by Lyn Cote
Mr. Merriday’s gaze followed her every move. She forced herself not to look back at him. “The clothing should be done by Sunday for church.” Suddenly she needed time to sort all this out, figure out how she should feel about this.
She turned to Brennan, who rose. “I know thy wrist is still swollen, but why not take Jacque and mark off my garden? He could begin turning over the sod.”
Brennan gazed at her. Miss Rachel had fed the boy and was sewing for him. But now she had informed him it was his turn to deal with the boy. He sucked it up. “Sounds right. Boy, why don’t you go out to the lean-to and find the shovel there?”
Jacque looked disgruntled but obeyed, his hands shoved in his pockets.
When they were alone, Brennan looked across the table. Miss Rachel sat again and gestured for him to sit also. He obeyed reluctantly.
“Evidently thee wished to speak to me alone?” she asked coolly.
No, he didn’t really want to speak to her alone, not about this. Brennan didn’t know what to say so he said the first thing that came to mind. “I didn’t mean to burden you more. My wrist is sprained and now the boy…”
She gazed across to him. “Is it likely that this boy is thy blood?”
Leave it to Miss Rachel to cut to the marrow. “Could be.” He knew he should tell her about Lorena, about what had happened to tear them apart. He couldn’t. He had no words to express that dark time.
“It is really none of my business. But a child complicates…”
He looked at her, willing her to be silent. Don’t tell me what I already know.
She tightened her lips. “Very well. I will not press thee now.”
He heard the remaining sentence she did not voice—but we will talk about this, and soon.
He rose, grabbed his hat from the peg and headed outside, nearly running.
“Come on, Jacque!” he called in the yard, feeling something near hysteria building in his stomach. Why hadn’t the past stayed in the past? But it wasn’t the child’s fault, none of this was. “We’ll pace off the garden and start you diggin’.”
The two of them began walking to the back of the clearing.
“Isn’t it late to be planting?” the boy asked, sounding annoyed. “She should have planted in March.”
“She didn’t live here in March. She came in June like I did. We’re just going to start turning up the soil for next year.” Was this silly conversation real?
“This ain’t gonna be much of a garden,” the boy said, looking at the trees surrounding them. “And everything looks burned up, dry.”
“True.” Brennan cradled his aching wrist close to his chest, holding in his agitation. “Let’s pace out the boundaries and get started.”
The boy stood, leaning on the shovel handle. “What did you do to your hand?”
“I sprained my wrist.” He stared at the boy, his curiosity sparking. “What’s your whole name?”
“Jacque Louis Charpentier.”
Charpentier had been Lorena’s maiden name. “Who was your mother?”
“You heard who my ma was.”
“Do you remember her?”
“No.”
“When’d she die?”
“During the war.”
“So what year were you born?”
The boy gave him a sarcastic look. “Fall of ’61, the year the war started.”
Brennan stared at him, searching for something of himself in the boy’s face.
“Do ya’ll want me to dig this or not?” the boy demanded.
“Dig.” Brennan experienced a sudden weakness that had more to do with shock over this new revelation than anything else. He moved into the shade of a nearby oak and settled onto the rough, wild grass. That Lorena had taken back her maiden name didn’t surprise him. And perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised that she’d borne him a son and never tried to let him know.
But if they hadn’t wanted the boy when Brennan returned after the war, why wait till now? Had Jean Pierre brought him someone else’s child who didn’t remember his mother as a final kick in the gut, a final insult?
What did Miss Rachel think of this? And why did that matter so much to him?
*
Rachel had smoothed out the heavy cotton fabric for Jacque’s new clothing on her table and was calmly fashioning a pattern from brown wrapping paper. Inwardly she roiled, trying to come up with an explanation for what had happened in town. Was Jacque really Brennan’s son? Why did she keep asking herself that question?
“Hello the house!” said a feminine voice that sounded familiar as she voiced the usual frontier greeting.
Rachel rose and peered out the open door and saw Posey, the new girl in town, had come again to call. “Oh, hello,” she said, trying to hide her lack of welcome.
“A letter came for you today so I told Cousin Ned I’d be happy to bring it.” Posey held up the letter as she approached.
The joy of receiving a letter zinged through Rachel. She beamed. “Come in, Posey.”
The young woman did so and handed her the letter.
“Please be seated.” Rachel didn’t apologize, just slit open the letter with a kitchen knife and read it.
July 1871
Dear Daughter,
We were relieved thee reached Cousin Noah’s family in Pepin safely. Thy stepmother and I are in good health as are thy sisters. We are going to be blessed again near the end of the year with another child, God willing. Here are notes from thy younger sisters.
Then she read the notes written in childish printing:
Our dog misses thee. The cats looked all over for thee.
Love,
Hannah
I cried for two days when thee left.
Love,
Elizabeth
I MISS THEE AND SO DOES SARA.
LOVE,
MARTHA
Then her father’s script resumed.
Your obedient servant,
Jeremiah Woolsey
A pang of homesickness tangled around Rachel’s lungs. I miss thee, too. “It’s from my family. I have four younger stepsisters.” And perhaps another on the way. Her father sounded as if he missed her, too.
“A letter from home is always good. What are your sisters’ names?”
“They are Hannah, Elizabeth, Martha and baby Sara.” Each name pinched her heart. I do love them, Father. Keep them safe.
“Those are pretty names.”
Wanting to get some distance from this emotional topic, she said, “Posey is a pretty name. Who chose it?”
“When I was born, my pa said I was as pretty as a posey.” The young woman grinned shyly.
“Very true.” Smiling politely, Rachel folded her letter and slid it into her writing box that sat on a shelf near the window. She suddenly felt tired.
“Where is the new boy?” Posey asked, looking around.
Ah, gossip. Was that Posey’s true purpose in coming? “Jacque and Mr. Merriday are out making me a small garden.” Rachel began working on the pattern for the pants again.
“Is that for the boy?”
Rachel only nodded, discouraging talk about Jacque.
“If you like, I can make a pattern for the shirt. At home I often sewed for boys. I took in sewing with my mother.”
“How kind.” Rachel pushed a sheet of brown paper and another pencil to the girl. “If thee has the time?” But I won’t give thee any information to spread around. I don’t have any.
Posey sighed. “I’m not needed at the store or above it. Four women in one house.” She shook her head.
Rachel read more in the tone of the girl’s voice than the actual words. Had Posey delivered the letter as a way to get out of the store? Rachel didn’t blame her. Mrs. Ashford and the girl’s grandmother would be a daunting pair.
Wondering how Brennan was doing behind the house, Rachel opened her roomy sewing box and removed a paper of straight pins. “Is thee going to be visiting the Ashfords for long?”
Posey stared dow
n at the brown paper and began measuring with a tape and drawing the outline of a shirt, glancing at the dimensions Rachel had jotted in one corner. “We aren’t visiting. We’ve come to stay.”
“Really?” Rachel tried to keep sympathy out of her tone. She wouldn’t want to have to move in with the Ashfords. Rachel borrowed the tape measure and checked the dimensions of the pants. Mr. Merriday’s shocked face kept coming to mind. The public scene had stirred up something troubling him. She wished she didn’t feel as much concern as she did. He’s leaving.
“We lived in northern Tennessee but when the war started, we moved to Kentucky.” Posey glanced up. “We didn’t own slaves, and we were against secession. My father settled us in a boardinghouse and joined the Kentucky Militia. My mother and I made a living sewing and helping the lady who ran the boardinghouse. We were hoping to go back to our home after the war.”
“But that didn’t happen?” Rachel had heard variations of this story at home and on her way here, her sympathy caught. Had the war spared anybody? Again her mind thought of Mr. Merriday’s ravaged expression.
“Father was killed in the war. Afterward, we were afraid to go back to Tennessee. We heard Northern sympathizers were lynched. And Pa fought for the Union so…”
“I’m so sorry.” And Rachel truly was. The war had brought so much suffering and death. The two out back digging her garden included. She measured a yard and then two by holding the fabric from her nose to her outstretched hand.
“My mother died earlier this year and that ended my father’s army pension.”
Though grieved by Posey’s story, Rachel found her mind laboring over how to help Mr. Merriday. But perhaps this was beyond her power. She sighed and began pinning the paper pattern to the cotton.
“Grandmother decided that we should come north to our cousins and hope that they could help me find a husband. Grandmother said that many men are moving north and west to homestead on free land, make a new start, and would need a wife.”
Rachel heard the shame and worry wrapped around each of the girl’s words. Heaven knew she had enough to keep her busy with her business and now this unexpected child, but she would try to help Posey discover how to make her way in the world.
Perhaps marriage would be the best solution for Posey, but certainly not marriage solely out of necessity. Rachel had escaped the latter and wouldn’t let it happen to this young woman.
“Mr. Merriday’s given name is Brennan?” Posey asked, a sudden departure from the topic.
“Yes, Brennan Merriday.” Rachel looked at the girl. Did she think to marry Brennan Merriday? She pricked her finger with a straight pin.
“His name is an unusual one. It sounds familiar somehow.”
Rachel glanced at the young woman who in turn was busy sketching in marks for buttonholes on the brown wrapping paper. Her mind wandered. If Brennan hadn’t sprained his wrist, he would have departed by now. Would Brennan leave and take the boy with him? A totally new feeling rolled through her, a kind of dread mixed with hope. She didn’t want Brennan to leave and now that Jacque had come perhaps he wouldn’t.
With a burst of insight, she admitted this to herself. A startling revelation. And she acknowledged that this was more than just about her losing his help. She didn’t want to lose Brennan Merriday. I have feelings for him. She stood stock-still as waves of shock rolled over her.
Rachel experienced a kind of swirling in her head. Too much had happened and everything had been upended. She gasped, trying to catch her breath. She couldn’t. She was breathing too fast.
Suddenly Posey came very close. “Miss Rachel.” Then the girl blew into her face. “You’re not getting enough air. Miss Rachel!” The girl grabbed Rachel’s wrists and pulled her to sit. “Miss Rachel!”
Rachel inhaled deeply and then coughed, shuddered.
Posey patted her on the back. “Are you all right?”
Rachel nodded, far from all right.
She did not want Brennan Merriday out of her life. That much had come clear—disturbing but clear. “I’m fine. Sorry.”
“Mama breathed too fast like that when we got word of my father’s death,” Posey said sadly. “I was afraid you’d faint.”
“I never faint.” I’ve never become attached to a man either.
Finally Rachel persuaded Posey to go home.
Rachel sat outside on a chair in the shade of one of the tall maples on the edge of her clearing, fretting. She forced herself to go on slipping her fine needle in and out of the stiff cloth, trying not to think of Mr. Merriday, yet straining to hear the sound of his voice from behind the cabin. Would he stay now that the boy had come? She tried to control how her heart lifted at this thought. I must not let myself hope that.
Chapter Six
The sun had lowered when she heard Mr. Merriday and the boy join her in the shade. She kept her gaze on her sewing, afraid Brennan might read her feelings for him in her expression. She couldn’t imagine the humiliation of caring for a man uninterested in her. Whatever happened, he must never know.
“Jacque, I should have thy new clothing done soon,” she said mildly, her heart thrumming in her ears. Mr. Merriday’s presence stirred her, waking her somehow. She clung to her self-control.
“Yes, miss,” Jacque said in a tone that showed no interest.
Brennan slid his back down the tree.
Her awareness of him slid higher.
“We dug some of the garden—” Brennan started.
“I dug some of the garden,” Jacque interrupted Brennan.
“Don’t correct thy elders,” Rachel said out of habit, a scold she’d used on her younger sisters. Tension crackled between the two males. It added to her own. She changed topics, as keeping words flowing provided her some cover. “I received a letter from home today.”
“Oh,” Brennan said flatly.
His attitude doused her like cold water. She was never one to ignore matters—why should she now? “Jacque,” she said, setting down her sewing, “I am going to give thee a towel and soap. Go to the creek and take a bath.”
“I’d like a swim,” Jacque said, eyeing her.
“The creek is shallow but do thy best.” She went inside and came out with the towel and soap. “Don’t lose the soap in the creek. And don’t forget to wash behind the ears, the back of the neck, and hair.”
“I won’t.” He grabbed the towel and took off running in the direction Brennan had told him.
Brennan had risen when she had. Not meeting his gaze, she returned to her place on her chair and he eased back onto the wild grass and leaned against the tree trunk.
His nearness still affected her, but she bolstered her resolve. “Is Jacque thy son?” she pressed him again, taking up her needle and thread again, voicing the question perhaps uppermost in both their minds.
Brennan stared forward and did not reply with even a change of expression. The lowering sun glinted on the highlights in his hair. He needed a trim and she nearly reached out to lift the hair hanging over his collar.
“What business is it of yours?” he grumbled.
Instead of biting off his head, she bit off a thread. “I am merely concerned.” Not the truth, she admitted to herself. “I am not a gossip.” That much was true.
“He could be my son,” Brennan allowed grudgingly. “The time works out right.”
“I see.” That was all he was going to say? Obviously Brennan Merriday didn’t want to tell her—now. And did she want him to open up to her? Wouldn’t it be better to try to go back to where they had been—if possible?
*
She made a cold supper for them. Jacque ate his fill and then fell asleep, his damp head buried on his arms at the table. In the stillness broken by the sound of frogs at the nearby creek, Rachel tried not to stare at Mr. Merriday across the table from her. And failed.
Worry lines bisected his forehead and his shoulders looked tense. Again she resisted the impulse to touch his arm, speak comfort to him. She would have to fight
these foolish tendencies or he might leave that much sooner just to get away from her. She endured a sharp twinge around her heart.
“I don’t know what to think,” he said out of the blue.
She didn’t pretend to misunderstand him. “Today was a shock. But remember it was a shock to Jacque, as well.” She frowned deeply, feeling the hard lines in her face. “That man, that Jean Pierre, will reap a bitter harvest from his unkindness. Such public cruelty.”
“He did it to shame me.”
“And without a thought for the child.” The unkindness sliced Rachel to the heart. She knew Brennan would never abandon a child or treat anyone so thoughtlessly. Under his gruff exterior, Brennan had an innate honor. “This boy has lost much and he’s so young.”
“I get your meanin’.” Brennan rose. “I’ll take him to my loft.”
Rachel nearly objected. She had room for the boy, but he wasn’t hers. The chasm between her feelings for this man and what was appropriate in this situation spread further apart. “I’ll loan a pillow and blanket for him.”
“Much obliged.” Brennan shook the boy’s shoulder.
Jacque looked up, blinking.
“Take the pillow from Miss Rachel. We’ll head home now.”
“Don’t you live here?” the boy said, knuckling his eyes.
“No, that wouldn’t be proper. I live above the blacksmith shop,” Brennan said, accepting the light cotton blanket she offered him.
Rachel watched them walk down the track to town till they vanished from her sight. She wished to help but Brennan plainly had told her to keep her nose out of his business. Until he left town, though, he was her business. How did one stop having feelings for a man? He was a totally unsuitable man yet that didn’t make any difference to her heart.
*
Brennan’s nerves still stuttered from the scene earlier that day on Main Street. He led this boy he didn’t know, but who might be his only family, through the trees and the deserted town to the silent blacksmith shop. They found Levi sitting on his one chair, looking out over the river.
