Hope Springs (23 page)

She valued his company. She looked forward to seeing him. Her heart even flipped around the few times he’d held her hand.

But she felt all those things for Tavish. Did she feel them for him still? Who did she feel them for most? She couldn’t know without seeing Tavish again. Aside from all that, she
wanted
to see him again. She missed him.

What a complete and utter mess she was.

Katie watched the wagons roll back into town from her vantage point at the mercantile. Tavish and Finbarr wouldn’t be back for at least another week.

“The return of the wagons,” Mr. Johnson muttered. “That always means winter is coming.”

He’d taken to grumbling and mumbling over the week or more since Katie had sewn his bleeding head back together. But he didn’t insult her or belittle her anymore. She didn’t point out the change, didn’t press it. She and Joseph had talked through it and decided that, if left to his own thoughts, Mr. Johnson might very well change his own mind in light of what she’d done. Katie hoped that was true. If even one person on the Red Road could learn to let go of their hatred for the Irish, Hope Springs might begin to put the feud behind itself.

“I’ve heard the winters are bad hereabouts,” Katie said, wondering if he’d take up the try at conversation.

“Bad? They’re brutal,” Mr. Johnson said. “It’s so cold the snow begs to be let in out of the weather.”

She couldn’t help laughing at that. Mr. Johnson even smiled. But the moment his eyes met hers, his lips pulled down once more. Her chuckle died abruptly.

Mr. Johnson set back to piling shoe blacking neatly on the shelves near the counter.

Katie continued cleaning the glass jars that held the sweets. She watched Mr. Johnson as she worked. He glanced at her furtively. His frown remained firmly in place.

For a moment things had been almost friendly between them. She wasn’t foolish enough to think they could truly be friends, but she thought at least they’d moved toward something better than enemies.

Mr. Johnson absentmindedly rubbed at the skin around his sewn-up wound. Thought about it, did he? She hoped so.

A few townspeople wandered in over the course of the morning, mostly the men looking to begin gathering supplies for the coming winter now that they had money from selling their crops.

“Hello, Katie.”

“And a good day to you, Mr. Scott.”

He looked tired, no doubt from days spent riding in a wagon on the rough trails of Wyoming. Mr. Scott had always been a kind man, slow to anger. He moved up to the counter, placing his order with the quiet and humble voice many Irish had adopted when doing business at the mercantile. Katie hated seeing good people reduced almost to begging in a place of business.

Mr. Johnson quoted him the price of the things he’d ordered. Mr. Scott looked surprised.

“The price hasn’t gone up, then?”

For the briefest of moments, Mr. Johnson’s eyes met hers, then quickly returned to his customer. “No, the prices have not increased.”

Mr. Scott stood silent, mouth moving but no sound coming out. Clearly he’d expected to return to Hope Springs and find the Irish prices soaring to the heavens. Katie knew a moment of deep relief, pride even, at this new proof she was making a difference.

Mr. Scott spoke low and quick to her as he made his way out. “Prices have always increased after the harvest run. Always. Thank you for this, Katie. Thank you.”

The next moment brought another customer.

“That’s Archibald,” Mr. Johnson said. “Get in the back.”

She hadn’t been sent into hiding in days. But she knew Mr. Archibald could be counted on to cause problems. While she wanted to think Mr. Johnson was saving her from the insults she’d have to endure, ’twas far more likely he only wanted to avoid earning the displeasure of the Reddest of Reds in Hope Springs.

Katie followed his instructions without comment. For the next twenty minutes she sat on a crate in the storage room, listening to the conversation outside. ’Twas a very one-sided discussion, with Mr. Archibald lodging complaint after complaint.

“The blacksmith’s prices are still outrageous.”

“The crops didn’t sell for as much as we wanted.”

“The Irish beat us to the depot.
Our
depot. They knew the higher bidders would be there. The filthy cheats beat us to them before we even had a chance.”

Didn’t the two men have anything else to talk about other than the feud? How could they possibly be friends if there was no other connection between them?

“Is that girl-Paddy still working here?” Mr. Archibald asked.

“She is,” Mr. Johnson said.

“I’m warning you, Jeremiah. The Red Road put up with her being here because you were the one on the better end of the bargain. But after that trick the Irish pulled—taking the horses’ shoes, rushing to market,
stealing
our profits—the Reds won’t like seeing her face here every time we come to town.”

“She stays in the back,” Mr. Johnson said. “And she doesn’t talk, so y’all won’t have to hear her Irish voice, either. It will be fine.”

’Twasn’t exactly a compliment nor a defense of her value. She shouldn’t have expected more than that, but she had hoped for it.

I sewed up the man’s head, for heaven’s sake. And he can’t be bothered to tell his neighbor that he’s glad to have me here.

“You need to fire her, Jeremiah,” Mr. Archibald said. “Fire her before this gets out of hand.”

Katie held her breath and listened.

“She’s keeping the place clean so Carol doesn’t have to. I’m getting a lot of work out of her.”

He was, indeed. If Katie could say one thing for herself, it was that she knew how to work hard.

“So you’ve found yourself an Irish slave,” Mr. Archibald summed up.

“More or less.”

For Katie, sitting on the crate, tucked away in the back, those words cut painfully deep. She was his “Irish slave.” For all the progress she thought she’d made, that declaration hurled her back to the moment when Mr. Johnson had declared her a “filthy Irishwoman.” Despite all she’d done for him and his family, the work she tirelessly undertook, her efforts at tending to his injuries when she might as easily have left him bleeding on the floor, she was still worthless in the man’s eyes. Nothing more than a bit of Irish garbage to be tossed aside and never thought of again.

She tried to clear those words from her mind, but they echoed within her, piercing her heart with each repetition.
Irish slave.
She thought her time at the mercantile was making a difference, that she was beginning to change Mr. Johnson’s mind, perhaps even softening his heart a bit. Disappointment sat heavy on her shoulders.

She offered Mr. Johnson a quick and silent nod of farewell as she left, unwilling to meet his eyes and see hatred sitting there. Perhaps this feud could not be ended after all. Perhaps she was a fool for even hoping.

The children were still out in the schoolyard as she passed by. Emma waved and quickly walked over to her. The hug she received was a desperately needed balm.

“Thank you for this bit of loving, my sweet Emma,” she whispered, returning the embrace.

“You look sad today, Katie.” Emma studied her face.

“I am only weary.”

Her forehead creased. “Does that mean ‘tired’?”

“Aye, that it does.”

Marianne Johnson, who’d stood nearby watching Katie and Emma with quiet curiosity, spoke up. “Why do you say ‘aye’? What does it mean?”

“’Tis a very Irish way of saying ‘yes,’ and quite common across the way in Scotland as well.”

Marianne smiled and two adorable dimples showed on her rounded cheeks. “I always thought the Irish people were saying ‘eye.’” She pointed at her own eye. “It seemed silly.”

Katie nodded. “That would be very silly indeed.” She winked at Emma. “Emma, here, had to explain to me about ‘cookies,’ as I’d been calling them ‘biscuits’ and sounding like a regular chicken-head.”

Marianne laughed. Emma joined her. Katie hoped Marianne was always such a lightening influence on Emma. The somber little girl needed it.

Katie took Emma’s hand and the three of them walked along the road where it ran along the schoolyard. “How are you adjusting to your new housekeeper?”

Emma hesitated, her mouth turned down. She knew Emma was not fond of changes in her life. The response was more than that, though.

“She is old,” Emma finally said.

When Katie had first arrived, Joseph hadn’t liked that she was so young. He’d obviously been quite careful not to make that mistake again.

“Though she’s older than you expected, does she keep you fed and the house kept up?”

Emma nodded. Katie’s worries eased. The girl was simply learning to accept change.

“Does she comb your hair in the mornings?” Katie truly doubted Joseph had managed the two tidy braids hanging down Emma’s back.

Another silent nod answered her question. Katie wondered at that. Emma had always been quiet and reserved, but less so of late, at least with
her.
She couldn’t entirely shake the feeling that something else was weighing on Emma.

The sound of the school bell signaled the end of their little walk.

Marianne took Emma’s other hand. “The bell, Emma.”

Katie smiled. “Have a lovely day at school, sweet one.”

She received a tiny smile for that. Marianne waved once before the girls, in perfect unison, turned and ran back toward the school. Why was the Johnson family like that? Taken one at a time, they could be surprisingly friendly. The moment they were in company with the Red Road or even one another, though, that bit of civility flew right out the window.

She continued down the road, feeling every bit as weary as she’d told Emma she was. Life was hard sometimes. Other times it was nothing short of exhausting. Her mind hardly noted the scenery as she walked. Before even realizing how far she’d gone, she stood at the fork in the road, looking directly at Joseph Archer’s home.

She hadn’t realized until leaving the place behind just how fond she’d grown of the dormer windows with their lovely shutters, the tall tree in the yard, and the porch that spanned the full length of the house. ’Twas the first home in which she’d felt valued and welcomed and cared about. Even in her childhood home, the strain of starvation and the threat of eviction had tempered any show of affection. Behind every expression of love and welcome was the sure knowledge that each mouth to feed was a burden.

“I need a moment in your home, Joseph Archer,” she whispered as she stood alone. But she knew it wouldn’t be the same. She no longer belonged to this home where she’d once felt loved.

Loved.
The word struck her. ’Twas, indeed, loved that she’d felt. Loved like a family member. Loved like a friend. And more than that, even. There’d been more than that in Joseph. She needed to discover just how much more.

The prospect frightened her more than she had expected it to. But she’d never been such a coward. She’d given up far too much in choosing this new life. She did not mean to live it ruled by fear.

You’ve a mess of a heart to sort out. Now’s the time to be brave, Katie girl.

She scrubbed the last few tears from her face and rolled back her shoulders. She’d courage enough for this.

Katie marched herself with purpose around the back of the house. She fully intended to step onto the porch and knock at the kitchen door. She knew better than to think herself a front-door visitor. Only the properest of people came to the front door. She wasn’t anything more than a servant.

A queue of men spilled out of the barn, all of them dressed in the humble clothing of working farmers. Joseph, more likely than not, was in
there.
She turned toward the barn. As she drew closer, she recognized the gathering. Irish, every last one of them. It was like a céilí, but with no songs or dancing and quite a bit more somber expressions.

“What’s this, then?” she asked Mr. MacCormack.

“Land payments.”

That made sense. Joseph owned the entire valley. With their crops newly sold, the farming families would have money on hand to make a payment against their note.

Their usual chatter was noticeably subdued. They stood with uncertain looks, drawn mouths. Care sat heavy on their shoulders. These were people worried for their families. Poverty and the fear of losing his land had made her own father hard. She could see the beginnings of it in these good people as well.

Katie slipped around the queue at the door. Joseph stood at a high, roughly hewn, narrow desk, with an account ledger, much like the one Mr. Johnson used, open in front of him. He was speaking to Mr. O’Donaghue. The men exchanged nods and handshakes. Mr. O’Donaghue stepped away, slipping his hat back on his head. Joseph leaned over his ledger, writing something.

She’d clearly chosen a bad time to drop by.

Joseph looked up and saw her. He said something to the next man in the queue, Mr. Murphy, then walked over to her.

“Good afternoon, Katie.”

Tavish had always been the one with the melting smile. Why was it Joseph’s small one flipped her heart about?

“You are hosting quite the fancy party here, Joseph.”

“Not exactly.” He wasn’t the roaring-laughter type, but he could, with the smallest raise of an eyebrow or quirk of his mouth, show his amusement as surely as if he were clutching his sides.

“I know rent day when I see it.” Katie tried to hold back a remembered shudder. “I hated rent days. Standing in queue with Father while he clutched that meager bit of money and rehearsed his list of crops he’d grown for the landlord. I hated watching him shuffle and mutter and lower himself, begging the way he had to. I—I hated it.”

“There is no begging here, Katie,” he said. “There never is.”

“That, Joseph, is because there are no tenants. Not in the way we were tenants.”

Joseph brushed a gentle hand along her cheek. Her heart leaped about, as if desperate to get her attention. She was not indifferent to his touch. Not at all. Here was yet more evidence that he’d captured her heart as much as she suspected he had.

“You will not ever have to live that way again,” Joseph said, a firmness underlying his words.