Brides of Iowa

by Stevens, Connie;

  “Everett.” Tillie panted with exertion. Everett’s reclusive tendencies frustrated her, but Da’s repeated admonitions for compassion echoed in her memory. She stopped a few feet from where Everett stood cloaked in shadows. “I’m sorry to hold you up. I’ve wanted to tell you something for a while, but—” She planted one hand on her hip. “You’re a hard person to nail down.”

  Everett turned, presenting his left side to her. It was nearly impossible to see his facial expression as he stood in the shadows and she in the bright sunlight.

  “What was it you needed to tell me?” Impatience threaded his tone.

  A sudden burst of unaccustomed shyness overtook her tongue, and she fidgeted with her hands. “I’ve pondered for months how to say this.” She hooked her fingers together to stop their nervous twitching and raised her eyes to the silhouette of his profile. Her heart performed a curious flutter, and the words she wanted to say tangled in her throat. She covered her mouth and coughed.

  Everett turned and cast a glance toward the church, where the door remained closed, the congregation still inside. His chest rose and fell, as if he was trying to fend off anxiousness. She only had a moment to say what was on her mind and heart because she knew folks would come spilling out into the churchyard any moment. She drew in a breath.

  “Everett, it takes an extraordinary man to put aside his own safety and demonstrate the kind of compassion you showed last year. Had it not been for your bravery and mercy, Miss Pearl and your father would surely have died in that fire. I just wanted you to know that I think you are a man of great courage and character.” She glanced over her shoulder at the church, where the pastor had stepped out and stood by the door to greet the worshippers as they departed.

  “Thank you,” Everett mumbled. “If you’ll excuse me…”

  “Everett, wait.”

  He halted but a stiff sigh blew past his lips.

  She took a step closer, and the patchwork of sunlight and shadows played across her eyes. “My da is an amazing man. He has such a tender, giving heart. I’ve never known another man who expressed his love for his family in the way he sees to their needs like Da. Your act of self-sacrifice reminds me of him.”

  Apparently forgetting to hide his scars, Everett widened his eyes and turned to fully face her. She waited for him to respond, but no reply was forthcoming.

  Tillie dropped her gaze and stared at her clasped fingers. “Well, that’s all I wanted to say. I—I guess I should let you go now.”

  Everett didn’t seize the opportunity to escape the way he normally did. She glanced up in time to see him toss a glance at the parishioners who were gathering in the churchyard, and then he turned his attention back to Tillie.

  “That’s a very kind thing for you to say.” He cleared his throat, and his hand trailed up to his face, even though the shadows concealed the scars he tried to hide. “I can see you are very close to your father, so for you to make such a comparison is very generous. Thank you, Tillie.”

  A smile unfurled from deep within her and found its way to her face. For a brief moment, she basked in the pure pleasure Everett’s reply birthed in her heart. But the glow was short-lived. As quickly as Everett’s guard had fallen away, he snatched it back into place. He tugged the brim of his hat down.

  “Please excuse me.” He turned abruptly and strode beyond the shade of the thick trees and down the boardwalk, disappearing around a corner into an alley.

  Frustration niggled at her. Every time Everett raised his hand to hide his face, she longed to grasp that hand and pull it away. She wished she could make him understand his scars made no difference to her. She pondered the thought. Was that really true? Maybe his scars did make a difference, but not in the way he thought. She found his scars noble, even virtuous. They stood for something that proved the character of the man. If only she could help him see his scars the way she saw them.

  Pastor Witherspoon’s message about listening to God’s voice and heeding His nudges to help carry the burdens of others echoed in her mind and heart. But what if God seemed to be nudging her in the direction of a stone wall?

  Everett looked out the dusty window of the empty building. Roland Sewell, the bank’s rotund president, stood outside on the boardwalk, fanning himself with his hat and mopping his forehead with a handkerchief. Everett suspected the portly gentleman with thinning gray hair felt uncomfortable in his presence. Why else would the man elect to remain outside in the hot sun while Everett looked over the building he was considering leasing?

  The location at the edge of town, directly across the street from the livery, was perfect for a freight operation. There was a good view of the main street and plenty of room for wagons to pull up and unload. Everett looked through the door that separated the larger front portion of the building from a small, private area in the rear and scrutinized the space. The back room would suffice as an office, while the front could serve as an adequate work and storage area.

  Everett tugged his cravat a bit higher around his neck and stepped to the open doorway. “Mr. Sewell, the building has possibilities, but since there is no corral or other accommodation for livestock, I’ll have to check with Mr. Cully at the livery to see if arrangements can be made to house the horses I’m planning on purchasing.”

  The man’s gaze flitted over Everett. A wince of pity and revulsion flickered across his expression, neither of which Everett could abide. He turned away from the banker with the pretense of studying the framing around the door. “If the terms of the lease are still what we discussed earlier, I’d like to proceed.”

  “Very well, Mr. Behr. I can have the lease ready for your signature in a few days.” Sewell slapped his hat back on his head and stepped off the boardwalk. “Good day.”

  “Good day,” Everett mumbled, certain the retreating man couldn’t hear him. He pushed back encroaching resentment and sighed. Roland Sewell was one person. Willow Creek was full of people who surely viewed Everett with repugnance. He might as well accept it. He pulled his hat lower to shade his face more fully and headed across the street to talk to the owner of the livery.

  Poking his head in the stable door, he didn’t see anyone about. “Mr. Cully?”

  A thumping sound drew his attention to the rear stalls, where a grizzled, bent man stomped his feet on the packed dirt floor, apparently trying to dislodge a foreign substance from his boots.

  “Mr. Cully?”

  “Hold your britches on. I’m comin’.” The livery owner sounded like he’d been chewing on gravel.

  “Might I have a few minutes of your time, sir?”

  The liveryman snorted. “Sir? Just who do you think you’re talkin’ to, sonny?”

  “I beg your pardon, Mr. Cully.”

  “Ain’t no need to be beggin’, and my name ain’t mister. It’s just plain Cully. I don’t answer to nothin’ else.” He dusted his grimy hands on his equally grimy pants. “A man who lives, eats, and cleans up after horses don’t need no mister in front of his name.” He plopped his hands on his hips. “Well? Speak your piece. I ain’t got all day.”

  Everett cleared his throat. “I’ve come to discuss a business proposition, that is, if you have the time.”

  “Got more time than money, young fella. What’s on your mind?” He clomped over to a large bin, apparently expecting Everett to follow him, and scooped grain into two wood buckets.

  The dimly lit interior of the stable lent a shroud of comfortable darkness. “Well, mister…I mean, Cully, I’m Everett Behr, and—”

  “I know who you are. You’re Hubert’s boy.” He set the buckets down and mopped his brow.

  Everett blinked in surprise. “Yes, Hubert Behr is my father.” He couldn’t decide if he should be put off or amused by Cully’s manners, so he decided to come right to the point. “I’m planning on renting the building across the street—”

  “I seen you and old man Sewell jawin’ over yonder.”

  It was all Everett could do to hold back a snort of lau
ghter. Cully appeared to have quite a few years on Roland Sewell, so to hear the livery owner refer to the banker as an old man threatened to undo Everett’s quiet dignity.

  “Um, yes, I’ll be leasing the building from Mr. Sewell for the purpose of starting a freighting operation based here in Willow Creek. I’d like to contract with you to stable my horses.”

  Cully’s thick eyebrows sprang up into his hairline. “You don’t say! That’s some of the most welcome news I’ve heard in a while. A freightin’ business, right here in Willow Creek?” Cully slapped Everett on the back. “Young fella, you bring your horses here whenever you’re ready. I’ll give you a fair deal.”

  Gideon Maxwell led a glossy black Belgian gelding around the yard for Everett’s appraisal. “He’s only four years old, but he’s gentle and steady. Since he and the other three were broke to harness and trained together, they’re well matched. They’ll pull in pairs or in a four up.”

  Everett surveyed the four horses before him. “Magnificent animals. It’s hard to believe a horse as big and muscular as this can be so gentle.”

  Gideon patted the black’s neck. “That’s one of the reasons I chose to breed Belgians. They’re strong and have great endurance, and they also have a wonderful temperament, which makes them trustworthy with families.”

  The big gelding snorted and turned to look in Everett’s direction, as if investigating his prospective new owner. Everett rubbed the horse’s velvety nose. “I’m quite impressed. I believe these four horses will serve me well.” He gave the black a pat on the neck. “What are their names?”

  “I reserve the privilege of naming the horses for the buyers.” Gideon grinned at him. “You get to think of four names. So when do you think you’ll be ready to start your freighting operation?”

  “I sent a telegram yesterday to Julien House Hardware Company in Dubuque. They’ve recently become a supplier of Springfield wagons.” Everett stood aside while Gideon led the big gelding back to the corral. “I hope to send a man to Dubuque later this week to pick up the wagon.”

  “This town sure can use a freighting company. Let’s go into the house and draw up the papers.”

  Everett pulled off his coat and hat and crossed the yard to lay them on the seat of the buggy he’d borrowed from Cully’s livery. He’d been so engrossed in watching the splendid draft horses go through their paces, he’d forgotten about concealing his scars, but Gideon didn’t seem to notice. As Everett followed his host to the two-story whitewashed house, Gideon’s wife, Tessa, stepped out the front door with a young child on her hip. Tillie O’Dell followed on Tessa’s heels. Everett instinctively ducked his head and tugged his cravat up higher around his neck till it hid his lower jawline. He glanced over his shoulder where his hat lay atop his coat on the buggy seat.

  Tessa stopped on the top step of the porch. “Gideon, Tillie and I have been working on some quilt patterns together, and I was planning to take her home, but Susan is a little feverish.” She brushed her hand over the child’s forehead. “I’m afraid she might be coming down with something.”

  Before Gideon could reply, Tillie stepped forward and joined her friend on the step. “Tessa, I told you I could walk. It’s only about four miles.”

  A feeling of tightness that had nothing to do with his collar or cravat crept around Everett’s throat. The very sound of Tillie’s voice rained like soft mercy-drops on his ears. He’d never known such a feeling before, and it surely bewildered him now. The breeze caught her honey-blond hair and wisped it across her face. The curve of her cheek was interrupted by a tiny dimple that accented her smile. She might not possess the ravishing beauty of some of the socialites back east, but her gentle manner and soft smile arrested him, and her Irish green eyes held him captive.

  Heat climbed Everett’s neck and made the scars along his jawline sting. Sorrow pricked him. Why did God taunt him with the illusion of being attracted to a young lady like Tillie?

  What a joke. It wasn’t as if he was Tillie’s beau. She was a mere acquaintance and could never be anything more.

  “Is that all right with you, Everett?”

  He startled at the sound of his name. Gideon stood looking at him with expectation and a hint of amusement.

  “Um…I’m sorry, is what all right?”

  Gideon grinned, deepening Everett’s level of discomfort. “This paperwork will only take a few minutes. Would you mind driving Tillie home in your buggy?”

  His gaze shot to the porch, where Tillie stood wide-eyed and blushing. Drive her home? Refusing would be rude and ungallant, but the very thought of sitting in such close proximity to her for four miles tied his tongue into knots and made it hard to breathe. A sense of motion jarred him, and he realized he’d nodded his head.

  Gideon motioned him inside, and they made short work of the bill of sale for four horses. As Everett counted out the purchase price, his hands shook in anticipation of having Tillie for a traveling companion.

  Outside in the yard, Gideon helped Tillie into the buggy, and Everett breathed a sigh of relief that she’d be sitting to his left, where she couldn’t view the scarred side of his face. His heart galloped as he climbed into the buggy seat beside Tillie, and he had an urgent need for a drink of water, but there was no turning back now. He released the brake and slapped the reins gently on the horse’s rump.

  Tillie waved at her friends as the buggy pulled away from the house. “I hope Susan feels better soon,” she called to Tessa.

  She turned and settled back into the seat beside him. “Thank you for the ride, Everett. I know it’s out of your way, and I apologize for the inconvenience. If you like, you can just drop me off in town, and I can walk the rest of the way. It’s not terribly far.”

  Her tone held no pretense. All the young women back in Baltimore were consumed with obligatory society protocol. Tillie’s lack of social status would have made his grandmother swoon, but as his father had pointed out on a few occasions, Willow Creek wasn’t Baltimore.

  He swallowed hard a few times to push down the boulder that had taken up residence in his throat and sucked in a deep breath. “Nonsense. Of course I’ll drive you home.”

  Tillie squirmed a bit in the seat, giving him the impression of discomfort. Was she embarrassed to be seen with him? She’d made a point of speaking with him in the churchyard, but perhaps riding with him in a buggy indicated more than friendship—something she didn’t want misunderstood by anyone who might see them together.

  The next mile passed in awkward silence. Sweat popped out on his brow, and he ignored his proper upbringing and dragged his shirtsleeve across his face.

  “Oh Everett, look.” He jumped when Tillie clutched his arm and pointed. He followed the direction she indicated and noticed nothing but a few clumps of small purple flowers.

  “Would you mind stopping for a minute so I can pick some of those violets? They’re my favorite.”

  He pulled the mare to a stop and watched as Tillie hopped down and ran across the rutted road. She fell to her knees and began picking the purple blossoms and gathering them into a bouquet. As she held them to her face and closed her eyes, Everett’s breath caught. What a picture she made. His heart picked up speed and thrummed double time. He stepped down and offered her a hand up when she returned to the buggy with her nosegay of violets. Was it his self-consciousness or Tillie’s nearness that caused his heart to resemble Cully’s hammer at the forge?

  Chapter 4

  Everett checked another item off the bill of lading on his clipboard. A year ago, he’d never have believed he’d find enjoyment in earning a living by the sweat of his brow. Though not familiar with physical labor, he discovered it suited him. Most of the time he worked alone, content to shut himself off from the rest of the townsfolk, toiling over tally sheets, invoices, and inventories in the back office or building sturdy shelves in the front room. He’d even learned to harness the teams and hitch them to the wagon. When he fell into bed at the end of an exhausting day, he felt a sa
tisfaction he’d never known before. The local merchants and business owners were quick to contract his services, giving him cause to wonder if he’d need to purchase a second wagon and another team by next year.

  “Good morning, son.”

  Everett glanced up to see his father coming in his direction. He set down the clipboard he was holding and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his perspiring forehead. “Good morning.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the crates and barrels in the back of the sturdy Springfield wagon. “Most of this load is the goods you ordered three weeks ago. As soon as I get everything inventoried and checked off the bill of lading, I’ll have the fellow I hired bring them over to the mercantile.”

  A grin tweaked his father’s mustache. “It used to take at least six weeks to get merchandise, and even then sometimes I had to send someone to take a wagon to Waterloo, Manchester, or Dubuque to pick up goods from the freight depots there.”

  Gratification seeped into Everett’s breast. Since the fire, he’d struggled to feel useful. Since he now provided the community with a needed service, perhaps he wasn’t a throwback after all. He cautioned himself, however. Just because the community appreciated having a freight company in town didn’t mean they could look at him without shuddering.

  “Your business seems to be growing, even in the short time since you’ve opened your operation.” His father rubbed his chin. “What’s it been…three, four weeks?”

  Everett’s smile tugged on the scarred tissue along his jaw. “It’s been a little over a month since I opened, and I already have enough work to keep me busy.”

  “You say you’ve hired a man?”

  “Yes, only two or three days a week right now, but if business continues the way it has, I might ask him if he’d like to work every day.” Everett reclaimed the clipboard and pulled his pencil from behind his ear. “You probably know him. His name is Ben Kiefer.”