A Borrowed Dream Read online

Dr. Goddard was his past, a past that could never be revealed. For as long as Sherman Enright lived, he was simply Austin Goddard, Texas rancher.

  3

  Catherine kept her arm wrapped firmly around Seth’s waist, knowing that even though he hated the visible reminder of his infirmity, he was too ill to walk without assistance.

  “We’re almost there,” she said. Though it was only two blocks from the school to her home, bearing most of Seth’s weight had left Catherine breathless. She guided them onto Mesquite, giving thanks that her home was now in sight.

  “Need some help, Catherine?”

  She froze for an instant, her brain recoiling from the very thought. Why oh why did the town’s doctor have to be standing on his front porch at this particular time? It was bad enough that he lived on the same block and that she had to pass his house every time she left home, but at least he was rarely outside.

  The easiest thing would be to pretend she hadn’t heard him. That was what she did whenever she could. But Seth was with her today. After all the times she had chided her pupils for not being polite to one another, she could not ignore the doctor. She was an adult, and she needed to set a positive example.

  “No, sir,” she said as sweetly as she could. “I have everything Seth needs.”

  “Suit yourself, but I’ve got a couple hungry leeches here.”

  Both Catherine and Seth shuddered.

  The Dalton farm was suffering from neglect. Austin saw that the moment he turned off the main road. As the wagon lurched from hitting yet another pothole on the narrow lane leading to the farm buildings, he frowned, his opinion of Seth’s father sinking another notch. Though he tried not to form judgments about people without meeting them, the picture of Mr. Dalton that was emerging was not a pleasant one.

  A day or two of work was all it would have taken to fill in the potholes and cut back the cactus that encroached on the edges of the road. Though the fields were plowed, the rows were crooked, and weeds had begun to overtake whatever crop was supposed to be growing. Neglect, plain and simple.

  When he reached the farmhouse, Austin wasn’t surprised to see that it had suffered equally, its paint peeling and the windows so encrusted with dirt that he suspected they hadn’t been washed in years.

  Had Mr. Dalton fallen on hard times or did he simply not care? Perhaps the burden of being a widower and trying to raise a child alone had taken its toll on him, leaving him either overwhelmed or apathetic. Parenting without a wife was not an easy life. Austin knew that firsthand.

  As the wagon rattled its way onto the yard, a heavyset man an inch or two shorter than Austin emerged from the barn. His pants were frayed at the cuffs, his shirt missing a button, the brown hair visible beneath his hat in sore need of a cut. The man appeared as neglected as his farm.

  “Are you Mr. Dalton?” Austin asked, trying not to frown at the hostility he saw on the other man’s face. Though Texans were noted for their friendliness, there were always exceptions, and this man appeared to be one.

  “Yeah, I’m Boone Dalton. Who wants to know?” As Boone Dalton approached the wagon, Austin climbed out, hoping the man would be more welcoming if they were on equal footing.

  “I’m Austin Goddard, your neighbor.”

  It was an innocuous statement, or so Austin thought, but his neighbor’s reaction said otherwise. The man’s face flushed, and he balled his hands into fists. “So you’re the one what stole the ranch from me.” There was no mistaking the venom in his voice or the anger flashing from those brown eyes so like his son’s. As far as Austin could see, the shape and color of his eyes were the only traits Seth had inherited from his father. That was probably good.

  Austin kept his expression as neutral as he could while he considered the implications of Boone Dalton’s words. The man who’d arranged the sale of the ranch had told him there had been another person interested, but that he hadn’t been able to meet the price. Austin hadn’t expected to encounter the other potential buyer, especially under these circumstances, and he couldn’t help wondering why a man who obviously neglected the land he already owned would want to acquire more.

  Deciding to ignore Boone’s comment and the questions it had raised, Austin said, “Miss Whitfield asked me to stop by. Seth was ill at school.” And had obviously been ill before then, although Boone gave no sign that he was aware of it. Austin had trouble imagining how the boy had managed to walk into town in his condition. It must have been sheer desperation that propelled his feet that far.

  “She’s going to keep him at her house until he’s well enough to come home,” Austin continued, watching the other man as carefully as he would a coiled snake. Instinct told him Boone Dalton was as dangerous as a riled rattler.

  “She dang well better not expect me to pay for no doctor.” The man practically spat the words.

  Austin might have laughed at the thought of Catherine Whitfield consulting a doctor if the situation hadn’t been so serious. “I can assure you, there will be no doctor’s fees.”

  “Dang right there won’t be. I ain’t paying nothin’ for that useless boy. He’s always gettin’ sick and sloughin’ off his chores. Them cows gotta be milked regular like.”

  He pounded his right fist into his left palm in what seemed to be an attempt to vent his anger. Instead of being concerned that his son was ill, Seth’s father only cared that he might have to milk a cow. It wasn’t the first time Austin had seen men who apparently lacked paternal instincts, but Boone might be the worst example he’d encountered.

  “You wouldn’t want your livestock to catch whatever’s ailing your son, would you?” he asked, trying to deflect some of the man’s anger from Seth. He hoped Boone was as ignorant of the probability of interspecies infections as he was of paternal love.

  Austin’s comment hit its mark, for the man shook his head. “Dang right, I don’t. Them cows are worth more than the boy.”

  Though the boy had a name, his father didn’t seem to use it. Boone’s bulbous red nose told Austin the man drank to excess; his reaction to Seth’s illness told Austin he hadn’t been mistaken in thinking the yellow patches he’d seen on Seth’s face were bruises and that his father had been the one to inflict them. Boone Dalton was a brute, just like those thugs Sherman Enright had hired.

  Austin tried not to sigh at the sadness of the situation. So far, he had been able to keep Hannah away from Enright’s henchmen. Unfortunately, there was little he could do to protect Seth. Even if Austin told the sheriff that Seth was being mistreated, the law would side with Boone. A man had a right to raise his child the way he saw fit, or so the law books claimed.

  “I missed you at church yesterday.”

  Catherine turned at the sound of the familiar voice, clutching her cloak more closely around her shoulders as she leaned forward on the porch swing. Despite the evening’s chill, once she’d been satisfied that Seth was asleep, she’d ventured outside for a bit of fresh air, not expecting anyone to come calling.

  “I was ill,” she told her visitor, “but I’m better now.”

  Nate Kenton climbed the three steps to the front porch and leaned against the railing, the sliver of a moon illuminating his face. There had been a time when Catherine had considered that face handsome, but tonight it seemed like a pale and poor imitation of Austin Goddard’s. Why hadn’t she noticed the way Nate looked at a spot beside her rather than meeting her gaze? Why hadn’t she noticed that his voice was harsh rather than firm? Why hadn’t she . . .

  Her thoughts were interrupted when Nate shook his head. “You may be well, but Seth Dalton isn’t. I hear you’ve got him staying with you.”

  Catherine suppressed a sigh at the evidence that the Cimarron Creek rumor mill was as active as ever. “I hope he’ll recover as quickly as I did.”

  Though she knew it was futile, she wished concern over her health was the reason Nate had come to town. The man whose peaches and goats were famous throughout the county lived a few miles outside of town and came in only fo
r church and an occasional trip for provisions now that his weekly dominoes games with the sheriff had been discontinued. He’d never visited her on a Monday evening, but it was also true that she rarely missed church services.

  “I worry about you,” Nate said, dipping his head ever so slightly. “You should be caring for your own children, not someone else’s.” Though the words were slightly different from the previous time, Catherine had no doubt where this conversation was headed. She said nothing, letting him continue. The sooner he said his piece, the sooner he would leave.

  “You’re good with children. You’re a good teacher and a good nurse. You’d be a good mother.”

  Catherine hadn’t minded when Mama had said the same thing, but Nate was not Mama. “I’m not certain God intends me to be a mother,” she told him. A year ago that had been one of her dreams, but the year had brought so many changes that she’d begun to believe that being a wife and mother was one of the dreams that would never come true.

  “Of course he intends you to be a mother,” Nate insisted, “just as he intends me to be a father.” He took a step forward, reaching for Catherine’s hands. When she kept them firmly fixed on her cloak, he simply shrugged at the rejection. “I want to marry you, Catherine. You know that. And now that you put off your mourning clothes, I know you’re ready.”

  “I’m not.” Catherine shook her head. “Just because I’m not wearing black doesn’t mean that I’ve stopped mourning my mother. Even if I wanted to marry you, I wouldn’t consider doing that until the full year is over. Waiting that long is my way of honoring my mother.”

  “Oh.” Her declaration appeared to have left Nate speechless.

  The silence stretched between them, broken only by an owl’s hoot and the soft soughing of the live oak leaves. It would have been a night to savor, if only Nate hadn’t come.

  He squared his shoulders, as if preparing for something unpleasant, then announced, “I’ll even take you to Europe if you agree to be my wife.”

  Catherine blinked in surprise. Was this really Nate Kenton, the man who had always scoffed at the idea of traveling more than fifty miles from Cimarron Creek? When she’d spoken of France and Switzerland, he’d told her he had no desire to go to a place where everyone spoke a foreign language. But tonight he was acting as if he’d changed his mind.

  “I know you had your heart set on going abroad last summer. If you marry me, that can be our honeymoon trip.”

  The dream of Europe with its fabled cathedrals and castles had sustained Catherine through difficult times, but like so many other dreams, it had been buried along with her mother. Now Nate was offering a second chance. A year ago, she would have been overjoyed at the thought of seeing the famous sites of Europe with him, but that was a year ago.

  “I’m sorry, Nate.” And indeed she was. She was sorry he hadn’t turned out to be the man she had thought he was. She was sorry that he might be hurt by her refusal, but she wasn’t sorry enough to risk a life of unhappiness. “You’re a good man, but I can’t marry you.”

  He straightened his back and looked down at her, his expression mirroring his disbelief, though this was not the first time she’d refused his proposal. It was, however, the first time the proposal had included a honeymoon abroad. Nate must have thought that would change her answer.

  “Why not? You know that I care about you.”

  “The way you cared about Lydia?” Catherine couldn’t resist shooting the barb. At the time, she’d been hurt by his infatuation with the town’s newest resident, but the pain had turned to relief that she’d been saved from making a huge mistake. Nate’s attempts to court Lydia had shown Catherine that he’d never loved her. Oh, he cared for her, but that wasn’t the same thing. Even tonight he hadn’t claimed that he loved her.

  “Lydia was only a passing fancy,” Nate insisted. “You’re the woman I want to marry. Say yes, Catherine. We can have a good life together. We’ll get married, we’ll go to Europe, and when we come back, I’ll take care of you. You won’t have to teach another year.” His eyes darkened as he added, “I know you never really enjoyed teaching.”

  “That’s changed. I’ve changed.” But one thing that hadn’t changed was Catherine’s determination to never be a man’s second choice. Nate might not be a teacher, but that was one lesson he’d taught very well.

  She was smiling. Just before the rooster’s crowing had wakened her, she had been dreaming of Paris, and this time there had been no disturbing end to the dream. It was her familiar dream of walking along the banks of the Seine, admiring the spires and flying buttresses of Notre Dame, with one variation. Instead of being alone, she had been strolling arm in arm with a man. He was tall, with blond hair like Nate, but though she hadn’t seen his face, Catherine knew her companion was not Nate. The way he walked reminded her of Austin Goddard.

  It was foolish to be dreaming of Austin. Admittedly, he was handsome, but there were other handsome men. What distinguished Austin was the way he treated others. Though she’d spent less than an hour in his company, she’d been impressed by his kindness and concern. He didn’t dismiss children as inferior beings, simply because they were not fully grown. Instead, he’d seemed genuinely concerned for Seth.

  They’d discussed the boy’s plight when Austin had returned to pick up Hannah at the end of the day. Though their conversation had begun on a formal note, they’d soon agreed to use each other’s first names. Austin had reported on his visit with Boone Dalton and had asked Catherine whether she’d considered giving Seth willow bark tea, seeming pleased when she told him she’d already given the boy some of the fever-reducing concoction.

  Though the subjects had been serious, Catherine had felt oddly energized by the way Austin seemed to regard her as an equal. There had been none of the slightly condescending attitude so many men in Cimarron Creek had toward her, even Nate. Especially Nate.

  When Nate had declared that he would take care of her, Catherine had wanted to tell him she was perfectly capable of caring for herself. What she wanted—what she needed—was to be loved. She wanted the kind of love Mama said she and Papa had shared, a love so strong that even twenty years after Papa’s death, the memories still warmed his widow.

  Perhaps it was foolish, perhaps she was making a mistake, but Catherine wanted to be a man’s first and only love. That meant that no matter how handsome and kind he was, Austin could never be more than a friend. Still, friendship was good.

  Fifteen minutes later, dressed and coiffed for the day, Catherine knocked on the door to the spare room. Even though she would never have wished illness on Seth, she hadn’t realized how empty the house had been or how much she’d missed having company until she’d settled him into the small room across the hall from her.

  “Good morning, Seth,” she said as she entered the room. “It looks like you’re feeling better.” Her patient was sitting in a chair by the window, a pencil in his hand, when only twelve hours earlier, he’d been flat on his back, almost too weak to move.

  “It must be your chicken soup,” the boy said, his face lighting with a smile. Surely the smile was not caused by the fact that she had fed him, carefully spooning the warm liquid into his mouth. Boys Seth’s age didn’t appreciate being invalids.

  “My head doesn’t hurt anymore,” he told her. “I even read one of the stories you told me I could. I liked that headless horseman.”

  Catherine smiled as she laid a hand on his forehead, confirming that the fever had broken. Whether it was due to the chicken soup or the willow bark tea did not matter. What was important was that Seth was healing. And if Washington Irving’s tales could help, she didn’t regret giving him permission to touch the three books he’d noticed when she’d been feeding him.

  Seth had seemed fascinated by the worn bindings, confirming Catherine’s belief that his home contained few of the things she thought a growing boy should have. Knowing he would be careful with them, she’d explained that the books had been her father’s and were the only
things she had of his but that Seth was welcome to read them.

  “I want you to spend another day recuperating,” Catherine told her patient. “If you keep improving, you can return to school tomorrow.” She might have allowed another pupil back in the classroom sooner, but knowing that a return to the schoolhouse also meant a return to the farm where there would be no opportunity to rest and where he might be subjected to Boone’s fists, Catherine decided to keep Seth here for at least one more day.

  His smile faded. “My pa won’t be happy.”

  Catherine did not doubt that. “Mr. Goddard spoke to him. He understands that you’re not ready to milk the cows.” Though Catherine had laughed at the story Austin had told Boone, she would not repeat it to Seth. The boy didn’t need to know that his father was so easy to fool.

  She glanced at the pad that he’d turned over in his lap. “You don’t need to worry about your lessons.” Seth was one of her brightest pupils. He’d have no trouble catching up with the others even if he missed a full week of school.

  His face flushed with what appeared to be embarrassment as he looked at the pad. “It’s not lessons.”

  “Then what are you doing?”

  “Drawing.” Seth turned the pad face up and handed it to her.

  Catherine stared at the sketch, amazed by the talent it revealed. Seth had captured the view from the window: the small garden Mama used to enjoy, the picket fence separating the yard from the cemetery, the headstones and monuments in the graveyard. They were ordinary things, and yet Seth had imbued them with such realism that Catherine felt as if she were standing in the middle of her yard.

  “This is excellent work.” She rested her hand on Seth’s shoulder, watching as his face lit with pleasure over the compliment. “I didn’t know you could draw.” While other students often doodled on their slates, she’d never seen Seth doing that, yet the boy had more natural talent than any pupil she’d had.

  The spark of enthusiasm that had lit Seth’s face faded. “Pa won’t let me draw. He says that’s for girls.”