Clara Hawke was among the last to linger at the graveside. One by one and in small groups, the black-garbed townsfolk trickled away after paying their last respects, toward the square in front of the church where several of the women were serving refreshments. What is it about funerals and food? Clara wondered dully. She, herself, didn't care if she ever ate again.
Not only was she burying her fiancée today, she was burying all her hope.
Father Vael stood next to her, comfortingly gripping her hand and offering silent comfort with his solid presence. She had barely heard his sermon, or his graveside prayers, remembering only "Holy Father, gather the soul of our brother Fergus Cousland to your side, to take his place in Heaven" before her mind tuned out and she heard no more words.
"Clara," his accented voice murmured to her now. He pronounced it Clah-rrha, and she had always found it endearing. "It does no good to linger here. Fergus has gone on to his Lord's embrace, and is far beyond our reach now. Let me take you back to your friends and family, that you may find comfort there."
He tugged gently on her hand, and she allowed him to steer her around the open grave back toward the church. Indeed, she glimpsed Murdock, the gravedigger (caretaker was his more polite official title), waiting a discreet distance away for the funeral to be over. She imagined that he was anxious to finish the burial so he could get home in time for supper. It was hard for her to remember that not everyone was living in a constant state of near despair, as she now was.
Halfway back to the church, Clara glanced up to see a large carriage emerge from behind the general store and pull to a stop at the edge of the cemetery. The matched team of bay horses pranced in place, kicking up small puffs of dust with their shiny hooves. She recognized the horses, and the carriage, immediately as belonging to Bryce and Eleanor Cousland, Fergus' parents. Her future in-laws, now never to be.
She then saw Bryce and Eleanor themselves, walking sedately toward the carriage as the driver leapt nimbly to the ground and swept open the carriage door. Apparently they had no plans to attend their son's wake.
"Father, you go on ahead. I need to speak with Fergus' parents for a moment," Clara said, gently reclaiming her hand. Father Vael let go, and doubtfully glanced at the Couslands' carriage before nodding.
"All right, Clara," he agreed. "I'll just go and see how your mother is doing."
"Thank you," she called back over her shoulder, already walking quickly toward the packed dirt street, where Bryce had handed Eleanor into the carriage and was just pulling himself inside to settle next to her.
Clara reached the carriage just in time to prevent the driver from shutting the door.
"Mr. Cousland, Mrs. Cousland, may I have a word?"
Eleanor, her face streaked with tears, barely glanced at Clara. Bryce looked up at her with an expression of barely disguised impatience. "Can this wait for another time?" he asked, tiredly.
"I won't be but a moment. Please?"
Bryce sighed heavily as Eleanor dabbed at her face with an embroidered handkerchief. "What is it then, Miss Hawke?"
"I…wanted to discuss with you certain arrangements that Fergus and I had made," Clara explained. "For after we were married. Regarding my property. My ranch."
Clara heard a sudden intake of breath from Eleanor, and Bryce shot her a cold look. "Miss Hawke," he asked in a tone that sent shivers of ice down Clara's spine and nearly crumbled her resolve, "are you approaching me at my son's funeral to ask for money?"
"I…simply wanted to ascertain the status of our agreement…" Clara stammered.
"There is no agreement," he cut in.
"But Fergus wanted-"
"Whatever my son promised you in exchange for your hand," Bryce continued, a definite sneer on his face now, "you can consider it null and void. I'm sure you were very proud of yourself, but he is dead now. You will receive nothing from him, or us. Perhaps you should seek out another wealthy suitor, and hope he is not killed as well. Good day."
He gestured impatiently to his driver, who slammed the carriage door shut. Bryce pulled the curtains closed, blocking their view of her, and a few moments later, the carriage pulled away from her with a lurch.
Clara stared after it, feeling blank inside. She hadn't expected a favorable response, but she had had to know for certain. Perhaps it was in bad taste to ask them at the funeral, she admitted to herself. If she weren't so desperate…
Shaking her head, Clara tried to shove the Couslands out of her thoughts. After all, when had they ever treated her with any kindness or respect? Even when Fergus had announced their engagement, his face shining with happiness, they had simply plastered on weak smiles and offered token words of congratulations. Delirious with joy, Fergus hadn't noticed how those fake smiles had disappeared once his back was turned, nor the venomous glances they shot at Clara. Fergus had smiled at her, smiled so broadly and beautifully, that Clara was reassured that this was the right decision, it was, and never mind the fact that she did not love him in return.
The sunlight had begun to take on the amber glow of late afternoon. Clara could hear voices from the direction of the square, mostly low and somber, but every once in a while, a laugh rang out. Even at a funeral, people must find humor in something. She herself had never felt less like laughing.
She began to move toward the sound of voices, but when her feet took her back into the cemetery instead, she did not protest. She allowed them to guide her back past the open grave, where Murdock glanced up at her in surprise and bowed his head with a muttered "ma'am" as she passed, back to the very farthest corner of the cemetery, where they stopped in front of another grave. This one was not a fresh grave, but the way the ground still raised slightly up beneath the covering of new grass showed that it was not all that old, either. The headstone read:
MALCOLM HAWKE
TREASURED HUSBAND OF LEANDRA
BELOVED FATHER
Clara sank to her knees before the headstone, stroking it gently. "Hello, Father," she murmured. "It's Clara. I suppose you know by now that Fergus is gone. If you see him up there, tell him…just tell him I'm sorry I didn't love him. I wish I could have. He was a kind, gentle man, and he certainly loved me."
Clara paused, collecting her thoughts, letting a small breeze brush a lock of hair across her face. She plucked up a blade of grass and began twirling it around her finger. "We were each getting what we wanted most. And it is still what I want most, Father. The ranch, Rainesfere. Your ranch. And now…I don't know what I'm going to do."
She glanced up at the afternoon sky, at the wispy clouds scattered among the blue. On a day like this, she thought, she and Father would have been working with the horses all day, together, discussing each one like they were proud teachers talking about their star pupils. They would have been caught up in the world of hooves, dust, and sunshine, and forgetting there were such things as mortgage payments, impatient bankers, or illness. She remembered many such days, always with sadness that she would never share one with him again.
"Clara?"
At the faint call from the direction of the church, Clara smiled at the headstone. "Well, Father, here comes Bethany to collect me. She'll be concerned about me, and maybe wondering why I'm at your grave instead of Fergus'. Ah, well. Good night, Father."
"Clara?" Closer now.
Clara let the grass blade fall from her fingers and rose to her feet. She turned to see Bethany approaching, with, as she had predicted, her forehead wrinkled from worry. As she closed the distance between them, Bethany said," Are you all right, sister? Mother's worried for you. Carver even asked where you were, although I'm not sure I could call him worried."
"Carver wouldn't worry about me if I fell off a cliff," Clara answered wryly, brushing dust from her somber black skirt. Her funeral skirt. "Luckily, I have you to worry enough for everyone." She smiled at Bethany, who slipped an arm around her in a comforting hug.
"Come on. You must be hungry by now. I think Mother's tiring. We should take her home as soon as you've had a bite to eat." Bethany urged her away from the grave, and Clara allowed herself to be guided back toward the church, arm in arm with her younger sister.
A short time later, Clara held a cup of tea in one hand, but her other hand was constantly being shaken, held, or patted by the never-ending stream of mourners who came to pay their respects. Since Fergus' parents had absented themselves, Clara was being considered official next-of-kin, apparently. As she graciously accepted condolences from what seemed like a thousand people (it can't be a thousand people, there aren't nearly that many in this whole town), her face had begun to hurt from the smile she had forced onto it.
A warm voice from behind her said, "Your face is going to shatter if you don't get rid of that fake grin."
Turning around, a real smile shoving the fake one aside, Clara answered, "And have you ever treated a shattered face, doctor?"
"Not successfully, no," the slim fair-haired man before her admitted, "but if it happened to you, I would be too busy wildly grieving the loss of such perfect beauty to think about doctoring, anyway."
Clara almost laughed out loud. "Anders, you're almost chipper today. Do funerals agree with you?"
"No, I wouldn't say that," Anders said, scraping a palm against the stubble on his chin. From his other hand, he offered Clara a ham sandwich, wrapped neatly in a bit of cloth. "It's just your radiant personality that brings it out in me. Here, I see that the multitude hasn't given you a chance to eat. Tuck into it quick, while I hold them off with the power of my intimidating gaze."
In truth, it seemed that Anders had found her during a lull in the condolence-offering. Her stomach growled as she unwrapped the sandwich and took a huge bite. She mumbled a "Thank you" around her mouthful, knowing it was impolite. Anders was not much of a stickler for manners, thank goodness.
He smiled in response. "You're very welcome. In fact, if-"
"Anders!"
It was Bethany. The note of panic in her cry turned Clara's and Anders' heads toward the sound simultaneously. After a glance at each other, they bolted together in the direction of Bethany's voice.
At the edge of the gathering square, several chairs had been arranged for the comfort of the mourners. It was here, in the scant shade of a young, spindly tree, that Clara found Bethany kneeling in the grass next to the pitiably small form of their mother, Leandra Hawke.
Clara's heart jumped up into her throat. Oh no. Not Mother. Not now. Please, she prayed inwardly. As she drew closer, she was overwhelmingly relieved to see that Leandra's eyes were open, although her face was stark white.
Anders cleaved through the small crowd that had gathered around Leandra, and they considerately backed away from her to give him room. He dropped to the ground beside Bethany, who cradled her mother's head in her lap and looked up at him imploringly. Anders' hands went to work immediately, feeling her skin, checking her pulse, gently lifting her eyelid so he could peer at her pupil.
"So, Ms. Hawke," he said, conversationally. "Took a bit of a tumble, I see. What have I told you about climbing trees at your age?"
"She…she just fell right out of her chair," Bethany murmured. She glanced up at Anders apprehensively, as though expecting to be scolded. "I thought she looked tired, but-"
"Anders," Leandra croaked, raising one trembling hand to clasp his sleeve. "I believe I have told you about a thousand times to call me Leandra."
"I beg your pardon, Leandra," Anders answered easily. He had produced a stethoscope from somewhere inside his coat and placed the end of it gently against Leandra's chest, listening to her shaky breaths. "I'm simply trying to show respect for my elders. I still remember being beaten with a ruler by a cranky old nun every time I forgot. I really don't want her coming back to haunt me."
Anders removed the stethoscope and it disappeared into his coat again. He glanced up at Clara and smiled. "She's fine. A bit overtired, and a bit overheated. Let's get her a damp cloth for her head for the ride home." He turned to Bethany and continued, "When you get home, make her some tea and some broth. Give her two spoonfuls of the tonic I gave you. I'll bring her a fresh batch tomorrow."
Bethany nodded, her eyes intently on Anders as he said this, as though she might forget these instructions before she got her mother home.
Anders turned back to Leandra and patted her hand. "Rest, Leandra. You are to go to bed and rest. No chopping wood or digging wells tonight, okay? Otherwise I will have to send my cranky old nun to beat you with a ruler."
"Anders, dear," Leandra chuckled weakly as she struggled to sit up with Bethany's help. "If only you would marry one of my daughters, you would make me a happy woman indeed."
Clara smiled wryly. Trust her mother to play matchmaker even while lying collapsed on the ground in the middle of a circle of onlookers. At the funeral of the fiancée of one of said daughters.
Anders caught Clara's eye and winked playfully. To her mother he answered, "If I were ever lucky enough to become your son-in-law, I would definitely have to stop calling you Leandra."
Clara happened to glance at Bethany just then, and saw that her younger sister's cheeks were blushing a deep shade of pink that was now creeping down her neck, as well. She had allowed her hair to fall into her face, obscuring it partially, and Clara saw that her eyes were studiously avoiding Anders, as though to look directly at him might call his attention to her embarrassment. What's that all about?
Bethany was saved from further scrutiny by the bellowing of an irritated voice, growing louder as its owner approached the small knot of people under the tree. "What is going on? What's happened to my mother? Why didn't anyone come get me-"
Clara straightened up from the ground. Better to face this with a stiff spine, if possible. She turned slowly to face the owner of the voice: her brother, Carver Hawke, eminent mayor of Kirkwood.
Carver scowled as he came to a halt in front of her. "What is this?" he demanded. "Is she all right?"
Clara considered carefully as she looked up at her brother. She supposed it was a bit too late to try to avoid a scene, but an argument now would only upset Leandra, and she would try to avoid that if possible. "She's fine, Carver, she-"
"What do you mean, fine? She's lying on the ground with a face the color of milk!" he accused. "You should never have brought her here. You are to blame for this!"
Clara clenched her jaw as Anders stepped smoothly in front of her. "Your mother is well, Carver," he assured the taller man, who was now glowering at them both. "I have seen to her, and she has simply tired herself out. Now, if you will help Bethany make her comfortable while Clara fetches the horses…"
"Carver, darling! Carver!"
Anders was interrupted by the arrival of a short, slightly plump blonde woman, who fluttered into view from behind Carver and grasped his arm tightly between both of her small hands. She flushed prettily as she gasped for breath, leaning against him as though she might collapse herself.
"Sweetheart, why did you leave me like that? You know I'm in no condition to go chasing after you!" One hand peeled itself from Carver's arm and pressed against the swell at her belly. Her eyes darted about, taking in the scene around her, and suddenly she gasped theatrically. "Mother Leandra! What on earth? Oh my goodness, I feel faint…"
"Anders, would you kindly see to my wife? I believe she is feeling ill." Anders suddenly had his arms full as Carver thrust the woman unceremoniously forward. She fell against him, several of her golden curls tickling him in the face. Clara saw him glance apologetically at her, and he withdrew toward the row of chairs with his flustered patient, murmuring, "Come now, Peaches, let's just get you settled over here and I'll take a look at you…"
Carver barely spared a glance for his wife as Anders led her away, preferring to keep Clara pinned in place with his hostility. "Well? Didn't the good doctor give you an order? Go get the horses," he snapped at her, "since you seem to be incapable of doing anything else. I know you are simply wild with grief over the loss of your rich boy-"
"Carver, that is both unnecessary and inappropriate," said a crisp new voice from behind Clara. "Your sibling squabbles have no place at a funeral."
Sheriff Aveline Vallen stepped from behind Clara and nodded to her amiably. She was somberly dressed for the occasion in black shirt, pants, and boots, but still wore her gunbelt around her hips. Her silver sheriff's star gleamed from its place on her chest. Clara was glad to see Aveline; she was one of the few people that Carver ever paid heed to, and Clara really wanted to get through this funeral without a loud argument.
"I have already sent Donnic to fetch your buggy and team,"Aveline said to Clara. "He'll be here in just a moment. Carver, I'm sure your mother would appreciate your assistance in helping her to the buggy, unless you mean to make Bethany carry her."
Carver, with a last waspish glance at Clara, stepped forward to where Leandra still huddled on the ground, and began to gather her in his arms. Clara could just hear the whispered reprimands from both Bethany and Leandra, chastising him for his behavior, but she knew that their words wouldn't bother Carver a bit.
Clara turned to Aveline, smiling gratefully. "You'd think he'd be dancing with joy today at the ruination of my dreams," she said ruefully.
"Clara, I'm very sorry for your loss," Aveline said. "He was a good man and didn't deserve to die so young. I will be investigating the circumstances fully, I assure you, but from my preliminary findings, it was truly an accident."
"I'm sure it was, Aveline. Fergus wasn't the best horseman I've ever seen, but even the best can be thrown like that when taken by surprise. Something must have frightened his horse. It could have been anything, really."
"I promise you, if there is anything suspicious to be found, I will find it," Aveline answered. Hoofbeats sounded from the street. Clara turned her head and saw her horses trotting toward them, with deputy Donnic seated in the driver's seat of her mother's small buggy. He pulled to a stop alongside the church square, and Carver, carrying Leandra, began to make his way toward it.
Clara turned back to Aveline. "I need to take Mother home and make sure she gets some rest, but there's also something I want to talk to you about. Will you be at the Hanged Man later?"
"Yes," answered Aveline firmly. "I'd love a couple of drinks after today."
"I'll see you there in a couple of hours," Clara promised, as she took her leave of Aveline and headed toward the buggy, where Leandra was now comfortably settled inside with Bethany next to her. Carver was gone already, thank goodness.
Bethany was speaking to Anders, who had extricated himself from Peaches and was looking over Leandra one last time. "Are you sure you'll be all right?" she questioned him.
"Yes, Bethany," Anders assured her. "The clinic will hold together for one day without you, never fear."
"All right," Bethany conceded. "I left the fresh bandages folded on the shelf nearest the fire, and the new herbs are in the basket by the door..."
"I am hoping not to need either tonight," he answered, as Clara climbed into the driver's seat and accepted the reins from Donnic with a nod of thanks. Anders smiled at her, then backed away, slapping the hindquarters of the nearest horse to get her started.
Clara breathed a sigh of relief as the small buggy finally left Kirkwood behind, rattling along on the worn path leading home to Rainesfere. The two mares, Cricket and Felsi, trotted along unhurriedly, and Clara clucked her tongue at them to encourage them to move faster. She felt emotionally drained, but restless at the same time. She suddenly wanted nothing more than to change into pants, unbind her hair, saddle Teagan, and just ride. Ride hard and fast, with the wind in her face, and think of nothing but the sound of Teagan's pounding hooves.
Clara flicked the reins, and her hand brushed against a lump in her skirt pocket. She pulled the object out to find the ham sandwich that Anders had given her. With a smile, she finished it off.
