Heartland Courtship

by Lyn Cote

  “I’m glad thee has her.”

  “Yes,” Posey said, not looking up and not sounding happy.

  Sensing the girl had come to tell Miss Rachel her sad story, like females did, Brennan turned and started toward town. He had to get away from this homey scene, from hearing how the war had torn this girl’s world into shreds. He found that unfortunately he couldn’t walk fast without jarring his wrist.

  “I’m finishing cinnamon rolls this morning, Posey. Perhaps you’d like to help me get them ready to take into town. A boat is expected today.”

  “I heard how you sell baked goods. You must be good at that.”

  “I do my poor best,” Rachel admitted.

  Brennan walked carefully across the uneven ground through the wild grass, trying to get away.

  Miss Rachel made the best sweets he’d ever eaten and that’s all the credit she’d own up to. Yes, Miss Rachel was too nice. Didn’t she know such goodness only invited trouble? This was a nasty world and it destroyed niceness.

  The two females turned toward the cabin.

  Though he’d begun to walk away, some curiosity prompted Brennan to ask, “Your father remarried, Miss Rachel?”

  “Yes” was all she said.

  And that told him more about this lady and why she’d come West than she’d probably ever put into words.

  His wrist was aching so he couldn’t be of help to this good woman. What could he do with one hand? “I’m heading to town!” he called out. Maybe he could have that quiet tongue wag with Sam the barkeep at last and think of something else. Maybe that would take the edge off his keen craving to leave.

  He had to get away from this woman who made him remember things like family and belonging, things he’d long kept sleeping in the back of his mind. Miss Rachel was waking him up to…to feeling, caring. I’ve got to get away—soon.

  Chapter Five

  On the next morning, yet another steamy summer day, Brennan did not show up for breakfast. Rachel stood at her door, looking for him. Concern needled her.

  Had he left town?

  Or had he been hurt worse than she thought?

  Or since he couldn’t work, was he lying in bed, moping?

  The idea of going into town and finding him to put a flea in his ear tempted her. But she turned from it and went inside. If the man didn’t want his breakfast, so be it.

  She cracked an egg in the skillet, listened to its lonely sizzle and then toasted a single slice of bread for her breakfast. She sat down to eat alone. Well, she wanted to be on her own and now she was.

  Recalling Brennan’s edginess over the past week didn’t diminish her uneasiness. This morning he might have just up and left town. Men like him did that: drifters drifted.

  But she’d become accustomed to his laconic wit. And in his company, she never felt judged and found wanting. She now recognized that this feeling was something she’d lived with daily since her father remarried. She stared at the solid walls of her snug cabin, her own home, grateful for it yet feeling so isolated, set apart.

  She snapped off this self-pitying train of thought and began her day. Soon she loaded her dishcloth-covered trays of just-out-of-the-oven, fragrant cinnamon rolls onto the narrow shelves of the two-wheeled pushcart Noah and Brennan had built for her. Mr. Merriday didn’t like her meeting boats without him. But she had to start doing that. If he weren’t gone already, Brennan Merriday would be soon.

  At this thought a weight settled over her lungs. She shoved against it but it refused to budge. The feeling would pass, she told herself. Perhaps it would be better if Brennan had left. Then she could face her solitary life starting today and make peace with it.

  A boat’s whistle prompted her to hurry along so she wouldn’t miss one that might just be stopping to pick up the mail.

  Soon she rolled the cart into town. She forced herself to smile despite the stubborn weight that was making it hard to breathe. She was rolling her cart past Ashford’s store when she saw Posey hurry out from it.

  “Hello, Miss Rachel!” she greeted her.

  Rachel smiled but didn’t stop. Posey joined her and kept in step at her side.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Rachel noted Brennan Merriday coming out of the blacksmith shop. So he hadn’t left town. The weight she’d carried vanished. That is not good. I must not depend on him.

  He was hurrying as if to catch up with her.

  She picked up her pace, letting him know she wasn’t waiting around for him.

  “Posey Brown!” a strong, shrill female voice called out across the main street.

  Posey halted. Now it appeared that the girl might have been escaping from the store. Posey turned. “Yes, Grandmother?”

  “I was not done with our conversation. Please come here.”

  Posey did not look happy but she obeyed.

  Rachel continued on, reaching the boat dock. Brennan trailed her. Somehow she sensed him scowling behind her back.

  She smiled with professional cheer. “Good morning!” she called to the boatmen. “I have cinnamon rolls and sponge candy for sale today!”

  Boatmen, who’d evidently heard of her business, swarmed onto the dock and surrounded her.

  A wiry man with a young boy around ten pushed past the men, coming toward Rachel on land. She was handing out rolls in wax paper as fast as she could and men were dropping coins into a small bucket at her feet.

  As the wiry man passed, she noted the stormy look on his face as if he was spoiling for a fight and the shuttered expression on the boy beside him. And how he hung back. The man reached behind and yanked him forward. So unkind. But Rachel was keeping up with business.

  “Brennan Merriday!” the wiry man bellowed. “So you are here in this little backwater town!”

  Everyone within hearing distance went silent. Rachel’s hand faltered. The man’s bellow had clearly been a challenge. The boatmen still snatched pastries from her hands and dropped in their coins, but they did it with haste and then crowded onto the shore as if they didn’t want to miss the show…or fight.

  And this man had called out Brennan’s name. Who was he? She glanced over her shoulder but stayed where she was.

  When the cook from the boat arrived with a tray and scooped up the rest of her fare, she was sold out. Her pulse jumping, she accepted his payment, offered her thanks and turned around, trundling her empty cart through the crowd at the dock.

  In the center of the town’s street, Brennan and the stranger and boy stood, confronting each other. The two men glared as if about to battle. Would there be fisticuffs?

  Rachel parked her cart and unable to stop herself, moved closer.

  “What’re ya’ll doing here, Jean Pierre?” Brennan asked, his voice low with an edge of menace.

  Aware that Brennan would not appreciate any interference from her, Rachel halted, keeping her distance, but remained watchful.

  “I never thought I’d be forced to set eyes on your worthless face again,” Jean Pierre sneered with obvious relish. “But it’s time you took responsibility for your get.”

  The man’s last word, a vulgar term for child, sent a spike of ice through Rachel. Brennan’s “get”? The shock forced a gasp from her. “Oh.”

  Brennan looked confused. “What are ya’ll saying?”

  “I’m saying this is your son, Lorena’s child, Jacque.”

  Brennan appeared speechless.

  “Your own kin and Lorena’s were glad to be rid of a coward like you,” Jean Pierre continued. “Then I read about you in the Saint Louis paper.” He pulled a folded newspaper from his back pocket. He slapped it into Brennan’s hand. “Guess you aren’t the coward we all thought you were.”

  Brennan looked at the paper, but still reacted only with mute shock.

  “Everybody in both our families in Mississippi and across in Louisiana is dead or scattered. I’m headin’ West. I was going to drop your boy off at an orphanage run by some Quaker woman near Saint Louis when I seen this paper and read about you r
unning off the thieves here. So here’s your son. You take care of him.” With that, Jean Pierre turned on his heel and stalked back to the riverboat.

  Rachel tried to take this all in, but had trouble grasping what had just taken place. Brennan—a son?

  Brennan didn’t move or speak, just stood staring after the man heading toward the boat.

  Then the boy took action. He turned and ran after the stranger. “Don’t leave me here, cousin! Take me with you!”

  At this, Brennan woke up. He chased the boy and grasped him by the shoulder, halting his flight. “Jean Pierre! Are you tellin’ me that Lorena had my son and never told me?”

  “Why would she tell you? She was well shut of you. Boy, stay with your father. He’s all you got!”

  The boy jerked away from Brennan and ran after his cousin. “Don’t leave me!”

  Jean Pierre ignored his calls and boarded along with the boatmen. A river porter, carrying the mailbag, hurried back toward the dock. When he reached the deck, the whistle sounded, the few boatmen left on land scurried on deck, and the riverboat began pulling away.

  “Come back!” the boy at river’s edge shouted, a rending hysteria in his voice.

  The riverboat swept into the current and steamed away.

  Tears sprang to the boy’s eyes and he swiped at them with his tattered sleeve.

  The sight wrenched Rachel’s heart. She instinctively drew nearer Brennan and his son. His son. Was this Brennan’s son? The idea of his having a child startled her, shook her—in a way she hadn’t expected. She resisted it and didn’t have time to examine the wave of emotion now.

  Brennan stood a few paces behind the boy, obviously still in the grip of his own bewilderment.

  His lips quivering, the boy appeared about to burst into sobs. Rachel knew that would crush his spirit. Men and boys didn’t cry. She glanced once more at Brennan’s frozen expression and decided she must act. Father, help me. I must do something but I don’t know what.

  “Hello,” she said, coming close to the boy, trying to behave as normally as she could. “I’m Miss Rachel Woolsey. I am thy father’s…Mr. Merriday’s employer.”

  With dirt-smeared cheeks, the boy looked into her eyes without much comprehension.

  His naked anguish hit her like a broadside. She offered him her hand. “Welcome to Pepin. We are a small town but we have a school and a general store,” she babbled, very aware that everyone in town was listening to her every syllable. She looked to Brennan once more.

  “Mr. Merriday hurt his wrist recently and has been resting in town.” She prayed again for guidance. She saw that she could do nothing but try to proceed as if nothing unusual had happened. “I need a few things at the store before we head back to my homestead.”

  She looked at the boy and his basic needs were too plain. He needed clothing, food and a bath. The first was a good place to start. “Mr. Merriday, I think I should stop and purchase some fabric for new clothes for your…for Jacque.” The last words were more an order than information.

  Brennan stared at her as if she were speaking Chinese.

  She sent him a silent message with her expression, telling him to command himself. Now. She resisted the impulse to draw near and touch his good arm.

  “That’s right, boy. Go with Miss Rachel,” he said and turned away.

  Rachel watched him head for the saloon and sighed deeply but quietly. Not the best choice, Brennan Merriday.

  Touching the boy’s thin, boney shoulder, she urged him to follow her into the store. There she tried to behave as if suddenly having a boy with her was an everyday occurrence. All three of the Ashfords, as well as Posey and her grandmother, stood behind the counter, gawking impolitely. This stiffened her instinct to protect the child.

  “Mr. Ashford, I need some cloth to make this boy a new shirt and pants.” Mr. Ashford helped her choose suitable dark fabric and Mrs. Ashford helped her figure out how much she would need for the new garments.

  Then Rachel ordered more flour and sugar as she had planned. On the way out, she noted the boy looking at the candy display. “Don’t worry, Jacque. I have sponge candy at home. Needs somebody to eat it.”

  She handed him the brown paper wrapped package of fabric and walked him to her cart. She motioned for him to put the package on the empty, cloth-covered trays. “Will thee push the cart? Home isn’t far.”

  As they passed the saloon, the urge to march inside and collar Brennan Merriday nearly turned her from her path. Instead, she faced forward and guided Jacque toward home. Some food, some gentle conversation, some candy—that was all she could provide for this child. She hoped it would be enough to help. Mr. Merriday, is this your son?

  *

  Brennan stood at the bar, staring at Sam, unable to talk.

  “What is it, Merriday?” Sam asked with concern. “You look like you seen a ghost.”

  Brennan’s mind felt like scrambled eggs. He braced his good palm against the bar, trying to get hold of himself. He’d sought this place to hide while he dealt with this turn of events. The expression on Miss Rachel’s face when she heard Jean Pierre… He shook his head as if that would shake it loose.

  “Is that kid really yours?” Levi in his leather apron asked the words before he even cleared the doorway.

  “What kid?” Sam asked. “What did I miss?”

  Brennan stared at the blacksmith he’d come to like and shook his head as if coming up from underwater. Was this boy his? “Gotta go.”

  He started up the road toward Miss Rachel’s at full steam but faltered, his mind dragging him back in time. Something like the Gulf surf roared in his ears. His senses reeled. As from far away he glimpsed familiar faces, then the blows began falling on him, forcing him to fight…

  He shouted aloud, “No!”

  The present sounds returned to normal, birds in the trees, squirrels chattering. The roaring in his ears receded. He bent and braced his good hand on his knee, panting for air. The urge to turn and run and keep running rolled over him. He stood his ground.

  Could it be possible? Had Lorena borne him a son before she died? When he’d gone back to Mississippi after the war, why hadn’t anybody told him? He recalled the bitter words and the sneering faces he’d encountered while trying to find out if his wife still lived and if she needed anything. They’d told him Lorena had died and they had literally run him out of town at gunpoint.

  And now he must face this child who—if he was really his son—probably hated him, too. And what did Miss Rachel think about him and this boy?

  *

  Wondering when Mr. Merriday would appear, Rachel halted Jacque at her door, seizing upon everyday needs to show her concern. Brennan must face this problem, but would he?

  “Jacque, please wash thy hands before entering.” She gestured toward the outdoor washbasin with its bar of yellow soap and linen towel on the peg.

  “Why?”

  “Because I promised thee sponge candy and one must eat only with clean hands.”

  The boy began to wash his hands that appeared to have several layers of dirt on them.

  When he reached for the towel before he’d worked his way through all the layers, she shook her head. “Keep washing till they are completely clean.”

  He glared at her but obeyed, his stomach growling. Finally clean skin appeared.

  Rachel nodded.

  He dried his hands and stalked into her cabin.

  “Come back and toss the water onto my flowers,” she said, standing patiently outside.

  He did so, glaring more, his stomach growling more.

  Then she motioned him inside. “I think more than just candy would be good for thee. Nibble on this while I fry some eggs.” She handed him a cinnamon roll.

  He ate it in two bites, standing.

  “Sit at the table, please.” Then she set her cast-iron skillet back on her stove, stirred up the fire and began cracking eggs. She stopped at four, not wanting to make him sick. The boy looked starved. “Hard or soft?�
�

  “Hard.”

  She soon set a plate with the four fried eggs and another cinnamon roll in front of him. She added a glass of fresh milk from deep in her root cellar.

  Before she finished her silent grace, Jacque began to gobble the food.

  She studied his face, trying to discern any resemblance to Mr. Merriday. “Slow down, please. There will be two more meals today and snacks if thee needs them.”

  “You talk funny.”

  “Thee do also,” she replied, alluding to his thick Southern accent. “Slow down and chew the food. Don’t make thyself sick.”

  “You’re not my aunt or anythin’.” He sent her an aggrieved look.

  Rachel reached over and pulled the plate from him. “I am the one who cooked breakfast. Sitting at my table means obeying the rules of this house. Clean hands to eat with and chew the food.”

  The boy glared at her, then muttered, “Yes, miss.”

  She slid the plate back to him.

  He began eating again, but marginally slower.

  She wanted to ask him questions but decided not to. She needed to talk to Brennan first and find out where this boy had come from.

  As if he heard her thoughts, Brennan appeared in her doorway, his hat in hand. “Miss Rachel.”

  “Has thee eaten breakfast, Mr. Merriday?” she asked, hiding how her heart sped up at the sight of him.

  Her question evidently prompted his stomach to growl. “No, miss.”

  She set another two cinnamon rolls on a plate and poured some coffee that had been keeping warm and then sat down at the table again.

  Brennan stepped outside and she could hear him washing his hands. Then he entered, hung his hat and sat down beside Jacque.

  “You gotta wash yer hands, too?” Jacque asked, sounding put out.

  “That’s her rule. You eat at Miss Rachel’s table, you wash your hands.”

  Rachel stifled a grin, but her pulse still beat faster, though she couldn’t say why it should. “Jacque, done with breakfast?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I mean, Miss Rachel.”

  “Come here then.” She motioned for him to come around to her. “As promised” she offered him a piece of sponge candy, which disappeared instantly. “Now I need to measure thee for thy new clothes.” Rising, she began measuring the boy’s skinny arms, then scrawny chest, waist and legs with a tape measure from her sewing box. Since she’d be fattening him up—she hoped—she’d make the seam allowances wider than usual to be let out later.