Chapter 26

It had been three weeks since Clay left her—three of the longest weeks of Amanda’s life. And now she was faced with a new dilemma, one that almost made her bitterness complete. She couldn’t even go back to her Aunt Kate’s house now, and she couldn’t stay at Ybarra-Ross either. Before long everyone was going to know her for the sinner she was.

There was going to be a child—Clay McAlester’s child. When the realization first hit her, she’d actually thought of telling him. But she didn’t want him like that—she didn’t want him to marry her out of some obligation. And she wasn’t at all sure he would, anyway. No, he was the last person on earth she wanted to know about it. She was just going to have to make her plans herself and live with them.

Maybe later, when she felt it move, it would mean something to her. But right now, she still felt empty, almost devoid of any emotion. For a moment she let her imagination stray, wondering if it would look like him. Somehow she didn’t think she could bear that. She didn’t want to have to look into the child’s face and be reminded every day of what a total fool he’d made of her.

“You’re mighty quiet tonight,” Hap chided her.

“Am I?” She forced a smile, then closed the book she wasn’t reading. “I’m sorry.”

“No need to be. I reckon you’ve got a lot on your mind.”

“Yes.”

“He’ll get Sandoval, one way or the other. It just takes more time when he’s got to cross the Rio Grande.”

“He’s not coming back here,” she said simply.

“If I were a betting man, I wouldn’t put any money on that.”

“Yes—well, he told me to my face he wasn’t.”

“A man says a lot of things he doesn’t mean to a woman,” Hap observed. “He’s like a big fish—it just takes patience to bring him in.”

“I’m not a fisherman, Captain. And I don’t care anymore.”

“God’s truth?”

“God’s truth.”

All too aware that he was watching her closely, she shifted uncomfortably in her chair, then leaned to place the book on a table. Standing up, she walked to stare out the deep-set window. He’d never spoken of her crawling into bed with him. In fact, there was nothing in his manner to indicate he even remembered it. But she knew it had to be there, somewhere beneath the surface, waiting to ambush her.

“If I was to believe that, I’d start hoping,” he said finally.

For a moment she didn’t follow him. “Believe what?” she asked, turning around.

“That you aren’t pining for Clay.”

“Pining isn’t the word I’d choose, Captain,” she murmured dryly. “Right now I’d just like to kill him.”

To him, it seemed as though every one of his thirty-eight years mocked him, telling him he was too old for her, that she’d laugh at him if he asked her. “I guess he’s got to be as old as me to want to settle down,” he said cautiously.

“I don’t want to talk about Clay McAlester.”

“Well, I was sort of talking about me.” He looked up. “I figure I’m about done rangerin’, what with the leg and all.” He was going to bungle everything, and he knew it, but he had to try. “I got a little money put aside—four thousand dollars—and I was fixing to buy myself a place, maybe run a few cattle on it. Nothing like the Ybarra, of course.”

“Clay said you wanted to be a farmer.”

“If the leg don’t heal better, I won’t be pushing any plows. And,” he added significantly, “I thought we weren’t talking about him.”

“We aren’t.”

“Good. Glad to get that behind me.” He’d got himself cornered now, and he was going to play hell getting out of it. “What I was wanting to say is that I admire you—have since that day at Stockton when Nate Hill died. Oh, I know it’s pretty damned presumptuous to even think it, but I figure a man’s got to put his mouth where his thoughts are if he’s ever going to get what he wants.”

It dawned on her where he was going. “Captain Walker,” she asked incredulously, “is this a proposal?”

He could save face and deny it, but then he’d never know. “Well, I was doing my damnedest to make it one,” he allowed sheepishly. “Oh, I know I’m not a young, handsome fellow—that you can do a helluva lot better than a half-lame saddle tramp like me, but if you could bring yourself to take me, I’d try my damnedest to make you happy.” Afraid if he stopped, she’d jump in and turn him down, he went on, pointing out, “And I know four thousand dollars ain’t much to a lady like yourself, but it’s my life savings, and I’d turn it over to you here and now, Amanda. I’ll even sign papers saying I don’t want your money, that it ought to go to the kids if we’re lucky enough to have any.” He took a deep breath, then dared to meet her eyes. “That’s about it, I guess. Oh, and for what it’s worth, I’ve fancied myself in love with you ever since I laid eyes on you.”

“I see.” She fought the urge to cry. “And it doesn’t make any difference about Clay? It doesn’t make any difference that I made a fool of myself the night I crawled into bed with you?”

“No. I was just wishing it was me you were looking for, that’s all.”

“And you know about everything, don’t you?”

“Reckon I can guess, anyway. A man like me’d be proud to have a woman like you, even if he was second choice.”

“What if … what if I can’t get over him?” she choked out.

“Oh, I know it ain’t going to be easy forgetting him.”

“No … no, it isn’t.” She sucked in her breath, releasing it slowly, striving for calm. “It’ll be harder than you know, Hap.”

“I’m willing to make the effort.”

The warmth in his eyes cut her like a knife, forcing her to look away. “I’m going to have his child,” she admitted baldly.

She could hear his breath catch, and then there was a long, painful silence. “I see,” he said.

It was as though the dam holding her tears burst, letting them spill down her cheeks. “Why don’t you just tell me I’m no better than those cantina whores?” she cried. “Why don’t you tell me I’m so worthless that he threw me away? Go ahead—say it!”

“I’ve got a lot of love to give, Amanda,” he answered quietly. “I’ve been storing it up a long time.” Rising, he hobbled to stand in front of her. “I reckon I can love Clay’s kid.” His arms enveloped her awkwardly, drawing her against his chest. “When you’ve been around as long as I have, you’ll learn nothing worth having comes easy,” he said softly.

“No … no, it doesn’t,” she whispered, letting him hold her.

He kissed her then with a surprising gentleness. As his mustache brushed against her lip, she closed her eyes and tried to pretend she felt something. But she didn’t. She was too empty, too vacant inside. Except for the baby. And she knew if she married him, she’d be cheating him terribly. He stepped back, dropping his hands. “I reckon that’s my answer, isn’t it?”

All she could do was nod.

“I was afraid of that. I guess we’re just both fools, huh?”

“Yes. I’m sorry … so very sorry, Hap. It would be so wrong of me to let you do it. You’d come to feel cheated someday.”

“I can make him marry you, Amanda, if that’s what you want.”

“No. I don’t even want him to know about it.”

He digested that, frowning. “All right, then, but what are you going to do if you don’t take one of us?”

“I’m going back to Boston.”

“Your kinfolk going to accept this?”

“I’m not going to ask them to … not for a while, anyway, not until I get used to the notion myself. Maybe not then. I don’t know. Right now, I can’t look Aunt Kate or Uncle Charles in the face.” She shook her head wearily. “I’ve thought and thought, Hap, and I can’t stay here.”

“Aren’t you afraid of running into ’em?”

“Boston’s a big place. No, I’m going to take a room somewhere, and maybe pretend I’m a widow until the baby comes. Then I guess I’ll decide where I go from there. Maybe the two of us will go abroad.” She looked up at him, and her mouth twisted into a lopsided smile. “I’m rich—remember? I can hide behind my money.”

He nodded. “Yeah, I guess you can. Well, just remember if you need a name for your late husband, you can use mine. All you’ve got to do is call yourself Mrs. Horace Walker.” His eyes met hers for a moment, then he grinned. “Ain’t any wonder folks call me Hap, is it? I got that from my ma, who always said I was a happy kid. Clay don’t even know about the Horace.”

“I couldn’t use your name.”

“Why not? It ain’t likely any other female’s going to want it.”

“Well, I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Folks’ll know you didn’t make it up—nobody in his right mind would take the name Horace if he had a choice in it.” He hobbled over to where she’d laid her book down. Picking it up, he studied the title. “Shakespeare, huh? You done with it?”

“Yes.”

“Reckon I’ll take it to bed with me. Be kinda nice to be able to spout some of this back at Clay the next time he starts quoting stuff to me.”

As his hand touched the door, she blurted out, “You aren’t going to tell him, are you? Promise me you won’t.”

He stopped. “No. I figure that’s up to you.”

“Thank you.”

As the door closed behind him, she sank to the chair behind her father’s big desk. She’d probably been foolish turning him down. There was no question in her mind that he’d have made a good, solid husband. But there’d always be Clay McAlester between them, and that was no way to make a marriage. Besides, if she’d married Hap, Clay would be sure to know about the child. Sooner or later, he’d know. And then it would be like a boil, festering, poisoning all of them. No, she had to get away.

She opened the drawer and took out a pencil. Wetting the nub, she wrote on a blank sheet of paper—Horace Walker; Mrs. Horace Walker. He was right—it had a certain ring of truth to it. And even if he married someone else, there’d be no one in Boston to know it.