Читать книгу Redemption - Carolyn Davidson - Страница 12

THE WOMAN HAD DUG DEEPLY beneath his skin. He’d been angry for three solid years, yet the emotion he’d bent in her direction today had made his fury during that time seem as nothing. Still, she’d tossed his anger back at him, as if she were untouched by his words. As a result he’d been unkind and insulting, to use her own description of his remarks.

Alicia Merriweather rubbed him the wrong way, and yet he felt a sense of anticipation as he thought of her next visit. Perhaps she would not return, and at that notion, he rued his bad temper.

Never in Jake’s life had he been so abrupt. Except for the early days, before the time when Rena had come back to him—those days when he’d made Cord’s new bride the target of his anger, reducing her life to a living hell for a matter of long weeks.

He thought of his brother’s wife, of the changes she’d made to his life, and then his mind compared her to the woman who had so recently left his home. Rachel was sweet, caring and petite, a woman who inspired a man to watch over her, as did Cord. Yet she was feisty, as Jake had reason to know.

On the other hand, he’d seldom seen so capable a woman as Alicia Merriweather. She was tall, big boned, and bore her weight well. He’d had a second look today. The dress she’d worn had fit somewhat better than the one she’d had on the last time she’d been here. It wasn’t too difficult to acknowledge the fact that there was, indeed, a waistline beneath its enveloping folds. Her hands were capable, her nails short, her fingers long and tapered. Her hair was nondescript in color. Brown was as close as he could come to describing it. Yet he wondered if it wouldn’t gleam with red undertones in the sunlight.

Jake shook his head. Of all the foolishness in the world, this really took the cake. Miss Merriweather was a self-proclaimed spinster. And yet, he vowed the next time he saw her, he’d coax a smile from those soft lips. Soft lips?

He shook his head at his fanciful thoughts. After all, her one redeeming feature was the fact that she seemed to truly like Jason. Make that two redeeming features, he decided with a satisfied nod of his head. She knew how to argue, and wasn’t afraid to open her mouth. A quality he admired in any human being. Rena had never allowed him to run roughshod over her, had always been vocal about her views and opinions.

Rena. My God. He bowed his head. He hadn’t known he would miss her so much. His teeth clamped together as he fought the sudden despair that gripped him.

“Pa?” From the doorway behind him, he heard Jason speak to him, and he blinked against the hot tears that threatened to unman him.

“Yes, Jason?” Was that his voice, that calm uttering of his son’s name?

“Pa, how come you and Miss Merriweather were fighting all the time she was here?” Jason sounded almost…bereft, Jake thought. And that would never do.

He turned his chair and fought for a smile. “I’ve always enjoyed a good argument, son,” he said. “I suspect Miss Merriweather does, too. I know it got a bit out of hand, but it’s all repaired now.”

“Pa? Have you thought about what she said? About taking me to the store for clothes? And to the barber for a haircut?” He thought a note of pleading touched Jason’s words, and he shot the boy a long look. Jason slouched in the doorway in a casual manner, but beneath his spoken queries lay a hope he could not hide.

“I’ve thought about it,” Jake answered. “Is that what you’d like to have happen?”

Jason shrugged as if it were of no matter to him, one way or the other. “I guess I wouldn’t mind if she took me, so long as she walked behind me or in front of me, or some way didn’t let everybody know she was takin’ care of me.”

The boy looked so earnest now, Jake almost smiled.

“I wouldn’t care, not for myself, but I wouldn’t want folks to be thinking she was trying to act like my mother. You know? They might not be nice to her.”

“Let’s send her a note, Jason.”

In an attempt that appeared aimed at hiding his pleasure at Jake’s announcement, Jason merely shrugged. “I’m goin’ outside, Pa. Just call me when you’ve got it ready, and I’ll take it to her,” Jason offered. Quite a turnabout for the boy.

Jake thought of what he might say in such an epistle. Something that would signify his change of heart, without letting her know he’d be beholden to her should she accept the task. He wheeled his chair to the dusty desk in one corner of the parlor. The rolltop slid up readily and he found a writing tablet there. A small bottle of ink and his pen lay beside it, both of them unused for so long. He’d had no reason to write a note to anyone in that length of time. Perhaps the ink had dried out.

He drew the paper before him and dipped the pen into the inkwell, pleased that it came out stained darkly. How to begin? Dear Miss Merriweather… Perhaps. Then again, she wasn’t his dear anything, now that he thought about it.

Alicia. There, that looked fine. Not that she’d given him leave to call her by her given name, but he’d managed to fight with the woman. Twice, for pity’s sake. That ought to entitle him to some small bit of intimacy.

And at that word, he stilled. Intimacy. He’d only thought it, not spoken it aloud, but the result was the same. How on God’s green earth could he think of Alicia Merriweather and intimacy in the same breath? She was a female intent on spinsterhood, a woman determined to make inroads on his life, and more frightening yet, he was on the verge of inviting her to do that very thing.

Jake pushed his chair away from the desk and looked across the room. The draperies were closed, only a crack of sunshine peeking through a place where the two panels didn’t quite cover the window. Cord’s words reverberated in his mind.

You need to open these windows and let the breeze blow through.

Rena would be heartsick if she could see her house as it was today. Just three summers past, the windows had gleamed from her efforts with vinegar and water. The floors had been burnished to a fare-thee-well, and even when the wheels of his chair had sometimes marred the surface, she’d only brought out her cloth and worked for scant moments on the trail he’d left behind, and then bent to kiss him as she passed his way.

He rolled closer to the window, tugged ineffectively at the heavy drapery and watched as a cloud of dust rose in the air. Another tug brought the rod tumbling to the floor and he winced as bright sunlight flooded the parlor.

Now, isn’t that better? He looked around quickly, for a moment convinced he’d heard her beloved voice. And then a flurry of movement from the yard caught his eye and he groaned aloud. Mrs. Blaine, a widow who had worked for him for all of three days, was marching with a militant stride up his front walkway. Even as she halted before the door, just out of his sight, he heard the back door open stealthily and his hackles rose.

“Mr. McPherson! I know you’re in there. Come and open this door.”

The woman had a voice loud enough to wake the dead, he thought, his ever-present anger fueled by the demanding tone. His chair rolled across the parlor floor and into the hallway. The doorknob turned at his touch and he looked up at the Widow Blaine’s furious face.

“Your boy has really done it this time!” Mrs. Blaine announced, her nostrils flaring, her teeth set rigidly. “If you don’t do something about him, the law is going to get involved.”

Jake sat glumly in his chair, wondering what Jason could possibly have done to infuriate the woman so. He raised his hand to cut her off mid-tirade. “What did Jason do, ma’am? And when did he do it?”

“What did he do?” Her voice elevated with each word.

“That’s what I asked you,” Jake said softly.

“I don’t need to listen to your smart mouth, Mr. McPherson. I worked in this house. I know the sort of man you are and what you expect of your help. And I certainly know that your son is capable of any number of pranks.”

“What did he do?” Jake asked again, his voice a bit stronger, his anger beginning to match that of the woman before him.

“He tore up my vegetable garden. That’s what he did. The tomatoes were just about ready to put in mason jars and the corn was ready to pick.” She took a deep breath. “On top of that, he tore down my scarecrow.”

“When did he do this?” Jake asked mildly, hoping against hope that Jason was not the culprit, and fearful that he was.

“Just about an hour ago,” she said.

Relief ran through his veins. “How do you know it was my son?’ he asked.

She sniffed, her gaze triumphant. “I saw him myself, a boy with a blue shirt and brown hair. Watched him run from my backyard, I did.”

Jake smiled grimly. “I’ll warrant there are a number of boys Jason’s size with blue shirts and brown hair.” He looked back over his shoulder, and his voice rose as he called his son’s name. “Jason? Come out here.”

Wearing a brown shirt, Jason came through the kitchen door and down the hall.

“Did you tear up Mrs. Blaine’s garden?” Jake asked him.

“No, sir,” the boy answered. “I’ve been here since school got out.” He looked at the Widow Blaine. “You can ask my teacher. She was here and we was talkin’ for a long time with my Pa.”

“Did you change your shirt within the past thirty minutes?” Mrs. Blaine asked, her eyes moving over the boy’s form.

“No, ma’am,” he answered politely. “I’ve worn this one all day long. Yesterday, too.” He thought for a moment. “Maybe the day before, too.”

Jake winced at that revelation. “Does that answer your question, Mrs. Blaine?” he asked, motioning Jason to step closer. From his chair he drew the boy to his side, his long arm circling the narrow shoulders, his hand gripping Jason’s upper arm. “You’re welcome to check with Miss Merriweather if you like. I think you’ll find she’ll verify my son’s story.”

“Well, I know what I saw,” Mrs. Blaine said with a good amount of righteous indignation. Turning on her heel, she stepped from the porch, almost tripping over the broken step. Only a quick grab at the railing stopped her from landing head over heels on the sidewalk.

She turned back and shook her finger at Jake, a good imitation of a schoolmarm if he ever did see one. “This place is a disgrace. You need to get it fixed up.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jake called after her as she stormed off. “Just as soon as I get my new legs I’ll do that very thing.”

“What new legs, Pa?” Jason asked softly, bending to look into his father’s face.

“I was being sarcastic,” Jake told him. “Joking.”

“You never joke around, Pa.” The boy looked dubious and Jake reached up to touch Jason’s face with his fingertips.

“Do you know that I love you, son?” he asked. “I know I don’t tell you often, but I do.”

“I don’t remember you ever tellin’ me that,” Jason said bluntly. “You just holler a lot. Especially when we get a new housekeeper.”

“Yes, I suppose I do,” Jake said. Frustration struck him a low blow as he shut the door, lending it a push that vibrated through the floorboards. He turned his chair back to the parlor and rolled to his desk. The single sheet of paper lay there with but a single word written on the top line. Without a word, he picked it up and crumpled it in his hand.

He would not, could not ask the woman to take Jason in hand. It would not only ruin her reputation to be hanging around his house, but make him look like an absolute failure as a father. He could not transfer his responsibility so readily, let her take the boy shopping, tend to his needs. Some way, he’d figure out another plan.

“I KNEW the meaning of it, Pa.” Jason’s eyes were bright with the joy of accomplishment as he waved his spelling paper before Jake’s face. “See, there it is. Exemplary. I knew how to spell it, too.”

The moments spent with the boy late last evening had borne results, Jake thought, and for a moment he shared Jason’s exhilaration. The spelling paper bore a bright red score at its top. An A was written with a flourish there, and Jake looked at the precise lines of the grade Miss Merriweather had given the boy.

“I’m proud of you, son,” Jake said, holding the paper in his lap. He wondered when he’d last said those words to the boy.

“Are you, Pa? Really?” The brown shirt was dingy from wear. How many days had Jason donned it early in the morning. Four? It exuded an odor of boyish sweat and a definite doggy smell.

“I think you might want to put that shirt in the trash bin,” Jake told him. “How about you taking a bath today?”

“A bath?” Jason cringed. “It’s only Thursday, Pa. I took a bath last Saturday.”

“No,” Jake said, correcting him. “It was a week ago Saturday, I believe.”

“I don’t think it’s healthy to be scrubbin’ up all the time,” Jason said earnestly. “It lets all the germs into your skin.”

“What do you know about germs?” And where on earth had he gotten that idea?

“Miss Merriweather has been teachin’ us about science stuff.”

“Well, if you ask your teacher, I’m sure she’ll tell you that a little soap and water never hurt anyone.” His words were firm, implying a stance he would not budge from, and Jason appeared to get the message.

“Do I hafta get the tub out? Or can I just wash in the basin like you do?”

“I wash in the basin because I can’t get in and out of the tub easily,” Jake told him, and wished for a moment that he might soak his body beneath hot water and allow the warmth to penetrate his skin.

“I could help you,” Jason offered, and Jake was hard put not to smile at the eager offer. The boy would collapse under his father’s weight should he attempt such a project.

“Let’s just concentrate on your own.”

Jason’s shoulders slumped as the ultimatum was delivered, and he trudged away toward the kitchen. “I’ll get out the kettles to heat the water,” he muttered.

Then Jake could only hold his breath and watch as his son poured the hot water into the round wash tub. The chance of Jason being scalded was slim, since they only heated the water until it was barely hot enough to allow steam to rise. The danger was in the kettles, and the fact that Jason was not tall enough to handle them readily.

Another housekeeper was becoming a necessity, Jake decided. The boy was in need of help. He scanned his mind for another prospect for the job, and came up blank. As Cord had said, he’d already gone through all the widow ladies and the women who were willing to work outside their own homes. His reputation had been blackened by the stories those women told—tales of his foul moods, the angry tirades he’d aimed in their direction when they’d attempted to open the windows and doors.

Jake looked now out of the single window that bore no covering to soften the glare of sunlight through fly-speckled panes. Rena would be aghast at the sight.

His chair rolled across the bare, wooden floor to the second window and he grasped the draperies in his fist, and tugged them from their moorings until they landed with a muffled thud on the floor. Somehow the act was satisfying, as if he rebelled against the darkness that had gripped him for so long.

“What’cha doin’, Pa?” Jason stood in the doorway, wide-eyed and pale, as if the disturbance in the parlor had frightened him.

“Your uncle Cord told me we needed to open the windows in here,” Jake told him. “Do you think you can push them up? Let some fresh air in?”

“I can try.” And wasn’t that the crux of the matter? Jake thought. If the boy was willing to try to change things, how could his father do any less?

“Let me know when the water’s hot and I’ll come out to the kitchen and help you,” he told Jason. “In the meantime I’m going to write a note to Miss Merriweather, and once you get cleaned up, you can deliver it.”

“I’m gonna get new clothes?”

Jake looked at the shaggy locks that covered Jason’s head and hung against his collar. “And a haircut,” he said firmly.

CAN YOU COME BY to talk with me?

The note was brief and to the point, Alicia thought, and looked into Jason’s face, aware that his eyes shone with a hopeful light. The man hadn’t even had the courtesy to sign his name, she thought, exasperation making her cross. It would do no good, though, to take it out on the boy.

“Tell your father I’ll come by tomorrow at suppertime.” A sudden urge prodded her to action. “Tell him I’ll bring a picnic with me. We can eat in the parlor.”

“A picnic?” Jason’s mouth curved into a smile. “I can’t remember havin’ a picnic since my mama died, ma’am. We used to go to the celebration on the Fourth of July when I was real little. Mama got someone to help and my Pa would go, too.”

Real little? The boy was far from grown now, she thought sadly. And living on memories of a better time in his young life.

“Do you like fried chicken?” she asked, and at his enthusiastic nod, she determined to borrow the kitchen of the house where she resided and make the most mouthwatering meal she could put together. There was no time to waste.

Friday was Alicia’s favorite day of the week. Two whole days, in which she could please herself, loomed ahead. She’d sometimes found herself walking beyond the town and exploring the countryside during the nice weather. She had a lonely life, but had learned to enjoy her own company. A light quilt tucked under her arm, she frequently took her current volume of history or novel of adventure, finding a tree under which to sit, the book on her lap. Pure heaven, she thought. The whole of an afternoon in which to enter another world, where her imagination could run riot and her mind be refreshed.

Today was Friday, and for another reason she felt the swell of anticipation. A stop at the butcher shop gained her a plucked chicken, one the butcher was happy to cut into pieces. The general store yielded a supply of small new potatoes, fresh from some industrious soul’s garden. Early carrots and a large crimson tomato for slicing filled her basket and she set off for the house where the parents of one of her students had offered a room for her use.

Her landlady, Mrs. Simpson, was willing for her kitchen to be used for Alicia’s project. By the time the chicken was fried and the potatoes made into a salad, Alicia was ready to walk out the door.

Her meal was packed into the market basket and covered with a clean towel. She set off at a determined pace down the street toward the big house where Jake McPherson lived with his son. The front gate sat permanently ajar and the yard was still weed-infested, but the front parlor windows were barren of covering. She looked at them in surprise, noting the shadow of a man in a chair almost out of sight.

Edging past the broken step, she climbed the stairs and crossed to the front door. Before her knuckles could rap, announcing her presence, the door was opened wide, Jason standing before her. His hair was combed, still wet from the dousing he’d given it, marks of the comb he’d used still apparent. That the part was crooked and the dark locks hung to his shoulders was of little matter; the boy had made an effort.

“Come on in,” he said. “My pa’s in the parlor.” He lowered his voice and bent closer. “I don’t know if he’s happy about this or not, ma’am. He looked kinda cross when I told him you was bringin’ supper with you.”

“It will be just fine,” she said, offering assurance and wishing she felt some of the same. The basket was heavy and she sought for a flat surface upon which to deposit it. A library table stood near the door and she placed her bundle there and then turned to face Jake. “I hope I didn’t intrude with my offer,” she said, addressing the man with a confidence she did not feel. “Jason thought a picnic would be nice.”

“I don’t go outdoors,” Jake said flatly.

“We’ll have it in here,” she answered. “Jason and I can sit on the floor on a quilt and you can join us from your chair.”

“You’ve got it all figured out, haven’t you?” he asked, and she took note of the burning resentment in his dark eyes. “Did anyone ever tell you you’re a managing woman?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I’ve been called even worse than that.”

His mouth twisted in a sardonic grin. “It doesn’t bother you?”

She met his gaze head-on. “Do I look bothered?” She turned to Jason and issued an order. “Please go and find a quilt we can sit on. I’ll get the food ready.” That she’d brought napkins and plates was probably a good thing, she decided. Three forks and a salt shaker made up the rest of her supplies.

Jason carried a folded quilt into the parlor. “This was in the airing closet,” he said, breathless after his jaunt up and down the stairs. Eyes glowing with anticipation, he spread it on the floor and sat on one edge. “Now what?”

Alicia arranged the small tablecloth she’d brought, then placed the bowl of chicken, the potato salad and the carrots and sliced tomatoes in the middle. A loaf of bread, freshly baked only this morning and sliced into thick slabs, was wrapped in a clean dish towel, and she opened it, tucking the edges beneath the offering. Butter in a small bowl completed the arrangement.

“Oh, dear. I forgot to bring knives for spreading the butter,” she said softly. Her gaze flew to Jake’s. “May I send Jason to the kitchen?”

He nodded curtly, and Jason rose, almost trotting from the room, so anxious did he seem to get this meal under way.

“Don’t spoil this for him,” she said, warning Jake quietly. She bent to arrange the food on their plates.

“I do own some semblance of courtesy,” he told her harshly. “I don’t need a lesson in manners from the schoolmarm.”

“Well, that’s encouraging,” she shot back, looking up as Jason skidded to a stop just inside the parlor door.

“Here you go,” he said, a grin bringing to life a dimple in his left cheek, something she’d never noted up until now. He handed her the three knives and she inspected them with a cursory glance and deemed them clean enough to be used.

She sat on the edge of the quilt, across from Jake’s chair, and folded her hands in her lap. “Shall we say grace?” she asked, and then at Jake’s snort of disbelief, she offered a glare in his direction. “You needn’t join us,” she said politely, “but Jason seems to understand the concept.”

For indeed the boy had folded his hands nicely, waiting for her to speak the words. “My mama used to pray before we ate,” he told her, and then looked up at his father. “Remember, Pa? I always liked it when she did that.”

Jake nodded curtly. “Go ahead, if it gives you pleasure, ma’am.”

His words were brief, and her mind churned as she attempted to decipher his mood. The man was angry again, probably as riled as he’d been on their first meeting. Unless she missed her guess, he was not about to accept her help with Jason.

“What part of the chicken do you prefer?” she asked her host.

“Whatever’s left,” he said. “It’s all food.”

Jason bit into a drumstick. “This is good food, Pa,” he said, the words muffled as he chewed. Some potato salad followed and he relished it for a moment, then swallowed. “My mama used to make stuff like this. Does it have eggs in it?”

Alicia nodded. “And mayonnaise and a touch of mustard and a big onion.”

Jake accepted his plate from her hand and their fingers touched during the interchange. His were warm, hers chilled, and he raised a brow as he looked down at her.

“Surely you’re not cold, Miss Merriweather?” She thought a gleam of satisfaction shone from his eyes as he spoke, and rued the apprehension she’d tried so hard to hide. The man was enjoying her discomfort.

“No, just afraid that I’ve offended you, sir.” She bent her head and took up a wing in her hand, breaking it apart and nibbling at the sparse amount of meat it held. The bones were placed neatly on the edge of her plate and she speared a slice of tomato, shook salt over it, then cut it up with her fork.

“I’m surely more offensive, than offended,” he suggested, and she looked up quickly, catching him with a look of appraisal alive on his face.

His gaze was warm and she shifted uncomfortably under it, feeling self-conscious. Her black boots were large, her hips wider than most women her age, and the size of her bosom was “magnificent,” a gentleman caller had said, long years ago. Back when she had thought there might be hope of a man in her life, and children born from her body.

“Well, you do know how to cook,” Jake conceded reluctantly. “I’ll have another piece of that chicken, if you don’t mind.”

She offered him the bowl and he took a thigh, then glanced at the potato salad. “Would you like another spoonful?” she asked, and lifted it within his reach.

“Maybe a slice of tomato, too.” His voice softened as he grudgingly asked for her help in serving him, but she refused to feel triumph at his expense. The man was making a stab at good manners, and she subdued her own natural inclination to gloat.

“Do you cook often?” he asked, wiping his mouth with the napkin she’d provided. She’d already noticed Jason copying his father’s example, placing the napkin across his lap before he began eating.

“Not very. I don’t have a kitchen of my own.”

“Miss Merriweather lives with Catherine Simpson’s mama and papa,” Jason offered. “Catherine thinks she’s real smart because the teacher has a bedroom next to hers.” He looked gloomy, Alicia thought, as if a bit of jealousy had popped up its ugly head. And then he wiped his mouth, following Jake’s example again and looked hopefully at Alicia.

“Do you think you could come and cook in our kitchen once in a while?” he asked.

“Jason.” The single word was a reprimand and Jake’s lowered brows emphasized the rebuke.

“I just thought—”

“You’re imposing on Miss Merriweather,” Jake said firmly. “She was decent enough to bring us supper tonight. It would be rude to expect her to repeat the gesture.”

No, Alicia thought grimly. Rude was a man who offered cutting remarks to the woman who’d carried a basket all the way across town to his house, a place where that man sat, totally lost in self-pity, brooding day in and day out.

“I’d be delighted to come and cook your supper once in a while,” she said brightly, knowing that Jake was ready to burst with irritation at her high-handedness. “Shall we say once a week?” She smiled encouragingly at Jason.

“That would be…” Jason fumbled for a word to express his delight, and only grinned widely, including his father in the elation he made no attempt to hide.

“Will I be able to take Jason to the general store?” she asked Jake. “I am free tomorrow if that would be a good time for him.”

Jake simmered, she could easily tell from the look he gave her. She had him neatly boxed in, and reveled in the fact. How she could find joy in making him fume was a question she wouldn’t even attempt to answer. She had to admit, there was a certain sense of satisfaction that had accompanied this meal, eaten at his feet, so to speak, and obviously enjoyed by both father and son.

She decided to change the direction of their conversation, and pointed up at the two windows where late afternoon sunlight shone. “I see you decided to uncover your windows,” she said. “It’s an enormous improvement, Mr. McPherson.” Tilting her head to one side, she made a sober observation.

“Perhaps I could bring over a bottle of vinegar and clean them for you tomorrow after Jason and I complete our shopping.”

“I’m sure there’s vinegar in the pantry,” Jake said forcefully. “If you’re of a mind to be our household help for the day, you just go right ahead.”

“I’ll help,” Jason said quickly. “I can do all kinds of stuff to help.”

She looked at the boy, her heart aching at his eagerness. “Perhaps we can repair the front step,” she suggested. “You’ve a fine hand with a hammer and nails, Jason. We’ll look for a board to use and make that second on our list.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said quickly. Then he looked at his father. “Ain’t that a good idea, Pa?”

“I’m sure your teacher has any number of talents that might come in handy around here,” Jake told him, his gaze turning to Alicia as she got to her feet.

Never the most graceful of women, she came close to falling across his chair as she took note of his sarcastic observation. Her eyes burned as she turned aside and reached for her basket. “If you’ll take the leftovers into the kitchen and put them away, I’ll take the dirty dishes and go home, Jason. I think I’ve outstayed my welcome for today.”

With a flourish of white tablecloth and the clatter of forks and plates, she packed up and headed for the parlor door.

Jake watched her leave, his eyes pinned to the straight line of her spine, noting the brown braids that circled her head, crossing over almost double. Her hair must be very long, he thought. Probably past her waist. Dark and thick, it was probably her best feature. Unless he counted the clear gaze she afforded him from blue eyes that did not waver or retreat from his own. Strangely enough, she seemed to fit the body she’d been given. In fact, she could almost be considered attractive, in a regal sort of way.

All that aside, she was definitely a woman to be reckoned with.