Heartland Courtship Page 7

  So Brennan did, forcing himself to tell the story in full to prevent questions. He had a rapt audience. These people really didn’t get much excitement. “So that’s how it happened,” he concluded.

  Brennan suffered through a few more minutes of felicitations and gratitude and then, finally interpreting his silence as a desire to be left in peace, the men moved away, discussing the occurrence among themselves. Brennan refused all offers to buy him a real drink. He just wanted a refreshing mug of ale, nothing strong. Strong drink brought him nightmares and he didn’t want that.

  Brennan swallowed deeply of his drink, his mouth dry.

  One man, middle-aged, better dressed and polished looking, stayed near him. “This place needs a sheriff. You might think about running in the fall election.”

  “Won’t be here then,” Brennan said.

  “A pity.” The stranger tipped his hat and walked out.

  Sam swabbed the bar and then looked up from under his bushy eyebrows at Brennan. “You know who that is?”

  “No.” And I don’t care either.

  “That man sits in the state legislature. He’s traveling around, drumming up support for the November election.”

  Brennan shrugged and repeated, “I won’t be here then.”

  “Why not?” Sam asked. “You got a good reputation here now. Why leave?”

  Even the barkeep had an opinion? Brennan stifled the urge to yell his frustration. “I’m just staying long enough to help Miss Rachel get set up and then I’m leavin’.” He downed his drink and stalked outside.

  In the hot evening, he marched to the blacksmith shop, looking for a place to get shut of all this attention. Once there, instead of resting, he paced up and down along the riverbank. Everything within him wanted to pack up his knapsack and catch the first boat north. But he couldn’t.

  His mind racing, he recalled sitting at Miss Rachel’s table, watching her serve up another tasty meal, something she seemed to do as easily as breathing. Her biscuits were the lightest, the best he’d ever eaten. And her soft cheeks had been flushed pretty pink from making them for him. The thought of stroking one froze him in place.

  He growled at the bullfrogs bellowing along shore, trying to attract females of their own kind. He wasn’t trying to have anythin’ to do with females. He had nothing to give any woman, not a home or a heart.

  Miss Rachel was upsetting him by making him think about her that way. Why did she have to be such a good cook? And so honest and open? She was always so good-hearted, not a mean bone in her.

  She made him think of settling down here, not Canada—far from all the war did to him, to everyone. Canada would let him forget all that, start over fresh.

  He tried to focus on how she’d torn off his sleeve. Managing woman. His unhappy thoughts twisted around into a rat’s nest. But one thought stood out clear. He owed Miss Rachel and he wouldn’t leave her, couldn’t leave her still needing help.

  *

  Two weeks later, nearing the beginning of August, Brennan fidgeted in the bright summer sun near Miss Rachel, who stood at the dock watching her brand spanking new stove be carried off the boat. She glowed with evident satisfaction over her major purchase while he shifted from one foot to the other. He wished he were waiting to get on this boat and go.

  Irritating Ashford stood nearby, saying he wanted to make sure that the purchase matched all that the firm had advertised. What a fuss about a stove.

  Brennan stayed near the lady, but felt miles and miles away already. Tomorrow he’d dig her future garden plot. Then he would be gone on the next riverboat that docked here. Restlessness consumed him. At times the itch to leave became physical, as if he wanted to jump out of his skin. But how to tell Miss Rachel? Something about her kept him confused, unsettled, making it hard to leave, and this was the first time in memory this had happened. But I’m goin’.

  The boatmen pushed the stove, supported on a wooden skid, off the boat onto the pier. Noah had come to help Brennan and held his team unhitched from the wagon.

  Though the boatmen moved as slow as molasses on a very cold January day, Brennan held himself in check. Move it along, why don’t you?

  “Miss Rachel Woolsey?” a boatman asked, looking down at an invoice.

  “Yes.”

  Brennan noted she could barely speak, she was so happy.

  “Sign here, please.”

  “Miss Woolsey must examine the stove first,” Mr. Ashford said, holding up a hand.

  The boatman looked chagrined but motioned for another two men to crowbar off the sides of the wooden box.

  Brennan held his tongue between his teeth. He’d been ready to say that. Of course Ashford would butt in. And take his time about it, too.

  Rachel examined each side, looking for any imperfection. “It looks fine.”

  “Open and close the doors. Check to see if the latches fit tight,” Mr. Ashford suggested.

  She did so and then signed the invoice. The boatman had the men nail the crate back together.

  Brennan noted her convoluted signature revealed her excitement. All over a stove. Miss Rachel, pink with pleasure, made a pretty picture. He looked away.

  “My cousin Noah and Mr. Merriday will attach the horses to the skid. Isn’t that right, Noah?” Miss Rachel asked.

  Brennan held tight to the ragged fringe of his temper. Couldn’t they just get this going?

  “Rachel’s place is just a half mile up the road,” Noah said, gesturing toward the other end of town. “I’ll bring the skid right back to you.”

  “Sure. Fine.” The boatman handed Rachel her copy of the invoice and then turned away.

  Finally. Now they could get this home and in place and then he could begin to lay out the garden. And if all went right, he’d be off tomorrow. Somewhere inside him, deep down, a voice whispered, Stay. Why leave?

  Stonewalling the thought, Brennan helped Noah secure the team to the skid. The horses began to drag the heavy iron stove up the road. The progress was excruciatingly slow, with a lot of creaking. Brennan’s nerves tangled into knots, but he kept from showing it. Miss Rachel had become a trap for him. He’d escaped other orchestrated marriage traps. But Miss Rachel had set no trap for him—that made it harder. He knew he was making no sense.

  Finally they reached Miss Rachel’s cabin door.

  Noah and Brennan had already prepared a row of short logs of similar size, stripped of branches and bark, to use to roll the stove inside. The hard part would be getting it up over the threshold. They contrived a little ramp for this. Now the two of them painstakingly shifted the stove in its crate off the boat’s skid and onto the logs and steadied it.

  “I need to take the skid back first. Wait for me. I’ll be quick.” Noah turned the team around and headed back to town at a run.

  Miss Rachel came near Brennan or rather her new stove. She stroked it the way another woman might have stroked a fur coat. Her nearness made his stomach twist. Her soft cheek tantalized him, beckoning him to press his lips…

  Unable to brook further delay and needing to distance himself, Brennan started to roll the stove ponderously away from this woman. The stove picked up momentum—off balance because only one man had started it.

  “Brennan Merriday, please wait for Noah. Thee might hurt—”

  Unsettled, the stove began to tip and rock on the logs, rolling forward. Brennan tried to dodge the out-of-control iron beast, but—

  Rachel cried out.

  Stifling a curse, Brennan gasped with pain. His arm had become pinned between the cockeyed stove and the doorjamb of her cabin. Backed up against the log wall and half sitting, he struggled to keep outwardly calm but inside he was kicking himself down the road. And fighting to keep on top of the pain, ride it out, keep it in.

  She hurried forward, voicing her upset. She moved as if to try to shift the stove, half on the logs, half off.

  “Don’t!” he thundered. “It might come off completely and crush me.”

  She stared down
at him, wringing her hands. “Going for Noah won’t help. He will not delay in returning.”

  Brennan couldn’t meet her eyes so he focused on her chin. If he hadn’t given in to his own haste, this wouldn’t have happened. He waited for the lady to point this out.

  Instead her mouth moved as if she were chewing tough meat. Finally, she said, “Thee has been behaving like a fly caught in flypaper. What drives thee, Brennan Merriday, to chafe so?”

  The pain goading him, he almost bit off her head, but now his mouth chewed on that imaginary tough meat. He had no answer for her. Why did he get so restless?

  But now all his concentration was tied up in not showing how much he suffered. He could not shift the unwieldy weight of the stove pressing on his wrist and upended forearm. Had he broken his arm? Inwardly he called himself every name he could think of, venting the pain.

  Rachel stood over Brennan, folding her hands, murmuring a prayer for help.

  The minutes spent waiting, bearing the brunt of the iron stove on his hand and wrist, depleted Brennan like hours spent working in the sun.

  Within minutes Noah, accompanied by the young man Brennan had met at the Ashfords’, entered the clearing.

  “The stove rolled!” Rachel called out the obvious. But she didn’t add the fact that Brennan had caused this by his haste. Brennan nearly gagged on the fact that it was all his own fault. That admission and the pain were nauseating him. But still Miss Rachel protected him.

  Noah and Gunther hurried to Brennan. Without wasting any time asking questions, the men surveyed the situation and with quick commands, they hefted the stove back squarely onto the logs, releasing Brennan.

  At the sudden deliverance, Brennan could not suppress a long moan. The two men rolled the stove inside.

  Rachel dropped to her knees beside Brennan.

  At first he resisted Rachel’s efforts, holding his painful arm close to his chest, shielding it with his other arm. Finally he let her support his injured arm. He sent her an anguished look, their eyes at a level.

  “How bad does his arm look?” Noah asked in his unruffled voice, standing over them.

  Rachel gently probed the arm from the shoulder downward. When she prodded Brennan’s wrist, he sucked in air sharply, not only from the pain but from her touch.

  “Bend the wrist, please,” Rachel instructed.

  Brennan tucked his lower lip under his front teeth and bent his wrist, stifling a groan. Sweat popped up on his forehead but he did as she asked, knowing a broken wrist wouldn’t bend.

  “Rotate it?” she pressed

  Again Brennan suppressed any show of pain and obeyed, watching his wrist move.

  “Well, that’s a relief,” Rachel pronounced.

  “Easy for you to say,” Brennan gasped. Her prodding and instructions had aggravated the pain of the injury. Her soft shoulder was so near his cheek. He imagined resting his head there. He closed his eyes, willing away the image, the temptation.

  “It’s a relief that the bone isn’t broken,” Rachel said with force. “The wrist is sprained, I think.”

  “Take a week to ten days to heal,” Noah added.

  “It’s good I’m right-handed,” Brennan said through gritted teeth. He looked to the young man. “Glad you came along to help Noah.” Though Noah wouldn’t talk, this lad probably would. Everybody in town would soon hear about his foolishness.

  “I am Gunther Lang,” the young man introduced himself to Rachel. Then he glanced down at Brennan. “Sorry you are hurt.”

  “I think soaking the wrist in cold water may help,” Miss Rachel said, rising. “I’ll get a basin. Brennan, come sit inside.” She nodded toward the door.

  “I must go,” the young man said and hurried away.

  Noah reached for Brennan’s good hand. “I’ll help you up and then I’ll hook up the stove.”

  Looking away, Brennan accepted the hand, managed to get to his feet and followed Noah inside where he sank into the rocker by the cold hearth. The pain was weakening him.

  Rachel entered with a basin of water from the well and set it on her small sewing table. She reached to lift his hand in.

  “I can move my hand,” he said gracelessly. He folded up his sleeve and lowered the hand into the cool water. His gaze met hers over the basin. The concern he saw there chastened him.

  “Very well.” Rachel turned away. “Noah, is there anything I can do to help thee?”

  Brennan toughed it out, the cold water making his bones ache more.

  “Yes.” Noah and she worked together, connecting the stovepipe sections and sliding it through the hole Brennan had cut for it this morning. Noah accepted Rachel’s thanks, commiserated briefly with Brennan and headed home with his wagon and team.

  Rachel retrieved her jar of arnica, pulled the bench over and sat down near him. She opened the jar and began tenderly rubbing the ointment into his wrist.

  Even her gentle touch caused him pain and he didn’t like her having to care for him again. Her nearness worked its way through him—even in his pain. Her tender touch awakened something within that he didn’t want to acknowledge. He lowered his eyes, not wanting to let her know her effect on him. Finally she brought out a large white dishcloth and folded it into a triangle.

  “I don’t need a sling,” he objected irritably, knowing that he sounded like a boy.

  She just stared at him, waiting.

  “Oh, all right,” he finally conceded and rose, cradling his arm.

  Their faces a hairbreadth apart, Miss Rachel efficiently looped the sling around his arm and tied it behind his neck.

  The scent of the lilac soap she always used filled his head and again he yearned to lean his head on her soft shoulder.

  Obviously unaware, Miss Rachel adjusted the sling. “I know why thee couldn’t wait for Noah.” Her tone did not scold, merely informed. “Why are thee so fretful and champing at the bit to leave?”

  Brennan wouldn’t meet her gaze.

  “Rest. I’ll make some willow bark tea for the pain.” She went to her new stove.

  He sat down, watching her from under his lashes. Was she unscathed from contact with him? Her cheeks glowed pink—from touching him, from imagining his touch?

  He turned his mind from this foolishness. How could something like this sprain take so much out of him? He closed his eyes and leaned back against the rocker. His wrist throbbed. He’d been so close to leaving, and now this. In his mind, old Aunt Martha’s voice hectored him. Worthless, thoughtless boy. He couldn’t argue with her.

  And why was he so fretful and champing at the bit to leave? For the first time in a long time, he had a place to stay, a job, good food, new clothes… But he didn’t belong here. He needed a new start far from…everything, especially this woman who continued to surprise him, to pull him to stay.

  *

  The next morning, Miss Rachel hummed to herself as she scattered chicken feed. Brennan sat in the shade against a maple, resting his arm in his sling, trying to think of some chore he could do with one hand. His wrist was swollen and painful. He’d felt guilty over eating breakfast at Miss Rachel’s table when he couldn’t work.

  From the corner of his eye, he noted the young woman who looked to be seventeen or so, the one he’d met at the Ashfords’ that evening when he’d gone to thank them. She was edging closer to them through the trees, as cautious as a doe. Fine, just what they needed—company. And what did she want?

  “Good morning,” Miss Rachel called out in a cheery voice that grated against his temper.

  The young woman entered the clearing. Her clothing looked as if it had been refurbished to look new, but was in fact an old dress. And her manner was cautious. “Good morning. I’m Posey Brown. I was taking a walk and I saw your clearing—”

  The distinctive call of a robin interrupted their conversation. The Quaker lady looked up and then imitated the birdcall. The robin hopped farther down the branch, moving in the breeze toward Miss Rachel, and sounded its call again. Miss Rache
l replied, going to get the full water bucket. She then filled up a large wooden bowl attached to a stump. The bird flew down, perched on the side of the bowl and began drinking.

  Brennan watched and listened, reluctantly fascinated by the interaction of the bird and the lady. Finally the bird sang its thanks and then flew and hopped back to the crook of the oak tree to its nest.

  “That was like you were actually talking to each other.” Posey’s words radiated with wonder.

  He’d almost said the same words aloud. And suddenly he was more aware than before of his sour mood. He hoisted himself up onto his feet.

  “You put out water for the birds?” the girl asked as if this were the first birdbath she’d seen.

  “It’s been so very dry and several birds have nested nearby. I do it so they don’t have far to go.”

  “Cousin Ned says if we don’t get rain, one spark could burn the whole town,” the girl said in a voice that spoke of living in the South.

  Brennan thought Ned Ashford was right.

  Miss Rachel turned to the girl and smiled. “My mother taught me birdsong. She spoke to birds. And they seemed almost to understand her.”

  The way Miss Rachel said these words he knew that her mother had died and what was more, that she had been a beloved mother. His own ma had died young. He didn’t want to feel the connection to Miss Rachel this brought.

  “How old were you when she died?” Brennan asked gruffly in spite of himself.

  “I was nearly thirteen.” Miss Rachel turned back to scattering chicken feed.

  Posey edged closer. “My mother died during the war. That’s when Grandmother came to live with me,” Posey paused. “And Pa died in the war. He was in the Kentucky Militia.”

  At this Brennan looked at her sharply.

  Rachel motioned for the young girl to come forward. Rachel held open the bag of chicken feed, encouraging Posey to help her.

  Though sorry for the young woman and uneasy that she hailed from Kentucky, Brennan moved away from the tree, his unabated restlessness goading him.

  “It’s just my grandmother and me now,” Posey said, scattering the feed.