Heartland Courtship (8 page)

Rachel stood over Brennan, folding her hands, murmuring a prayer for help.

The minutes spent waiting, bearing the brunt of the iron stove on his hand and wrist, depleted Brennan like hours spent working in the sun.

Within minutes Noah, accompanied by the young man Brennan had met at the Ashfords’, entered the clearing.

“The stove rolled!” Rachel called out the obvious. But she didn’t add the fact that Brennan had caused this by his haste. Brennan nearly gagged on the fact that it was all his own fault. That admission and the pain were nauseating him. But still Miss Rachel protected him.

Noah and Gunther hurried to Brennan. Without wasting any time asking questions, the men surveyed the situation and with quick commands, they hefted the stove back squarely onto the logs, releasing Brennan.

At the sudden deliverance, Brennan could not suppress a long moan. The two men rolled the stove inside.

Rachel dropped to her knees beside Brennan.

At first he resisted Rachel’s efforts, holding his painful arm close to his chest, shielding it with his other arm. Finally he let her support his injured arm. He sent her an anguished look, their eyes at a level.

“How bad does his arm look?” Noah asked in his unruffled voice, standing over them.

Rachel gently probed the arm from the shoulder downward. When she prodded Brennan’s wrist, he sucked in air sharply, not only from the pain but from her touch.

“Bend the wrist, please,” Rachel instructed.

Brennan tucked his lower lip under his front teeth and bent his wrist, stifling a groan. Sweat popped up on his forehead but he did as she asked, knowing a broken wrist wouldn’t bend.

“Rotate it?” she pressed

Again Brennan suppressed any show of pain and obeyed, watching his wrist move.

“Well, that’s a relief,” Rachel pronounced.

“Easy for you to say,” Brennan gasped. Her prodding and instructions had aggravated the pain of the injury. Her soft shoulder was so near his cheek. He imagined resting his head there. He closed his eyes, willing away the image, the temptation.

“It’s a relief that the bone isn’t broken,” Rachel said with force. “The wrist is sprained, I think.”

“Take a week to ten days to heal,” Noah added.

“It’s good I’m right-handed,” Brennan said through gritted teeth. He looked to the young man. “Glad you came along to help Noah.” Though Noah wouldn’t talk, this lad probably would. Everybody in town would soon hear about his foolishness.

“I am Gunther Lang,” the young man introduced himself to Rachel. Then he glanced down at Brennan. “Sorry you are hurt.”

“I think soaking the wrist in cold water may help,” Miss Rachel said, rising. “I’ll get a basin. Brennan, come sit inside.” She nodded toward the door.

“I must go,” the young man said and hurried away.

Noah reached for Brennan’s good hand. “I’ll help you up and then I’ll hook up the stove.”

Looking away, Brennan accepted the hand, managed to get to his feet and followed Noah inside where he sank into the rocker by the cold hearth. The pain was weakening him.

Rachel entered with a basin of water from the well and set it on her small sewing table. She reached to lift his hand in.

“I can move my hand,” he said gracelessly. He folded up his sleeve and lowered the hand into the cool water. His gaze met hers over the basin. The concern he saw there chastened him.

“Very well.” Rachel turned away. “Noah, is there anything I can do to help thee?”

Brennan toughed it out, the cold water making his bones ache more.

“Yes.” Noah and she worked together, connecting the stovepipe sections and sliding it through the hole Brennan had cut for it this morning. Noah accepted Rachel’s thanks, commiserated briefly with Brennan and headed home with his wagon and team.

Rachel retrieved her jar of arnica, pulled the bench over and sat down near him. She opened the jar and began tenderly rubbing the ointment into his wrist.

Even her gentle touch caused him pain and he didn’t like her having to care for him again. Her nearness worked its way through him—even in his pain. Her tender touch awakened something within that he didn’t want to acknowledge. He lowered his eyes, not wanting to let her know her effect on him. Finally she brought out a large white dishcloth and folded it into a triangle.

“I don’t need a sling,” he objected irritably, knowing that he sounded like a boy.

She just stared at him, waiting.

“Oh, all right,” he finally conceded and rose, cradling his arm.

Their faces a hairbreadth apart, Miss Rachel efficiently looped the sling around his arm and tied it behind his neck.

The scent of the lilac soap she always used filled his head and again he yearned to lean his head on her soft shoulder.

Obviously unaware, Miss Rachel adjusted the sling. “I know why thee couldn’t wait for Noah.” Her tone did not scold, merely informed. “Why are thee so fretful and champing at the bit to leave?”

Brennan wouldn’t meet her gaze.

“Rest. I’ll make some willow bark tea for the pain.” She went to her new stove.

He sat down, watching her from under his lashes. Was she unscathed from contact with him? Her cheeks glowed pink—from touching him, from imagining his touch?

He turned his mind from this foolishness. How could something like this sprain take so much out of him? He closed his eyes and leaned back against the rocker. His wrist throbbed. He’d been so close to leaving, and now this. In his mind, old Aunt Martha’s voice hectored him.
Worthless, thoughtless boy.
He couldn’t argue with her.

And why
was
he so fretful and champing at the bit to leave? For the first time in a long time, he had a place to stay, a job, good food, new clothes... But he didn’t belong here. He needed a new start far from...everything, especially this woman who continued to surprise him, to pull him to stay.

* * *

The next morning, Miss Rachel hummed to herself as she scattered chicken feed. Brennan sat in the shade against a maple, resting his arm in his sling, trying to think of some chore he could do with one hand. His wrist was swollen and painful. He’d felt guilty over eating breakfast at Miss Rachel’s table when he couldn’t work.

From the corner of his eye, he noted the young woman who looked to be seventeen or so, the one he’d met at the Ashfords’ that evening when he’d gone to thank them. She was edging closer to them through the trees, as cautious as a doe. Fine, just what they needed—company. And what did she want?

“Good morning,” Miss Rachel called out in a cheery voice that grated against his temper.

The young woman entered the clearing. Her clothing looked as if it had been refurbished to look new, but was in fact an old dress. And her manner was cautious. “Good morning. I’m Posey Brown. I was taking a walk and I saw your clearing—”

The distinctive call of a robin interrupted their conversation. The Quaker lady looked up and then imitated the birdcall. The robin hopped farther down the branch, moving in the breeze toward Miss Rachel, and sounded its call again. Miss Rachel replied, going to get the full water bucket. She then filled up a large wooden bowl attached to a stump. The bird flew down, perched on the side of the bowl and began drinking.

Brennan watched and listened, reluctantly fascinated by the interaction of the bird and the lady. Finally the bird sang its thanks and then flew and hopped back to the crook of the oak tree to its nest.

“That was like you were actually talking to each other.” Posey’s words radiated with wonder.

He’d almost said the same words aloud. And suddenly he was more aware than before of his sour mood. He hoisted himself up onto his feet.

“You put out water for the birds?” the girl asked as if this were the first birdbath she’d seen.

“It’s been so very dry and several birds have nested nearby. I do it so they don’t have far to go.”

“Cousin Ned says if we don’t get rain, one spark could burn the whole town,” the girl said in a voice that spoke of living in the South.

Brennan thought Ned Ashford was right.

Miss Rachel turned to the girl and smiled. “My mother taught me birdsong. She spoke to birds. And they seemed almost to understand her.”

The way Miss Rachel said these words he knew that her mother had died and what was more, that she had been a beloved mother. His own ma had died young. He didn’t want to feel the connection to Miss Rachel this brought.

“How old were you when she died?” Brennan asked gruffly in spite of himself.

“I was nearly thirteen.” Miss Rachel turned back to scattering chicken feed.

Posey edged closer. “My mother died during the war. That’s when Grandmother came to live with me,” Posey paused. “And Pa died in the war. He was in the Kentucky Militia.”

At this Brennan looked at her sharply.

Rachel motioned for the young girl to come forward. Rachel held open the bag of chicken feed, encouraging Posey to help her.

Though sorry for the young woman and uneasy that she hailed from Kentucky, Brennan moved away from the tree, his unabated restlessness goading him.

“It’s just my grandmother and me now,” Posey said, scattering the feed.

“I’m glad thee has her.”

“Yes,” Posey said, not looking up and not sounding happy.

Sensing the girl had come to tell Miss Rachel her sad story, like females did, Brennan turned and started toward town. He had to get away from this homey scene, from hearing how the war had torn this girl’s world into shreds. He found that unfortunately he couldn’t walk fast without jarring his wrist.

“I’m finishing cinnamon rolls this morning, Posey. Perhaps you’d like to help me get them ready to take into town. A boat is expected today.”

“I heard how you sell baked goods. You must be good at that.”

“I do my poor best,” Rachel admitted.

Brennan walked carefully across the uneven ground through the wild grass, trying to get away.

Miss Rachel made the best sweets he’d ever eaten and that’s all the credit she’d own up to. Yes, Miss Rachel was too nice. Didn’t she know such goodness only invited trouble? This was a nasty world and it destroyed niceness.

The two females turned toward the cabin.

Though he’d begun to walk away, some curiosity prompted Brennan to ask, “Your father remarried, Miss Rachel?”

“Yes” was all she said.

And that told him more about this lady and why she’d come West than she’d probably ever put into words.

His wrist was aching so he couldn’t be of help to this good woman. What could he do with one hand? “I’m heading to town!” he called out. Maybe he could have that quiet tongue wag with Sam the barkeep at last and think of something else. Maybe that would take the edge off his keen craving to leave.

He had to get away from this woman who made him remember things like family and belonging, things he’d long kept sleeping in the back of his mind. Miss Rachel was waking him up to...to feeling, caring.
I’ve got to get away—soon.

Chapter Five

O
n the next morning, yet another steamy summer day, Brennan did not show up for breakfast. Rachel stood at her door, looking for him. Concern needled her.

Had he left town?

Or had he been hurt worse than she thought?

Or since he couldn’t work, was he lying in bed, moping?

The idea of going into town and finding him to put a flea in his ear tempted her. But she turned from it and went inside. If the man didn’t want his breakfast, so be it.

She cracked an egg in the skillet, listened to its lonely sizzle and then toasted a single slice of bread for her breakfast. She sat down to eat alone. Well, she wanted to be on her own and now she was.

Recalling Brennan’s edginess over the past week didn’t diminish her uneasiness. This morning he might have just up and left town. Men like him did that: drifters drifted.

But she’d become accustomed to his laconic wit. And in his company, she never felt judged and found wanting. She now recognized that this feeling was something she’d lived with daily since her father remarried. She stared at the solid walls of her snug cabin, her own home, grateful for it yet feeling so isolated, set apart.

She snapped off this self-pitying train of thought and began her day. Soon she loaded her dishcloth-covered trays of just-out-of-the-oven, fragrant cinnamon rolls onto the narrow shelves of the two-wheeled pushcart Noah and Brennan had built for her. Mr. Merriday didn’t like her meeting boats without him. But she had to start doing that. If he weren’t gone already, Brennan Merriday would be soon.

At this thought a weight settled over her lungs. She shoved against it but it refused to budge. The feeling would pass, she told herself. Perhaps it would be better if Brennan had left. Then she could face her solitary life starting today and make peace with it.

A boat’s whistle prompted her to hurry along so she wouldn’t miss one that might just be stopping to pick up the mail.

Soon she rolled the cart into town. She forced herself to smile despite the stubborn weight that was making it hard to breathe. She was rolling her cart past Ashford’s store when she saw Posey hurry out from it.

“Hello, Miss Rachel!” she greeted her.

Rachel smiled but didn’t stop. Posey joined her and kept in step at her side.

Out of the corner of her eye, Rachel noted Brennan Merriday coming out of the blacksmith shop. So he hadn’t left town. The weight she’d carried vanished.
That is not good.
I must not depend on him.

He was hurrying as if to catch up with her.

She picked up her pace, letting him know she wasn’t waiting around for him.

“Posey Brown!” a strong, shrill female voice called out across the main street.

Posey halted. Now it appeared that the girl might have been escaping from the store. Posey turned. “Yes, Grandmother?”

“I was not done with our conversation. Please come here.”

Posey did not look happy but she obeyed.

Rachel continued on, reaching the boat dock. Brennan trailed her. Somehow she sensed him scowling behind her back.

She smiled with professional cheer. “Good morning!” she called to the boatmen. “I have cinnamon rolls and sponge candy for sale today!”

Boatmen, who’d evidently heard of her business, swarmed onto the dock and surrounded her.

A wiry man with a young boy around ten pushed past the men, coming toward Rachel on land. She was handing out rolls in wax paper as fast as she could and men were dropping coins into a small bucket at her feet.

As the wiry man passed, she noted the stormy look on his face as if he was spoiling for a fight and the shuttered expression on the boy beside him. And how he hung back. The man reached behind and yanked him forward.
So unkind.
But Rachel was keeping up with business.

“Brennan Merriday!” the wiry man bellowed. “So you are here in this little backwater town!”

Everyone within hearing distance went silent. Rachel’s hand faltered. The man’s bellow had clearly been a challenge. The boatmen still snatched pastries from her hands and dropped in their coins, but they did it with haste and then crowded onto the shore as if they didn’t want to miss the show...or fight.

And this man had called out Brennan’s name. Who was he? She glanced over her shoulder but stayed where she was.

When the cook from the boat arrived with a tray and scooped up the rest of her fare, she was sold out. Her pulse jumping, she accepted his payment, offered her thanks and turned around, trundling her empty cart through the crowd at the dock.

In the center of the town’s street, Brennan and the stranger and boy stood, confronting each other. The two men glared as if about to battle. Would there be fisticuffs?

Rachel parked her cart and unable to stop herself, moved closer.

“What’re ya’ll doing here, Jean Pierre?” Brennan asked, his voice low with an edge of menace.

Aware that Brennan would not appreciate any interference from her, Rachel halted, keeping her distance, but remained watchful.

“I never thought I’d be forced to set eyes on your worthless face again,” Jean Pierre sneered with obvious relish. “But it’s time you took responsibility for your get.”

The man’s last word, a vulgar term for
child,
sent a spike of ice through Rachel. Brennan’s “get”? The shock forced a gasp from her. “Oh.”

Brennan looked confused. “What are ya’ll saying?”

“I’m saying this is your son, Lorena’s child, Jacque.”

Brennan appeared speechless.

“Your own kin and Lorena’s were glad to be rid of a coward like you,” Jean Pierre continued. “Then I read about you in the Saint Louis paper.” He pulled a folded newspaper from his back pocket. He slapped it into Brennan’s hand. “Guess you aren’t the coward we all thought you were.”

Brennan looked at the paper, but still reacted only with mute shock.

“Everybody in both our families in Mississippi and across in Louisiana is dead or scattered. I’m headin’ West. I was going to drop your boy off at an orphanage run by some Quaker woman near Saint Louis when I seen this paper and read about you running off the thieves here. So here’s your son. You take care of him.” With that, Jean Pierre turned on his heel and stalked back to the riverboat.

Rachel tried to take this all in, but had trouble grasping what had just taken place.
Brennan—a son?

Brennan didn’t move or speak, just stood staring after the man heading toward the boat.

Then the boy took action. He turned and ran after the stranger. “Don’t leave me here, cousin! Take me with you!”

At this, Brennan woke up. He chased the boy and grasped him by the shoulder, halting his flight. “Jean Pierre! Are you tellin’ me that Lorena had my son and never told me?”

“Why would she tell you? She was well shut of you. Boy, stay with your father. He’s all you got!”

The boy jerked away from Brennan and ran after his cousin. “Don’t leave me!”

Jean Pierre ignored his calls and boarded along with the boatmen. A river porter, carrying the mailbag, hurried back toward the dock. When he reached the deck, the whistle sounded, the few boatmen left on land scurried on deck, and the riverboat began pulling away.

“Come back!” the boy at river’s edge shouted, a rending hysteria in his voice.

The riverboat swept into the current and steamed away.

Tears sprang to the boy’s eyes and he swiped at them with his tattered sleeve.

The sight wrenched Rachel’s heart. She instinctively drew nearer Brennan and his son.
His son.
Was this Brennan’s son? The idea of his having a child startled her, shook her—in a way she hadn’t expected. She resisted it and didn’t have time to examine the wave of emotion now.

Brennan stood a few paces behind the boy, obviously still in the grip of his own bewilderment.

His lips quivering, the boy appeared about to burst into sobs. Rachel knew that would crush his spirit. Men and boys didn’t cry. She glanced once more at Brennan’s frozen expression and decided she must act.
Father, help me. I must do something but I don’t know what.

“Hello,” she said, coming close to the boy, trying to behave as normally as she could. “I’m Miss Rachel Woolsey. I am thy father’s...Mr. Merriday’s employer.”

With dirt-smeared cheeks, the boy looked into her eyes without much comprehension.

His naked anguish hit her like a broadside. She offered him her hand. “Welcome to Pepin. We are a small town but we have a school and a general store,” she babbled, very aware that everyone in town was listening to her every syllable. She looked to Brennan once more.

“Mr. Merriday hurt his wrist recently and has been resting in town.” She prayed again for guidance. She saw that she could do nothing but try to proceed as if nothing unusual had happened. “I need a few things at the store before we head back to my homestead.”

She looked at the boy and his basic needs were too plain. He needed clothing, food and a bath. The first was a good place to start. “Mr. Merriday, I think I should stop and purchase some fabric for new clothes for your...for Jacque.” The last words were more an order than information.

Brennan stared at her as if she were speaking Chinese.

She sent him a silent message with her expression, telling him to command himself. Now. She resisted the impulse to draw near and touch his good arm.

“That’s right, boy. Go with Miss Rachel,” he said and turned away.

Rachel watched him head for the saloon and sighed deeply but quietly.
Not the best choice, Brennan Merriday.

Touching the boy’s thin, boney shoulder, she urged him to follow her into the store. There she tried to behave as if suddenly having a boy with her was an everyday occurrence. All three of the Ashfords, as well as Posey and her grandmother, stood behind the counter, gawking impolitely. This stiffened her instinct to protect the child.

“Mr. Ashford, I need some cloth to make this boy a new shirt and pants.” Mr. Ashford helped her choose suitable dark fabric and Mrs. Ashford helped her figure out how much she would need for the new garments.

Then Rachel ordered more flour and sugar as she had planned. On the way out, she noted the boy looking at the candy display. “Don’t worry, Jacque. I have sponge candy at home. Needs somebody to eat it.”

She handed him the brown paper wrapped package of fabric and walked him to her cart. She motioned for him to put the package on the empty, cloth-covered trays. “Will thee push the cart? Home isn’t far.”

As they passed the saloon, the urge to march inside and collar Brennan Merriday nearly turned her from her path. Instead, she faced forward and guided Jacque toward home. Some food, some gentle conversation, some candy—that was all she could provide for this child. She hoped it would be enough to help.
Mr. Merriday, is this your son?

* * *

Brennan stood at the bar, staring at Sam, unable to talk.

“What is it, Merriday?” Sam asked with concern. “You look like you seen a ghost.”

Brennan’s mind felt like scrambled eggs. He braced his good palm against the bar, trying to get hold of himself. He’d sought this place to hide while he dealt with this turn of events. The expression on Miss Rachel’s face when she heard Jean Pierre... He shook his head as if that would shake it loose.

“Is that kid really yours?” Levi in his leather apron asked the words before he even cleared the doorway.

“What kid?” Sam asked. “What did I miss?”

Brennan stared at the blacksmith he’d come to like and shook his head as if coming up from underwater. Was this boy his? “Gotta go.”

He started up the road toward Miss Rachel’s at full steam but faltered, his mind dragging him back in time. Something like the Gulf surf roared in his ears. His senses reeled. As from far away he glimpsed familiar faces, then the blows began falling on him, forcing him to fight...

He shouted aloud, “No!”

The present sounds returned to normal, birds in the trees, squirrels chattering. The roaring in his ears receded. He bent and braced his good hand on his knee, panting for air. The urge to turn and run and keep running rolled over him. He stood his ground.

Could it be possible? Had Lorena borne him a son before she died? When he’d gone back to Mississippi after the war, why hadn’t anybody told him? He recalled the bitter words and the sneering faces he’d encountered while trying to find out if his wife still lived and if she needed anything. They’d told him Lorena had died and they had literally run him out of town at gunpoint.

And now he must face this child who—if he was really his son—probably hated him, too. And what did Miss Rachel think about him and this boy?

* * *

Wondering when Mr. Merriday would appear, Rachel halted Jacque at her door, seizing upon everyday needs to show her concern. Brennan must face this problem, but would he?

“Jacque, please wash thy hands before entering.” She gestured toward the outdoor washbasin with its bar of yellow soap and linen towel on the peg.

“Why?”

“Because I promised thee sponge candy and one must eat only with clean hands.”

The boy began to wash his hands that appeared to have several layers of dirt on them.

When he reached for the towel before he’d worked his way through all the layers, she shook her head. “Keep washing till they are completely clean.”

He glared at her but obeyed, his stomach growling. Finally clean skin appeared.

Rachel nodded.

He dried his hands and stalked into her cabin.

“Come back and toss the water onto my flowers,” she said, standing patiently outside.

He did so, glaring more, his stomach growling more.

Then she motioned him inside. “I think more than just candy would be good for thee. Nibble on this while I fry some eggs.” She handed him a cinnamon roll.

He ate it in two bites, standing.

“Sit at the table, please.” Then she set her cast-iron skillet back on her stove, stirred up the fire and began cracking eggs. She stopped at four, not wanting to make him sick. The boy looked starved. “Hard or soft?”

“Hard.”