“By Winter, You’ll Have My Son Growing Inside You” — The Giant Cowboy Vowed To The Lonely Widow
Chapter 4
The next morning brought Bea Calloway to Clara’s door before the sun had cleared the horizon, her face flushed from the three-mile ride and her eyes bright with the particular gleam of a woman who had heard things.
Bea planted her hands on her hips. “Are you going to make me guess, or are you going to tell me why half the county is talking about Gideon Stone visiting your place four times in six days?”
“He’s asked me to marry him.”
“Marry him?” Bea’s voice rose an octave. “Clara Vance, you’ve barely spoken two words to that man in your entire life.”
“We’ve spoken plenty these past few days. And I’ve accepted.”
Bea’s mouth opened and closed like a fish pulled from water. Finally she sank onto the porch step, her usual composure abandoned. “You’ve lost your mind. The grief has finally addled your brains.”
“My brains are fine, thank you.” Clara resumed her mending. “My circumstances, however, are not.”
Bea turned to study the homestead with fresh eyes — the sagging roof, the patched walls, the general air of barely controlled decay. “Oh, Clara. How bad is it?”
The concern in her friend’s voice broke through the defensive walls Clara had built. “Bad enough that I won’t survive another winter alone. Bad enough that marrying a stranger seems like the wisest choice I’ve made in two years.”
Bea was quiet for a long moment, her practical nature warring with her protective instincts. “Tell me about him. Really tell me — not the stories everyone whispers.”
“He’s direct. Honest to the point of bluntness. He wants children, and he believes I can give them to him.” Clara paused in her stitching, thinking of the way Gideon had looked at her — not with the pity she’d grown accustomed to, but with something that might have been respect. “He’s offering security, Bea. A real home. Not just a place to survive until the next disaster strikes.”
“And what are you offering him?”
The question hung between them like morning mist. What was she offering? A worn-down widow with calloused hands and a heart still wrapped around the memory of another man. “Whatever he needs. A wife. A mother for his children. Someone to stand beside him when the world gets hard.”
Bea reached over and stilled Clara’s restless hands. “And what about love?”
“What about it?” The sharpness of her own voice surprised her. “Love didn’t keep Jonah warm when the storm caught him in the pass. Love didn’t pay the bills or fix the roof or put food on the table after he died. Maybe it’s time I chose something more practical.”
“You love Jonah.”
“I still love Jonah.” Clara touched the chain at her throat. “I’ll always love Jonah. But Jonah is dead, and I’m alive. And Gideon Stone is offering me a chance to stay that way.”
They spent the rest of the morning going through Clara’s belongings, deciding what would make the journey north and what would be left behind. It was a sobering process — seeing the accumulation of six years of marriage reduced to a few boxes and bundles. In the back bedroom, Bea discovered Jonah’s unfinished rocking chair, the wood smooth from hours of careful sanding but still lacking the final touches that would have made it complete.
“He was making it for the children we planned to have,” Clara said softly, running her fingers over the curved armrest. “He worked on it in the evenings, always saying he’d finish it when we had news to celebrate.”
“What will you do with it?”
Clara considered the question, thinking of the hope that had gone into each careful cut. “Take it with me. Maybe Gideon can finish what Jonah started.”
The symbolism wasn’t lost on either of them. Bea wrapped the chair carefully in an old quilt, treating it with the reverence due to dreams deferred but not entirely abandoned.
As they worked, Bea shared news from town — who was courting whom, which families were heading back east before winter, and, with particular relish, the state of Mrs. Doyle’s daughters, who had been paraded past Gideon Stone like livestock at market since the day he arrived.
“He could have had any unmarried woman in three counties,” Bea said. “But he came to you. Why do you think that is?”
“He said he was looking for someone who doesn’t give up. Someone who fights for what’s theirs, even when the odds are against them.”
“And that’s you.” Bea looked around the bedroom Clara had shared with Jonah — the faded wallpaper, the window that let in drafts no matter how carefully she sealed it. “Maybe it used to be. Maybe it’s time to fight for something bigger than just survival.”
As Bea prepared to leave, she turned back with the expression she wore when delivering difficult truths. “I have to ask this as your friend. Are you attracted to him?”
“To Gideon?” Heat rose in Clara’s cheeks.
“It’s a legitimate question. You’re going to be sharing a bed with this man, bearing his children if all goes according to plan. Physical compatibility matters — especially in a marriage that’s starting without love.”
Clara thought of the way Gideon had covered her hands with his, the warmth of his touch, the deep voice that spoke of children and futures as if they were already real. “He’s imposing,” she said carefully. “But not in a way that frightens me. When he looks at me, I feel like he sees something worthwhile. Something worth protecting.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Clara met her friend’s knowing gaze. “Yes, Bea. I’m attracted to him. God help me. I’m attracted to my dead husband’s replacement.”
“Jonah isn’t being replaced, Clara. He’s being honored — by your decision to keep living.”
The words were exactly what Clara needed to hear, even if she wasn’t entirely ready to believe them. After Bea left, she sat alone in her nearly empty house and tried to imagine her life eight days from now. Mrs. Gideon Stone, living in a house she’d never seen, sharing a bed with a man she barely knew, committed to bearing children for someone who’d chosen her for her strength rather than her beauty.
It should have terrified her.
Instead, for the first time in two years, she found herself looking forward to tomorrow.