her eyes, she blotted out his image, the black shirt, the gleaming dark hair, and the ragged scar. “Who are you?” The whisper was faint, but he responded with a single word.
“Shay.”
“Is that your last name?” she asked, looking up from beneath her lashes, aware suddenly that tears blurred her vision. She folded her hands atop her knees and straightened her shoulders, attempting to gain some small measure of control.
He shook his head. “No, but it doesn’t matter for now.”
“Tell me about him,” she said, embarrassed that her voice trembled.
“All right,” Shay began, his words a sigh, his voice bleak. “He had the fever, ma’am. A lot of men died from it. I only got sick with it, and lived to tell it. I was lucky.” And at those words he laughed, a rusty sound that held no humor. “I guess lucky isn’t the word for it.”
His fingers touched the back of her hand, barely moving against her skin. “You were married to a good man, Mrs. Pennington. When he died, his last thoughts were of you and your child.”
“My child? He never knew I’d had a boy? I wrote,” she said. “I sent letters after Marshall was born,” Her lips compressed and she struggled for control. “I never heard back from him.”
“We didn’t get much mail from home. He didn’t know if it was a boy or girl.”
Jenny looked up, aware now that tears fell without ceasing, yet unable to halt their flow. His fingers enveloped hers and she leaned toward the warmth, as though the hand that had touched Carl might yet carry some faint trace of the man she’d loved. Her indrawn breath caught a scent of leather and wood smoke from his clothing, an aroma of soap that lingered on his skin. A male essence that spoke to a part of her she’d thought long since dead.
“I’m sorry,” Jenny breathed, tugging her fingers from his grip. “I don’t usually fall apart this way. In fact,” she murmured, her breath trembling, “I thought I was all done with the mourning and the carrying-on.”
A shadow fell in the front entrance of the barn, and she looked up, catching a glimpse of a figure in the doorway. A shotgun held firmly before her, Isabelle watched in silence. Jenny shook her head, waving a hand reassuringly. “It’s all right,” she said, aware that the other woman feared for her well-being.
In one swift movement Shay rose and spun to face the threat, his hand falling to the butt of his revolver. One knee bent, he surveyed the dark-skinned woman, unmoving as Isabelle’s sharp gaze took stock. “You want to turn that barrel in another direction, ma’am?” he asked quietly.
Isabelle hesitated, then at another nod from Jenny, she turned the long gun, cradling it in her arms. “I didn’t know what was goin’ on out here, Jenny. Marshall come runnin’ in and said a man was in the barn with you.” She walked a few steps closer. “You been cryin’?”
Jenny shook her head. “No, not really.” Carefully she stood, willing her legs not to buckle. “Mr. Shay has come here with a message from…my husband.”
Isabelle snorted unbelievingly. “Mr. Carl’s been dead a long time, Jenny. If this fella’s got word for you, what took him so long to bring it?”
“I don’t know.” Jenny took a step, steadying herself, one hand touching the wall beside her. “We hadn’t even gotten to the message part.”
She turned to Shay. “Do you want to put your horse up and stay for a bite to eat? We’re about to have our noon meal. I’m sure Isabelle has enough for you to join us.”
He nodded. “Thank you, ma’am.”
Jenny walked past him. “We’ll talk in the house.” Her mind spinning, she followed Isabelle from the barn, trudging across the yard, aware of the curiosity that hung between them.
Isabelle opened the door and Jenny walked past her into the kitchen. “What you s’pose he wants with you?” Isabelle asked, reaching high to place the gun over the door. Two pegs held it in place and Isabelle, satisfied that it was secure, stepped back. “I never seen a man so hard lookin’, Miss Jenny. There’s no give to him, not one little bit, is there?” She slanted a look from dark eyes, and Jenny caught a glimpse of fear within their soft depths.
“I’m not afraid of him,” she said quietly. She found another plate and placed it on the table, then reached for silverware from the drawer. “I think he’s ridden a long way to get here, probably had other things to see to before he set out to find me.”
“I’d think carryin’ a message from a dead man to his wife would rate pretty high up on the scale,” Isabelle said darkly. “You think he’s tellin’ the truth?”
The sound of boots on the porch caught Jenny’s ear and she shook her head at Isabelle. “Later,” she whispered, stepping to the kitchen cupboard to draw forth cups for coffee.
A pot sat on the back of the stove, and Isabelle lifted it, a folded dish towel protecting her hand from the hot handle. “Let’s see how strong this is, first off,” she said, pouring the dark liquid slowly.
“A little cream will do wonders,” Jenny told her.
“There’s a whole pitcherful already rose to the top from this morning’s milking,” Isabelle said. “I’ll pour it off and set some aside for your coffee. Thought I’d make rice pudding for supper. We got eggs aplenty.”
Jenny turned to the door, where Shay waited admission. “Come in, Mr.—”
“Just Shay,” he reminded her, opening the screen door and stepping into the kitchen. One hand lifted his hat, then held it, as he glanced around the room.
“You can hang it on a hook next to the pantry, if you like,” Jenny said. She watched as he crossed the room, met his gaze as he turned back to face her. “Coffee?” she asked, motioning to the table where two cups stood, steam rising.
He nodded, pulling out a chair. “Y’all help yourselves to fresh bread,” Isabelle said, her dark eyes intent on the visitor. From beneath a dish towel, she produced a plate, placing it between Jenny and their visitor. A small bowl containing butter was beside it, and a knife lay across the edge of the dish.
Jenny nodded at Shay. “Go ahead.”
He glanced at the sink in the corner. “You mind if I wash up?” At Jenny’s nod of agreement, he rose, then stepped to the drain board where a bucket of water rested, pouring a small amount into the wash pan. Isabelle provided a bowl of soft soap and a towel, and in moments, Shay was back at the table. “Thanks,” he murmured, picking up the knife and spreading butter across a slice of bread.
“Isabelle baked this morning,” Jenny told him, pouring cream in her coffee, then adding a heaping teaspoon of sugar. A bowl of stew appeared in the middle of the table and Jenny reached for the serving ladle. Shay nodded as she cast him an inquiring glance, and she served a generous portion on his plate.
The steam rose and he inhaled it, then spoke his satisfaction. “This is much appreciated, ma’m. I haven’t had a hot meal in a couple of days.” Picking up his fork, he stabbed a bite of potato and began eating. His gaze scanned the room, settling on Isabelle, who watched from near the stove. “You’ve already eaten?” he asked.
“When
