“We could cut cookies into the shape of bunnies,” Rosie said. “And we could sprinkle them with sugar.”
“Bunnies and eggs?” Caitrin regarded her friend for a moment. “Spring is for celebrating Easter and the risen Christ.”
“Well, sure it is. But I’ve always wanted to have an egg hunt.”
Caitrin slipped her arm over her friend’s shoulders. “I think a good Easter sermon and a round of hymn singing would lift your husband’s gloomy spirits more than colored eggs and bunny rabbits.”
Coming out of her springtime daydreams, Rosie stiffened suddenly. “Look, Caitrin, it’s Jack Cornwall. He’s coming this way.”
“Go on inside the mercantile and open up for the day,” Caitrin said. “Leave him to me.”
“I don’t think I should. What if people see the two of you talking alone? You never know what Jimmy might do.”
“Aye, but I’ll not alter my ways for a man with a closed mind,” she said, giving Rosie her bread basket and walking toward Jack. “What can I do for you this fine morning, Mr. Cornwall?”
He jerked a thumb at the wagons. “Looks like you’ve got customers, Miss Murphy. Morning, Mrs. Hunter.”
“Hello, Mr. Cornwall,” Rosie said, her voice wary. “We’ve not yet actually opened for business today. Is there something I might bring you from the mercantile before you head back to the smithy?”
“Well now, that’s a kind offer, Mrs. Hunter.” Jack paused before the women and took off his hat. “As a matter of fact, I do have a request. I was wondering if you had planned to attend the prayer meeting Rolf Rustemeyer has called for Sunday night.”
“Me?” Rosie gaped for a moment. “Yes, of course, I am. Why wouldn’t I? Rolf thinks we all ought to take time out to ask God for some rain. It’s been so dry, and Seth sure is worried about the spring planting. I wouldn’t think of missing that service.”
“Good.” He cleared his throat. “I know I’m asking a lot here, Mrs. Hunter, but would you be willing to accompany me to the service? I’d be much obliged to you.”
Two pink spots suddenly popped out on Rosie’s cheeks. “Thank you for your kind offer, Mr. Cornwall, but I’ll be attending with my husband. I’m a married woman, you know.”
Now it was Jack’s turn to flush. “I … ah … I didn’t mean it that way, ma’am. The fact that you’re married is the very reason I’m asking you. I was needing a chaperone for the evening.”
“A chaperone?” Rosie looked at Caitrin and understanding dawned. “Oh, a chaperone.”
“I’d like to take Miss Murphy to the service,” Jack said, “but I’ll need someone to accompany us for the evening.”
“All evening?”
“As long as need be, Mrs. Hunter. If you wouldn’t mind.”
Rosie pursed her lips. “This is dangerous business, Jack Cornwall. And I don’t like the notion that my dearest friend could get dragged into any more trouble than she’s already in. From the night I first saw the two of you together in the O’Tooles’ barn, I knew Caitrin was playing with fire.”
“Blazin’ Jack Cornwall, that’s me. But in case you hadn’t noticed, your best friend is mighty fiery herself. She stood up to everyone on my behalf, and that ought to tell you something.”
“It tells me you’ve got her bamboozled.”
“I hope she’s as bamboozled as you are with Seth Hunter.” His smile was warm. “You’re right to be concerned, Mrs. Hunter. At one time, I was rough on you and threatening to the man you loved. I was hard and mean and bullheaded. But there’s something you ought to know. The good Lord put Caitrin Murphy and me together in the barn that night, and out of that meeting I became a changed man. I turned my back on my old ways, and ever since, I’ve been living just to love Jesus Christ. That’s all I know to do, Mrs. Hunter. Just love him.”
Rosie glanced at her friend. “I didn’t realize.”
“I may be a new man, but I’m still stubborn,” Jack continued, “too stubborn to let go of the light Caitrin has been in my life. I won’t walk away from Hope just because other people can’t see me for what I am. I won’t run from trouble. And I won’t hide my head in a hole out of shame over my family. I love my sister and my mother both. I want to make a home for them here.”
“Yes, Mr. Cornwall,” Rosie said softly. “I understand you. I know what it means to need a home.”
“Then will you help me?”
“How can I possibly do anything that would help your reputation in this town?”
“Folks admire you. They respect your husband. If you’ll stand up beside me, maybe I can walk Caitrin into that prayer meeting and not get myself shot.”
“Caitie?” Rosie asked. “Do you want this man to court you in public?”
“Aye. That I do, and very much.”
“Well, then—” Rosie squared her shoulders—“I’ll be pleased to serve as your chaperone for the prayer meeting Sunday night.”
Jack broke into a grin that rivaled the sunrise. “Thank you, Mrs.
Hunter,” he said, grabbing her hand and pumping it up and down. “Thank you very much. I’ll pick you up Sunday evening, then, Caitrin.”
“Sunday,” Caitrin said.
As the three wagons came to a stop before the mercantile, Jack turned and strode back toward his smithy. Rosie let out a little groan. “Seth Hunter is going to have a fit over this one.”
CHAPTER 15
A CHAPERONE?” Sheena lay in bed, her hands folded over her middle, and stared at her younger sister. “Did Rosie really agree to that?”
“Aye,” Caitrin said. “Jack Cornwall asked her, and she said she would.”
“What do you suppose he wanted a chaperone for?”
Caitrin swallowed. Now was the moment she’d been praying about, yet she didn’t feel a bit of peace. If her sister exploded in rage at the news, there was no telling what might result.
“Jack wants a chaperone,” she said, “because he intends to start courting. He’s planning to go to the prayer meeting with a woman.”
“And I suppose that woman would be my own dear sister.”
Sheena took another sip of the rich broth Caitrin had brought her. “I’m not wrong, am I?”
“No,” Caitrin said. “Jack has asked to court me.”
“I don’t know why he bothered asking permission. The man seems to do whatever he wants without noticing how others might feel about it. He certainly hasn’t kept his distance from you.”
“And why should he? I care for Jack, Sheena. He’s built a fine smithy, and his work is valued in the community. He’s hoping to put up a soddy soon. Jack wants to see to the welfare of his sister.”
Sheena grunted. “Lunatic. The children are frightened of her, so they are. Lucy Cornwall ought to be locked up.”
Caitrin folded her hands in her lap and sat in silence. How could she possibly respond to this irrational hatred? Could God be pleased that his people—the creation of his own hands—despised each other because of race or language or outlook? There were so many things that made people different from each other.
Skin color, size, interests, fears, dreams. What made a short person better than a tall one? A white-skinned person better than a brown one? An Irishman better than a Cornishman?
Nothing. Caitrin knew God looked on the heart of each man, and by that, his standing was determined. There were so many things in Hope to take people’s time and attention, yet they continued to focus on their petty differences. The only problem large enough to band the community together was the drought.
Caitrin wished it didn’t have to take something so serious to turn the focus of Seth, Rolf, Jimmy, and most of the other townsfolk away from the traumatic incident between Sheena and Felicity. While not forgotten, it had been relegated to a back burner as everyone worked to fill barrels with creek water in preparation to irrigate the dry fields. St. Patrick’s Day had come and gone, and the Cornwalls remained in their own small camp beside the creek.
Caitrin spoke with Jack b
riefly at least once a day when he brought tools to the mercantile to sell, but he had kept their conversation to a minimum. This was all right with Caitrin, for until this day she hadn’t managed to work up the nerve to tell Sheena and Jimmy that Jack had asked to court her. Or that Rosie had agreed to chaperone.
“What does Seth say about Rosie’s part in this grand scheme?”
Sheena asked.
Caitrin lifted the broth bowl from her sister’s hands. “I don’t know yet, but I’m sure he won’t mind. Seth has done his best to put the past behind him and see Jack as he really is.”
“A Cornishman.” Sheena clamped her lips shut as if that settled the matter.
“But he’s more than that. Sure, he’s a good man.”
“A demon. How could he be else with that wicked mother of his?”
“That day in the smithy, Mrs. Cornwall let her anger get the better of her, Sheena. As did you.”
“I was provoked.”
“I can’t understand why it happened at all.”
“Cornish. Don’t even let your thoughts dwell on those people, Caitie, my love. They’re Cornish, and that’s all you need to know.”
Sheena winced. “Oh, my head. At times it throbs so I can hardly bear it.”
Caitrin tucked in the edge of the quilt that covered her sister. Poor Sheena. When she moved about much, her head ached or the cramping in her belly started again. She was hardly able to do her chores, and she still had months to wait before the baby’s birth. If she were forced to stay in bed all that time, the O’Toole household likely would fall to ruin.
“Papa said the Cornish are all wicked,” Sheena said with a sigh. “And wicked is as wicked does.”
Caitrin considered this for a moment. “But Jack Cornwall is a Christian man, Sheena. He told me so himself. How can you call him wicked?”
“He’s Cornish!”
“Do people always come to you in great batches like pickles, Sheena? These are the dill pickles, and they all taste sour. These are the bread-and-butter pickles, and they all taste sweet. These are the pickled green beans, these are the pickled watermelon rinds, these are the pickled pigs’ feet—”
“What are you talking about?”
“People!”
“But you said pickles.”
“’Tis the same thing with you, so it is. These are the Cornish people, and they’re all wicked schemers and liars. These are the Italians. These are the Germans. These are the lunatics. You’ve put them into separate pickle jars, and you won’t let each person stand on his own.”
“Why should I?”
“Because I happen to know that Jack Cornwall is a man with a God-given talent. He can create beautiful tools from iron. He’s a loyal son and brother. He’s special and unique because he’s himself.”
“Jack Cornwall knocked me down, so he did.”
Caitrin let out a hot breath. “He was trying to protect you, Sheena. Will you deny it?”
“Jimmy’s furious with him.”
“That’s because Jimmy puts everybody into pickle jars, too. Jack Cornwall is a wonderful human being. And for all you know, Lucy may be a very nice young lady.”
“Ha.”
“Even though Lucy is deeply troubled, Christ taught us that he loves all people, not just the ones who behave as we’d like. In fact, the wickedest sinners and the most anguished souls need Christ the greatest. But if we shun them—”
“There you go again, Caitie. You’d change the whole world if you could.”
“Aye, and why not?”
“Will you defend Jack Cornwall and his family even though they’ve treated us so ill?” Sheena elbowed herself up in the bed.
“You believe I don’t like the man purely because he’s Cornish. Well, he’s done nothing to prove himself any better than the worst scum of that lot. I cannot understand why you’ve allowed yourself to be swayed by his sweet words and bold kisses. Sure, I thought my own darling sister wiser than that. Jack Cornwall has tricked you, Caitie. He’s nothing but a lying, bullying—”
“I won’t hear this, Sheena.”
“You will hear it, because someone has to talk truth to you.” She paused. “Get the door, will you? It’s one of the children. Tell them to run and play with Chipper.”
Feeling hotter than the late-March afternoon would warrant, Caitrin marched to the door. “I don’t believe people are pickles,” she told her sister. “I think each person stands on his own, and each person should have the right to prove himself. Rosie said if you glue a label onto a jar of grubby tomatoes, you’ll never be able to put strawberry jam into it.”
“Wait a minute, I thought we were talking about pickles.”
“We are, but …” Caitrin pulled open the door to the sight of Jack and Lucy Cornwall.
“Who is it?” Sheena called.
“Pickles,” Caitrin said, ushering them inside. “Mr. Cornwall is here, and his sister Lucy. It looks as though they’ve brought a gift.”
“It’s cinnamon buns,” Lucy said. She was holding a basket with her unchained hands, and her hair had been brushed into a rough knot at the nape of her neck. “I made them for you, Mrs. O’Toole. Jack told me you weren’t well, and he helped me last night with the dough. I … I hope you’ll like them.”
Caitrin met Jack’s eyes as Lucy walked shyly toward the bed. He shrugged. “Lucy’s had three good days in a row,” he said. “Matter of fact, she’s been looking after Mama a fair bit.”
“I’m happy to hear it.” Caitrin was delighted to see the young woman calmly set the basket on the bed and then take the stool beside Sheena. She wore the blue dress Caitrin had given her, its hem now dusty and its sleeves frayed. But she looked lovely all the same.
“Mama tells me if I’ll just stop thinking about myself all the time,” Lucy said softly to Sheena, “I’ll get better. I’m not sure she’s right, Mrs. O’Toole. It’s others who fill my thoughts, memories and worries going around … and around. And … and … all Mama and Jack could talk about was you and … and your baby …”
Lucy shuddered and fell silent. Caitrin glanced at Jack. He started toward his sister. At that moment Lucy spoke again.
“I … I just thought if I could help you out, Mrs. O’Toole,” she said. “I might feel better … and you might, too.”
Sheena stared at the young woman beside her. “You baked cinnamon buns for me?”
Lucy nodded. “Jack helped.”
“Not much,” he put in.
“And then I got to thinking,” Lucy said, “if you need some … some washing done, I can do that. And I’m good with a broom.”
“Glory be,” Sheena murmured. She sat in silence so long, Caitrin began to think she’d gone into shock. Finally a look of resignation crept over her face. “Well, there’s the broom then, girl. See what you can do with it.”
Lucy leapt to her feet and grabbed the broom propped against the wall. “Do eat one of those buns, Mrs. O’Toole. I used extra cinnamon.” While Lucy swept the rough dirt floor, Caitrin took her place on the stool and divided one of the sticky buns with her sister. One hand jammed in his pocket, Jack accepted another bun. All three watched, mesmerized, chewing slowly as Lucy worked her way around the soddy brushing up a pile that included bread crusts, potato peelings, ashes, and wood chips.
“Sure has been dry lately,” Jack said. “This drought is about to get the best of everybody. Didn’t have much snow, and we could use some rain.”
Sheena looked startled, as if she hadn’t expected the man to speak in normal human tones. “Aye,” she commented. “Jimmy says this is the driest spring he can remember.”
“Dry, dry, dry,” Jack said. “And not a cloud in the sky.”
“Have we had a rain yet this year?”
“Not a drop.”
Caitrin sank her teeth into a cinnamon bun. It wasn’t much of a conversation, but at least they were talking. She wouldn’t have interrupted if she’d been paid.
“Bluestem Creek is running mighty low
,” Jack said.
“Jimmy heard someone saying the Kansas River itself is down,”
Sheena added.
“Sure is hard for the boats to get through when the water is low like that.”
“Aye. I expect we’ll have showers in April.”
“Hope so. I sure do.” Jack licked a dollop of cinnamon goo off his thumb. “I’m not a farmer, but I know the rain keeps folks around here going. I’d hate to see anyone go belly-up.”
“Thank heaven for the bridge tolls. They saved us last year after the grasshoppers passed through, so they did.”
“Well, I’m finished with that job,” Lucy said, coming back into the soddy after tossing out the rubbish she’d swept. “Would you like me to wash those dishes for you, Mrs. O’Toole?”
Caitrin watched a smile form on her sister’s lips—a warm smile, a smile reserved for people Sheena favored. She smoothed a hand across the quilt. “Not today, but thank you kindly, my dear,” she said. “Perhaps … perhaps you’ll pop round and visit me another time?”
Lucy beamed. “Yes.”
“Would you be willing to bake some of your cinnamon buns for us to sell in the mercantile, Lucy?” Caitrin asked. “I haven’t had time to start up the restaurant, but more and more people are stopping to take their meals at the mercantile. ’Tis the fresh-baked bread and Sheena’s pickles that draw them. But I know they’d adore your cinnamon buns. You could have all the money you earned from them.”
“Really?” Her gray eyes lit up. “Oh, Jack, I … I …”
“Sure, Lucy. You could do that.” He squared his shoulders. “And about that spit, Mrs. O’Toole. I made you a new one. We hope you’ll accept it as a gift.”
He stepped outside and reentered carrying a heavy spit rod with a sharpened skewer bolted near one end. He laid it across the hooks over Sheena’s cooking fire and gave the handle a turn. The shiny metal glistened as it spun, and Caitrin could all but hear the sizzle of meat.
“Thank you, Mr. Cornwall,” Sheena said in a low voice. “’Twas good of you.”
Prairie Fire Page 21
