Chapter 2  

Neill took the third turnoff as instructed and guided the rented team over a narrow bridge that spanned one of the waterless gullies that must have inspired the town’s name. Spotting the widow Danvers’s windmill, Neill flicked the reins over the horses’ backs and urged them to a quicker pace. Harness jangled and wheels creaked, adding harmony to the rhythmic clacking of the windmill’s spinning blades as the house came into view.

Shack might be a better term. The weathered building listed to one side, like a sapling buffeted by constant wind. The thing didn’t need a new roof. It needed to be torn down and completely rebuilt.

Too bad there weren’t any trees around. He might have been able to shore the thing up a bit with some chinked logs, but all his wagon carried by way of supplies were shingles, a keg of barbed nails, a few rolls of roofing felt, cement paste, and a handful of tools. Somehow he doubted he’d be able to do much with a hammer, jackknife, and cement brush. Maybe the late Mr. Danvers had some tools or scrap lumber Neill could put to use. He hated to think of some frail gray-haired lady putting her foot through a rotted step or having part of a wall collapse on her. He wouldn’t mind spending an extra day or two making sure the place was habitable before he left.

Neill pulled the wagon to a halt and set the brake. “Hello, in the house!” he called as he climbed down from the bench. “I’m here to fix your roof.”

The door inched open far enough to allow the twin barrels of a shotgun to emerge through the crack.

“I don’t know who you are, stranger,” a feminine voice rang out, “but I made no arrangements for any roofing to be done. I’ll thank you to get back in your wagon and leave the way you came.”

Neill stilled. Mrs. Danvers sure held that gun with a steady grip for a widow lady. And that voice sounded none too frail, either. Neill raised his hands, the leather work gloves itching against his empty palms. He took one step back toward the wagon—and the rifle waiting beneath the driver’s seat.

“I was hired by someone in town, ma’am,” he explained. “They paid up front for the supplies and gave me instructions on how to get to your place. Unless you’re not Widow Danvers.”

The implied question hung in the air for several tense heartbeats. Finally, the shotgun lowered and the door opened wide enough to give the widow room to step through.

“I’m Clara Danvers.”

Three things registered in Neill’s mind simultaneously. The widow Danvers wasn’t old. She wasn’t frail. And she sure as shootin’ hadn’t been a widow very long.

Clara maintained her grip on Matthew’s old shotgun while she took the stranger’s measure. Tall, lanky, a friendly enough smile. The few lines he sported around his eyes from years of squinting against the sun were the only indication of his age. Well, that and the way his stance radiated readiness. This was a man who’d seen trouble and had learned to be wary. Strong of spirit as well as body. But could he be trusted? What if her father-in-law had hired a new hand? It would be just like Mack Danvers to send the man to prod her into agreeing to his demands.

Her hand instinctively lifted to cradle her rounded belly. She’d die before she gave up her child.

Swinging the shotgun up in front of her, Clara caught the barrels in her free hand. She didn’t take aim at the stranger, simply held the weapon across her body, letting him know she wasn’t a helpless female. “You tell Mack Danvers that my answer hasn’t changed since the last time he visited. I’ll not be taking him up on his offer. Now, be on your way.”

The stranger cocked his head, furrows etching his brow. “I don’t know any Mack Danvers, ma’am. A lady in town wrote out instructions on how to find your place and gave me funds to purchase supplies. Here, I’ll show you.” He reached inside his coat.

Clara tensed and had both barrels pointed at his gut faster than he could blink. “Keep your hands where I can see ’em, mister.”

He eased his hand back out. “I don’t mean you any harm, Mrs. Danvers. Tell you what. Why don’t I step a few paces over here”—he nodded toward an area an equal distance from the wagon and the house—“and you can come take a look at what’s in the wagon. See the roofing supplies for yourself. Then if you want to see the note, I’ll give that to you, as well.”

Clara hesitated. It could be some kind of trick. Yet the man had no weapon on him that she could discern. If she kept an eye on him, she should be able to check out his story safely enough. She nodded her agreement.

With hands lifted in the air, the man took four long strides away from the wagon. Clara adjusted her position as he moved, keeping the shotgun trained on him until she reached the porch steps. Her overlarge belly made navigating the three stairs awkward since she couldn’t grasp the railing for support, but she took her time and made it to the ground without incident.

Once at the wagon, she flashed a quick glance into the bed. Roofing supplies. Just like he’d said.

“Who’d you say hired you?” Her grip on the shotgun relaxed. She lowered the weapon, then reached around with her left hand to rub at the sore spot on her lower back. Tension was taking its toll.

“I don’t rightly know, ma’am.” The stranger made no attempt to approach her, and she found her suspicions waning despite his lack of clear answers. “I rode into Dry Gulch on Sunday and attended worship. I let it be known that I was looking for work, and after services, I found a note regarding a roofing job stuck in my Bible. I followed the instructions, and the next evening found an envelope with your name and directions inside, along with enough funds to buy supplies and the promise of further payment when the job is complete.” His shoulders lifted in a shrug. “I think your benefactor wants to remain anonymous.”

Clara leaned against the side of the wagon, hope struggling to find purchase in her battered heart. For the last month she’d been slaving over the worthless pile of sticks her wastrel of a husband had left her, trying to make it safe for her baby. She’d patched cracks with sod to keep the wind and vermin out, repaired the broken step with a scrap from the busted barn door, and scoured the place from top to bottom. Twice.

If she’d learned nothing else over her twenty years of life, she’d learned that a woman carrying Comanche blood in her veins couldn’t depend on neighbors to lend a helping hand. Or husbands. Or men who were supposed to be family.

So she tended to things herself. But the one thing she couldn’t fix on her own was a leaky roof. She’d only endanger her child if she tried.

Did you send this man, Lord? Dared she believe it was even a possibility? Heaven knew she’d prayed often enough for protection for her babe, yet she was afraid to hope that God might actually be answering. He hadn’t protected her parents from the smallpox outbreak that took their lives the summer she turned eighteen, after all. Nor had He guarded her husband from the bullet that ended his career as the worst card player in the Red River Valley.

Yet a man she’d never met now stood on her property with a wagonload of roofing supplies and just enough swagger to convince her he knew how to use them. Who else could have orchestrated such a scenario?

She couldn’t send him away. Not when the welfare of her child hung in the balance. She needed that roof.

“Let me see the note.” Clara marched toward the stranger with her palm outstretched. Well, marched might be too grand a description. Waddled was probably closer to the truth with as ungainly as she’d become over the last month. But she refused to let this man intimidate her. She was in charge of this interview, and he would dance to her tune or leave.

The stranger met her halfway and handed over the paper for her inspection. No smugness lurked in his approach. Only concern and caution, as if she were a high-strung mare he feared spooking with sudden movements. And wasn’t that a flattering comparison.

She snatched the paper from his hand and examined the writing. Definitely not the slashing strokes Mack Danvers preferred. The stranger was right. It looked feminine. And the only woman on the Circle D was the housekeeper. Clara had seen Ethel’s handwriting on the supply lists that Matthew used to bring into her father’s trading post before they’d started courting and could safely rule her out. Ethel’s chicken scratch was barely legible.

Handing the paper back to the stranger, she scrutinized his face. Strong jaw. Direct gaze. None of the shiftiness she’d come to recognize in her husband nor the condescension or scorn she detected when her father-in-law deigned to look at her. No, this man’s eyes were warm and honest. Kind. And they had lovely green flecks that added a sparkle to the brown depths.

Clara took a step back. No need to look that close. He was a workman, nothing else.

So why did she suddenly have the urge to make sure her hair was in place?

Bah! It wasn’t like he would see anything beyond her belly, anyway. A belly that was fixing to burst with another man’s child. For all she knew, he had a wife back home somewhere. She was a job to him. And that was the way she wanted it. Three or four days and he’d be gone.

“I guess if you’re going to be repairing my roof,” she said with a defiant lift of her chin, “you might as well tell me your name.”

“Neill Archer, ma’am.” He touched the brim of his hat and bowed slightly in acknowledgment. But it was his boyish half smile that did her in.

Her heart did a foolish little flip in her chest. The reaction scared her so badly, she started backing toward the house.

“Go ahead and unload your supplies.” She waved a hand toward the wagon, hoping he wouldn’t notice the trembling in her fingers.

Distance. She needed distance. She was no naïve girl any more, ready to swoon at a handsome man’s smile or charming flattery. She’d been down that road and had no plans for a return trip. The faster Mr. Neill Archer finished this job and left, the better.

“There’s a ladder in the barn,” she added once she’d reached the porch and had a better grip on her senses. “Not sure what kind of shape it’s in, but you’re welcome to use whatever you find.”

He nodded. “I’ll need to take the rig back to the livery in town after I unload, but I should be able to get a start on things before dark. That is, if you don’t mind me spreadin’ a bedroll in your barn. I could stay in town if you’d prefer.”

“No. The barn’s fine.” He’d lose hours of work time if he had to ride in and out of town every day. Better to get this over with as quickly as possible. “I’ll have supper ready for you when you get back.”

That crooked grin reappeared, but she steeled herself against it. Neill Archer was a temporary necessity. For her baby’s sake. That was all. She’d not allow herself to get distracted.