Heartland Courtship (14 page)

Brennan ran on, branches slapping him in the face, grazing his hands. The boy disappeared from sight. Children could get lost in the thick forest and never be found—alive. He ran, though his mind tried to tell him to stop and listen—think.

He stumbled over a tree root and fell hard, flat on his chest. Hitting more tree roots knocked the air from his lungs. For a moment he was breathless. The strength flew out of him and he was weak again. “Jacque!” he tried to cry out over and over. “Jacque!” Then he fell silent, gasping for air and hurting with each gasp.

Finally he listened and heard nothing except his own breathing. Failure closed in around him like an impenetrable smoke, choking him. Would he ever have the chance to explain? And now he knew he wanted this child to be his. Then he heard her voice, not shouting, just saying his name.

“Mr. Merriday,” Miss Rachel summoned him. “Mr. Merriday.”

At first he didn’t reply. Then he dragged himself to his feet. “Here,” he said, suddenly feeling a sharp jab as he said the word. He pressed a hand to a rib, a tender spot he hadn’t pinpointed before.

Miss Rachel stepped out from the surrounding trees. “Did thee catch him?”

Do you see him?
he snapped silently. Brennan hung his head, hiding his frustration, and rubbed his side.

“Did thee fall?” she asked in so calm a voice.

Her question irritated him. “Of course
I fell.
” The outburst cost him another, sharper, deeper jab of pain.

“Thee must have hurt thyself.” She approached him and put out her hands to touch his chest.

He grabbed her hands to stop her. Then the need to be near this woman swept away all sense. He folded her in his arms and held her close. Bending his head, he buried his face in the crook of her neck, reveling in the sweet scent of lilac. In this unpredictable and hard and dreadful world, this woman stood in stark contrast—steady and soft and kind. He couldn’t push himself away; he held her.

“Brennan,” she whispered at last.

The sound of his given name in her gentle voice jerked him back to propriety. He released her and stepped back. “I beg pardon.” He couldn’t meet her eyes.

“Thee has just experienced an upsetting...incident. Posey should have shown more...discretion. But the milk is spilled and it can’t be hidden.”

Her now matter-of-fact voice contrasted with her soft voice as it had said his given name. Night and day. He felt like kicking himself. He might have misled this fine lady into thinking he had feelings for her. He didn’t have feelings for her, for anyone. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, ignoring a whisper asking why he’d just held her in his arms—if he didn’t have affection for her.

“Thee was distressed,” she said briskly. “Now let’s get back to the road.”

“What about the boy?” he asked, not moving.

“Blundering about in the woods will not bring him home,” she said in a reasonable tone.

The reasonable tone rasped his tender nerves. The child was his responsibility, not hers. “He could get lost—”

“He is able to climb a tree and when he does, he will see the smoke from a chimney and find his way back. He will come home when he gets hungry enough.”

How could she be so calm? The urge to shake her nearly overcame him. Instead he followed her out of the woods to the road to her cabin. The two of them walked home, not speaking. He let her push the cart because his side was paining him. Frustration smoldered within. He’d just got the use of his wrist back and now this?

She rolled the cart near the cabin and then waved him inside. “Please sit at the table.”

He did so with ill grace. He wanted to yell at someone, Posey Brown for instance, but he couldn’t yell at Miss Rachel.

She gently moved away the hand he had pressed to his side and then even more gently pressed the area. When she hit the right spot, he gasped.

Then she straightened and stared at him, barely taller than he was sitting down. “I think thee has cracked or sprained a rib.”

He groaned deeply and then regretted it. Shallow breathing was the less painful course.

“Take off thy shirt,” she said, turning toward her linen trunk.

“What?” Again he regretted speaking sharply.

“My father fell once and I will do for thee what my stepmother did for him.” She brought out a length of muslin, a wide bandage it appeared. “I will bind thy chest firmly. Please remove the shirt.”

Brennan couldn’t meet her gaze, but obeyed her reluctantly. It felt improper for him to be shirtless here alone with her.

* * *

Rachel most certainly did not want Mr. Merriday to sit in her cabin shirtless. She still reeled from the sensations and emotions his embrace had released inside her. “Raise thy arms level so I can bind this around.”

She tried to tightly wrap his chest without touching or looking at him. An impossible task. An unnerving task. He had a fine chest and shoulders, so smooth to the touch. Her eyes followed the line dividing his tanned neck and untanned skin of his chest and upper arms. She chastised herself for noticing. Why had he drawn her into his arms?

No doubt it had been a moment of anguish and he merely had needed the comfort of another human being. A deflating thought. She finished binding his chest tightly. She tied the bandage neatly and securely. “That should help thee breathe with less discomfort.”

He nodded and lowered his arm and drew on his shirt quickly, as if embarrassed and pained. He stared down at the table. “You really think he’ll come back by himself?”

“Yes, but not until he’s exhausted himself and is hungry and thirsty. He will not be happy and will probably be rude to us.”

He looked up at her then, just a slight tilting of his chin. “He thought I was a coward. They all did when I wouldn’t enlist in the local militia. My wife left me over it and they... I left town.”

His explanation did not feel complete. She could imagine the commotion, the fury his refusal may have caused. Secession had stirred the whole nation to a fever pitch. “Thee didn’t believe in secession?”

“Or slavery. I was against slavery.”

This startled her. Most Southerners who fought for the North had been against secession, not against slavery. Indeed Mr. Lincoln had not advanced emancipation till well into the conflict in order to keep the border states, the states that still held slaves but fought for the Union. Men like Posey Brown’s father.

Rachel looked at Brennan Merriday with new eyes. And she couldn’t stop herself. She leaned over and kissed his forehead. “Bless thee,” she whispered. Shocked at herself, she pulled back and bustled over to the chest to return the length of wide bandage she hadn’t used, chastising herself with every step.

“I don’t think he’ll come back,” Mr. Merriday said.

“We will see if I’m right. I hope I am.”
Please, Father, let me be right. Bring Jacque home soon.

Chapter Nine

S
econd by second, the endless day passed. A day of watching, waiting to see a thin boy with black hair walk into her clearing. But Rachel and Brennan waited in vain. Now Rachel watched the sun’s rays glimmer through the trees. The last of her energy faded with the day.

“It’s late. Thee must go,” Rachel said at last, not wanting to send him away but knowing she must. She didn’t want to think of the gossip that would come if townspeople didn’t see him return to the blacksmith shop before dark.

She struggled with herself. She wanted to fold him in her arms and comfort him.

Brennan stared at her. “I shoulda kept going on after him.”

She shook her head. She even imagined kissing Brennan’s face and smoothing back his hair... She stopped her unruly mind there.
Such thoughts.
“Thee lost sight of him. Stumbling around in the forest could injure thy rib more and probably not find Jacque anyway.”

He exhaled with visible pain and left without a further word.

She watched him go, his head down, his step slow. Her feelings for him were increasing, causing her to think about him when she should not. And she knew she stood in danger of being deeply hurt when he left town. But that didn’t seem to matter to her heart.

* * *

Brennan tried to come up for air from the gloom smothering him, but could not. Now he realized that the boy meant something to him. He couldn’t think why. Jacque might not even be his son, his blood.
But he’s from home. He’s my responsibility. And he’s been treated bad and I can help make that up to him—if he’ll let me.

Again he felt Rachel in his arms. He’d forgotten how soft a woman felt. Grimly he shut down his mind. He’d been foolish beyond measure to reach for her when he had no intention of staying and was unworthy of her. He’d behaved like a cad.

When Brennan reached town, he was glad to see the street deserted. The saloon was quiet but held no attraction for him. He didn’t want to talk to anybody. He slipped into the blacksmith shop, hoping Levi wouldn’t hear him.

But Levi had evidently been watching for him. The big man stood in the doorway, his back to the river.

Brennan halted, staring at him, suddenly breathing faster.

“The boy didn’t come back?” Levi asked.

“No.” Brennan hid the deep heart spasm this caused him. He pressed a hand to his side as if that was where he hurt.

“Come through and sit out riverside,” Levi invited. “I heard about you serving for the Union, but I won’t talk you to death.”

Relief rolled over Brennan. Levi had sense. Brennan realized then that while he didn’t want to talk, he didn’t want to be alone either. Imagining the boy alone in the coming darkness clawed at him.
I should have told him myself, told him all what happened. He deserves the truth.

Levi waved Brennan outside into the breeze by the river.

Brennan joined his friend there, sitting as they usually did, watching the final flickers of the sunset and the blue water turning to ink. Brennan cradled his side and tried to banish Jacque’s tortured face from his mind, banish the touch of Rachel’s hair against his face.

“At least it’s not cold or storming,” Levi commented after a while.

“Yeah.” No, the storm churned inside the boy.

“And Miss Rachel’s been feeding up the boy. Won’t hurt him to go a night without supper.”

Brennan nodded, his throat too tight for words.

“You move like you hurt yourself.”

“Tripped. Might have cracked a rib.”

Levi bowed his head. “I still don’t know why Posey’s grandmother won’t let me talk to her.”

Brennan shook his head. He had no answer for the man. He leaned against the wall and tried not to think of a little boy huddled against a tree in the forest. There were bears in those woods. He moved and then stifled a moan, rubbing his side slowly, cautiously.

Finally, the night wrapped around them, fireflies flickering green in the blackness, and Levi got up. “See you in the morning.”

Rising painfully, Brennan reached over and touched the big man’s shoulder, grateful for the company and understanding. Then he turned inside to climb the ladder to the empty loft.

Would the boy make it back? Had he failed the boy, too? Or had the final break with home come at last? If so, then he could leave Miss Rachel before he misled her. The thought clogged his throat. He wanted to stay; he must leave.

* * *

Rachel had remained dressed, sitting outside fanning away the few mosquitoes. The dry weather had reduced the numbers of the annoying little bloodsuckers, probably the only advantage of the drought. She listened to the encroaching night, filled with the sounds of frogs and crickets. She hoped to hear the boy’s voice, tried to forget resting her head against Brennan’s chest and hearing his heart pound.

Finally she gave up and went inside. Her hearth was cold but she’d left the outdoor oven burning very low, hoping the faint smoke could still be seen in the moonlight.

She had just let down her hair when she heard the tap on the door. She hurried to open it.

Jacque stood in the scant light with a grimy face and a torn sleeve.

She nearly cried out with relief. She controlled herself and didn’t throw her arms around him. She had to remember who she was to him, just his father’s employer. Since Brennan had stated he would be leaving and no doubt taking Jacque with him, she shouldn’t let the child form an attachment to her. And now she should scold him but she couldn’t do that. She focused on the practical. “Come in. Thee must be starved.”

He stumbled inside.

“Sit down at the table,” she said, heading toward her pie safe to fetch bread and cheese.

She turned to find the boy outside washing his hands. For some reason this brought moisture to her eyes.

He came in and slumped onto the bench, obviously exhausted and downhearted.

She set the plate down with a glass of water. She touched his head with her hand and for once—unable to completely hide her emotion—said grace, thanking God for bringing him home safely.

He devoured two plates of food before he paused to look at her.

She waited to hear what he said, but he said nothing, just looked at her. His eyes spoke pages and pages of pain, sorrow and distrust. She ached to fold him in her arms to comfort and reassure him. But she wasn’t his blood. He belonged to Brennan. She hoped.

Finally she broke the silence. “I think thee will spend the night here.” She rose and went to the linen chest and drew out her last pillow, just a small square, and a worn quilt her mother had made as a girl. She handed these to him.

Without a word, he lay down on the floor and rolled up into the quilt and went to sleep almost instantly.

She stood over him, both glad and worried. She wished she could let Mr. Merriday know he’d come home safe, but walking in the dark alone would not be wise or safe for her or Jacque. Bears roamed the area. And Mr. Merriday would come for breakfast. She would face him then and banish once and for all the pull he exerted over her.

In the dark, she dressed for bed and then slid between the sheets. The multitude of emotions she’d experienced today had left her depleted. But one part of the day refused to bow to sleep—Mr. Merriday pressed against her. He’d needed her comfort and had seized it.

No man but her father, and only when she was little, had held her like that. Just one day ago, she’d realized that she didn’t want Mr. Merriday to leave and now she realized that she wanted him to hold her again—often. Oh, how could she hide these unsuitable feelings?

* * *

Rachel woke with Jacque standing over her.

“I don’t want to have nothin’ to do with that man.”

Rachel sat up and considered the boy and his words. “He may be thy father.”

“I don’t care. I don’t want nothin’ to do with a Mississippi man who up and fought for the Union.”

So it fell to her to soothe the troubled waters. She sighed silently. “Jacque, there is much I could say. But this is all I will tell thee. There are always two sides to everything. Mr. Merriday deserves to have his side of the story heard.”

The boy stared at her, chewing his lip. “I don’t want to have nothin’ to do with that man,” he repeated.

“That will be difficult. Where will thee stay?”

“Why can’t I stay here? I’ll work for you.”

She tilted her head to one side. The boy was stubborn just like his father. She did not say this, not wishing to set a spark to straw, so to speak. “If thee stays here and works for me, thee will still be with Mr. Merriday.”

He glared at her.

“Is that not true?”

He glared more narrowly.

“Staring at me will not change the facts.”

He shrugged in obvious capitulation. “I ain’t gotta talk to him.”

Arguing would not solve this here and now. “Please go outside and wash up at the creek. I must get up and need my privacy.”

He stomped outside, banging the door behind him.

What a pleasant day this was going to be. But thank heaven the boy had returned. Part of her wanted to race into town to let Mr. Merriday know. She knew, though, that like her, he expected that if the boy returned he’d come to her place. He would arrive soon enough to face the angry child.

So she brushed and bound her long hair, dressed and began her morning routine. Today she decided to make molasses cookies instead of candy as she’d planned. An easy drop dough and no standing over the stove inside. And who could refuse one of her dark, spicy cookies?

Before the first cookie sheets were in the oven, she heard through the open door Mr. Merriday approaching.

She stepped just outside.

Jacque was returning from his “swim” in the creek, damp and clean and very pointedly ignoring the man.

“You’re here,” Brennan said, folding his arms—to keep from reaching for the child? And Brennan looked as if he hadn’t slept all night, worrying about Jacque.

Whatever Mr. Merriday said, he had affection for this child. She remained where she was and tried not to let her concern for the man show. “Thee might say good morning to Jacque,” she prompted.

“Good mornin’,” Brennan muttered. “Glad you found your way back.”

Jacque looked away from Brennan and folded his arms over his scrawny chest—just like the man who might be his father.

“Jacque, when an elder speaks, thee will answer.” She kept her voice pleasant and gentle and implacable.

Glancing over his shoulder, Jacque sent his father a scathing look. “I’m back. I’m staying here, not with you.”

Brennan sent her a grim look in response, but did not scold the child.

She shrugged slightly. “We will all be civil to one another. Please come in. I have enough eggs left from yesterday to make breakfast before chores.”

She turned inside and the two followed her. Soon she served up three plates and the trio ate breakfast in silence. She gazed at Brennan’s hands, so tanned, strong, capable. She closed her eyes, dismissing her foolishness.

When Jacque finished, he rose. “Good eats. I’ll go gather more eggs.” He carried his plate and mug outside and set them on the table by the basin.

That left Rachel and Brennan facing each other. What was the man thinking?

* * *

Brennan looked at the lady, then as he recalled the way he’d overstepped the bounds of propriety yesterday, he lowered his gaze. He really did not want to talk about Jacque or anything.

“I suppose thee doesn’t wish to discuss this?”

Glancing up, he frowned, confused once again by Miss Rachel’s perception and no-nonsense approach to life.
She never flutters or gets flustered.

She looked at the clock on the wall and turned, stood and headed toward her outdoor oven. “I must take my cookies out before they burn.” She stopped and assessed him with a stern expression he didn’t appreciate. “I told Jacque every man deserves to have his side of a story heard.” With that pronouncement, she turned to leave.

Her cool attitude further disconcerted him. Any other woman would be jabbering, bending his ear about this. Miss Rachel was one unusual woman. “You’re right.”

Before she could reply, Brennan walked out and looked around. He didn’t want to face Jacque, but he hadn’t been given a choice. Posey Brown had seen to that.

He walked over to Jacque. “Come with me. We’ll go look for wild mustard for Miss Rachel.”

“I’m not going anywhere with—”

Brennan stooped and stared into the boy’s eyes. “It’s time you and me talked and that’s what we’re going to do. A man has a right to be heard.” That woman was getting into his head.

Jacque stared back and then nodded. He quickly gathered two more eggs and then set the basket inside. He came out with another empty basket and set off, walking north on the road away from town.

Still breathing with pain, Brennan caught up with him. At first they just walked, Brennan trying to come up with a way to tell the boy all that had happened in Mississippi before he’d been born. Jacque was just ten. Could he understand it?

From his own childhood, Brennan recalled a wrinkled, dried-up old farmer who’d lived nearby. He’d learned a lot from the man, who was nearly ninety and who’d come to Mississippi when the Choctaw still roamed there. Brennan remembered how the man taught him—with questions, letting him figure things out for himself.

“I want to ask you a question, boy.” He waited.

Finally, Jacque cast him a resentful look.

“I was born ’n’ raised along the Mississippi and lived there till I was over twenty. Everybody I knew said slavery was good, the way things should be. What would cause a man to go agin everybody he ever knew? What would cause a man to do something so bad that his wife left him and never even told him she was carrying his son?”

Jacque merely tossed him another more resentful look.

“You don’t have to like me, but it’s important you figure this out. In not too many years, you’ll be a man and you’ll be faced with choices. Will you just go the easy way, be like everybody else—even if you think different in your heart? Or will you stand up for what you believe is right?”

Each of the words jabbed Brennan painfully in his rib and in his heart. Life would have been so much easier if his pa hadn’t taken him on that trip downriver to New Orleans.