by Lyn Cote
“I told you—you ain’t my father, but people think you are. They think you fought for the Confederate army. That’s why that kid called you a stinkin’ Reb. But I know the truth. You’re a coward. You didn’t fight for the Cause, for the South.” With that, the boy leaped from his place and bolted outside.
Mr. Merriday rose, looking ghastly white.
“Perhaps,” Rachel said uncertainly, “it would be best to let him cool off.”
Brennan sank back down. Several minutes passed before he could speak.
She didn’t know what to say so she said nothing.
“How long do you think that letter will take to get to Louisiana?” he asked.
“As little as a week, as long as a month. One never knows.”
“And we don’t know how long it will take to get an answer.” Merriday lifted his mug of coffee. “I wanted to be in Canada before the end of summer.”
“Canada?” Somehow the country sounded farther away to Rachel than it really was.
Draining his cup, Mr. Merriday rose. “Yes, I’m sick of the war. And nobody here can forget it.” Though he spoke quietly, each word vibrated with deep emotion. “I want to go where nobody fought in it and nobody cares about it.”
“But thee fought in it and thee cares about it.”
He glared at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Thee can leave America and the war, but can thee take them out of thyself? Both had a part in who thee has become.”
“But nobody would keep bringin’ the war up to me.”
Rachel tried to think of how to explain what she meant to him but couldn’t bring up the words. She changed her approach. “If Jacque is thy son, he is a gift, not a penance. And thee is Brennan Merriday, and a good man, a worthy man.”
“To you, maybe. Not to anybody else—least of all, this boy. And you don’t know what happened between my wife and me…” He bowed his head.
Well, that stopped her. She didn’t know and he didn’t look like he was going to tell her.
He stood. “You’re a good woman, Miss Rachel. But you can’t make this world all nice and sweet like one of your cakes. It doesn’t work that way. I’ll go to Canada. It can’t be any worse than here.”
“That day when thee fixed my roof,” she began hesitantly, but this needed to be addressed, “something happened, something inside thee…”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” And he left.
She sighed, lifting her coffee mug to her lips. So that’s where he planned to go. The only problem with his plan was that he carried the war with him. Anybody could see that. And if the child proved to be his blood, he’d be taking with him a child scarred by the war to Canada, too.
She sipped her coffee though it had gone cold. Running away from problems never solved them. Perhaps someone might say she ran away from her problems in Pennsylvania, too. But they’d be wrong.
*
Brennan tried to focus on the day’s chores. He was milking the cow when he heard the sound of a boat whistle. Not usual this early in the morning, but he finished milking and helped Miss Rachel load her trays of cinnamon muffins and rolled her cart into town.
Jacque shadowed them, but stayed out of reach. The boy’s words from breakfast mocked Brennan. His son, or this boy, hated him because he was a coward who hadn’t fought for the Cause. If he only knew the truth…But no one here knew the truth and he would never speak it. It was nobody’s business.
Dockside, Miss Rachel quickly sold out. Counting the coins from her bucket, she smiled. “I’ll have to make some candy in case another boat comes through. I never want to disappoint customers. Product excellence and consistent supply are necessary to success,” she recited as if reading from a book.
He grumbled and steered the empty cart for home.
The young gal Posey came running out of the store. “Mr. Merriday! Mr. Merriday!” she called out, waving a letter.
Instead of slowing so Posey could catch up with them, he picked up his pace. There was nothing she had to say he wanted to hear.
“Be polite,” Rachel hissed into his ear. She tugged on his arm, insisting wordlessly that he stop.
He paused, grumbling into her ear, “What now?”
“I knew I’d heard your name before, Mr. Merriday!” Posey exclaimed for all the world to hear.
Brennan steamed as he watched people coming out of stores, stopping to listen to the fool girl. Did she have to choose the main street of town to blab her mouth off? He began to push the cart, hurrying away from her.
“I recalled this morning on the way home that I had read your name in my father’s letters while he was in the Union Army. And I found it!” She waved the sheet of stationery again. “You knew my father! You were in the Kentucky Militia with him and fought for the Union! Mr. Merriday, you’re not a Confederate at all!”
Brennan did not imagine the upset this pronouncement released. But his inner outcry overwhelmed the noise and sudden commotion around him. He had eyes for only one person—the boy. He glimpsed him through the people who gathered around. The boy looked stunned and then bolted. Apparently he’d known only that Brennan hadn’t fought for the South—not that he’d fought for the North.
No! Brennan dropped the cart handles and raced after him, ignoring the people who tried to speak to him. This town was just bad news all around. He’d never been recognized as more than a drifter, a Southerner. He’d kept the truth hidden. Too much to explain. Too much to expose.
He tried to catch the boy but Jacque was fleet of foot and soon disappeared into the trees. Brennan’s heart pumped blood and he ran full out. “Jacque! Wait!” And then thinking of the vast forest around them, he shouted, “Jacque, stop! You’ll get lost!”
*
Rachel stood frozen beside the abandoned cart, watching Mr. Merriday and Jacque vanish from sight.
“Why did they run away?” Posey asked, sounding dumbfounded. “This is good news, isn’t it?”
Released from her shock, Rachel turned to face the young innocent. “Matters about the war that tore our nation in two are never easy.” She picked up the push handles of the cart and started in the direction Mr. Merriday and the boy had run. “Thee of all people should know that.”
Posey kept up with her. “But I wanted to read him the letter. Father said—”
Heat went through Rachel in waves as she thought of Mr. Merriday’s shock at having his private affairs shouted on Main Street. Rachel lifted a shoulder. “I think thee should stop now. Mr. Merriday is a very private man and just days ago, his son…Jacque was abandoned here in a very public scene. Thee should have gone to him privately.” People hearing her words began to drift away as if caught eavesdropping.
Posey blushed. “I’m sorry… I didn’t think…” She stopped keeping pace with Rachel. “It’s just everybody thinks he was a Confederate, looks down on him and…”
Rachel shook her head and kept walking. The news that Mr. Merriday had not fought for the South surprised her and didn’t surprise her.
Something awful had happened to him in his home place, something that had torn him from his family and turned them against him. Posey’s revelation could explain what that had been. Had Mr. Merriday been cast out because he didn’t believe in secession?
But this eye-opener would make matters even more difficult between the man and his son. Jacque had berated him for being a coward and not fighting for the South. What did he think of his father fighting for the enemy, the North? That was no mystery. His reaction had been clear and swift.
*
Brennan raced after the boy, frantic. He must explain what had happened, how he’d come to fight for the North. The dark head disappeared into the mass of trees north of town.
Brennan ran on, branches slapping him in the face, grazing his hands. The boy disappeared from sight. Children could get lost in the thick forest and never be found—alive. He ran, though his mind tried to tell him to stop and listen—think.
He s
tumbled over a tree root and fell hard, flat on his chest. Hitting more tree roots knocked the air from his lungs. For a moment he was breathless. The strength flew out of him and he was weak again. “Jacque!” he tried to cry out over and over. “Jacque!” Then he fell silent, gasping for air and hurting with each gasp.
Finally he listened and heard nothing except his own breathing. Failure closed in around him like an impenetrable smoke, choking him. Would he ever have the chance to explain? And now he knew he wanted this child to be his. Then he heard her voice, not shouting, just saying his name.
“Mr. Merriday,” Miss Rachel summoned him. “Mr. Merriday.”
At first he didn’t reply. Then he dragged himself to his feet. “Here,” he said, suddenly feeling a sharp jab as he said the word. He pressed a hand to a rib, a tender spot he hadn’t pinpointed before.
Miss Rachel stepped out from the surrounding trees. “Did thee catch him?”
Do you see him? he snapped silently. Brennan hung his head, hiding his frustration, and rubbed his side.
“Did thee fall?” she asked in so calm a voice.
Her question irritated him. “Of course I fell.” The outburst cost him another, sharper, deeper jab of pain.
“Thee must have hurt thyself.” She approached him and put out her hands to touch his chest.
He grabbed her hands to stop her. Then the need to be near this woman swept away all sense. He folded her in his arms and held her close. Bending his head, he buried his face in the crook of her neck, reveling in the sweet scent of lilac. In this unpredictable and hard and dreadful world, this woman stood in stark contrast—steady and soft and kind. He couldn’t push himself away; he held her.
“Brennan,” she whispered at last.
The sound of his given name in her gentle voice jerked him back to propriety. He released her and stepped back. “I beg pardon.” He couldn’t meet her eyes.
“Thee has just experienced an upsetting…incident. Posey should have shown more…discretion. But the milk is spilled and it can’t be hidden.”
Her now matter-of-fact voice contrasted with her soft voice as it had said his given name. Night and day. He felt like kicking himself. He might have misled this fine lady into thinking he had feelings for her. He didn’t have feelings for her, for anyone. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, ignoring a whisper asking why he’d just held her in his arms—if he didn’t have affection for her.
“Thee was distressed,” she said briskly. “Now let’s get back to the road.”
“What about the boy?” he asked, not moving.
“Blundering about in the woods will not bring him home,” she said in a reasonable tone.
The reasonable tone rasped his tender nerves. The child was his responsibility, not hers. “He could get lost—”
“He is able to climb a tree and when he does, he will see the smoke from a chimney and find his way back. He will come home when he gets hungry enough.”
How could she be so calm? The urge to shake her nearly overcame him. Instead he followed her out of the woods to the road to her cabin. The two of them walked home, not speaking. He let her push the cart because his side was paining him. Frustration smoldered within. He’d just got the use of his wrist back and now this?
She rolled the cart near the cabin and then waved him inside. “Please sit at the table.”
He did so with ill grace. He wanted to yell at someone, Posey Brown for instance, but he couldn’t yell at Miss Rachel.
She gently moved away the hand he had pressed to his side and then even more gently pressed the area. When she hit the right spot, he gasped.
Then she straightened and stared at him, barely taller than he was sitting down. “I think thee has cracked or sprained a rib.”
He groaned deeply and then regretted it. Shallow breathing was the less painful course.
“Take off thy shirt,” she said, turning toward her linen trunk.
“What?” Again he regretted speaking sharply.
“My father fell once and I will do for thee what my stepmother did for him.” She brought out a length of muslin, a wide bandage it appeared. “I will bind thy chest firmly. Please remove the shirt.”
Brennan couldn’t meet her gaze, but obeyed her reluctantly. It felt improper for him to be shirtless here alone with her.
*
Rachel most certainly did not want Mr. Merriday to sit in her cabin shirtless. She still reeled from the sensations and emotions his embrace had released inside her. “Raise thy arms level so I can bind this around.”
She tried to tightly wrap his chest without touching or looking at him. An impossible task. An unnerving task. He had a fine chest and shoulders, so smooth to the touch. Her eyes followed the line dividing his tanned neck and untanned skin of his chest and upper arms. She chastised herself for noticing. Why had he drawn her into his arms?
No doubt it had been a moment of anguish and he merely had needed the comfort of another human being. A deflating thought. She finished binding his chest tightly. She tied the bandage neatly and securely. “That should help thee breathe with less discomfort.”
He nodded and lowered his arm and drew on his shirt quickly, as if embarrassed and pained. He stared down at the table. “You really think he’ll come back by himself?”
“Yes, but not until he’s exhausted himself and is hungry and thirsty. He will not be happy and will probably be rude to us.”
He looked up at her then, just a slight tilting of his chin. “He thought I was a coward. They all did when I wouldn’t enlist in the local militia. My wife left me over it and they… I left town.”
His explanation did not feel complete. She could imagine the commotion, the fury his refusal may have caused. Secession had stirred the whole nation to a fever pitch. “Thee didn’t believe in secession?”
“Or slavery. I was against slavery.”
This startled her. Most Southerners who fought for the North had been against secession, not against slavery. Indeed Mr. Lincoln had not advanced emancipation till well into the conflict in order to keep the border states, the states that still held slaves but fought for the Union. Men like Posey Brown’s father.
Rachel looked at Brennan Merriday with new eyes. And she couldn’t stop herself. She leaned over and kissed his forehead. “Bless thee,” she whispered. Shocked at herself, she pulled back and bustled over to the chest to return the length of wide bandage she hadn’t used, chastising herself with every step.
“I don’t think he’ll come back,” Mr. Merriday said.
“We will see if I’m right. I hope I am.” Please, Father, let me be right. Bring Jacque home soon.
Chapter Nine
Second by second, the endless day passed. A day of watching, waiting to see a thin boy with black hair walk into her clearing. But Rachel and Brennan waited in vain. Now Rachel watched the sun’s rays glimmer through the trees. The last of her energy faded with the day.
“It’s late. Thee must go,” Rachel said at last, not wanting to send him away but knowing she must. She didn’t want to think of the gossip that would come if townspeople didn’t see him return to the blacksmith shop before dark.
She struggled with herself. She wanted to fold him in her arms and comfort him.
Brennan stared at her. “I shoulda kept going on after him.”
She shook her head. She even imagined kissing Brennan’s face and smoothing back his hair… She stopped her unruly mind there. Such thoughts. “Thee lost sight of him. Stumbling around in the forest could injure thy rib more and probably not find Jacque anyway.”
He exhaled with visible pain and left without a further word.
She watched him go, his head down, his step slow. Her feelings for him were increasing, causing her to think about him when she should not. And she knew she stood in danger of being deeply hurt when he left town. But that didn’t seem to matter to her heart.
*
Brennan tried to come up for air from the gloom smothering him, but could not. No
w he realized that the boy meant something to him. He couldn’t think why. Jacque might not even be his son, his blood. But he’s from home. He’s my responsibility. And he’s been treated bad and I can help make that up to him—if he’ll let me.
Again he felt Rachel in his arms. He’d forgotten how soft a woman felt. Grimly he shut down his mind. He’d been foolish beyond measure to reach for her when he had no intention of staying and was unworthy of her. He’d behaved like a cad.
When Brennan reached town, he was glad to see the street deserted. The saloon was quiet but held no attraction for him. He didn’t want to talk to anybody. He slipped into the blacksmith shop, hoping Levi wouldn’t hear him.
But Levi had evidently been watching for him. The big man stood in the doorway, his back to the river.
Brennan halted, staring at him, suddenly breathing faster.
“The boy didn’t come back?” Levi asked.
“No.” Brennan hid the deep heart spasm this caused him. He pressed a hand to his side as if that was where he hurt.
“Come through and sit out riverside,” Levi invited. “I heard about you serving for the Union, but I won’t talk you to death.”
Relief rolled over Brennan. Levi had sense. Brennan realized then that while he didn’t want to talk, he didn’t want to be alone either. Imagining the boy alone in the coming darkness clawed at him. I should have told him myself, told him all what happened. He deserves the truth.
Levi waved Brennan outside into the breeze by the river.
Brennan joined his friend there, sitting as they usually did, watching the final flickers of the sunset and the blue water turning to ink. Brennan cradled his side and tried to banish Jacque’s tortured face from his mind, banish the touch of Rachel’s hair against his face.
“At least it’s not cold or storming,” Levi commented after a while.
“Yeah.” No, the storm churned inside the boy.
“And Miss Rachel’s been feeding up the boy. Won’t hurt him to go a night without supper.”
Brennan nodded, his throat too tight for words.
“You move like you hurt yourself.”
“Tripped. Might have cracked a rib.”
