A Match Made in Texas Page 11

  Grace didn’t know to hide the struggle that warred across her face. Clayton watched, fascinated. She was proud but practical. Could she set aside her pride and accept his help?

  “The people here are kind to look after you.” He took a sip.

  Her mouth turned down. “They are. I only wish they didn’t have to. I don’t see what good this disease can accomplish.”

  “Disease?”

  “If that’s what it is. But it’s not contagious. The doctor had to convince a score of concerned parents.”

  Her rueful smile covered a pain he could relate to—being cast out of society, viewed with suspicion. And then he’d marched in, treating her like she should be doing better. Shame on him.

  Yet she’d taken his challenge. Hadn’t she cleaned the glass herself? And she didn’t seem to hold a grudge for it.

  “When did it happen?” he asked.

  Grace wrapped her hands around the steaming mug. “For years I couldn’t see at night. Stumbling around after dusk was normal for me, but last winter I realized that even in the light my sight was narrowing. By February, I couldn’t see all five rows of my students from my desk. I had to turn my head to catch those on the edge. By the time summer break commenced I could barely make out two rows side by side. I finally had to admit I couldn’t continue to teach. When I saw a physician, he said it was only a matter of time.”

  “And now?”

  “It’s like looking through the bottom of a pill bottle—as narrow as a spool of thread and cloudy most of the time. If I search I can find something, but it’s hardly worth the effort. The second I set my fork down, it’s gone. I look and look . . . and it’s only going to get worse.” Her chin rose as if daring him to offer a soggy platitude. Probably too many had already overdone the pity.

  “Sounds like a challenge, figuring out how to make it on your own. If we put some thought to it, there are probably ways to make this place friendlier for you.” He drained his mug. “For instance, how are you supposed to know what’s in the pantry the way those jars are all jumbled in there?”

  “Usually Emilie sets dinner out for me.”

  “But Emilie has better things to do than to be your nursery maid.” Her eyes flashed, but she kept her mouth shut. “You’d rather succeed on your own than cause more work for her, wouldn’t you? Surprise everyone with what you can do?”

  “They’re more likely to be mad than surprised, but I’d prefer their disapproval to being helpless.”

  Already he sensed her resolve forming. How could the town of Dry Gulch have expelled this vibrant woman? Instead of sending her out to some isolated homestead, they should’ve elected her mayor. He didn’t have long, but he’d do his best to see her conquer this malady before he left.

  Chapter 4

  The jangling traces of Emilie’s wagon woke Grace. Morning already? She and the hired hand had stayed up late, talking through plans and ideas for the place. Without a clock for reference, the time had passed too quickly. Grace rolled onto her back, relieved to see a golden glow. Another night defeated by morning. How many more would she witness?

  She reached for the dress thrown across the rocker and then stopped. Last night she’d undressed in total darkness. This morning—well there was a man outside who could see, even if she couldn’t. She’d wait on Emilie’s assurance that no one was peeking.

  Just another thing she couldn’t do without Emilie’s being there. Last night’s conversation had hurt. She didn’t like being told that she wasn’t achieving all she could, and yet she had more hope now than at any moment since that dreadful visit to the doctor. At least someone believed she could do better and treated her like the intelligent woman she was. After months of being cosseted, she was ready to adjust—even if it meant picking up glass and getting cut in the process.

  What was taking Emilie so long? Grace grabbed her brush and stroked through her black hair, twisting and pinning the thick cord until it felt secure. She’d never had much use for a mirror, a quirk that proved convenient now.

  At the knock, Grace went to the door and threw the bolt. “You’re late. Are the children well?”

  “They’re fine, just took extra effort to get them headed to school this morning.” Emilie traipsed into the house and pecked her cheek. “And I’m not going a step further until you tell me about that man out there.”

  Grace closed the door behind her. “Don’t pretend you’re surprised to see him. You can’t imagine how close I came to humiliating myself over that newspaper notice you placed.”

  “Newspaper? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Emilie sounded sincere, but then again, without seeing her expression, Grace was a poor judge. “Let me get dressed first. Will you keep an eye on the windows and make sure Mr. Weber is nowhere near?”

  Emilie’s dark form blocked the front window. “He’s hiding in the barn. Seems afraid of his own shadow. I had to hail him three times before he’d acknowledge me.”

  Grace went to her room and pulled her skirt on beneath her nightgown. Clayton, shy? He hadn’t hesitated to speak to her. “What did you say to him?” she called through the doorway.

  “I asked him if he was your brother, and he said he was your handyman. Well, as you can imagine, I nearly gave up the ghost right then and there, but before I could get another question in, he turned and skedaddled to the barn. Left me sputtering in the wagon.” The lid of her crockery jar rattled.

  “If you didn’t place the ad, who did?”

  “What ad?” She set the crock on the counter with a satisfying thud.

  Grace buttoned the last of her shirtwaist and returned to the front room. “Oh, you’ll love to hear of me being so daft. Mr. Weber came with a newspaper and said he was answering an ad. . . .”

  When it came to appreciating a story at Grace’s expense, Emilie did not disappoint. She hooted and guffawed until even Grace was wiping tears from her face.

  “You asked him if he’d been married before?”

  Grace clutched her side with laughter and nodded.

  Emilie blew out a strong breath. “If you could see him, Grace, he’s a strapping specimen.”

  “Even I made out that much. What’s his face like . . . if an old married woman like you notices such things?” Grace filled her lungs with the savory smells wafting from Emilie’s delivery.

  “Handsome, at least what I could tell. Like I said, he was bashful. Didn’t look me directly in the eye. Come to think of it, maybe it’s not a good idea to have him here. What if he’s a murderer? What if he’s a drifter who robs blind women because they can’t identify him?”

  “Then he would’ve robbed me last night before anyone knew he was here. Besides, someone in town gave him the newspaper and directed him to the place. Someone must trust him.”

  Emilie jangled the silverware drawer open. “If I were you I’d break windows, tear shingles, pull fences down, and do anything I could to give him more work. Keep him around and you might not need to advertise for a husband after all.”

  Grace waved good-bye, spirits boosted from their chat. So little of interest had happened to her since moving to the farm that she’d much rather joke about the new handyman than give another report on her worsening malady.

  She hummed as she removed all the canned goods from the shelves. If she would’ve told Emilie her plan, Emilie would’ve insisted on doing it, but Grace was looking forward to the task.

  A knock sounded on the door. Benny yipped.

  “Clayton?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Come on in. You’re probably looking for your dinner.”

  “Saw your friend come to the door, but I didn’t want to interrupt your visit.”

  Grace dimpled. Their fun would’ve been dampened with him present. Couldn’t speak with the object of the conversation across the table from them.

  Slowly but steadily she found a bowl and spoon for him. Carefully she ladled out the stew while he took his seat. Emilie had moved the ti
n cups after washing, and it took Grace a moment to find them. She stretched on her tiptoes to reach the back of the shelf. Clayton’s chair groaned just as her fingers brushed the cold tin.

  “You got it?” He was closer than she remembered.

  She filled the cup with water, turned, and waited for him to take it from her.

  “Thank you.” His fingers brushed over hers. He sat.

  She could wait in her room until he was finished, but Grace couldn’t bring herself to leave. Wouldn’t she get enough solitude in the future? He might be shocked at her forwardness. He might think it inappropriate that she converse with the help, but what did it matter? He wouldn’t be in Randall County much longer.

  “I’ve had time to think over your suggestions, and I’m taking your advice about rearranging the shelves. I should know what I have in my pantry.”

  He grunted. “All right, then. What’s your plan?”

  Grace settled her backside into her chair and leaned her arms against the table. “Obviously, writing descriptions would be a waste, so I’m going to use string. I’ll use varying thicknesses of string and ribbon. One will denote okra, one tomatoes, one green beans, and so on. Then I’ll group them together on the shelves.”

  “That could work.” His spoon clinked against the bowl. “What else do we need to brand?”

  We? Grace couldn’t help the warmth that spread through her at the single word. He wasn’t doing it for her, and he wasn’t leaving her to do it on her own. They were working together.

  “I can’t think of anything offhand.”

  He stood and placed his dishes in the sink. “Do you know your spices?”

  “I can smell them.” Walking all the way around the table to avoid bumping into him, she reached the pantry.

  “How about the flour and sugar?”

  “The canisters are different. For now, it’s only the Mason jars that trouble me.” Grace reached above her head for the top shelf, but the furthest jars were just beyond her grasp.

  She felt rather than heard him. Warmth, a presence—how could she know exactly where he stood when he hadn’t touched her? She remained motionless, afraid that any movement would bring contact with the stranger. And he was a stranger.

  The jars slid across the top shelf, then plunked onto the countertop.

  “That’s all of them.”

  She could breathe again. Carefully she turned, still sensing his nearness. “If you wouldn’t mind . . . I need help sorting them.”

  Maybe he nodded. He stepped away and soon he was humming a happy tune while Grace rifled through her scrap bag. With her scissors she sheared the strings, then began tying them on as Clayton told her which group was which.

  “Umm, this string doesn’t match the other tomato jars,” he said.

  Grace searched for the mismarked jars. Clayton took her hand and guided her to them. She ran her fingers over the yarn. “They feel the same.”

  “Then I reckon it’ll do,” he laughed.

  Grace smiled but couldn’t relax until the warmth of his touch had faded.

  “I’m starting on your barn this afternoon.” Clayton’s voice echoed inside the small pantry. “Some of the gaps have been mud patched, but they won’t hold the winter out. There’s new lumber left over from the roof, but I need more nails and hardware to shore the pens up. Tomorrow I’ll go to town—”

  “I could go with you.” The words had shot out before she could stop them.

  The floor groaned beneath his feet. “It’s a long walk.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with my constitution, and I’ve been stranded here for a week. Besides, I used to live in town, and it’ll be good to be around people again.”

  His shoulder brushed hers as he picked up the jars. “I didn’t peg you for a homesteader, but I’m not sure you strike me as a socialite, either.”

  “So I can’t make it on my own, but no one wants to be around me? Is that your impression?”

  Clayton chuckled. “Your friend mentioned your brother. Is he coming to help you?”

  “Not if I have anything to say about it. We’re not close.” Grace tied the last string and rued the day she’d ever let her brother’s name fall on the ears of anyone in Dry Gulch. “He came to America before I was born. When my parents died on the journey from Ireland, I was left with him.” She fiddled with the frayed ends of the thread. “He wasn’t pleased to have a child to raise, so as soon as I was old enough, I struck out on my own.”

  “From where?”

  “Fort Worth.”

  She pushed the last of the jars toward Clayton. So vivid were her memories of being presented to her grieving, scowling brother that she almost missed Clayton’s next words.

  “I’m from Fort Worth.”

  At the trepidation in his voice, she turned. What did he fear? Why did his statement ring of confession?

  “It’s unlikely our paths crossed.” She ran her fingernail along a split in the countertop. “My brother was a tinker, so most of the time we traveled through the countryside repairing pots and pans. When he came to town, he was up to no good and left me behind. Occasionally I attended school in communities as we passed through, but never for long. We weren’t your typical family.”

  His voice dropped. “My dad died when I was young, too. I lived with my grandparents.” He walked away to stand near the pantry. The physical distance seemed to echo a distance between them that hadn’t been there before.

  “Is that all? The way you say it sounds dire.”

  The hinges of the pantry door creaked as if they were bearing weight. “So you didn’t go to school,” Clayton said, “but you’re a schoolteacher?”

  Because she heard respect instead of mockery, she’d allow him the misdirection this once. “I loved school. Couldn’t understand why other students complained about attending. Along the way I met generous teachers who gave me books and checked on my progress the next year when I came through. Reading was my escape.” One that was no longer available.

  “So what now? I think with some planning, you could learn to manage the house on your own, but wouldn’t you be happier in town?”

  “Perhaps, but this situation became available.”

  “Are you resigned to living here alone? Forever? I’ve got to wonder what you hope to accomplish by fixing the place up.”

  She didn’t have to defend herself, but it irritated her that he thought her impractical, as if her actions had no ultimate aim.

  “Everyone wants land. Look at all the men gathering to race for a free homestead in the Cherokee Strip land run in a little over a week. Those who lose will be milling about by the thousands, and if the harebrained fools are willing to gamble their lives in a race, maybe one would just as soon settle here.” She filled the basin with water and sprinkled soap flakes into it.

  “You do understand the reason the harebrained fools are willing to risk their lives is because they can’t afford a homestead? You don’t think one of them could pay you enough to buy you out, do you?”

  “No,” she snapped. “I’m not daft. I’d live here, too.”

  “With a man? A stranger?” He sucked in his breath with a low whistle. “Exactly what kind of deal do you hope to strike?”

  Grace’s face burned. She tucked her chin. “Never you mind.”

  “You can’t leave me to imagine the worst, can you? Come on, Grace. Maybe I can sharpen your strategy, clarify your terms.”

  She spun toward him. “Leave me be, Clayton Weber. You have no right—” But then she caught sight of a pair of twinkling hazel eyes. “Oh, I see you!”

  A white line creased his brow, but didn’t lessen the intensity of his gaze. “You see me? But it’s foggy?”

  No fog could dull his warm, intelligent eyes. She drank them in as long as she dared. Not only was he beautiful, but he could possibly be the last man she ever saw. “Yes. Of course. I meant that I found you.” Quickly she tried to take in his high forehead, curly hair, crooked nose—all the qualities she coul
d catch before this window of sight closed again.

  “You have advice for me?” Grace couldn’t care less about his input. She only wanted to see his mouth work, to tie it to the voice that had already become familiar.

  His generous lips widened into a smile. “I’ll do you the honor of assuming you’d marry, no sharing a homestead otherwise. So the question is how do you lure these reckless ne’er-do-wells to your lair? Perhaps an advertisement?”

  “Mm-hmm.” How could she attend his words when so focused on drinking in his features? Emilie hadn’t exaggerated in her praise.

  “Now, the danger of placing a notice would be guaranteeing the quality of your applicants. You don’t want them showing up on your porch with a newspaper in hand—” His mouth formed a circle, then spread into a satisfied grin. “You placed a notice, didn’t you? That’s why when I got here . . .”

  Before Grace could stop herself, her eyes had traveled again to his. They practically snapped with laughter. She spun around, turning her back to him.

  “I did not place that ad. Don’t be ridiculous.”

  His voice dripped with amusement. “Not for a handyman, but maybe another ad. Had I not read the paper to you, we’d be an old married couple by now.”

  A slippery mug sprang from her grasp and bounced across the countertop. Clayton caught it before it crashed to the floor.

  “I did not place any notices,” she sputtered, “so cease with your vain speculation. Now, why don’t you get back to work? I’m too busy to continue this conversation.”

  “There’s only my bowl to wash. If you want me to—”

  “Not just that. I have to—” Grace’s thoughts flitted around the room trying to think of anything left undone. “I have to give Benny a bath.”

  “You bathe the dog?”

  “Just . . . just go.”

  He tapped the countertop one last time and headed toward the barn, whistling Wagner’s “Bridal Chorus.”

  Grace listened to him stride away and wondered how long the clarity—as narrow as it was—would last. Her eyes burned from the effort of splitting the veil, alerting her that the reprieve could only be temporary.