The corn-husk mattress rustled softly as Bess sat down beside Annie. “I see a good young man who is searchin’ for somethin’. He don’t know it, but I think he’s searchin’ for God.”
She nodded toward the cabin’s north wall. “There’s more fertile soil than just what’s out there in the fields, Annie. Christ has commissioned us to sow His Word of salvation in the world.” She patted Annie’s shoulder. “Sow the seeds, Annie. Water them with prayer, and watch God’s blessin’s grow.”
After nibbling unenthused at a few spoonfuls of pudding, Annie’s stomach threatened to revolt, and she set the bowl aside on the bed.
Bess’s brow furrowed as she studied Annie. She glanced at the empty doorway as if to ensure they were alone and lowered her voice. “Speaking of seeds bein’ sown, do you remember when you last had a monthly?”
Annie pondered. With Jonah’s death, Brock’s arrival, and her worry over keeping the land, she hadn’t noticed the absence of her monthly flow. “March, I think.” While bundling to leave the cabin during one of the several earth tremors that month, she remembered wishing she didn’t feel so poorly with her monthly.
“I b’lieve,” Bess said cautiously after Annie had answered several personal questions that left her face flaming, “you may very well be with child.”
Stunned, Annie wanted to refute her suggestion. But remembering the week before Jonah was killed, she knew Bess could be right.
Panic welled up inside Annie, shaking her heart as violently as the recent earthquakes. She should be happy. This was the child both Papa and Jonah had hoped would come from her and Jonah’s union. But at this moment, it felt more like a burden than a blessing. How would she continue to farm this land while growing heavy with child? After that, how would she tend an infant and the farm at the same time? Many questions began roiling in her mind, but they distilled to one. “What—what shall I do?”
Bess smiled and patted Annie’s hand. “God will provide. All you have to do is take care of yourself and Jonah’s child.”
“Please, don’t tell anyone of this but Obadiah.”
Brock had made it clear he felt an obligation to Jonah’s land and widow. He’d also made clear his dislike of farming. She hoped he’d stay in Deux Fleuves settlement, but not because he felt bound by some sense of family duty.
Bess nodded. “’Course. I understand. But don’t you go worryin’ ’bout waggin’ tongues suggestin’ this babe might b’long to somebody other’n Jonah. You know me’n Obadiah’ll swat such ugly gossip down like skeeters.”
Grateful tears misted Annie’s eyes as she hugged Bess. Just knowing Bess Dunbar would be near to answer an acre of yet unimagined questions sure to sprout up over the next several months, was a true blessing from heaven.
Annie blinked back tears and fought for composure. “Thank you, Bess. As you always say, ‘God will provide.’”
After Bess left, Annie still sat on the edge of her bed. Her hand went to her flat stomach. She could hardly fathom that a tiny, new life could be stirring there. But if Bess was right, keeping the land just became all the more important.
She thought about what Bess had said concerning Brock. Bess’s words reverberated in her ears. “Christ has commissioned us to sow His Word of salvation in the world. Sow the seeds, Annie. Water them with prayer, and watch God’s blessin’s grow.”
She pushed herself up from the bed and walked to the little table beside Jonah’s favorite chair. Her fingers stroked the grainy, black cover of the Bible her late husband had read diligently each night by candlelight. By rights, it should belong to their child. But Jonah’s child would have the benefit of Annie’s mother’s Bible.
Bess was right. Tender feelings for Brock had begun smoldering deep in Annie’s heart. Even if Brock rode away from the settlement and out of her life, those feelings would never be entirely extinguished. She couldn’t bear the thought of this person, who’d become dear to her, continuing to live outside of God’s grace simply because she’d done nothing to alter the situation.
Annie picked up the Bible and hugged it to her heart. She would do as Bess suggested. Before Brock left today she would give him Jonah’s Bible. Then water daily with prayer the seeds she’d sown.
“Coward! You’re nothing but a rotten coward!” Brock’s harsh self-judgment exploded from his mouth. He snapped Uncle Jonah’s Bible shut and dropped it to the floor beside the buffalo-robe pallet with a thud.
He hadn’t really wanted to accept the book. But Annie had beseeched him to, her delicate face still looking peaked and fragile after her swoon. He couldn’t deny her. She’d also insisted that he read it, recounting how Jonah never ended a day without reading at least one chapter.
He’d reluctantly agreed. So when he returned to his own cabin, his conscience wouldn’t allow him to do as he would have liked and pitch the book in the corner and forget about it.
He decided he would randomly open the book, and wherever the pages parted he would read a verse or two to salve his conscience. As luck—or perhaps Providence—would have it, the Bible fell open to the book of Job.
Thinking it altogether appropriate considering his torturous situation, Brock began to read the first verse his gaze focused on. “My righteousness I hold fast, and will not let it go: my heart shall not reproach me so long as I live.”
It was as if God had reached down to chastise Brock, and the words were written specifically for him. Brock scrubbed his face with his hand. He’d always prided himself on his courage and his honor. Now, those virtues seemed to hang in dirty tatters about his broken spirit.
A painful groan billowed from the center of his being. If he hoped to restore his honor, he must make a clean breast of it and tell Annie of his predicament. And though she would doubtless despise him for it, he must tell her of his plans to sell the land.
Brock’s first Sunday in Deux Fleuves, Obadiah had introduced him to Hermann Hoffmeier, the head of a German family homesteading land east of Annie’s farm. The man had mentioned he hoped to buy more land to accommodate kin, who were soon to arrive from Cincinnati.
Brock pushed up from the pallet and headed for the open door. He must talk to Hoffmeier before he lost his nerve.
A half hour later, the sound of chopping met his ears, and the smell of woodsmoke tickled his nostrils. As he crested a small rise, a circle of Conestoga wagons came into view. To the south of the wagons, he could make out the crude beginnings of a cabin. Hefting his rifle in his left hand, he approached the clearing with caution. “Halloo! Anybody here?” Best to make himself known, so one of the Hoffmeier men didn’t mistake him for a marauding Indian and take a shot at him.
“You are the man, Marden, Ja?” At the feminine voice, Brock swung around to see a young woman emerge from the circled wagons.
“Yes. Is your pa about?”
Her forehead puckered. “Pa?” Then, as understanding dawned, her pretty round face lit and she smiled. She bobbed her head crowned with blond braids. “Ah, Papa. Ja. He cut trees to make Haus. I will show you where.”
She started in the direction of the tree line, then stopped and turned to Brock. The apples of her cheeks pinked. Smiling shyly, she glanced up at him through a fringe of honey-colored lashes. “I am Katarina Hoffmeier.” She held out her hand to him.
Heat blazed up Brock’s neck. With the business at hand crowding out all other thoughts, he’d completely forgotten his manners. He gave her hand a quick shake. “Pleased to meet you, miss.”
At his brusque greeting her smile faded, and a pang of regret smote Brock. As rusty as he might be in the social graces, he had no doubt the girl was showing him interest. Another time, he might have eagerly returned her attention. But now only one woman ruled his thoughts, leaving no room for another. And tomorrow, Annie would doubtless hate him for what he was about to do.
The next morning, agony accompanied Brock’s every step along the half mile to Annie’s cabin. Meeting Katarina Hoffmeier had made him realize the depth of his feelings
for Annie. It seemed incredible that in such a short amount of time the plucky girl with her upturned, freckled nose, sassafras-brown eyes, and French accent had come to own his heart. But there it was, and no amount of denial could change it.
No stranger to fear, Brock had stared death square in the face many times over during his army career. But nothing had ever frightened him like the sight of that angry bear towering over Annie. At that moment, a terror greater than any he’d ever experienced assaulted his heart.
Nettles grabbed at his trousers as he made his way through knee-high grasses, but he paid them no heed. In a few minutes, his admission, although both honorable and necessary, would, without a doubt, squelch any hope of a deeper relationship with Annie.
Brock’s heart writhed. He’d rather turn himself over to Colonel Stryker than confront Annie with his plans to sell her land to the Hoffmeiers. But Gray Feather was right, it was madness for her to remain on the farm and face the rising Indian threat alone. Even if Annie despised him for it—which he had no doubt she would—selling the land would leave her with no choice but to accept the Dunbars’ offer and move to the relative safety of their cabin nearer the fort.
The moment he came within sight of her cabin, his gut clenched. Cap’n Brody’s enthusiastic greeting failed to ease his taut nerves.
A sad smile pulled at Brock’s mouth as he gave the dog the expected salutatory scratch behind the ear. “Hey, Big’un. You’ll still be my friend no matter what I say, won’t you?”
As he walked to the cabin door with Cap’n Brody loping alongside, Brock wondered why Annie hadn’t come out to challenge him with Jonah’s old brown Bess.
“Annie,” he called into the interior of the cabin, not wanting to march in uninvited.
A faint retching sound reached his ears.
Concerned, Brock stepped onto the stone slab beneath the front door and poked his head into the cabin. “Annie?”
After a few moments, Annie appeared through the open back door, pale and shaky. “Oh, Brock—I—didn’t expect you today.” Her weak voice quavered.
Concern for her health banished all other thoughts. Ignoring decorum, he stepped into the cabin. “Are you ill? Should I fetch Mrs. Dunbar?”
She shook her head, but her body swayed, and she grasped the tabletop.
Brock hurried to her side and slid an arm around her waist to support her. The way her little body shook against his arm alarmed him. “You are ill, aren’t you?” He helped her to the wall-peg bed and set her on the edge of the mattress.
“The pork pie I had for supper must not have set well.” Her explanation and wobbly smile were unconvincing.
Brock touched his hand to her forehead. Although her head felt a little warm, she didn’t seem dangerously feverish. “Is there anything I can get for you—some water?”
She glanced at the hearth. “I just brewed up some sassafras tea. A cup of that might help to settle my stomach.”
Glad for a chance to help, Brock hurried to fetch the tea.
“Merci.” She accepted the cup with a sweet smile, setting his heart dancing like a drunken man. If only things could be different. How he would love the chance to take care of her—always.
Annie had taken only a couple deep sips of the tea when Cap’n Brody, who’d been snoozing by the hearth, jumped up. The dog began to whine and crazily pace around the little cabin.
“Cap’n Brody, what is the matter with you?” Annie handed Brock the cup of tea and started to stand up, but the cabin began to shake, knocking her back to the mattress.
Earthquake!
Brock’s heart slammed against his ribcage. In the last several months, he’d experienced enough of these tremors to have no doubt what was happening. In one fluid motion he set the cup on the floor, scooped Annie up in his arms, and bolted for the cabin door. With his precious bundle in his arms, he stumbled out of the vibrating building on the heels of the barking dog.
By the time they were safely in the open, the land had stopped shaking. But he still held her against him as they sat together in the grass, waiting to see if the earth would begin its frightful dance again. In that moment, he wished it would. He longed for an excuse—any excuse—to keep her here in his arms. He hadn’t prayed for years. Didn’t even know if God existed. But if by chance some benevolent deity indeed gazed down upon him, he begged for an extension of these few precious moments while Annie clung to him, her trembling body melding against his, her face tucked against his chest, and her breath warm against his neck.
At that moment, she lifted her face to his, her agate eyes large pools of trust and, dare he hope, longing. All reason detached. You can’t do this. Are you daft, man? Are you daft? It was too late. Her soft lips beneath his responded to his every caress. A new tremor shook him to his very soul. But the epicenter of this quake was not outside him but within. Her hands slipped over his shoulders, and her fingers played in the hair at the nape of his neck, sending delicious shivers through his entire body. Their kiss deepened as the universe swirled around them. He should stop this. He mustn’t let this go on. To his shame, it was she, not he, who broke their connection.
Slowly, shakily, she pushed away, leaving Brock aching from the loss.
He should say something—anything. His mind refused to work. The memory of why he’d come this morning struck him like a fist in the gut. His heart twisted in agony. If there be a God, He was obviously not benevolent. To be given a glimpse, one sweet taste, of Annie’s love only to be reminded that a deeper relationship with her could never be was beyond excruciating.
Mutely, he stood and helped her to her feet, albeit a tad unsteadily.
Stepping back away from him, she looked everywhere but his face. The skin beneath her freckles glowed a beguiling pink. “I—I think it is over—the tremor, I mean.”
Her gaze shyly skittered to the edge of the cornfield. “The quakes frighten me so.”
Should he apologize for his impetuousness? But that would be a lie. “As long as you’re out in the open, you’re safe.” How he longed to tell her he would keep her safe. But that, too, would be a lie. “Annie.” Did he dare take her in his arms again—just once more, while she still tolerated his company? By force of will he didn’t know he possessed, he kept his arms at his sides and took a deep breath. If he didn’t tell her now, he would surely lose his nerve. “I’ve been reading some in Uncle Jonah’s Bible.”
Annie perked up, her face shining with surprise and joy. Her happiness at his statement gouged at Brock’s heart.
He forged on, into the jaws of destruction. “There’s something I need to tell you, Annie. I plan to sell the land to the Hoffmeiers this fall.”
She shrank from him. He might as well have slapped her full-force across the face for the pain, anger, and revulsion registering there.
“I’m sorry, Annie. I really am. But I need to—”
“Essaie un peu pour voir!” The bitter-sounding French spewed from her mouth, and her delicate little chin began to shake like the earth tremor they had just experienced. She fixed him with a cold glare as huge, silent tears slipped down her face.
“Just you try it, Brock Martin.” The look of betrayal in her beautiful eyes stabbed at his gut like a dagger. “You didn’t even know Jonah. I knew him, and he would not have left his land to you except for his desire to pass it on to his blood kin. Know that I will fight you every step to see his wishes fulfilled.”
“Annie, please listen….” Brock took a step toward her. If she would just hear him out, maybe she would see reason. “Please, Annie. You must listen. Both our lives depend on it.”
Annie stepped behind Cap’n Brody as if using the big dog as a barricade. “I need to hear no more. You are un lâche—a coward! You fear the Indians will take your fine scalp.”
The word coward hit too close to home, blazing through Brock like a lightning bolt. He lashed back. “Go ahead and be stubborn, Annie Martin. But your stubbornness will do you little good when your scalp is hanging from a
Shawnee warrior’s belt!”
“At least I will die with honor! Allez-vous-en! Get off my land!”
Chapter 8
And when ye stand praying, forgive, if ye have ought against any: that your Father also which is in heaven may forgive you your trespasses.”
The words from Mark’s Gospel blurred before Annie’s eyes. Her heart stung with remorse. Jesus had taught her to forgive—to turn the other cheek. That if someone takes away your cloak, to let him have your coat, too. But he also taught her to honor her father and mother. How could she honor Papa by sitting meekly by and allowing Brock to sell the land she’d vowed to keep?
Her heart felt as if it had endured both an earth tremor and a cyclone. The memory of Brock’s kisses sent waves of shudders to her very core. While she still basked in the ecstasy of his tender caresses, his betrayal had felt like a jolt of lightning from a clear sky.
Her heart twisted with the memory. Had he kissed her to soften her up before revealing his plans for the land? At the thought, pain pierced her chest, filling her eyes with tears.
As much as she wanted to hate him, she couldn’t. Indeed, she loved him. Yes, love. There was no other word to describe the emotion that filled her at the very thought of him. And he must care for her, too. No man could kiss her with such passion and tenderness and not care for her. Besides, he had carried her to safety when the tremor struck, not considering the hours of hard work he’d expended planting her corn crop.
She closed her mother’s Bible and rose slowly from the stool as if she were an old lady instead of a seventeen-year-old girl. As much as she hated the thought, Jonah had given Brock equal right to the land. And if he did have feelings for her, perhaps, just perhaps, she could convince him to stay. But whether he stayed or not, her spirit would not be easy until she’d apologized for her harsh words.
She tied on her bonnet, then wrapped a linen towel around the dried-apple pie she’d baked for the Dunbars’ Sunday dinner. Didn’t the scriptures say, “Let us reason together?” Whatever Brock’s reason was to sell the land, she at least could listen. She owed him that, at any rate.
Heart's Heritage Page 6
