Читать книгу Heartland Courtship - Lyn Cote, Lyn Cote - Страница 11

Chapter Three

On the dusty drive home, Rachel felt unsettled again. She tried not to think of those first few days on the journey here when nothing had seemed right and she hadn’t been able to eat. And sitting beside this handsome man who’d stood up for her added more confusion.

“How soon could I move into my cabin?” she asked, forcing herself to stop musing.

“Just need a day or two to get it cleaned out and fix the roof.”

“I will do the cleaning so thee can concentrate on the fixing.” She had succeeded in staking her homestead claim. She should be experiencing relief but she wasn’t. Her stomach churned. What’s wrong with me?

The ride home passed much more quickly than the ride to the homestead and then to town. The hot sun beat down on Rachel’s shoulders and bonnet. But she found herself more aware of Mr. Merriday with every mile. She hadn’t expected him to abet her in town. Also she’d seen in Mr. Ashford’s expression that having the Southerner work for her would be frowned on. Well, so be it.

When Noah’s cabin came into view, Rachel’s heart started jumping oddly. She stiffened her self-control and tried to remain unmoved as Brennan helped her down from the wagon with his usual courtesy, which was not usual to her.

Noah hailed them from outside his woodshop. With their little boy in her arms, Sunny opened the door and greeted her warmly.

Rachel burst into tears.

Everyone rushed forward as if she’d fallen, which shamed her. She turned away, trying to hide her face.

Sunny came to her and grasped her elbow. “Come. I’ll make you some tea.”

When Rachel looked up, the two men had disappeared with little Dawn and only she and Sunny went to the bench outside the cabin. Rachel sat while Sunny went inside. The toddler in his dress rolled in the grass, playing with his toes. Tears dripping down her face, Rachel watched him, envying his innocence.

Soon Sunny handed her a cup of tea and sat beside her. “Was the land agent very rude?” Sunny asked conversationally.

“Of course he was.” Wiping her eyes with her hankie, Rachel tried to keep bitterness from her tone, but failed. “Why are men so...?” Words failed her.

Sunny made a sound of agreement. “They certainly can be.”

Rachel sipped the sweet, tangy tea. “Life would be easier if I just went along with what’s expected of me,” she finally admitted.

More tea. “Yes, but would that be easier on you?”

“No!” Rachel’s reply flew from her lips.

“Then you will just have to thicken your skin.”

Rachel sighed. “I thought I had.”

“It’s just this starting out part. Everyone here will get to know you, begin to see that you’re a good person. You’ll become part of the town and then they’ll resent anybody who disparages you.”

Rachel turned to Sunny. “Really?”

“Yes, that’s how it happened with us.”

“Really?”

Sunny beamed at her. “Noah’s the preacher now.”

For some reason, Rachel couldn’t swallow a chuckle. Then the two of them were laughing out loud.

In a while, no doubt drawn by the sounds of mirth, the men approached, looking as if the women’s behavior mystified them. And that only caused Rachel and Sunny to shake with more laughter.

* * *

The next day Brennan climbed the ladder onto the roof of Rachel’s cabin, no clouds masking the hot sun. He crawled across the rough surface till he reached the spot where he thought the leak was. Three wooden shakes or shingles had blown loose.

His lady boss was humming below, sweeping out her cabin. And soon Noah would arrive to start work on the large oven Miss Rachel needed for her business. The question over whether to add a kitchen to the cabin had been debated completely. Finally a summer kitchen connected by a covered walkway to the cabin had been deemed best.

Thinking of Noah, Brennan found himself filled with potent envy. Noah Whitmore had it all—a place of his own, a pretty wife and two great kids.

Reminiscence of a time when he’d thought Noah’s kind of life would always be his life goaded him. Lorena’s slender arms slipped around his neck and her soft voice—

Then the worst happened—one of his infrequent spells hit him. The past flooded him. Waves of darkness engulfed him. That awful day before the war? Or all the awful days of war after it rolled into one? He was surrounded. Fists pounding him, the stench of stale sweat, curses bombarded him. He tried to keep his eyes open, tried to keep in touch with his surroundings—which way was up and which was down. He lost.

He felt himself sliding, the rough shingles hitting his spine as he slid. He wrenched his eyes open and at the last minute jammed his heels into another space where shingles had been blown away. His hands scrabbled for something to cling to. He stopped and then he lay back, gasping for air.

“Is thee all right?” Miss Rachel called up.

Brennan couldn’t answer. The world still tilted and swayed around him. Then he heard Miss Rachel climbing up the ladder.

He had to stop her, couldn’t let her see him like this. Brennan wanted to send her away with a flea in her ear, anything to prevent her from asking what the matter was. Upon the rare occasion when he had one of these spells, he just left town.

But I can’t leave this town. And Noah saved my life as much as the little spinster. Brennan waited for the inevitable questions.

But Miss Rachel asked none.

Brennan finally could sit up. His slide had taken him within a foot of the ladder and there stood Miss Rachel near his boots. Still she didn’t speak. Brennan’s heartbeat and breathing slowed to normal. He didn’t know what to say. Better to let her think he just slid. “Sorry to give you a scare, Miss Rachel.”

She tilted her head like one of the robins nesting in the tree nearby. She reached out her hand to him.

And surprising himself, he took it.

“Please be careful, Brennan Merriday. I wouldn’t want to see thee laid low again.”

He tried to ignore the softness of the hand in his. Tried to ignore the fact that the sun glinted off the threads of gold in her hair and that her expression drew him like bees to honey. In any other woman, he would have interpreted her comment as selfish, as indicating that she wanted him to keep well and in working condition. But did this woman have a selfish bone in her body?

The moment was broken when they heard Noah’s whistling.

Their hands pulled apart. She blushed and he looked away.

“Morning, Rachel. Brennan, I was thinking,” Noah called out as he approached them, “it makes more sense for us to work together. I think we’ll get more done. Why don’t I hand you the shakes we cut? You can be nailing new ones in place and I’ll go over the roof, checking every shake to make sure none are loose. I don’t think Ryerson did a very good job on his roof. Then you can help me with the oven.”

“Sounds good to me,” Brennan said, forcing out the words.

Miss Rachel slowly disappeared from view as she climbed back down the ladder. Brennan felt the loss of her and hardened himself. What had they been thinking? Holding hands in broad daylight?

* * *

About two weeks later Rachel tried to calm her fluttering nerves. Tonight she’d stay alone in her cabin for the first time. As the shadows darkened, Noah’s family, who had helped her move in today with her new table and chairs and bed Noah had made her, was leaving. Sunny had helped her prepare the first meal in her new home. The day had been busy and happy. A nearby farmer had delivered her young cow, chickens and a rooster. Now she would have cream and eggs for her baking. But Brennan’s distant behavior had pruned her enjoyment of the occasion.

Noah’s wagon had just turned the bend out of sight when Brennan ambled over to help her carry the last of the chairs inside.

“Thee didn’t join in much today,” she said.

“Didn’t feel sociable.”

She sensed that he was about to lay out the last chores he would be doing for her and then announce he’d be leaving. His restlessness over the past few days had not gone unnoticed. She didn’t like the gloom that realization opened inside her. Yet she’d wanted to be on her own and now she would be.

Three strangers appeared on the track to her cabin. This was an odd occurrence. “Hello, may I help thee?” Rachel called out, though as they came closer she recognized that the three looked disreputable.

“We’re looking for the lousy Confederate you got here!” one declared, slurring his words from drink, no doubt.

“Yeah, we don’t want any scurvy dogs like that hanging around,” another added belligerently.

To her dismay, Brennan picked up a tree limb lying on the ground and moved to confront the men.

“The war is over,” Rachel said, trying to stem the confrontation.

Brennan ignored her. “There is a lady present here. From your voices, I’d say you men have been imbibing today. Too liberally.”

The men glowered at her. Even in their inebriated state, Brennan saw, they realized that fighting with a proper lady present would be roundly condemned.

Rachel stepped forward, hoping her presence would send the strangers away.

Instead, a fist shot past her.

Brennan dodged it easily. Then he slammed his fist into his attacker’s nose. Blood spurted.

Rachel cried out. Brennan pushed her out of the fray. She stumbled and fell to the grass.

The other stranger rushed Brennan. He dealt with him. The third one turned and bolted. The two who had been bested followed suit, cursing as they ran.

Rachel put her hands to her ears, shocked to silence. “Oh!”

Just as they disappeared from view, the first one, his hand pressed over his bleeding nose, shouted, “This isn’t over!”

“Yes, it is,” Brennan muttered, rubbing his knuckles.

Rachel began to weep, trembling.

Brennan gripped her hands and pulled her up and into his arms. “There, there,” he said, holding her against him. “You’re safe now. I wouldn’t let anyone hurt you.”

The temptation proved too great to resist. She let herself lean against him, feeling the strength of him supporting her. She tried to stop her tears. “I’m sorry to be so weak.”

“I’m sorry you had to witness such behavior.” As he said this, his lips actually touched her ear. “You’re not weak.”

The last of the weeping swept through her like a wind gust and left her gasping against him. “I’ve never been near violence before.”

“Then you’re a lucky woman.” He patted her back clumsily.

She wiped her face with her fingertips and looked up into Brennan’s face. His expression of concern moved her and she reached up and stroked his cheek.

What am I doing?

Rachel straightened and stepped back. She must break contact before he did. An unwelcome thought lowered her mood more. Tonight would be her first night sleeping alone in her own house. She’d never spent a night alone in her life. And these violent men had come tonight.

“Maybe I should sleep in the shed tonight,” Brennan said, his gaze going to the trail to town.

The idea had appeal. But she would be here alone every night, perhaps for the rest of her life.

In the clearing, Rachel and Brennan faced each other. “Thee doesn’t think I am really in danger of them coming here again tonight?”

Brennan bumped the toe of his boot into a tussock of wild, dry grass. “No, not because the three show any sense, but they’re probably all passed out from drink by now.”

Rachel stared at the ground, listening to the frogs in the nearby creek.

“I’ll bar my door,” she said with a lift of her chin, which belied her inner trembling.

“Maybe you’d be better off if I didn’t hang around any longer.”

“Brennan Merriday, in case thee has not noticed by now, I am not a woman who gives way to pressure from others. I have hired thee and I expect thee will show up for breakfast tomorrow and continue the work that still needs doing here.”

He looked up.

And suddenly she was very aware of how alone they were here just outside her door. Funny sensations jiggled in her stomach. “You were very brave,” she murmured.

He started digging at the tussock of grass again with the toe of his boot.

Her mind flashed back to her schoolgirl days. She’d watched boys do this when they talked to girls they liked but didn’t want to show it. Did he like her that way?

She turned abruptly. “I bid thee good night.”

“Okay, Miss Rachel, I’ll head to my place then. See you in the mornin’.”

She didn’t trust herself to reply. The desire to hold him here and the residual fear had worsened and she was afraid her voice would give her away. She entered, shut the door and lifted the bar into place. Few cabins had such. But Noah had insisted on this and now she understood why.

Once inside, she scanned the inside of her new home. Sunny had helped her wash the dishes so there was nothing to do. Noah had made her a rocking chair as a gift. She sat in it now and tried not to feel her lonely state. She picked up the socks she’d started to knit for Brennan as a going away thank-you. The thought hit her as unwelcome.

For just a second, she imagined Brennan Merriday sitting on a chair across from her, whittling the way he always did. She was knitting and the two of them enjoyed that companionable quiet that happily married couples sometimes shared.

Where did that come from?

She shook off this foolishness, put down her knitting and lifted her small portable desk. She began working again on a recipe she’d thought of, something with chocolate and nuts no man could resist. Except Brennan Merriday in one of his touchy moods.

She would have to be very careful around him—he was too handsome for his own good—and hers—and he was staying to help her. She thought of his courtesies. Brennan Merriday treated her like an attractive woman, not a spinster. This alone must be working on her, drawing her to him.

But he carried some deep wound and would be leaving very soon. Even if he was momentarily attracted to her, nothing would come of it. Nothing ever had. And she’d accepted being alone, hadn’t she?

* * *

Brennan marched to town, boiling for a fight. Cold reason halted him a few yards from the saloon. Only a fool barged into to a three-to-one fight. He planned his strategy and sidled to a side window. What he saw flummoxed him.

He entered the saloon and Sam was alone, wiping down the bar. “What’s wrong? Customers find out you were watering the whiskey?”

Sam gave him the eye. “That’s an unfounded accusation. It might have been better if I had tonight. Some people just don’t know when to stop.”

Brennan leaned against the bar. “What happened?”

“Had to kick out a bunch earlier. They drank too much too fast and wanted to pick a fight with anybody who came near.”

“I know the type.” He described the three and Sam nodded. Brennan continued, “Someone must have told them that a Southerner lived around here. And they wanted to run me out of town. They actually started a fight in front of the lady I work for.”

The barkeep rubbed his face with his big hands. “That’s not right, fighting in front of a decent woman. Had to show my rifle to get rid of them. Most locals left. Tame crowd lives around here. The troublemakers are probably on the boat that brought them by now.”

Brennan chewed on this. “Okay. Thanks.” He offered his hand to the man.

“When you coming in just for that tongue wag?”

“Soon.” Brennan left with a wave, not satisfied. What if after he left town, rowdies came looking for him and bothered Miss Rachel? He felt her again in his arms, so petite and slight. A fierce protectiveness reared inside him. He couldn’t leave her unprotected. How could he make sure no one would bother her?

* * *

The next morning, Rachel hadn’t experienced such quaking since the morning she’d left her father’s home in Pennsylvania. Under the clear, late-June sky, she drew in a deep breath and let Mr. Merriday help her down from the two-wheeled pony cart she’d borrowed from Noah’s neighbors. The blue sky did not sport even one cloud. When would the rain come?

Brennan’s strong, steady hand contrasted with her shakiness. After he’d held her close last night, now she had trouble looking him in the eye. She felt herself blush and turned her face away.

She’d filled several large trays with baked goods and Brennan had set them in the back of the cart. Today she would launch Rachel’s Sweets, what she’d come here to do, what her future hinged upon.

“I still think you should call it Miss Rachel’s Sweets,” Brennan grumbled.

She realized then that she still held his strong, calloused hand, not for aid but for comfort. This jolted her. Was she going to start having foolish ideas? No.

Scolding herself for this lapse, she quickly smoothed her skirts. “But Miss might imply to some that I cannot cook since no man married me.” She repeated her objection with an attempt at humor. Why was she so nervous? No one was going to arrest her for selling sweets.

“The name of your business needs some swank. That’s all I’m sayin’.”

She had to admit that having this man with her bolstered her and she didn’t like that, couldn’t let herself depend on him. Brennan Merriday had made it clear he was staying just so long and then heading north.

She turned from him. “Well, I’m a Quaker and we don’t go for ‘swank.’ And my baked goods don’t need that to sell. Just a lot of creamy butter and sweet sugar.” She walked briskly toward the rear of the cart.

There her products lay on tin trays, covered with spotless, crisply starched white dishcloths. Yesterday Brennan had rigged up a sling that would support the tray and then go around her neck to help her carry it.

Now as he arranged the sling on her, his nearness flooded her senses. She could smell the soap she’d given him. He’d also shaved this morning and his clean chin beckoned her to stroke it. She jerked herself back into her right mind.

Then she wished he wouldn’t frown so. His negativity prompted her stomach to flip up and down. And she noticed he’d worn a hole in one elbow of his blue shirt. She’d need to mend that before it dissected the sleeve completely. It was a wifely thought that she resisted. He was her hired hand, not her responsibility.

When he finished, she smiled bravely to boost her resolve and strode toward a boat that had just docked. She had sold her baked goods before, but never to strangers and all by herself. Brennan had come only because he was paid to, not because he was part of her venture. But I’ve always been by myself. And I’ll likely always be so. She shook her head as if sending the thought away. I like being alone.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Brennan asked from behind her.

“Quite sure,” she said, denying that what she really wanted to do was run home, denying that she’d like him to come along for support. Speaking to strangers always tested her.

She lifted her mouth into a firmer smile. She marched toward the dock, repeating silently, I will not run from my future. My plan will succeed.

She expected Mr. Merriday to stay and watch her. However, when she glanced over her shoulder, she saw that he’d walked away from the wagon and was heading toward the saloon. This nearly halted her in her tracks. What? Did the man drink? And in daylight?

The fact that she had reached the pier, her goal, shut down this line of thought. She reinforced her thinning smile. “Good day!” she called out to the men standing or working on the boat, tied to the pier. “I’m Miss Rachel.” She had intended to say her full name but Brennan’s voice had somehow seeped into her mind. “I have baked goods for sale.”

She had expected smiles. People always smiled when she offered them her treats. The men merely looked wary.

Finally one man asked, “What kind of baked goods?”

“I have apple fastnachts and sugar cookies.” Fastnachts, yeast doughnuts filled with fruit jam or creamy custard and sprinkled with sugar, were popular in Pennsylvania.

“Got any bear claws?” one man asked.

“No, I don’t.”

The faint hope in many faces looking toward her fell. And so did her own hope. Then a thought bobbed up in her mind. She walked past the workmen on the pier and stepped onto the moored boat. “May I speak to the captain, please?”

* * *

Soon Rachel smiled up into the captain’s face. “I’m offering a sample of my baked goods.”

The tall, trim man with dark sideburns and harsh features did not look friendly. But then he glanced down. “Fastnachts?” His voice echoed with surprise.

“Yes, with apple jam and cinnamon. Please help thyself.” And he did. And with his first bite, a powerful smile transformed his unwelcoming expression. “Just like my grandma used to make. You must be from Pennsylvania.”

She nodded, her heart calming. “Yes, I’m homesteading here and plan to sell baked goods and sweets to the river trade. I’m Miss Rachel Woolsey.”

“Pleased to meet you, miss. Do you have more of these? I know they won’t keep for more than a day, but I’d love to have one with my coffee later.”

“I fried three dozen this morning.” Then she turned to the crew hovering nearby. Her spirits were rising like dough on a warm, humid day. “I’d like each of thee to have a sample, too. Please.” She motioned toward them.

The men lined up and cleaned off her tray in seconds. One black porter gushed, “Best I eat since I was in New Orleans and had beignets, miss. And I thank you.”

“Beignets?” Rachel echoed. “Are they similar?”

“Yes, miss, but with powdered sugar.”

“Was it the same dough?”

“I’m no cook, miss.” The man shook his head and then grinned. “But you certainly are!”

The other men agreed heartily. And her spirit soared.

“Miss Rachel, thank you for letting us sample your wares. I’d like to buy another two dozen for me and my crew,” the captain announced.

Rachel thrilled with pleasure. “Wonderful. Thee is my first customer.”

“But not your last,” the captain said, smiling down at her.

Elated, she scurried back to her cart and Brennan met her there. “We need to bag up two dozen for this boat.” She busied herself wrapping each doughnut in waxed paper and filled two paper sacks. She delivered them to the captain.

He bowed. “Thank you, miss. You brought me sweet memories I had long forgotten.”

“My pleasure, captain. Please, I’d appreciate thy letting others know I’ll be here with fresh baked goods daily. I also plan on making fudge and other candy.”

A happy murmur from the crew greeted this.

Grinning and promising to see her the next time they docked in Pepin, the captain bowed again and then called cheerfully to his crew to get busy or they wouldn’t get another doughnut.

Buoyant with her success, Rachel walked back to the cart. Brennan lounged against it.

“We goin’ home now? That’s the only boat here today,” he asked.

She sensed now he was worried about something. What? “Let’s fill up the tray with the remaining goods.” Rachel glanced up the street. “And please help me with the strap again.”

He did so, arranging it around her neck once more. Their nearness once again distracted her, stirred odd sensations. She brushed aside their brief embrace the night before.

“What are you up to, Miss Rachel?”

“I need to make the mouths of my neighbors water, too.” She grinned at him. She’d learned today that while generosity should be its own reward, it also made good business sense.

Soon she entered Ashford’s store, jingling the bell. Brennan followed her in as if curious. Near the chairs by the cold stove sat only an older man in a wheelchair. He nodded to her politely. Had she met him?

Rachel nodded to him in case she had, then turned. “Good day, Mr. Ashford,” she greeted brightly.

The storekeeper looked dubious. “How may I help you, Miss Woolsey?”

“I am here to offer samples of my baked goods.” She stopped right across the counter from him.

He looked at her and then at the tray. He reached for one just as his wife walked down the stairs into the store. His hand halted in midair.

“Miss Woolsey,” Mrs. Ashford said disapprovingly, “I saw you just now talking to men on that boat.”

“Yes, I am starting my business. Today I’m giving away samples of my baked goods.”

Mrs. Ashford studied the tray of cookies and doughnuts. “I wonder that your cousin will abet you in this. You will find yourself in the company of all sorts of vulgar men.” Then the woman glanced pointedly past her and frowned deeply at Mr. Merriday.

Rachel guessed that she was suggesting Mr. Merriday was one of these low men. That goaded Rachel. She bit her lower lip to keep back a quick defense of the man. She must not insult so prominent a wife and perhaps start gossip.

And after a moment’s reflection, Rachel realized that Mrs. Ashford was the kind of woman who wanted to be consulted, to be the arbiter of others’ conduct. She’d met her ilk before.

This too grated on Rachel’s nerves. But nothing would be gained by telling the woman to mind her own business. “No doubt thee is right,” Rachel said demurely. “But even vulgar men will not insult a woman offering sweets.”

Brennan chuckled softly.

Discreetly enjoying his humor, she masked this with her most endearing smile. “Please, Mrs. Ashford, taste one of my wares and tell me thy opinion. I hear that thy baked goods are notable.” She did not like to be less than genuine, but the old dictum, that one attracted more flies with honey than vinegar, held true even in Wisconsin.

Mrs. Ashford picked up a fastnacht and tore it in two, the fragrance of apple and cinnamon filling permeated the air. The storekeeper’s wife handed half to her husband. They both chewed thoughtfully as if weighing and measuring with each chew. They looked at each other and then her.

“Very tasty,” the woman said, dusting the sugar from her fingers. Her husband nodded in agreement, almost grinning. “But most women here do their own baking,” Mrs. Ashford pointed out discouragingly.

“That’s why I’m courting the river trade,” Rachel assented. “And single men hereabout. And occasionally a woman might want to purchase something for a special occasion like a wedding.”

Mrs. Ashford listened seriously as if she were a senator engaging in a debate in Congress. “True.”

“Then I’ll be going on. Good day—”

“I’d like a sample too, miss,” the older man by the cold stove piped up.

Rachel turned and offered him her tray. He scooped up one sugar cookie and chewed it with ceremony. After swallowing his first bite, the older man announced, “I’m Old Saul, Miss Rachel. I heard from Noah you would be arriving this month. Much obliged for the cookie. I foresee success in your endeavor.”

His puckish style of speaking made Rachel chuckle. It was as if he had enjoyed her parrying Mrs. Ashford, too. “My thanks, Old Saul. Nice to meet thee.” She walked outside, feeling another lift in her spirits. She could do this. She walked toward the blacksmith shop, ready to offer another free sample.

Mr. Merriday walked a step behind her. She felt his brooding presence hanging over her spurt of victory. Why did people always have to make rude comments to him? Or stare at him with unfriendly expressions? The war had been over for better than six years. Wasn’t it time to let the old animosity go? And once again, the unwise attraction that drew her to him surged within.

He helped her restore the tray to the rear of the cart and then helped her up onto the seat. She had never been shown these politenesses before. Her father of course performed them for her stepmother, but Rachel was left to help her smaller stepbrothers and sisters. That must be why it touched her so every time he did this for her.

But I mustn’t become accustomed to his courtesies. I will be on my own soon enough. Too soon.

* * *

Brennan rolled over, half asleep, in the dark loft. Something had wakened him. What? Fire? The grass was tinder-dry and that had been a worry for the past few days. He listened, alert, to the sounds in the warm, humid summer night. More times than he wanted to recall, his acute hearing had saved his life. Then he heard the faintest tinkle of breaking glass.

Probably high spirits at the saloon. He rolled over. Still, sleep didn’t come. Why would there be a fight at the saloon? That usually happened only when several riverboats moored at the same time for a night.

He rolled away from his pallet. Since he couldn’t stand up in the low attic loft, he crawled to the open window draped with cheesecloth to keep out the mosquitoes. From his high vantage point, he scanned the street. The half-moon radiated little light.

Just as he was about to go back to lie on his pallet, he glimpsed movement down on the street. Three men were creeping around the stores. One had a large, full sack thrown over one shoulder. A man didn’t have to have much imagination to come to a quick conclusion.

Thieves.

The three men were slinking toward the front of Ashford’s. Better to access the store on the side away from where the storekeeper slept.

The uppity face of the owner’s wife came to Brennan’s mind. Her expression a few days ago—as she’d weighed and measured him and pronounced him wanting—had been burned into him. If she’d had the power, she would have caused him to vanish from her prissy sight that day. It rankled. Yet that he cared what she thought of him rankled more.

He watched as the shadowy men paused as if waiting for something.

Their plan unfolded in his mind. These river “rats” were using the saloon’s loud voices to mask the sounds of the thievery. He let out a breath. These little river towns were without any presence of the law and were easy pickings for thieves.

The thought suddenly rolled like thunder in his mind. He didn’t want this little bump on the river to become a target for unlawful types. Not with Miss Rachel living just outside town. The memory of the ruffians who’d come to her place to find him goaded him. The thought of the innocent Miss Rachel being accosted sent icy shivers through him. Never. He had to make sure the reputation of this town stayed strong—for her sake.

He crawled over to his knapsack, retrieved his two Colt 45s and checked to be sure both were loaded and ready. He scooted to the ladder and slipped down to the blacksmith shop. He paused, thinking of who could provide him backup. He crept to the lean-to and roused the blacksmith. Seeing Brennan’s index finger to his lips, Levi swallowed a waking exclamation.

Brennan leaned close to the man’s ear. “Thieves.” He motioned toward the rifle hung on the wall and then for the blacksmith to get up.

Soon, the two men stood side by side in the lean-to. Brennan outlined a plan and the smith nodded. They crept along in the shadows and took their places— Brennan across from the front of the General Store, closest to the river, and the smith slipped along another store behind Ashford’s. The familiar sensations of preparing for battle prickled through Brennan, keenly heightening his awareness of every sound and sight.

Laughter echoed from the saloon and then one of the thieves raised his hand to break the glass next to Ashford’s door.

“Hold!” Brennan roared, hidden in the shadows.

The three men started and glanced around frantically.

“Hold!” Brennan repeated.

The three scampered toward the rear as if to hide themselves.

Brennan let loose a warning shot over their heads. The smith let his rifle roar from the rear. The three men stopped, not knowing which way to run. Two had drawn pistols.

“Drop that bag and empty your pockets!” Brennan ordered.

The three started to run toward the river. One shot toward Brennan, but the bullet went wide. Idiots!

Brennan shot into the dirt in front of them, halting them in the middle of the street. “Drop your guns and that bag, then empty your pockets! Do it! Or this time I’ll shoot one of you!”

The man with the bag put it down and raised his hands. The other two put their pistols on the ground, yanked out their pockets and raised their hands, too.

“All your pockets!” Brennan commanded.

The bagman pulled out his pockets.

“Run!” Brennan bellowed.

The three obeyed, racing toward the river.

Just then Ashford ran out the front door, dressed hastily and holding a rifle. “What’s happening?”

Before Brennan could reply, more men armed with rifles bounded into the street. Brennan wondered if they had any sense. It was crazy to show themselves so plainly before they knew who was shooting whom. Some, he noted, did cling to the shadows, probably veterans like him.

Not wanting to be the center of attention or suffer being thanked, he slipped away, back to the blacksmith shop and up to his loft. Still his heart pounded with the excitement. He listened to the buzz of voices below. Levi explained, loud enough for him to hear, what had happened.

The town men shouted and ran toward the river. Brennan looked out his riverside window and saw a rude boat sliding out into the current. The town men shouted and shot toward the craft, their bullets sizzling as they hit the water. But the night had only half-moon light and soon the craft became invisible, lost in the dark.

Brennan lay down on his blanket, his heart still racing. The thieves had gotten away, which was best. What would the town have done with them if they’d been caught? Pepin didn’t have a jail and somebody might have gotten hurt trying to corral them. Better they escaped. They wouldn’t come back anytime soon. But what about others like them?

This staying in one place was costing him. He lay listening to the men talking, and hoped no one would disturb him. He hadn’t done this for any of them. He’d done it for Miss Rachel, but if he said that, they would think something was going on between them. Better to lay low.

How long would they have to hash over this minor dustup? People here didn’t cotton to him. And he generally didn’t cotton to people so they were even. That suited him. But what else could he do to keep Miss Rachel safe after he left town?

* * *

Just after dawn the next morning, Brennan freshened up down at the river as usual, glad to wash away last night’s sweat. He then set out toward Miss Rachel’s place, his stomach rumbling for the breakfast she’d provide. The heat was already climbing high and not a hint of a cloud showed on the horizon.

As he passed Ashford’s store, the proprietor burst out and ran toward him. Brennan halted. What did the man want?

Mr. Ashford panted. “I just came out to thank you.” The man’s face looked tired from lack of sleep. “For last night. All the storekeepers are grateful. The smithy told us you woke him up and were the one who ran off the thieves.”

Brennan hadn’t expected appreciation. And didn’t want their gratitude. He looked at the man, giving nothing of himself away. “Didn’t do it for your thanks.”

“We owe you.”

Brennan shrugged. “Don’t mention it,” he said with finality and tucked in an edge that promised unpleasantness if the man went on thanking him.

The man’s wife came running out of the store and offered him a folded new shirt and trousers. “Just a token of our thanks.”

Brennan didn’t take the clothing. “Thank you, ma’am, but I’m expected at Miss Rachel’s for breakfast.” He hurried on.

* * *

Brennan spent the morning building a chicken coop strong and high enough to outfox any fox or other varmint. To start with, he’d logged the needed wood and dug postholes. This afternoon he’d set posts.

With a rumbling stomach and sharp anticipation of another tasty meal, at noon he sat down at Miss Rachel’s table. When she carried in the steaming crock from the outdoor kitchen, he noted she did not look happy. What was the bee in her Quaker bonnet?

“Mr. Merriday, why didn’t thee tell me what happened last night?” She made it sound like a scold.

He bristled. Why did she sound mad? After all, he’d done it for her. “Because I didn’t think it was worth mentionin’. That’s why,” he replied, eyeing the bowls of stew she was dishing up.

She set the crock on the table and sat down.

He waited quietly for her to finish silently blessing the meal as she always did. When the amen came, he picked up his fork and dug into her stew. The woman could cook as well as she could bake.

“The Ashfords told me all about it. And about thy graceless behavior this morning.” She motioned toward the chair by the cold hearth. The dratted new clothing the storekeeper’s wife had offered him sat there, evidently drying after being washed. This aggravated him but he kept eating.

“We have something in common,” she said, also beginning to eat. “We are different from everyone else here. I’m the pitiful and eccentric Quaker spinster.”

Brennan suddenly felt ashamed of thinking of her with this less than flattering term. But he hadn’t meant it in a bad way. And Miss Rachel was unusual, who could argue that?

“And Mr. Merriday is thought of as a shiftless wanderer. And ex-Confederate,” she finished.

He chewed, trying to focus on the rich taste of the wild onions in the stew. After all, she wasn’t saying anything he didn’t already know.

“Last night thy quick action saved the town from thievery. They wish to show their thanks. Why refuse it?”

Annoyed suddenly, he barked, “Because I don’t care what they think of me!”

She gazed up at him, unperturbed. “Everyone, even we, put labels on people. No doubt thee thinks Mr. Ashford is a prosy storekeeper and his wife, a know-it-all busybody.”

Her apt descriptions of the two hit his funny bone. His heat turned to laughter. Chuckling, he picked up his fork once more.

“But we all have worth to God.”