Читать книгу Prairie Cowboy - Linda Ford - Страница 11

Virnie found lots of work to do in the house and enlisted Rachael’s help, hoping to teach her a few coping skills. Her first task was to wash dishes. It was a standard kind of job that occurred in every house across the nation every day. Only this was Conor’s kitchen and as she scraped the dirty dishes she got glimpses of what he ate, the meager sort of meals he endured and wondered how either he or Rachael survived. She felt his presence in every corner of the room. She wondered how he spent his evenings. Did he read? She saw little evidence of it though she didn’t venture into his room. She tried not to think of him sitting over a cup of tea, wanting to share his day with someone.

She pushed aside an increasingly familiar awareness of the empty areas of her life. It would be nice to share stories of her day with someone. She scoffed at her silliness. If she wanted to share she had only to sit down and pen a letter to Miss Price. But it wasn’t the same.

When Rachael complained they didn’t need to wash all the dishes, only what they needed, Virnie chuckled. “Sounds like something your pa says.”

“Yup.” Then thinking Virnie might expect better English from her, corrected herself. “Yes. ‘No need to waste time on needless chores,’ he says.”

Virnie tried to think of a way to show Rachael that house chores were as necessary as farm chores. “Why does your pa insist the pens are cleaned every day?”

“Easier to move a little manure than a lot.”

“Same with dishes. It’s easier to wash what you use every day than face the dirty stack when you run out.”

Rachael looked startled.

“So we’ll wash all these dishes and put them away and then every day you wash the ones you use. That way you don’t have to try and find something clean when you’re hungry.”

They finished the stack. Virnie scrubbed the cupboard and put everything away. “Doesn’t that look nice?” The tabletop was clean and scrubbed, the stove shiny black.

Rachael giggled. “Pa wouldn’t know it was the same place.”

They tackled the rest of the room. Virnie discovered beautiful wood floors that gleamed once she’d scrubbed and polished them. She saw Conor’s handwork in the hand-hewn window ledges and his craftsmanship in every detail of the house. The house revealed a pride that belied its current condition. There must have been a time he valued a nice home.

As Virnie polished a window, she wondered what had caused Conor to change his mind. Certainly the death of his wife formed a large part of it. Aching for his loss, she pressed her lips together to stop their trembling.

Friday afternoon, she followed Rachael into the cleaned house and stopped as a wave of sensations poured over her again, making her feel teary. She struggled to identify the cause of her reaction. The place felt like home. She felt she had a part in making it welcome. It wasn’t her home and never would be but a longing for such a home and welcome grabbed at her insides until she struggled to catch her breath.

She closed her eyes momentarily to stop the sensation.

This was not what she wanted. No. She had set her heart on being a teacher like Miss Price—helping many children, devoting herself to a worthy cause.

She gathered her thoughts and hung her hat on the nearby hook. Next to Conor’s coat. His scent filled her senses—masculine, and hinting of his work with animals, reminiscent of her days helping Miles. She rested her head against the wall and fought for control. This was Conor and Rachael’s home. Her home was a tiny room in the home of Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell. Miss Price had taught her to enjoy the privacy of her own room and to realize the rest of the house belonged to others. It was the way things were for teachers. Virnie knew it well and not only accepted it, she enjoyed it.

So why this sudden, overwhelming reaction to a house she had cleaned and polished, this blur of tears at the bouquet of scents from Conor’s coat—reminding her both of Miles and Conor?

Rachael ran out to gather eggs then returned for the milk pail.

“Pa says I’m the best little milker. I can milk the cow faster than he can. I think it’s ’cause she likes me.”

She was gone again, leaving Virnie struggling with her war of emotions. She touched Conor’s coat, fingering the woolen texture, freeing another waft of scents. Why did he treat Virnie like she couldn’t be counted on? Why did he try and make Rachael so tough? What had happened to his wife?

She jerked her fingers from the fabric and pushed herself from the wall, away from her silly meanderings. It was the weekend and she intended to tackle Rachael’s room today. Tomorrow she would wash clothes.

As soon as Rachael returned and the milk was tended to, Virnie led the way to the bedroom. “Rachael, remember what I say in school? A neat desk is an efficient desk. Same with your bedroom. Keep it clean and you’ll waste far less time looking for things.”

Before they could put anything away, it was necessary to clean out the drawers of the chiffonier. In the bottom one, under a collection of rocks and feathers and other little treasures, Virnie found a picture.

“This must be your mother. You look very much like her.” A beautiful woman with lovely hair.

Rachael grabbed the picture from Virnie’s hands. “Don’t tell Pa I got this. I’m supposed to forget her.”

Virnie struggled to hide her shock. It hurt to forget one’s mother. “Why is that?”

“Because she was weak. She was supposed to help him but Pa says she just lay down and quit living all because she missed the easy life of the city. Pa says we have to work hard to have a home no one can take from us.”

That explained so much. His insistence that Rachael be tough, his neglect of the house—no doubt the poor man had lost his dreams along with his wife. Or did men have dreams?

Rachael put the picture back in the drawer and covered it with an old shirt. “I don’t want to disobey Pa but I want to have a ma, too, even if it’s only her picture.”

“I understand. I won’t tell your pa.”

They worked together sorting out the room, but Virnie’s thoughts tended to stray. She identified with Rachael’s need for a mother. In Virnie’s case, Miss Price had proved an adequate substitute. But a person needed a pa, too. Hers hadn’t wanted her so she’d struggled to forget that need. But in spite of her sincerest attempts, she could not shake the desire for recognition from her father. Somehow, she had to make Rachael realize how fortunate she was to have that even if it carried a requirement to be tough.

“At least you have your pa and you know he cares about you.”

Rachael giggled. “He loves me but says it might make me soft if he tells me. So he saves it for special occasions.”

Virnie couldn’t help wondering what occasions constituted as special enough for the words so she asked.

“Christmas morning, the first thing he says is, ‘I love you, Rae.’ And my birthday.” Rachael giggled again. “He makes up special occasions, too—the first robin of spring, the first snowfall. Stuff like that.”

Virnie’s throat tightened and her teeth felt brittle. Tears threatened. As Miss Price often said, her eyes had a tendency to leak. But thinking of Conor’s tenderness hidden under the cloak of his toughness touched her in secret places that ached for something she didn’t dare identify. It so filled her with longing and wanting that she struggled to contain her emotions. If only she could have the same tenderness extended to her. Her imagination raced out of control. She saw herself standing in the living area she had recently cleaned, a savory meal simmering on the stove as she awaited Conor’s return and a taste of that tenderness.

Chastising herself for her inability to rein in her thoughts, she grabbed an armload of dirty clothes off the bed. “Tomorrow you can help me do the laundry.” Hooks on one wall burgeoned with more clothes. “Let’s sort these out.” She quickly determined many of the items were too small or needed serious repair. The last item on one hook was a pretty blue calico dress. Virnie held it out. “This looks new.”

“It is. My grandma from Philadelphia sent it.”

“Why don’t you wear it?”

“I’d only get it dirty.”

“It will wash.”

“Overalls make more sense.”

Virnie didn’t pursue the topic knowing Rachael quoted her father but she had an idea.

Sunday morning, she approached her plan. “I attend church Sunday. I’d like you to come with me.”

Rachael brightened at the idea. “Can I?”

“Of course. Let’s get prettied up.” She’d worn a simple cotton dress in demure gray with a lace-trimmed collar. She’d fashioned her hair into a loose chignon. “Why don’t you wear that dress?”

Rachael shook her head. “Pa says I don’t need to dress up to impress God. Says God’s seen me before I was born and every day since and lots of times naked.”

Virnie laughed. “That’s true but I think putting on our best clothes for church shows God we respect Him. After all, we wouldn’t go visit the president in anything but our best, would we?”

“I guess not.”

“Then run and put on your dress.”

Rachael headed toward her room with obvious reluctance. She emerged a few minutes later in the dress. The blue brought out her natural coloring.

“You look very nice.” Virnie had one more challenge. “I have some pretty hair ribbons that match that dress perfectly.”

“Pa said we got no need for useless pretty things.”

“I only thought they might keep your hair in place. Keep you tidy. But if you don’t want to…” Virnie made as if to put the ribbons away.

Rachael’s eyes followed Virnie’s hands with obvious regret. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to be tidy. Seeing we’re going to church.”

Virnie hesitated. “You’re sure?”

Rachael nodded. “I think Pa would agree they serve a useful purpose.”

“Of course they do. Now sit on a chair while I tend to your hair.” The child had thick wavy hair that required patience to brush. But Virnie didn’t mind. She loved caring for this child, doing for her all the things Virnie had never had done. As she brushed Rachael’s hair she wondered why she couldn’t recall her mother. Virnie had been five when she died but she seemed to have disappeared from memory. In fact, until she met Rachael she had forgotten her father and Miles, too, except for brief, unwelcome flashes. Of course, Miss Price’s counsel to put her past life behind her had caused Virnie to do her best to forget it. But she wished she had a picture of her mother like Rachael did. Somehow it would be comforting to have some reminder.

“There. You’re done. Have a look.”

Rachael went to the small mirror over the washstand and turned back and forth examining her reflection.

“What do you think?”

“It looks nice.”

Virnie hugged her. “You look very pretty.” Rachael stiffened a bit and Virnie guessed she thought of her father’s words about pretty being useless for a pioneer. But he was wrong. A person—a woman—could be pretty, or at least pleasant-looking, and still face the challenges of this new land.

Monday after classes ended, Rachael hopped about as she waited for Virnie to close up the school. “Pa should be back tomorrow.”

“How can you know?”

“’Cause the weather’s been good. He said it would take seven days of good weather. He’ll be back. He never stays away longer than he has to.”

Rachael had such confidence in her father’s affection. “Shall we make it a special occasion?”

“How can we do that?”

“Well, you could help me make a special meal.” She’d been able to fashion simple meals from the eggs, milk and a decent supply of canned goods. On Saturday, as she draped the wet clothes on the fence surrounding the garden patch, she’d found evidence of potatoes and carrots.

Rachael had explained, “Pa plants a garden every spring.”

Virnie shook her head. Weeding the garden might actually allow them to reap some produce. But upon closer examination she unearthed useable potatoes and carrots. “Where does your pa get meat?”

“Goes to the store. I can go and Mr. Brown will sell me something and put it on Pa’s bill. I’ve done that before. Are we going to make a real meal?”

A real meal. For a real family. In a real home. The words danced through Virnie’s mind like the taunt of teasing children. Or the echo of her own heart. “We’ll get some meat on our way home tomorrow.” She squeezed Rachael. “We’ll cook a real meal.” And then her sojourn into pretend would end and she’d return to her lifetime goal.

There was no reason she should dread the idea. None whatsoever.

Conor rode into the yard. Through the window, he glimpsed Rae and Virnie. He wanted to see Rae and assure himself she was fine, put to rest his loneliness, but he hesitated. Virnie was there, too. He didn’t know if he liked the idea or not. Or perhaps he knew the answer and shied away from it.

He rode Noble to the corrals, unsaddled him and took his time about rubbing him down all the while telling himself his only reason for not rushing to the house as he normally would after being away was because of his concern for his horse.

But soon he had no more excuses.

He must face what lay beyond the door across the yard. And what lay within his heart. Things he’d been trying to escape all week. Of course, Gabe’s constant yatter about the pretty schoolmarm made it impossible. But even on the ride home, alone with his thoughts, he hadn’t been able to escape thinking of Virnie.

Stupid. Stupid. He knew she would be anxious for him to return but only so she could go back to her safe little room at the Maxwells’. No doubt she’d had more than enough of pioneer life by now. He tried to convince himself he didn’t care nor expect anything different.

But still he found reason to pause at the corral gate and adjust the bar. He discovered a great need to check the corner post to make sure it was sound. He found an undeniable urge to give a good look around to make sure his fields were still there. He snorted. Like someone could walk away with ten acres. Finally he forced himself to the house, stopping outside the door to gather up his strength to face—what? Disappointment? He had only invited her to stay with Rae. Nothing more. Of course she’d leave as soon as he returned. So what did he need to face then? He sighed and reluctantly acknowledged this house signified a dream that had died with Irene. A dream of home and security and belonging and warmth and—

The dream was dead. Long live reality.

He shoved the door open and staggered back as Rae launched herself into his arms.

“Welcome home, Pa. It’s a special occasion. I love you.”

He squeezed her tight, and recognizing the game they had played for years, he said, “I guess if it’s a special occasion, I love you, too.”

She giggled. “You love me anytime.”

He buried his face in her hair. It smelled sweet and clean. Slowly he raised his gaze and his heart punched a hole clear through his reason as Virnie stood before him smiling a welcome. He glanced about the room. It positively shone. The hole in his reason widened. This was how he imagined the house looking when he had lovingly built it. He jerked his gaze to the stove where pots stood waiting. The scent of roast beef and potatoes caused a flood of hunger. He missed good meals. He tried to stop himself from looking back at Virnie but couldn’t. His willpower had turned all mushy.

She continued to smile. “Welcome home. We’ve made supper for you.”

He let Rae slip to the floor. She continued to press to his side. He squeezed her shoulder, needing something solid to anchor himself to.

He wanted someone to share his life, his home, his daughter. He wanted someone to welcome him home. Someone who would share responsibility in every way, from preparing tasty meals to cleaning the house to—reality kicked in with a vengeance that froze every other emotion.

What he wanted and needed included a woman able to tackle whatever challenges this fledgling country sent. And Miss Virnie White was not that sort of woman. Too soft and pretty to be truly practical.

He pushed his dreams back into the grave and turned to hang his hat and coat on a hook. Right next to a pretty cape and wide-brimmed hat that surely belonged to Virnie. He inadvertently brushed the cape, lifting the scent of sunshine and flowers to his nostrils. For a moment he couldn’t move as his insides responded to the scent. For a heartbeat he let it lift his thoughts from reality. His dreams weren’t about to rest in peace nor to allow him peace.

Rae grabbed his hand and tugged him toward the table. “We made a nice meal. A real meal.”

“We?” He cocked an eyebrow at Rae but his eyes found their way to Virnie who stood demurely to one side, her hands clasped ladylike at her waist and her smile gentle and cautious, almost impatient. Had she been keeping the meal warm for some time?

“Rachael is a wonderful help,” Virnie said.

He turned his attention back to his daughter. “Rae can do most anything she sets her mind to.”

Rae rewarded him with a blinding smile. “I’m tough.”

“That you are,” he agreed.

“The meal is ready.” Virnie’s voice remained low with no hint of disapproval but Conor would not look her way to see how she’d reacted to Rae’s pride in being tough. He didn’t want to deal with it. Not tonight. Not with the house clean and a meal on the table. For today, he would accept the gifts without worrying about what the giver thought of him.

He washed up and sat at one end of the table. Virnie sat at the other end and Rae on the side between them. He trailed a finger over the wood, remembering how he had planed and polished it to smooth perfection. Then, realizing what he was doing, he pulled his hands to his lap. The table didn’t matter any longer. Any more than the rest of his dreams. Dead. Gone.

“Would you like to say grace?”

Virnie’s question pulled him from his mental meanderings. He nodded. Been a long time since he’d felt the need to thank God for anything. He wasn’t sure he should be grateful now. No, he was wrong. For the food ready to eat, he was thankful. As to the other stuff—his resurrected dreams, the gentle woman at the end of the table who was responsible for their revival—perhaps that was his own fault. He should have never asked her to stay with Rae.