Prairie Fire (20 page)
“All I’ve asked is that Lucy be permitted to stay the night with me.” She slipped her hands over his. “Jack, I’m not a fool. I know I haven’t the training to manage Lucy. I certainly don’t understand what caused this madness in her. But I do care about her. I want her to have one night of undisturbed rest. Please, Jack, allow her to stay.”
His heart thudded as he looked into this woman’s earnest face. Caitrin was so
good
. So perfect. And yet, one mistake with Lucy, and she’d be changed forever. If Lucy figured out a way to harm herself while she was in Caitrin’s care …
“I’ll stay here, too,” Jack said.
“You can’t do that!” Caitrin laughed in disbelief. “Sure, I won’t have a lone man in my home. What would people think?”
Jack fought the grin that tugged at his mouth. Caitrin Murphy didn’t give a hoot what anyone thought about her relationship with Lucy or Mrs. Cornwall. But heaven forbid they should get any ideas about her and Jack Cornwall.
“I’ll sleep just outside the door,” he said. “That way you can holler if you need me.”
“I won’t need you, and I won’t have you putting up a camp in my front yard.” She set her hands on her hips. “Go along with you now. Your mother, too. You said yourself that everyone’s exhausted from the constant care of Lucy. Relax then, and leave her to me this one night.”
“Caitrin, if something happened—” “Jack?” Lucy sat up in the bed, her eyes blinking in confusion.
“Jack, I’m … I’m …”
“You’re here at my house, Lucy,” Caitrin said, going to her. “We were just about to have tea when you dropped off to sleep. Earl Grey, remember? Here’s a dressing gown you can wear. Let me help you.”
Jack shifted from one foot to the other, feeling awkward and useless in Caitrin’s house. Though he was a little surprised at how sparsely furnished the place was, he could tell it was her private domain. She was completely capable of managing her life here, and she didn’t need any interference.
“Good-bye, Jack,” she called. “You can come over tomorrow morning and have breakfast with us if you like. Bring your mother with you. We’ll have hot biscuits and gravy. It’s an American dish, rather heavy if you ask me, but everyone seems to like it.”
Jack watched as Caitrin helped his sister into a bright pink dressing gown, tied a big silky bow at her waist, and then began combing that tangle of brown hair. Combing! Caitrin was combing Lucy’s hair! Jack stared at the two women in amazement.
Is it possible, Lord?
he prayed.
Have you sent Caitrin to help Lucy?
Oh, God, let Lucy get better. Please make her well again.
“Ta ta, Jack,” Caitrin called, giving him a wave of dismissal. “See you in the morning.”
Jack stepped outside the soddy and pulled the door shut behind him. His mother stared at him in dismay, her face pinched. “You left Lucy in there?” she demanded. “You’re going to let her stay the night with Miss Murphy?”
“That’s right.”
“Oh, Jack, you are besotted with that young Irishwoman!” she cried, frustration raising her voice to a falsetto. “How could you risk your sister’s life? She’ll be dead by morning.”
“She’d be dead right now if Caitrin hadn’t saved her,” Jack said, brushing past her and starting for the camp. “Lucy’s sitting in there wearing a pink gown and a bow. And Caitrin is brushing her hair.”
“What?” his mother exclaimed behind him.
“Caitrin is brushing Lucy’s hair.”
“Really, Jack? Really?”
Jack paused and wrapped an arm around his mother’s shoulders. “Really, Mama.”
Caitrin woke in the night and felt the warmth of her new friend beside her in the bed. Odd how comfortable it was to share her little home with Lucy Cornwall. The place didn’t seem quite so empty, so cold, so forlorn.
They’d had a good evening, sipping tea and munching sandwiches. If she hadn’t seen Lucy drifting in the river hours before, Caitrin would hardly have believed anything was wrong with the young woman. They were almost the same age, and they kept up a comfortable conversation until the fire died down … planning the welcome party, discussing favorite foods and hairstyles. Lucy’s speech was halting but lucid.
In fact, Caitrin realized as she lay in the darkness staring up at the ceiling, Lucy actually might have talked more freely if her hostess hadn’t interrupted her every ten seconds. Chagrined, Caitrin mulled over the number of times Lucy had started to talk and then had fallen into her pattern of saying, “I’m … I can’t … I don’t know …” And Caitrin—with all good intent—had covered the awkwardness with cheerful chatter, changing the subject from one topic to another.
Rolling onto her side, Caitrin frowned into the blackness. Why hadn’t she just listened to Lucy? Maybe her friend would have been able to share her deepest thoughts. Maybe she could have opened her heart to Caitrin if she hadn’t been so rudely interrupted time and again.
Jesus, do you heal people like Lucy?
Caitrin wondered.
The man you
met in the cemetery had been as destructive to himself as Lucy—cutting his
flesh with stones and screaming out in his anguish. But your touch brought
him back to his right mind. Does Lucy have a demon inside her? Has
she sinned in some terrible way to be tormented like this? Is it a dreadful
sickness that one day will kill her? Oh, Father, I don’t understand what’s
wrong with Lucy, but please touch my friend! Please make her well.
“Caitrin?” Lucy had risen on one elbow and was gazing at the other woman. “You’re tossing.”
“Forgive me, Lucy. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“No, I thought … I thought I might have …”
“You didn’t disturb me at all. I’ve been thinking about …”
Caitrin suddenly couldn’t be honest. “I’ve been thinking about wallpaper lately. I want to paper the soddy, but I don’t believe—”
Be still,
a voice inside her spoke.
Be still.
“I don’t believe wallpaper will work,” she finished.
“I’m not sure,” Lucy said. “I can’t … I can’t think… .”
“It’s so late, and here I am chattering away—” Caitrin squeezed her fists.
Be still.
She let out a breath and finished, “Chattering about wallpaper.”
Lucy was silent. Caitrin could hear her breathing softly. Her thin fingers picked at the tufts of yarn on the quilt that covered the two women.
“I don’t think wallpaper will stick,” Lucy said finally. “Your walls are dirt.”
“I know.”
“But I can’t … I can’t …”
“You—” Caitrin bit her lip to keep herself from blurting out some vapid nonsense.
“I can’t think very clearly about wallpaper,” Lucy said. “I don’t … don’t know …”
She lapsed into silence again. Caitrin thought perhaps she had fallen asleep, but then she sighed. “It’s hard to think, you know,”
Lucy said softly. “My thoughts go around and around. I don’t … I can’t stop thinking about things that bother me.”
“Like—” Caitrin cut off her own sentence.
“Like Mary. When she got sick. I adored Mary.” Lucy’s voice was high and fragile. “My big sister was golden haired and so beautiful. She loved to dance and flirt with all the men. But then … then … I can’t …”
Caitrin managed to hold her tongue.
“Can’t remember what happened to Mary,” Lucy went on. “Oh yes, it was Seth Hunter. She fell in love with him, and Papa got out his … his shotgun … and how sad Mary was. She told me she had married Seth in secret. And then the baby …”
“Chipper?”
“Did I say there was a baby?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not permitted to talk about that. We must keep our secrets well hidden. Others will stare at us if they hear the truth. No one has to know a thing.”
“Who has told you to keep secrets, Lucy?”
“Mama.” She lay quietly for a long time. “Some things can be mentioned. Mary died. The Yankee soldiers came. Oh, dear … I’m sorry, but I can’t talk about that either. Jack was fighting in the war. And then Seth stole Chipper. Papa took sick. They put me in chains. I’m insane, you know.”
“Are you sure?”
“Oh yes.” Lucy nodded on her pillow. Her hand slipped across the quilt and covered Caitrin’s. “Please don’t be afraid of me. It’s because of the thoughts going around and around. I can’t make them stop. I try, but I can’t… . I can’t …”
“You’ve had a great many sorrows,” Caitrin whispered.
“Mary. The soldiers. The war. We lost the farm. Papa took sick.” She trembled. “People die. There’s such loss … and I can’t …”
“I don’t believe you’re insane.”
“No?”
“Anyone with as many griefs as you’ve known would find it difficult.”
“Difficult to go on living.”
“Aye, ’tis hard sometimes.” Caitrin’s thoughts wandered to Sean O’Casey and the terrible agony she had felt at his loss. But now—oddly—she no longer sensed that emptiness. There was something else … someone else …
“I have many sorrows,” Lucy said. “And many, many secrets.”
I
T WAS Rolf Rustemeyer’s turn to lead the Sunday services. Jack heard that the big German farmer had been practicing his sermon on Rosie Hunter, but rumor had it there’d be slim pickings on the spiritual smorgasbord today. All the same, families from the homesteads around Hope began to gather in the mercantile around nine o’clock. By the time Jack walked in, the room was filled with the aroma of hot cinnamon buns, fresh coffee, and apple strudel.
In the short time he’d lived in Hope, Jack had tried to learn the names of the people who passed his smithy on their way to the mercantile for supplies. Few ever spoke to him, and when they did, it was only to ask how soon he’d be able to repair a plow or mend a wagon wheel. But Caitrin Murphy always followed her customers out the mercantile door to wave good-bye. “Come again, Mr. LeBlanc,” she would call. “See you next week, Mrs. Rippeto!” And Jack would memorize the names.
They had all come together to worship on this bright, late-winter Sunday, and Jack had made up his mind to walk among them as one of the community. He’d been given a month to prove his peaceful intentions, and this gathering would be the perfect opportunity to do just that.
“Mornin’, Mr. Laski,” he said, extending a hand to the Polish fellow who owned a stagecoach station several miles down the road to Topeka. “I’m Jack Cornwall. Good to see you today.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “Oh yes,” he said. He gave a quick nod and turned away.
Jack shrugged. He wouldn’t get angry. Couldn’t afford to. Things were just now beginning to look up for the Cornwall family. Caitrin had convinced Felicity to let Lucy stay at the soddy a few days. His sister had lived with the young Irishwoman for almost a week now. And though no one had seen much of either one, Jack sensed that the community was beginning to relax about the notion of having a “madwoman” residing there. His mother—the only person from the creek episode to catch a cold—had stayed busy at the camp, either working or lamenting her drippy nose. Freed from his responsibility to help keep an eye on Lucy, Jack spent every free hour working to build the smithy. He would have the forge up and burning by Monday night.
“Mr. Rippeto,” Jack said, giving the Italian homesteader his warmest smile. “Good to see you and Mrs. Rippeto here today.”
“Keep your eyes off my wife,” the man muttered, pointing a beefy forefinger. “Stay away from my family.”
“Listen here, you—” Jack bit off his words. Swallowing his fury, he found a bench near the side of the mercantile, sat down, and opened his Bible. He’d be lucky to get through this morning without punching somebody in the nose.
“Hi, Jack,” a voice whispered beside him.
He turned to find his sister slipping onto the bench. A cloud of Lily of the Valley perfume drifted around the startling array of braids and curls in Lucy’s upswept brown hair. Clad in a silky dress of pale blue, she arranged her skirts to allow the tips of her kidskin shoes to peep out. Flushing a vivid pink, she patted the sagging bodice.
“It’s too big,” she whispered. “This is really Caitrin’s dress.”
Jack smiled. “Well, I reckon you look mighty pretty in it, Lucy.”
His sister bit her lip and focused on her hands knotted in her lap. “I’ve been feeling better, Jack. You know … Caitrin lets me cook.”
“Cook!” Jack instantly thought of the number of weapons Lucy could lay her hands on—knives, ice chisels, meat forks …
“I baked those cinnamon buns on the table over there,” she said shyly. “Please don’t tell, just in case they taste awful.”
Jack took a deep breath. “Does Caitrin stay with you? Is she nearby all the time?”
Lucy nodded. “She or Mrs. Hunter. They take turns tending to me and the mercantile. Caitrin says … she says she’s been dreaming of opening a restaurant one day, and she would like me to help with the cooking. We might build a little kitchen and have our own pots and pans. I could plan the menus.”
“Is that so?” Jack hadn’t seen his sister so animated in years.
“Caitrin’s very good to me. I’m afraid I’ve worn her out, and Mrs. Hunter, too, but please don’t make me come home, Jack. I really … I can’t … can’t …”
“It’s okay, Luce,” he said, calling her by her pet name. “I’ll talk to Caitrin and see how she’s doing.”
