4. Chapter 4 #2
He nodded approval at her practical response. "Mrs. Peterson left instructions for most of the household routines. You'll find them in the kitchen drawer. Any questions, you can ask me or Lucy."
"When do you prefer breakfast served?"
"Five-thirty. Work starts early on a ranch." He looked slightly apologetic. "But you needn't rise so early tomorrow. Take time to settle in."
"I'm accustomed to early hours from the hospital," Claudine assured him. "Five-thirty will be fine."
Approval showed in his eyes.
Lucy tugged at her father's sleeve. "Can we eat now, Papa? I'm hungry."
"Yes, little one." He turned to Claudine. "Would you like help serving the meal?"
"No, thank you. I can manage." She moved to the stove, strangely pleased at this simple domestic task, her first as mistress of the house.
They ate at the kitchen table rather than the formal dining room, Michael explained, except for special occasions. The stew proved delicious, accompanied by fresh bread and preserves from Mrs. Billings' basket.
"After we eat," Michael said, "I'll show you the rest of the ranch."
True to his word, Michael provided a thorough tour once the meal was finished. Claudine changed into sturdier boots before they set out, earning another nod of approval from her husband. Lucy skipped ahead of them, occasionally darting back to point out a favorite spot.
The barn impressed Claudine with its size and cleanliness. Ten stalls housed working horses, and a separate area contained the milk cow and her calf. The sweet smell of hay filled the upper loft.
"Do you raise horses as well as cattle?" Claudine asked.
"Some. Crawford horses have a reputation for quality. My father had a gift for breeding good stock, and I've continued his work."
Pride colored his voice when he spoke of the ranch. This land, these animals, were more than livelihood to Michael Crawford—they were legacy and purpose.
"There's the bunkhouse," he continued, indicating a long, low building. "Men are out with the herd now. You'll meet them at supper."
They walked to the creek that gave the ranch its water. Lucy ran ahead to a large willow tree overhanging the bank, its sweeping branches creating a natural hideaway.
"My special place," she announced, parting the curtain of leaves to reveal a small flat stone perfect for sitting. "Papa says Mama used to read here."
Michael's jaw tightened, but he nodded confirmation. "Sarah loved that spot."
Claudine touched his arm lightly, the first time she had initiated contact between them. "She sounds like a wonderful woman. I would like to know more about her, whenever you're ready to share."
He looked down at her hand on his sleeve, then met her eyes. Something vulnerable showed in his gaze before the shutters came down again. "Perhaps. Someday."
The moment stretched between them until Lucy called for their attention, proudly displaying a smooth stone she'd found in the creek bed.
By late afternoon, Claudine had met the ranch hands—Tom Harris, the weathered foreman with kind eyes; Pete Johnston, a taciturn cowboy with remarkably quick hands; Jeb Miller, whose booming laugh matched his large frame; and Charlie Wilson, barely twenty and eager to impress the new mistress of the ranch.
"Mrs. Crawford's a trained nurse," Michael informed them. "Any injuries, you come to the house instead of suffering in silence like usual."
The men nodded respect, clearly appreciating this new resource. Tom Harris stepped forward.
"Welcome to Crawford Ranch, ma'am. We're glad to have you here." His eyes shifted briefly to Lucy, communicating without words his appreciation for Claudine's presence in the motherless child's life.
After supper, while Lucy played with her doll near the fireplace, Michael brought a ledger to the kitchen table.
"Household accounts," he explained. "Mrs. Peterson has been handling them, but they're your responsibility now."
Claudine reviewed the neat columns of figures. "Everything seems in good order. I'll maintain the system she established."
"Good." He hesitated. "There's a monthly allowance for household needs. If you require anything additional, just ask."
"Thank you." She closed the ledger. "I should prepare Lucy for bed."
Michael rose. "I'll show you the routine."
Together they supervised Lucy's bedtime preparations. Claudine helped the child change into a nightgown while Michael waited in the hallway. Then he returned to hear Lucy's prayers and kiss her goodnight.
"Would you read me a story?" Lucy asked Claudine. "Papa always reads me a story."
Claudine glanced at Michael, who nodded permission.
"I'd be honored," she said, settling beside the bed with the book Lucy selected.
The domestic scene—a father, mother, and child sharing bedtime rituals—created an illusion of normalcy that made Claudine's heart ache with unexpected longing. This was what she had once dreamed of with James, before everything shattered.
After Lucy fell asleep, Claudine joined Michael in the parlor. An awkward silence fell between them.
"I'll sleep in the guest room tonight," he said finally. "Give you time to adjust."
Relief and disappointment mingled in Claudine's chest. "That's considerate, thank you."
"We should discuss expectations," Michael continued. "What I require in a wife."
"Of course."
"You'll manage the household, care for Lucy, and use your nursing skills when needed. I'll handle the ranch operations and finances."
"And our personal relationship?" Claudine asked quietly.
Michael studied her face. "In time, perhaps we'll share a marriage in all aspects. But I won't rush you, nor myself. We're strangers still."
"I appreciate your honesty."
"There's something else you should know." His voice grew somber. "I won't love again. Sarah took that with her to the grave. I can offer respect, consideration, and partnership—but not love."
The declaration shouldn't have hurt. After all, hadn't she sought exactly this kind of practical arrangement? Yet something within Claudine rebelled at the finality of his words.
"I understand," she said, keeping her voice steady. "I came here seeking security and purpose, not romance. We both know the terms of our agreement."
Michael nodded, apparently satisfied. "Your trunk is in the master bedroom. I've cleared space in the wardrobe and dresser for your things."
"Thank you."
He rose. "I rise at five. Try to rest well. Tomorrow will be your first full day as mistress of Crawford Ranch."
"Goodnight, Michael."
"Goodnight, Claudine."
Left alone in the parlor, Claudine gazed at the books lining the shelves—Shakespeare, Dickens, Austen—evidence of a cultivated mind she hadn't expected in a frontier rancher. The Crawford home contained many such surprises, hinting at the complex man she had married.
Later, lying in Michael's bed—her bed now—Claudine tried to imagine Sarah Crawford who had slept here before her, who had planted flowers and read beneath the willow tree. The woman Michael had loved so deeply he vowed never to love again.
What would it be like to inspire such devotion? Claudine had believed James loved her, only to discover his affection extended only as far as convenience permitted. When choice came between his reputation and hers, he hadn't hesitated to sacrifice her.
Michael Crawford, for all his reserved manner and practical approach to marriage, struck her as a man who would never abandon his responsibilities—or betray a trust once given.
Perhaps that was enough, Claudine decided as sleep claimed her. Respect and security in place of love. Purpose instead of passion.
Yet as she drifted toward dreams, her mind recalled the brief moment by the creek, when vulnerability had shown through Michael's guarded reserve and the strange fluttering in her heart when his eyes met hers.