Chapter Fifty-Three
Five days later, Candice was outside in their yard doing wash. Her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows and the top three buttons of her shirtwaist were undone, a kerchief wrapped around her head. Her face was flushed from the steam rising from the boiling water. Her hands were red and chapped.
It wasn’t their wash. She was taking in laundry from outside to help make ends meet.
Soldiers from Fort Bliss in Magoffinsville would be her best customers.
This was only her second load, and when she’d decided on this as the only way of raising some cash, she hadn’t realized just what hard work it would be.
She’d never done laundry before in her life.
She stopped what she was doing with relief, straightening and pressing her hands against her back as she saw Jack walk into the yard carrying something big and white and made of shiny wood. She squinted.
He carefully opened the door with his back and disappeared into the house.
“What is that?” Candice mused, starting for the house.
In the doorway, she froze. Jack had been carrying the object upside down, and now he’d placed it in one corner of the room, on its four delicately wrought legs. It was a cradle.
A magnificent, ornately sculpted, intricately hand-painted cradle. Designs of birds, butterflies, flowers, and vines were etched along the legs, the sides, and head and footboard. “Jack! It’s beautiful!”
Jack looked up and smiled.
Candice didn’t notice the rare smile, she was running her hands over the smooth, silky wood, exclaiming, “Where did you ever find this? Oh, Jack, we can’t afford this!”
“You like it?”
“I love it,” she said enthusiastically, finally looking at him.
Nothing had changed in the past few days.
He was reserved and withdrawn—except when he turned to her in the night with desperation and urgency.
His smile was devastating. Not just because of the physical change it wrought on his features, but because she did love him—and it was a smile that reached into his soul.
Reflexively Candice reached out and cupped the side of his cheek.
He stopped smiling. She felt him fighting her, felt his confusion, and maybe—fear.
He pulled away. Candice dropped her hand.
Their bed now stood on a frame with four legs—Jack had made it.
Her cranberry satin gown had been made into a spread that covered it.
A tablecloth covered the table, and Jack was adding shelves and a work space to the right of the hearth.
He’d bartered for a chair. Soon they would get a thick Indian rug for the floor.
He’d already obtained four chickens and a rooster.
Candice was anticipating roast chicken with delight.
“I’ll be back later,” Jack said, his gaze moving over her flushed face.
She gave him a bright smile. “Okay.”
“What are you washing, anyway? All my things are buckskins. You look tired.”
“Just a bit achy,” she said, biting her lip and averting her glance. It wasn’t that she was hiding what she was doing from Jack, but she knew he was proud, and she didn’t think he’d approve. He wasn’t even supposed to be back until later.
“Why don’t you lie down for a few minutes,” Jack said.
“All right.” She flashed a smile, relieved he’d forgotten his question.
Her image lingered with him, long after he’d gone.
Even dressed like a washerwoman, she was beautiful—it made him ache right to his soul.
He hated seeing her in homespun and rags, hated seeing her hair hidden beneath that gray kerchief.
He hated the feel of her work-roughened hands.
Candice was a lady. There was no doubt in his mind, as, in truth, there had never been.
She didn’t deserve this kind of life. She deserved a rancher like Judge Reinhart who could afford maids and cooks and laundrywomen.
She deserved the finest silks and lace-edged underwear.
But just what in hell was he supposed to do?
She was carrying his child. The doctor had confirmed she was about six weeks along.
That ended any and all doubt as to the child’s paternity—only he could be the father.
He was thrilled. He couldn’t wait for the birth of their child, and he was doing what he had to do—taking care of his wife the best way he knew how.
After the baby was born, things would be different.
They would set out for California—he’d already decided.
But he needed a stake, and the next year was going to see him accumulate enough for the move and a few head of cattle.
The first few years wouldn’t be easy, of course.
But one day he would build her a fine home, with huge white pillars and a verandah that went all the way around the house.
And a garden full of roses. His children would be sent away to school once they were old enough, to get the education he’d never gotten.
His wife would have whatever she desired.
His dreams did not ease the guilt he felt about their current situation.
Because, despite the baby, he knew his motivations were more selfish than pure. No matter how hard he fought her web, he had already lost the war—and he just couldn’t ever let her go.