by Lyn Cote
“The war is over,” Rachel said, trying to stem the confrontation.
Brennan ignored her. “There is a lady present here. From your voices, I’d say you men have been imbibing today. Too liberally.”
The men glowered at her. Even in their inebriated state, Brennan saw, they realized that fighting with a proper lady present would be roundly condemned.
Rachel stepped forward, hoping her presence would send the strangers away.
Instead, a fist shot past her.
Brennan dodged it easily. Then he slammed his fist into his attacker’s nose. Blood spurted.
Rachel cried out. Brennan pushed her out of the fray. She stumbled and fell to the grass.
The other stranger rushed Brennan. He dealt with him. The third one turned and bolted. The two who had been bested followed suit, cursing as they ran.
Rachel put her hands to her ears, shocked to silence. “Oh!”
Just as they disappeared from view, the first one, his hand pressed over his bleeding nose, shouted, “This isn’t over!”
“Yes, it is,” Brennan muttered, rubbing his knuckles.
Rachel began to weep, trembling.
Brennan gripped her hands and pulled her up and into his arms. “There, there,” he said, holding her against him. “You’re safe now. I wouldn’t let anyone hurt you.”
The temptation proved too great to resist. She let herself lean against him, feeling the strength of him supporting her. She tried to stop her tears. “I’m sorry to be so weak.”
“I’m sorry you had to witness such behavior.” As he said this, his lips actually touched her ear. “You’re not weak.”
The last of the weeping swept through her like a wind gust and left her gasping against him. “I’ve never been near violence before.”
“Then you’re a lucky woman.” He patted her back clumsily.
She wiped her face with her fingertips and looked up into Brennan’s face. His expression of concern moved her and she reached up and stroked his cheek.
What am I doing?
Rachel straightened and stepped back. She must break contact before he did. An unwelcome thought lowered her mood more. Tonight would be her first night sleeping alone in her own house. She’d never spent a night alone in her life. And these violent men had come tonight.
“Maybe I should sleep in the shed tonight,” Brennan said, his gaze going to the trail to town.
The idea had appeal. But she would be here alone every night, perhaps for the rest of her life.
In the clearing, Rachel and Brennan faced each other. “Thee doesn’t think I am really in danger of them coming here again tonight?”
Brennan bumped the toe of his boot into a tussock of wild, dry grass. “No, not because the three show any sense, but they’re probably all passed out from drink by now.”
Rachel stared at the ground, listening to the frogs in the nearby creek.
“I’ll bar my door,” she said with a lift of her chin, which belied her inner trembling.
“Maybe you’d be better off if I didn’t hang around any longer.”
“Brennan Merriday, in case thee has not noticed by now, I am not a woman who gives way to pressure from others. I have hired thee and I expect thee will show up for breakfast tomorrow and continue the work that still needs doing here.”
He looked up.
And suddenly she was very aware of how alone they were here just outside her door. Funny sensations jiggled in her stomach. “You were very brave,” she murmured.
He started digging at the tussock of grass again with the toe of his boot.
Her mind flashed back to her schoolgirl days. She’d watched boys do this when they talked to girls they liked but didn’t want to show it. Did he like her that way?
She turned abruptly. “I bid thee good night.”
“Okay, Miss Rachel, I’ll head to my place then. See you in the mornin’.”
She didn’t trust herself to reply. The desire to hold him here and the residual fear had worsened and she was afraid her voice would give her away. She entered, shut the door and lifted the bar into place. Few cabins had such. But Noah had insisted on this and now she understood why.
Once inside, she scanned the inside of her new home. Sunny had helped her wash the dishes so there was nothing to do. Noah had made her a rocking chair as a gift. She sat in it now and tried not to feel her lonely state. She picked up the socks she’d started to knit for Brennan as a going away thank-you. The thought hit her as unwelcome.
For just a second, she imagined Brennan Merriday sitting on a chair across from her, whittling the way he always did. She was knitting and the two of them enjoyed that companionable quiet that happily married couples sometimes shared.
Where did that come from?
She shook off this foolishness, put down her knitting and lifted her small portable desk. She began working again on a recipe she’d thought of, something with chocolate and nuts no man could resist. Except Brennan Merriday in one of his touchy moods.
She would have to be very careful around him—he was too handsome for his own good—and hers—and he was staying to help her. She thought of his courtesies. Brennan Merriday treated her like an attractive woman, not a spinster. This alone must be working on her, drawing her to him.
But he carried some deep wound and would be leaving very soon. Even if he was momentarily attracted to her, nothing would come of it. Nothing ever had. And she’d accepted being alone, hadn’t she?
*
Brennan marched to town, boiling for a fight. Cold reason halted him a few yards from the saloon. Only a fool barged into to a three-to-one fight. He planned his strategy and sidled to a side window. What he saw flummoxed him.
He entered the saloon and Sam was alone, wiping down the bar. “What’s wrong? Customers find out you were watering the whiskey?”
Sam gave him the eye. “That’s an unfounded accusation. It might have been better if I had tonight. Some people just don’t know when to stop.”
Brennan leaned against the bar. “What happened?”
“Had to kick out a bunch earlier. They drank too much too fast and wanted to pick a fight with anybody who came near.”
“I know the type.” He described the three and Sam nodded. Brennan continued, “Someone must have told them that a Southerner lived around here. And they wanted to run me out of town. They actually started a fight in front of the lady I work for.”
The barkeep rubbed his face with his big hands. “That’s not right, fighting in front of a decent woman. Had to show my rifle to get rid of them. Most locals left. Tame crowd lives around here. The troublemakers are probably on the boat that brought them by now.”
Brennan chewed on this. “Okay. Thanks.” He offered his hand to the man.
“When you coming in just for that tongue wag?”
“Soon.” Brennan left with a wave, not satisfied. What if after he left town, rowdies came looking for him and bothered Miss Rachel? He felt her again in his arms, so petite and slight. A fierce protectiveness reared inside him. He couldn’t leave her unprotected. How could he make sure no one would bother her?
*
The next morning, Rachel hadn’t experienced such quaking since the morning she’d left her father’s home in Pennsylvania. Under the clear, late-June sky, she drew in a deep breath and let Mr. Merriday help her down from the two-wheeled pony cart she’d borrowed from Noah’s neighbors. The blue sky did not sport even one cloud. When would the rain come?
Brennan’s strong, steady hand contrasted with her shakiness. After he’d held her close last night, now she had trouble looking him in the eye. She felt herself blush and turned her face away.
She’d filled several large trays with baked goods and Brennan had set them in the back of the cart. Today she would launch Rachel’s Sweets, what she’d come here to do, what her future hinged upon.
“I still think you should call it Miss Rachel’s Sweets,” Brennan grumbled.
She realized t
hen that she still held his strong, calloused hand, not for aid but for comfort. This jolted her. Was she going to start having foolish ideas? No.
Scolding herself for this lapse, she quickly smoothed her skirts. “But Miss might imply to some that I cannot cook since no man married me.” She repeated her objection with an attempt at humor. Why was she so nervous? No one was going to arrest her for selling sweets.
“The name of your business needs some swank. That’s all I’m sayin’.”
She had to admit that having this man with her bolstered her and she didn’t like that, couldn’t let herself depend on him. Brennan Merriday had made it clear he was staying just so long and then heading north.
She turned from him. “Well, I’m a Quaker and we don’t go for ‘swank.’ And my baked goods don’t need that to sell. Just a lot of creamy butter and sweet sugar.” She walked briskly toward the rear of the cart.
There her products lay on tin trays, covered with spotless, crisply starched white dishcloths. Yesterday Brennan had rigged up a sling that would support the tray and then go around her neck to help her carry it.
Now as he arranged the sling on her, his nearness flooded her senses. She could smell the soap she’d given him. He’d also shaved this morning and his clean chin beckoned her to stroke it. She jerked herself back into her right mind.
Then she wished he wouldn’t frown so. His negativity prompted her stomach to flip up and down. And she noticed he’d worn a hole in one elbow of his blue shirt. She’d need to mend that before it dissected the sleeve completely. It was a wifely thought that she resisted. He was her hired hand, not her responsibility.
When he finished, she smiled bravely to boost her resolve and strode toward a boat that had just docked. She had sold her baked goods before, but never to strangers and all by herself. Brennan had come only because he was paid to, not because he was part of her venture. But I’ve always been by myself. And I’ll likely always be so. She shook her head as if sending the thought away. I like being alone.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Brennan asked from behind her.
“Quite sure,” she said, denying that what she really wanted to do was run home, denying that she’d like him to come along for support. Speaking to strangers always tested her.
She lifted her mouth into a firmer smile. She marched toward the dock, repeating silently, I will not run from my future. My plan will succeed.
She expected Mr. Merriday to stay and watch her. However, when she glanced over her shoulder, she saw that he’d walked away from the wagon and was heading toward the saloon. This nearly halted her in her tracks. What? Did the man drink? And in daylight?
The fact that she had reached the pier, her goal, shut down this line of thought. She reinforced her thinning smile. “Good day!” she called out to the men standing or working on the boat, tied to the pier. “I’m Miss Rachel.” She had intended to say her full name but Brennan’s voice had somehow seeped into her mind. “I have baked goods for sale.”
She had expected smiles. People always smiled when she offered them her treats. The men merely looked wary.
Finally one man asked, “What kind of baked goods?”
“I have apple fastnachts and sugar cookies.” Fastnachts, yeast doughnuts filled with fruit jam or creamy custard and sprinkled with sugar, were popular in Pennsylvania.
“Got any bear claws?” one man asked.
“No, I don’t.”
The faint hope in many faces looking toward her fell. And so did her own hope. Then a thought bobbed up in her mind. She walked past the workmen on the pier and stepped onto the moored boat. “May I speak to the captain, please?”
*
Soon Rachel smiled up into the captain’s face. “I’m offering a sample of my baked goods.”
The tall, trim man with dark sideburns and harsh features did not look friendly. But then he glanced down. “Fastnachts?” His voice echoed with surprise.
“Yes, with apple jam and cinnamon. Please help thyself.” And he did. And with his first bite, a powerful smile transformed his unwelcoming expression. “Just like my grandma used to make. You must be from Pennsylvania.”
She nodded, her heart calming. “Yes, I’m homesteading here and plan to sell baked goods and sweets to the river trade. I’m Miss Rachel Woolsey.”
“Pleased to meet you, miss. Do you have more of these? I know they won’t keep for more than a day, but I’d love to have one with my coffee later.”
“I fried three dozen this morning.” Then she turned to the crew hovering nearby. Her spirits were rising like dough on a warm, humid day. “I’d like each of thee to have a sample, too. Please.” She motioned toward them.
The men lined up and cleaned off her tray in seconds. One black porter gushed, “Best I eat since I was in New Orleans and had beignets, miss. And I thank you.”
“Beignets?” Rachel echoed. “Are they similar?”
“Yes, miss, but with powdered sugar.”
“Was it the same dough?”
“I’m no cook, miss.” The man shook his head and then grinned. “But you certainly are!”
The other men agreed heartily. And her spirit soared.
“Miss Rachel, thank you for letting us sample your wares. I’d like to buy another two dozen for me and my crew,” the captain announced.
Rachel thrilled with pleasure. “Wonderful. Thee is my first customer.”
“But not your last,” the captain said, smiling down at her.
Elated, she scurried back to her cart and Brennan met her there. “We need to bag up two dozen for this boat.” She busied herself wrapping each doughnut in waxed paper and filled two paper sacks. She delivered them to the captain.
He bowed. “Thank you, miss. You brought me sweet memories I had long forgotten.”
“My pleasure, captain. Please, I’d appreciate thy letting others know I’ll be here with fresh baked goods daily. I also plan on making fudge and other candy.”
A happy murmur from the crew greeted this.
Grinning and promising to see her the next time they docked in Pepin, the captain bowed again and then called cheerfully to his crew to get busy or they wouldn’t get another doughnut.
Buoyant with her success, Rachel walked back to the cart. Brennan lounged against it.
“We goin’ home now? That’s the only boat here today,” he asked.
She sensed now he was worried about something. What? “Let’s fill up the tray with the remaining goods.” Rachel glanced up the street. “And please help me with the strap again.”
He did so, arranging it around her neck once more. Their nearness once again distracted her, stirred odd sensations. She brushed aside their brief embrace the night before.
“What are you up to, Miss Rachel?”
“I need to make the mouths of my neighbors water, too.” She grinned at him. She’d learned today that while generosity should be its own reward, it also made good business sense.
Soon she entered Ashford’s store, jingling the bell. Brennan followed her in as if curious. Near the chairs by the cold stove sat only an older man in a wheelchair. He nodded to her politely. Had she met him?
Rachel nodded to him in case she had, then turned. “Good day, Mr. Ashford,” she greeted brightly.
The storekeeper looked dubious. “How may I help you, Miss Woolsey?”
“I am here to offer samples of my baked goods.” She stopped right across the counter from him.
He looked at her and then at the tray. He reached for one just as his wife walked down the stairs into the store. His hand halted in midair.
“Miss Woolsey,” Mrs. Ashford said disapprovingly, “I saw you just now talking to men on that boat.”
“Yes, I am starting my business. Today I’m giving away samples of my baked goods.”
Mrs. Ashford studied the tray of cookies and doughnuts. “I wonder that your cousin will abet you in this. You will find yourself in the company of all sorts of vulgar men.” Then the wom
an glanced pointedly past her and frowned deeply at Mr. Merriday.
Rachel guessed that she was suggesting Mr. Merriday was one of these low men. That goaded Rachel. She bit her lower lip to keep back a quick defense of the man. She must not insult so prominent a wife and perhaps start gossip.
And after a moment’s reflection, Rachel realized that Mrs. Ashford was the kind of woman who wanted to be consulted, to be the arbiter of others’ conduct. She’d met her ilk before.
This too grated on Rachel’s nerves. But nothing would be gained by telling the woman to mind her own business. “No doubt thee is right,” Rachel said demurely. “But even vulgar men will not insult a woman offering sweets.”
Brennan chuckled softly.
Discreetly enjoying his humor, she masked this with her most endearing smile. “Please, Mrs. Ashford, taste one of my wares and tell me thy opinion. I hear that thy baked goods are notable.” She did not like to be less than genuine, but the old dictum, that one attracted more flies with honey than vinegar, held true even in Wisconsin.
Mrs. Ashford picked up a fastnacht and tore it in two, the fragrance of apple and cinnamon filling permeated the air. The storekeeper’s wife handed half to her husband. They both chewed thoughtfully as if weighing and measuring with each chew. They looked at each other and then her.
“Very tasty,” the woman said, dusting the sugar from her fingers. Her husband nodded in agreement, almost grinning. “But most women here do their own baking,” Mrs. Ashford pointed out discouragingly.
“That’s why I’m courting the river trade,” Rachel assented. “And single men hereabout. And occasionally a woman might want to purchase something for a special occasion like a wedding.”
Mrs. Ashford listened seriously as if she were a senator engaging in a debate in Congress. “True.”
“Then I’ll be going on. Good day—”
“I’d like a sample too, miss,” the older man by the cold stove piped up.
Rachel turned and offered him her tray. He scooped up one sugar cookie and chewed it with ceremony. After swallowing his first bite, the older man announced, “I’m Old Saul, Miss Rachel. I heard from Noah you would be arriving this month. Much obliged for the cookie. I foresee success in your endeavor.”
