Bittersweet (33 page)

“Sometimes,” Mrs. O’Sullivan said slowly, “you have to change plans and make the best of what you have.”

“I—” Laney caught herself. “Ruth and I are doing the best we can.”

She’s here
. Galen quickened his pace.

Ishmael chuckled. “After you et such a big breakfast, yore still hungry?”

Making no reply, Galen hastened up the steps and opened the door.
There she is. My Laney
. He stared at her like a thirsty man leaning over a well for the next bucket of water.

Laney turned toward him. Her face brightened and her big, beautiful brown eyes lit with joy.

“So that’s why you was a-hurryin’ to get here, Boss.” Ishmael sniffed. “Sommat smells downright sinful good. What is it?”

Galen stepped inside, and Ishmael followed. Laney’s cheeks went pale in that instant. The happiness sparking her features faded just as fast. She dipped her head and turned away as she mumbled, “Coffee cake.”

“Hilda jist took it outta the oven.” Ivy started pouring coffee. “C’mon in and take the load off yore feet.”

Laney scooped a long length of cloth from the table.

“Here. I’ll help you fold that.” Galen grabbed a portion.

She gazed up at him, a tumult of emotions brimming in her eyes. Galen looked down at her.
My beloved lass. ’Tis you my heart beats
for, but ’tisn’t allowed
.

Her chin lifted ever so slightly, as did the corners of her mouth. Courage and her faith in him came through as loudly as if she’d shouted the very words.

I love you, lass. That’ll ne’er change
.

Tears began to form. Quickly ducking her head, she pretended to search for the corners of the blue material they’d been holding between them.

“I must have grabbed the middle.” Galen cleared his voice.

His fingers brushed hers, and warmth streaked through him.
I gave
Josh my word not to rob her of her dignity. Honor demands too much of me …
the grudging words of a sham marriage and the letting go of a true love
.

“I’ll take it,” Laney said, gently tugging the fabric from him.

Galen knew she meant far more than the outward meaning held. He pressed it all into her arms and for one last sweet instant, he slid his hand over her small, soft one and squeezed. Letting go—really letting go—was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

I
used to love Sunday,
Galen thought as he headed toward the house. He dreaded subjecting Ma and his brothers to the possibility of another churchyard scene. In one sense, he had to admit he’d brought condemnation down upon himself by “compromising” Ivy. He’d tried to show simple Christian charity and not bothered to examine how others might misconstrue his actions. He’d meant well, but his motive didn’t count. It opened his integrity to suspicions.
But Ma and the boys—’tisn’t right that they should
suffer
.

His “wife” would accompany them to church today. Whether she wanted to or not wasn’t important. As an O’Sullivan, she’d go—and Galen made that point clear last evening when she balked at the notion.

Ma passed Galen in the yard. “Ishmael said if his sister’s going to worship, he will, too. I ironed his shirt.”

“She should have done that, Ma.”

“’Tis a good thing, the fact that they’re coming to worship. Think on that.”

Colin came out of the house, biting into a hard-boiled egg. A small red spot on the angle of his jaw tattled that he’d cut himself shaving. “I’ll harness the horses.”

“I already did.” Galen’s stomach growled. “Go on ahead and drive the wagon out here. The air has a bite. Throw a couple of blankets in the back.”

“Aye, that I will.”

Galen went inside and grabbed a wedge of cheese from the table. On Sunday mornings Ma usually left what she called hand-to-mouth food on the table. With everyone jostling at the washstand and hurrying to get chores done before leaving for church, they’d grab a slice of bread or coffeecake, a hard-boiled egg, cold rashers of bacon—whatever was available.

“Hey!” Galen scowled at the cot. “Get up.”

Everyone else was almost ready to go, but Ivy still burrowed beneath her blankets. Irritated, Galen raised his voice. “You’re going to church. Get up!”

He looped his string tie over his head and sawed it back and forth to slide the narrow black strip under his collar. Only half paying attention to his own reflection in the washstand mirror as he tied it, he stared at the image of his unwanted bride pretending to sleep.

Her eyes scrunched shut, and she pulled the blanket more snuggly around herself.

Galen knew from the past week and a half that she was a light sleeper. Ma said Ivy got up during the night to check on her, and if one of his brothers climbed down the ladder in the middle of the night to go to the outhouse, Ivy always whispered to them upon their return. With Ma’s ankle all rooked up, Ivy also rose every morning to get coffee and breakfast going. She could pretend all she wanted, but he knew she was awake.

“Sean. Dale.” Galen’s little brothers had been standing by the table, shoving food into their mouths while watching Ivy defy him.

This is the last thing I need
. “You boys put on your jackets and go get in the wagon. Colin’s bringing it around now.”

Dale stared longingly at the cheese. “After I put on my coat, Galen, can I put a wee bit of cheese in the pocket?”

“Aye. But be quick about it.”

Once his brothers were out the door, Galen’s boots rang out his anger as he crossed the plank floor. He stooped over and clamped his hand on her shoulder. Jostling her, he grated, “You’re going to church.”

She made a small mewling sound.

“Get up!” He shook her again.

The crazy woman bolted upright, and the abrupt move made Galen let go and back up a step. “It’s well past time—”

Ivy got sick all over the front of him.

Galen let out a bellow.

“Son?” Ma asked as she opened the door.

He let out a gusty sigh as he started to strip out of his shirt. “Go on to church.”

“The boys can wait a few minutes while I help—”

“No, Ma.” Galen’s nose wrinkled. “By the time we wash off the stench and clean up, church’ll be half over. No use in all of us being late. Go on ahead.”

“Brew her some tea, son. ’Twill settle her stomach.”

Galen nodded.

“Sorry,” Ivy muttered. Her head hung down, but he could see she was as white as his old church shirt. When he’d seen her in it before, Galen hadn’t noticed how the “nightshirt” hung on her—she practically swam in it. She sat on the edge of the cot with her legs spraddled wide. Knobby knees stuck out, but she’d tucked her toes way back beneath the cot to keep them clean. She’d made almost as big a mess of herself as she had of him.

“Go on behind that curtain and toss out your shirt. I’ll fill the tub so you can clean up.”

She started to nod, but abruptly stopped.

Galen stepped back—just in case. A minute later she pulled shut the privacy curtain he’d put up the morning after she’d lied her way into his life and house.

He yanked off his boots and Sunday-best britches. Stripped down to his heavy white cotton, winter balbriggans, he figured he was decent enough. His pants and shirts were out in the tack room. No use putting on a change before he cleaned up her atrocious mess, anyway.

“Mr. O’Sullivan,” Ivy’s soft twang traveled to him, “fillin’ a tub ain’t necessary. If ’n you give me a pot of warm water, ’twill be all I need.”

He banged the last large pot down onto the fourth burner of the stove. Water splashed, dampening his sleeve. “Water’s already heating.”

“If ’n you step outside,” she said in a thready whisper, “I cain come out and clean up my puke.”

Though sorely tempted, Galen didn’t accept the offer. She’d probably get near the disaster and add more to it. “Just stay put.”

Cleaning the floor tested his mettle. In all the months Da was sick, it hadn’t bothered Galen one bit to mop up after him.
This
shouldn’t be any different. But it is
. Galen wanted to open the door to air out the cabin, but he couldn’t. The last thing he needed was for that troublesome woman to catch a chill. Once he finished the floor, he frowned.

“I told you to toss out the shirt.”

“I’m cold,” she said in a tiny voice.

“Why didn’t you say something?” Irritated, he grabbed a towel and shoved it toward the spot where the blanket screen and wall met.

Cloth rustled, and a bundled knot of cotton slid beneath the blanket. “Thankee. I’ll wash up them clothes of ourn straightaway.”

Galen shoved her shirt into the same tin pail he’d used to hold his shirt and britches, then set it out on the porch. When he turned back around, she’d started to come out. She let out a squeak and ducked back behind the curtain.

“What do you think you’re doing?!”

“I thunk you was gone ’way.”

He gave no response. Instead, he pumped water into the tub they’d used just the night before for their Saturday baths. Ma had shared her lily-of-the-valley glycerin soap with Ivy. The whole rest of the evening, Ivy had cooed over how pretty it smelled. Galen carried the partially filled tub over near the curtain. “Water’s not hot enough to add yet. Just stay back there and wait.”

“Okay.”

Her voice came out sounding odd. Sorta faint. Galen frowned.

“You’re not getting swoony, are you?”

“N-no.”

“You’re still cold?” He could scarcely imagine why. With the stove burning as it was, the entire cabin felt plenty warm enough to him—far warmer than the tack room. When she didn’t answer, he persisted. “Are you cold?”

“This towel you give me—’tis a nice, thick’un.”

He could hear her teeth chattering, but she wasn’t complaining. Galen stared at the curtain, then a movement caught his attention. The curtain missed hitting the floor by a few scant inches. Galen noted how she stood on one foot, then the other. The woman was a bother.

He grabbed the chamber pot from beneath the bed and slid it under the curtain. “I’m going to the tack room to grab some clothes. Don’t come out from behind there.”

“Yes, Mr. O’Sullivan.”

For all the times Ma had done the laundry, Galen couldn’t say exactly how she did it. While Ivy bathed, he stayed outside and rinsed their clothes. Ma used lye soap for laundry. He knew that. Galen couldn’t be sure just how much to use, but since the stench permeated the garments, he figured this situation called for a generous amount of soap. He chopped a whole bar into chunks and added it to the washpot. By the time he added water, suds were everywhere.

He built a fire in the fire ring and hung the pot over it. He knew it would take a little while to boil. In the meantime, he’d do some of his Sunday chores.

Sundays were the day of rest, so they only did essential chores. On a farm, that still amounted to a fair load. He saw to the animals, then as he crossed the yard, he spied Ivy by the laundry. “What are you doing?” he roared.

Using a bucket, she splashed more water onto the fire beneath the pot. “Fire’s too hot.”

“It can’t possibly be too hot.”

She glowered. “Ain’t you niver heared that a washpot niver boils?”

“A
watched
pot never boils.” He grabbed the bucket from her.

“A
wash
pot is supposed to.”

“Yore talkin’ in riddles.”

Galen took the paddle Ma used to swish stuff around in the pot. His britches looked fair enough, but he decided to let them soak a little while longer. After all, they were thicker cloth. Next, he fished out a dish towel—or at least he thought that’s what it was. Hastily, he let go of it and sought his new store-bought, Sunday-best shirt.

“How come’s my nightshirt gone dark?” Ivy leaned forward and frowned.

“It’s not your nightshirt.” He stared in disbelief at the splotchy mess.

“Well, shoot. What’d you do to yore good shirt?”

Galen flopped the shirt over a nearby stump. Turning, he glowered at her. “I won’t abide foul language.”

“What in tarnation did I say now?”

Sure his molars were going to crack any minute from the way he constantly gritted them together, he stared at her. “Shoot is a thinly veiled reference to what you do in the outhouse.”

“Oh, for cryin’ in a bucket. Ever’body knows shoot is what a gun does. Yore a-getting splenacious for nuthin’.”

“Just because you think you have a plausible excuse, that doesn’t make that crudity acceptable. Don’t use it again. As for
tarnation
—” “Oh bother. If ’n yore gonna have a conniption o’er shoot, I cain jist imagine what sorta tale you’ll spin o’er that’un.”

“Hell.”

Her jaw dropped. “Mr. O’Sullivan, you jist cussed!”

“No, you did.” He glowered at her. “
Tarnation
means ‘hell.’ I’m trying to let you know what those sayings you have mean. Everyone else is fully aware of what they stand for. As long as you bear my last name, I won’t have you darken it by using obscenities.”

“You don’t hafta git het up. Ain’t my fault you Christians got all sorts of funny rules. I’m already foldin’ my hands and closin’ my eyes when you pray. Seems awful silly to keep telling God yore glad for the grub and askin’ Him to bless yore loved’uns. If ’n He’s God, don’t seem like He’d need you to be reminding Him mornin’, noon, and night.