“Nee. She sent just enough. I put the last one on him this morning.” And seeing as how before this trip he’d never diapered a babe on his own, he thought he’d done a pretty fair job of it.
Claire stared at him, and not in the way he would have wished. “So where be the soiled ones?”
“I disposed of them.” The foul-smelling cloths had made him gag. He hadn’t wanted to subject the other passengers to such a vile odor. Especially not in the stuffy, enclosed space of a railcar.
Her eyebrows arched upward. “Ye disposed of them.”
Why did she make it sound like a crime?
“And here I always thought ye the thrifty sort. Should’ve known all that hobnobbin’ you’ve been doin’ with the fancy folk over in Rochester would change that about ye, too.”
“What fancy folk? I worked at a dairy, Claire. Shoveling manure and making cheese.” And learning every inch of the business so he could duplicate Mr. Ellmore’s success when he started his own enterprise. What did she think he’d been doing the past three years? Wining and dining with the social elite? That was his brother’s angle, not his.
Well, except for that one time.
That one disastrous time that drove Claire out of his life. To another man, a stranger. How Pieter had died inside when he learned that she’d left New York to become a mail-order bride to some shopkeeper in Texas. She’d chosen a complete stranger over him. A man who didn’t love her, who didn’t even know her. It was only when Polly explained that Claire hadn’t gone through with the marriage and instead had been living in a women’s colony, apprenticing as a healer, that Pieter’s hopes had revived and his plans had begun in earnest. Plans he was determined to carry out no matter how much the lady in question glared at him and muttered under her breath about daft men and their tiny brains.
“He shovels manure but can’t be bothered to rinse out a soiled napkin?” she grumbled. “Does he think diapers grow on trees, that he can just pluck another whenever the need arises?” She dug through the trunk herself, tossing quilts and baby clothes to and fro in search of the cloths he’d already told her were not inside. She pulled out what looked like a pillowcase with an embroidered hem and froze. Pink rose to her cheeks before she stuffed the bed linen deep into the trunk.
He had no time to wonder over that odd behavior before she slammed the lid shut, picked up Polly’s bag, and started marching down the street. “I’ll need to purchase some diaper cloth before I can be on my way. Why don’t you stay with the trunk? I’ll be back shortly.”
Her words insisted he keep his distance, but the trepidation lining her face as she gazed down the street fired his protective instincts. Something was wrong.
“Wait.” Pieter grabbed the trunk and hefted it up to his shoulder. “I’ll store this at the depot and join you.”
“No!” She pivoted so fast, her skirts whipped around her legs. “There’s . . . there’s no need.”
What was going on? Claire had always been independent and capable. Stubborn, even. But it wasn’t any of those qualities he saw reflected in her eyes as she backed away from him. It was something secretive. And fearful.
Pieter’s jaw tightened. He’d come here to end the secrets between them, to get everything out in the open and reestablish a foundation of trust—one they could build a future on. There was no room for new misunderstandings or suspicions, not if he hoped to regain what he’d lost. However, as she lifted her chin and marched down the street without him, it wasn’t a need to expose her secrets that made him follow. It was the apprehension lingering in her eyes.
Claire Nevin might be a feisty, hotheaded Irishwoman and the backbone of her family since her youth, but she was still only eighteen. Young, vulnerable, and with a babe to hinder her should trouble erupt. Pieter would hang back, give her the freedom to handle things on her own, but there was no way under God’s blue sky that he would let the woman he loved walk into a situation that frightened her without his support.
Claire strode down Main Street, weaving a path to avoid parked wagons, men on horseback, and townsfolk who loitered on the boardwalk. She finally halted in front of a large storefront painted bright red. A plate-glass display window stretched wide in front of her. Yet she hesitated to go in.
That was all the signal Pieter needed. He jogged the trunk back to the depot, stored it in the back room with the others, then loped down to the store. Peering through the same window where he’d last seen Claire, he caught a glimpse of her in the back of the shop, fingering a bolt of white cotton. She glanced over her shoulder. Once. Twice. Then a third time. Pieter opened the door and walked into Fischer’s Emporium.
“I’ll be right with you, sir,” the proprietor called from behind a counter at the front of the store, where a matronly woman was rearranging her purchases in a large basket.
Pieter waved noncommittally at the clerk, not wanting to encourage his attention. Wandering down an aisle with an assortment of fishing gear, pipe tobacco, and match safes on display, Pieter positioned himself near the end so that he had an unobstructed view of the fabric table across the way. He pulled a box of fishhooks from the top shelf and pretended to examine them while keeping his focus on Claire.
When the bell above the door jangled and announced the departure of the lady with the basket, Claire jumped. Her gaze darted to the counter, then back to the cloth. She shifted, aiming her back toward the front of the store and hunching her shoulders as if trying to hide. He’d never seen her so timid. She’d always approached life, whether in good times or bad, with energy and a take-charge attitude. Something about this place definitely had her rattled.
The shuffle of footsteps and a wheezing breath behind him alerted Pieter that he was no longer alone. He pivoted to find the paunchy shopkeeper making his way down the aisle toward him. The clerk’s welcoming grin dimmed somewhat when he noticed Pieter’s interest appeared to lie in a ten-cent box of fishhooks.
“An outdoorsman, I see.” The proprietor puffed up his chest and thumped Pieter on the back. “I have some excellent new reels in stock.” He stepped back a pace and pulled a box off the top shelf. He opened the lid for Pieter to view. “Nickel-plated with a range of up to two hundred yards. Best quality you’ll find anywhere.”
“Not interested.” Pieter tipped his head in Claire’s direction, irritated that the shopkeeper had addressed him first when Claire had entered before him. “I think that lady could use some assistance, however.”
The clerk’s face scrunched up in confusion. “Lady?” He looked in the direction Pieter had indicated. “Ah.” His features cleared. “I didn’t realize . . . She must have come in while I was fetching Mrs. Gordon’s order from the back room.” He bowed his head slightly to Pieter. “If you’ll excuse me?”
Pieter nodded in answer. The shopkeeper was a little oily for his liking, but he seemed attentive to his customers. He should get Claire what she needed in quick order. Then they could leave this place and whatever odd hold it had on her. And maybe they could finally have the discussion Pieter had traveled halfway across the country to instigate.
“How may I be of serv—you!” The clerk’s strident tone brought Pieter’s head up. The man’s face darkened as he yanked the bolt of white cotton away from Claire and threw it back on the table. “Get out of my store,” he gritted through a clenched jaw. “You’re not welcome here.”
Pieter dropped the fishing hooks and strode across the store.
Claire’s chin came up. Pieter expected to see fire sparking from her blue eyes, but she barely lifted her lashes. “Mr. Fischer, I’ll just be needin’ a few yards of diaper cloth, then I’ll be on me way. Believe me, my desire to be gone from here is as strong as yours to be rid of me.”
“Diaper . . . ?” Fischer’s gaze finally seemed to register the babe Claire held. “Ah. Of course. Now everything becomes clear.” Some of the anger faded from his face, but the scorn that replaced it did nothing to alleviate Pieter’s growing agitation. “So that’s the way of it, is
it? I should have known. Hussy,” he spat. “Found yourself with child and tried to foist it off on the first decent man to offer for you, didn’t you? Guess I should be glad I had the good sense to send you away nine months ago. Otherwise I’d be stuck raising another man’s brat.”
Searing rage burned through Pieter’s brain. This was the man she had pledged to marry? This foul-minded prig who cast aspersions on a lady’s good name based on unfounded assumptions and personal prejudice?
Pieter closed the remaining distance between himself and the shopkeeper in three steps and pushed his face close to Fischer’s. “Apologize to the lady.”
Fischer leapt backward, his face paling until he realized Pieter wasn’t about to strike him.
Not that Pieter didn’t want to. Never had he wanted to hit a man more. But his faith demanded turning the other cheek and loving his enemy, and while the last thing he felt at the moment was love toward the potbellied skunk in front of him, he wouldn’t forfeit his self-discipline for temporary physical satisfaction. His fists remained lowered, though clenched, at his side.
“I’m sorry you had to hear that, sir. This”—he raised a brow at Claire—“person was just leaving.”
Pieter nearly forgot his morals altogether at Fischer’s pointed refusal to acknowledge Claire as a lady, but he held his temper—and his fists—in check. Barely.
“There’s no reason for you to get involved,” Fischer continued in that irritating tone that scraped like fingernails on a slate against Pieter’s already taut nerves. “I’ll just escort Miss Nevin out, and then we can put this unpleasantness behind us.”
Fischer reached for Claire’s arm, and without thought, Pieter’s hand shot out and clasped the other man’s wrist. “Don’t touch her.”
He stole a glance at Claire to make sure she was all right. She wouldn’t meet his gaze. Humiliation stained her cheeks, yet she held her head high with dignity and stubborn Irish pride.
“I’ll see meself out, gentlemen.” Then, in a move that had Pieter inwardly cheering, she dropped Polly’s bag at Pieter’s feet, grabbed up the entire bolt of diaper cloth, and marched up to the counter.
“Hey! You can’t take that.” Fischer struggled against Pieter’s hold to no avail. He wouldn’t be getting anywhere near Claire. “I’ll bring you up on charges of thievery!”
Claire ignored his bluster, plopped the fabric bolt on top of the counter, and with one hand unwound about three yards. She shifted Liam to her left arm, then took up a pair of shears that had been left on the counter near the butcher paper and roll of string used for wrapping parcels. With an embroiderer’s precision, she snipped off the length she wanted, cut off a smaller piece for immediate use, then pulled out a handful of coins and laid them on the counter with a gentleness that echoed through the store with all the power of a shotgun blast.
After a quick fold of the cloth, she collected her reticule and swept out of the store.
Now that was a woman.
Fischer’s renewed struggles brought Pieter’s attention back to the weasel stuck in his grip. “Unhand me, sir. I have to make sure she left sufficient funds. Otherwise I’m going to fetch the sheriff.”
Pieter only tightened his hold. “The money’s all there, and if it’s not, I’ll pay whatever she lacks.”
Fischer’s eyes widened in incredulity. “Why? Look, mister, I don’t know what she promised you, but she ain’t nothing but a two-bit hustler. She cheated me once, and I’m sure she’ll cheat you, as well, if given half a chance. She’s not to be trusted.”
Pieter’s eyes narrowed. “Claire Nevin is the most honorable lady you’ve ever had the good fortune to meet. She’s kindhearted, self-sacrificing, and someone to depend on when trouble arises. And that babe she carries—her nephew. Taken in out of the goodness of her heart. So perhaps in the future, you’ll spare a moment to learn the facts of a situation before spewing your slanderous poison in public.”
Pieter tossed the shopkeeper’s arm away from him as if it were contaminated with gangrene, pinned the despicable man with a final glare, then picked up the bag Claire had left for him and strode out of the store without once looking back.
Chapter
4
Claire clutched Liam to her chest and nearly ran down the street toward Bart Porter’s livery. It didn’t matter that she didn’t have Polly’s trunk or even the bag of infant supplies. All that mattered in that moment was escape.
Facing Stanley Fischer had been bad enough. Just as she’d known it would be. The sour man held on to a grudge as if it were the last coin in his cash box. But having Pieter witness her folly? Her pride couldn’t bear it.
And that was the issue, as always. Her pride. As much as she wanted to cast all the blame for the destruction of their relationship on Pieter’s shoulders for stepping out with another woman, she’d contributed, as well. Devastated by his betrayal, she’d turned her back on him. So sure was she that any explanation he could give would be woefully inadequate, she’d refused to see him and returned each of his letters unopened. There’d been no forgiveness. No fighting for the man she claimed to love. Just fleeing. And fleeing in the rashest manner possible—by answering the ad of a stranger in Texas and pledging to become a mail-order bride.
She’d always been the wise sister, the one with both feet planted firmly on the ground. How many times had she advised Polly that Diederick was no good for her? That he was a charmer seeking an easy life, not a man a woman could depend upon? And then, just like the Bible warned, while she’d been trying to remove the speck from her sister’s eye, the log in her own eye had crushed her. Her heart took the brunt of the blow, but it had been the blow to her pride that sent her running.
She couldn’t bear to see the pity in her mam’s eyes, the I-told-ye-so in her da’s. And worst of all, she couldn’t stand to listen to Polly pleading with her to hear Pieter out, reminding her of his character and steadfast ways, insisting that there must be a logical explanation. Because if Claire gave in, she’d have to admit that her flighty, lead-with-her-heart-and-not-with-her-head sister might actually be right.
So she’d run. Just as she was running now.
“Claire! Stop!” Pieter called out behind her, his voice too close. He’d catch her before she reached the livery, before she could block his questions and accusations with the presence of others.
Claire accelerated from a hurried walk to an actual jog. But Liam started to fuss, his whimpers abrading her conscience. Immediately, she slowed. Was her pride really so important that she’d risk the baby’s safety? Heaven preserve her! One misstep in her ill-advised haste, and she could have fallen. Liam could have been injured.
Lord, forgive me!
A strong hand grabbed her upper arm. He didn’t yank her around to face him. His grip didn’t bruise. Yet neither did it allow her to pull free. It simply held her. Supported her. Offered an anchor in the midst of her storm.
Claire’s eyes slid closed, and for just a moment, she began to relax, to lean back against him. But then she remembered another woman whose arm had rested on his. A wealthy, beautiful woman whose father could offer Pieter everything he’d ever wanted. Success. Respect. A partnership in a thriving business. All things Claire lacked.
Her spine locked back into place.
“Fischer’s a buffoon, Claire. Don’t let him upset you.”
Claire spun around and glared up at Pieter. “He might be a buffoon, but he’s ne’er lied to me, Pieter van Duren. Never promised to marry me in one breath, then scampered off to court a better candidate in the next.”
Pieter’s eyes widened, and his hold on her arm loosened. She took advantage of his shock and yanked free.
“I did Mr. Fischer a bad turn. He has every right to be angry with me. Just as I have every right to be angry with you.”
Pieter stared at her for a long moment, his eyes narrowing as they peered into places she strove to keep hidden. “And does he have the right to nurse that anger and treat you no better than th
e dirt under his feet even after nearly a year has gone by?” He paused, his voice softening to a near whisper. “Do you have that right?”
The soft words struck her like arrows to the chest. “Th-that’s unfair,” she murmured.
But was it?
Pieter said nothing. Just looked at her, his gaze illuminating his hurt. Was that how she’d been acting? As harsh and intolerant as Stanley Fischer? Surely not. She’d never been cruel. Never treated Pieter or anyone else with anything less than common courtesy. Yet neither had she extended forgiveness. In fact, ever since he’d stepped off that train she’d been trying to push him back out of her life just as Stanley Fischer had tried to push her out of his store.
The bitter taste of shame soured her mouth. All this time she’d taken refuge in being the wronged party, casting all the blame on Pieter and making herself at home in her lofty tower of self-righteousness. She truly was no better than Stanley Fischer.
Moisture coated her eyes as she faced the man who had once been her entire world. “Pieter. I’m sorry.” She blinked against the tears that threatened to fall and patted the baby whose discontent grew louder by the moment. As tempted as she was to use the babe as an excuse to escape Pieter, she held her ground and his gaze. “I’ve not treated ye well, have I? Runnin’ off without a word. Returnin’ yer letters. Refusin’ to see ye. ’Twas cowardly. I let the hurt dictate my actions. After all the years we’ve known each other, ye deserved better than that. And as much as I’ve grown during me time in Harper’s Station, the moment I saw ye step off that train, all the pain came rushin’ back, and with it my desire to shut ye out and flee.”
Claire used the edge of the diaper cloth she’d just purchased to rub away a tear that escaped her lashes, sniffed once, then inhaled a shaky breath and lifted her chin. She’d never been one to shirk her duty, no matter how difficult. She wouldn’t start now.