Chapter 7  

All evening Grace had dreaded her next meeting with Clayton—the awkwardness, the disbelief of what had transpired between them—but by morning she couldn’t wait for him to come to her. She’d relived the kiss half the night, her heart fluttering every time. Had Clayton stopped the first or the second time, she’d still be addled, but then he’d jumped the moon, and now Grace feared her knees would buckle at the sound of his steps on the threshold.

But he hadn’t stepped on the threshold. The bright glow in the window told her that it was past breakfast. Emilie would be by soon. Grace turned the lid on the canned pears and returned them to the pantry.

What was Clayton thinking this morning? Had he stopped to consider that her homestead could be nicer than any he might find in the Cherokee Strip? Did he remember that she’d originally thought he was answering an ad for a husband? At this point Grace was nearly ready to ask him point-blank.

When she finally heard hooves approaching, the hour was well past Emilie’s usual arrival. The wagon wheels turned more slowly than Emilie’s quick buggy. Grace waited at the door for the person to disembark. Heavy footsteps meant it must be a man.

“Miss O’Malley, how are you?”

The voice was familiar. The barn door swung closed, alerting her that Clayton was on his way.

“Fine,” she said, “but as you know, I can’t see you. To whom do I owe the pleasure?”

“It’s Albert Newman, ma’am. Miss Emilie mentioned that she was coming out today, so I asked if I could have the honor and bring the food in her stead— Eh . . . hello, there.”

“Good day.”

Grace’s toes curled at the sound of Clayton’s voice.

“Mr. Weber,” she said, “this is Mr. Newman. I had his two youngest boys in class. Mr. Weber was commissioned by the school board to spruce up the homestead.”

“The school board?” Mr. Newman expelled what sounded like a juicy glob of spittle. “I don’t remember any such discussion arising at the meetings.”

Grace frowned. “They didn’t place an advertisement?”

“Not that I’ve heard tell of.”

Clayton cleared his throat. “Miss Grace, I’m going to climb the windmill now. Just wave if you need me. I’ll be watching.”

Wasn’t he always? Grace’s stomach twisted. So intent was she on his departing footsteps that she missed Mr. Newman’s first words, and he was obliged to repeat them.

“I’d like to go inside. I could use a drink after being in the sun.”

Grace could only imagine how sweaty Mr. Newman was. His fancy white shirt made an appearance at every school function, complete with yellowed crescents staining the underarms. “Right this way.” She would refrain from breathing through her nose.

“I’ll put the food on your counter here,” he said.

“That’s just fine,” she said, and then pointed him to the table and two chairs. Benny padded over to inspect their visitor while she got a cup of water from the jug on the counter next to her.

“Nice little fellow you’ve got.” The small chain around Benny’s neck jangled. “There should be some scraps for him, I’d imagine.” He took the cup she offered. “You’re finding your way around here pretty easily, aren’t you?”

Grace clasped her hands in front of her. “I’m learning. It’s an adjustment, but even being able to see light is a help.”

His foot tapped the floor. “Well, I don’t want to waste my time. The reason I came was to see if you’d allow me to call on you. The children are nearly grown. They take care of themselves, so there’d be no worrying about them, but I get lonely and I can imagine that maybe you would be—”

“Excuse me.” Grace held up a hand. As a school-board member Mr. Newman had never supported her, always questioning her methods and dedication. Had something changed? “I’m sorry, but I’m at a loss. You’ve never expressed any interest in me before. Why now?”

“Look, Miss O’Malley. You’re a beautiful lady. I’m humble enough to admit I couldn’t turn your head, but now, well, maybe looks don’t matter so much. The balance could’ve tipped for me after all.”

There’d sooner be a snake in Ireland.

He snuffed, and she imaged the sleeve of his white shirt getting even dingier sopping up his nose.

“I thank you for your offer, Mr. Newman, but I’m still adjusting to my affliction and don’t want to make any hasty decisions. I’m afraid I must deny your request.”

The cup clinked against the tabletop. “You’ll be lonely soon enough, so don’t let your pride get in the way. You just let me know when you’re ready. I’m not one to hold a grudge.”

“That’s a comfort.” He’d held a grudge when his son had failed his sixth grade examination. Or maybe this was his way of reconciling. “Thank you for bringing dinner, and I hope you’ll send my greetings to your children.”

“Yes, ma’am. They are sorely worried about you, and that’s a fact.”

She only prayed they didn’t know the nature of his visit. She’d hate to have the story spread throughout town, but she couldn’t consider Mr. Newman’s offer. Especially not with the way her heart soared at every thought of Clayton Weber.

Grace followed Mr. Newman outside and waved as the wagon rolled away. What had she expected? A lot worse than the perspiring Mr. Newman could answer any notice she decided to run. Somehow, she’d grown more particular recently. If only Clayton weren’t afraid to speak to her again.

Grace noticed the squeaking wheel of the windmill wasn’t raising its usual fuss, so she lifted her head and shaded her eyes. If he was watching as he claimed to be, he’d know she was looking for him.

Boots thudded to the ground, raising a cloud of dust. Grace covered her face.

“You need me?”

Yes. Oh yes.

“Mr. Newman brought dinner, and you already missed breakfast. Aren’t you hungry?”

Silence. Grace lowered her hands to search before her but couldn’t make out anything besides Clayton’s dark form.

“I’ll bring you a plate outside if you’re too busy.” Was he even there? Her eyes stung from squinting.

“Do you want me to come inside?” His voice was tight. Uncertain. “I didn’t know how you’d feel after last night.”

Grace’s heart did a somersault. Elated. Giddy. Even more curious than before. “I want you to come inside.” She bowed her head, too embarrassed to show her face. She should’ve been outraged by the liberties he took, but she was fair. Although she’d asked him for a candle and he’d given her a lightning bolt, she was willing to admit she shared the blame.

“I’ll wash up out here,” he said.

Grace followed the wind chimes to the house. She pulled the cheesecloth cover off the tin and took a deep whiff. Onion soup. By the time Clayton had taken his seat, Grace had ladled a bowl for him, eager to get past this initial awkwardness.

He paused.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Grace said.

“I’m praying.”

“Sorry.”

She wasn’t hungry. She’d kept the pears and toast out all morning, waiting for Clayton, and had consumed more than she’d intended, but maybe she could eat a few crackers for an excuse to sit across the table from him.

“What did the man want?” Clayton slurped a spoonful.

“He brought the food from Emilie.”

“He wore a fancy going-courtin’ shirt for that?”

With yellow underarms? Grace grimaced. “Now that you mention it, he did ask if he could call on me.”

Clayton’s spoon splashed in his soup. “And you said . . .”

Judging from his voice he wasn’t smiling, but she hadn’t done anything wrong. Why should she feel defensive? Grace rocked in her chair.

“I told him absolutely not. He never would’ve got the courage to speak to me before. Why does he think I’d accept him now?” Maybe she was overdoing it, but obviously Mr. Newman’s visit had upset Clayton. She’d set things aright. “Just because I can’t see doesn’t mean I want a husband who’d be rejected by everyone else.”

“What do you mean by that?” His voice had cooled to January ice.

“His appearance is disgraceful. I’d be ashamed to be associated with a man whose—”

“Is that your criteria? You’d reject a man on his looks even though you can’t see him?”

Grace’s mouth dropped open. “You want me to court Mr. Newman? Is that what you’re saying?” Did Clayton regret kissing her? Why else would he be so eager to get her off his hands?

He stood. His bowl dropped into the sink.

“I don’t know Mr. Newman, but if you’re going to find him lacking, it should be for his character, his personality, or his situation. Don’t mock him for his appearance.”

“I’m not mocking him. He might make a fine husband for someone else, but that doesn’t mean I’m obligated to accept him. There’s a difference between tolerating someone and wanting to marry them. Shouldn’t I wait for a man who’s a better match?”

Like you, she wanted to add, but didn’t have the courage. If only she could see Clayton. Was he glaring at her in disgust? Was he looking at the door, longing to leave?

“I understand,” Clayton said. “Now if you’ll excuse me. I can’t afford to waste any more time.”

Just as she’d feared. He’d recognized his mistake. Clayton had plans in Oklahoma Territory, and one kiss wasn’t going to change them.

By the time Clayton reached the top of the windmill, he was out of breath. He stood, hands in fists, and looked down at the square cabin, all the hopefulness and sentiments from earlier that day vanished.

She still didn’t know. She didn’t realize that the man who’d kissed her with abandon was himself disfigured. That if she wasn’t blind, he, like Mr. Newman, would have only admired her from a distance.

A husband who’d be rejected by everyone else. Sooner or later she’d find out. Emilie would tell her. Someone would tell her. Or maybe she’d wonder why he avoided crowds and why he rarely spoke up in public. She’d wonder why her husband hid when people were around.

If he had any hope of making the land run on Saturday, he’d better finish up and hit the trail.

Clayton sat on the platform, his heels swinging in midair. He hadn’t thought about the land run all day. Hadn’t worried about getting the horse or running for a stake. No, his thoughts hadn’t left the little homestead outside of Dry Gulch. He loved Grace, possibly had loved her from the first moment she stepped outside and surprised him with her prying questions. And while he’d been prepared to love her from afar—admire her, help her, and then move on—at some time he’d come to the conclusion that this love was worth fighting for. Here was a place he could belong. And after last night’s kiss, he’d thought that she believed so, too.

He was a fool. How could he fault Grace when he was so taken by her beauty? Hypocrite.

And once again he cursed the men who’d scarred his heart even more than his face. When the son of a horse thief is accused of stealing a horse, no one believes his innocence. When he’s disfigured, no one gives him sympathy. Even worse than the actual damage was the shame it represented—his dead father’s crime forever imprinted on him. If Grace couldn’t respect a man because of the grubbiness of his shirt, she wouldn’t endure a man whose charges and punishment were visible for all to see.

But what would become of her after he left? Maybe she’d finally post the notice and would have some candidates to choose from. Maybe Emilie would help. Either way, it wasn’t his concern.

Clayton sat until his frustration demanded action. He’d get the windmill done, then he’d go to the bank and inform them that his task was complete. By tomorrow he’d collect his money and quit town. He’d already failed at this contest. The race was his last chance.