Wolf Creek Widow (Wolf Creek, Arkansas Book 4) (6 page)

More important, he began thanking God for the things that caused him grief and pain or disappointment. That was no easy thing to do, and he often failed miserably. Even so, his newly found faith made the long days of tending the prison garden, shoeing the guards’ horses and doing mountains of laundry bearable.

When he was released, he’d chosen to go to the reservation in Oklahoma. He’d needed time to put things into perspective, to heal inside and out. After a few years, he’d decided to come back and help care for his mother.

One of his deepest desires was to build a life that would make him acceptable to the people in Wolf Creek. It wasn’t that he was often mistreated or insulted, but neither was he welcomed into the small town’s social circle, which made finding a suitable wife next to impossible. There was no Indian population from which to choose a bride, and even if any of the available ladies had appealed to him, he doubted his suit would have been acceptable.

Then he’d seen Meg Thomerson coming out of Ellie’s Café, and as improbable as it seemed, he had known in an instant that she was the one he’d been waiting for. When he’d discovered she was already taken, he’d let a new kind of bitterness eat at him. Eventually, common sense returned and he realized that as much as he didn’t like the situation, it was time to practice what he professed to believe.

Did he trust that God had his best interest at heart, no matter what happened? Did he truly believe that if he lived for the Lord, that everything that happened to him had a purpose and would work out the way it was supposed to? As hard as it was, with much prayer, he did his best to accept that he’d come to care for a woman he could never have.

It was plain to see that Elton was often away doing whatever it was that he did, leaving his wife and two children to fend for themselves. Ace saw how hard Meg worked and heard through the Wolf Creek grapevine how she struggled. He’d seen her lifting heavy baskets of laundry into and out of her rickety wagon. A couple of times he’d approached with offers to help, and she’d always accepted with a sunny smile of thanks that brightened his day and cheered him until the next time he saw her.

He was careful to not make a habit of helping her too often, or people would talk. He discovered that there were other opportunities to relieve a little of her burden as well as those of others in need, so that no one could fault him.

He’d started leaving food of some kind for Meg and several others who struggled to make ends meet every now and then. The grapevine provided the information that she was appreciative and, like the others he helped, she wondered who her benefactor might be. Ace had been secure in his secret until the day of the showdown on the Thomersons’ front porch.

Elton had known, or at least guessed, what Ace was doing, or he wouldn’t have made the crude comment about wondering how Meg was paying for the things he left for her and the kids when he’d dragged her out onto the porch to taunt the posse.

Ace’s anger had flared upon hearing the insult and witnessing Elton’s treatment of her when she was already in pain, and he had foolishly taken a shot near Elton’s feet. For the space of a single breath Ace had wished he could put a bullet through Thomerson’s black heart. But the bullet that killed Elton wasn’t fired until later, and it hadn’t been meant to kill.

Still, it was that brief moment when he’d lost control and shot into the wood of the porch that he thought about when, hours later, Elton had sneaked through the woods and taken a shot at Colt. Wanting nothing but to save his friend, Ace had returned fire and his bullet had gone awry and hit a major vessel. He’d gone over those few seconds a million times, and each and every instance his common sense told him that he had done nothing wrong. He’d saved his friend and perhaps himself.

Contrarily, it was that moment when he’d wished Elton dead that came to mind every time he told Meg that the killing was an accident.

Ace didn’t know how he could go on day after day, caring for her, wanting to help her. Being with her was pure torture.

Winter couldn’t come soon enough.

Chapter Five

I
t had been a good but hard day. As Meg watched her self-appointed helpers’ wagon disappear down the road, she knew she would rest well. As weary as she was, it felt good to be doing something worthwhile. Idleness did not suit her.

Closing the door, she turned and looked around the small room. Her kitchen was clean and the mending was done. There was nothing to do until the following morning. A wave of loneliness swept through her.

She imagined what her evening might have been like before the incident. Elton was often gone, so it would have been just her, Teddy and Lucy. Once they’d had their supper, she would get them washed up and ready for bed. They would cuddle in Teddy’s little bed, and Meg would tell them a story, read them a fairy tale or nursery rhyme from the books that had been given to her by the ladies at church. Sometimes she sang songs like “Froggie Went a-Courtin’” or “The Fox.” Then they would say their prayers and she would tuck Teddy in and rock Lucy to sleep.

When they were down for the night, she would be alone, just as she was now. The difference was that she’d always had things to do to fill the hours until her own bedtime. Mending. Ironing. Cleaning. But all that was done.

She looked around the room again, thinking that it was too bad that she had nothing to read besides the children’s books. Even though she wasn’t the best reader, she’d always loved books and the stories captured within their pages. Unfortunately, she’d never had the time to pursue that love. She was always too busy trying to get by, and there was no pay for spending time in such a frivolous pursuit.

Through Ace, Rachel had told her to use the next week or so as a time to pamper herself. Meg wasn’t sure what that meant, but it sounded as though she was supposed to spoil herself. How on earth was a grown woman supposed to do that? She recalled the times she did special little things for Teddy or with him, things that were not part of their everyday activities. Was that pampering?

She thought of her bath earlier in the day. Nita had insisted that Meg take her time. Even in the cramped washtub, it had been nice to sit in the water until it grew cool with no one calling for her and no one waiting for her to do something for them. It had been special to lather her hair with the small remaining piece of sweet-smelling soap Elton had bought her once when he was trying to worm his way back into her good graces. As Nita poured warm rinse water over her hair, Meg
had
felt special...spoiled, even. If that was pampering, it was nice.

On impulse, she stirred up the fire and put the kettle back on. Taking down one of the blue speckled cups and the plain brown teapot her aunt had given her, she measured out a couple of spoonfuls of the tea that Gabe and Rachel had left for her.

It occurred to her that she could make some cold tea for Nita and Ace the next day. The water from the deep well was good and cold, and the sugary sweetness would make a nice treat for them all.

While the kettle boiled, she pulled the long swath of her hair over her shoulder and buried her face in it. Thank goodness it still smelled sweet and clean, she thought as she began to braid it. She could thank Ace for reminding her that the smoke would mask the smell of her clean hair.

Abruptly, she paused in the midst of her nightly ritual. What kind of man thought about keeping a woman’s hair smelling clean? It was certainly not the kind of thing that would ever enter Elton’s mind.

Ace Allen was nothing like any man she’d ever known. How had he even known her hair was clean? How had he become so sensitive to the things that were important to a woman? It certainly wasn’t the sort of thing you learned in prison. Had Nita somehow made him aware? Meg doubted she’d ever know, but just recognizing that one small thing about him changed her perception of him the tiniest bit.

After braiding her hair, she changed into her gown and grabbed a light shawl. When her tea had steeped, she poured herself a cup and added a generous amount of honey. Then, fetching Teddy’s book of fairy tales, Meg padded barefoot onto the porch, settled into the old rocking chair and set the spatterware mug on the wooden box she used as a table.

Even though the evening was still warm, October would soon arrive. To someone who watched the changing of the seasons as closely as she did, it was easy to see that the shadows were changing position as the year wound down.

With a sigh she wasn’t even aware of, Meg tucked her feet under her and thumbed through the book, looking for a story world to fill her mind and enable her to escape reality for a few moments.

She chose “Cinderella,” one of Teddy’s least favorites but one she suspected Lucy would love as she grew older. Wasn’t the idea of being rescued and loved by a handsome prince every young woman’s dream? It had been her own dream once, and she’d believed Elton was her prince.

Forget Elton! Forget dreams. There is no Prince Charming to rescue you, take you to his castle and give you everything your heart desires.

What did her heart desire?

The question sprang from somewhere deep inside her. She didn’t want riches or fancy things. She didn’t want to sit around all day and do nothing. She liked being busy, though she admitted that it might be nice if she didn’t have to work quite so hard. She wanted a place that offered peace and happiness where she and the kids could go at the end of the day. It didn’t seem like too much to want or to ask for, but God hadn’t seen fit to give it to her.

Enough!
Blaming God was not only futile, but also wrong. She’d made the choices that shaped her life, and some of them had been bad choices. She could blame only herself for her circumstances.

Her expression set in grim determination, Meg forced herself to focus on the story. In a matter of moments, she was caught up in the words of the story, imagining each scene. As she sipped at her tea, she did manage to slip into that world of make-believe. Two cups later, it grew too dark to see the words and, with a regretful sigh, she rose, gathered up her things and went inside.

Moments later, she lay in her bed, thinking about the story. If that tale—and the others in the book—were to be believed, there was a man out there somewhere, just waiting to come to the aid of a woman who needed him. The problem was that that kind of man was in short supply in Wolf Creek.

Ace came to your aid.
The random thought caught her off guard. He had. She suspected he was motivated at least in part by guilt, but he was still here, helping her. As she drifted off to sleep, she saw again the quiet dignity and the pain in his eyes as he’d told her that there was no reason for her to ever be frightened of him. And, drifting in that state between sleep and wakefulness, she believed him.

* * *

Once Ace drove the wagon out of sight of Meg’s little house, he’d handed the reins over to his mother and slipped back through the woods so that he could watch over Meg during the night. At Rachel’s suggestion, he’d been standing guard ever since the night Meg had first come home. They hadn’t told her because Rachel knew Meg would refuse the offer, and under the circumstances, the doctor was afraid that knowing a man was on the premises might do Meg more harm than good.

She was one stubborn woman. Too stubborn, maybe.

As he’d made his way through the woods to his makeshift bed, he’d seen her come out onto the front porch with a book and a cup of something to drink. His first thought was that she’d changed into her gown. His second was to wonder what she was reading. He hadn’t seen any books lying around except a Bible, and he had a strong suspicion that she hadn’t opened it since she’d been home.

Knowing she was safe on the front porch, he’d sunk down onto the pile of dusty straw he’d covered with a blanket from his bedroll. As he shifted around, trying to find a comfortable position for his aching muscles, he wondered if Meg did much reading and decided it was unlikely. Would she like other books? He couldn’t ask. She was still as gun-shy as a skittish hunting dog, and if she suspected he was hanging around at night, she’d most likely get the wrong idea. Instead of seeing his presence as the help he intended it to be, he was afraid she’d become hysterical—or worse, retreat into the remoteness that seemed to be loosening its grip on her inch by small inch.

After a long while, he saw the lamplight go out as Meg settled in for the night. Now he could do the same, though he knew his sleep would be light—as it had been since his prison days—and probably filled with impossible imaginings of him and Meg together.

* * *

Meg and Nita finished the ironing by noon the following day. Smiling, the older woman set her iron on the stove, collapsed her board and leaned it against the wall.

“I’ll fix us some sandwiches if you’ll go tell Ace it’s time to eat. I imagine he could use a break about now. Maybe you could show him what other things need doing before winter. Then he can load the laundry and take it back to town.”

“Of course.”

Meg said the words because they were expected. She didn’t want to fetch Ace, and she didn’t want to spend time alone with him. Even though she believed what he said when he’d told her she had nothing to fear from him, he still made her nervous. He moved so quietly that he could sneak up on a person without them being aware he was anywhere close. After she’d jumped a time or two, he made sure to let her know he was nearby before speaking to her.

Today was worse than usual. She didn’t recall dreaming about him, but she’d awakened with an image of him leaning over her the way he’d done when she fainted. That early-morning memory made her even more aware of him.

Meg rounded the corner of the house and stopped in her tracks. Ace was splitting wood. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbow and sweat glistened on the bare skin of his forearms. Perspiration dampened his shirt in a line down his spine, and the soft blue chambray clung to his wide shoulders. She was gripped by a series of conflicting emotions she was hard-pressed to identify, though she recognized one as bewilderment.

After everything Elton had put her through, how could she possibly be spellbound by the masculine picture of perfection that stood before her? He’d traded his usual denim pants for buckskin, and with his hair held back by the ever-present bandanna, his Indian heritage was even more obvious.

Barely able to move or breathe, she watched as he hefted the ax over his head and brought it down on a chunk of wood, splitting it with a single impressive blow.

She must have made some sound, because he turned and saw her standing there. Without a word, he sank the head of the ax into the stump. He used the tail of his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face and started toward her.

“It must be time to eat.”

The sound of his voice brought her back to the present.

“What?”

His gaze was as sharp as his tone. “Food?”

Meg realized with a feeling of dismay that she’d been staring, and she’d been taught from an early age that it was impolite to do so. “Oh. Yes. Your mother is fixing lunch. She thought you’d be ready for a break.”

He gave a single nod. He passed her in two long-legged strides, heading toward the back porch and putting lots of space between them.

“I was staring. I’m sorry.”

He stopped so fast that she careened into him and made a grab for him to regain her balance. Neither of them moved. Ace was so still, she wondered if he were breathing. She could feel the warmth radiating from his broad back and the slight dampness of his shirt.

Instead of turning, he looked at her over his shoulder. She looked into those distant ice-blue eyes. It was a long way up.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he said, turning and forcing her to let go of him. “I understand why you’re afraid of me.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” she told him with a shake of her head. She couldn’t tell him that she was afraid of herself and the unacceptable admiration she felt for him.

He regarded her with a lift of one black eyebrow. “No?”

“It isn’t you...exactly,” she confessed.

“I killed your husband. Freak accident or not, I understand how hard it must be for you to be around me.” The tone of his voice was as distant as the expression in his eyes. Without a word, he started for the house again.

Meg clasped her hands together to still their trembling. He’d misunderstood the look on her face, but now was as good a time as any to try to clear the air. “Ace, wait!”

Again, he stopped. This time he turned a frowning look toward her.

She hesitated, not knowing how to make him understand something she didn’t understand herself. “I know that Elton was...was an accident. I do. It’s not that. But he...”

She stopped, searching for the words to express how the fear of her husband had colored her view of all men.

“I know what he did to you, Meg,” he told her in a soft voice. “I’m the one who found you.”

She sucked in a sharp breath.

“Elton Thomerson was a wicked man, and I have no doubt that your existence was a miserable one, but that part of your life is over. It’s up to you to pick up the pieces and move forward—for your sake and for your children.”

The pitiless statement sparked a flash of anger she hadn’t felt in ages. Knowing more than most what she’d been through, how did he dare be so offhand about how she should live the rest of her life? He seemed to think that she should just go on and pretend nothing had happened.

“How do I do that?” she snapped, grabbing his arm to stop him. “How did you pick up and go on after...after prison?”

He blew out a harsh breath. “I can’t tell you how to do it, Meg. Our situations are different. Prison was...a living hell.”

The expression in his eyes was distant—he was clearly haunted by memories of a time and things he’d rather forget. “I grew up fighting for every ounce of respect I ever got, and while I was in jail I wanted nothing more than to fight everything and everyone inside those walls, but I didn’t, for my mother’s sake.”

For a moment she was taken aback by his honesty. Being a man, he would have taken his inability to respond to his punishment as a blow to that manhood. But they weren’t talking about him. They were talking about her—her future and how she was supposed to get through the rest of her life without going crazy or crawling into a hole to escape the whispers and the pitying looks.