Sarah My Beloved (Little Hickman Creek Series #2)

by Sharlene MacLaren

  A town of this caliber will not make you happy, Sarah. She winced and turned on her side, swallowing past the hard, dry lump in her throat and trying to ignore her need for the necessary. She'd never used an outdoor facility before moving to Kentucky, her home in Massachusetts having three separate bathrooms: one on the main floor, and two on the second.

  Releasing a weighty sigh, she yanked back the wool comforter and sat up. After getting her bearings, she snagged her velvet dressing gown from its nearby hook and hastily slipped into a pair of warm shoes. Next, she lit the little kerosene lamp beside her bed and crept to the doorway, hoping not to come face-to-face with the mouse she'd heard earlier.

  The house was dark save for the glow of remaining embers in the centrally located fireplace. When burning at full capacity, the fireplace kept the house warm and cozy. Now, however, even with her long robe wrapped snugly around her nightdress, Sarah felt the grip of winter's chill.

  She passed through the living room and the kitchen and had just put her hand to the back door when a voice halted her. "Going somewhere?"

  To say she was surprised to find her husband standing mere feet away was putting it mildly. Cold shock better described her emotion as she whirled to face him, her hand going to her heart in an attempt to slow its rapid pace. "I-c-couldn't sleep," she managed. "I thought you were in the barn."

  "I didn't mean to scare you." The moon's reflection traced the outline of his powerful body, making him appear dark and dangerous, even though she felt certain he wasn't. "I came in to feed the fire," he said in a gravelly voice. "Sorry to disturb you.

  "You didn't disturb me." A long moment of silence made her awkwardness increase. She cleared her throat. "It seems silly for you to walk from the barn to the house to feed the fire when I could just as easily tend to it."

  "No need," he answered, his face coming into view as he stepped closer. "You have your chores and I have mine. I'd just as soon keep it that way."

  "I see." The gruff manner in which he spoke went against her grain, but she managed to keep her tongue from retorting. There would be time enough later for discussing household tasks. In the meantime, she had more pressing needs. "Well," again, she cleared her throat, "I have need of the outdoor facilities."

  "Ali, and you think you can find your way?"

  "I'm sure I'll manage." It was embarrassing enough to have been caught unawares, but to be standing here discussing her basest of needs was downright humiliating.

  "It's a tricky path at night, a few dips here and there. You'll need a light so you don't twist an ankle on your way out. I should have told you where I keep the lantern." He stepped past her, his wool coat brushing against her velvet sleeve. The simple touch created a strange stir in the pit of her stomach. He opened the cabinet nearest the door and retrieved a lantern and a box of matches. Turning the wick up slightly, he struck a match against the rough wall, inserted the burning stick inside the globe, and ignited a low flame. That done, he handed her the lantern. "I'll walk with you."

  "That's entirely unnecessary," she balked, her face heating with embarrassment.

  "I don't mind."

  "I wish to walk alone."

  "Don't be mulish," he said. "Don't worry, I'll keep my distance once you go inside."

  Now she was mortified. "I'm not worried, and that is precisely why I choose to walk alone."

  In the lantern's dim light, she saw a muscle clench along the strong line of his jaw. Just then, she felt his hand seize her elbow as he escorted, or rather pulled, her out the door.

  "What do you think you're doing?" she shrieked into the icy night, suddenly unconcerned about the children waking. "I told you..."

  He stopped midway down the trail, yanked the lantern from her hand, and stared down at her. "And I told you I would take you. Now be quiet, woman, or you'll wake the bears."

  "The bears?"

  "Yes, the bears. Most are hibernating in their dens, but a few will wake up about this time of year, hungry for a bite to eat."

  "Bears?" she repeated.

  "And wolves-famished ones," he said with emphasis.

  "Wolves?"

  But he didn't say another word, just hauled her along toward the little shanty at the rear of the yard, holding the lantern in front of them.

  Indeed the path was narrow with several gullies and rises, and she had to admit to being thankful for his presence. Once he'd even had to catch her by the arm when she started to stumble. She felt certain the words I told you so were fighting to get past his mouth, yet he restrained himself.

  "I'll wait here," he said, stopping a short distance from the little building and handing the lantern back to her.

  Without a word, she took the final few steps.

  After tending to her needs as quickly as possible, shivering the entire time, she pushed open the heavy wood door, which slanted and squeaked on its hinges, and frowned. And when she meant to close it quietly, gravity pulled it shut with a loud thump. "That alone should wake the bears," she murmured.

  The tiniest hint of a smile washed across his stern face. "I've been meaning to fix that," he answered quietly.

  The first signs of daylight struck a straight path through Sarah's bedroom window. It was either that or the sounds of pans clanging and banging in the kitchen that woke her with a start. The first thing she did was open her eyes and stare at the blank wall she faced, familiarizing herself with her whereabouts. When the realization struck her that she was freshly married and waking up for the first time in her new home, she leaped out of bed. Fine way to start a marriage, she thought, especially after his comment last night about wanting to stick to the chores intended for each of them. She supposed the cooking chore fell to her. Already she'd failed.

  Racing across the small room to her yet unpacked trunk, she threw on the first dress she could find, a full-skirted, purple satin gown she'd purchased two years ago. It was the perfect day dress for Winchester's social circles, but undoubtedly i11- suited for Little Hickman. Bell-sleeved and decorated with a dipped sequined collar and lovely pearl buttons, it seemed an unlikely housedress. Perhaps she would shorten the sleeves later and replace the buttons with something more sensible.

  She ran to the door, then stopped dead in her tracks after skimming her fingers through her mass of auburn curls. Muttering to herself, she backtracked for a brush and quickly ran it through the tangled mess, then yanked a silver comb off the nearby dressing table and, after twisting her hair into a thick knot, wedged it firmly in place. Pinching her cheeks for color, she mumbled in disgust, "Oh, phooey, if he doesn't approve of my appearance, he can just look the other way."

  She took a deep breath for courage and opened the door. He stood in front of the stove, stirring something. Bacon and eggs? Whatever it was, it smelled wonderful, and her stomach growled right on cue.

  She didn't want to stare, but since his back was to her, it gave her the perfect opportunity. His black hair, yet uncombed, fell just over his shirt collar. As if he sensed she watched, he swept a large hand through the loose strands, then went back to tending the unidentified concoction.

  Feeling somehow guilty for watching, she quietly stepped forward. Without so much as a turn of his head, he mumbled, "I see you finally decided to get up."

  So this was how he greeted his wife on the morning after his wedding. Refusing to be intimidated, she swallowed a dry lump. "Good morning."

  "Is it?"

  "What are you making? It smells wonderful."

  "Breakfast."

  She chewed her lower lip. "I see that." She stepped up beside him, fully aware of his daunting presence, and looked into the fry pan. As she'd supposed, he was scrambling eggs on one side of the large pan and frying several strips of bacon on the other. A mound of fried potatoes lay warming on a hot plate beside the pan, covered with a thin towel.

  "It looks delicious."

  "How did you sleep?" he asked, ignoring her compliment.

  "Quite well." Quite terribly, actually. She wasn
't accustomed to a straw mattress, having always slept on downy feathers, but she thought it best to keep that tidbit of information to herself. To make matters worse, she'd been cold most of the night. Of top priority today was finding herself another blanket. She wondered if the children also shivered but were too afraid to let their uncle know. "And you?" she asked.

  "Fine." It seemed her husband was a man of few words. Well, she would just have to find a way to make him talk.

  "Have you seen anything of the children yet?"

  "They don't usually rise until they smell breakfast."

  "I see. Then I suppose they'll be appearing most any minute. Will they need help with dressing?"

  "They haven't yet." He reached into the cabinet above the stove and brought out some plates from behind a dusty curtain. She made a mental note to take down all the curtains that covered the cupboards and wash them first chance she got.

  "I see. Shall I set the table?"

  "Suit yourself," he said, walking to the little square table. "You'll find forks and spoons in that drawer by the stove. Hester always kept it..." He halted mid-sentence, his entire body seeming to go stiff. Since his back was to her, she couldn't determine his expression.

  "Hester?"

  "Uh, my wife," he said flatly.

  "It's all right if you mention her," Sarah said. "I'd like to hear about her."

  "It's not necessary"

  "I'm sure you must miss her deeply." And your son, she thought.

  When he didn't respond, just laid the plates on the table, she let the matter go. There would be plenty of time later for discovering his past.

  She pulled open the drawer, noting that she had to use force, and counted out enough spoons and forks, all tarnished and mismatched, for the four of them. There was no semblance of order for how they were stored, so she had to dig in the small wooden box to find each utensil. She made another mental note.

  Once they'd set the table, Rocky poured the food onto a large white platter and brought it to the table. "I'll see that the breakfast is taken care of from now on," she stated, straightening a napkin beside one of the plates then clasping her hands together at her waist.

  His back to her, he reached for the coffee pot on a back burner. "You do drink coffee, right?" His question implied she'd be foolish not to.

  Actually, she hated the stuff, but she supposed she could learn to adjust to its bitter taste. "Of course," she replied. "About the meals..."

  "I understand that you must have been exhausted this morning. Don't worry about it." He poured coffee into two mugs, picked them up, and brought them to the table.

  She glanced at the clock on the wall. It wasn't quite seven. Exactly how early did he expect her to rise every morning? She opened her mouth to ask the question just as Rachel appeared in the doorway, sleep still evident in her large blue eyes, her hair a shambles.

  "Good morning, Rachel," Sarah said, walking over to the girl. "Is your brother up yet?"

  Rachel shook her head. "He don't get up till I wake him."

  "I see." She peeked past the girl and noted her brother still sleeping snugly in his narrow bed, blankets stacked atop him. It pleased her to know that he appeared warm and cozy.

  "Did you sleep well?" Sarah asked, noting another narrow cot opposite her brother's, blankets drawn up, signifying the girl's attempt to make the bed. It wouldn't be long before the children would need separate rooms. She wondered if Rocky had considered that.

  "You best wake up your brother," Rocky said. "Breakfast is cooling fast."

  Rachel nodded and rubbed her eyes.

  "I'll go with you,,, Sarah offered, following the child into the little square room.

  Breakfast was a tranquil affair; the only sounds were the clanking of fork against plate and Sarah's occasional throat clearing between chews and swallows. Only sporadically did she glance up, and that was to smile at the children. It seemed that Rocky's failure to encourage her earlier attempts at conversation had earned him a measure of peace and quiet.

  For the most part, Rachel and Seth behaved themselves; Seth even attempted a couple bites of eggs when Rocky cast him a warning glance. The boy must have sensed that his uncle was in no mood for fighting on this first morning with his bride. Even Rachel had very little to say, astonishing in itself. She'd been especially quiet throughout the wedding ceremony and reception, but he'd figured that by morning she'd be back to her usual irritable self.

  Rocky rested curious eyes on the new Mrs. Callahan. She was clothed in some kind of glimmery, purple getup, and he tried to imagine her ever doing a stitch of work in it, or even working at all. Dainty features, gracefully carved, made up her perfect oval face. She had a streamlined little nose, straight and charming, a genial, soft-looking mouth, a gentle chin, and sparkling blue-green eyes that even now twinkled under a somewhat solemn expression. He wondered what she was thinking as she continued to eat in silence.

  When she looked up and caught him watching, her long auburn lashes swept down over rosy cheeks, giving her the appearance of innocence even though he'd seen her downright outspoken side. Had she any notion of the life that awaited her? Hickman was a place where dirt seemed a natural ingredient at every meal, and blood and sweat mingled with the drinking water. How long before she pulled up stakes and headed back East, tossing out the ridiculous notion that God had called her here for a reason? It would be nice to think that God had seen fit to bless him with a wife, and a pretty, refined one at that, but heaven knew God didn't owe him any favors.

  "Do you like eggs, Miss Sarah?" Seth's voice broke the blessed quietness.

  Sarah gave the boy a thoughtful look and set her fork on the edge of her plate. "Actually, I do, but I don't think I was fond of them as a child. I had to learn to like them." With that, she picked up her coffee mug and took a sip. She grimaced after swallowing, then set the cup down. It didn't seem to Rocky that she'd ingested more than an ounce of the dark brew.

  Seth leaned forward, his chin just coming to the rim of his plate, where his yet unfinished eggs had been neatly pushed to the other side. "Did your mama and papa make you eat ? em."

  Sarah's face flooded with softness. "No, no, they didn't force me. I think if they had I would have wound up hating them all the more." With that, her gaze veered toward Rocky. Was there a challenge hidden somewhere in her depths?

  Her shrewd manner unnerved him. What could he say that wouldn't make him out to be the bigger fool? He pushed his chair back and heard the grating squeak of wood against wood.

  "Are you finished?" Sarah asked, touching a napkin to her chin.

  "I am," he answered pointblank, standing.

  "Then it would be thoughtful to excuse yourself."

  Now he stared at her, disbelieving. "What?"

  She continued dabbing then faced him head-on. "If you want the children to mind their manners, you'll need to set the example."

  "You expect me to..."

  "It won't destroy you to say excuse me, Mr. Callahan," she urged with a hint of a smile. When he flashed a look across the table at Rachel, he found her grinning like a Cheshire cat.

  He paused a moment longer, having already stood to his feet, the fingers of both his hands steepled on the table. He pushed the chair out of the way. "Oh, all right, excuse me. How is that?"

  "Not very sincere, I'm afraid, but it will do. Perhaps you will have improved by the noon meal."

  Rocky felt his temper rise but knew his need to restrain himself. Outright anger would only give her an additional reason to lecture. He started to walk away, but halted when his wife rebuked him for having forgotten to push his chair under the table. Biting back a reply, he stepped over to the stool, bent to pick it up, and placed it under the table. "Will that do?" he asked with clear sarcasm.

  She smiled, her straight teeth glistening against the light of the kerosene lamp in the middle of the table. "Absolutely," she replied.

  He walked to the far side of the room, yanked down his hat from its nail, threw on his
heavy wool barn coat, slipped into his boots, and then made for the door, thinking to escape as quickly as possible. When he opened the door, a blast of winter wind smacked him square in the face.

  "Oh, Mr. Callahan," her voice trailed across the room, warring with the brisk winds, "when shall I expect you for the noon meal?"

  His hand still on the doorknob, he pivoted. "How aboutnoon-Mrs. Callahan?" He had all he could do to force back a sarcastic tone.

  Her auburn locks, pulled back into a knot and secured with a shimmery silver comb, rebelled against the severe style, their curly wisps falling helter-skelter about her glowing cheeks. Obviously flustered, she attempted to pull a few strands behind her ears. "Yes, of course, noon. Perhaps it is the evening meal I'm wondering about."

  "I can't say for sure on that. We'll talk about it later."

  Once again, he attempted to exit, knowing that the brittle air had already made its way into the little cabin. "Oh, Mr. Callahan, what is it you want to eat?" she asked.

  Now he gave a heavy sigh. "You decide that, but keep in mind I'll be good and hungry." Before taking another step, he asked, "You think you can manage without me?"

  An irate expression crossed her face. "Of course. I'm not a helpless balloonhead."

  Dewy grass, iced over from the frigid temperatures of the night before, crackled beneath his boots on his trek to the barn, echoing through the frozen, bracing air. Solid maples and oaks, naked of all leaves but for the few remaining brown ones that still clung to the ends of skinny branches, lined his narrow, well-worn path. They stood like giant unarmed soldiers against the bleak sky, idle and indifferent.

  Balloonhead? Her flowery vocabulary sometimes made it impossible to hold back the grins, but far be it from him to let on she amused him.

  Raw cold forced Rocky's head down. It seemed the only thing missing from this frosty Kentucky morning was the snow. So far, the white stuff had missed the entire upper region of the state, despite raging blizzards on all sides. Would their luck hold out, or did the dark, overcast skies and stirring winds warn of impending dire weather? Only time would tell.