Page 79 of If the Boot Fits

Forgive me, Lord. This isn’t for me to carry alone. You’ve promised I can do all things if you strengthen me. I can face all things if you strengthen me. Lend me your strength, Lord. Help me to be brave for Daddy. For Clint. For everyone at the Three Cedars. Help me to lean on you and not my own understanding. Give me courage to face whatever must be faced. But please . . . if there is any room in your will to spare Daddy’s life, I beg you to do so. And Clint. Protect my brother. Please let no harm come to him. Or to Asher and Ida Mae. Bring them all home safe.

She let the solidity of the door support her weight for a long moment before straightening. Once upright, she tipped her head back, closed her eyes, and imagined a heavenly ewer pouring strength over her like a stream of warm water.

“‘Thou anointest my head with oil,’” she murmured softly as she visualized endurance and fortitude soaking through her skin and into her spirit. “‘My cup runneth over.’” Bowing her head, she folded her arms and rubbed them as if to ensure not a single drop would be wasted. “‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me.’”

God was with her. She believed his promise. Felt his presence. She was not alone.

Opening her eyes, Samantha set her shoulders and strode out of the room. Her father had not worried about what he might lose when he leapt in front of the bullet meant for her. He’d simply let love drive his actions. Time to stop fearing what she might lose and focus instead on how best to love and support the people around her.

“There you are.” Mrs. Stewart smiled as Samantha entered the kitchen. The family cook rose awkwardly from the cushioned footstool she had pilfered from the parlor and pressed a hand to her lower back. “Goodness. It’s not as easy to get up and down as it used to be. Best I leave the stool sittin’ to you young’uns.”

“I’m happy to take over.” Samantha gripped the older woman’s elbow to steady her as she found her balance.

Mrs. Stewart patted Samantha’s arm, then edged away. “I’ll get breakfast going. Not sure how many we’ll be feedin’, but I’ll make sure we got plenty of food on hand to fill the men’s bellies whenever they make it back to the ranch.” She grabbed a towel and wiped Jimmy’s slobbery face as she passed the high chair, then laid another teething biscuit on the tray. “When Martin returns, we should ask him to help us move Mr. Dearing into a proper bed. Ain’t right for him to be layin’ on the floor like that.”

“Good idea.” Samantha tucked her skirt beneath her and lowered herself onto the footstool.

She brushed her fingertips across her father’s brow, tidying the way his hair lay over his forehead. His eyelids twitched, then cracked open.

“Sam?”

Strange how the name she’d turned her back on now soothed her heart with sweet nostalgia.

“I’m here, Daddy.” She collected his hand and placed it in her lap, circling her fingers around his.

His head turned toward her. “How did . . . you know about . . . Duke?”

Her heart broke at his question. How she’d wanted to spare him this pain. “I didn’t. Not until this morning. Things just . . . clicked into place when I saw him.”

His brows lifted in silent entreaty. He wanted more details. Details that would only increase his suffering. Yet withholding the truth might torture him even more.

She stared at his work-roughened fingers cupped inside her hands, unable to look him in the eyes. “Mother kept a journal. Aunt Regina found it among her things and held on to it for me, wanting to pass it along once I was older. She gave it to me yesterday, thinking it might help me pass the time during my confinement.”

Samantha fell quiet for a moment, searching for words that might soften the harsh edges of the truth. “Mother wanted to give you a son so badly. An heir to the Three Cedars. I think her obsession twisted something inside her, enabling her to justify whatever means were necessary to achieve that goal. She never stopped loving you, though, Daddy. I know it sounds absurd, but she likened it to pairing a heifer with a bull. No emotional attachment. Strictly a breeding exercise.”

He groaned and turned his face away from her. She tightened her grip on his hand and curled her body downward, as if she could shield him from the betrayal. But such a thing was impossible.

“What Mother did was wrong. Deep down, she knew that. Her journal is filled with guilt and regret.”

He stared at a spot on the ceiling, his jaw tight. “I had my suspicions. The more time passed without a baby, the more distant she became. And short-tempered. Complained all the time. I found excuses to stay away from the house. Then something changed. She started going out of her way to please me. Had this forced cheerfulness about her that felt . . . artificial. I didn’t question it. I was just glad she wasn’t pickin’ me apart anymore. When we learned she was finally carrying another babe, we were both so happy, our troubles no longer mattered. Then Clint was born, and I about burst with pride. Didn’t matter that he didn’t look like me. He was my son, and I loved him with my whole heart.” He turned his face toward Samantha. “Just as I loved you.” His attention returned to the ceiling as he exhaled. “I didn’t want to believe he was anything other than mine, so I didn’t. Told myself he’d inherited my uncle’s darker coloring.”

His words had started to drift a bit, and Samantha worried that he was wearing himself out. Then his right hand balled into a fist and banged against the wall next to his shoulder.

“I trusted him. With everything. The ranch. The cattle. My family. He’s been my best friend for nearly thirty years. How could he do this?”

Samantha shook her head. “I don’t know.” Nothing could justify such a betrayal.

Her father grasped her arm with a grip that belied his weakened state. “No matter what happens to me, you gotta get Clint back. Tell him he’s my son. Always will be. In my heart and in the eyes of the law. Nothin’s ever gonna change that. He’s a Dearing.” A cough broke up his words, but he continued despite his quickly flagging energy. His eyelids drooped, and his grip loosened. “Heir to the Three . . . Cedars. My boy.”

“I’ll tell him, Daddy.” Samantha blinked away a tear and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. “You rest now.” She didn’t like him talking as if he might not make it. He had to pull through. “Clint’s going to want to see you when Asher brings him home.”

“Asher . . . good man.” His eyes blinked slowly, almost not opening again. “Good . . . for you.”

“I think so, too. I love him, Daddy.”

“Thought . . . you might.”

Was she imagining it, or had his lips curved a tiny bit at the corners? The hint of a smile disappeared, replaced by tension and the etching of pain. His eyes closed, and she thought he had slipped into sleep, but after a long minute, he forced them back open and melded his gaze with hers.