The Widower's Wife (5 page)

He gave Dalton a friendly jab, took one more look at Jillian before giving a low whistle, and turned back to go assist his deputy. Chuckles was being uncooperative, and it took both the sheriff and the deputy to maneuver the big man out through the train station door.

Dalton took a few steps toward the ticket counter, and the clerk gave him a scowl. He had obviously been eavesdropping. Dalton couldn’t help but clench his fist. He suspected there had been more than one man in this train station today in need of a good lesson about the proper way to treat a lady. He gave the clerk a warning look that made the younger man visibly nervous.
Good
, Dalton thought.
Let him think on that awhile.

Walking back over to where Jillian lay, Dalton gazed down at her tenderly. It disturbed him how his heart had begun to beat so fast in his chest when he caught her from falling and held her soft, warm body in his arms. Panicked at the sudden rush of emotion, he had quickly laid her down. He’d removed and folded his suit coat and placed it beneath her head, gently inspecting her injury as he did. It had swelled slightly, but was not bleeding.

She looked so peaceful and beautiful lying there now. All evidence of the fear and panic that had disturbed her perfect features earlier was gone. Some of the coloring had even returned to her face. That was a good sign.

In her struggle with Mr. Fitzgerald, a number of her hairpins had fallen out, and now a cascade of strawberry curls fell around her face. Surprisingly, he felt himself fighting the impulse to reach out and feel the softness of those curls between his fingers. A sense of guilt washed over him. Dalton forced himself to turn his back to her. As he did, his hand unconsciously went into his pants pocket and desperately clasped the small, delicate cameo that lay hidden there. He did not want this temptation. He purposely called on a memory of his late wife.

Laurellyn was baking bread early one Saturday when Dalton came in from doing his morning chores. Little Jenny, just two and a half, was playing on the kitchen floor by Laurellyn’s feet with the wooden blocks Dalton had made last Christmas.

Baking had always been a struggle for Laurellyn, and it pained her deeply that she was not more efficient at it. Aunt Betty had always been a marvelous cook, and she often wished she had inherited more of her aunt’s talent. The biggest problem, he suspected, wasn’t that she couldn’t improve her cooking skills with practice. She did try to from time to time, but her heart just wasn’t in it. The truth of it was that she would rather be digging her hands into a garden full of rich, dark soil than in a bowl full of flour.

Laurellyn knew just enough to get by, but Dalton had not suffered. Aunt Betty was forever sneaking some sweets or a small treat, wrapped in a napkin, into his hands or his pocket when he’d leave her house after one of his frequent visits. Besides, if he had to eat burnt hotcakes every morning for breakfast, he would do it willingly and with a smile on his face, as long as his sweetheart was there at his side.

Laurellyn spent most of her free time in either her gardens or with the animals, her other love. Old Decker, Dalton’s horse, was her particular favorite. That morning, however, she felt guilty for not baking homemade treats more often for Dalton. She had it in her mind to make him a batch of cinnamon rolls and had even ridden over to Aunt Betty’s the afternoon before to get a copy of her recipe and instructions. When he came into the house, she was trying to knead the dough, but obviously something had gone terribly wrong with it. It was much too sticky. Her fingers were covered with the stuff, and she was desperately trying to free her fingers from the caked-on mess.

Laurellyn looked up at Dalton when she heard the door close. A look of frustration pained her face, what he could see of it anyway. He feared she had more flour on her face and in her hair than she had started with in the bowl. No wonder the dough was so sticky! He couldn’t help but laugh. Her look of frustration turned to a glare, and then, just as quickly, a grin began to turn up the corners of her mouth. He could read in her eyes what she was thinking.

“Oh, no you don’t, Mrs. Laurellyn McCullough. I will turn you over my knee and tan your hide but good if you do what I think you’re wanting to do,” he threatened.

It was too late. He saw the look of mischief in her eyes. Before he could open his mouth again, he felt something moist and sticky hit the side of his head and begin to slowly creep down his face. He feigned a look of anger before turning briefly to hang his hat on the hook by the door. Before he even had a chance to turn around again, he felt something else hit him squarely on his back. On the floor, little Jenny squealed with delight and clapped her hands.

“Ooh, Daddy sticky,” she laughed.

“Yes, Jenny Bugs, Daddy’s sticky, and Mommy will be too, in a second.” Jenny squealed again as Dalton took two large steps forward and grabbed the bowl of dough from off the table.

“Oh, no you don’t, Dalton.” She started to back away and maneuvered herself so that the table stood between them. “You deserved it, you know, for laughing at me.” She pretended to pout. “Here I’ve been, slaving away in this hot kitchen for half of the morning, trying to make something nice for you, and you . . . you laugh!” He could tell she wanted to put her hands on her hips to make her indignation abundantly clear, but she didn’t want to get more of the botched dough on her dress. Instead, she lifted her chin and turned her head to the side and said, “Humph!”

Dalton smiled to himself. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have laughed.” He forced a serious and penitent look to his face and set the bowl back on the table. “Here . . . truce . . . see?” He raised his hands a few inches higher. Laurellyn tried to look upset, but Dalton could tell by the merriment in her eyes that she was not really angry with him.

“Now look at what a mess I’ve made of things!” she exclaimed. “I suppose I’ll clean this up while you go wash up for lunch.”

Dalton raised one eyebrow. “Maybe I should clean this mess up while you go wash up for lunch.” He chuckled softly.

“Maybe you’re right, Dalton McCullough. I must look awfully horrible.” Unfortunately, he missed the look of mischief that had returned to her eyes. “Come, let’s kiss and make up before I go and try to make myself a bit more presentable.” Laurellyn walked back around the table and stood in front of him.

Dalton leaned toward Laurellyn. He tried to make sure that the least amount of him might touch her as possible for fear she would transfer her floury mess onto him. Just as their lips met, though, two sticky hands grabbed both sides of his face.

“Ha!” she shouted in triumph.

Dalton released his hold on the cameo in his pocket and turned back to Miss Grey, strengthened again in his resolve not to think of this woman beyond friendship. She stirred again and moaned softly. He decided to get a cool cloth for her head and a drink of water. She would surely have a headache and be thirsty when she woke.

Jillian felt something cool and wet being pressed gently to the back of her head and then to her forehead. The feel of it both shocked her tender skin and refreshed her aching head at the same time. Her limbs were heavy and weak, and she didn’t dare try to move them yet. She was vaguely aware that she was lying on something hard and uncomfortable and that there was a tender spot on the back of her head. She was grateful for the folded cloth underneath it. It had an unfamiliar but pleasant scent of leather and soap that tickled her nose. She willed her eyes to open.

The light that assaulted her eyes immediately triggered a throbbing in her temples. She grimaced, closed her eyes again, and, despite the pain, tried to sit up.

“Whoa, Miss Grey, hold up there. You shouldn’t try to sit up just yet. Take it easy awhile longer. I have a glass of water for you.”

At once, Jillian felt a pair of strong but gentle hands push tenderly against her shoulders, forcing her to lie back down. She kept her eyes closed; the darkness was soothing. She tried to collect her thoughts. Who had spoken to her? His voice was vaguely familiar, but how had he known her name? There could be only one man at this station who would know who she was. Again she willed her eyes to open, this time forcing them to stay that way. Slowly her vision adjusted to the light, and she was able to focus on her surroundings.

For a moment, Jillian couldn’t remember everything that had happened, just that things hadn’t gone as she had expected them to. She remembered being worried about being late and that there had been no one waiting for her upon her arrival. All of a sudden, a flood of images came rushing back at once. Her first impulse was to flee as a feeling of fear gripped at her heart. However, when she attempted to push herself up to a vertical position for a second time, she felt the room spin, and a sudden feeling of nausea turn her stomach.

Relaxing back down to the bench, Jillian took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and concentrated on settling her stomach and slowing her racing heart. She felt a glass being pressed lightly to her lips and a cool liquid travel slowly down her throat. It felt soothing and revitalizing, and she summoned her strength. She was suddenly all too aware of the strong need rising within her to see the man who had spoken to her a moment ago.

Jillian struggled to force herself up again and felt those same gentle hands on her once more. This time though, they helped her to a sitting position. As she swung her legs around her so that her feet were planted on the floor, she was compelled to place her head in her hands to stop the sudden rush of blood that made the throbbing sensation and the pain worsen.

“Miss Grey, please . . . take it easy. You’ve had a terrible ordeal. You were quite shaken and you’ve hit your head. You have been out for about twenty minutes now.”

There was that voice again, soft and pleading, and somehow familiar. Mr. McCullough had finally come for her—she knew it. Jillian lifted her head to look up into the face of her husband-to-be.

“Miss Grey,” Dalton hurried and spoke first. He could see that she immediately looked flustered. “I am Dalton McCullough.” He paused when she looked back down, away from him. “You are Miss Jillian Grey, aren’t you?” He noticed a slight nod of her head. A rush of relief flooded over him. “I’m afraid I owe you an apology. If it hadn’t been for me—” his voice broke slightly—“I mean, if I hadn’t been so late getting to the station—” again, he paused before continuing—“I fear none of this would have happened.”

Jillian lifted her head back up and stared at him for a moment before she could respond. She was having a hard time taking in the fact that this man was who he said he was. She knew she was staring, and it occurred to her that he’d probably think her rude, but then a thought much worse than that seized her mind.

What must he think of her? Jillian tried to recall everything that had happened since she’d first seen him running into the station. What of all the things she had said and done? She felt the heat in her cheeks as she recalled one embarrassing encounter after another.

She had run into him. She could still feel the bruised skin on her shoulder under her dress. There was a pain on her forehead too, though not as bad as the one on the back of her head. Yes, she remembered they had bumped heads while both trying to retrieve her valise at the same time.
Maybe this would be easier if I just felt around for bruises and tried to remember how I got them
, Jillian thought ruefully.

As though her body had been listening to her, she was suddenly and painfully aware of the ache in her left forearm. The face of the plaid-suited man and all the horror that came with it flashed before her eyes. Her face burned unbearably hot. What must Mr. McCullough think of her, rudely brushing him off and practically chasing after that other man? He must have known who she was by then.
Oh
, she thought,
the handkerchief!
The more she remembered, the worse she felt. Had she actually snatched it out of his hand before running off? To his credit, she remembered that he had tried to stop her and again she had been rude to him. She pressed her hands to her forehead and looked down. She had to stop the flow of memories. Her humiliation was already complete.

After a moment, she finally found her voice and looked timidly into his face again. She couldn’t help but be touched by the worry and compassion evident in the deep blue hue of his eyes.

“Mr. McCullough, I am sure much of the blame rests with me. You’ve no need to trouble yourself about it any longer,” she said quietly. She then leaned forward to gather her belongings that lay on the floor beside her feet. As she did, strands of her hair fell forward and hung in front of her face. It wasn’t until that moment she had even considered how deplorable she must look. Reaching up, she felt the back of her head to check her bun and examine the damage that had been done, noting the tender bump. She had lost too many of her hair pins and knew that any hope of salvaging the bun was hopeless. Reluctantly, she reached back and pulled the remainder of the pins out and stowed them in her pocket. Her hair fell instantly past her shoulders, stopping just short of her waist. To her shame, all her unruly curls were clearly on display. She was painfully aware of her audience and fixed her eyes in front of her while she began to work.

With nimble fingers and years of practice, she quickly gathered her hair in her hands and braided it. She wrapped a small ribbon around the end to secure it, which she had retrieved from her pocket. She often kept ribbon in a pocket or handbag in case of just such a necessity.

Her hair was forever giving her trouble and falling out of its trappings at the most inopportune times. As a child, she had cried many nights, wishing she had inherited the tame, soft waves of her mother’s auburn hair instead of the unruly curls of her father’s. She was grateful, though it was indeed unruly and seemingly had a mind of its own most days, that she had at least inherited some of the softness of her mother’s hair. In truth, she hated to do her hair up at all. Maybe it was because she was forever fighting it, but she had grown accustomed to wearing it down as a child. It had always been a fight to tame the curls, and her mother had often given in and allowed it to be worn loose. When she had turned fourteen, however, her mother had insisted she start wearing it up, as was the proper fashion for her age. But the first chance she got every night, out would come the pins.

When Jillian finished her braid, she dared to look up at Dalton. He was watching her closely. It unnerved her slightly. He was so handsome. She had never seen anyone quite like him. His dark hair was thick and wavy. He wore it shorter than some men she had seen, but not so short that it couldn’t fall in perfect waves around his face. He was glad to see that he was clean shaven. She didn’t care much for men who wore their beards thick and heavy, and she definitely preferred none at all. For some reason, she had pictured that he would have a beard. Farmers were busy men; to shave every morning would only serve to take up precious time that could be spent in more productive ways. At least that’s what she had always thought. At any rate, she had prepared herself to be married to a man who wore a beard.

Dalton’s eyes were so blue. They made her recall the sky over the ocean the morning after a storm, when the sun burned bright and full of hope. As for the rest of him, well, not even the most eligible and sought-after bachelors back in Providence could hold a candle to the Adonis-like features of Dalton McCullough. He wore a white shirt with no coat. He had rolled up the sleeves, and she could see the muscles in his tanned forearms twitch every so often, as though they were not used to holding still for very long. A couple of the buttons on his shirt had come undone, and the upper part of his chest was exposed. She tried to pull her eyes away, but found it surprisingly difficult to do so.