Читать книгу A Man for Glory - Carolyn Davidson, Carolyn Davidson - Страница 7

Green River, Kansas

1847

The man who answered the door looked as if he’d seen better days. His hands were work-worn, his clothing no doubt soiled from toiling in the field out back of the barn. The pitchfork he’d apparently been using leaned against the side of the house, as if he’d left it there so it would be handy when he returned to the seemingly insurmountable job he’d left undone. Hay lay on the ground in neat rows, drying in the sun.

It looked as if he might be in need of help and so she offered. “I’m looking for a job, mister. My name is Glory Kennedy. I need a place to stay and work for my keep. I can cook and clean and I’m a hard worker.”

Her gaze met his, and shadows beneath his eyes told of long days and nights without enough sleep. And the words he spoke carried the ring of truth.

“Pleased to meet you. I can sure use some help here. But one thing we’ll get straight right off. I won’t be lookin’ to get underneath your skirts, girl. I just want a woman to take care of my young’uns and keep things up around here. My name’s Harvey Clark, a widow man with more work than I can handle. I’d be pleased should you give me a hand. There’s an extra bedroom you can use.”

The man’s offer was far from what Glory had hoped to hear back during those days when she’d been a dreamer. But life had proved to be one set of failures after another, with the latest landing her on this man’s doorstep, hearing him offer her a life of servitude and not much of a promise for a future.

She’d walked away from the wagon train after her parents were buried, lying side by side with many more from the group. Diphtheria was a powerful disease, and had it not been for Glory’s mother sending her from the wagon when she and her father became ill, she’d have no doubt been buried along the trail with the dozen or so who’d been put to rest beneath the prairie grass.

Her unwillingness to choose a husband from any of the survivors who’d offered had left her on her own, for a woman unmarried could not travel with a wagon train. And so she’d run, across the open country where tall grasses grew in endless meadows, to where a small town cast its shadow on the horizon. And then the sight of a group of buildings, a tidy farm, had offered shelter of a sort.

Now the man who stood before her offered her more of the same future that had sent her fleeing just days since. Except that this one claimed he had no interest in lifting her skirts, only needing her to tend his children and keep them and their clothing clean.

Looking at it from that viewpoint, she was tempted to quit running and hiding and instead seize the opportunity to settle in one spot for longer than a day or two.

“How many children do you have?” she asked him, noting the rough beard, the shaggy hair, the fatigued eyes.

“Two. A boy past the age for startin’ school, and a girl, walkin’ and talkin’, but not much use to me yet.”

She needed all the cards laid out on the table, so she prodded a bit more. “You want them cared for? And you want someone to cook and clean?”

His head had been bowed, but now he lifted weary eyes to her, and she saw beyond the wrinkled clothing, the lean body and the whiskered face. Saw a man at the end of his rope. A man who might be the means to an end for her. An end to running, a chance to catch her breath and find a new beginning.

“And you won’t expect me to—” Unable to utter the words, she felt a blush cover her cheeks and heard a dry chuckle from the man who faced her on the narrow porch.

“No, I won’t expect anything of you but that you treat my young’uns right, and see to it there’s food on the table.”

From behind him, a small face peered past his denim trousers. Wide blue eyes viewed her with suspicion and a small hand rose to press against a soft mouth. The child was probably two or three years old, if her father’s words were to be believed, for she was obviously the one who walked and talked but wasn’t of much use to the man.

Small for her age, but bright-eyed and dainty, she viewed this stranger as though she hoped for some small bit of attention.

“This is your daughter?” Glory asked quietly, venturing a smile at the child.

“Essie’s her name. Her mama called her Esther, but she answers to most anything.” His big hand touched the matted hair, resting there in a gesture Glory decided could pass for affection. And that small gesture decided her future.

A man couldn’t be all bad when he touched a small child so kindly, when his first thought was for someone to tend her needs. And so she nodded briskly, sealing her fate for the days ahead.

“I’ll take on your children, mister. I’ll cook and keep things clean if you’ve told me the truth about having a room of my own where I won’t be disturbed and food for me to cook. I’ll need a washtub and a scrubbing board and a good supply of soap. I don’t cook in a dirty kitchen, and from what I can see past you, yours isn’t much to brag about.”

Glory saw the look of hope that formed on his weathered face. “I’ll provide what you need if you’ll take on my young’uns and feed them some good meals and wash up their clothes.”

“You’ve got a deal, mister,” Glory said, recognizing that a better prospect might not be available should she keep on walking.

“Just one thing, missy.” His eyes darkened as he gave her chapter and verse of his bargain. “You’ll marry me, first chance we have to get to town. My kids won’t be living in a house with a man and woman who don’t share the same name. And if something happens to me, they need to know that there’s somebody who’ll look out for them.”

Glory swallowed hard, taken aback by the words he spoke, and then she tilted her chin and spit out her own conditions. “The bargain will still remain, mister. I’ll still have my own bed and you’ll stay out of it.”

His look was hard, but his brief smile gave consent to her words. “I give you my word, girl.” His head jerked toward the interior of the house. “I had one woman up there in my bedroom. A mighty good woman. There ain’t another alive can take her place. I don’t want another one.”

Glory nodded her agreement and stepped past him, her steps slow as she walked through the doorway into the farmhouse that would be her home.

And as she passed by the small girl, a tiny hand reached up to touch her own, as a fragile smile appeared on the small, dirty face.

“Tell you what, Essie. Let’s get you washed up and your hair combed. I’ll warrant you’re a pretty girl.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the child said quietly. And in that moment Glory’s heart was touched and her courage strengthened by the choice she’d made.