Heartland Courtship

by Lyn Cote

  He wanted to look away from her, knew he should but found he couldn’t. He nodded. “I’m going to go sit in the shade.”

  “I will finish this and do likewise. I thought that Wisconsin would be cooler in the summer than Pennsylvania.”

  He shrugged. “Feels ’most like home to me.” The bitter thoughts of home pushed him away from her. He found the tree he’d patronized lately and settled under it, resting against the trunk. The dried grass crunched under him, reminding him of the rainless summer.

  Jacque had chosen a tree near the springhouse and looked to be playing with twigs and pebbles as if fighting a play battle.

  Brennan closed his eyes. He didn’t want to think but the ideas from the past days swirled in his head. What was he to believe? And what was he to do about it? And how could he stop himself from drawing closer to Miss Rachel? She didn’t need him or deserve his troubles.

  Chapter Seven

  After a late supper Brennan walked Jacque back to town to get the boy to bed. Jaqcue had washed up in the creek and was already rubbing his eyes and dragging his feet. Brennan’s midsection still roiled with confusion and his mind was a tornado of conflicting thoughts. Was Miss Rachel right? Would he just have to accept the child as his? Was there no way to find out the truth about this young’un?

  They found the forge empty. With relief Brennan sent Jacque up the ladder with only a wave of his good arm. Then tired but restless, he went outside to gaze at the wide river, hoping for some easing of his turmoil. The Mississippi was his old friend. He’d fished and swam in it as a boy. In the end it had saved his life that awful day in ’61.

  Forcing out the past and his own confusion, he concentrated on the blue water, now shadowed by the trees on the bank, the eddies swirling near the shore around rocks and driftwood—mesmerizing. A sandbar stretched in a long oval near the middle, and gulls hopped there, eating insects.

  Still worry pecked its way in. If it weren’t for his wrist and the boy, he’d leave town tonight and head north on foot if he had to. Brennan paced back and forth, telling himself he could not leave, not now, not without a word to Miss Rachel.

  The faint sound of a female laugh lifted Brennan from his thoughts. He looked for the source of this interruption and glimpsed Levi and Miss Posey Brown farther up the shore, walking together. At the romantic sight, a sour taste rolled over Brennan’s tongue, his agitation leaping higher, sharper.

  So Levi was making up to Miss Posey. Brennan watched them; the way they moved, careful not to brush against each other, her head bent coyly. He could almost imagine their conversation, a lot of words with not much said. Just words to be spoken so they could stay together because being near one another was what it was all about.

  Miss Rachel came to mind and Brennan thrust her image away, again facing the river, focusing on its steady current. His mounting tension wouldn’t be denied. He began to scratch his arm at the edge of his sling. He began pacing again.

  Gripping his arm so he wouldn’t scratch it anymore, Brennan noted that the couple said their goodbyes at the riverside, not near the store; Levi had not yet reached the point of launching the formal courtship. That would officially start when Levi approached Mr. Ashford and asked permission to court Posey. Bitterness from the past came up, more of the sour taste on Brennan’s tongue.

  Brennan kept walking, gripping his arm, trying to release the tension goading him.

  As Levi neared the forge with a silly grin on his face, Brennan felt one hundred, maybe two hundred years old. No part of him wanted to talk to Levi, a man who didn’t realize he was like a burly lamb being led to the slaughter. Brennan swung away to go in.

  Levi hailed him.

  With a supreme effort, Brennan turned back, trying to ease his edgy mood with a deep breath. “Levi.”

  Levi grinned, obviously bursting to tell Brennan about walking with Miss Posey.

  “I seen you two,” Brennan said out of friendship. That surprised Brennan. He hadn’t known anyone he considered a friend since the war ended and his militia company had broken up to head home. He halted.

  Levi’s silly grin broadened. “I saw her walking down the bank and I decided to take a chance and greet her.”

  Brennan reckoned the girl had probably come out for just that purpose. He knew now that men thought they did the courting. Ha. “How did it go?” Brennan forced himself to ask.

  Levi sank onto his chair. “She’s kind of shy and I’m not much of a talker. But she told me about her home in Tennessee and how sad she was that they couldn’t go back. I guess somebody seized their place during the war since they considered her father, who fought for the Union, a traitor to the South.”

  With a pang Brennan wondered who had taken over his own father’s land. Had Jean Pierre told the truth? Was everyone in his and Lorena’s families truly dead or scattered? He shoved his good hand through his hair. “That’s too bad,” Brennan said, manfully keeping up his part of the conversation.

  “She sure is pretty and she has a sweet way of speaking.”

  Brennan thought a nod of the head would suffice for this. Then he felt an easing in his chest. Somehow speaking to this man with an uncomplicated life helped Brennan. He looked at Levi, who was staring at his sling.

  “How’s the wrist?” Levi asked.

  Brennan had been so tangled in his inner worries, he’d forgotten all about the sprain. He moved the wrist. “Better. It’s healing.”

  “Good. Where’s the boy?”

  “In the loft.”

  Levi looked at him, his mouth shut holding back something.

  “Go ahead and spit it out,” Brennan grumbled, afraid to trust the way his stress was leaking out. He stooped down, pressing his back against the wall, breathing almost normally.

  “Maybe I’m talking out of turn,” Levi said with reluctance, “but I was thinking. Where the boy was born, would anybody have kept a record of his birth?”

  Brennan stopped just short of rebuffing this suggestion—when it occurred to him that Lorena’s family had all births and deaths recorded in the local parish church records. He knew the names of the church and the priest. “Why didn’t I think of that?” He couldn’t hide the rise in his voice.

  Levi looked surprised but pleased that his suggestion had found favor. “You think it’ll work?”

  “I do.” The momentary lift evaporated and fatigue from the heat and worry nearly pushed him over onto the ground. “I’m goin’ up to bed.” While I can.

  “’Night.”

  Brennan started up the ladder and then paused. He heard something—a whimpering sound. Was some small animal caught in a trap nearby? Then he realized it was the boy in the loft, crying. The sound caught him around the chest like a chain. Brennan looked at their situation from the boy’s point of view: abandoned by family and stuck with a man he thought a coward. Poor kid.

  Finding out one way or the other what was really true would help both him and the boy. If he found out the boy was his, he’d deal with that. If the boy wasn’t his, he’d make sure the boy got a good home. Maybe with Miss Rachel?

  *

  Very, very early the next morning, Rachel stared at Amanda and Posey. The rooster had barely announced dawn. Rachel had just finished dressing and needed to start a batch of ladyfingers, a light little cake for which she’d had a few requests. And she wanted this all done before Mr. Merriday came.

  She needed company now like she needed salt in her sugar.

  With a fixed, intent gaze, she silently prompted the storekeeper’s daughter to state her reason for coming at such an early hour. Emotion rolled inside her as she thought of Brennan and Jacque and what they’d gone through in the past few days. Would Brennan appear this morning or not?

  Amanda finally broached the reason for their untimely arrival. “I was thinking we could help you this morning fixing your baked goods.”

  Posey stepped forward. “Miss Rachel, I come to ask if you’d teach me to bake, too.”

  Rachel gazed at
the two hopeful faces. Though Rachel did not think Mrs. Ashford would like this, she couldn’t turn the girls away.

  She waved them toward the outside basin. “Always wash hands before baking.”

  Soon the two girls hurried inside. Each donned an apron she’d brought along.

  Rachel glanced at the wall clock her grandfather had given her when she turned sixteen. She must get this batch done before the heat of the day made whipping the egg whites impossible. She showed them how to use a wire whisk and all three began beating egg whites into white glossy peaks.

  Brennan and Jacque appeared at the door, earlier than expected, of course.

  Immediately Rachel noted the man had something on his mind. She had come to know his moods, a dangerous realization.

  If the girls hadn’t been here, she’d have tried to find out immediately what concerned him. “I’m sorry, Mr. Merriday. Breakfast will be a little late—”

  “Not to worry, Miss Rachel,” Brennan replied. “The boy will milk the cow and get busy with chores. Call us when yer ready.”

  “Please check the outdoor oven and see if it’s getting hot.”

  Brennan nodded and headed toward the back.

  The egg whites whipped up pretty well though sweat beaded on the white mounds. “I must move quickly. Just watch.” Rachel swiftly folded the egg whites into the dry ingredients and then loaded a pastry cloth and began piping the batter into “fingers” on baking sheets. Soon the batter had been piped onto all six pans. “Please pick up two sheets each and follow me.”

  The three of them marched out the back door, through the covered walkway to the outdoor oven. There the three of them shoved the sheets inside and Rachel secured the door.

  Then the brusque voice of Mrs. Ashford sounded. “Where is Miss Rachel? I’m looking for my daughter and her cousin.”

  Rachel’s stomach suffered a sudden jolt.

  “Oh, no,” Amanda breathed, sending Miss Rachel an imploring glance. “How did she find out where we went?”

  Rachel waved for the girls to follow her and she marched back inside and began clearing away the mess from the table. If Mrs. Ashford wanted to talk to her, she would have to find her.

  “Miss Woolsey,” Mrs. Ashford said, standing in the doorway, “I’m looking— Oh, there you are, girls. What possessed you to come here before breakfast? I didn’t know where you’d gone, but the blacksmith saw you walking this way.”

  Rachel couldn’t come up with anything but the truth. Social prevarication was not her strong point.

  “We took a walk,” Posey offered.

  “And then we realized Miss Woolsey was probably baking—” Amanda continued.

  “So we asked if we could help,” Posey finished. “She let us help her whisk egg whites for ladyfingers.”

  Rachel could see the woman’s mind working—Mrs. Ashford eyed the aprons the girls were wearing. They were evidence of planning to come here. And the hour was much too early for a social call, as the girls well knew. Well, this was not Rachel’s doing.

  “I’ll bring some to the store in thanks for their help,” Rachel said, hoping the three would leave—now. “I must prepare breakfast and make sure I don’t let my ladyfingers burn.” With that, she swept the bowls and implements from the table and set them outside in the washbasin for later.

  What could Mrs. Ashford do but leave? Amanda and Posey went with her and Rachel sighed in silent relief. Dustup on her doorstep averted. She noticed that on her way through the yard, Posey said something to Brennan and he didn’t look pleased. What had the girl said?

  Leaving behind speculation, she cut strips of salt pork and laid them in the frying pan. Their fragrance drew in the two males. “Mr. Merriday, will thee watch these? I must go and fetch my ladyfingers before they become too brown.” She hurried outside, even surer the man had something on his mind.

  She returned, slid the slender little cakes onto cooling racks. Mr. Merriday brought the other trays back in two quick trips. She then finished making breakfast and asked them to be seated.

  *

  Brennan’s mouth watered as he watched Miss Rachel slide four slices of crisp pork onto his plate and then add three soft fried eggs and two slices of golden toast. The boy got a smaller version for his breakfast. Brennan heard the tiny moan of pleasure the boy made. Brennan knew just how he felt. Miss Rachel had a way of making even simple food more than regular tasty. Sitting down, Miss Rachel said grace and they began to eat.

  As his hunger became satisfied, Brennan went back to ruminating about the request he must broach to this lady today. He’d have to get the boy busy doing something while he talked to her alone.

  He didn’t want to ask her, but his command of written English was minimal. There had been no town schools anywhere near him in Mississippi. His aunt Martha had taught him his letters and numbers and how to print them and do simple arithmetic—enough for a Mississippi farm boy.

  Jacque finished his meal first and at Miss Rachel’s silent prompt, wiped his face with his napkin.

  “Jacque, you can go outside and start looking for eggs,” Brennan instructed.

  Miss Rachel raised her eyebrows but said nothing.

  “Thank you, Miss Rachel, for the good eats,” the boy said.

  Brennan felt a tingle of pride at this show of unprompted good manners.

  “Thank thee, Jacque.”

  The boy left, obediently carrying his plate and mug out to the basin.

  “So, Mr. Merriday, while thee tells me what is on thy mind, I will take a look at that wrist.”

  She was a knowing woman all right. But he didn’t want her fussing over him. She did anyway.

  She sat on the bench beside him. She drew his arm from the sling and held his hand in both of hers.

  He tried to ignore the reaction he had to her gentle but sure touch. It’s just because nobody ever touches me, he told himself. Especially not a pretty woman with soft hands.

  She probed carefully with both thumbs over and around his wrist, sweet agony. The scent of bacon still hung in the air but he also detected just a breath of some floral scent. Her head bent over his wrist, her soft hair grazed his nose.

  “So you done fiddlin’ yet?” he asked, goaded.

  “The wrist appears to be healing well,” she announced. “But thee hasn’t told me what is on thy mind.”

  The time had come. He gathered his gumption. “I need,” he began, “to get a letter to the parish priest in my…wife’s hometown in Louisiana. The priest would have a record of the boy’s birth and parentage.” The words had come out in a rush and he burned with embarrassment.

  She gazed at him steadily in that way of hers. “I see, and with your wrist compromised it’s difficult to write.”

  Did she believe that or was she offering him a plausible excuse for his not writing the letter? Miss Rachel was thoughtful that way.

  “I’d appreciate it,” he said, not saying yea or nay about his reason for asking.

  “What is the name of the priest, church and town?” she asked briskly. She rose and reached for a pad of paper and pencil she kept on a shelf. She jotted down his answers. “I’ll write it today and send it off. This is an excellent idea. The truth shall set us free.”

  He’d heard that but didn’t really agree. He’d told the truth once and had nearly died for it. He stood up, galvanized. “I’m going to look for downed branches and the like with the boy. Good kindling for the winter.”

  She hopped up too as he’d moved the bench. “Excellent. I must be busy with my ladyfingers.”

  They rarely stood so close to each other and the air between them appeared to waver, an odd feeling of connection. He tried to move but was captured by the sight of little beads of perspiration on her upper lip, which drew his gaze down to her mouth as pretty as a rosebud, soft pink and…

  Abruptly, he nodded in assent and headed straight for the door. Outside he pulled on his hat and scanned the yard. The boy was carrying a full basket of eggs toward the cabin
. “Let’s go. We’ll gather some downed wood.”

  He walked rapidly toward the road and headed north of town, Jacque soon at his heels. Again he wished he’d been able to leave town when he wanted to. Without the boy here, last night he would have bolted for sure. Staying around a special woman like Miss Rachel was giving him foolish ideas.

  And now he’d just asked Miss Rachel to contact Lorena’s home place. This could stir up the past. Already his stomach wanted to reject his breakfast. He forced down the sensation.

  He had to know if the boy was his and the boy needed to know it, too. Another worry niggled. Did Miss Rachel think him completely illiterate? Shame burned his cheeks and he lengthened his strides, hurrying the boy.

  *

  A week later Miss Rachel and Jacque stood outside, she washing and he drying the breakfast dishes.

  She found herself chewing her bottom lip. This morning, First Day or what most called Sunday, she would as usual attend worship at the schoolhouse and this afternoon go to the church picnic, a social occasion where she could get to know more of her neighbors. She was trying to come up with a way to persuade Jacque and Brennan to come, too. Her earlier invitation had been met with silence. She glanced over her shoulder to where he lounged against a tree in its shade.

  Brennan cleared his throat. “Jacque, I decided you’re going to church and the picnic with Miss Rachel like she asked. You mind your manners. You’ll like it. I remember church picnics. Lots of good food and kids playin’ tag.”

  Jacque didn’t reply, merely stared at him, looking confused.

  Rachel was just as surprised. She hadn’t expected him to allow Jacque to go. “Perhaps thee would like to come, too?” she asked, her heart suddenly speeding up.

  “My wrist’s healed and I got plans for today,” he said, rising. “I’m going to take a walk. Maybe fish a bit.” Then he turned and headed up the road away from town.

  Unhappy with this response, Rachel handed Jacque the final spoon to dry. She looked down at him. He looked more than usually cheerful and she guessed it was because he wore his new clothing and she’d cut his hair. Worry nipped her. The scene on the main street, when that awful man had so rudely abandoned him, and Jacque’s thick Southern accent, would not be ignored.