagnosis, then made his way to the door. “Well . . . as soon as I receive word from the board, I’ll let you know.” He reached for the knob.
“Mr. Fossey . . .”
He paused.
“I want to thank you again for agreeing to support me in this. I’ll do my best not to disappoint you, or the board.” Her hand tightened on the curved head of the cane. “You were always fair and generous in your dealings with Thomas, and I realize—” Her throat tightened as she swallowed. She’d promised herself to keep her emotions in check. She was certain the other ranchers in Timber Ridge—all men—never got “choked up” during business meetings with Mr. Fossey. A deep breath helped to dislodge the pebble in her throat. “What I’m trying to say is . . . I realize most men in your position wouldn’t have chosen to conduct business with a widow, as you did. I’m grateful for the confidence you’ve shown in me and for the friendsh—” The words caught. She cleared her throat. “For the friendship our families share.”
“Mrs. Boyd . . .” When she didn’t look up, Mr. Fossey bent slightly to secure her gaze. “Rachel,” he tried again softly. “I assure you, my decision to work with you following Thomas’s passing had nothing to do with our families’ friendship.”
Rachel eyed him, having long suspected otherwise.
“All right . . .” He gave a slight shrug. “Perhaps our friendship did influence my initial decision, but it enabled me to see what a competent and intelligent woman you are. And remember, the board had final say in the matter.” He smiled. “You’ve experienced some recent setbacks—that’s all—as has every rancher in the area. The winter’s been hard on all of you.”
Rachel scoffed softly. “Everyone except Leonard Rudger. According to what I heard this morning, he made an offer on the Toberlins’ ranch.” Whose property backed up to hers, though she didn’t voice that reminder. “Rumor has it the Toberlins are going to sell and move back to Missouri.”
Mr. Fossey’s expression revealed nothing. And far too late, Rachel’s discretion delivered warning. She blinked. “I’m sorry, sir. Please forgive me. That was imprudent and uncalled for.”
A wave of his hand accompanied an understanding look. “No harm done.” His hand briefly covered hers on the cane. “I can’t begin to imagine what you’ve endured, losing Thomas the way you did. Add to that the hardship of raising two young boys and managing a ranch alone. I admire your strength and courage, Rachel. Sarah and I both do.”
His brow furrowed. “Speaking of Sarah, she and I missed you and the boys at church yesterday. She’d like you, Mitchell, and Kurt to come over for Sunday lunch soon. She’d love the visit. I would too.”
Rachel adored Gilbert and Sarah Fossey, but she still dreaded social gatherings, even small ones. And this one would be especially awkward if she was still waiting on the board’s decision. But more than that, such occasions were a cruel reminder that she was no longer part of a couple, and that Thomas was never coming back. But as her brother had told her countless times, she wouldn’t begin to feel “normal” again—whatever that was—until there was normality to her life.
Her practiced “widow’s smile” came easily. “I’d love nothing more, Mr. Fossey. Thank you. I’ll speak with Sarah about what I can bring.”
Giving her elbow a fatherly squeeze, Mr. Fossey opened the door.
Rachel glanced over to say good-bye to his secretary, but the woman wasn’t there. Perhaps Miss Graham hadn’t overheard their conversation after all. Rachel started for the lobby, mindful of the thick Persian rug, her gait anything but graceful. She was barely aware of the gentleman sitting off to the side, but when he glanced up, it drew her attention.
It took her a moment to place him, but when she did, she stopped mid-limp.
“Edward!” Mr. Fossey said behind her. “I heard you’d arrived in town. It’s about time you got over here to see me.”
The gentleman stood and accepted Mr. Fossey’s outstretched hand. “It’s good to see you again, Gilbert. It’s been a few years.”
“More than I care to count, I’m afraid.”
Rachel didn’t wish to intrude on the informal reunion, but neither did she want to miss the opportunity to thank the man for the kindness he’d demonstrated at the Mullinses’ store days earlier.
Mr. Fossey’s grin made him look years younger. “Wherever you’re staying, Edward, Sarah’s already upset that it’s not with us.” The men laughed, and then Mr. Fossey’s smile faded. “I’m so sorry about Evelyn. I wish Sarah and I could have seen her again, one last time.”
The gentleman briefly bowed his head. “I appreciate that, Gilbert,” he whispered. “She would have loved to see you both again too.” He glanced in Rachel’s direction, and Mr. Fossey trailed his gaze.
“Mrs. Boyd! I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were still here. Please allow me to make the introductions.” The men lessened the distance. “Edward, may I present Mrs. Rachel Boyd, formerly of Franklin, Tennessee. Mrs. Boyd owns a ranch just outside of town and has two of the cutest redheaded boys you’ll ever see. Mrs. Boyd’s older brother is currently sheriff of Timber Ridge, has been since the town started up.”
Mr. Fossey leaned closer to Rachel and winked. “James has my vote in the upcoming election, by the way. And I predict he’ll win it in a landslide. Don’t you worry about what the mayor’s trying to do with delaying the election. It won’t amount to anything.”
Hoping he was right, Rachel smiled.
Mr. Fossey straightened and gestured to the gentleman beside him. “Mrs. Boyd, may I present a somewhat ornery but most esteemed former colleague and friend of mine, for over thirty years now, Mr. Edward Westin of New York City.”
Mr. Westin bowed slightly at the waist, his smile as kind-looking as she remembered. “A pleasure, Mrs. Boyd.” His well-trimmed beard, dark but peppered with white, complemented his tailored gray suit. He angled a sideways nod. “I hope you don’t believe everything this old geezer says.”
Rachel laughed, catching the faintest Northern accent and managing an awkward curtsey. “The pleasure’s mine, Mr. Westin. And not to worry, I know when to adhere to Mr. Fossey’s counsel and when to dismiss it.” She gave Mr. Fossey a knowing look. “I’m glad our paths have crossed for a second time, Mr. Westin, because I wanted to thank you for calming tempers at the Mullinses’ store the other day. That was very kind of you.”
“You’re most welcome, ma’am. I didn’t know what was happening at the time. I just sensed something was wrong. I hope Mr. Mullins is faring better after the—” He stopped short. His expression turned sheepish. “After the incident with his heart,” he said more softly. “News travels fast in Timber Ridge, or so I’ve learned in recent days.”
Rachel nodded. “That it does.” While word had spread about Ben’s heart failure, she was certain the details of his prognosis remained private. “Thank you for your concern. When I visited with the Mullinses yesterday, Mr. Mullins was feeling some better.”
She’d taken Ben and Lyda dinner yesterday, and Lyda had seemed in surprisingly good spirits, saying she thought Ben would be up and about in a couple of weeks. Rachel hadn’t contradicted her, but she was certain Lyda was being overly optimistic. Either that, or Lyda wasn’t aware of the seriousness of Ben’s condition. Maybe Dr. Brookston hadn’t informed them yet. But that seemed unlikely.
The mantel clock in Mr. Fossey’s office chimed three times, and Rachel knew Mitchell and Kurt would be waiting for her at the schoolhouse—along with the young Miss Stafford. Another meeting she’d dreaded all weekend. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I need to be on my way. Thank you again, Mr. Fossey. Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Westin.”
Edward Westin tilted his head in acknowledgment. “For the second time, Mrs. Boyd.”
Rachel arrived at the schoolhouse to find the grounds unusually quiet—and the schoolroom empty. No Mitchell. No Kurt. No Miss Stafford. She pulled Thomas’s pocket watch from her reticule. It didn’t make sense. Class was supposed to have dismissed only moments ago.
Sighing, she picked a careful path down the icy stairs to the wagon, mindful of her cane slipping on the snow. Perhaps the boys had gone to the jail to wait for her, either there or the store. Taking a deep breath, she gritted her teeth and climbed back into the wagon and up to the buckboard—when her right leg gave way beneath her.
The steady throb in her thigh turned white-hot, and she doubled over, her eyes clenched tight. Her body flushed hot, then cold. A light sweat broke out on her forehead.
Clutching her leg with one hand and the bench seat with the other, Rachel tried to breathe and prayed for the pain to pass.