Mary and the Fighter (Prairie Tales Book 2)

by Kit Morgan

  Mary and the Fighter

  Prairie Tales Book 2

  Kit Morgan

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Kit Morgan

  Mary and the Fighter

  (Prairie Tales, Book Two)

  by Kit Morgan

  © 2018 Kit Morgan

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without permission in writing from the publisher. All characters are fictional. Any resemblances to actual people or livestock are purely coincidental.

  Cover design by Angel Creek Press and EDH Designs

  License Note

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  To Mari, our wonderful waitress, and the rest of the Diamond Lake Resort staff who took such good care of my daughter and I as we both had to work during our camping trip. Me, on this very book, and my daughter on a ton of photo editing. We thank you for your wonderful hospitality and courteous attention. Especially after I had a fight with a wasp. He won by the way …

  Prologue

  Somewhere on the Oregon Trail, 1849 …

  Folks belonging to Mr. Kinzy’s wagon train gathered around the campfire in the Wallers’ camp, awaiting a story. The doctor and his wife, Sarah, had shared a few of their adventures with them several nights ago, including how they met and fell in love. Now it was someone else’s turn. The question of the evening was, whose?

  “I think Cyrus should go next,” Frank Turner said. “Or how about you, Jefferson?”

  “Me?” Jefferson Cooke said. “But Honoria and I just got married. Besides, I think all of you know the story behind that.” He leaned toward his new bride, took one of her hands in his, and kissed it.

  “All right, then how about you, Wilfred?” Mabel Turner asked.

  “Wilfred,” his wife Irene drawled, her voice laced with warning.

  Wilfred’s eyes darted around the growing circle of pioneers and then fixed on his wife. “I didn’t say a word, Irene. Not gonna.”

  She relaxed and sat on a campstool. She was a strange one, but boy could she cook! However, many of the women were curious as to why she was so grouchy. Had been for most of the journey west.

  “What about you Paddy?” Jefferson said.

  Mr. Mulligan chuckled and waved a hand. “No, there’s not much to tell.”

  “Not much to tell?” His wife said in shock. “Why, ye scoundrel!”

  “Now Mary, that was a long time ago,” he said.

  “Not so long ago as Doc and Sarah’s story.” She looked at the circle of people. “Eighteen thirty-nine. That’s when we married.”

  “Why, that’s only ten years ago,” Honoria, Jefferson’s wife said. “Do tell us.”

  Mr. Mulligan, a strapping Irishman who looked to be in his mid-thirties, blushed. “Like I said, there’s not much to tell …”

  “Oh, huff and puff!” His wife said. “There’s plenty to tell!”

  He smiled at her. “Maggie used to say that.”

  She smiled back. “Aye, usually when she was mad at the squire.”

  “The squire?” Doc Waller said. “Who is he?”

  “The man that owned me,” Mary said casually.

  “What?” Several women said at once.

  “Owned you?” Mrs. Dunnigan barked. “What do you mean, owned you?”

  “Well, ye might as well know that I came to this country as an indentured servant.”

  Honoria gasped. “No.”

  “Oh, aye,” she said. “But Paddy here, he won me.”

  “Won you!” Mrs. Dunnigan said and reached for her weapon of choice. A trusty cast iron ladle. She eyed Paddy Mulligan like he was some pirate that carried off helpless damsels.

  “I didn’t win her exactly,” he said and then eyed his wife.

  She gave him a sheepish grin. “Well, go on then. Tell them the story or I will.”

  He sighed. “Fine, but do I have to tell all of it?”

  “If Doc Waller and his wife could share all of their story, then so can we.”

  Paddy Mulligan licked his lips and shrugged. “Very well, things went like, well …”

  “Oh, for Heaven’s sake, I’ll tell it!” Mary said and faced her audience. “And it started like this …”

  Chapter 1

  Several miles from Shelburne, Massachusetts, 1839

  Squire Archibald Ferguson prided himself on having the best of the best. He had the best house – the manor house on the hill, and owned the most land in the area. His tenants and workers admired him to no end (as far as he knew) and he considered himself a fair man in most cases…

  If his wife were still alive she’d praise him and give him his due, not only as a husband, but as the leader of the community. After all, men came from as far away as Shelburne to work for him. And why wouldn’t they? He paid a fair wage for an honest day’s work. So what if he had to encourage his workers with a bit of … how did one field laborer put it? Verbal stimulation? Being born with a booming voice helped. Like now for instance …

  “Mary O’Brien! Where is my lunch, you worthless girl?” Squire Ferguson stormed into the kitchen, took one look at his indentured servant, and boomed again. “You should have served it to me a half an hour ago!”

  Mary, a brown haired, blue-eyed Irish girl bobbed a curtsy. “I’m sorry, Squire Ferguson, but I can’t serve what isn’t made.”

  “What!” The distinguished squire glanced around. “Where is Mrs. Wallace?”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell ye. She went into the village and hasn’t come back.”

  He gasped, went to a window and peered out. “When did she leave?”

  “After breakfast, sir,” Mary said with another curtsy. Squire Ferguson turned from the window, eyes full of, well, something. “Wait till I get my hands on that woman! This will never do!”

  “Yes, sir,” Mary said as he stormed past.

  “Get your cloak, we’re going to the village!”

  “But, begging yer pardon, Squire,” Mary said and bobbed yet another curtsy. “What about the chores?”

  “Never mind the chores!” He took her by the arm and shoved her toward the kitchen door. “We’ve got to go to the village and find Mrs. Wallace! It’s not like her to stay away so long. What if she’s been set upon by highwaymen?”

  Mary’s eyes went wide. “Oh, no, Squire Ferguson! Don’t say such things.”

  “Well, what am I supposed to think? You should have told me she hadn’t returned.”

  “But, sir, I’ve only been here a few weeks. Sometimes she goes into the village and spends more time then she says she will. I didn’t think anything of it.”

  “Well my stomach is certainly thinking a few things. I’m bringing that woman home and getting my lunch!”

  Mary looked at the floor. “As ye say, Squire Ferguson.”

  “I do say!” He motioned her to p
recede him and together, they went to the barn to fetch a horse and wagon.

  Soon they were on their way and Mary, still new to the area, did her best to study the countryside. The small village of Trundle, Massachusetts was made up of most of Squire Ferguson’s tenants and workers. Being the rich landowner he was, this constituted quite a few. The village even had an inn, owned by the Squire of course, and several other businesses. There was a blacksmith, a small bakery, and a small brewery. The village also had a vicarage.

  The vicar, (also a Ferguson and the Squire’s nephew) was quite popular in the area. His sermons were attended by not only the villagers but folks from as far as Shelburne. This said something, as Shelburne was five miles away.

  Squire Ferguson also acted as the village magistrate and was often called upon to settle disputes between tenants and workers and deal with other matters. In short, Mary was proud to be working for such an important man, even if he did yell a lot.

  They reached the village, parked the wagon, and Squire Ferguson helped Mary down. “Where would you like me to look?” she asked.

  “I’m sure we don’t have to look far.” He turned toward the inn.

  A sign hung overhead. Mary thought it quite pretty. Flowers were carved into the wood, bordering the inn’s name. “The Rose and Thorn” was painted in black Gothic lettering. “She’s in there?”

  “Most likely,” he said gruffly. “Come along.”

  Mary followed him into The Rose and Thorn, surprised how crowded it was for this time of day. The squire’s tenants and workers should all be out working. So why was the inn so full?

  A burly man with white hair and a long mustache came out from behind the front counter wearing an apron. “Bless my soul, if it isn’t Squire Ferguson come to grace my establishment!” He looked at Mary. “And he’s brought a lovely flower with him. Who do we have here?”

  Squire Ferguson gave Mary a backwards glance and then rolled his eyes. “My indentured servant. Don’t bother thinking what you’re thinking, Cromwell. She has seven years to work off. She won’t be working for you anytime soon.”

  Mary’s heart sank. It always did when she heard the term of her contract. By the time she was free she’d be an old maid. Living her life alone, without family, without children, and probably without hope. That is, unless she spent the rest of her life working for Squire Ferguson.

  Mr. Cromwell, the innkeeper, looked her up and down. “Bless my buttons, but she’s a pretty thing, isn’t she?” He winked at the squire. “Seven years is a mighty long time, eh, Squire?”

  Squire Ferguson glared at him and then looked into his taproom. “Is my cook in there?”

  “Oh, you mean dear Mrs. Wallace?” Mr. Cromwell said and followed his gaze. “She might be. Why don’t you go check? In fact, why don’t you try some of the delicious stew we’re serving today?”

  “What?!” Squire Ferguson screeched. “You mean to tell me Mrs. Wallace, my cook, has been preparing lunch for your patrons instead of me?”

  Mr. Cromwell shrugged. “I thought she had the time,” he said innocently. “She didn’t try to leave.”

  Squire Ferguson smacked his hand against his forehead and slid it down his face. “That woman!”

  Mary cringed. Mrs. Wallace was a fine cook. In fact, she was the best in the county. Everyone who was anyone often tried to steal her away from Squire Ferguson. So far none had managed it. But occasionally, according to Mr. Gerber the squire’s stable master, the woman liked to show off her culinary skills elsewhere.

  “You stay here,” Squire Ferguson bellowed at her. He turned on his heel and strode into the taproom like an angry bull.

  Mary stepped to the counter and held onto it for support. What was he going to do to poor Mrs. Wallace?

  “Don’t look so worried, girl,” Mr. Cromwell said. “That blustering windbag isn’t going to harm his cook.”

  She looked at him, her brow furrowed with worry. “How do ye know?”

  “Because I know Ferguson,” he said with a laugh. “You’ll find out soon enough that the dear Squire, has an eye for his cook, if you know what I mean?”

  Mary’s eyes widened. “No …”

  Mr. Cromwell winked and smiled. “He should do us all a favor and marry the woman.”

  Mary’s mouth dropped open. She couldn’t believe it! Squire Ferguson had his cap set for Mrs. Wallace? She peeked into the taproom, could hear the Squire bellowing at someone. There was a commotion, but she couldn’t see what was going on. Too many men had gathered to block her view.

  “Best to stand back, Miss,” came a voice.

  Mary turned to find a handsome young man staring down at her. He was brawny with brown hair and blue eyes. Without thinking she bobbed a curtsy. “Yes, sir.”

  He laughed. “Yer not from around here, are ye?”

  Her heart leaped in her chest. He was Irish! She noticed he wore a leather apron. He must work for Mr. Cromwell. “No, sir.”

  “Well, just be sure ye stay well away from the ruckus.” He glanced at the taproom where things seemed to be calming down. “Squire Ferguson must have come in. He always causes trouble when he does.”

  Mary blanched.

  “What’s the matter?” He asked and studied her.

  “Begging your pardon sir, but I work for the squire.”

  His eyes rounded. “Oh. Well then. I best leave ye be.” He looked her over again. “Yer new then?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He sighed. “There’s no need to be so formal with me. I work for Mr. Cromwell. How long have ye been in the squire’s employ?”

  “Barely a month, sir,” she said and stared at the floor. She was embarrassed every time someone asked.

  “Lucky girl,” he commented. “The squire might bluster like a windstorm, but he pays a fair wage and takes care of his workers.”

  Mary swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.”

  He must have caught the disappointment in her voice. “Are ye not happy to be in this country?”

  And there it was. Mary sighed. “Perhaps under different circumstances.”

  He glanced at the taproom and back. “How long have ye been here, lass?”

  “As I told ye, barely a month.”

  His eyes rounded again as comprehension dawned. “I see. Indentured?”

  She closed her eyes and looked away.

  “I’m sorry, lass. But there are worse things.”

  She looked at him. “Like what?”

  “Mulligan!” Squire Ferguson barked. He emerged from the taproom with Mrs. Wallace in tow. “What are you doing?”

  “He’s standing there, what does it look like?” Mrs. Wallace said. She glanced over her shoulder at the inn’s customers and waved. “Enjoy it, my lovelies!” Everyone waved back, happy smiles on their faces.

  Squire Ferguson rolled his eyes. “Quiet woman. You’re embarrassing me.”

  “Oh huff and puff, quiet yourself,” she said. She looked at the young gentleman. “Why Patrick Mulligan, where have you been? Mr. Cromwell talked me into cooking up a stew for him and you missed it.”

  Mary watched as Mr. Mulligan laughed. “I was busy in the brewery, Mrs. Wallace. But I’m sure I’ll get whatever leftovers there are.” He looked at Squire Ferguson. “I’m sorry Mr. Cromwell kept her so long, Squire. But you know how everyone loves her cooking.”

  “Yes, me included,” the squire snapped. “I’m starving!” He took Mrs. Wallace by the arm, grabbed one of Mary’s, and ushered them out the door.

  On the ride home, Mary sat in the back of the wagon with Mrs. Wallace. The woman sat proudly, completely unscathed by Squire Ferguson’s scolds. He stopped not minutes ago, probably because he couldn’t think of anything else to say. Never had Mary heard a man use such language without actually using any bad words. She decided to listen to him more often when he was in a foul mood. If she could stand to, that is. But she could use a few lessons in speaking up. She often became tongue-tied and wasn’t very good with words. Shyness did that to a perso
n. One more reason she disliked her situation. But, who was she to argue? She worked for the most prominent man in the area. That had to say something, didn’t it?

  “You should have had a bowl of stew at the inn, Squire,” Mrs. Wallace commented as they rolled along.

  “Don’t bring stew up to me ever again, woman! You should have made it for my lunch not Cromwell’s customers. What were you thinking?”

  Mrs. Wallace sat a little straighter, a satisfied look on her face. “Well if you must know Mr. Cromwell’s cook took ill last night and couldn’t work today. So, at the suggestion of Vicar Ferguson,” she gave the back of the Squires head a pointed look, “I did my Christian duty and whipped something up for the poor man and his customers.”

  Squire Ferguson said nothing. Even Mary knew he couldn’t argue with that.

  Mrs. Wallace smiled brightly at her. “Let that be a lesson to you, my dear, that sometimes the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the one.”

  Mary’s face screwed up in confusion. “But Mrs. Wallace, isn’t that supposed to be the other way around?”

  “By gad, it is!” Squire Ferguson cried. “But as I’m the one, she deems it necessary to see that I suffer!”

  Mary couldn’t help but giggle and quickly put a hand over her mouth. At first he scared her to death, but after today, she was beginning to believe what others said about him. Still, one couldn’t be too careful. Sometimes dogs rumored to be all bark and no bite snapped at their owners. She didn’t want such an encounter with the squire and reminded herself to be careful if one of his moods became too bad.