Woman of Grace (2 page)

No, I won’t, she thought with fierce, fervent determination, even as old doubts plucked at her anew. I’d rather die than go back to that life. I’d rather die than prove people like you right. People like you, who have sinned in ways far greater than I ever could.

She almost uttered those very words, almost turned and pointed an accusing finger. But she didn’t. Devlin MacKay was too blinded by his own guilt and complicity to ever see the truth. It sat far better with him to lay all the blame on her. In some twisted way, she supposed he also imagined it absolved him. Absolved him and washed his soul as white as snow.

Or as white as dead men’s bones, scattered and forgotten in some desolate, whited sepulchre.

The afternoon burned on. Through the ever-worsening storm, Hannah periodically came and went. Ella’s screams grew weaker, her moans lower and farther apart.

The light began to dim, and still Devlin sat hunched over his now cold mug of coffee, staring blindly into its black, murky depths. Bit by agonizing bit, he felt the life, the hope drain from him. Drain away as surely as it seemed to drain away for his beloved wife. His dear, sweet Ella who now struggled to birth their third child—a child she should’ve never dared to conceive, much less carry.

The truth of that statement cut through him as cruelly as the bitter winds howling outside his window. Ella should never have risked this pregnancy. Yet what choice had he given her after Mary’s birth, when Doc Childress had warned them of Ella’s fragile condition?

Devlin hadn’t been able to accept the consequences of that pronouncement. Rather than honor his wife, he had turned to drinking and visiting Grand View’s bordello to ease his pain. Though his guilt had made him stop long before Ella finally confronted him, he secretly wondered if she could really believe he’d remain faithful, if continually denied the marriage bed. And now, because of his failure to properly love her, Doc’s grave predictions were coming true.

It seemed like hours since he had sent two of the ranch hands riding out to Grand View to fetch Doc Childress. Devlin knew the men wouldn’t fail him. But he was also well aware of the vagaries of spring weather on the high plains. He knew how viciously the winds could blow, how quickly the snow could fall, blanketing the land and swirling so thickly you could barely find your way. Even strong men got lost in blizzards like today’s. Even strong men died.

Doc would arrive as soon as his men could safely get him here. Meanwhile there was nothing to be done but wait. Wait, and endure Ella’s gut-wrenching cries, knowing there was nothing, absolutely nothing, he could do for her now.

Once more the kitchen’s back door opened. Devlin looked up. Lamplight spilled into the room, illuminating Hannah’s pale, drawn face with red-gold radiance.

No one, he thought bitterly, should be allowed to look like she did. No one deserved, after the life she had lived, to appear so much like an angel with that pale blond hair, those big, blue-green eyes, and that soft, guileless face.

Those looks had seduced him to choose her nearly two years ago when he had called on Sadie Fleming’s bordello. They had also helped cement her cozy little sanctuary here at Culdee Creek. Against his cousin’s better judgment, Abby had somehow convinced Conor to let Hannah deliver her child at the ranch. Yet what had been intended as just a brief reprieve for the young prostitute had now stretched to almost a year.

Yes, that guise of injured innocence had fooled the lot of them, Devlin recalled, seething with resentment. But then none of them knew Hannah Cutler like he did. Few realized the power she held over him.

She could ruin everything.

He eyed her for an instant longer, then turned away. His aversion for Hannah Cutler notwithstanding, nothing was served berating the girl each time she entered his house. She was, after all, trying to help Abby with Ella.

At the admission, guilt plucked at him. Here she was, coming and going all day through the raging storm to fetch whatever Abby required, and all he could do was sit glaring and snapping like some wounded, cornered animal.

The comparison struck too close to home. Devlin’s mouth twitched sadly. A wounded, cornered animal … yes, that was exactly what he had become.

All he seemed to do anymore was lick his wounds in suffering silence, hoping against hope for some miracle to heal him. Sit here in helpless impotence and pray to a God he had long ago turned his back on. A God who had long ago ceased to listen.

Behind him, Hannah closed the door, then headed across the kitchen. The wind momentarily died. In the sudden silence her hard-soled shoes clicked with a staccato rhythm on the wooden floor. Her long skirt, swirling about her legs, made soft, whooshing sounds. As she drew near, the scent of apples and cinnamon filled the air.

“I brought you and Abby some fresh-baked, dried apple pie.” She placed a large, covered basket on the table.

Devlin glanced up. An infinite number of replies—none of them kind—rose to his lips. He bit them back. Such repeated, intentional cruelty wasn’t like him. But then he hadn’t been much like himself since Hannah came to Culdee Creek.

“I also brought cold roast beef, potato fritters, and boiled peas. You’re probably not very hungry right now,” she hastened to add when he sent her a hard, slanting glance, “but it’s important both you and Abby keep up your strength. I’ve already seen to it that your children ate.”

Devlin’s six-year-old son and two-and-a-half-year-old daughter had spent the day at the main house, safely out of the way of the goings-on here. Devlin had visited them for several short periods today, but he felt compelled to stay primarily near Ella. He couldn’t do much more than that for their mother, but at least the children would be spared the agony of knowing her pain. At least they would never have to experience the long, torturous hours wondering, worrying, fearing she would die.

“Just leave the food, will you?” he growled. Yet again, the memory of Ella’s labor swamped him, laden with its humiliating reminders of his inability to ease her torment—and of his selfish desires that had brought her to this life-threatening moment. “I’ll fetch Abby and see if she’s hungry.”

He scraped back his chair and stood. “She needs a long overdue break, and I need to be with my wife.”

Hannah’s turquoise gaze locked with his. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, you do.”

Something flickered in her eyes, something that smacked, to his way of thinking, of kindness, compassion, and even understanding. Fury swelled in him. It was all Devlin could do to choke back a savage curse.

He didn’t want anything from the likes of her. He had been fool enough to buy her favors all those months ago when Ella, for fear of another pregnancy, had turned him from her bed. It just wasn’t fair that his good, God-fearing wife suffered now, while a woman like Hannah had so easily delivered her own, illegitimate child. But then, when had God ever been fair, or good?

Such fruitless considerations, though, only served to stir painful, chaotic emotions Devlin couldn’t deal with tonight of all nights. Before he said something that would heap further insult onto those he had already flung at Hannah Cutler this day, he turned on his heel and strode away.

“Mama, Mama! Mama, Mama!”

The insistent drone of Jackson’s voice, punctuated by squeaks and squeals from his swaying crib, woke Hannah late the next morning. She turned over, forced one eye open, and smiled. “Hungry, are you, sweetie?” she asked softly.

Jackson grinned, revealing six little white teeth, and jumped all the harder. “Mama, Mama, Mama!”

With a weary groan, Hannah slid out of bed and fell to her knees for her morning prayers. Just as Abby had taught her, she folded her hands, bowed her head, and uttered the words with fervent deliberation. Sometimes, as she prayed, she almost imagined she felt a connection with God. Then there were other times, too many to count, when Hannah felt nothing.

It seemed, she reluctantly admitted, just as difficult to love God as it was to love most of His children. He had let her down so often. Indeed, as the all-powerful being He was purported to be, wasn’t He responsible for allowing all the evil wrought in the world?

Still, Abby encouraged her not to give up on God. She urged her to be patient, to trust in the Lord and His promise that all things good would come in time. So Hannah doggedly kept on trying. She trusted few people, but she trusted Abby and everything she said with her whole heart. She would try her best to please Abby in every way—even if that required trying to make peace with God.

Jackson’s cries grew more strident. The crib threatened to collapse beneath the relentless impact of his chubby little legs. With a sigh, Hannah finished her prayers and climbed blearily to her feet. She walked to Jackson’s crib and lifted him from it, then pulled the rocking chair close. He was soon nursing greedily at her breast, his moist, pink lips pursed, one small hand clutching a lock of her hair.

Gazing down at her son, Hannah’s heart filled with peace. These were indeed the moments she lived for, the moments when she thought her heart would break with happiness. She wondered if, even now, Ella was feeling the same thing as she cradled her newborn daughter in her arms.

The doctor had finally made it through the blizzard at six last evening. By midnight the exhausted Ella had delivered. The next hour, however, was spent in a frantic battle to staunch her heavy bleeding. There were moments when Hannah feared they’d lose her. But, at last, as if by some miracle, the bleeding had all but ceased.

Hannah had then headed back to the little bunkhouse that sat between Devlin and Ella’s house, and the main house shared by Abby, Conor, and their family. She wasn’t sure when or even if Abby had ever gone home. If she had, Hannah was certain that she, too, must be exhausted.

Once Jackson was nursed, bathed, and dressed, and her own morning ablutions were completed, Hannah decided to head to the main house and see what help was needed there. It was the very least she could do. Until Hannah had first met Abigail MacKay that December day in Gates’ Mercantile, she had despaired of being treated with tolerance, much less love and compassion, ever again. Now, in whatever way she could, she wanted to return the kindness Abby had always shown her.

A half hour later, her long hair neatly braided down her back and a dark blue woolen dress covering her slender frame, Hannah paused just long enough to slide her stockinged feet into tall, leather boots, throw on her short wool coat, and tuck a shawl over her head. Then, after bundling Jackson and his bag of wooden blocks in a warm blanket, she forced open the bunkhouse door.

To her surprise and immense gratitude, she found that someone had already shoveled a path through the snowdrifts to the main house. It would have been impossible, otherwise, she soon discovered, to traverse the hip-high snow with Jackson in her arms. As it was, the shoveled snow piled on either side of the path rose to her shoulders, forming almost a tunnel within which to walk.

It was a tunnel, Hannah realized as she closed the bunkhouse door and began her trek, that had its definite advantages, serving as a very effective windbreak for the blustering winds. Of course, its powdery top layer did still swirl and scatter, coating Hannah’s face and making it hard to breathe. After such a storm, though, she was thankful for every and anything that made life easier.

As she neared the main house and climbed the back porch just off the kitchen, the acrid stench of burning grease reached her. It was quickly followed by the sound of an angry male voice and footsteps hurrying across the hardwood floor. Hannah grinned. If she didn’t miss her guess, Evan had just fallen victim to Old Bess, Abby’s much maligned if sometimes recalcitrant cookstove.

After pausing to shake off as much snow as she could from her boots and skirt, Hannah entered the kitchen. Sure enough, Evan had scorched one of the cast-iron skillets. At her entrance, he glanced up from his task of pumping water into the pan from the sink’s kitchen pitcher pump.

“Well, you’re a sight for sore eyes,” the young man exclaimed, his face lighting with a mix of relief and delight. “Not to mention”—he made a wry grimace as he indicated the still steaming skillet—“a lifesaver.”