Heartland Courtship

by Lyn Cote

  The woman shook her head. “Just talk to me. I’m afraid I’m not in good spirits.”

  Rachel thought secretly that hearing the Psalms would lift the woman’s spirits more than anything Rachel could think to say, but she kept that to herself.

  “I’m sorry thee isn’t feeling well.” Rachel thought about a topic that might interest the woman. “I just received a letter from my family. My stepmother is expecting another child later this year.”

  “You lost your mother?”

  “Yes, when I was just about to finish eighth grade.”

  “I’ve lost everyone but my Posey.” The woman blinked away sudden tears.

  Rachel had attempted to begin a happy conversation and here they were talking about death. She tried again. “I think my father may hope for a son at last. He has just me and my four young stepsisters.”

  “Your mother only had one child?” Almeria asked.

  “Yes, just me.”

  “What do you think of the blacksmith?” Almeria sent her a penetrating look.

  This abrupt turn startled Rachel. “He seems honest and hardworking.”

  “Humph. Everyone says so. Katharine and Ned can’t understand why I oppose him courting my granddaughter.”

  Should she feign ignorance? No, of course not. “Posey confided that thee preferred she marry a man with property.”

  “Exactly.” The woman managed to add some starch to her voice. “I don’t want her left with nothing again and when I may not be here to help guide her.” The woman’s face puckered but she kept control, brushing away a stray teardrop.

  Rachel was moved. “I think the Ashfords would do their best for her.”

  “Yes, but they have a daughter of their own to marry off and grandchildren in other states. They’ve been very kind to us. But this town isn’t filled with eligible young men as I had hoped.”

  Rachel considered the situation. And insight came. “If I may, I’d like to point out that there is no reason Mr. Comstock couldn’t stake a homestead claim. Why can’t a blacksmith own land, too?”

  The older woman glanced at her sharply. “Would he have time to prove up? That man works sunup to sundown six days a week as it is.”

  Rachel considered. “I have staked a homestead claim and I could not do the work myself to prove up. Mr. Merriday has refurbished my cabin and built a small, snug barn and cleared some more land for me. My claim is nearly proved up.”

  Rachel experienced a hitch of pain in her breath. The boy had complicated matters but she had no doubt Brennan would go soon. “Perhaps Mr. Merriday would help Mr. Comstock, as well.” And stay longer in town?

  The woman looked Rachel full in the face. “An excellent suggestion. Do you think Mr. Comstock would stake a claim?”

  “I think so.” Rachel lowered her eyes. “He seems very taken with thy granddaughter and I have no doubt he would make an excellent husband to her. He’s lived here several years and I’ve heard nothing but good of him.”

  And suddenly Rachel envied Posey Brown. She might be able to marry the man she had become attracted to. I will not.

  *

  The day went by with the usual chores but her tension over Brennan and Jacque mounted. Why didn’t Mr. Merriday tell her what had happened between them? And when should she show him Posey’s letter from her father?

  Finally, the day neared its close. Jacque ran off to “swim” in the creek, leaving Rachel and Brennan sitting in the shade on the bench outside her door.

  She decided directness was her only hope. “Jacque changed yesterday toward you. What did you say or do—”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  She heard more than his words. She heard the lingering pain from the war. Twice now she’d tended to Mr. Merriday’s physical injuries. How she longed to minister to his unseen wounds.

  “I’m sorry,” he said with regret. “I said that more sharp than I meant to.”

  She nodded, accepting his apology.

  “And I should just go ahead and tell you,” Brennan admitted. “I’m so used to hiding my past. But you deserve to know.”

  Rachel was afraid to even nod. Lord, give me wisdom and understanding.

  “I told Jacque that going to a slave auction when I was near his age turned me against slavery.”

  “I heard an account of one from a runaway slave,” she murmured solemnly. The account had horrified her.

  “Then I don’t got to spell it out for you. When Lincoln was elected and Mississippi seceded, all my neighbors formed a militia unit. I wouldn’t join. I had kept my feelings to myself till then. But I told them I couldn’t fight for slavery or for secession.”

  She heard more than the words; she heard the enormity of the day when he’d had to stand against his neighbors.

  “The only thing that saved my life was jumping in the Mississippi and swimming away.”

  A simple sentence and so much more behind it.

  “Thee has suffered much. Why did thee hide the truth from people here? From me?”

  He shook his head as if warning away a deerfly. “I get back bad memories—sometimes nightmares and sometimes in daylight even. Talking about it stirs them up I think. Besides, it wasn’t anybody’s business.”

  She heard what each of these words cost him. So she’d been right. He did have spells like other soldiers she’d met. “Thank thee for telling me.”

  “I want to ask you a favor, Miss Rachel.”

  Not another one. It seemed like everyone wanted a favor from her. She waited, saying, encouraging nothing.

  “I can’t stay here. I’m getting restless again…like before I hurt my wrist. Jacque would be better off with you. I’m not fit to raise a boy.”

  Caught by surprise, she felt her spine tighten as if touched by ice. “Mr. Merriday—” she began.

  And then the blacksmith walked into her clearing. “Good evening!”

  Rachel leaned back against the log wall, disgruntled at the interruption. “Good evening, Mr. Comstock,” she said with a sigh. “Why doesn’t thee pull the rocking chair out here and be comfortable?”

  The man evidently took this as a good sign because he beamed at her. Within moments, he had intimidated Brennan into taking the rocker for his rib’s sake and was sitting beside her.

  “I did speak to Posey’s grandmother today,” she said.

  Turning sideways, Levi looked intently into her face.

  “We discussed her objection to Posey marrying a blacksmith—”

  “She doesn’t like my trade?” Levi asked, looking startled. “Why?”

  “She doesn’t object to thy trade, merely that thee doesn’t own land. She does not want Posey in the future to be left with nothing but a forge—if anything would happen to thee.”

  The blacksmith seemed to take this as a blow. “That’s why she won’t let me court Posey?” He sounded mystified.

  Rachel touched his sleeve. “Thee must take this in context.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Because of the war, Mrs. Brown has witnessed her granddaughter lose everything her father had worked to provide for the security of his family. She doesn’t want Posey to find herself unprovided for again.”

  The big man chewed the inside of his cheek and pondered this.

  “I made a suggestion to Mrs. Brown,” Rachel continued. “I told her that thee could claim a homestead here if that’s what she required.”

  Levi turned sharply to her. “What did she say?”

  “She said that was a good idea. She said everyone vouches for thy sound character. It’s just a matter of owning land.”

  “I intended to stake a claim,” Levi said with audible relief, “just haven’t gotten around to it. And I’d have five years to prove up.”

  “I suggested to Mrs. Brown that Brennan helped me prove up my claim.” Realizing that she had used Brennan’s given name, abashed, Rachel did not look in Brennan’s direction. “And perhaps he might be persuaded to help thee raise a cabin befor
e winter. And begin cutting winter wood.” She looked at him then.

  Mr. Merriday glared at her.

  Levi swung to him. “I know you’re healing, but it wouldn’t take us long to put up a snug cabin before fall even.”

  *

  Brennan did not appreciate being put on the spot. But gazing into Levi’s hopeful face, he knew he couldn’t let down a friend. Friends were too rare in this hard world. “Sure. As soon as I can swing an ax again.”

  Levi leaped up. “Should I go tell Mrs. Brown that I’m going to stake a claim?”

  “I think,” Miss Rachel said, “thee should find a good claim nearby and stake it. Then go and show the paperwork to Mrs. Brown and Mr. Ashford and ask permission to court Posey.”

  Levi pulled Miss Rachel up and threw his arms around her, lifting her off her feet. “Thank you, Miss Rachel! You’ve made me so happy!”

  Brennan fumed at the man’s taking such liberties.

  Miss Rachel looked startled, but chuckled. “I think thee should say these words to Miss Brown, not me!”

  The big man laughed out loud.

  “What’s the blacksmith hugging Miss Rachel for?” Jacque asked, arriving in the clearing.

  “Miss Rachel did me a favor.” Putting her down, Levi looked like a different man as he thanked her again and started away.

  “Jacque, you go along with Levi and get up to bed,” Brennan said. “We probably got another busy day tomorrow.”

  Jacque looked as if he might object, but Levi scooped him up and tossed him onto his broad shoulder. “I’ll give you a ride!”

  Jacque objected but only a little as Levi began teasing him and asking him about fishing.

  Brennan, still resting in her rocker, watched Miss Rachel sit again.

  “Why did you volunteer me to work for Levi?” he asked, nearly snarling. “I just told you I’m restless.”

  She smiled at him in that way he didn’t like. “Restless or not, thee must stay till the letter comes from Louisiana. And I’m sure Levi will pay thee and thee can use the money to set up in Canada. Isn’t that right?”

  He fumed. The woman always had an answer and she was usually right. He hated that.

  “Mr. Merriday, I apologize.”

  Her gentle tone shamed him. She was so good, so kind, so special. He nearly leaned forward but his rib stabbed him. And he held back.

  A few moments of silence passed. He brushed away a stray mosquito.

  He looked at her then. He ached to tell her how he thought of her. But his mouth wouldn’t open.

  The golden cast of twilight bathed her. She was such a pretty woman. A man didn’t notice it right off because she…protected herself. Why was she so cautious? Didn’t she think a man could love her? Count himself lucky to win her?

  He shot up out of the seat, hurting his side. “I gotta git to bed.”

  She rose, too. “Thee must be very tired. Would thee like a cup of willow bark tea before—”

  “No, thanks.” He held up one hand. “See you in the morning.”

  “Stop.” She drew a folded paper from her pocket. “Take this.” She shoved it into his hand and moved out of reach. “Posey wants you to read it.”

  He tried to hand it back but she hurried into her cabin. “Good night,” she called and shut the door.

  Fuming at her managing ways, he shoved the letter into his pocket. Then he tried to walk as fast as he could without jarring his rib cage. He had indeed worsened his condition when fighting the fire. The toll of another day of pain hit him fully as he glimpsed the blacksmith shop.

  He slipped inside and up to his loft where Jacque was already sleeping soundly. Brennan stifled a groan as he lay down. His mind spun with thoughts of the day, of Miss Rachel, but thankfully his fatigue was mightier. His last thought was I must leave soon.

  *

  Brennan woke hours before dawn and turned over. Pain and his persistent regret hit him simultaneously. His side ached worse than before the fire. Something felt odd in his pocket. The letter. The letter Posey’s father had written that mentioned him.

  A sudden curiosity sparked. He looked around. There was enough moonlight to see to go down the ladder. He didn’t want to get up. Yet he couldn’t stop himself.

  Moonlight led him to the shelf near the door where the box of matches and candles sat. He felt around, removed a match, struck it, the sound loud against the night cries of frogs, toads and insects. He lit one fat candle, setting it on the corner of the shelf. He sat in the chair beside the open door to the river. He slid the letter out and opened it.

  July 4, 1864

  Dearest Wife and Daughter,

  I write to you on this Independence Day wishing that we could be together to celebrate the birth of our nation. I cannot believe the war to preserve the Union has gone on this long. I thought we’d be home in Tennessee long before this. I do not wish to complain. I am in a band of brothers. Most of us are outcasts because of our love for our nation, our whole nation.

  A welcome distraction comes. Brennan Merriday, the Mississippi man I’ve told you about previously, has managed to trap a few rabbits. And he is busily preparing them for the spit over our fire. Merriday’s a good man, run out of his town because he wouldn’t enlist in the local militia. He’s a stalwart fellow who speaks little but I don’t know anybody I’d want more at my back in a fight.

  Brennan’s eyes swam with sudden tears. He pressed his thumb and index finger to the bridge of his nose and willed away the outpouring. Now he remembered Posey’s father. He began to hear in his mind Clyde Brown’s voice speaking the words of this letter. The sorrow of lost comrades rolled over Brennan—names and faces of men who’d taken him in—let him be a part of them when he was an outcast.

  Of course, Clyde had spoken the truth—they’d all been outcasts in some way. He’d told them of the day in ’61 when he’d been attacked by his own outraged homefolk.

  His fingers wet from his tears, Brennan pinched the candle flame, extinguishing it. If only he could extinguish the memories that kept him from peace, from putting it all behind him. He sat in the dark many more minutes, then rose and climbed the ladder.

  Clyde Brown’s letter had shifted something inside him. He began to think of what he might do for a friend here and now. But was it the letter? Or was it the petite Quaker lady who had kept him here and who beckoned him even when he knew he could never be worthy of a woman like her?

  Chapter Eleven

  Brennan greeted Levi at another warm, sticky dawn and started to put into motion the half-formed plan that had come to him in the early hours of the morning. After all, he must do something while his rib healed. “I was thinking that I might look around for an unclaimed tract of land for you to stake.”

  Levi beamed. “I’ve been thinking about that, too. I was going to try to take off a few days, but…” The blacksmith raised both his hands.

  “That’s why I thought I could look for you. Miss Rachel just needs me to cut winter wood for her but with this rib, I can’t do that.” And he needed to keep away from Miss Rachel. He felt vulnerable to her in a new way he didn’t understand and didn’t want to examine.

  Levi nodded eagerly. “There’s some land near Noah Whitmore’s place. That’s not too far from town and my wife…” The man blushed. “If I find one, my wife would be near some nice women, Mrs. Whitmore and Mrs. Steward. That’s important to women. They need somebody to talk to.”

  Brennan felt his face break into a grin he couldn’t hide. Younger than he, Levi had not been old enough to fight and Brennan was glad the war hadn’t touched him. Levi would make Posey a good husband. A momentary twinge reminded him that he wouldn’t make anybody a good husband, least of all…

  Levi pointed out the trail near the Ashfords’ toward the northeast where Noah lived.

  Behind them Jacque splashed, wading out of the river, his face, bare feet and hands washed. “We going to breakfast?”

  Brennan almost said no. He really didn’t want to see Miss Rach
el today, but not to show up for breakfast at her house would shout to the surrounding village that something had changed. And not going when expected would be impolite to the fine lady. So Brennan nodded, but he must give some thought to how things were now and might be in the future. What exactly had changed he didn’t understand yet. But change had come, wanted or not.

  *

  Brennan walked beside Jacque into Miss Rachel’s tidy clearing. She stood outside, singing to a little brown bird. The bird was singing back to her. He stopped, riveted, and laid a hand on Jacque’s shoulder. The two waited and watched. Brennan half expected the bird to fly down and light on her hand like in a story. But the exchange lasted only a few more moments and then the bird flew away.

  “You were singing to that bird!” Jacque exclaimed, running toward her flat out.

  Miss Rachel smiled at him and the sun shone brighter. Brennan firmly took himself in hand. He must not let whatever had opened up inside him last night, when he was reading that letter, spill over on to Miss Rachel. He must not mislead the lady.

  “It was a humble thrush, but they can sing so prettily,” Miss Rachel said, leaning down and talking to Jacque in much the same way she’d sung to the bird.

  “Can you teach me that? How to sing to birds?”

  She looked to Brennan. “What does thee think, Mr. Merriday?”

  “I think he could—easy.”

  The boy looked up at him shyly. “You think so?”

  Brennan nodded, feeling a stirring around his heart.

  “How do I learn to do it, Miss Rachel?”

  “It is a skill that one must learn by himself. Thee must listen and then try to make the sounds. The younger the better, if thee wants to sing to the birds.” She chuckled. “My mother started me listening and trying to imitate the birds when I was much younger than thee.”

  Brennan patted the boy’s shoulder while he tried to stop looking at her but it was like trying to ignore the sun. The place where iron gates had stood inside him was now melting. He stiffened himself.

  She looked up then and caught him gazing at her. She lifted an eyebrow but smiled. “Come! Griddle cakes for breakfast! And I have some syrup my cousin Sunny gave me. She and Noah tapped sugar maple trees this March.”