Bending Toward the Sun (5 page)

The next morning, Emilie finished the breakfast dishes. PaPa had gone to the store, which allowed her time alone in the kitchen—her favorite thinking place. It wasn’t breakfast or the cleanup that cradled her thoughts this morning.

“I might have to invite meself to dinner.”

More than once since Quaid had given her a ride home, she’d found herself distracted. The intriguing image of him sitting at the kitchen table enjoying the brats and red cabbage last night was foremost in her imagination. Then she’d remember her father’s hateful statements.

“You have your status to think about. The McFarlands run freight wagons. They’re teamsters. They’re Irish.”

PaPa was a kind man who would do most anything for anyone. She didn’t know this father who would slight another man for his heritage or the job he held. He’d defended the rights of all men to choose their livelihood regardless of color or race. He’d donated provisions to each of the three Union regiments that originated in Saint Charles. Had her father always been selectively prejudiced?

She meant what she’d said to Quaid. Friends were meant to be friends, regardless of status.

That very morning when her racing thoughts commandeered her sleep, she’d propped herself on her pillows and reread the sixteenth chapter of 1 Samuel by candlelight. The seventh verse still echoed in her heart.

The L
ORD
seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the L
ORD
looketh on the heart
.

Quaid’s heart was what mattered, not his status.

At the bottom of the stairs about forty minutes later, Emilie stepped into the store, looking for PaPa. He was alone, as Maren wouldn’t be in to work until this afternoon. PaPa stood at the far wall, stocking a shelf with tinware and talking to a customer. Satisfied that he didn’t need her help, she headed to the grocery section. Her first duty was to pick through the vegetables to make sure none had turned. She was passing a display of dutch ovens when she overheard a conversation that slowed her steps.

“I’ve found the sacks of sugar,
Dumpling
.” The woman spoke in German. “I’m too short to fetch it. Could you reach it for me?”

Dumpling
. She’d heard a man at the post office refer to his wife as his
little petunia
. Whatever possessed people to assign one another the name of a food or a plant and think it complimentary?

“I beg your pardon, Miss Heinrich.”

Jolted out of her musing, Emilie nearly tumbled the stack of dutch ovens. She turned to face the man who spoke with a slight Southern drawl—and who’d served her recently as a wheelwright. He pulled the bowler from his dark blond hair.

“Mr. Cowlishaw.” He wasn’t wearing his gray trousers today. “I didn’t hear you approach.”

“Soldiers with any chance of survival learn how to sneak around.” A shadow darkened his eyes. “Some habits stick with you, ma’am.”

“I would suppose they do.” She tugged her apron straight. “Thank you, again, for your help with Mrs. Rafferty’s wagon.”

“It was my pleasure.”

Had the man forgotten the way Caroline practically accused him—a complete stranger—of killing her husband? Emilie glanced from the door to the produce. “May I help you find something?”

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper. “As you know from your quilting circle visits, I’m staying out at Mrs. Brantenberg’s farm some. Yesterday, when she learned I was coming into town last night for a meeting, she presented me with a list. I’m not much good at shopping for food. Didn’t have a cause for it the past four years.”

“I’d be happy to help.”

“I appreciate it.”

Emilie glanced at the list he handed her. “These five items won’t take us long. Follow me, Mr. Cowlishaw.”

She stopped in front of the empty casks.

For use in pickling, he chose a kilderkin, which holds half as much liquid as a barrel, then looked at her, concern narrowing his blue eyes. “It may not be my place to ask, but I have a question. Do you mind?”

Emilie noted his serious tone. “I don’t mind. However, I’ll refuse the answer if the question is inappropriate.”

“Fair enough, ma’am. Mrs. Milburn from the wagon the other day … did her husband perish?”

That was the very question Caroline was desperate to have answered. It wasn’t Emilie’s place to discuss another woman’s plight, but the man
had
endured Caroline’s wrath with grace. “Mrs. Milburn hasn’t heard from her husband since January.”

“No word of him?”

“No sir.” She started toward the spice cabinet, and he followed. “As you witnessed, she is desperate to know what became of Colonel Phillip Milburn.”

His shoulders broadened. “I want to help. I know someone who may be able to find the answer.”

“You would do that?”

He lifted his head, his expression one of earnest concern. “I’m a man with regrets, Miss Heinrich, but I’m not a bad man.”

A knot formed in her throat. Her father wasn’t the only one who struggled with assumptions. She opened her mouth, but closed it and offered a nod.

“I’d rather you didn’t tell your friend of my efforts. Should they fail, well, Mrs. Milburn doesn’t need added disappointment.”

Emilie agreed. “I’ll wait to hear from you then.”

She caught sight of movement and glanced to find her father walking toward them, his expression uncharacteristically somber. “Is there a problem here?”

“No.” She met PaPa’s brooding gaze, then turned to her customer. “Mr. Cowlishaw, I’d like to present my father, Johann Heinrich. PaPa, this is Mr. Garrett Cowlishaw. He is a childhood friend of Rutherford Wainwright’s.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.” Garrett shook her father’s hand.

“And you, Mr. Cowlishaw.” Her father’s face neglected to exhibit the pleasure.

“Mrs. Brantenberg gave Mr. Cowlishaw a shopping list. I’m helping him find the items for her.”

“I’ll finish here,” PaPa said. “You’re needed in yard goods.”

Emilie pressed her lips against her objection, then looked at Mr. Cowlishaw. “Give my best to Mrs. Brantenberg.”

“I’ll do that, ma’am. Thank you.”

Her shoes stamped the floor as she made her way to dry goods. PaPa’s insistence had nothing to do with needing help in yard goods. He could’ve cut fabric. Helping customers with a list was customary. Something she did every day. But she was seeing a common thread in her father’s reactions.

Garrett Cowlishaw may not have been an Irish teamster, but he was a young man, and it appeared her father thought he’d captured her attention.

And she had endured about all of her father’s assumptions she could take.

Five

G
ood day, Mr. Gut.” Quaid waved at the merchant and climbed onto the wagon seat, proud of himself for remembering the German pronunciation of the man’s name. Another week had passed since he’d seen Emilie. He’d delivered sugar to the soda bottler, various chemicals in gallon jugs to the photographer, and a string-tied bundle of tanned leather to Gut’s Saddlery and Harness. Next stop, Heinrich’s Dry Goods and Grocery for his Tuesday delivery.

With a flick of the reins, he urged the horses left, up Main Street toward the Old Capitol Building.

If he were a praying man, he’d ask that Emilie be at the store and her father be away for the time being. Last Monday, when he’d teased her about inviting himself for dinner, she’d said, “I would like that” with a fair bit of emphasis on
I
. When he’d asked if she feared her father wouldn’t approve of him offering her a ride, her sigh was deep enough to have come up from her toes, telling what she wouldn’t allow her words to say—Herr Heinrich didn’t approve of Quaid seeing his daughter, even as a friend.

He blew out a long breath as he guided the horses around a tinker’s cart stopped in the road. He didn’t want his father to be right about Johann Heinrich being set against his friendship with Emilie. Nor did he wish to cause tension between Emilie and her father.

At the Old Capitol Building, Quaid turned the corner and pulled the wagon to a stop behind Heinrich’s store. When he knocked at the back door, it wasn’t Emilie or Mr. Heinrich who answered, but Miss Jensen, Rutherford’s intended.

“Miss Jensen. It’s a pleasure to see you again. I hope you’re well.”

“I am. Thank you.”

“I have a delivery. Is Miss Emilie here?”

“She is.”

“Good.” His shoulders relaxed. “I’ll need her signature on the bill of lading.” A lame excuse, seeing as Miss Jensen was an employee and could sign off on his delivery.

Smiling as if she’d seen through the ruse, Miss Jensen pointed at the floor space against the end wall. “You may set the goods there. I’ll let Emilie know you’re here.”

He watched her walk through the inside door, then wedged the back door open and started unloading the wagon. He hauled in a couple of barrels of vinegar, then returned to the wagon. He was reaching for a gunnysack when Emilie stepped over the threshold into the sunshine. His breathing faltered. Her dress was the color of spring grass, his favorite color of green. Her brown hair was swept back and pinned up, but a few strands dangled over her ear.

She fidgeted with her skirt seams as she walked toward him, her pace as smooth as a dance. “Hello. I was cutting yard goods. Maren told me you were here.”

He held her gaze. “I’ve started unloading into the storeroom. I hope that’s all right.”

She nodded. “My father is at the bank.” She stopped at a respectable distance from him. “Thank you, again, for the ride last week.”

“My pleasure. It’s nice to have a friend who doesn’t smell like a week on the river.” She awarded him with a soft laugh. Were those gold flecks in her brown eyes? “Much of the wagon load was yours … your father’s.”

“During harvest season, I order extra gadgets and the latest toys. We have many folks request special items.” She glanced past him, at the wagon. “Did the dollhouse come?”

“Dollhouse?”

“Yes.” Emilie rose onto her tiptoes, peeking over the sideboards. She pointed to a crate at the far side. “That there, is it from New Orleans?”

He chuckled.

She angled her head, her dark eyebrows arched. “You think I’m silly, fussing over a dollhouse?”

“Yes, ma’am, I do. But I’m enjoyin’ it.” Emilie was definitely a handsome and intelligent woman, but still the sweet girl he’d counted among his childhood friends. He walked around the wagon and lifted the thin plank box.

Emilie stood beside him, teasing his senses with the fragrance of lavender. “Does it feel like it could be a dollhouse?”

“Do you have a pry bar handy?”

“In the storeroom.”

“Lead the way. The only way to know for sure is to open it.”

Her skirts swishing, Emilie walked through the doorway to a bin on the wall. When he set the crate on top of a barrel, she handed him the bar, excitement lighting her eyes.

He pressed the flat edge under the corner of the lid and pulled, causing the small nails to creak. When the lid gave way, Emilie lifted it off the crate and gasped at the sight of the dollhouse. He carefully freed the wooden dollhouse from its cage. A balcony stretched across the full width of the recessed third floor.

She trailed her finger along the gabled roofline. “Beautiful!” She faced him, her smile lighting the storeroom.

Yes, beautiful
, Quaid silently agreed. But he wasn’t looking at the dollhouse.

“Emilie?” Mr. Heinrich stood in the doorway, his arms rigid at his sides. “What’s going on here?”

“The dollhouse I ordered, PaPa, it came in today’s delivery.” She stepped aside and pointed to the house, complete with sheer curtains in the many windows.

Her father fixed his stern gaze on Quaid. “Has your father taken ill, Mr. McFarland? Is that why he isn’t making the deliveries?”

“My father is well, sir.” Quaid didn’t need to explain why he was here. The storekeeper knew he was fond of his daughter—Quaid saw that knowledge in the tightness of the man’s jaw.

Emilie looked at him, the golden flecks gone from her eyes. “Thank you for opening the crate for me.” Polite, but impersonal.

“You’re welcome.”

“I need to get back into the store.”

He nodded. “And I have a wagon to unload.” Turning away first, he went outside with her father at his heels.

“I’ll help.” The man’s voice was devoid of its usual cheer.

They worked in silence until they each held an end of a bale of wool. Quaid stepped off the tailgate.

“I’m not opposed to you being my Emilie’s friend.” Mr. Heinrich’s voice had softened.

Unlike the lump stuck in Quaid’s throat.

“Emilie is a handsome young woman.”

“Yes. Your daughter is also kind and intelligent.” And distracting.

“You’re a strapping young man recently returned from war. No doubt tired of bitter loneliness and ready to start a family of your own.”

“We’re merely friends, sir.”

“I won’t see Emilie hurt.” The tightness in his jaw had returned.