Page 78 of If the Boot Fits

“You can ride my paint,” Asher said, the beginning of a plan running through his brain. “His saddle is already adjusted for a shorter rider. I’ll bring my rented mount around and meet you by the front of the house.”

“I’ll get my boots.” Ida Mae crossed the kitchen to the small chamber that served as her bedroom.

“And I’ll watch over your boy,” Mrs. Stewart promised.

Ida Mae stopped briefly to catch her son’s waving fist and bring it to her mouth for a kiss. Then she slipped into her room to prepare for their ride.

“Asher?”

He turned to Samantha, his heart squeezing at the devastation etched into her beautiful face.

“Yes?”

He stood ready to vow whatever it took to give her a grip on hope. If she wanted him to swear to bring Clint home alive, he would. If she needed him to promise to make Kendrick pay for his crimes against her family, he would. Shoot, if she wanted him to guarantee that her father would pull through, he’d find a way to give her that, too. Whatever she needed.

“Be careful.” She peered up at him, her eyes pleading. “I can’t lose you.”

Asher’s heart twisted as the truth radiating from her gaze penetrated his chest. What she needed was him.

His throat tightened, and his voice rasped slightly when he answered her. “I’ll come home to you, sweetheart. I swear it. And Lord willing, I’ll bring Clint with me.”

Please be willing, he prayed, for I can’t bear the thought of breaking her heart by coming home without him.

35

The kitchen felt colder after Asher and Ida Mae left. Samantha sat on the floor, holding her father’s hand, her mind too numb to pray. All she could manage was to watch her daddy’s chest rise and fall.

He’d passed out again. Once Asher and Ida Mae departed, his iron will had succumbed to his body’s weakness. He’d done all he could to ensure his son’s safe return. All either of them could do now was wait. And hope.

She tried to be glad that he slept. Oblivion dulled pain. Aided healing. Yet she craved the reassurance of seeing his eyes. Of hearing his voice. The quiet rasp of his breathing heightened her apprehension and left her feeling alone and adrift. What if he never awoke?

“Here, sweet girl.” Mrs. Stewart unfolded a blanket and extended a corner toward Samantha. “Help me cover him.”

As if emerging from a fog, Samantha slowly released her father’s hand and pushed to her feet. A tingling ache radiated through her knees and back, making her movements awkward as she rose. How long had she been kneeling on the hard floor? Apparently long enough that Mrs. Stewart had dressed for the day and put up her hair.

Clasping the blanket edge, she helped stretch the covering over her father. She bent to arrange the top edge around the bandages on her father’s chest, then started to sink back down into her position at his side. Mrs. Stewart caught her by the elbow, however, and halted her descent.

“I’ll grab a low stool and sit with him for a bit.” The kind woman’s gaze felt like a hug as her lips curved into a sympathetic smile. “Why don’t you go upstairs and get cleaned up?”

Samantha glanced down her front. Dark red stains marred the dress she’d borrowed from Asher’s mother. Her petticoat would be worse. And her hands. She lifted them. Turned them over. Dried blood caked her skin in a thin layer. Seeing it brought on an itch she couldn’t dispel.

“Go on, sweetheart. Just think how much hope you’ll give your daddy if he opens his eyes to find your pretty face smiling over him.”

Samantha wrapped her arms around her middle, knowing Mrs. Stewart was right but finding it nearly impossible to move her feet. “What about Jimmy?”

Mrs. Stewart gently tugged Samantha away from her father and steered her toward the hall. “He’s in his high chair. The teething biscuits I gave him will keep him occupied for a while.” As if she sensed Samantha’s thoughts, Mrs. Stewart gentled her grip and stroked her arm in a comforting caress. “Your father is the toughest man I’ve ever known. He’s not going to fade away in the few minutes it takes you to wash up and put on a fresh dress.”

“But—”

“If his condition changes, I’ll call for you. I promise.”

Out of excuses, Samantha nodded and headed to the stairs. Feet as heavy as her heart dragged her to her room. She wanted to collapse on top of her bed and weep into her pillow, but she refused to surrender to despair. She was a Dearing. The only Dearing available to tend to the Three Cedars and its people. She’d not abandon them. It was her job to instill hope, to give direction, to be stalwart and steady.

Samantha crossed to the washstand, lifted the ewer, and poured water into the basin. Taking a cake of soap, she scrubbed the blood from her hands and scraped it out from under her nails. Queasy at the sight of the pink water, she dumped the basin’s contents into her chamber pot, then poured new water and washed her face. With mechanical movements, she stripped out of her dress and underclothes, ran a wet cloth over her limbs, midsection, and neck, then dressed in a simple blue skirt and striped shirtwaist. Sitting at her dressing table, she brushed out her hair and twisted it into a sensible bun at her nape. She brushed away her emotions as well, rolling them into a tight knot to examine later.

Determined to fulfill her duty as mistress of the Three Cedars, Samantha rose and headed to the door. But as she reached for the knob, a flash of insight glued her feet to the floorboards. She was imitating her mother. Closing off her emotions. Hiding her anxiety behind a veneer of confidence and poise. Relying solely on herself.

Samantha covered her face with her hands and pressed her forehead against the door.