by Lyn Cote
His puckish style of speaking made Rachel chuckle. It was as if he had enjoyed her parrying Mrs. Ashford, too. “My thanks, Old Saul. Nice to meet thee.” She walked outside, feeling another lift in her spirits. She could do this. She walked toward the blacksmith shop, ready to offer another free sample.
Mr. Merriday walked a step behind her. She felt his brooding presence hanging over her spurt of victory. Why did people always have to make rude comments to him? Or stare at him with unfriendly expressions? The war had been over for better than six years. Wasn’t it time to let the old animosity go? And once again, the unwise attraction that drew her to him surged within.
He helped her restore the tray to the rear of the cart and then helped her up onto the seat. She had never been shown these politenesses before. Her father of course performed them for her stepmother, but Rachel was left to help her smaller stepbrothers and sisters. That must be why it touched her so every time he did this for her.
But I mustn’t become accustomed to his courtesies. I will be on my own soon enough. Too soon.
*
Brennan rolled over, half asleep, in the dark loft. Something had wakened him. What? Fire? The grass was tinder-dry and that had been a worry for the past few days. He listened, alert, to the sounds in the warm, humid summer night. More times than he wanted to recall, his acute hearing had saved his life. Then he heard the faintest tinkle of breaking glass.
Probably high spirits at the saloon. He rolled over. Still, sleep didn’t come. Why would there be a fight at the saloon? That usually happened only when several riverboats moored at the same time for a night.
He rolled away from his pallet. Since he couldn’t stand up in the low attic loft, he crawled to the open window draped with cheesecloth to keep out the mosquitoes. From his high vantage point, he scanned the street. The half-moon radiated little light.
Just as he was about to go back to lie on his pallet, he glimpsed movement down on the street. Three men were creeping around the stores. One had a large, full sack thrown over one shoulder. A man didn’t have to have much imagination to come to a quick conclusion.
Thieves.
The three men were slinking toward the front of Ashford’s. Better to access the store on the side away from where the storekeeper slept.
The uppity face of the owner’s wife came to Brennan’s mind. Her expression a few days ago—as she’d weighed and measured him and pronounced him wanting—had been burned into him. If she’d had the power, she would have caused him to vanish from her prissy sight that day. It rankled. Yet that he cared what she thought of him rankled more.
He watched as the shadowy men paused as if waiting for something.
Their plan unfolded in his mind. These river “rats” were using the saloon’s loud voices to mask the sounds of the thievery. He let out a breath. These little river towns were without any presence of the law and were easy pickings for thieves.
The thought suddenly rolled like thunder in his mind. He didn’t want this little bump on the river to become a target for unlawful types. Not with Miss Rachel living just outside town. The memory of the ruffians who’d come to her place to find him goaded him. The thought of the innocent Miss Rachel being accosted sent icy shivers through him. Never. He had to make sure the reputation of this town stayed strong—for her sake.
He crawled over to his knapsack, retrieved his two Colt 45s and checked to be sure both were loaded and ready. He scooted to the ladder and slipped down to the blacksmith shop. He paused, thinking of who could provide him backup. He crept to the lean-to and roused the blacksmith. Seeing Brennan’s index finger to his lips, Levi swallowed a waking exclamation.
Brennan leaned close to the man’s ear. “Thieves.” He motioned toward the rifle hung on the wall and then for the blacksmith to get up.
Soon, the two men stood side by side in the lean-to. Brennan outlined a plan and the smith nodded. They crept along in the shadows and took their places— Brennan across from the front of the General Store, closest to the river, and the smith slipped along another store behind Ashford’s. The familiar sensations of preparing for battle prickled through Brennan, keenly heightening his awareness of every sound and sight.
Laughter echoed from the saloon and then one of the thieves raised his hand to break the glass next to Ashford’s door.
“Hold!” Brennan roared, hidden in the shadows.
The three men started and glanced around frantically.
“Hold!” Brennan repeated.
The three scampered toward the rear as if to hide themselves.
Brennan let loose a warning shot over their heads. The smith let his rifle roar from the rear. The three men stopped, not knowing which way to run. Two had drawn pistols.
“Drop that bag and empty your pockets!” Brennan ordered.
The three started to run toward the river. One shot toward Brennan, but the bullet went wide. Idiots!
Brennan shot into the dirt in front of them, halting them in the middle of the street. “Drop your guns and that bag, then empty your pockets! Do it! Or this time I’ll shoot one of you!”
The man with the bag put it down and raised his hands. The other two put their pistols on the ground, yanked out their pockets and raised their hands, too.
“All your pockets!” Brennan commanded.
The bagman pulled out his pockets.
“Run!” Brennan bellowed.
The three obeyed, racing toward the river.
Just then Ashford ran out the front door, dressed hastily and holding a rifle. “What’s happening?”
Before Brennan could reply, more men armed with rifles bounded into the street. Brennan wondered if they had any sense. It was crazy to show themselves so plainly before they knew who was shooting whom. Some, he noted, did cling to the shadows, probably veterans like him.
Not wanting to be the center of attention or suffer being thanked, he slipped away, back to the blacksmith shop and up to his loft. Still his heart pounded with the excitement. He listened to the buzz of voices below. Levi explained, loud enough for him to hear, what had happened.
The town men shouted and ran toward the river. Brennan looked out his riverside window and saw a rude boat sliding out into the current. The town men shouted and shot toward the craft, their bullets sizzling as they hit the water. But the night had only half-moon light and soon the craft became invisible, lost in the dark.
Brennan lay down on his blanket, his heart still racing. The thieves had gotten away, which was best. What would the town have done with them if they’d been caught? Pepin didn’t have a jail and somebody might have gotten hurt trying to corral them. Better they escaped. They wouldn’t come back anytime soon. But what about others like them?
This staying in one place was costing him. He lay listening to the men talking, and hoped no one would disturb him. He hadn’t done this for any of them. He’d done it for Miss Rachel, but if he said that, they would think something was going on between them. Better to lay low.
How long would they have to hash over this minor dustup? People here didn’t cotton to him. And he generally didn’t cotton to people so they were even. That suited him. But what else could he do to keep Miss Rachel safe after he left town?
*
Just after dawn the next morning, Brennan freshened up down at the river as usual, glad to wash away last night’s sweat. He then set out toward Miss Rachel’s place, his stomach rumbling for the breakfast she’d provide. The heat was already climbing high and not a hint of a cloud showed on the horizon.
As he passed Ashford’s store, the proprietor burst out and ran toward him. Brennan halted. What did the man want?
Mr. Ashford panted. “I just came out to thank you.” The man’s face looked tired from lack of sleep. “For last night. All the storekeepers are grateful. The smithy told us you woke him up and were the one who ran off the thieves.”
Brennan hadn’t expected appreciation. And didn’t want their gratitude. He looked at the man, giving no
thing of himself away. “Didn’t do it for your thanks.”
“We owe you.”
Brennan shrugged. “Don’t mention it,” he said with finality and tucked in an edge that promised unpleasantness if the man went on thanking him.
The man’s wife came running out of the store and offered him a folded new shirt and trousers. “Just a token of our thanks.”
Brennan didn’t take the clothing. “Thank you, ma’am, but I’m expected at Miss Rachel’s for breakfast.” He hurried on.
*
Brennan spent the morning building a chicken coop strong and high enough to outfox any fox or other varmint. To start with, he’d logged the needed wood and dug postholes. This afternoon he’d set posts.
With a rumbling stomach and sharp anticipation of another tasty meal, at noon he sat down at Miss Rachel’s table. When she carried in the steaming crock from the outdoor kitchen, he noted she did not look happy. What was the bee in her Quaker bonnet?
“Mr. Merriday, why didn’t thee tell me what happened last night?” She made it sound like a scold.
He bristled. Why did she sound mad? After all, he’d done it for her. “Because I didn’t think it was worth mentionin’. That’s why,” he replied, eyeing the bowls of stew she was dishing up.
She set the crock on the table and sat down.
He waited quietly for her to finish silently blessing the meal as she always did. When the amen came, he picked up his fork and dug into her stew. The woman could cook as well as she could bake.
“The Ashfords told me all about it. And about thy graceless behavior this morning.” She motioned toward the chair by the cold hearth. The dratted new clothing the storekeeper’s wife had offered him sat there, evidently drying after being washed. This aggravated him but he kept eating.
“We have something in common,” she said, also beginning to eat. “We are different from everyone else here. I’m the pitiful and eccentric Quaker spinster.”
Brennan suddenly felt ashamed of thinking of her with this less than flattering term. But he hadn’t meant it in a bad way. And Miss Rachel was unusual, who could argue that?
“And Mr. Merriday is thought of as a shiftless wanderer. And ex-Confederate,” she finished.
He chewed, trying to focus on the rich taste of the wild onions in the stew. After all, she wasn’t saying anything he didn’t already know.
“Last night thy quick action saved the town from thievery. They wish to show their thanks. Why refuse it?”
Annoyed suddenly, he barked, “Because I don’t care what they think of me!”
She gazed up at him, unperturbed. “Everyone, even we, put labels on people. No doubt thee thinks Mr. Ashford is a prosy storekeeper and his wife, a know-it-all busybody.”
Her apt descriptions of the two hit his funny bone. His heat turned to laughter. Chuckling, he picked up his fork once more.
“But we all have worth to God.”
His grip on the fork tightened. Easy for Miss Rachel to say. She hadn’t seen what he’d seen in the war. And what he’d seen he sensed was the root of his spells and nightmares, the horror of bloodshed and needless loss of life.
“Thankfully God doesn’t judge by our outward appearance but looks into our hearts.” Before he could respond, she reached over and tugged his cuff, ripping half the sleeve loose.
He drew in a sharp breath.
“Thankfully I think Mrs. Ashford guessed the size correctly,” Miss Rachel continued in an even tone, “but I’ll have to hem the trousers of course.”
He gawked at her in disbelief. “You tore my shirt.”
“It didn’t take much,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. “I think the polite thing to do on the way home after supper is to stop and thank Mrs. Ashford.” Then she sent him one of her managing, very determined, gray-eyes-flashing looks.
He didn’t respond, but returned to eating in silence, trying to hold his temper. Soft-spoken Lorena would never have ripped his shirt to make a point.
Then he recalled Miss Rachel’s description of herself as a pathetic spinster. He didn’t think that about her now, but he struggled again with guilt over originally disparaging Miss Rachel—just like everybody else. The memory of holding her in his arms… He had to stop thinking about that. He was leaving for Canada as soon as he’d done everything to get Miss Rachel set up here.
He didn’t care what other people thought of him. But Miss Rachel thought more of him than the others did. That was dangerous. He’d let down everyone in his life. Would he let down Miss Rachel, too?
Chapter Four
Brennan did not want to do this, did not want to go to the Ashfords’, hat in hand, and thank them for the unwanted, unasked-for new clothes. Wearing his new clothes now, he didn’t even feel like himself. Earlier, after the new clothing had dried, Miss Rachel had hemmed his pants and pressed everything up nice. The new clothes felt stiff and thick, not thin and shaped to him like his old clothes. Made him feel strange. As strange as pausing here, looking to go somewhere he was not welcome.
He stood, looking at the store. The closed sign sat in the window, granting him a reprieve. He turned to head to the blacksmith shop to jaw with the smithy.
“Mr. Merriday!” a woman’s voice called from above. “Did you need anything?”
Irritation ground inside him. Mrs. Ashford with her windows overlooking Main Street didn’t miss a thing. He looked up, pinning a smile on his face. “Yes, ma’am, I came to thank you.”
“Come to the rear and we’ll let you in,” she ordered.
He wanted to decline but Miss Rachel didn’t want him to be rude to this busybo…this good woman. So he walked around to the rear and Mr. Ashford let him in. “I just came to thank you—”
“Ned, ask Mr. Merriday to come up!” Mrs. Ashford called down.
Ned dutifully motioned to Brennan to precede him up the stairs.
Brennan gritted his teeth and climbed to the living quarters. As he topped the stairs, he snatched his hat off and schooled his face into a smile. “Evenin’, ma’am.”
“Mr. Merriday, so glad to see you accepted our gift of thanks.” The storekeeper’s wife sat in the dining area that took up half the large, open room overlooking the river. There were several people around the long table, two he’d never seen in town.
“Cousin, this is Brennan Merriday, a workman in our village,” Mrs. Ashford said. “He saved our store from thievery last night. Mr. Merriday, my cousin, Mrs. Almeria Brown, and her granddaughter Miss Posey Brown. They arrived today by boat.”
Brennan glanced at the plump older woman who lifted an eyeglass on a string to study him like a bug on a pin. He bowed his head to her, his neck stiff. “Ma’am.” And then to the younger lady who looked about seventeen, too slender but pretty in a common way with brown hair and eyes. “Miss.”
“Are you homesteading hereabouts?” the older woman asked, piercing him with her gaze, her eye magnified by the glass. Some of her iron-gray hair had slipped from its bun.
“No, ma’am, just working to help set up Miss Rachel, the preacher’s cousin, on her homestead.”
Two other young people, one a young girl and one a young blond man, also sat at the table, looking at him. “This is our daughter Amanda and her friend Gunther Lang,” the storekeeper said.
Brennan nodded, feeling beyond awkward. These were not the kind of people he associated with. He knew where he belonged—down the street at the saloon.
“You did very good last night,” the young man said with the trace of a foreign accent.
“Yes,” the young girl agreed, “you were so brave.”
“I didn’t do much. They weren’t too dangerous, just sneak thieves.”
“Please sit down, Merriday,” Ashford invited, coming up behind him. “I’m sure Miss Rachel has fed you, but would you take a cup of coffee with us?”
From the shopkeeper’s tone, Brennan knew these people were experiencing the same disorientation. They weren’t comfortable with his sort in their din
ing room. And the old biddy with the eyeglass on a string was staring bullets at him. “No, thanks. You’re right, Miss Rachel fed me to the brim. I just wanted to say thanks. This morning I wasn’t ready to accept anything.” Anything from you people.
“We wanted you to know that we appreciated your quick action,” Ashford said.
Brennan nodded, his head bobbing like a toy. “Just did what anybody would.”
“I think you did more,” the young man said.
Brennan nodded once more. “I’ll bid you good evening then.” He waved Ashford back into his seat and tried not to jog down the stairs.
Unwillingly he overheard the old woman say, “What kind of man works for some woman when he could stake his own claim? Must be shiftless.”
Insulted yet irritated that a stranger’s opinion could get to him, he let himself out and breathed with relief. And headed straight for the saloon.
He walked through the doors and let out a big breath. The saloon didn’t have a piano player and the atmosphere was more drowsy than raucous, but nobody here would make him wonder if his shoes were shined bright enough.
He headed straight for the long bar and ordered an ale.
Sam poured his drink and then leaned his pudgy elbows on the bar. “So you’re the man of the day now?”
Brennan snorted. “Right. Me?”
“From what I hear, you rousted them robbers efficient-like.”
“They were just a few paltry sneak thieves. No big effort needed.”
A man came up and clapped Brennan on the back. “The town hero!”
Brennan recoiled. “I didn’t do nothing special, okay?”
“Ah, does not the laurel rest easy upon thy brow?” the man asked grandiloquently.
Brennan picked up his glass and tried to ignore the man. “Thought we’d finally have that tongue wag, Sam.”
But it was not to be. More men crowded around, asking Brennan for the whole story. He bridled.
Sam leaned forward and muttered, “Play along. They don’t get much excitement in this bump on the river. Tell them the story and they’ll leave you alone.”
