Winning the Widow's Heart. Sherri Shackelford

Elizabeth turned to Jack. Regrets were a luxury she couldn’t afford. “You can go now. We’ll be fine.”

       Jo’s head snapped up. “Not on your life. I need a pan of water and linens. As long as we’ve got ourselves a real, live Texas Ranger, we might as well put him to good use.”

       Elizabeth held up her hand in protest. Lawmen asked too many questions.

       Mr. Elder rose to his feet. “I’ve got whiskey in my saddle bags for the—”

       “Wait.” Fear pierced Elizabeth’s heart. “You won’t bring whiskey into this house.”

       “Ma says it keeps the baby from getting dysentery,” Jo added softly. “I need it to clean my hands.”

       Elizabeth sensed pity in the girl’s eyes, but she brushed aside the feeling. How could Jo know about Will? Elizabeth had confided in no one.

       “Can we get Mrs. Cole onto the bed?” the Ranger asked.

       “No!” Elizabeth cried.

       Every nerve in her body bore down on the pain. Desperate for the agony to end, she didn’t want to be jostled or moved. The contractions were coming closer together, giving her less and less time to recover before the next increasingly agonizing spasm.

       Her energy waned with each pain. The months following Will’s death had been filled with turmoil, leaving her little chance to concentrate on the pending birth. Her shock and grief, her fear, had drowned out all thoughts of the future.

       When the nagging backache from this morning had grown worse, she’d refused to heed the signs. As if, with the baby growing in her womb, her dreams were still possible. She’d pictured her future with a loving husband and half a dozen children running underfoot. The hopeful plans for her new life and a growing family had dwindled. She was a widow, alone and vulnerable.

       “Mrs. Cole.” Jack touched her shoulder, his voice filled with compassion. “Your baby needs you to be strong.”

       Elizabeth grimaced against another contraction. A salty tear caught on the corner of her mouth. The weakness shamed her, but she was exhausted from maintaining her rigid composure. It was time she faced the harsh reality of her circumstances. Women died in childbirth all the time.

       She’d never ducked away from a difficult choice and she wasn’t about to start now. “Promise me something, Mr. Elder.”

       Apprehension widened his eyes.

       Elizabeth didn’t know anything about the Ranger, didn’t know if she could trust him, but she sensed a quiet determination behind his wary gaze. Unlike the local sheriff, he appeared to be bound by a code of ethics. While most men were only interested in their own pleasure, Mr. Elder’s job forced him to take the needs of others into consideration.

       She clasped his hand, comforted by the hard calluses covering his palm. Will’s hands had been soft and smooth. The disparity gave her hope. Perhaps this man was different from her late husband. “Mr. Elder, if something happens to me, you’ll see that my baby is raised by a real family. Don’t let my child grow up in an orphanage.”

       He blanched. His Adam’s apple bobbed. “You’re going to be fine, Mrs. Cole.”

       “Prom—”

       The Ranger held up his free hand to quiet her protests. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

       Jo scowled. “Never mind him. My ma can take the baby.”

       Elizabeth shook her head. Mrs. McCoy worked harder than ten men combined. She ran her household on a budget barely fit for a pauper. Heaven knew the overtaxed woman didn’t need an additional burden. Not to mention the time and cost of rearing another child.

       “JoBeth McCoy,” Elizabeth scolded, “your mother has enough to worry about with five children at home. She doesn’t need another mouth to feed.”

       Jo ducked her head, silently acknowledging the truth. Another violent cramp hardened Elizabeth’s belly. She panted, clutching the Ranger’s hand.

       When the contraction eased, Mr. Elder refused to meet her pleading gaze.

       She was pushing him, a stranger, to make a difficult promise. Even if he agreed, she would never know whether or not he had fulfilled his pledge. Despite the uncertainty, she needed him to say the words. She needed to clutch a glimmer of hope for her baby’s future.

       She wanted a better life for her child. “Promise me.”

       Jack turned. His hazel eyes shined in the dim light. “I promise.”

       His assurance released the floodgates of her emotions. She sobbed through another searing contraction, the most powerful yet. Black dots collected at the edges of her vision, growing larger. The room clouded. Voices came to her from a great distance, as if she were tumbling down a well. Down, down, down to a place where there was no pain, no loss, just darkness.

       “Please, God,” she whispered. “Save my baby.”

      * * *

       Cold panic tore at Jack’s insides. “Wake up, Elizabeth,” he ordered.

       He clasped her chin in his hand, humbled by the fragile bones. She was so delicate, so young to be facing this pain. Beneath his touch, her head rolled limply to one side. Her glazed eyes slowly cleared. His heart soared as dawning recognition focused her attention. She was still too pale, but a faint blush of color had infused the apples of her cheeks.

       She drew in a breath, her shoulders rising and falling with the effort. Sweat beaded on her forehead, and her pale blue eyes had lost their luster.

       “I can’t do this,” she sobbed.

       “You’re doing real good. It’s almost over.”

       He said the words out loud, though he didn’t fully believe them in his heart. There were no certainties for anyone. With only the two of them to assist her, if something went wrong, they were lost.

       Alarmed to find his heart beating like a stampeding bull, he pressed the widow’s hand to his chest, sharing his strength. His emotional reaction startled him. He’d paced the floor with his brothers, but not a one of his sister-in-laws’ births had affected him this way.

       Jack squared his shoulders. He was immune to suffering. He’d seen plenty of people die, men and women both. He’d buried children, marking their graves with rough wooden crosses or crude piles of stones. Nothing moved him anymore.

       A shrill cry shocked him from his stupor. He swiped at his forehead with the back of his hand. He’d never felt so helpless. He was sweating as much as the widow now. All the comforting words he’d spoken to his brothers while their wives were in labor came back to haunt him. He blinked the perspiration from his eyes. What a bunch of inadequate nonsense.

       Humiliated to be at the mercy of a prickly girl who couldn’t be more than fourteen, he gave Jo a pleading look.

       She met his gaze, her face revealing nothing. “The baby’s head is crowning. I’ll need a pan of water and some fresh linens.”

       He hesitated to leave the women alone.

       “Sometime today, Ranger!”

       Jack stumbled to his feet, clumsy and out of his element. He rushed to gather the supplies, grateful for something to do besides worry.

       He fled to the kitchen and gingerly tossed the contents of a sturdy creamware bowl out the back door. His fellow Rangers often chided him on his cool, collected demeanor, saying icicles ran through his veins instead of blood. They’d eat their words to see him now. Returning to the sink, he pumped the lever arm to prime the well, his hands stiff and uncoordinated.

       After filling the bowl, he pawed through his saddle bags, searching for the whiskey. Fear strummed through his body with each of Elizabeth’s jagged cries. He yanked a handful of linens from the side cupboard, sending the rest of the neat stack tumbling