Heartland Courtship (7 page)

Just as he was about to go back to lie on his pallet, he glimpsed movement down on the street. Three men were creeping around the stores. One had a large, full sack thrown over one shoulder. A man didn’t have to have much imagination to come to a quick conclusion.

Thieves.

The three men were slinking toward the front of Ashford’s. Better to access the store on the side away from where the storekeeper slept.

The uppity face of the owner’s wife came to Brennan’s mind. Her expression a few days ago—as she’d weighed and measured him and pronounced him wanting—had been burned into him. If she’d had the power, she would have caused him to vanish from her prissy sight that day. It rankled. Yet that he cared what she thought of him rankled more.

He watched as the shadowy men paused as if waiting for something.

Their plan unfolded in his mind. These river “rats” were using the saloon’s loud voices to mask the sounds of the thievery. He let out a breath. These little river towns were without any presence of the law and were easy pickings for thieves.

The thought suddenly rolled like thunder in his mind. He didn’t want this little bump on the river to become a target for unlawful types. Not with Miss Rachel living just outside town. The memory of the ruffians who’d come to her place to find him goaded him. The thought of the innocent Miss Rachel being accosted sent icy shivers through him.
Never.
He had to make sure the reputation of this town stayed strong—for her sake.

He crawled over to his knapsack, retrieved his two Colt 45s and checked to be sure both were loaded and ready. He scooted to the ladder and slipped down to the blacksmith shop. He paused, thinking of who could provide him backup. He crept to the lean-to and roused the blacksmith. Seeing Brennan’s index finger to his lips, Levi swallowed a waking exclamation.

Brennan leaned close to the man’s ear. “Thieves.” He motioned toward the rifle hung on the wall and then for the blacksmith to get up.

Soon, the two men stood side by side in the lean-to. Brennan outlined a plan and the smith nodded. They crept along in the shadows and took their places— Brennan across from the front of the General Store, closest to the river, and the smith slipped along another store behind Ashford’s. The familiar sensations of preparing for battle prickled through Brennan, keenly heightening his awareness of every sound and sight.

Laughter echoed from the saloon and then one of the thieves raised his hand to break the glass next to Ashford’s door.

“Hold!”
Brennan roared, hidden in the shadows.

The three men started and glanced around frantically.

“Hold!” Brennan repeated.

The three scampered toward the rear as if to hide themselves.

Brennan let loose a warning shot over their heads. The smith let his rifle roar from the rear. The three men stopped, not knowing which way to run. Two had drawn pistols.

“Drop that bag and empty your pockets!” Brennan ordered.

The three started to run toward the river. One shot toward Brennan, but the bullet went wide.
Idiots!

Brennan shot into the dirt in front of them, halting them in the middle of the street. “Drop your guns and that bag, then empty your pockets! Do it! Or this time I’ll shoot one of you!”

The man with the bag put it down and raised his hands. The other two put their pistols on the ground, yanked out their pockets and raised their hands, too.

“All your pockets!” Brennan commanded.

The bagman pulled out his pockets.

“Run!” Brennan bellowed.

The three obeyed, racing toward the river.

Just then Ashford ran out the front door, dressed hastily and holding a rifle. “What’s happening?”

Before Brennan could reply, more men armed with rifles bounded into the street. Brennan wondered if they had any sense. It was crazy to show themselves so plainly before they knew who was shooting whom. Some, he noted, did cling to the shadows, probably veterans like him.

Not wanting to be the center of attention or suffer being thanked, he slipped away, back to the blacksmith shop and up to his loft. Still his heart pounded with the excitement. He listened to the buzz of voices below. Levi explained, loud enough for him to hear, what had happened.

The town men shouted and ran toward the river. Brennan looked out his riverside window and saw a rude boat sliding out into the current. The town men shouted and shot toward the craft, their bullets sizzling as they hit the water. But the night had only half-moon light and soon the craft became invisible, lost in the dark.

Brennan lay down on his blanket, his heart still racing. The thieves had gotten away, which was best. What would the town have done with them if they’d been caught? Pepin didn’t have a jail and somebody might have gotten hurt trying to corral them. Better they escaped. They wouldn’t come back anytime soon. But what about others like them?

This staying in one place was costing him. He lay listening to the men talking, and hoped no one would disturb him. He hadn’t done this for any of them. He’d done it for Miss Rachel, but if he said that, they would think something was going on between them. Better to lay low.

How long would they have to hash over this minor dustup? People here didn’t cotton to him. And he generally didn’t cotton to people so they were even. That suited him. But what else could he do to keep Miss Rachel safe after he left town?

* * *

Just after dawn the next morning, Brennan freshened up down at the river as usual, glad to wash away last night’s sweat. He then set out toward Miss Rachel’s place, his stomach rumbling for the breakfast she’d provide. The heat was already climbing high and not a hint of a cloud showed on the horizon.

As he passed Ashford’s store, the proprietor burst out and ran toward him. Brennan halted. What did the man want?

Mr. Ashford panted. “I just came out to thank you.” The man’s face looked tired from lack of sleep. “For last night. All the storekeepers are grateful. The smithy told us you woke him up and were the one who ran off the thieves.”

Brennan hadn’t expected appreciation. And didn’t want their gratitude. He looked at the man, giving nothing of himself away. “Didn’t do it for your thanks.”

“We owe you.”

Brennan shrugged. “Don’t mention it,” he said with finality and tucked in an edge that promised unpleasantness if the man went on thanking him.

The man’s wife came running out of the store and offered him a folded new shirt and trousers. “Just a token of our thanks.”

Brennan didn’t take the clothing. “Thank you, ma’am, but I’m expected at Miss Rachel’s for breakfast.” He hurried on.

* * *

Brennan spent the morning building a chicken coop strong and high enough to outfox any fox or other varmint. To start with, he’d logged the needed wood and dug postholes. This afternoon he’d set posts.

With a rumbling stomach and sharp anticipation of another tasty meal, at noon he sat down at Miss Rachel’s table. When she carried in the steaming crock from the outdoor kitchen, he noted she did not look happy. What was the bee in her Quaker bonnet?

“Mr. Merriday, why didn’t thee tell me what happened last night?” She made it sound like a scold.

He bristled. Why did she sound mad? After all, he’d done it for her. “Because I didn’t think it was worth mentionin’. That’s why,” he replied, eyeing the bowls of stew she was dishing up.

She set the crock on the table and sat down.

He waited quietly for her to finish silently blessing the meal as she always did. When the amen came, he picked up his fork and dug into her stew. The woman could cook as well as she could bake.

“The Ashfords told me all about it. And about thy graceless behavior this morning.” She motioned toward the chair by the cold hearth. The dratted new clothing the storekeeper’s wife had offered him sat there, evidently drying after being washed. This aggravated him but he kept eating.

“We have something in common,” she said, also beginning to eat. “We are different from everyone else here. I’m the pitiful and eccentric Quaker spinster.”

Brennan suddenly felt ashamed of thinking of her with this less than flattering term. But he hadn’t meant it in a bad way. And Miss Rachel was unusual, who could argue that?

“And Mr. Merriday is thought of as a shiftless wanderer. And ex-Confederate,” she finished.

He chewed, trying to focus on the rich taste of the wild onions in the stew. After all, she wasn’t saying anything he didn’t already know.

“Last night thy quick action saved the town from thievery. They wish to show their thanks. Why refuse it?”

Annoyed suddenly, he barked, “Because I don’t care what they think of me!”

She gazed up at him, unperturbed. “Everyone, even we, put labels on people. No doubt thee thinks Mr. Ashford is a prosy storekeeper and his wife, a know-it-all busybody.”

Her apt descriptions of the two hit his funny bone. His heat turned to laughter. Chuckling, he picked up his fork once more.

“But we all have worth to God.”

His grip on the fork tightened. Easy for Miss Rachel to say. She hadn’t seen what he’d seen in the war. And what he’d seen he sensed was the root of his spells and nightmares, the horror of bloodshed and needless loss of life.

“Thankfully God doesn’t judge by our outward appearance but looks into our hearts.” Before he could respond, she reached over and tugged his cuff, ripping half the sleeve loose.

He drew in a sharp breath.

“Thankfully I think Mrs. Ashford guessed the size correctly,” Miss Rachel continued in an even tone, “but I’ll have to hem the trousers of course.”

He gawked at her in disbelief. “You tore my shirt.”

“It didn’t take much,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. “I think the polite thing to do on the way home after supper is to stop and thank Mrs. Ashford.” Then she sent him one of her managing, very determined, gray-eyes-flashing looks.

He didn’t respond, but returned to eating in silence, trying to hold his temper. Soft-spoken Lorena would never have ripped his shirt to make a point.

Then he recalled Miss Rachel’s description of herself as a pathetic spinster. He didn’t think that about her now, but he struggled again with guilt over originally disparaging Miss Rachel—just like everybody else. The memory of holding her in his arms... He had to stop thinking about that. He was leaving for Canada as soon as he’d done everything to get Miss Rachel set up here.

He didn’t care what other people thought of him. But Miss Rachel thought more of him than the others did. That was dangerous. He’d let down everyone in his life. Would he let down Miss Rachel, too?

Chapter Four

B
rennan did not want to do this, did not want to go to the Ashfords’, hat in hand, and thank them for the unwanted, unasked-for new clothes. Wearing his new clothes now, he didn’t even feel like himself. Earlier, after the new clothing had dried, Miss Rachel had hemmed his pants and pressed everything up nice. The new clothes felt stiff and thick, not thin and shaped to him like his old clothes. Made him feel strange. As strange as pausing here, looking to go somewhere he was not welcome.

He stood, looking at the store. The closed sign sat in the window, granting him a reprieve. He turned to head to the blacksmith shop to jaw with the smithy.

“Mr. Merriday!” a woman’s voice called from above. “Did you need anything?”

Irritation ground inside him. Mrs. Ashford with her windows overlooking Main Street didn’t miss a thing. He looked up, pinning a smile on his face. “Yes, ma’am, I came to thank you.”

“Come to the rear and we’ll let you in,” she ordered.

He wanted to decline but Miss Rachel didn’t want him to be rude to this busybo...this good woman. So he walked around to the rear and Mr. Ashford let him in. “I just came to thank you—”

“Ned, ask Mr. Merriday to come up!” Mrs. Ashford called down.

Ned dutifully motioned to Brennan to precede him up the stairs.

Brennan gritted his teeth and climbed to the living quarters. As he topped the stairs, he snatched his hat off and schooled his face into a smile. “Evenin’, ma’am.”

“Mr. Merriday, so glad to see you accepted our gift of thanks.” The storekeeper’s wife sat in the dining area that took up half the large, open room overlooking the river. There were several people around the long table, two he’d never seen in town.

“Cousin, this is Brennan Merriday, a workman in our village,” Mrs. Ashford said. “He saved our store from thievery last night. Mr. Merriday, my cousin, Mrs. Almeria Brown, and her granddaughter Miss Posey Brown. They arrived today by boat.”

Brennan glanced at the plump older woman who lifted an eyeglass on a string to study him like a bug on a pin. He bowed his head to her, his neck stiff. “Ma’am.” And then to the younger lady who looked about seventeen, too slender but pretty in a common way with brown hair and eyes. “Miss.”

“Are you homesteading hereabouts?” the older woman asked, piercing him with her gaze, her eye magnified by the glass. Some of her iron-gray hair had slipped from its bun.

“No, ma’am, just working to help set up Miss Rachel, the preacher’s cousin, on her homestead.”

Two other young people, one a young girl and one a young blond man, also sat at the table, looking at him. “This is our daughter Amanda and her friend Gunther Lang,” the storekeeper said.

Brennan nodded, feeling beyond awkward. These were not the kind of people he associated with. He knew where he belonged—down the street at the saloon.

“You did very good last night,” the young man said with the trace of a foreign accent.

“Yes,” the young girl agreed, “you were so brave.”

“I didn’t do much. They weren’t too dangerous, just sneak thieves.”

“Please sit down, Merriday,” Ashford invited, coming up behind him. “I’m sure Miss Rachel has fed you, but would you take a cup of coffee with us?”

From the shopkeeper’s tone, Brennan knew these people were experiencing the same disorientation. They weren’t comfortable with his sort in their dining room. And the old biddy with the eyeglass on a string was staring bullets at him. “No, thanks. You’re right, Miss Rachel fed me to the brim. I just wanted to say thanks. This morning I wasn’t ready to accept anything.”
Anything from you people.

“We wanted you to know that we appreciated your quick action,” Ashford said.

Brennan nodded, his head bobbing like a toy. “Just did what anybody would.”

“I think you did more,” the young man said.

Brennan nodded once more. “I’ll bid you good evening then.” He waved Ashford back into his seat and tried not to jog down the stairs.

Unwillingly he overheard the old woman say, “What kind of man works for some woman when he could stake his own claim? Must be shiftless.”

Insulted yet irritated that a stranger’s opinion could get to him, he let himself out and breathed with relief. And headed straight for the saloon.

He walked through the doors and let out a big breath. The saloon didn’t have a piano player and the atmosphere was more drowsy than raucous, but nobody here would make him wonder if his shoes were shined bright enough.

He headed straight for the long bar and ordered an ale.

Sam poured his drink and then leaned his pudgy elbows on the bar. “So you’re the man of the day now?”

Brennan snorted. “Right. Me?”

“From what I hear, you rousted them robbers efficient-like.”

“They were just a few paltry sneak thieves. No big effort needed.”

A man came up and clapped Brennan on the back. “The town hero!”

Brennan recoiled. “I didn’t do nothing special, okay?”

“Ah, does not the laurel rest easy upon thy brow?” the man asked grandiloquently.

Brennan picked up his glass and tried to ignore the man. “Thought we’d finally have that tongue wag, Sam.”

But it was not to be. More men crowded around, asking Brennan for the whole story. He bridled.

Sam leaned forward and muttered, “Play along. They don’t get much excitement in this bump on the river. Tell them the story and they’ll leave you alone.”

So Brennan did, forcing himself to tell the story in full to prevent questions. He had a rapt audience. These people really didn’t get much excitement. “So that’s how it happened,” he concluded.

Brennan suffered through a few more minutes of felicitations and gratitude and then, finally interpreting his silence as a desire to be left in peace, the men moved away, discussing the occurrence among themselves. Brennan refused all offers to buy him a real drink. He just wanted a refreshing mug of ale, nothing strong. Strong drink brought him nightmares and he didn’t want that.

Brennan swallowed deeply of his drink, his mouth dry.

One man, middle-aged, better dressed and polished looking, stayed near him. “This place needs a sheriff. You might think about running in the fall election.”

“Won’t be here then,” Brennan said.

“A pity.” The stranger tipped his hat and walked out.

Sam swabbed the bar and then looked up from under his bushy eyebrows at Brennan. “You know who that is?”

“No.”
And I don’t care either.

“That man sits in the state legislature. He’s traveling around, drumming up support for the November election.”

Brennan shrugged and repeated, “I won’t be here then.”

“Why not?” Sam asked. “You got a good reputation here now. Why leave?”

Even the barkeep had an opinion? Brennan stifled the urge to yell his frustration. “I’m just staying long enough to help Miss Rachel get set up and then I’m leavin’.” He downed his drink and stalked outside.

In the hot evening, he marched to the blacksmith shop, looking for a place to get shut of all this attention. Once there, instead of resting, he paced up and down along the riverbank. Everything within him wanted to pack up his knapsack and catch the first boat north. But he couldn’t.

His mind racing, he recalled sitting at Miss Rachel’s table, watching her serve up another tasty meal, something she seemed to do as easily as breathing. Her biscuits were the lightest, the best he’d ever eaten. And her soft cheeks had been flushed pretty pink from making them for him. The thought of stroking one froze him in place.

He growled at the bullfrogs bellowing along shore, trying to attract females of their own kind. He wasn’t trying to have anythin’ to do with females. He had nothing to give any woman, not a home or a heart.

Miss Rachel was upsetting him by making him think about her that way. Why did she have to be such a good cook? And so honest and open? She was always so good-hearted, not a mean bone in her.

She made him think of settling down here, not Canada—far from all the war did to him, to everyone. Canada would let him forget all that, start over fresh.

He tried to focus on how she’d torn off his sleeve.
Managing woman.
His unhappy thoughts twisted around into a rat’s nest. But one thought stood out clear. He owed Miss Rachel and he wouldn’t leave her, couldn’t leave her still needing help.

* * *

Two weeks later, nearing the beginning of August, Brennan fidgeted in the bright summer sun near Miss Rachel, who stood at the dock watching her brand spanking new stove be carried off the boat. She glowed with evident satisfaction over her major purchase while he shifted from one foot to the other. He wished he were waiting to get on this boat and go.

Irritating Ashford stood nearby, saying he wanted to make sure that the purchase matched all that the firm had advertised.
What a fuss about a stove.

Brennan stayed near the lady, but felt miles and miles away already. Tomorrow he’d dig her future garden plot. Then he would be gone on the next riverboat that docked here. Restlessness consumed him. At times the itch to leave became physical, as if he wanted to jump out of his skin. But how to tell Miss Rachel? Something about her kept him confused, unsettled, making it hard to leave, and this was the first time in memory this had happened.
But I’m goin’.

The boatmen pushed the stove, supported on a wooden skid, off the boat onto the pier. Noah had come to help Brennan and held his team unhitched from the wagon.

Though the boatmen moved as slow as molasses on a very cold January day, Brennan held himself in check.
Move it along, why don’t you?

“Miss Rachel Woolsey?” a boatman asked, looking down at an invoice.

“Yes.”

Brennan noted she could barely speak, she was so happy.

“Sign here, please.”

“Miss Woolsey must examine the stove first,” Mr. Ashford said, holding up a hand.

The boatman looked chagrined but motioned for another two men to crowbar off the sides of the wooden box.

Brennan held his tongue between his teeth. He’d been ready to say that. Of course Ashford would butt in. And take his time about it, too.

Rachel examined each side, looking for any imperfection. “It looks fine.”

“Open and close the doors. Check to see if the latches fit tight,” Mr. Ashford suggested.

She did so and then signed the invoice. The boatman had the men nail the crate back together.

Brennan noted her convoluted signature revealed her excitement.
All over a stove.
Miss Rachel, pink with pleasure, made a pretty picture. He looked away.

“My cousin Noah and Mr. Merriday will attach the horses to the skid. Isn’t that right, Noah?” Miss Rachel asked.

Brennan held tight to the ragged fringe of his temper. Couldn’t they just get this going?

“Rachel’s place is just a half mile up the road,” Noah said, gesturing toward the other end of town. “I’ll bring the skid right back to you.”

“Sure. Fine.” The boatman handed Rachel her copy of the invoice and then turned away.

Finally.
Now they could get this home and in place and then he could begin to lay out the garden. And if all went right, he’d be off tomorrow. Somewhere inside him, deep down, a voice whispered,
Stay. Why leave?

Stonewalling the thought, Brennan helped Noah secure the team to the skid. The horses began to drag the heavy iron stove up the road. The progress was excruciatingly slow, with a lot of creaking. Brennan’s nerves tangled into knots, but he kept from showing it. Miss Rachel had become a trap for him. He’d escaped other orchestrated marriage traps. But Miss Rachel had set no trap for him—that made it harder. He knew he was making no sense.

Finally they reached Miss Rachel’s cabin door.

Noah and Brennan had already prepared a row of short logs of similar size, stripped of branches and bark, to use to roll the stove inside. The hard part would be getting it up over the threshold. They contrived a little ramp for this. Now the two of them painstakingly shifted the stove in its crate off the boat’s skid and onto the logs and steadied it.

“I need to take the skid back first. Wait for me. I’ll be quick.” Noah turned the team around and headed back to town at a run.

Miss Rachel came near Brennan or rather her new stove. She stroked it the way another woman might have stroked a fur coat. Her nearness made his stomach twist. Her soft cheek tantalized him, beckoning him to press his lips...

Unable to brook further delay and needing to distance himself, Brennan started to roll the stove ponderously away from this woman. The stove picked up momentum—off balance because only one man had started it.

“Brennan Merriday, please wait for Noah. Thee might hurt—”

Unsettled, the stove began to tip and rock on the logs, rolling forward. Brennan tried to dodge the out-of-control iron beast, but—

Rachel cried out.

Stifling a curse, Brennan gasped with pain. His arm had become pinned between the cockeyed stove and the doorjamb of her cabin. Backed up against the log wall and half sitting, he struggled to keep outwardly calm but inside he was kicking himself down the road. And fighting to keep on top of the pain, ride it out, keep it in.

She hurried forward, voicing her upset. She moved as if to try to shift the stove, half on the logs, half off.

“Don’t!” he thundered. “It might come off completely and crush me.”

She stared down at him, wringing her hands. “Going for Noah won’t help. He will not delay in returning.”

Brennan couldn’t meet her eyes so he focused on her chin. If he hadn’t given in to his own haste, this wouldn’t have happened. He waited for the lady to point this out.

Instead her mouth moved as if she were chewing tough meat. Finally, she said, “Thee has been behaving like a fly caught in flypaper. What drives thee, Brennan Merriday, to chafe so?”

The pain goading him, he almost bit off her head, but now
his
mouth chewed on that imaginary tough meat. He had no answer for her. Why did he get so restless?

But now all his concentration was tied up in not showing how much he suffered. He could not shift the unwieldy weight of the stove pressing on his wrist and upended forearm. Had he broken his arm? Inwardly he called himself every name he could think of, venting the pain.