Rekindled (20 page)

Not having thought about it in years, Larson recalled a conversation with Kathryn’s father that occurred before he’d taken Kathryn as his bride. The sting of Cummings’ words wounded afresh.

“My daughter can do better than you, Jennings. Kathryn has beaus lined up, just waiting for even a cursory glance. But she won’t look at them because of you. Those men are able to give her the opportunities she deserves, provide the kind of life she’s accustomed to.”
William Cummings had higher aspirations for his daughter and was accustomed to getting his way.
“Name your price, Jennings.”

Remembering that day in Cummings’ plush study, how he’d felt so out of place while trying hard not to show it, brought back a flood of uncertainty. Kathryn had sworn to him that she didn’t care about any of it—the money, the inheritance, the social status. All she wanted was him. But Larson had watched the fire inside her die through the years, and he suspected her inability to conceive contributed to that in large part. Though they’d never spoken of it, he wondered now if she’d grown to resent him for it through the years.

Pulled back to the present, his attention was drawn to a small gathering of people huddled in a fenced off portion of land behind the white steepled church. He remembered visiting the church once with Kathryn, years back, when she’d begged him to stay over for Sunday services on one of their supply trips. He’d begrudged every minute of it. The tightness of the pews, the hushed whispers and grave expressions that hinted to him of disapproval.

Kathryn had thanked him no less than five times on the way home for taking her, but the hour wasted that Sunday morning only confirmed within Larson that he best communed with God among His creation and away from His people.

As Larson moved closer to the gathering, he realized their purpose. Two men worked together to lower a coffin suspended by ropes into a hole in the ground. Three other people looked on in silence. A woman dressed all in black and two men beside her. Larson guessed that from the Bible in his hands one of the men was a preacher, but it wasn’t the same sour-faced fellow he remembered behind the pulpit all those years ago.

Watching the sparse gathering, Larson suddenly felt for the departed soul and wondered what kind of life the person had led that would draw so few well-wishers. Then the woman turned her head to speak to one of the men beside her.

A stab of pain in his chest sucked Larson’s breath away.

Kathryn
.

He dismounted and started to go to her, but something held him back.

She walked to the pile of loose dirt and scooped up a handful. She stepped forward and, hesitating for a moment, finally let it sift through her fingers back to the earth. Larson was close enough to hear the hollow sound of dirt and pebbles striking the coffin below. He was certain he saw her shudder. Her movements were slow and deliberate, as though carefully thought out. She looked different to him somehow. He drank her in and could feel the scattered pieces of his life coming back together.

His thoughts raced to imagine who could be inside that coffin. She knew so few people. His mind quickly settled on one. Bradley Duncan. While rubbing the numbness from his right leg, he remembered the afternoon he’d found the young man at the cabin visiting Kathryn. Despite the past months of pleading with God to quell his jealous nature and for the chance to make things right, a bitter spark rekindled deep inside him.

He bowed his head. Would he ever possess the strength to put aside his old nature? At that moment, Kathryn turned toward him, and he knew the answer was no.

Larson didn’t want to believe it. He knew his wife’s body as well as his own, from vivid memory as well as from his dreams, and the gentle bulge beneath her skirts left little question in his mind. Larson’s legs felt as though they might buckle beneath him.

He hadn’t recognized his ranch foreman at first, but Larson watched as Matthew Taylor put a protective arm around Kathryn as though to steady her. An uncomfortable heat tightened Larson’s chest at the intimate gesture. Kathryn nodded to Taylor and casually laid a hand to her abdomen. He’d trusted Taylor with the two most important things in the world to him—his ranch and his wife. It would seem that Taylor had failed him on both counts. And in the process, had given Kathryn what he never could.

With Taylor’s hand beneath her arm, Kathryn turned away from the grave. Taylor whispered something to her. She smiled back, and Larson’s heart turned to stone. They walked past him as though he weren’t there. He suddenly felt invisible, and for the first time in his life, he wasn’t bothered by the complete lack of recognition. Defeat and fury warred inside him as he watched the couple walk back toward town.

When the preacher had returned to the church and the cemetery workers finished their task and left, Larson walked to the edge of the grave. He took in the makeshift headstone, then felt the air squeeze from his lungs. Reading the name carved into the splintered piece of old wood sent him to his knees. His world shifted full tilt.

Just below the dates 1828–1868 was the name—

L
ARSON
R
OBERT
J
ENNINGS

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

T
HE DAYS RAN TOGETHER, yet they were always the same.

Kathryn worked from dawn until well past dusk, ate when she wasn’t hungry, and slept to escape. She hadn’t realized what strength the hope of Larson’s return had instilled within her. Now, with that hope abandoned, the only thing that kept her moving forward was the remnant of their love growing inside her. Even the fervor to keep the land had lost some of its urgency. What good was the land if she and her child couldn’t share it with Larson? But she knew she had to keep struggling—she had to make a home for his child.

She rose early one morning, forcing one foot in front of the other, and parted from her normal routine. Myrtle had asked her to help serve on the breakfast shift, so Kathryn had rearranged her schedule with Mr. Hudson. She wove a path through the crowded boardwalk on her way to Myrtle’s. She brushed a hand over the spacious front panel of the black dress she’d worn to the funeral, and every day since. She’d sewn it to allow for coming months’ growth, and the recent changes in her body were proof that the space would soon be filled.

Looking down the plank walkway, Kathryn spotted Matthew Taylor speaking to an older gentleman unfamiliar to her. She quickly crossed the street, keeping her face averted. Mr. Taylor’s back was to her, and she hoped he hadn’t seen her. Though thankful for Matthew’s friendship and support in recent days, she’d grown increasingly awkward around him. The emotions his brown eyes had only hinted at before were now painfully obvious.

Glancing behind her and realizing she’d escaped Matthew’s notice, Kathryn slowed her pace. A definite twinge fluttered within her belly. They were growing more frequent. She warmed again, remembering the way Sadie’s cinnamon eyes had lit up when hearing about the baby. Asking beforehand if it’d be all right, Annabelle had brought Sadie over one morning that week. Kathryn had been thrilled to see her again. The quiet, reserved girl, only a child herself really, rarely smiled these days, according to Annabelle, so her reaction had been especially meaningful.

The day crawled by, but not for lack of work. Back at the haberdashery for the afternoon, Kathryn mended until the muscles in her fingers burned. Then she set to ironing the freshly washed shirts hanging on the rack in the back room.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Jennings?”

Mr. Hudson, her employer, was standing in the doorway. He held a mass of red roses in his hands.

“These just arrived.” His eyes twinkled. “There’s an envelope attached.”

Her curiosity piqued, Kathryn set the iron back on the grate positioned above the hearth’s glowing embers and wiped her hands on her skirt. “Who brought them?”

“I haven’t a clue,” he answered with a shrug, handing her the bouquet. “I went to the front counter a moment ago and found them there. It would seem you have an admirer, Mrs. Jennings. And an extravagant one, at that.”

He purposefully twitched his mustache, and Kathryn had to smile. A man well into his years, Mr. Hudson treated her more like a daughter than an employee. She thought of her own father and her smile faded.

The mischievous twinkle in his eyes softened. “There’re twenty men to every woman out here, Mrs. Jennings, and I told you it wouldn’t be long until one of them started taking notice of you. You’re a beautiful young woman. You need time to grieve your late husband, and that’s only right, but I’ve a feeling—and please take this the way it’s meant—that you grieved for your husband long before they found his body.” He looked away briefly. “I mourned my Rachel for nearly eight years before I was ready to love another woman in that way. But I was much older than you are now, and . . .” His eyes regained the twinkle as he rubbed his bald head. “I didn’t have hair the color of sunshine on wheat and eyes that could melt a man’s heart at a glance.”

Kathryn blew a limp curl from her forehead and wiped the beads of perspiration. She tried for a smile. “Yes, I’m quite a catch, Mr. Hudson. If my charm and good looks didn’t win them, I’m certain my generous dowry would.”

With an endearing look, he shook his head and walked back to the front.

Kathryn lifted the flowers to her face, and Matthew Taylor immediately came to mind. He shouldn’t have gone to this trouble. Even if he, or another man, were to some day want her in that way, she couldn’t imagine opening her heart to someone else. She’d been avoiding Matthew Taylor, and he deserved better. She would find him and thank him for the flowers, then be honest with him about her feelings.

She opened the envelope and pulled out the stationery. Her mouth fell open at the name engraved across the top.

Dear Mrs. Jennings,

I’ve learned of your husband’s death and extend my deepest sympathies. My offer to help you still stands, as does the invitation for dinner.

Most sincerely,
Donlyn MacGregor

Katherine read the note again. A mixture of emotions stirred inside her—disbelief at Mr. MacGregor’s gall at inviting her to dinner while she was still in mourning, followed by a shameful spark of interest in his continued offer to help her keep the ranch.

The rest of the week passed in a fog, and as Kathryn walked home late that Friday night, she continued to weigh the options for trying to maintain ownership of the ranch. She couldn’t bring Larson back, but perhaps she could still keep his dream alive.

After all, he’d wanted to see the ranch succeed above anything else.

Sensing more than hearing a presence behind her, she slowed her steps and turned. The boardwalk was empty and dark. Still, she felt . . . something.

That presence stayed with her as she walked to the back of the men’s shop and bolted the door behind her. When she lay down to sleep on her cot sometime later, it was still with her. She cradled the music box against her chest. Gently lifting the lid, she fingered the inscription she didn’t need to see to read.

To Kathryn,
For all your heart’s desires.
My love, Larson
.

In that moment, the decision about whether or not to accept Donlyn MacGregor’s offer to help her became clear.

Kathryn waited outside Mr. Kohlman’s office. She pulled the watch from her pocket and checked it for the seventh time in almost thirty minutes. His secretary had said Mr. Kohlman was in and could see her. So why had he kept her waiting? She stood and crossed to the woman’s desk. “Excuse me, miss, but I’m already late for work. I’ll need to come back to see Mr. Kohlman some other—”

The door to his office opened.

Harold Kohlman’s thick sideburns bulged around his cheekbones as he grinned. “Mrs. Jennings, what a delight to see you again. Won’t you come in?”

Shoving aside her frustration, Kathryn nodded. Entering his office, she heard the metallic catch of a latch and noticed another door on the opposite side that she hadn’t seen before.

“Sit down, Mrs. Jennings, please. As a matter of fact, I was going to be contacting you soon, so you saved me the trouble.”

Kathryn turned her attention to the chair she’d occupied during their last meeting and quickly decided to remain standing. Somehow she felt more in control that way, less like a beggar. “No thank you, Mr. Kohlman, I don’t have much time this morning. I’ve brought another payment for my loan.” She laid an envelope on his desk, wondering how to work up the nerve to voice the real reason for her coming.

“You don’t have to see me for that, Mrs. Jennings. You can leave it with someone at the front counter. They can credit your account.” He flipped through the bills in the envelope. “However, you are still in arrears, and I’m afraid that—” He looked up sharply. “This is hardly a week’s worth, and you’re already several months behind.”

“Yes, I realize that. I’m bringing you all the money I have, and I promise to bring you more as soon as I can.”

His smile hinted at artful hypocrisy. “If you’re here to plead for another extension on your loan, Mrs. Jennings, I’m afraid my answer will be the same as last time.”