“Sit down.” Caitrin shoved a chair into the back of her friend’s knees. Rosie collapsed and buried her face in her hands. “Is it Seth? Is it Chipper? Please, Rosie, you must tell us!”
Lifting her head, Rosie dabbed at the tears on her cheeks with the corner of her apron. “I have just realized the most awful thing,” she said. She swallowed hard. “I’m dying.”
“Dying!” Caitrin sank to her knees and took Rosie’s hands. “Are you ill? Do you need a doctor?”
“It’s been coming on very slowly,” Rosie explained through trembling lips. “A slow, creeping sickness. It might be consumption … only without the cough.”
“Consumption without the cough?” Sheena snorted. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
Rosie shook her head. “I’m wasting away. I’ve watched my skirts’ waists growing wider and my ribs starting to stick out.”
“Are you eating?”
“Hardly. Everything I put into my stomach comes right back out. I can’t tolerate the smell of Seth’s coffee in the morning, and the fish poor Chipper caught the other day nearly knocked me flat. I’ve never been so sick. I’ve always worked like a twister—that’s what Seth calls me, his little twister—but now I can hardly drag myself out of bed.”
“Your cheeks are still rosy,” Caitrin offered.
“Seth is going to be a widower again,” Rosie wailed, “and Chipper will lose his second mother. Oh, I’m so upset, I can hardly think. How am I going to break the news to Seth? What will he say? We’ve just moved into our new house, and he’s preparing for the spring planting. I don’t want to die! It’s not that I’m unhappy at the thought of heaven. Far from it. But you know I’d love to watch Chipper get bigger, and I want to have lots of babies and be a granny someday. I want to grow old with Seth!”
“Oh, Rosie!” Caitrin threw her arms around her friend. How could this terrible fate befall someone so precious? If anyone deserved a long life, it was dear Rosie. Now this!
“The truth hit me just a few minutes ago,” Rosie said, dabbing under her eyes with the corner of her apron. “You see, I was in the kitchen counting the loaves of bread in storage. It seems like I’m having to make more and more loaves every baking day, just to keep up with the appetites of those two. Anyway, I got to figuring how many times I’ve baked bread this month. And then I counted up last month’s baking days, and the month before … and … and … I suddenly realized that this is the third time that … that …”
“That what?” Caitrin implored, wondering what baking had to do with Rosie’s impending demise. “This is the third time that what?”
“That she’s missed her monthly!” Sheena exclaimed. “Of course Rosie can’t eat, and she’s losing her breakfast, and she’s missed her monthly three times in a row. She’s gone with child!”
“What?” Rosie and Caitrin said together.
“You’re going to have a baby, Rosie, my sweet. Didn’t anyone tell you the signs? Well, I suppose your caretakers at the orphan age forgot to pass along the important things mothers tell their daughters. Aye, I can see it as plain as the shoes on my feet. You’re pregnant.”
Rosie sat in stunned silence, her brown eyes fastened on Caitrin’s face. Caitrin soaked in the news and squeezed her friend’s hands. “A baby, Rosie,” she whispered. “Sheena ought to know!”
Rising slowly, Rosie clutched the shawl at her throat. “Sheena, are you sure I’m not dying?”
“I’d lay my life on it. You should move past the morning sickness part of it any time now, and then you’ll start eating so much Seth will go into shock. You’ll have to let out all your skirts. You’ll grow twice the hair you had before. And when you walk, you’ll waddle like a duck.”
“A baby!” Rosie shouted, twirling on the tips of her toes. “I’m not dying! I’m going to have a baby. Oh, miracle of miracles! Oh, joy and gladness!”
Caitrin laughed as Rosie danced around the chair onto which she had so recently collapsed. “Thank God!”
“Yes, thank you, Father!” Rosie whirled toward the mercantile door. “I’ve got to tell Seth! He’ll be so surprised! He won’t know how it happened!”
“I suspect he will,” Sheena put in with a chuckle.
Rosie threw out her arms and spun out into the open, stumbling momentarily into the silhouetted shape of someone approaching the mercantile. Standing on tiptoe, she gave the man a kiss on the cheek.
“I’m going to have a baby! Glory hallelujah!” She popped her head around the doorframe. “Oh, Caitie, isn’t this the most amazing day? I’m going to have a baby. And Jack Cornwall has come back!”
CHAPTER 7
OUT!” A plump redhead shrieked as she gave Jack a shove on the chest. “Out with you, devil!”
He took off his hat, looked over the shoulder of the woman attempting to eject him from the mercantile, and let his gaze settle on Caitrin Murphy. So, he hadn’t dreamed her up. There she was, as real as life. Curly auburn hair piled high on her head. Bright green eyes and pink cheeks. Long, white neck. He was afraid he might keel over.
“Jack,” she whispered, her lips barely moving.
“Get out of here, you wicked man!” The other woman bopped him on the arm with her basket. Heart-shaped cookies went flying. “We won’t have the likes of you in our town. We don’t want your kind. Wait a minute—where do you think you’re going? You can’t come inside here—”
“Miss Murphy,” Jack said, stepping past the woman who seemed determined to beat her basket to shreds on his arm. “How have you been?”
“Finely and poorly,” she said softly. “And you, Mr. Cornwall?”
“About the same.” He thought his heart was going to jump straight out of his chest. “Mercantile looks good. You’ve been working hard.”
“Aye.”
As he came closer, she bit her lower lip and fumbled with a wisp of hair that had fallen onto her forehead. “I’ve come back,” he said.
“No, you haven’t!” The other woman whacked him again. “You shut your gob and listen to me, Mr. Cornishman. You’ll not be casting sheep’s eyes at my sister. You’ll get onto your wicked black horse and ride back into the hole you crawled out of, so you will!”
Jack glanced at the stout woman and tried to make her resemble Caitrin in any way. Except for the hair and the eyes, they couldn’t look more different. All the same, he realized this must be Jimmy O’Toole’s wife, Sheena, in whose barn he had spent a good bit of time.
“Mrs. O’Toole,” he said, nodding deferentially. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“Blarney!” she declared. “You’ll not win me over with your sweet words. Sure, I know the likes of you. You shot at our Seth, so you did. You tried to kidnap poor little Chipper. You fought with—”
“I know what I did, ma’am. I was there at the time.” Jack turned his hat brim in his hands. “Point is, Seth Hunter gave me permission to build a smithy on his land. I’m aiming to do just that.”
“Never! We won’t have any Cornish people in our town. We won’t allow Cornish—”
“And what’s wrong with the Cornish, may I ask?” a high-pitched voice cut in.
Jack groaned as his mother strode into the Hope Mercantile. “Mama,” he said, “maybe you ought to wait out in the wagon.”
“Stuff and nonsense! I should like to make acquaintance with the inhabitants of my new hometown. And if I’m to do most of my shopping in this mercantile, I want to become familiar with the place.” Her gray eyes sparked like flint as she studied Sheena O’Toole. “Jack, you didn’t tell me the town was infested with Irish.”
“Infested!” Sheena exploded.
“Mrs. O’Toole, Miss Murphy,” Jack addressed the women over the hullabaloo. “I’d like you ladies to meet my mother, Mrs. Felicity Cornwall. Mama, this is Mrs. Sheena O’Toole and Miss Caitrin Murphy.”
If calling on her sense of social decorum wouldn’t calm his mother, nothing would. Nostrils white rimmed with distaste, Felicity gave the women a
brief half curtsy. “Charmed, I’m sure,” she said, patting her brown hair that lately had grown threaded with silver.
“Miss Murphy is one of the women who manages the mercantile here in Hope.” Jack allowed himself a glance at Caitrin. Her cheeks were drained of color, and she had wadded up the end of a red ribbon she was holding. Though wishing he could speak to her alone for a moment, he knew he had no choice but to smooth out the trouble between the other women.
“Miss Murphy can show you around the store,” he said to his mother. “Isn’t that right, ma’am?”
“I should be happy to help you, Mrs. Cornwall.”
“Is this the maid who hid you in the barn, Jack?” his mother asked. “Is she the one who took care of your wound after that brutal man shot you in the shoulder and then turned around and tried to beat you to death?”
Sheena gasped. Caitrin moaned. Jack rolled his eyes. This was not going well. He took his mother’s elbow. “Weren’t you asking about fresh eggs this morning, Mama? I believe I see a basket of brown eggs on the counter right over there. Maybe Miss Murphy—”
“You hid Jack Cornwall in our barn, Caitie?” Sheena demanded of her sister. “You hid from us the very devil himself?”
“My son is far from a devil, Mrs. O’Toole!” Felicity snapped. “I’ll have you know he won a medal for bravery during the war, and I keep it right here in my bag. Show it to her, Jack!”
“Mama, please.”
“Your son is a Confederate, so I’m told,” Sheena said. “A soldier in the army that fought to keep the black man in chains. The army that burned cities. The army that looted the farms of good, honest people.”
“It was Yankees who destroyed our farm! We had a beautiful place. My husband built our home with his own two hands the very first year we came to America.”
“From Cornwall?”
“Yes, indeed.” Felicity tilted her chin in the way Jack knew meant trouble. “We hail from the lovely seaside town of St. Ives. Perhaps you have heard of it.”
“Me? Ooh, certainly not. And I have naught but pity for those who would choose to live on such barren, windswept cliffs. The Murphys, from whom my sister and I proudly descend, come from the parish of Eyeries in the township of Castletownbere in County Cork.”
“Miners,” Felicity said through pinched lips.
“And fishermen.” Sheena’s cheeks glowed.
“Amazing there’s not a mackerel or a bit of tin ore in the whole state of Kansas,” Caitrin said. “God has blessed us indeed to bring our families to such a bountiful new land. Mrs. Cornwall, you must be exhausted from your journey. Would you care for a cup of hot tea?”
“Just a half dozen of those eggs, Miss Murphy,” Jack said before his mother could continue her argument with Sheena. “We’ve got to set up camp for the night.”
“Camp?” Caitrin asked. “But Seth offered you the loft.”
“We won’t stay in an Irishman’s store,” Felicity said firmly.
“Seth Hunter isn’t Irish. He’s American—as are we all. Mrs. Cornwall, you’re more than welcome to take lodging in the loft.
There’s a good bed, a chair, and even a table. I’ll fetch a lamp.”
“No!” She held up her hand. “We’ve caused a confloption just by our appearance here this afternoon. I had understood my son to say we’d be welcome. But I can see that the Irish community keeps to its accustomed clannish manners even in Kansas.”
“And why should we welcome troublemakers—”
“Sheena!” Caitrin cried.
“Jack Cornwall tried to steal Chipper, so he did.”
“My son was honor-bound to return my grandson to me!”
Felicity huffed. “I raised Chipper from the day he was born.”
“And kept the news of him from his rightful father,” Sheena accused.
“Stuff and nonsense!”
“Stop your ballyragging!”
“Jack … oh, Jack.” Caitrin’s trembling voice silenced the argument. “Jack, someone’s coming into the mercantile. Who is that?”
Expecting to see Seth Hunter armed to the teeth or Jimmy O’Toole with weapons drawn, Jack swung around to find a shrouded figure weighted with chains stumbling into the building. He glanced at Caitrin and Sheena. “Ladies,” he said, “this is … ah … this is my sister, Lucy Cornwall.”
Caitrin stared in horror at the ragged creature whose hollow gray eyes gazed back at her in a lifeless trance. Heavy wrought-iron chains weighted down her thin wrists and clamped her bare feet together. Long brown hair hung in tangles that covered her cheeks and fell in uneven, limp wisps to her waist. Drooping shoulders barely supported the thin fabric of a dress with a torn neck. A ragged shawl trailed from the woman’s elbow to the floor. A dark stain on her neck and a smudge across her forehead attested to the fact that she had not bathed in a long time.
“This is Lucy?” Caitrin asked.
“My daughter is not well,” Mrs. Cornwall said tersely. “Jack, take her back to the wagon at once.”
“No, Jack!” Lucy held out her manacled wrists. Her fingers, their nails bitten to the nubs, stretched toward her brother. “Jack, don’t leave me out there.”
“It’s okay, Lucy.” He shoved his hands down into his pockets and walked to her side. “We’ll all go outside together. Come on, Mama.”
“I’m scared, Jack,” his sister whispered.
“Nobody’s going to hurt you here, Lucy. This is a good place. Remember I told you about the mercantile and Miss Murphy who runs it? This is Miss Murphy, right here. She’s a good woman.”
The empty eyes focused on Caitrin. “Does she … does she know about … about the soldiers? …”
“Keep quiet, Lucy!” Felicity cut in. “You know you’re not to talk of family matters in public.”
“She doesn’t know anything, Lucy,” Jack said. “You don’t have to be afraid.”
“I’m happy to meet you, Miss Cornwall,” Caitrin said. When she extended her hand, Lucy shrank back as if in fear she’d be struck. Caitrin lowered her hand and smoothed out her apron.
“Sure, you must be worn from all your travels, Miss Cornwall. Once I open my restaurant in Hope, I’ll treat you all to a good meal. As it is, I can only offer a few chairs and that small table. But I’ll be happy to lay out an afternoon tea for everyone. I’ve fresh rolls baked this morning, and perhaps I can even find a few sweets left from the Valentine party.”
Sheena gaped at her sister, but Caitrin didn’t care. If Jesus had treated all people with respect and honor, why should she be any different? Maybe Jack Cornwall was a wicked fellow, his sister troubled, and his mother ill tempered. Jesus had washed the dirty feet of his disciples, dined with prostitutes, and healed the slave of a rich man. Her Lord had been a servant, and she would do no less. Marching across the room, she began clearing the table of the receipts she’d been entering into her ledger.
“Sheena, will you please set the kettle on the stove?” she called. “Mrs. Cornwall, do you like sugar and milk with your tea?”
“Caitie, be reasonable!” Sheena hissed.
“Thank you for your offer of tea, Miss Murphy, but we must be going.” Felicity Cornwall began moving her family toward the door. “We shall set up our camp near the Bluestem Creek, and Jack will begin building his smithy in the morning. Good day.”
Caitrin set the ledger and receipts back onto the table as the visitors exited the mercantile. If the good citizens of Hope had thought of Jack Cornwall as a troublemaker before, she could hardly imagine what they were going to say now. What sort of man must he be to keep his sister in chains? Vile! And the mother—how could she allow her poor daughter to go unwashed and uncombed? It was disgraceful.
“Miss Murphy?” Jack Cornwall poked his head back into the mercantile. “Suppose I could talk to you a minute?”
“I should think not!” Sheena exclaimed.
“Oh, please, Sheena, do take your basket and go home to Jimmy. I must close the shop in a moment anyway.”
“My husband will not be pleased when he hears the news that Jack Cornwall has returned,” Sheena said, leaving the store with her nose in the air. “And neither will Seth.”
Caitrin crossed her arms around her waist as Jack approached her in the empty building. Suddenly she wished she hadn’t sent her sister away. The man was taller than she remembered, broader across the shoulders, and more deeply tanned. She had forgotten how he filled a room, as though the everyday things inside it had shrunk into themselves. But she hadn’t forgotten his gray eyes.
“I owe you my thanks, Miss Murphy,” he said, his hat in his hands. “That’s three times you’ve come to my defense.”
“I hadn’t much choice in the barn when you lay injured. And at the wedding … well, I thought it bold of you to come unarmed and place your request before Seth. But I doubt my support will count for much in the days ahead, Mr. Cornwall.”
“I know I’ll have to earn the town’s trust. I can do it, too … if they’ll give me time.”
Caitrin ran her hand along the edge of a counter. She tried to think of polite words to fill in the silence between them, but she and Jack had never spoken lightly. Their conversations of the past had always been urgent and often heated. Perhaps it was best that way.
“Why do you keep your sister in chains?” she spoke up. “You’re a blacksmith. Surely you could remove them.”
“I’m the one who made them.”
“You made those dreadful manacles?” Caitrin stared at him. “But you’re treating Lucy as badly as the most pitiful of slaves are treated! She must shuffle along instead of walking. She can barely even lift her hands.”
“I know.” He rolled his hat brim. “Look, Miss Murphy—Caitrin—you’re the only human being I’ve run into lately with a lick of kindness. Don’t judge my family until you know the truth.”
“I’ll not judge you even after I know the truth. But it’s hard to stand by and watch a woman be treated in such an abhorrent manner.”
Jack let out a deep breath and looked away. “We have to keep Lucy in chains.”
Prairie Fire Page 10
