Chapter Seventeen
The afternoon settled gently over the ranch.
The morning’s breeze had lingered, tempering the worst of the Texas heat, and soft clouds drifted lazily across the wide blue sky.
Beyond the house, the vegetable garden had begun to recover from the recent rains.
Young bean vines climbed their poles, rows of onions stood greener than they had only weeks before, and tomato plants, once shriveled beneath the drought, now carried the promise of fruit.
Henry paused beside the corral, resting one boot on the lower fence rail as he looked toward the garden.
Nora was bent over one of the rows, carefully loosening the soil around the cabbage with a small hand hoe.
Her sleeves were rolled neatly to her elbows and her bonnet hung by its ribbons down her back, abandoned in favor of the afternoon breeze.
Every so often, she brushed a loose strand of chestnut hair behind her ear before returning to her work.
She moved with quiet purpose and it struck Henry that she worked the garden the same way she did everything else, with patience.
She noticed things most people overlooked.
Plants that needed watering, a loose hinge on the pantry door.
Lola’s favorite cup sitting beside the washbasin before the little girl even asked for it.
Somehow, in only a few short weeks, she had learned the rhythms of the ranch better than he had expected possible.
He had grown accustomed to seeing her there and it was as though she had always belonged among the rows of vegetables and the climbing roses beside the porch.
As though the ranch itself had quietly accepted her long before he had.
At that moment she straightened, stretching the stiffness from her back. Her eyes found his across the yard and she smiled. Henry’s heart skipped a beat and almost at once he looked away. His gaze settled instead upon the barn roof… anywhere but on her.
A flicker of irritation swelled in his chest. He was thirty years old, a grown man. Yet somehow, one smile from a woman could still leave him feeling awkward.
His thoughts drifted, against his will, to the Bible and to the faded handwriting inside its cover. Sarah Turner.
He frowned. The name refused to leave him alone. And yet there had to be a simple explanation. The Bible was old—older than Nora herself, if it was her mother’s.
Books changed hands. Family heirlooms were passed from one generation to another.
Perhaps Sarah Turner had been an aunt, or a friend.
Or maybe the previous owner before the Bible found its way into Nora’s possession.
There, that made perfectly good sense. It was hardly uncommon for a treasured Bible to remain in a family for decades.
He exhaled slowly. Yes, that was all it was. And yet... his thoughts returned to the letters, to Charles Dickens and the answers that had seemed just a fraction too careful.
For a fleeting moment he considered walking across the yard and asking her directly. Who’s Sarah Turner? The question would take only a moment and the answer might settle everything.
Instead, he dismissed the idea. No. It would sound like an accusation, like suspicion, and suspicion without proof had a way of poisoning good things. Whatever unease he carried belonged to him alone until he had reason to believe otherwise. He resolved to let the matter rest for now.
Before he could return to his work, Nora crossed the yard toward him, brushing the dirt from her hands with the edge of her apron. “I’ve been meaning to tell you something.”
Henry regarded her cautiously. “Should I be concerned?”
She laughed. “Only if you’re particularly attached to your beard.”
His hand instinctively rose to his jaw. “What about it?”
She tilted her head thoughtfully. “I think it’s getting the better of you.”
Henry raised an eyebrow. “It keeps my face warm.”
“In July?”
He smiled. “Fair point.”
She folded her arms, studying him with exaggerated seriousness. “I believe it could use a trim.”
“By whom?” he asked. “I haven’t got time to go to the barber in town.”
“I could do it.”
Henry blinked. “You’ve trimmed beards before?”
“My father never had the money to visit the barber.” Her smile wavered slightly. “So yes.” She hesitated. “If you trust me.”
Henry looked at her for a long moment. The barber in town existed for precisely this reason. Yet, something in her expression was so open, so quietly hopeful, that refusing felt unnecessarily harsh. Finally he nodded. “All right.”
A short while later they stood on the shaded back porch. Ruth had warmed water in a basin and laid out a razor, a pair of small scissors, a comb, and a clean towel. Henry settled into the sturdy wooden chair while she draped the towel around his shoulders.
“I should warn you,” she said with a smile, “I have had one incident while trimming a beard.”
“That is not especially reassuring.”
“It grew back.”
“I suppose that’s something.”
She laughed softly and then her expression grew more focused.
Carefully, she dampened the beard with warm water before combing it straight.
Henry remained still. Not because he feared the razor, but because she stood so close.
Close enough that he caught the faint scent of lavender soap lingering on her sleeves and to hear her steadiness of her breathing.
The afternoon breeze stirred the loose strands of her hair, and once or twice they brushed lightly against his shoulder before she tucked them away again. Neither of them spoke but the quiet seemed strangely comfortable.
She worked with surprising confidence. Her fingertips occasionally rested against his jaw as she guided his head gently one direction or the other. “This side.”
He obeyed.
“A little higher.”
Again, he complied.
She frowned thoughtfully as she studied her work. “I think...” She stepped nearer. “...just a little here.”
Henry became acutely aware of how little space remained between them. Her face was only inches from his. The sunlight filtering through the porch roof caught the silver cross resting against her throat.
His pulse quickened. This is ridiculous, entirely ridiculous. She is just trimming my beard, nothing more.
Finally she stepped back. “There.” She smiled with quiet satisfaction. “I believe that’s considerably better.”
Henry reached up, brushing his hand thoughtfully across his jaw. He then glanced toward the kitchen window where his reflection appeared faintly in the glass.
“I’ll admit...” He looked back at her. “...you’ve done a respectable job.”
“I’ll treasure such extravagant praise.” The teasing in her voice drew a reluctant chuckle from him. She looked at him for a moment longer. “You look very handsome.”
The compliment seemed to catch both of them by surprise and a faint flush colored her cheeks. Henry held her gaze, there was no teasing there now. His own answer came before caution could stop it. “So are you,” he said. “I-I mean you are very beautiful.”
The words settled gently between them and neither moved. The breeze quieted and the ranch seemed to fall away until only the two of them remained on the porch. Nora lowered her eyes for the briefest moment before looking back up and she stepped closer.
Their faces were only inches apart. Her breath caught softly.
As she shifted, the slightest movement brought them together. Her lips brushed his, but it was so fleeting it might almost have been imagined. Henry closed his eyes for a heartbeat.
Then, before the moment could carry either of them any further, he lifted one hand. His fingers gently caught a loose strand of her hair near her shoulder, stilling her where she stood.
“Nora...” He searched for the right words. “I can’t pretend to offer something I don’t have.”
Confusion and hurt flickered across her face.
Henry swallowed. “I don’t know if I’m capable of loving anyone the way a husband ought.” The admission cost him more than he cared to show.
“My heart...” He glanced toward the yard beyond the porch. “It hasn’t found its way back from everything that’s happened.”
Silence settled between them and for a long moment Ruth simply looked at him. Then she gave a small, understanding nod. “I didn’t mean...”
She stopped herself as a faint smile appeared, though sadness lingered behind it. “It was only a moment.”
Henry knew that wasn’t entirely true but she stepped back, gently freeing the strand of hair from his hand. “Thank you,” she said softly. “For trusting me with the beard.”
The attempt at lightness only deepened the ache in his chest and before he could think of anything to say, she gathered the towel and scissors. “I should see to supper.” She disappeared into the house, leaving the screen door to close quietly behind her.
Henry remained where he was, resting one hand against the back of the chair and stared out over the pasture. He had done the right thing, he was certain of it. He could not promise a love he was still afraid to feel.
Henry remained on the porch for several minutes after Nora disappeared into the house.
The breeze stirred the leaves of the cottonwoods near the creek, carrying with it the earthy scent of damp soil and freshly cut hay.
Somewhere beyond the barn, a meadowlark sang its last song before dusk, while cattle drifted lazily toward the watering trough.
He rubbed a hand across his freshly trimmed jaw and then paused. “Fool.” The word escaped under his breath.
He drew a long breath, then another, the house suddenly felt too small.
Too full of thoughts he had no desire to entertain.
His gaze drifted toward the wagon shed. There was a sack of seed corn waiting to be collected from the mercantile.
Or perhaps it was lamp oil they were running low on.
The excuse hardly mattered. He simply needed to ride and to put a few miles between himself and the confusion crowding his mind.
A short while later, he saddled Buck and headed toward Weatherford.
The road into town wound gently through open pastureland before joining the main wagon track.
Late afternoon sunlight bathed the prairie in warm shades of gold, and long shadows stretched across the grass as the day began its slow descent toward evening. The countryside looked peaceful.
Fence posts marched steadily across the landscape, dividing grazing land into neat parcels.
Windmills turned lazily in the distance, their rhythmic creaking carried faintly upon the breeze.
A pair of hawks circled high overhead while jackrabbits darted through patches of mesquite as Buck’s hooves struck the hard-packed earth.
Henry welcomed the solitude. The steady rhythm of the horse beneath him gradually eased the tension that had settled in his shoulders. By the time Weatherford came into view, the streets had begun filling with people finishing the day’s business.
Wagons rattled over the uneven road, merchants swept the boardwalks outside their shops, and the smell of fresh bread drifted from the bakery near the town square.
Children chased one another between hitching rails until sharp-eyed mothers called them back while ranch hands laughed together outside the livery stable.
It was the familiar rhythm of a frontier town settling into evening.
Henry tied Buck outside the mercantile, collected the supplies he needed, and exchanged a few words with the proprietor before making his way back toward the edge of town. As he rounded the corner near the hotel, his attention was drawn toward the saloon.
A group of men stood gathered on the boardwalk. Five of them.
Henry knew most of the ranchers and businessmen in Parker County by sight. These men belonged elsewhere. Dust coated their boots from hard travel, and none of them looked like farmers.
One leaned lazily against a porch post with a cigar clamped between his teeth.
Another bore a jagged scar running from his ear to the corner of his jaw.
A third rested one hand casually upon the butt of a revolver hanging low on his hip.
The sort of men who seemed most at home where trouble found them.
Henry’s eyes moved to the man standing slightly apart from the others.
Unlike the rest, he was neatly dressed. His dark coat was well cut despite the dust of the road, and his polished boots suggested a man with money rather than muscle.
He stood perfectly still, surveying the street with patient, calculating eyes.
There was something about him Henry didn’t care for. Not anything he could have named. Simply a feeling.
The stranger’s gaze swept across the street for a brief moment before settling elsewhere. Their eyes met only in passing and the man’s expression never changed. Henry nodded politely, as one stranger might acknowledge another and then he rode on.
Behind him, laughter erupted outside the saloon as one of the rougher men slapped another across the shoulder. He glanced back only once. The well-dressed stranger was speaking quietly to his companions now, his back turned toward the street.
Probably cattle buyers or drovers passing through. Weatherford saw plenty of unfamiliar faces. Still… Henry found himself hoping they wouldn’t linger long.
The town had enjoyed a rare stretch of peace in recent months and men like that had a habit of disturbing it. With that passing thought, he nudged Buck forward and continued toward the road leading home.