Heartland Courtship (13 page)

Chapter Eight

B
ack at Levi’s that evening, Brennan sent the boy up to bed. Thoroughly disgruntled from a lonely and tedious and empty day, he was filled with thoughts of Miss Rachel, thoughts he shouldn’t be having.

Grumpily he sank down beside Levi outside to watch the river flow by and the setting red sun dip into the blue water. Gulls swooped and screeched, tightening Brennan’s nerves. The grass under Brennan had been seared by the sun. A green line of watered grass edged the river. Levi sat in a chair propped back against the wall. The silence was not their usual companionable one.

Finally Brennan hazarded a glance at his friend, whose glum face shouted a dark mood. Once again his regard for this big man prompted his sympathy. “You don’t look very happy,” he said quietly.

Levi humphed in a disgruntled way.

“How was the picnic?” Brennan didn’t want to pry but he couldn’t leave it for some reason.

“That grandmother of hers caught us...talking by a tree.”

Many responses popped into Brennan’s mind, but he chose his words with care. “What’s wrong with a man talking to a girl?”

“I don’t know. The way she acted you’d-a thought I was a convicted felon or something. We were
just talking.
Posey...Miss Brown has a way of making conversation easy.”

The blacksmith had it bad all right. Old hurt and resentment gathered in Brennan’s throat, but he refused to voice it. “She seems like a sweet young gal. But you got to look at the big picture. Maybe you’re better off without her. I mean, if you married Miss Brown, the old tartar might come live with you.”

Levi thumped his chair forward, full on the ground.

Brennan looked up, startled.

“If the old tartar doesn’t even want me talking to her, how am I going to get to court her, much less marry her?”

With that Levi left him, stalking down the riverbank.

Brennan sighed, happy that he wasn’t interested in courting. Then Miss Rachel’s face came to mind yet again. She’d looked worried on the way home today and hadn’t said much at supper. Usually nothing much rattled her. He recalled her singing with that robin not long ago. She was too good for this town. Irritation gathered in his middle. Who had upset Miss Rachel? And what could he do about it?

* * *

At the cock’s crow, Rachel woke the next morning not her usual cheerful self. She hadn’t slept soundly as usual. And upon waking, she instantly began to worry about Jacque and what had been said to hurt him yesterday.

And on top of this, today already felt as if it would be a scorcher. Still she had a business to run. She quickly dressed and started a fire in her outdoor oven— grateful it was away from her dwelling. Then she mixed up a double batch of cinnamon muffin batter. Soon she was filling muffin tins.

“Good morning, Miss Rachel.”

Rachel turned to find Posey at her open door yet again, looking unhappy. “Good morning,” Rachel said curtly and discouragingly. “I don’t have time to talk. I’m about to put these muffin tins into the oven.”

“Can I help?” Posey asked, looking ready to cry.

“No, I’m sorry.” Rachel softened her voice, but she couldn’t help this young girl and was not about to interfere. “I’m trying to get these into the oven before Mr. Merriday and Jacque arrive for their breakfast. Pardon me.”

She turned and carried two muffin tins outside. When she reached the oven, she turned to find that Posey had carried out two tins also. Irritation pinched her.
Please go home, Posey.
“My thanks,” Rachel said in a tight tone.

The girl slid the tins into the oven. Waves of heat flooded against their faces. Then Posey trailed her back inside, wiping her eyes with a lace hanky.

Rachel swallowed her pity for the girl. Butting into other people’s affairs was not her chosen course.

“Will you be making candy later?” Posey asked. The girl sounded...lachrymose, a word Rachel had heard but never used. Then she recalled when Posey’s grandmother had caused a scene yesterday.
Poor girl.

Rachel drew in a deep breath, reminding herself she had no business prying into what wasn’t her affair. “No, I think it’s going to be much too hot today to make anything more.” She glanced at the wall clock so she would time the muffins correctly and nearly shooed the girl from her kitchen. “I must start breakfast.”

The girl nodded, looking disappointed, downhearted.

It tugged at Rachel’s heart and she relented. “I may be making candy early tomorrow morning,” Rachel said, unable to help herself. “Perhaps you could come then?”

Posey burst into tears. “You saw what happened yesterday at the picnic, Miss Rachel.”

Yes, she had. She’d tried not to comment, get involved. She now failed. “I noted Mr. Comstock’s interest in you,” she said.

“Mr. Comstock is so...” Posey began and then tears overcame her again. She shook with their power.

Rachel patted Posey’s arm. She didn’t want to become enmeshed in this girl’s difficulties, but she was a stranger here, too. That was probably why the girl had sought out Rachel as a confidant. “What is the problem, Posey?”

“Grandmother says she won’t let me marry a man without land. She says a blacksmith’s widow is left with a forge and some tools. What good does that do her? If a farmer dies, at least he leaves his wife with land, something that lasts, something of value.”

Rachel moved a step closer. She understood instantly why the grandmother would take that stand. Their family had been dispossessed and forced to depend on other family. She didn’t know what to say, so she merely murmured some comforting sounds.

Posey continued crying.

Through the open door, Rachel was relieved to see Mr. Merriday and Jacque coming toward her cabin. Or at least she was till she saw their grim expressions.
Oh, dear.

Posey left then, sniffling. And though Rachel tried to resist it, the girl’s mood had affected her. As did the scowls on the two males who would be eating breakfast at her table.

Halfway through breakfast, Rachel finally lost patience. “Isn’t my breakfast well prepared? Why so glum this morning?”

Both males looked up from their plates and frowned at her.

In that instant she did catch a likeness between them, the way their brows wrinkled when troubled. Could that be a family trait or just coincidence?

“Jacque, I’m sorry our pleasant Sunday afternoon ended in a fight,” she said. “I don’t think my cousin scolded thee too harshly.”

Jacque slammed down his fork. “That’s not what’s wrong.”

Rachel pulled back in the face of such a hostile answer.

“Keep a civil tongue in your head, boy,” Brennan insisted.

“I told you—you ain’t my father, but people think you are. They think you fought for the Confederate army. That’s why that kid called you a stinkin’ Reb. But I know the truth. You’re a coward. You didn’t fight for the Cause, for the South.” With that, the boy leaped from his place and bolted outside.

Mr. Merriday rose, looking ghastly white.

“Perhaps,” Rachel said uncertainly, “it would be best to let him cool off.”

Brennan sank back down. Several minutes passed before he could speak.

She didn’t know what to say so she said nothing.

“How long do you think that letter will take to get to Louisiana?” he asked.

“As little as a week, as long as a month. One never knows.”

“And we don’t know how long it will take to get an answer.” Merriday lifted his mug of coffee. “I wanted to be in Canada before the end of summer.”

“Canada?” Somehow the country sounded farther away to Rachel than it really was.

Draining his cup, Mr. Merriday rose. “Yes, I’m sick of the war. And nobody here can forget it.” Though he spoke quietly, each word vibrated with deep emotion. “I want to go where nobody fought in it and nobody cares about it.”

“But thee fought in it and thee cares about it.”

He glared at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Thee can leave America and the war, but can thee take them out of thyself? Both had a part in who thee has become.”

“But nobody would keep bringin’ the war up to me.”

Rachel tried to think of how to explain what she meant to him but couldn’t bring up the words. She changed her approach. “If Jacque is thy son, he is a gift, not a penance. And thee is Brennan Merriday, and a good man, a worthy man.”

“To you, maybe. Not to anybody else—least of all, this boy. And you don’t know what happened between my wife and me...” He bowed his head.

Well, that stopped her. She didn’t know and he didn’t look like he was going to tell her.

He stood. “You’re a good woman, Miss Rachel. But you can’t make this world all nice and sweet like one of your cakes. It doesn’t work that way. I’ll go to Canada. It can’t be any worse than here.”

“That day when thee fixed my roof,” she began hesitantly, but this needed to be addressed, “something happened, something inside thee...”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” And he left.

She sighed, lifting her coffee mug to her lips. So that’s where he planned to go. The only problem with his plan was that he carried the war with him. Anybody could see that. And if the child proved to be his blood, he’d be taking with him a child scarred by the war to Canada, too.

She sipped her coffee though it had gone cold. Running away from problems never solved them. Perhaps someone might say she ran away from her problems in Pennsylvania, too. But they’d be wrong.

* * *

Brennan tried to focus on the day’s chores. He was milking the cow when he heard the sound of a boat whistle. Not usual this early in the morning, but he finished milking and helped Miss Rachel load her trays of cinnamon muffins and rolled her cart into town.

Jacque shadowed them, but stayed out of reach. The boy’s words from breakfast mocked Brennan. His son, or this boy, hated him because he was a coward who hadn’t fought for the Cause. If he only knew the truth...But no one here knew the truth and he would never speak it. It was nobody’s business.

Dockside, Miss Rachel quickly sold out. Counting the coins from her bucket, she smiled. “I’ll have to make some candy in case another boat comes through. I never want to disappoint customers. Product excellence and consistent supply are necessary to success,” she recited as if reading from a book.

He grumbled and steered the empty cart for home.

The young gal Posey came running out of the store. “Mr. Merriday! Mr. Merriday!” she called out, waving a letter.

Instead of slowing so Posey could catch up with them, he picked up his pace. There was nothing she had to say he wanted to hear.

“Be polite,” Rachel hissed into his ear. She tugged on his arm, insisting wordlessly that he stop.

He paused, grumbling into her ear, “What now?”

“I knew I’d heard your name before, Mr. Merriday!” Posey exclaimed for all the world to hear.

Brennan steamed as he watched people coming out of stores, stopping to listen to the fool girl. Did she have to choose the main street of town to blab her mouth off? He began to push the cart, hurrying away from her.

“I recalled this morning on the way home that I had read your name in my father’s letters while he was in the Union Army. And I found it!” She waved the sheet of stationery again. “You knew my father! You were in the Kentucky Militia with him and fought for the Union! Mr. Merriday, you’re not a Confederate at all!”

Brennan did not imagine the upset this pronouncement released. But his inner outcry overwhelmed the noise and sudden commotion around him. He had eyes for only one person—the boy. He glimpsed him through the people who gathered around. The boy looked stunned and then bolted. Apparently he’d known only that Brennan hadn’t fought for the South—not that he’d fought for the North.

No!
Brennan dropped the cart handles and raced after him, ignoring the people who tried to speak to him. This town was just bad news all around. He’d never been recognized as more than a drifter, a Southerner. He’d kept the truth hidden. Too much to explain. Too much to expose.

He tried to catch the boy but Jacque was fleet of foot and soon disappeared into the trees. Brennan’s heart pumped blood and he ran full out. “Jacque! Wait!” And then thinking of the vast forest around them, he shouted, “Jacque, stop! You’ll get lost!”

* * *

Rachel stood frozen beside the abandoned cart, watching Mr. Merriday and Jacque vanish from sight.

“Why did they run away?” Posey asked, sounding dumbfounded. “This is good news, isn’t it?”

Released from her shock, Rachel turned to face the young innocent. “Matters about the war that tore our nation in two are never easy.” She picked up the push handles of the cart and started in the direction Mr. Merriday and the boy had run. “Thee of all people should know that.”

Posey kept up with her. “But I wanted to read him the letter. Father said—”

Heat went through Rachel in waves as she thought of Mr. Merriday’s shock at having his private affairs shouted on Main Street. Rachel lifted a shoulder. “I think thee should stop now. Mr. Merriday is a very private man and just days ago, his son...Jacque was abandoned here in a very public scene. Thee should have gone to him privately.” People hearing her words began to drift away as if caught eavesdropping.

Posey blushed. “I’m sorry... I didn’t think...” She stopped keeping pace with Rachel. “It’s just everybody thinks he was a Confederate, looks down on him and...”

Rachel shook her head and kept walking. The news that Mr. Merriday had not fought for the South surprised her and didn’t surprise her.

Something awful had happened to him in his home place, something that had torn him from his family and turned them against him. Posey’s revelation could explain what that had been. Had Mr. Merriday been cast out because he didn’t believe in secession?

But this eye-opener would make matters even more difficult between the man and his son. Jacque had berated him for being a coward and not fighting for the South. What did he think of his father fighting for the enemy, the North? That was no mystery. His reaction had been clear and swift.

* * *

Brennan raced after the boy, frantic. He must explain what had happened, how he’d come to fight for the North. The dark head disappeared into the mass of trees north of town.