Bending Toward the Sun (4 page)

Caroline sat in the backseat of the wagon, her two nieces on one side and her nephew on the other. Jewell, their mother, sat in the front beside Emilie Heinrich. Her situation hadn’t changed in the last half hour, but she did feel better. Although the horses’ hooves sloshed and the wagon wheels plowed through thick mud, the morning rains had given way to sunshine.

“I needed to hear what Mrs. Brantenberg had to say. My father and I haven’t been seeing eye to eye this week.” Emilie stilled and glanced back at Caroline, her eyes wide. “Please forgive me. I’m rattling on about a simple misunderstanding when you don’t even know—”

“It’s all right. I’m all right.” She was in this moment, anyway. “Mrs. Brantenberg is a wise woman. She gave us all much to think on. She prayed for me and said her prayers would continue through the day and into the night.”

Caroline couldn’t help but feel God had stopped listening to her. Dare she hope He would listen to Mrs. Brantenberg?

“Auntie Caroline.”

She looked at four-year-old Mary. “Yes, child.”

“You’re blowing lots of air again.”

She’d apparently been sighing … deeply. She patted Mary’s leg. “I do that when I’m blowing out sad thoughts.”

“About Uncle Phillip?”

“Yes.”

Little Mary’s cheeks puffed, and then she blew air at her patchwork dolly. Her brother, Gilbert, and older sister, Cora, joined her, huffing and puffing, and Caroline couldn’t help but laugh. Being an aunt was definitely a bright piece of fabric in the quilt of her life.

As they rounded the corner onto Salt River Road, a thunderous crack jolted the wagon. The rear wheel disassembled itself, sending spokes flying. The rim split in half and the remains settled against the trees like two rotten-toothed smiles. The wagon remained upright, but askew.

Jewell turned to check on the children.

That’s when Caroline realized she’d pinned them against the seat back with her arms. “They’re fine.” Her voice quivered.

“Bless the good Lord. By His grace, we weren’t traveling at any speed.”

Tears streamed Mary’s face. “We didn’t mean to blow the wheel off.”

Caroline lifted the child onto her lap. “Your air didn’t do it.”

“The wheel broke on its own.” Jewell swung Mary to the ground and tousled her curls. “This isn’t your fault, Sweet Pea.”

Caroline joined Jewell and Emilie, standing at the rear of the wagon.

Eight-year-old Gilbert studied the damage, then straightened to his full height. “I’ll walk to the farm and borrow tools and a wheel.”

Emilie brushed a shock of dark brown hair under her bonnet. “Rutherford and Maren will be coming this way soon.”

“Good day, ladies.”

Caroline spun toward the greeting that came from behind them. The smooth voice belonged to a man riding a black stallion. The stripe on the outside seams of his gray wool trousers was missing, but they were the trousers of a Confederate soldier.

He swung down from the stirrup and removed his gray kepi. As he approached them, Caroline detected a limp in his right leg.

A shiver crept up Caroline’s spine. “You were in the war.”

“Yes ma’am. Most men were.”

“I heard both sides would share meals, then fight one another. You ever have dinner with a Colonel Phillip Milburn in the Union Army?”

“My apologies, ma’am, but I don’t know the name.”

Her hand curled into a fist. “You may have even killed him, for all I know.”

Her sister and Emilie both gasped.

His jaw tight, the man in gray glanced at his trousers.

Jewell took hold of Caroline’s arm. “You don’t know this man. He was one of hundreds of thousands who fought, as our husbands did.”

Ignoring her sister’s sensible rationale, Caroline stared into the man’s hazel eyes, hoping to find her answer there.

He didn’t look away, but neither did his eyes tell her what she wanted to know. “Ma’am, you have my sympathies.”

She didn’t want his sympathies. She wanted answers.

“My sister didn’t mean any offense.”

Neither did she want Jewell’s defense.

She wanted her husband.

He gave a quick nod, then replaced his headwear. “None taken. I’m Garrett Cowlishaw.”

“Mr. Cowlishaw, I’m Emilie Heinrich, and these are my friends, Mrs. Rafferty and Mrs. Phillip Milburn.”

Tears stung Caroline’s eyes. Not knowing her husband’s fate was undoing her.

“Unless I’m mistaken,” Emilie said, “you’re a friend of Rutherford Wainwright.”

“I am indeed.”

“I was told this morning that Rutherford Wainwright received a letter from a Mr. Garrett Cowlishaw.”

“That’s me, one and the same.” He glanced toward the lane to the plantation house. “You know Woolly? I was on my way to his farm.”

Emilie stepped toward him. “I understand you’ve come to town to command the caravan of wagons going west in the spring.”

“Yes ma’am.” He glanced past them at the disabled wagon. “In the meantime, it would please me to mend your wagon.”

Caroline pinched the sides of her skirt. “I’m going to the farm to get Rutherford.”

Mr. Cowlishaw’s eyebrows knit together in a frown.

It didn’t matter if he thought her rude or deranged.

Not unless he could tell her what had happened to her husband.

Four

M
other was nearly out the front door when she spun toward him.

“Quaid Patrick McFarland, God brought you back to us. You’ve been home nearly three months and haven’t set foot in Saint Borremeo’s.” She raised her hand, a rosary slipped over her thumb, the beads dangling across her palm. “Folks’ll surely think you heathen.”

If doubt was the ruin of a godly man, he probably was a heathen.

Thankfully, before he could say as much, Father stopped him with a pointed look, then threaded Mother’s arm with his.

“Missus, me son’s a grown man, just come back from fightin’. It’s high time you let him decide his church attendance for himself. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph will be waitin’ for him when he’s ready.”

“Very well.” Her sigh was nearly strong enough to tumble the log walls.

Father pulled her toward the door, then jerked his head, motioning for the twins to follow. Maggie and Mattie waved at Quaid, then skipped down the steps to the brick paved street.

Quaid closed the door and breathed a deep sigh of his own. Maybe his mother was right. His sergeant had told him he had a stubborn streak bigger than the horizon. Perhaps he should’ve gone to church with them. But if it was God who spared his life, why hadn’t He done so for the hundreds of thousands of others who’d fought? What about their mothers? wives? sisters?

No. The time alone would afford him the perfect opportunity to think through the new railing for the Rengler brothers’ boat. He’d had so many freight deliveries the past week, he’d had little time to do much besides work. He didn’t know when he’d fit in carving a new handrail for Owen and Oliver, but he’d make the time. Working with wood is what fed his soul.

He grabbed his coat and hat from the peg, then walked to the small shed he’d turned into a wood shop. If he did attend church, it’d be for the wrong reason: to see Miss Emilie Heinrich. He’d not seen her since they’d parted at the farm, and he’d been pining for her lyrical laugh and easy smile.

Emilie teetered between looking at her professor and glancing out the window. Quaid knew where she’d be on Mondays and Wednesdays. Now that he was making freight deliveries, she’d expected to catch sight of him last week.

“Miss Heinrich.”

Straightening in her seat, Emilie met her instructor’s steely gaze. “Yes, Mrs. Barbour.”

“Is there something outside the window that is more urgent than my instruction?”

“No ma’am. Please accept my apologies.”

“I realize not everyone is as enthralled with the works of Shakespeare as I am, but if you wish to rise above the chaff in proper society, you will do well to pay attention.”

Proper society?
Would that be the farmers flocking around the newest plowshare? Or the folks gathered around the checkerboard? She forced down a laugh, trying anew to focus on the classic quotes listed on the blackboard.

The moment Mrs. Barbour dismissed the class, Emilie hung her book sack from her shoulder, and quickly made her way through the door and down the tree-lined path toward the road. She’d placed a merchandise order for the store. Although it was likely too soon to expect delivery this week, she held on to hope that she’d see Quaid tomorrow or Thursday. In the meantime, she had undergarments to launder before fixing dinner for PaPa.

“Emilie.”

Her face warmed, despite the autumn temperatures. Only one man with an Irish lilt used her given name to address her. Turning, she saw Quaid sitting atop the freight wagon, waving his slouch hat. “Emilie.”

Did he enjoy saying her name as much as she liked hearing it roll off his tongue?

Giving no mind to the possibility of rumors, she walked toward the wagon, stopping beside one of the horses. “I’d hoped to see you here today.”

He smiled, his emerald eyes shining. “I was in the kitchen stocking the pantry. When I didn’t see you in the hallway, I was afraid I’d missed you. May I offer you a ride?”

“Yes. I’d like that.” Although her father may not be so pleased … but what of it? It was only a ride, which would save her time. Before she could change her mind, Quaid took her book sack and set it in the wagon, then offered his warm, strong hand.

Settled in the seat, Emilie watched him pat the horses’ muzzles on his way to his side of the wagon. With one smooth motion, he swung into the seat beside her. “To the store?”

“Yes, please.” Or should she have him leave her down the block, in case her father was in a foul mood? No. She was not a child. Nor was she doing anything wrong in accepting a ride from an Irishman. A friend. She pressed her hands against her stomach, which was apparently hosting very active butterflies.

Quaid snapped the reins, setting the wagon in motion. “Is the city hosting a footrace?”

“What?”

“A footrace. With your speed covering that lane, you’d take first place.”

She giggled. “I like to return home in time to tend to other things before I cook dinner for my father.”

“Well then, I won’t dillydally getting you home.”

Please. Dillydally
. The flower boxes they passed on their way through town seemed especially cheery today.

“What will you cook tonight?”

“
Curry wurst
and
rotkohl
. Brats and red cabbage.”

“Mmm. I might have to invite meself to dinner.”

She fussed with the yellow ribbon at her waist, hoping her face wouldn’t betray her. She didn’t want to tell him her father wouldn’t approve. “I’d like that.”

He nodded.

Thankfully, there wasn’t room directly in front of her father’s store, so Quaid pulled to a stop at the end of the block. Again, with the speed of Mercury, he appeared at her side and helped her from the wagon.

Her hand fit perfectly into his.

“Emilie.” Letting go of her hand, he looked her in the eye with knee-weakening intensity. “I suspect your father would not approve of me offering you a ride?”

The sigh escaped before she could corral it. She didn’t want to tell Quaid the truth. Neither did she wish to lie to him. “It’s only been him and me for the past twelve years. He’s not fond of sharing me.”

He handed the book bag to her. “With anyone, or with someone who’s an Irish teamster?”

“This is a new world from the one he escaped in Germany.” She met his gaze. “I value my friends. Each one of them.”

She gave him a warm smile, then walked toward the store, hoping, for all her brave words, that her father was none the wiser.