Lauri Robinson (2 page)

Della waved goodbye to Florie and pulled the screen door on the back porch closed. She’d told her friend she’d be just fine. And she would be. As soon as she came up with a plan.

First things first, she had to reread that letter—now that she could think. A thorough search of the room left her empty-handed. Scanning it a final time, Della concluded Cord must have taken it. Or his
deputy
. Wonderful, now she’d have to face
him
again. As if her life wasn’t in enough of a shambles.

She moved into the kitchen, but that didn’t stop her from recalling the night Spencer had told her not to marry Isaac, and closing her eyes only brought the memory closer.

Spencer, young and handsome, and twirling his hat between his hands, had stood on the front porch when she’d opened the door. It hadn’t been unusual for him to stop by the boardinghouse—he visited Otis regularly—but she’d been the only one home that night and he’d asked to speak with her. They’d taken a walk together and eventually stopped near the big pine in the backyard.

Della’s heart started beating as fast as it had that night.

He told her about the cows in Texas, how it would take him months to drive them back to Kansas, and said he wanted her to know that if she needed anything, all she had to do was go see Trig.

She’d lived in El Dorado for over two years by then, and in all that time—and to her great disappointment—Spencer had never shown an interest in her. Leastwise not the type of interest she’d dreamed of. Hope had stirred inside her, along with confusion.

“Why are you telling me this?” she’d asked.

He shrugged. “I just wanted you to know.”

She’d spun around, no longer able to look at him. “But why now?”

Spencer had grabbed her arm, pulling her back around to face him. “What’s happened?”

Emotions had erupted inside her when she’d whispered, “I’m marrying Isaac tomorrow.”

“What? Why?”

“We’ve been planning it for weeks,” she told him.

“Don’t marry him, Della,” he’d said.

“I have to, I promised,” she’d attempted to explain, but he’d interrupted her.

“Don’t do it, Della.”

She’d sought for the reason she was marrying Isaac, and had voiced the one she wanted to believe. “Isaac and I love each other, Spencer, and we are going to have a wonderful life together.”

Della’s heart started to race, remembering what happened next. Spencer had pulled her close and kissed her. Hard and long. It had been exhilarating; the most wonderful moment of her life. But when he let her go, and asked, “Do you, Della? Do you love Isaac?” she’d known she hadn’t. Isaac’s kisses had never touched her the way Spencer’s had.

Anger flared inside her now as hot as it had then. Della ripped her eyes open. Twirling, she paced the kitchen. Just when she’d thought her past was over, that she’d have a home again, and a family, Spencer’s kiss had told her it was a lie—that it was not what she really wanted. And then he’d left. To go chase his cows.

Della grasped the edge of the table. She’d married Isaac the next day. Said her vows through tears she couldn’t control. Finally, after years of moving from place to place, she thought a home and marriage would secure her. Give her the stability she longed for. Believed marriage to Isaac would provide that. But it hadn’t.

She pressed a hand to her head. And now he was dead.

Guilt washed over her. She’d tried. Tried to love Isaac, but it was hard to love someone who was never there. He was home more the first couple of years, and things weren’t so bad. The births of Anna and Elsie, less than ten months apart, were her true joys, and Ester, her mother-in-law, had been there.

Ester had been good to her and Otis. Had given them jobs right after they’d arrived in town. Della had been there two years, washing, cooking and helping Ester run the boardinghouse on the edge of town, when Isaac came home from being out east. Ester had talked about him nonstop, how he was attending school and would soon return to Kansas as a lawyer.

But when he returned, Isaac claimed the school had duped him out of his diploma. That they’d taken all the money his mother had sent over the years and then sent him home empty-handed.

That’s how it had always been for Isaac. Someone else was to blame for everything that happened. She could almost hear him now, claiming how he hadn’t lost the house, the other man had cheated at the poker game. For a moment her mind went to his death, and she wondered how it had happened. Was he shot? Hanged?

Oh, goodness, she’d have to tell the girls. Though they barely remembered him, and rarely spoke of him, he was their father.

Della shivered, as if a ghost had walked over her grave. She was no better than Isaac. She, too, blamed others for the deficiencies in her life. There and then, she sat at the kitchen table to say a prayer for her dead husband. She cried for him as well, and for herself. For the mistakes she couldn’t right.

It may have been minutes, or it may have been an hour, when the knock on the front door made her lift her head. She wiped both eyes with the back of one hand and rose, but paused in the kitchen doorway. What if it was the man who’d won her home? She bit her bottom lip, trying to remember his name.

Wes…Westen…Westmeier. That was it. Perhaps she could convince him to let her stay on as his housekeeper, or better yet, manage the boardinghouse for him. Surely he had other homes if he was just now claiming the debt?

Chin held high and braced with a sliver of optimism, she walked through the front room. Her fingers trembled, but she gripped the knob and pulled open the door.

For the second time today, her knees buckled. This time she didn’t go down; the stability of the heavy door held her up.

“Hello, Della.”

She leaned harder against the frame. His hat was in his hand, exposing his head of silky black hair. “Spencer.”

“We need to talk.”

As numb as she felt, her insides warmed, as they always did when he was near.

“Let’s sit down,” he said.

Della pushed off the door. Though she could no longer blame him for her problems, she wasn’t ready to face him. “Spencer, I have things to see to…I—”

In one swift movement he hoisted her off the floor and then planted her on the divan just as fast. The front door banged closed as her bottom landed on the cushion.

She was still catching her breath when a piece of paper appeared before her nose.

“See that amount?” he asked, pointing to the bottom of the page. “Right there.”

The number registered in her mind, overriding all other thoughts. “That’s outrageous. This house isn’t—”

“Makes no difference how much it’s worth, that’s how much Lance Westmeier claims he’s owed.”

“Well, there’s no way—” Flustered, she grabbed the paper. “Give me that.”

He paced the floor as she read, and read. It took two or three passages before her senses ignored Spencer enough for her mind to understand what she read. “It says he gets everything. All furnishings and household goods.”

“I know.” Spencer gazed out the front window.

Pulling her eyes from his broad back, she stared at the numbers. The amount was so out of her reach it might as well have said a million dollars. “I told Florie I could probably sell a few things,” she whispered as her stomach churned. “What will I tell my boarders? Rachel teaches school…she can’t afford to live someplace else. Mr. Rhodes is in Wichita right now, but he’ll be returning next week. And Otis. This is his home, too.”

“I’ll give you the money.”

She snapped her head up. “What?”

“I’ll give you the money,” Spencer repeated.

His sincerity warmed her, but it wasn’t the solution she needed. “No, you won’t.”

He crossed the room, holding out another slip of paper. “Here’s a bank draft for twice that amount.”

She didn’t even glance at the note. “I won’t take it.”

“Yes, you will.”

His tone was insistent. Similar to how it had been that night all those years ago. “No, I won’t,” she said regretfully. Spencer was a rich man, she knew that, but money couldn’t buy everything. “You should leave, Spencer. I need to—”

“I can’t.”

She stood. “Can’t what?”

“Leave. Not until you take this.”

Blood pounded painfully against her temples, yet her body trembled at Spencer’s nearness. It had always been like this—this drawing in her center whenever he was near, as if her very spirit ached to be united with his. The inability to master it infuriated her. She had things to do and didn’t have time for this. Not today. Della tightened every controllable muscle, and spun around. She marched across the room and pulled her bonnet from a hook on the hall tree.

“Where are you going?”

The gentleness of his tone flowed around her like a silk robe. Good Lord! She was losing her home, had just learned about the death of her husband, yet, here she stood, wanting to fall into Spencer Monroe’s arms and love him like she’d never loved anyone or anything. Filling her lungs until they burned, she turned around, facing Spencer, and slid the bonnet over her head.

“I’m going to see Mr. Westmeier.”

“No, you’re not.” His tone was commanding, as was the way he laid a hand on her shoulder.

Her lips had gone dry, but Della didn’t dare lick them. Spencer might take it as a sign she wanted him to kiss her. And she
did
want that, more than she wanted to breathe, but kissing him wouldn’t solve anything.

His gaze continued to encompass her, as if he could see inside her head and read her deepest, most private secrets. Startled, terrified he might be able to do just that, Della ducked under his arm and didn’t stop until several feet separated them.

“Spencer,” she started. It was a moment before she could snatch on to a dwindling ounce of willpower. “I’ve just learned of my husband’s death, and the loss of my home, I-I—”

He cocked his head, and the gaze in his eyes was too charming. Too endearing. “I don’t have time to play games with you,” she whispered.

“Funny you should mention games, Della.” He took a step forward. “I think it’s time we both stop playing them.”

“Spencer.” She pressed a hand over her heart, fearing it might explode.

His hands, gentle and warm, and big and so precious her breath stalled, ran down her upper arms and then back up to settle on her shoulders, stirring up a delicious heat deep within. “You know what I’m talking about, Della.”

A tornado raged inside her, simmering to a hot, intense longing. He wasn’t a dense man, and she shouldn’t treat him as if he were. He knew the effect he had on her, always had. “Spencer,” she half croaked, “you need to leave.”

“You want me to leave?”

Eyes locked with his, she was incapable of answering.

His chin dipped and her heart soared into her throat. He held her gaze as his lips came closer. Her breath escaped and the want, the thrill of his lips touching hers, raced through her veins.

She closed her eyes, but as the heat of his breath touched her skin, she spun around. Pressing a hand to her forehead, she gasped for air and fought for the strength to deny the desire encompassing her.

His sigh was heavy; so long and loud it ate at her endurance.

“Do you still love him that much?” he asked.

Her skin, from head to toe, rippled with sorrow. She didn’t want to cause him grief, but this wasn’t the right way to get what she wanted. What she needed.

“Do you?” he repeated.

“Do I what?”

“Love him that much?” he repeated with a hint of sarcasm. “Your husband. The man who left you and two little girls on your own while he ran away with a saloon girl from Sister Marie’s. The man who died from syphilis.”

A crack split the air as a sting raced over her palm. Della looked at her shaking fingers, traumatized. History was reliving itself.

Spencer turned around, moved toward the door. Della wanted to follow, but her legs refused. A blistering groan tore up her windpipe and shudders racked her shoulders. She’d never struck anyone in her life, except Spencer—twice. Neither time had he deserved it. Isaac didn’t deserve her loyalty, either. Never had, but she had to defend her own reputation

It was all she had.

Spencer wrapped his fingers around the doorknob, but didn’t turn it. Hell and damnation, by the time a man reached thirty-five he should be smarter than this. He deserved that slap, couldn’t blame Della one little bit. He shouldn’t have tried to kiss her, shouldn’t have said that about Isaac.

“I’m sorry, Spencer.”

Her whisper melted his heart and caused a lump the size of a boot to form in his throat.

He turned to face her. “No, I’m the one that’s sorry, Della.” Hell, he’d give his life for her—and her two daughters. All he wanted was for her to be happy, and taken care of.

“Spencer.” She held out a hand, gazing at him with those tell-all green eyes. Shame and regret tugged at her face.

An impulse to comfort her welled. He took a step forward, meaning just to catch her hand, but she moved at the same time. In a calm yet hurried rush they were together. Her arms around his neck, his around her waist, and their lips met. Black powder couldn’t have lit up his insides faster or hotter than the feel of her—soft and warm beneath his fingers, moist and sweet upon his lips.

Maintaining control was hard, next to impossible, but Spencer did it, kept his lips tender and chaste. The urge to devour Della was there, but more than that, his heart opened, exposing things he’d only felt once before in his life. Wonderful, treasured feelings that were mystical and amazing. He closed his eyes, fully experiencing their union, every magnificent second.

She let out an adorable little moan, and though he heard it with his ears, it was his heart that reacted, pounding against his rib cage like a hammer on a nail head. Those sweet and tender curves he’d admired for so long were molded against his, from chest to thighs, and had him hard in an instant.

There were so many things he wanted to do, so many places he wanted to kiss and caress. So much he wanted to say. Dredging up fortitude from deep within, he kissed her tenderly, preciously, once more, and then lifted his face.

Her breathing was rapid, matching his own, and he placed a tiny kiss on her brow, offering a touch of understanding. When she lifted her long, luscious lashes and looked at him with those magnetic eyes, emotion flooded his system. “I’m sorry, Della. I should never have said—”

Della pressed a finger against his lips. “No. No,” she repeated, shaking her head. “I don’t still love him. I never loved Isaac. Not how a woman should love her husband.”

Questions flooded Spencer’s mind. How could she have married Isaac if she didn’t love him? “You didn’t?” Beneath his fingers, she stiffened, and the color drained from her cheeks. “Della?”

She stepped back, brushing her hands over the trim lines of her hips. “Spencer, I…ah…I…”

Frustration rose within him at the sight of the indecipherable emotions that flew across her face.

“You should leave,” she whispered.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he insisted.

She tilted her chin up, in that cute, determined way she had. “I won’t take your money.”

He remained silent, holding in the immediate protest that formed on the tip of his tongue. He’d give all the longhorns he owned to know what she was thinking right now. Taking her hand, he led her into the kitchen. “Sit.”

She glanced up, and for a moment he thought she’d refuse, but then she sat, and rested her folded hands on the tabletop. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs to stifle the urge to bear his soul. He fingered the vase that held a spray of sunflowers in the center of the table. “If you didn’t love him, why did you marry Isaac, Della?”

Her gaze went to the flowers, and she plucked a few wilted yellow petals from the brown centers. He feared she wasn’t going to answer, but then, finally, after she’d formed a tiny pile of petals on the table, she asked, “Do you know what it’s like to not have a home? Not know where you’re going to sleep when the sun sets?”

He thought of the cattle drives, but understood that wasn’t what she meant. “No, I guess I don’t.”

“I do. Before Otis and I arrived in El Dorado for years we didn’t live in one place for more than a couple months at a time.”

“Della—”

She shook her head, stopping him from speaking. “By the time Isaac returned from school, Ester was already having spells. The doctor said it was her heart, that it was weak because of her bout with scarlet fever when she was a child.”

He’d heard about the debilitating stroke Ester suffered shortly after Della had borne her second baby, and the one that took the woman’s life a few months later. “I didn’t know she was ill then,” Spencer admitted.

A tender smile formed on Della’s lips. “She didn’t want anyone to know.” Letting out a long sigh, she pushed the vase back into the center of the table. “Otis hadn’t started his blacksmith shop yet, and I knew Ester’s death would mean we’d have to leave. Pack up and find jobs somewhere else.”

A chill wrapped around his spine. “So you married Isaac instead.”

Disgrace clouded her eyes and flushed her cheeks as she nodded.

“You could—”

“Please,” she interrupted. “Please don’t tell me what I could have done.”

Spencer nodded, not sure what else to do. He’d never given much thought to those that didn’t have a home, had no idea how that might affect someone.

“Would you like some coffee?” she asked.

The way his insides churned said he probably couldn’t drink any, but he didn’t want to leave. “Sure, that would be good.”

She rose and moved to the stove. “Isaac wasn’t here when Ester passed.”

“Where was he?”

“Otis found him in Wichita.” She rinsed out the pot and refilled it. “Brought him home for the funeral.”

“I was there. At the funeral,” he explained.

“I know. I saw you.”

He swallowed the bitterness forming on his tongue, recalling the way Isaac had held her as the two of them stood over the grave that cold wintry day. “I saw you, too.”

“Most of it’s a blur to me. Anna was barely a year old, Elsie just two months.” She moved to the stove, and opened the fire door.

Wanting something to remove the images from his mind, Spencer rose. “I’ll get the fire.” He nodded toward the pot. “You grind the beans.”

An utterly charming smile appeared on her pert lips, making her eyes glitter like dew in the morning. “Thank you.”

She turned back toward the counter and Spencer let the air out of his lungs. The need to hold her again, kiss her again and chase away all her worries—past, present and future—had his hands shaking. By the time flames licked at the wood, she had set the pot on top of the cast-iron stove, and stood, looking down at him. He rose from his crouched position slowly, watching her face the entire time. A connection sparked between them again, as they looked upon each other. He felt it, but more so, saw she felt it, too.

She turned away, moved toward the cupboard. He went back to the table and sat down, thankful for the sturdiness of the chair.

“Isaac went to Sister Marie’s Saloon as soon as we got home that afternoon.”

Spencer frowned, but held silent.

“That’s where he spent most of his time in El Dorado.” She set two cups on the table as well as a plate of cookies.

It seemed odd in a way, sitting here, receiving her hospitality and talking about her dead husband. Spencer accepted it, that and the fact he’d gladly be the friend she needed right now. In many ways it was more than he could hope for.

“I didn’t mind.”

Spencer’s mind snapped to attention. “What do you mean?”

“What do you think I mean?” She met his gaze. “Cream or sugar?”

He knew what he thought she meant, but was that it? Wondering how to ask, he said, “Neither,” before stating, “You and Isaac had two daughters together.”

She pulled out her chair and sat. “Yes, we did. Anna was conceived on our wedding night, and Elsie one night when he was angry because Ester wouldn’t give him some money.”

His cheek twitched. “Did he hurt you?”

She shook her head.

He passed the cup between his hands, wanting to know more. The only way was to ask. “Are you telling me, you and Isaac were only
together
two times?”

“There were a few other times before Anna was born, but none after Elsie arrived.” She shrugged. “I only saw him five times after Ester died. He came home once a year at first, but then…”

Spencer’s insides were in such turmoil he knew he’d never be able to drink the coffee when it was done, which said a lot considering he practically lived off the stuff. “Why are you telling me this, Della?”

“Honestly?” She shook her head. “I don’t know, Spencer. Maybe because I want you to know that my life hasn’t been as bad as people say. Isaac wasn’t abusive.”

“But he didn’t provide for you as he should have. He didn’t help you raise your daughters, or—”

“No,” she interrupted. “He didn’t.” She rose to the stove as the coffee gurgled. “But he did give me two beautiful children, and a home to raise them in. It’s what I always wanted. Or at least thought I did.” Picking up the pot, she carried it to the table. “I don’t know why I haven’t seen it this way before.” She filled both of their cups. “Maybe I was so busy thinking about all the things I didn’t have it was impossible for me to see Isaac had given me exactly what I’d asked for.”

Spencer’s mind and insides were flying about like a bird in a windstorm. How could she be so forgiving, so understanding of Isaac? Home or not, the man had wronged her in so many ways, so many times. Yet, she acted as if none of it was his fault.

“Isn’t that how it is?” she asked. “We don’t appreciate anything until we lose it?”

That made his mind snap back to the reason he was here. “There’s no reason for you to lose this house, Della. Take my money. If you have it when the judge reviews the eviction notice tomorrow, he may take your side.”

Della was surprised at how calm she was. All because of Spencer. His kiss in the front room had been an awakening. At first it had scared her, filled her with all the emotions she’d felt twelve years ago. But then she realized she was no longer a young girl, and her wants had changed. Though she’d lived here, bore her children in the bedroom upstairs, the fear of losing this house had always overshadowed her.

“Della?”

She pulled her eyes off the steam rising from her coffee cup. “I won’t take your money, Spencer.”

“Why not? It’ll solve your problems.”

“No, it won’t solve my problems. It’ll just add more. I have no way to repay you. A boardinghouse wouldn’t make that kind of money in a hundred years.”

“I don’t expect you to repay me.”

“Then what do you expect, Spencer?”

His neck grew red, and she could sympathize with him. Not accepting his offer was hard, for it would provide a home for her and her children, but that wasn’t what she wanted. Not this time.

She studied Spencer, the firm lines of his face, the creases near the corners of his eyes, the little indent in his chin. His love is what she wanted, had been for years, and she wouldn’t settle for anything less.

He hadn’t touched his coffee and rose when she did. He also followed her into the other room, where she bent down to pick up her bonnet. It must have fallen from her head during the kiss. The kiss that made her open her eyes to how selfish and foolish she’d been.

“Thank you for stopping by, Spencer,” she said, slipping the bonnet on her head.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going to find Mr. Westmeier. I want to see if we can make an arrangement before seeing the judge tomorrow.”

“What kind of arrangement?”

“I don’t know yet. Maybe he needs a housekeeper, or maybe he wants to own a boardinghouse and is interested in letting me run it.”

“You can’t live with a stranger.”

She opened the door. “It’s a boardinghouse, Spencer, and I’ve lived with strangers for as long as I can remember.”