Winning the Widow's Heart

In the care of the lawman

When Texas Ranger Jack Elder stormed the isolated Kansas homestead, he expected to find a band of outlaws. Instead, the only occupant is a heavily pregnant woman—and she’s just gone in to labor. A loner uneasy with emotion, Jack helps deliver widow Elizabeth Cole’s baby girl and can’t get back on the trail fast enough. The robber and murderer he’s after killed one of Jack’s own, and he vows to catch the man. But when he returns to check on Elizabeth and her little one, he discovers that she may hold the key to his unsettled past—and his hoped-for future.

Rare longings for a home of his own surprised Jack with their intensity.

He didn’t want a family, a permanent place to live. He was content with his work, satisfied with his contribution to society. But the widow had him picturing a life where he returned home every night to enjoy a hearty meal before a roaring fire. A home where he watched his own children grow.

He’d chosen his given profession for a reason. He didn’t want to be tied to the family ranch like his brothers, buried beneath the uncertainty of droughts and blight. He controlled his own destiny. And right now he controlled the destiny of an innocent man. If he forgot that, he surrendered his honor.

Elizabeth and her daughter had unleashed his protective instincts, that’s all. He’d quiet these disturbing yearnings for home and hearth once he found proof that Elizabeth’s husband had been involved with the outlaws. There was something here. He just knew it.

He’d steeled himself from the crushing loneliness of life on the trail before, and he’d harden his feelings once again.

SHERRI SHACKELFORD

A wife and mother of three, Sherri Shackelford says her hobbies include collecting mismatched socks, discovering new ways to avoid cleaning, and standing in the middle of the room while thinking, “Why did I just come in here?” A reformed pessimist and recent hopeful romantic, Sherri has a passion for writing. Her books are fun and fast paced, with plenty of heart and soul. She enjoys hearing from readers at sherrimshackelford@yahoo.com, or visit her website at sherrishackelford.com.

Winning the Widow’s Heart

Sherri Shackelford

www.millsandboon.co.uk

God setteth the solitary in families:

he bringeth out those which are bound with chains: but the rebellious dwell in a dry land.

—Psalms 68:6

To Mothers:

To Rita Rounds Shackelford, for the beautiful soul

I never had a chance to meet, for all the extraordinary books she never had a chance to write. Thank you for giving me the most precious gift of all: my husband, Todd. Your generous spirit shines through your children.

To Bonnie Preble, for always believing in me,

even when I didn’t believe in myself.

To the three greatest characters ever conceived:

Jocelyn, Shawn and Noah

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

Dear Reader

Questions for Discussion

Chapter One

Outside Cimarron Springs, Kansas, 1870s

A shrill scream from inside the homestead split the frosty air.

Jack Elder flattened his back against the cabin’s rough-hewn logs, his Smith & Wesson drawn. Icy fear twisted in his gut. He couldn’t think about the woman inside, couldn’t let himself imagine what had ripped that tortured sound from her.

Head cocked to one side, he strained to hear voices over the howling wind. How many men were inside? Was Bud Shaw one of them?

Dense clouds draped the afternoon in an unnatural twilight. Fat, heavy snowflakes sheeted from the sky, pillowing in heaps on the frozen ground. Jack nudged the deepening slush with his boot. No footsteps showed in the fresh covering. No animal prints, either.

The glass-paned windows had been covered with oilcloth to keep out the cold air and curious eyes. He cautiously edged toward the rear of the house, his shoulders hunched. A sharp gust of wind sucked the breath from his lungs. He stretched one hand around the corner, relieved to feel the raised surface of a door latch.

Another harsh shout mingled with the raging blizzard. The desperate cry hardened his resolve. He didn’t care how many men were inside—he couldn’t let that woman suffer any more.

Mustering his fortitude, he whipped around to face the door and kicked. Hard. Wood splintered. A gust of warm air scented with fresh-baked bread knocked back his hat. He lunged inside, his pistol arm leveled. A woman’s startled blue eyes met his shocked gaze over the silver barrel of her Colt .45.

Jack froze.

The lady standing before him was young, and nearly as round as she was tall. Her pale hair clung damply to her forehead, and a shapeless gingham dress in drab hues swathed her from head to toe. She kept her body partially obscured behind a tall chair, as if the flimsy wood might somehow repel a lead bullet.

Her hands shaking, the woman wrestled back the gun’s hammer. “Take one more step and I’ll blow your head off, mister.”

Jack thought he’d planned for everything, but staring down the barrel of a quivering Colt .45 was proving him woefully wrong. An armed woman hadn’t been on his list of contingencies.

Carefully pointing his own weapon at the ceiling, he cleared his throat. “I’m a Texas Ranger,” he called out loud enough to reach anyone who might be hiding. “You’re safe now, miss.”

Her face screwed up in pain. She tipped forward, clutching her stomach. Her gun weaved a dangerous path in the air. Fearful of a wild shot, Jack extended his arm toward her.

“Don’t touch me!”

He searched her panic-ridden features for any sign of injury. “Where are you hurt?”

“Nowhere.” She warned him back with a wave of her gun. “So get out.”

His instincts flared. She was obviously in pain, not to mention she’d been screaming loud enough to wake a hibernating grizzly moments before, yet she still refused help. Was she trying to warn him? Had the outlaws set a trap?

Jerking his thumb, he indicated a door on the far side of the room. “Is he in there?” he asked, his voice hushed. “Where’s Bud Shaw?”

“No one here by that name,” she gasped. “Now get out. I don’t want any trouble.”

Liquid splashed onto the wood plank flooring at her feet. Her face paled, and her eyes grew as large as twin harvest moons. Frigid air swept through the broken door.

The truth hit Jack like a mule kick. She wasn’t plump, she was pregnant. Very pregnant. He hadn’t stumbled into Bud’s hideout—he’d barged into a peaceful homestead. The lady of the house was understandably spooked, and about to give birth at any moment.

He didn’t need a sawbones to tell him the woman’s bag of waters had just broken. Jack raised his eyes heavenward and offered up a quick prayer for guidance.

“Lady, you got a heap o’ trouble,” he said at last, “but I ain’t part of it.”

She staggered to the left, the weapon still clutched in her hand.

With a quick sidestep, he dodged the business end of the barrel. “Ma’am,” he spoke, keeping his voice quiet and soothing, “I’m holstering my weapon.”

She aimed her gun dead center at his chest.

Anxiety rose like bile in his throat. Nothing was more unpredictable than a frightened civilian with a firearm. Not to mention she was unsteady on her feet and in obvious pain. The sooner he disarmed her, the better.

His decision made, he crept forward, his arms spread wide to display his empty hands. “Where’s your husband? Has he gone to fetch help?”

She glanced away, as if considering her answer.

His stomach clenched. “You’re alone here, aren’t you?”

Her full, rose-colored lips pursed into a thin line. She shook her head in denial.

Annoyed by her refusal to look him in the eye, Jack grunted. He could guess the meaning of those loaded pauses and hesitant answers.

His sharp gaze surveyed the room once more. An enormous cast-iron stove dominated the space to his right. A single pine table and four crude chairs filled the corner behind the woman, a side cupboard and a pie safe flanked the open kitchen area. No masculine boots rested on the rag rug. No overcoat hung on the sturdy hooks beside the door. Ten years as a Texas Ranger had given him a heap of insight into people.

Everybody lied, just not for the same reasons.

He assumed his most charming smile to put her at ease. “I’m Jack Elder, and I’m not going to hurt you. I’ve been tracking a gang of bank robbers through Kansas. You haven’t been robbing any banks, have you?”

She scowled at his joke, then another pain racked her body. She doubled over, pressing her free hand beneath the shelf of her belly.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Jack caught her around the forearm. Her startled gaze flew to his face. Though her wild, frightened eyes pierced his rigid control, he held firm. Careful to keep his touch gentle, he pried the Colt loose from her trembling fingers, swiftly releasing the hammer with a seasoned flick of his thumb.

She narrowed her eyes. “Are you really a Texas Ranger?”

Jack stepped away, hardening his heart against her suffering. Emotions clouded judgment—and poor judgment got people killed.

After hooking his finger into the gun’s trigger guard, he flipped back the collar of his jacket to reveal the silver star he’d carved from a Spanish coin. Uncertainty flitted across her face, followed by reluctant acceptance of the tarnished evidence of his profession.

“Ranger or not,” she said. “You have no right to be here.”

Habits honed from years on the trail had heightened his senses. The woman had a curious lilt to her voice, the barest hint of an accent in the way she spoke. She wasn’t from around these parts, but then again, who was?

He let his coat fall back into place. “Ma’am, you need to lie down. That baby is fixing to come.”

“No,” she cried, stumbling away. “It’s not time. I checked the calendar. It’s too soon.”

“I don’t think your baby is on the same schedule.”

“But I can’t have the baby now. I’m not ready.”

Jack heaved an inward sigh. Marvelous. She was delusional and in labor. He definitely hadn’t planned for this. She appeared oblivious to the telling mess at her feet, to the growing chill in the cabin, to—well—to everything. As if ignoring the situation might somehow make it all go away—make him go away.

He shifted his weight, considering his options. Best not to push her too hard. Mother Nature would deliver the full realization of her circumstances soon enough.

She mumbled something beneath her breath and vigorously shook her head. “No, it’s definitely too soon. I have everything planned out for the last week in November.”

Another glance at her rounded belly heightened his trepidation. A little nudge in the right direction never hurt. “You look plenty ready to me.”

Her expression turned icy. “And what do you mean by that?”

“Well…” he stalled. “You’re, you…”

A flush crept up his neck. While there was no polite way to indicate the most obvious symptom of her condition, she was a little too far along in the birthing process for his peace of mind. Wherever her husband had gone, it didn’t appear the man would be returning home anytime soon. Without another person to watch over the woman, Jack’s options were limited. Unless he took control of the situation and found a reasonable way to extract himself, they were both in a mess of trouble.

“Do elaborate,” she demanded. “I’m what?”

Suddenly hot, he slid the top button of his wool coat free. He’d just come from Cimarron Springs, and it was forty-five minutes to town for the doctor. Leaving the woman alone that long was out of the question. Grateful for the breeze from the busted door, Jack released the second button. Surely someone was watching out for the woman? Even in this desolate land a person was never truly alone. She must have friends or family in the area.

A teeth-chattering shiver rattled her body, buckling her defensive posture. She wrapped her arms protectively around her distended stomach. “This is my home, and I want you to leave.”

“You and me both.”

He’d rather face an angry rattler than a fragile woman any day. But the sight of her pale face tugged at his conscience. Of course he’d do the right thing. He always did the right thing, especially when it came to women and children.

That code of honor had been ingrained in him since his youth. “I can’t go until I know you’re settled.”

Conscious of the dropping temperature and her growing discomfort, he backed his way to the broken door, his attention riveted on the woman. Snow swirled around his ankles, dusting the cabin floor with white flakes.

Her gaze skittered to the gun in his holster. “You’re trespassing on my property.” She tightened her arms over her rounded belly, highlighting the swell. “Return my gun this instant.”

He nudged the sagging door closed with his heel. Wind whistled through the cracked hinges. “I can’t do that. You might need my help, and I can’t have you shooting me.”

He rested her Colt on the sturdy worktable before the stove, then covered the weapon with his hat. “I might be a Texas Ranger, but my family owns a cattle ranch. I haven’t delivered any babies, but I’ve brought a passel of calves into this world, and I’ve got a fair understanding of the process. Once your bag of waters breaks, there’s no going back.”

She started, as if noticing the wet floor for the first time. “Oh, my goodness. What a mess. I—I need a cloth.”

She waddled to the side cupboard, swinging the door wide to rummage through the shelves.

Jack blew out a hard breath, letting her prattle about her chore. He’d seen that same vacant stare plenty of times before. His first year as a Ranger, he’d come upon a homestead after a Comanche raid. The woman of the house was setting the table for supper, her clothing torn and bloodied, while her husband and three young children lay slaughtered on the dirt-packed floor.

His chest constricted at the memory. He’d never forget the mother’s dark footprints circling her dead children’s bodies. From that moment on, he’d hardened his feelings to the suffering he witnessed in order to preserve his own sanity.

The pregnant woman faced him, her chin set in a stubborn angle, a square of linen clutched to her chest. “The man you’re looking for isn’t here, so you can leave now, mister.”

“What’s your name?” he asked, his tone deliberately brusque. Most decent folks responded honestly to a direct question.

“Elizabeth. E-Elizabeth Cole.”

He offered her another friendly grin. His questions had the added benefit of keeping her distracted. “See, that wasn’t so hard, Elizabeth.” He also found people answered to their own name, even when they ignored everything else. “Where’s your husband?”

Her eyes welled with tears. Sniffling, she blinked them away. “He’s dead.”

Jack bowed his head, shielding himself from the agony in her steady gaze. She definitely wasn’t lying now. The way her emotions paraded across her expressive face, she’d make a terrible criminal.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he replied.

She was awfully young to be a widow. Jack sometimes felt the good Lord had let evil concentrate west of the Mississippi.

He opened and closed his mouth a few times to speak, finally deciding to give her a moment to collect herself before any more questions. Judging from her condition, the man couldn’t have been gone for too long. In this harsh land, it was best not to get attached to anything, or anyone.

When she finally glanced up, he asked, “Do you have any family or friends in the area?”

“The McCoys live just over the rise.”

Hope sparked in his chest. “Is there a Mrs. McCoy?”

“There’s a Mrs. McCoy, a Mr. McCoy—” she ticked off each name with a finger to the opposite hand “—and five little McCoys.”

Relief weakened his knees. Delivering babies was best left to women and doctors—and he didn’t qualify as either. “Thank heaven for the McCoys.”

He’d find a way to contact the family as soon as Elizabeth was settled. With his immediate worry eased, he stepped forward, motioning with one hand. “Let’s get you someplace where you can rest, Mrs. Cole.”

She eyed him with obvious distrust.

Flummoxed by her stubbornness, Jack paused. Now what? Give him a raging outlaw or a drunken killer any day. He wasn’t equipped for this kind of sensitive situation. Those teary blue eyes were sorely testing his vow to remain detached.

She lurched to one side, clutching the ladder-back chair for support. “Oh, dear,” she moaned.

Feeling helpless and out of his element, he cupped her elbow. Her wary gaze swept over his thick wool coat, lingering on his stamped, silver buttons. Her jaw clenched. He had the uneasy sensation she had just sized him up, and found him lacking.

Jolted by her odd reaction, he dropped his hold. “I’m not going to hurt you, Elizabeth.”

She pinched shut her eyes against another pain, then fumbled for his hand, threading her fingers through his in a silent plea for comfort. His heart stuttered at the unexpected gesture.

How long since her husband had died? How long had she been pregnant and alone, solely responsible for the grueling work required to run this homestead?

After a long, tense moment, her delicate features relaxed. The grip on his hand loosened.

“That one wasn’t so bad,” she said, though her wan smile indicated otherwise.

“Let’s get you away from this breeze.” He nodded toward the back of the house. “Someone near broke your door in two.”

“I hope that same someone repairs the damage before he leaves.”

She lowered her head, then yanked her hand free, as if surprised to see their fingers intertwined.

Keeping his gaze averted, he flexed his fist a few times to shake off the lingering warmth of her skin. He didn’t want to look at her, didn’t want to see the raw edge of fear in her eyes. Didn’t she realize he was one of the good guys?

Following the strangely intimate moment, an awkward silence stretched between them. The widow was a curious mix of bold courage and heartbreaking vulnerability. She’d been in labor, isolated and alone, yet she’d met his forceful entrance with rare fortitude. Despite her blustery grit, he sensed her reserve of energy was running lower than a watering hole in July.

She brushed the hair from her forehead with a weary sigh. “Maybe I will have a rest.”

“That sounds like the best idea I’ve heard all day.”

She leaned heavily on his arm as he eased her past the cast-iron stove, through the doorway to another room. An enormous four-poster bed dominated the space. A wedding-ring quilt in faded pinks and dull greens covered the mattress. An old porcelain doll with matted chestnut hair rested between two fluffy feather pillows.

Jack scratched his forehead. “That’s quite an impressive piece of furniture.”

Her cheeks flushed pink. “My husband and I bought the homestead from another family along with the furniture. They made it almost six years before they gave up.” Avoiding his curious gaze, Elizabeth shuffled to a sturdy oak dresser. A red kerosene lantern with a floral-etched, fluted cover lit the room. She tugged on the top drawer, sending the flame flickering, then glanced at him askance. “I’m sorry I lied to you earlier. I didn’t want you to know I was alone.”

“I didn’t give you much choice.”

She kept her eyes downcast, her discomfort palpable. While he appreciated the awkward impropriety of the situation, his nagging concern for her welfare took precedence over their mutual embarrassment.

They had a more pressing problem to solve. “Is this your first baby?”

She nodded.

“How long have the pains been comin’?”

“About four or five hours.”

The knot of anxiety in his chest eased. The birthing processes often took hours, sometimes even days. “If there’s one thing I do know, it’s that first babies take their good sweet time in coming. I’ve got three older brothers, and they’ve blessed me with two nieces and six nephews. Not a one of them took less than twelve hours to be born.”

She met his gaze, her pale blue eyes full of hope. “Then you can go to town. Cimarron Springs has a doctor. Two of them.”

“Ma’am, there’s a snowstorm blowing in. I’ll be lucky to make it to the McCoys, let alone town.”

Her shoulders slumped and his heart went out to her. Pain and fear had a way of sapping a body’s strength.

“This isn’t exactly a church social, I know that.” He paused, searching for a way to alleviate her fears. “Tell you what. I’ll get my horse out of the weather and check on the animals. Won’t take me more than a minute. You can change and lay down for a rest. Keep track of the pains, though. They should keep coming closer together. When you’re settled, I’ll skedaddle over to the McCoy’s spread for help. With five children, they should be well versed in delivering babies.”

She bobbed her head in a distracted nod, pressing her knuckles into the small of her back with a grimace.

He scooted to her side. “Don’t hold your breath through the pains. Just let ’em come.”

“Is that what you tell the cows?” she snapped.

“I heard the midwife say that to my sister-in-law. I tell the cows to moo through the pain.”

A reluctant smile appeared through her scowl.

“That’s better.” He’d paced the floor with his brothers through enough births to know Elizabeth was going to need all the humor she could muster. “You’ve got about six to eight minutes before the next pain. I’ll be back lickety-split.”

A feather-light touch on his sleeve stilled his retreat. “When you return from the McCoy’s, you can bunk down in the barn until the weather clears.” She swallowed, glancing away. “But that’s all. I expect you to clear out at first light.”

Jack tipped his head in agreement. The widow was still a might skittish about his intentions. Considering their less-than-cordial introduction, he couldn’t blame her. “Don’t worry, Elizabeth. Everything is going to be all right.”

“Easy for you to say, mister. You’re not the one having a baby.”

Jack couldn’t help a dry chuckle. There was nothing like a crisis to reveal a man’s true character, and he was encouraged by her fortitude. “You’ll manage. You faced down an armed intruder, after all.”

She cut him a sidelong glance full of wry skepticism before turning her back. Inexplicably annoyed with her cool response, he toyed with the wick on the lantern to cover his confusion. When had his social skills slipped? Usually a few charming words and a friendly smile were enough to put most people at ease.

With a shrug he closed the door to allow her privacy, then crossed through the kitchen. He loped out the splintered rear exit, snatching his hat on the way.

Driving snow pelted his face, stinging his bare cheeks. He tucked his scratchy wool collar beneath his chin as he fought through needle-sharp wind to his disgruntled horse. The gelding snorted a smoky breath, tossing its head. Icicles had already matted in the horse’s thick mane and tail.