Chapter 13  

Clara paced the parlor, unable to sit. Her exhausted body begged her to join Meri on the settee, but her fretful mind wouldn’t allow it. Not until she knew how Neill fared.

Josiah stood guard on the porch, one hip resting against the railing as he scanned the drive. Every time Clara paced by the window, she glanced his way, searching for a clue in his demeanor that might tell her how dire the situation truly was. But the man kept lounging there as if he weren’t the slightest bit concerned. Such a stance should reassure her, but instead all she could think was that he knew she was watching him and was purposely projecting a relaxed air to ease her worry. Which only served to inflame her anxiety.

“Come sit, Clara,” Meri urged. “You’re going to wear yourself out with all that pacing. You won’t be any good to Neill if you collapse.”

That last argument stilled Clara’s feet. Neill had been strong for her through all of this. She owed it to him to be strong in return. The stoicism that had been her strength for so many years fell back over her like a familiar gown, rolling from her head to her toes in one long wave. No more pacing. No more fretting. Whatever came, she’d deal with it the best she could. Hadn’t God proved He could be trusted, even in the darkest times? He’d brought Neill to her, after all.

And didn’t Neill deserve her faith, as well? She’d been angry when Meri and the others had referred to him as a boy, but had she done any better—immediately assuming he’d not be able to hold his own against Mack? Neill had proven himself capable, honorable, a man worthy of her trust. And where trust led, her heart had followed—right into Neill Archer’s keeping.

Clara made her way to the chair nearest the window and lowered herself onto the cushion. No matter what happened, she’d not disgrace him with hysterics. She’d be a rock, a steady fortress, a . . .

“Rider comin’ in.”

Josiah’s shout spurred Clara from her chair, heart pounding. She rushed to the window, all thoughts of rocks evaporating like insubstantial mist.

“It’s Neill!”

That’s all she needed to hear. Clara ran for the door, her heart sending prayers of gratitude heavenward even as her feet flew across the porch and down the steps. God had brought him back. He looked like he’d been run over by a freight wagon, but he was alive and fit enough to sit a horse. God was good.

He’d barely dismounted when she threw herself into his arms. He groaned, but tightened his arms around her waist and drew her even closer into him.

“It’s over, Clara. Harrison’s safe.”

Clara gazed up at his face, bruised and bloodied, yet the most beautiful face she’d ever seen. “I love you, Neill Archer,” she said, echoing the words he’d left her with in the wagon, and infusing them with the truth of her own heart. “And as soon as that preacher brother of yours returns, I plan to make you mine.”

Neill grinned that crooked, boyish grin that always turned her insides to melted butter and lowered his head toward hers. “I’m already yours.” The husky murmur echoed in her ears as his lips met hers in a caress so tender, a tear of sheer wonder slid past her lashes. Her palms moved up his chest and her fingers clutched at his shirt as if she could hold him to her forever.

“I’ll . . . uh . . . just take care of your horse,” Josiah said from somewhere behind them.

Clara broke away from the kiss and buried her face against Neill’s neck, embarrassed to have forgotten they weren’t alone.

“Thanks, partner.” The deep sarcasm in Neill’s voice made Clara smile against his collar. Then he shifted his stance a bit and called after his friend. “Oh, by the way, it might be a while before we can make an offer on the ranch. I’m still over a hundred short.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Josiah answered. “Travis said we could run our herd on his back acres as long as we need to. We’ll make do.”

“No. Wait.” Clara raised her head and looked from Neill to Josiah and back again. “Remember when I told you about the inheritance I had set aside? I always planned to use that money to provide for Harrison. What better way to provide for my son than to invest in a home for him and a livelihood for his future? All I have to do is write a letter to Mr. Whitfield at the bank back in Dry Gulch, and he’ll transfer the funds to your account here. Our account. He can even see about selling my old cabin for me.”

Neill’s fingertips stroked her cheek. “Are you sure, honey? That’s your money.”

“No, Neill. It’s our money. Our dream. Let me share it with you.”

“You’re an amazing woman, Clara Danvers.” His fingers trailed from her cheek down along her neck and toyed with a stray piece of hair that had come loose from her pins. Her skin tingled in response. “What did I ever do to deserve you?”

“What did you ever do?” A laugh bubbled out of Clara before she could stop it. “Well, let’s see.” She ticked her answers off on her fingers. “You fixed my roof, you delivered my son, and, oh yes, you saved me from an obsessed man set on stealing my child. I’d say you’ve done plenty.”

Instead of the smile she’d been expecting, his face grew solemn at her words. “About Mack . . . I need to ask a favor of you.”

“What?”

“I think you should let him see Harrison.”

“No!” How could he suggest such a thing? After all Mack had done, there was no way she’d let him anywhere near her baby.

“Hear me out, Clara.” Neill’s soft voice penetrated the haze of her indignation. “Hear me out, and if you still don’t feel comfortable with the idea, I’ll send him away. I told him you would have to agree. That I wouldn’t go against your wishes.”

Clara exhaled a long breath, giving her mind a chance to catch up with her emotions. This was Neill. The man she loved. The man she trusted with her life. With her son’s life. He wouldn’t ask her to do anything that would put Harrison in jeopardy.

“All right,” she conceded. “I’ll listen.”

He led her to the porch, to a pair of rocking chairs, and held her hand as he explained the bargain he’d proposed to Mack. A bargain made in Harrison’s best interest. To reserve the boy’s chance to inherit the Circle D. The chance to know his only living grandfather. The chance to restore relationships that Clara had believed beyond mending. All while under the watchful eye of the man who would be his father not by blood, but by choice. A choice inspired by love.

“I trust you, Neill,” she finally said, squeezing his hand. “I trust you to protect our son and to guide our family. Mack can come.”

He lifted her hand to his face and kissed the back of it, holding his lips there for several long, delicious seconds. “Thank you,” he murmured against her skin. “I think it’s the right thing to do.”

“But he can’t stay for the wedding,” she blurted. “Archers only.”

A deep chuckle rumbled in his chest, shaking his body as laughter overflowed into the air between them. “Archers only, huh?” Slowly, the amusement faded from his gaze, replaced by a love so intense, her lonely heart ached from the pure belonging it inspired. Bending his head, he laid another kiss upon her hand. “Sounds perfect.”