Chasing the Sunset

by Barbara Mack

  The German immigration to St. Louis had begun in the late 1820's following letters home from Gottfried Dude, who visited the area and compared the Missouri River valley with the Rhineland. These early German immigrants had consisted mainly of farmers and workmen, but there were also scholars and artists, writers and lawyers, ministers and teachers. The amount of knowledge that the political exiles brought with them made them valuable to any settlement, and they were in fact now the backbone of the community.

  The Germans were commonly called Forty-eighters, and the greatest majority of them had settled in St. Louis, but a goodly amount of them had trickled down the Mississippi and settled here, which accounted for the abundance of blond hair and blue eyes in the countryside. It certainly made Nick, with his black hair and brown skin, stand out in the crowd. And it was certainly a funny thing to see a family in which the elders spoke with a distinct German accent and the youngsters with a slow Southern drawl.

  One family had immigrated to this particular area, and then written to his friends and relatives still in St. Louis about the paradise to be found in this part of the country. The rest had all traveled here together, and they were a close-knit bunch who made good farmers and good neighbors. They were on the whole moral, friendly, and loyal. And they believed firmly in minding their own business, a fact which had definitely served Nick well after Mary had died.

  Some of the local farmers who could afford it, and even some who could not, owned slaves that helped to work the land. In order to make a profit off of the cotton and tobacco that they grew here, they had to employ cheap labor. And slaves were as cheap a labor as you could get. All you had to do was feed them a minimal amount and give them a place to sleep at night, which in many cases was little better than the pen that the animals lived in. Some owners treated their slaves well, but those were the same people who treated their livestock well. They considered it a good investment.

  But some, especially the more recent of the German immigrants, had refused to use slave labor on moral grounds, preferring instead to employ locals and have family members work alongside each other in the fields, oftentimes from sunup to sundown. Nick’s father, though not German, was one of that minority.

  His father had traveled here more than thirty years ago with his young wife right after their marriage, promising her that they would not stay if she was not happy there. After the Lewis and Clark Expedition used St. Louis as the jumping off point for its explorations, the city had grown quickly into an important center of commerce and trade, attracting thousands of immigrants eager to find a new life on the edge of the frontier. St. Louis had just that year been incorporated as a city, and Missouri had become a state via the Missouri Compromise just three short years ago.

  Obadiah Revelle had felt stifled by the burgeoning population. He had begged the young Frenchwoman Louisa Girardot to marry him and settle far away from the city where they had both been born, and as far as Nick knew, his mother had never once been sorry that she had done so.

  Nick remembered asking about his father’s view on slavery once. A lot of their neighbors owned slaves and he had wondered why they did not, and why his father always seemed to be busy doing something, unlike some of the fathers of his friends. He was expected to work, too, and he had been resenting it that day. There was no sitting around in Obadiah Revelle’s house. No, sir. Nick had been oiling the leather of a saddle, and his father had grinned and turned to look at him when he had asked the question, leaning against the shovel he had been using to clean out a stall.

  “Well, Nicky,” he had said, taking off one his gloves and scratching the back of his head. “A man with nothing to do is a dangerous man. Boredom is a terrible thing, and it kills more good men than the cholera every year.” He had looked around his stables with pride, the sunlight delineating his sharp cheekbones. “And there is nothing better than looking around at something of yours and thinking ‘I did that. With my own two hands and my sweat, I helped make this possible’.”

  He had grinned again, his eyes twinkling. “Besides, if I ever owned a slave, your Mother would kill me. You know how she is, Nicky. She has got the softest heart of any woman I ever met. Remember when your cousins sent her that songbird? She nearly fretted herself to death over having it in the cage. She never slept all night the day it showed up here, and she turned it loose the day after that. It had always lived in a cage, and it flew around inside the house for weeks, probably afraid to go outside, and even after it decided to live out in the wild, it came in and out of the house at will. I found bird droppings in my sheets, it got me on the head every time I got near it, and it near ruined my favorite pair of boots. When I asked her why in the hell she had to let the blasted thing out of the cage, she told me that some things aren’t meant to be owned.”

  He grew serious for a moment, his fine dark eyes on Nick’s face. “Well, people aren’t meant to be owned either, Nick. You know what I saw once in a town I was passing through? A man on the street was viciously beating a man on the ground with a whip, and when I intervened, I was almost jailed. The man that he was beating was his slave, and they said that he could do whatever he wanted with his own property. His property, Nicky. We live in a place where killing a man, if he is a slave, takes no more thought than what shirt to wear that day. It is wrong, Nick, and I am never going to pretend that it is not. I am sorry if that is going to make trouble for you or shame you, but not sorry enough to compromise on this.”

  He had put his glove back on and went back to shoveling horse manure matter-of-factly. “Better get to oiling that saddle, son. There is plenty more when that one’s done.”

  Nick had grumbled, but he had never forgotten that conversation. If he closed his eyes, he could still see the way his father had looked that day, hear his resonant voice echoing through the stables, see the way the sunlight had outlined him. He had come to agree with his father, and he had never been embarrassed by the old man’s views. On the contrary, he had admired the hell out of him. His opinions were not popular ones, but that did not matter to him. If he thought it was right, hell would freeze over before his father ever would bend on the issue. To Nick’s way of thinking, that was a good quality in a man.

  The local gentry had called his father crazy but he had refused to listen. He ran his breeding farm his way, and it had turned out well. Now, they lined up at the doors to buy one of these horses. They were the best stable in all of Missouri territory, and people came from all over the country to buy his horseflesh. Some had even been shipped to England by a Duke that took a fancy to a couple of his pretty, high-stepping mares. The Duke had seen some of Nick’s horses in St. Louis and he had traveled all the way out here just to buy a horse. Nick now had ten full-time employees, plus Tommy and Ned, and there was plenty of work for them all. He was proud of his stables.

  “Nick,” someone called. Nick turned, and smiled as Ned limped into view.

  “Hello, Ned,” he said warmly, with real affection. He was fond of the old Irishman who babied his horses more than some people babied their children. “What can I do for you?”

  Ned looked uncomfortable. His wizened old face twisted up in a grimace that Nick had trouble interpreting. He stared at Nick intently, studying him as if he were a horse he was considering buying. Nick wondered what he thought when he looked at him; he knew what he saw in the mirror every day. He saw a man who used to be young, starting to gray around the edges of his dark hair. He saw lines around brown eyes that used to sparkle with fun and now were dull and somber. He walked slower, he thought long on things that used to be instant decisions. Did his bitterness show on his face? What did Ned see?

  Whatever Ned saw, it seemed to reassure him. The frown disappeared from his forehead. “I hear tell you fired your latest cook,” he said abruptly.

  “You heard right,” Nick said grimly. “He was the worst one yet, and he was stealing the household money to buy corn likker.”

  “I might know someone who would be interested.”


  The words were diffident, and Ned dropped his head, scuffing his booted foot in the soft

  dirt. It was not like Ned to be so hesitant, and Nick frowned. He could see Ned’s scalp through his thinning white hair. It gave him a shock sometimes to realize how old Ned O’Roarke was getting. He had been here all Nick’s life; he had to be at least sixty. His father had told him once that Ned had just showed up at the horse farm one day and informed him that he had heard tell of his fine stables from a mutual friend in St. Louis and he was a damn fool if he did not hire him right now to run them. His father had always laughed when he told that story, his eyes crinkling up and dimples creasing his handsome face.

  “I figured anybody with that much nerve was going to be good to have around, even if it was just for a laugh,” he always said. He had hired him on the spot, and Ned began to advise him how to run his stables from that moment on. They did not know where he came from; his father had never even inquired as to who the mutual friend might be. Obadiah Revelle had never regretted hiring Ned, and he had never felt a need to know anything about Ned’s background that he was not willing to share. Ned had become part of their family, and his family was accepted just as they were. If Ned wanted him to know something, why, he would tell him. Was no use trying to pry anything out of the stubborn Irishman.

  “It’s me niece,” said Ned hesitantly. “My brother’s girl. She needs a job, and I talked with her about it.”

  “I didn’t know that you had a niece,” said Nick, taken aback.

  “Why sure I do,” Ned said somewhat indignantly. “I had a mother and father just like everyone else. I also had a brother, God rest his soul. Maggie is his only child.”

  Nick grinned. “Calm down, old man. I wasn’t trying to insult you. You just surprised me. Tell her to come by and talk with me.”

  Ned dropped his head again and studied the ground. “She is a mite shy.” He looked Nick in the eye. “Fact is, she is as skittish as a beaten horse. Do not take it personal like. Matter o’ fact, she would prob’ly feel better if I came along while she talked to you.”

  “Bring her, by all means,” Nick said quickly. “I am heartily sick of my own cooking. You know Kathleen fixes us all a lunch when she comes for the day and she leaves me a supper, but it is either cold or hard as a rock by the time I get to it. Either that or Tommy eats half of it before I can get to it.”

  A grin nearly split Ned’s face in two. “Can’t leave any food laying around in front of that boy." The two of them laughed, because Tommy’s prodigious appetite was a source of great amusement. "I will bring her over this afternoon.”

  *************************

  Nick frowned as he studied the columns of numbers in his accounting books. Sometimes it seemed as if all he did was figure. He hated this part of the business. He rubbed his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose. Lately, it seemed that even the most mundane of chores, the ones he used to breeze through, took him forever. Everything dragged him down. He used to be happy to sit in his study and do his books. He was proud to look at his bookshelves and to breathe deeply of that dry, musty smell that old books have. He had loved to figure out profit and loss, to decide which monies went where, to decide what repair would be his priority. Now, he just felt tired. He felt older than his years. When he read letters from Joanne and Ronald, he sometimes felt such an overwhelming sense of grief that he had to put the letter away until later. His life was so different from theirs. They lived in a bright world of laughter and gaiety; his was dark and damp and cold. He flung his pen away in disgust, then cursed when ink splattered onto the oak of his heavy old desk. The knock at the door came as he scrubbed at the ink with his fine lawn handkerchief.

  “What is it, Kathleen? Haven’t I told you a thousand times not to bother me while I am doing the books?” he shouted impatiently, hastily looking for somewhere to put the soiled handkerchief before Kathleen saw it and scolded. When no one opened the door, he gave up the hunt and threw open the heavy door with a dark scowl on his face, expecting Kathleen to be standing there bristling over his rough tone, ready to backhand him if he got any more out of line. A slight figure jumped out of the way with a startled squeak.

  “May I help you with something?” he asked more gently, his black brows drawing together.

  “I was told you need a cook and housekeeper,” the woman said quietly. “Ned sent me. I am Maggie Reynolds.”

  Nick felt instant regret for his harshness; he could see her hands trembling as she held her brown shawl together in front of her. Her hands were thin, with long fingers, and he could tell even from here that they were chapped from hard work and rough use. She was taller than most women of his acquaintance, the top of her head reaching his chin. She was dressed in a high-necked, long sleeved, brown cotton dress that clearly had seen better days. Her lank brown hair was scraped ruthlessly into a bun at the back of her head, but wisps had escaped to frame her gaunt face.

  She had the face of a shy elf, with a tiny, upturned nose, huge green eyes fringed with thick black lashes, a pointy chin and high cheekbones. She was achingly thin; she looked as if a high wind would blow her away, and still for all that, she was one of the most striking women he had ever seen. Nick felt a quick attraction that left him feeling as if he had been punched in the gut.

  He forced the feeling down and studied her with unease. This woman looked to be one step away from starvation. The work here on the farm was hard and constant; he was not sure she was up to the job. She was also much younger than he had supposed. She did not look to be much above eighteen, and she was disturbingly attractive. With the exception of Ned and fourteen- year- old Tommy, who both lived in rooms above the stables, nobody else lived in on the farm. They all preferred to go home to their families at night. This girl was obviously nervous just standing in the same room with him. He regarded her dubiously.

  “Hello," he said warmly, trying out his most charming smile. "I am sorry to be so rude. I am in the middle of doing my accounts, and that always makes me beastly,” He took a step forward and she instantly took a step back, her pale skin going even paler. He frowned. “I thought Ned said that he was coming with you.”

  “He was,” she said softly. “But that chestnut mare has an inflamed hock and he needed to look in on her, and . . . and I decided to come on over without him.” Her pointy little chin rose

  up a notch.

  She swallowed visibly, and her eyes darted to him when he moved infinitesimally. He began to feel it was a cruelty even to stand here with her.

  “Will you sit down?” he asked gently, indicating the chair in front of his desk. He backed away from her slowly, feeling a wave of unwelcome pity, opened the door to its widest point and then realized he was still clutching his ink-stained handkerchief. He sat down behind the heavy desk and dropped the soiled handkerchief onto the cluttered top of the handsome oak furniture.

  She perched on the edge of her chair like a bird ready to fly away.

  “Have you ever held this type of position before?”

  Some strong emotion flickered across her face, much too quickly for Nick to get a grasp on it.

  “No,” she said. Her voice was pleasantly husky and melodic. A soothing voice, he thought. “But I as much as ran our household from the time I was a child." She smiled a luminous smile that made Nick catch his breath. "My mother was an artist, and she often forgot about mundane things like food and laundry. I have been cooking, cleaning, and instructing others in their household tasks for all of my life."

  "An artist," Nick said, intrigued. He had never heard of a woman who was an artist. Of course, his cousin Joanne was always telling him that women were able to do most anything that a man could. "What kind of artist?"

  "Family portraits, mostly. Her father was an artist, too, and many of his patrons began to come to her after his death. She built a good reputation and had a small following. She was well thought of, and she took commissions as far away as Boston. "

  Nick hesitated. "Miss
Reynolds,” he began gently. "I am not sure that you are . . .”

  But she interrupted the beginning of his polite speech to decline her services. "Mrs. Reynolds," she said, her voice firm despite the trembling of her chin. "I am a widow. And, of course, I also ran my household for my husband for the three years of our marriage."

  Nick was taken aback. A widow! Involuntarily, he glanced down at her left hand to look for the ring. The glint of gold on her finger reassured him. This did change things. His neighbors would not accept a young, unmarried girl living in his household, but a widow was a horse of a different color. Mentally, he upped the age that he had given her in his head. If she had been married for three years, she must be older than he imagined.

  “I am sorry about your husband,” Nick told her. "How did he die, if I may ask?"

  “A tragic accident,” she said, and something in her voice made him glance up sharply. Her fine green eyes were filled with soul-deep despair. Nick felt his heart skip a beat and caught his breath in empathy, then her thick black lashes swept down to hide her expression. When she looked back up, her face was carefully blank. He wondered if he had only imagined the depth of emotion that made her eyes seem a bottomless well of swirling dark water. And if all of that turmoil of spirit had been there in her eyes and not his imagination, what had taught her to hide all that feeling behind a mask?

  Maggie was shaken to her very soul. She was finding it very hard to look away from Nicholas Revelle. When Uncle Ned had told her about the job, she had not pictured this man at all. He was easily the most handsome man she had seen in her life. If her mother had been alive to see him, she would have been instantly motivated to paint his portrait.

  His features looked as if they were carved for a sculpture by a master craftsman. The lines of his straight nose and firm jaw were perfect, and his cheekbones jutted high and proud in his dark face. He had eyes so dark they appeared black in this light, and his lashes as thick as paintbrushes. His mouth was long and perfectly shaped and Maggie wondered for an instant what his lips would feel like against hers and was shaken by a soul-deep sensual desire to run her hands through the rumpled black silk of his hair. Her thoughts and the compulsion scared her nearly into panic; she had had no desire to touch any man since her disastrous marriage. She studied him with wide eyes, because it was not only his face that so compelled her.