by Cat Cahill
“I’ll show you. If you want,” Celia said hesitantly.
He pushed out a breath and nodded without saying a word. All the pride he’d felt was flattened, as if it had been run over by a wagon.
Celia took one of his logs, laid it just so on the block of wood he’d found in the barn and correctly assumed was for chopping logs. She raised the axe, and then, without hesitation, split the wood clean in half. “There,” she said, setting the axe down. “That’s the right size.”
He nodded again, too embarrassed to thank her. She must think him utterly useless. But then she smiled at him, and it wasn’t pitying at all. It was genuine, as if she were glad he was here.
Jack found his voice again. “I thought I might finish up the wood that was already here before I begin work on anything else.”
She nodded, as if his reasoning was perfectly acceptable.
In reality, Jack hadn’t yet worked out how exactly to do many of the other items she’d mentioned. He figured if he spent a day or so on the wood, he could then make an excuse to go to town and ask around for help. Asking Celia seemed the obvious solution, but just the thought of it made him feel ten times worse than her picking up the axe and showing him the right way to chop firewood.
No, he’d much rather keep his dignity intact and find help in town.
“Why don’t you come in and get a bite to eat?” she asked.
Jack didn’t need to be asked again. He left his gloves on the stack of wood and followed her inside, only to find the place transformed. Not only had she swept out every speck of dirt that had been on the floor, she’d also dusted, made a soup that smelled heavenly, baked a loaf of bread, and offered him butter that she’d only just churned that morning.
“How do you accomplish so much?” he asked, slathering a slice of bread with the butter.
Celia laughed, and the sound made him lean back in his chair, completely at ease for some reason. “I grew up on a farm. I’m used to this life.”
Now it made sense—why she’d kept this place instead of selling it. “Well, Mrs. Wendler, you’re quite the industrious farm girl.”
She blushed some at his use of her new name, and he busied himself with taking a bite of the bread, else he start thinking of more things to say to make that color rise in her cheeks again.
“The cow needs milking each morning,” she said. “I’ve always done it, and I’m happy to continue, unless you’d like to?”
Jack couldn’t fathom milking a cow. “Oh no, please carry on. I’ll feed them.” He said this as if he knew exactly what that entailed.
Celia hid a smile behind her soup spoon. “Like you did this morning?”
“This morning? Was I . . .?” He didn’t need to finish the sentence.
Celia nodded. “Each morning and night. Don’t worry, I fed them last night and this morning.”
“Oh.” Yet another thing he didn’t know. And this one could have had dire consequences, if Celia hadn’t gone out to do the milking. “Of course. I’ll be sure to do that from now on.”
But truthfully, as he stirred his soup, Jack wondered how many other things needed doing that he didn’t know about. Things Celia might assume he did know, but when she found out he didn’t, it would be too late. What other disasters might be in the making?
“Please excuse me a moment. I need to . . .” He jerked his head to the back door, indicating the general location of the privy. But really, he just needed to escape the house and the suffocating feeling that he was the one who’d let them down. Who would make it impossible for them to survive the winter.
Outside, he leaned against the railing of the back porch, gulping deep breaths of cold, wind-driven air. The bluffs sat out there, past the pile of firewood, the outbuildings, and the fields, all-seeing and ancient. They likely knew all there was to know. But how could he? His idea of growing food was tearing the greens off a bushel of carrots he’d purchased from a street cart and cooking them in boiling water. He’d spent so long trying not to feed the mice and rats in his flat in New York, and now he was somehow expected to keep a cow, a calf, and a horse alive.
Everything was on his shoulders.
Perhaps he ought to have hightailed it out of town and gone someplace else. San Francisco, maybe, where one didn’t have to rely upon some unknown knowledge of the land to survive. If only Celia hadn’t sidled up to him in town, he could be there now. But one look at her timid eyes and sweet smile, and he was gone. So far gone, he’d now gotten himself tied to her—and to this farm. And all he knew about her was that she’d come from a farm in Mississippi, was a widow, had a sister in town, and could cook. That was it.
And for some reason, she thought he was someone to rely upon.
He was trying. But what if it wasn’t enough? What if he wasn’t enough?
Chapter Ten
Frost coated the dry, brown grasses and gave a shine to the buildings in Last Chance when Celia and Jack arrived a few mornings later. He needed to speak to Mr. McFarland at the livery about the livestock. Celia had the suspicion it was something she knew the answer to, but he seemed so confident and interested in talking with Mr. McFarland that she simply agreed and requested to come along so that she might bring some salt pork to Faith.
It was a particularly blustery day, and not many people were out and about. As they came through town, Celia spotted a few men she’d never seen before. They were likely there in answer to the town’s advertisement. She couldn’t wait to get to Faith’s to get the latest news. Perhaps some of the other ladies had since married. Perhaps Faith had received more letters—maybe one that intrigued her this time.
Celia glanced down the Stage Coach Road before crossing from the livery. The nearby butcher’s shop was closed up now that there was no more meat to butcher—and no butcher to do the work even if there was. She wondered if Linda, the sheriff’s wife, was running his office at the end of the road. Their home was immediately next door to the livery, and Celia pondered a quick visit if she had time after seeing Faith. Sheriff Applebee had perished in the second blizzard. His last prisoner had been his own wife. Celia smiled sadly at the thought of Linda shut up in jail. She’d always been one of the most interesting ladies Celia had known in town, and now she, along with many of the other women, were mourning their husbands while having to look for new ones. In a strange way, it made Celia thankful that Ned had never been much of a husband to her. He hadn’t been a bad person, just cold and distant. At first, she’d felt guilty for not feeling as sad as she thought she ought to have felt upon his death. What kind of person did that make her?
But Faith had understood. As much as her sister grieved her own husband, she reminded Celia that it was hard to muster grief for someone who had never really shown her love. At that moment, Celia had stopped feeling guilty. She chose instead to see the pair of terrible storms and their uncertain aftermath as a fresh start. And perhaps that was how she’d been so bold as to be the one to suggest the ladies of the town place an advertisement in The Matrimonial Times.
Celia pushed gratefully through the door to Faith’s post and telegraph office, still lost in thought at memories of how the other women in town had reacted when she’d spoken up. Most of them couldn’t believe she had been the one to make such a suggestion. Even Faith had momentarily forgotten her grief and had gaped at Celia for several seconds.
Just as she was doing now.
“You look frozen solid!” Faith bustled over to Celia and took her coat and hat. “Come sit by the fire. What possessed you to come to town on such a windy, cold day?”
“Faith, it isn’t that cold out. Winter hasn’t even truly set in yet.” Celia gave her sister an appraising look. No wonder Faith thought it freezing outside—she was so thin. In fact, it seemed she’d lost even more weight since Celia had left to return to the farm just a few days ago. “Here, I’ve brought you some salt pork.” She handed the package to Faith.
“Thank you, but you didn’t have to.”
“Would you
like me to fix you something?” Celia asked.
Faith raised her eyebrows. “You’re a guest in my home. I’ll make something for you.”
Celia knew better than to argue with her little sister about this fact. So she settled in by the fireplace and waited while Faith started tea and scrounged up food Celia wished Faith wouldn’t waste on her.
“Hollie showed me how to make these little scones. They don’t take much flour, and you can add anything to them that you happen to have on hand.” Faith set a tray on the little table.
“It’s a wonder Hollie has time to do much of anything now that she’s caring for all of those children,” Celia said. Hollie Dawson’s diner was her pride and joy, and she’d gleefully agreed to take in a number of children left orphaned from the blizzard.
“It’s a veritable madhouse over there,” Faith said, “but it keeps her occupied.” Faith stared at the tray, seemingly lost in thought for a moment.
Celia took one scone to make her sister happy, but intended to leave the others for Faith—who had yet to take one for herself. The tea was hot and warmed Celia from head to toe when she took a sip. “Please eat,” she said to Faith, eager to see her sister take in some sustenance.
Faith took up a scone and nibbled a tiny bite from the edge before setting it down on a lace-edged napkin, yet another welcome-to-town gift from Altar.
“How is your husband?” Faith asked primly.
“Faith.” Celia gazed at her sister.
“What? I asked after the well-being of your husband. Is that such a terrible thing?” Faith held her teacup to her lips and sipped.
Celia swallowed her irritation. After all, hadn’t she just been questioning her own decision a few nights ago? And perhaps a couple more times since then, such as when Jack hadn’t understood that the animals needed the thin layer of ice that had formed on top of their water broken up. Or when he’d stood dumbfounded in front of the plow, as if he’d never seen a piece of machinery before.
Celia had been patient each time, gently telling him what needed doing. Which he’d accepted, but she could feel him bristle. When they weren’t dealing with the work or discussing the animals, though, the charm he’d shown her in town had come right back on, and she’d found herself laughing along with him and teasing him in return.
“He’s well,” she finally said. “He’s still learning about the farm, but he’s so very kind and enjoys conversation.”
“Are you in love with him?” Faith asked.
Celia nearly choked on her scone. “I’ve only known him a few days. I can hardly say that.”
“I knew that I loved Aaron and he loved me barely a week after he began talking with me and escorting me home after school,” Faith replied.
Celia sat up straighter. “Not everyone can measure themselves against you and Aaron.”
Faith’s eyes brimmed with unshed tears, and Celia immediately wished she could take her words back.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, laying a hand on her sister’s knee.
Faith set her teacup down and dropped her face into her hands. “It isn’t your fault. I’m sorry I insinuated that you couldn’t come to love your husband. It’s just . . . I . . .” She turned a tearstained face up to Celia. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to choose one of these men to marry. I don’t wish to marry any of them.”
“Why don’t you opt not to?” Celia said. She set her own teacup down and reached for Faith’s hands. “No one would fault you for choosing to remain unmarried. Everyone knows how much you loved Aaron. And Pastor Collins has his hands full with all of these weddings. He’s far too busy to bother you about marriage. Not to mention that no one else in town can run the telegraph.”
“But it’s selfish,” Faith protested. “I’m not the only woman grieving. Yet everyone else has been able to pull themselves together enough to give careful consideration to her letters. And besides, I can’t keep relying on you to bring me food.”
“You won’t have to forever. You’ll make money from the telegraph and from selling stationary and such.”
Faith shook her head. “I’ll have to. I can’t bear to be the only one who’s selfish enough not to. This town needs men to run.”
“Well, you needn’t choose right away.” Celia squeezed Faith’s hands. “Give it time.”
Faith gave her a watery smile and pulled her hands away. “I’m glad Mr. Wendler is trying to fit in on the farm.”
“He is.” Celia had certainly had her doubts, but he’d been making quite an effort. “I only wish I knew more about him. I know nothing about his family, or what sort of business he was in prior to leaving New York. Or what it was about our advertisement that led him to make such a momentous decision, particularly without sending a letter ahead of his arrival.”
“Have you asked him?”
Celia’s cheeks went warm and she looked down at her lap.
“Celia. You can’t be that shy with your own husband.”
She picked at a thin spot on her blue skirt. This skirt wouldn’t last the winter. She had another one that was serviceable enough, and a prettier dress for church, but she’d need more than one skirt for working at home. “I tried not to be with Ned. But you saw how well that went. I think it made him not like me much at all.”
“Mr. Wendler isn’t Ned. As much as I might have wished you’d chosen someone less . . . smooth . . . even I can see he’s more interested in you than Ned ever was. All that man cared about was his crops and his plow.”
Celia bit back a giggle. Faith had never been so blunt about Ned, but every word of it was true. With Ned, she’d felt lonely, even in his presence. But with Jack, it seemed she’d never feel loneliness again.
“Perhaps you’re right,” she conceded. And with that, she made a promise to herself to be more bold. If she could tease Jack without feeling so shy, certainly she could ask him questions about his life.
And maybe she’d find out what drove him to their little town on the edge of the prairie.
Chapter Eleven
Jack urged the gelding to a stop outside the post and telegraph office, where Celia was visiting with Faith. He’d never felt so accomplished in his life, not even when he’d secured financing from the impossible to nail down Callum Sullivan. In only a few hours, he’d not only learned more about the feeding and care of livestock, he’d also made a new friend in Dave McFarland, the owner of the livery, assisted a Mrs. Graham with carrying a saddle, and negotiated a deal on a second horse, which Celia had indicated they’d need not only to pull the wagon to and from town but also to plow the next spring.
Now if only he could become more comfortable with the horses. He’d made excuses on the way to town, saying he didn’t want to overwork the horse by having him carry two, and so he’d walked while Celia rode. But upon leaving the livery, he figured it was high time he at least give it a try. The short distance was far less intimidating than the miles that stretched between town and the farm. Still, he’d spent the ride over here from the livery holding on to the reins so hard that his hands had begun to tingle. It had likely been ten years since he’d been on horseback, and even then, he’d only ridden just enough to get the basics. Thankfully, that knowledge hadn’t left him entirely.
He tied both horses to a post outside and then strode to the door. Inside, he found Celia and her sister sitting with empty teacups in front of the fireplace.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Wendler,” Faith said stiffly. It might have bothered him, except for the fact that Celia’s sweet, shy smile commanded all his attention.
“Good afternoon. Celia, I have a surprise for you.” He grinned, hardly able to contain his anticipation.
Her eyes grew wide, and she stood. “Faith, should I—?”
“No, no,” Mrs. Thornton interrupted. “I’ll clean up. You get on back home, and I’ll see you at services on Sunday.”
Celia quickly put on her coat and hat and was already waiting by the door as Jack bid her sister a quick goodbye. Outside, Ce
lia took two steps away from the door into the somewhat muddy main street before stopping short. “Whose horse is that? No one else came into the office while I was visiting.”
Jack stood with his hands on his hips, beaming at the mare. “She’s ours.”
Celia’s mouth fell open just a little. “But how . . .?”
“I struck a good bargain with McFarland. This old girl belonged to one of the unmarried men who perished in the blizzard. Apparently he lived in town and had a couple of horses, both of which he kept at the livery. After his passing, there was no one to pay for this surviving horse’s upkeep. McFarland was eager to get her off his hands, provided I bring him a few more bales of hay.”
Celia looked from him to the horse and back again.
“I know we don’t have much hay to spare, but I figured we had just enough to get this horse.”
Celia ran a gloved hand down the mare’s neck. “She’s beautiful.” She turned to Jack, and before he knew it, she’d wrapped her arms around him. “Thank you.”
He stood there, dumbfounded. He hoped she’d be happy with his purchase, but he never expected this.
She straightened quickly, pink flooding her cheeks, and the cold air dashed into the spaces around his waist that she left behind. It almost hurt, so much that he wished he could embrace her.
“I’m sorry, it’s just that I love horses. I was distraught when I learned that Liberty had died with Ned. He was such a good horse, very brave and gentle.” She scratched the mare’s nose, and the horse snuffled. “Does she have a name?”
“She’s called Tiny, but we could name her something else if you’d like.” Tiny eyed him, as if she knew he wasn’t entirely comfortable around her.
But Celia was a natural, scratching the horse in just the right places. “No, I like Tiny. She’s absolutely perfect, Jack. May I ride her home?”
Jack nodded, thankful he didn’t need to attempt to ride an entirely different horse when he’d just barely gotten used to George the gelding. He assisted Celia with mounting Tiny before getting back onto the gelding, which he managed to do without looking the fool.
