Always Dakota - Debbie Macomber [11]
Axel stirred, and Bob could see that the boy had fallen asleep. Lovingly, he leaned down and kissed his forehead. No one was taking this child away. As God was his witness, he wouldn’t let that happen.
“Sleep well, little man,” he whispered, awake and alert.
Three weeks following the burial of Bernard Clemens, Matt Eilers decided to pay Margaret a condolence visit. Sheryl continually pestered him about it, wanting to know when he intended to see the dead rancher’s daughter. She’d gone so far as to tell him what to say and how to act. The idea of marrying Margaret Clemens—or any woman—for money was repugnant to him. Sheryl tried to make it sound as though he’d be doing the poor girl a favor, but Matt wasn’t naive enough to swallow that. He did, however, feel almost sorry for Margaret. She wasn’t outright homely, but she wasn’t pretty, either. Tall and skinny, she didn’t have much of a shape. She was definitely lacking in charm and in social skills, and she seemed rather lonely.
Sheryl argued that Margaret was ripe for the picking and if Matt didn’t marry her, then someone less scrupulous would. Of all the arguments she’d put forth, that one struck him as true.
Snow had fallen the week before, and his tires crunched on the gravel drive as he pulled to a stop in the Clemens yard. No one came out to greet him, so he moved onto the back porch and with his hat in his hand, waited for someone to answer his knock.
The housekeeper appeared. Her name was Sadie, he recalled from that first and only visit. It suited her—a plain, old-fashioned name. “You’re here to see Margaret?” she asked, her gruff tone devoid of welcome.
“I’d like to pay my respects.”
“Seems to me you’re about three weeks late.”
Matt let the comment slide. He knew one thing for sure: if he did marry Margaret, the first thing he’d do was hire a different housekeeper. The thought pulled him up short. Sheryl was getting to him. He wasn’t going to marry Margaret, no matter how many arguments Sheryl advanced.
He remembered reading advice from Ann Landers years ago, in a newspaper he’d found in a doctor’s waiting room. She’d said something to the effect that the people who worked hardest for their money were those who married for it. Matt wasn’t in the habit of shying away from real work, and he didn’t intend to live off anyone else. When he was able to buy the Stockert ranch, it would be with money he’d earned himself.
“Margaret’s in the barn,” the housekeeper told him. Her gaze narrowed as if she were Bernard Clemens himself warning Matt to tread lightly around his daughter.
“How is she?”
Sadie paused. “She has good days and she has bad days.”
“She was close to her father, wasn’t she?”
The housekeeper nodded. “Mr. Clemens was a good man. Margaret is a good person, too.” With that, she slammed the door, leaving him to make his own way to the barn. Not that Matt needed anyone to draw him a map, but he would have appreciated at least the pretense of welcome.
He found Margaret inside the huge structure that put his own barn to shame. She was dressed in a heavy coat and thick boots; a knit cap covered her head. Her hair, which she’d grown over the past year, was pulled away from her face and tied at the base of her neck. He could see she’d had it curled. Working at a fast and furious pace, she pitched hay into an empty stall, her back toward him. Matt breathed in the satisfying scents of horses, straw and well-oiled leather.
“Margaret,” Matt called softly, not wanting to frighten her.
She whirled around