Heartland Courtship

Brennan moved forward and offered his hand. “Name’s Merriday. Ah’m lookin’ to rent a room.”

Pulling off leather gloves, the blacksmith gripped his hand briefly. Brennan felt the power of the man in that grip.

“You sound like you’re from the South,” the man observed.

“I am.” Brennan said no more, though smoldering.

“Comstock’s my name. Levi Comstock,” the tall man said. “How long you staying here?”

“A few months maybe.” These few words cost him. He never spent a month in any place anymore. The disorienting flashes of memory and restlessness always hit him after a few weeks. He hoped in Canada he could finally settle down. But I owe Miss Rachel. “You got room for me?”

The blacksmith studied Brennan.

Brennan didn’t like it and pressed his lips together to keep back a nervy comment that itched to be said.

The man finally nodded toward a ladder. “I built me a lean-to to sleep in for the summer. Get the breeze off the river. Not using my loft now. It’ll be hot up there. I’ve been meaning to cut out two small windows for some air. Maybe you could do that.”

“How much do you want a week?”

“Four bits?” Comstock asked.

“That’s all?”

The man’s blackened face split into a grin. “You ain’t seen the loft yet. No bed. Just a dusty floor.”

“And two windows when we cut them.” Brennan knew he’d just taken a liking to this practical man and dampened down the lift it sparked in him. He’d be here only as long as Miss Rachel needed him. Then he’d move north and get settled before winter. The two men shook hands.

“When you moving in?”

Brennan considered this. “Soon. Maybe tomorrow.”

“See you then.” The smith turned back to his forge.

Brennan stepped outside and gazed around at the nearly vacant main street and sighed. What would he do in this little berg for a few weeks? And how was Miss Rachel faring with the land agent? He headed toward the office. Maybe Miss Rachel needed some backup by now.

* * *

Just inside the door of the government office, Rachel paused to gird herself for battle, quelling her dislike of contention. She knew she faced one of the the biggest battles of her life, here and now.

The small, middle-aged man in a nondescript suit behind a small desk rose politely. “Miss?”

She smiled her sweetest smile and went swiftly forward. “Good day, sir. I am Miss Rachel Woolsey.” She never used sir. Quakers didn’t use titles. But she couldn’t afford to be Quaker today. After she told him what she’d come for, she was going to brand herself odd enough as it was. Their hands clasped briefly.

“Please take a seat and tell me what I can do for you, Miss Woolsey.”

She sat primly on the chair he had set for her and braced herself. “I’m here to stake a claim.”

Shock widened the man’s pinched face. “I beg your pardon.”

“I am here to stake a claim,” she repeated, stubborn determination rearing up inside.

“Your husband is ill?” he asked after a pause.

Hadn’t she introduced herself as Miss? “No, I am unmarried.”

“Then you can’t stake a homestead claim.” Each of his words stabbed at her. “It isn’t done.”

She’d expected this reaction and she had come prepared. “Excuse me, please, but it can be done.” She tried to keep triumph from her smile. “And quite legally. My father consulted our state representative to the U.S. Congress before I left Pennsylvania.” She pulled out the creased envelope. “Here is the letter.”

The man did not reach for the envelope. “I know the law, miss. But a single woman homesteading, while legal, is ridiculous. You will never prove up your claim. Why put yourself through that?” His last sentence oozed condescension.

Her irritation simmered. So many sharp replies frothed on her tongue, but she swallowed them. “I have already hired a workman and the claim I want is the one that the Ryersons left last winter. May I please begin the paperwork?” She gazed at him, giving the impression that she would sit here all day if need be. And she would.

He glared at her.

Seconds, minutes passed.

She cleared her throat and pinned the man with her gaze. “Is there a problem?”

“I think it’s shameful that your father would let you leave home and homestead on your own. What will people think of you—a single woman without a male protector? Have you thought of that?”

Rachel shook off this measly objection. “Sir, I cannot think that anyone here would take me for a woman of easy virtue. And—” she didn’t let him interject the retort that must be reddening his face “—my cousin Noah Whitmore is here to watch over me.”

“You’re Noah Whitmore’s cousin?”

“Our mothers were sisters.”

He stared at her again, chewing the inside of his cheek—no doubt trying to come up with another objection.

She kept her steady gaze on him. The door behind her opened. Glancing over her shoulder, she glimpsed Brennan enter. She lifted one eyebrow.

“Miss Rachel, aren’t you about done here?” he asked, hat in hand, but the willingness to dispute with the agent plain on his face.

“I still need to fill out the claim form,” she replied evenly and then turned to face the government official who should be earning his money by doing his job and not wasting her time.

With a glance at Mr. Merriday, the man whipped out a form and jumped to his feet. “I need to walk a bit.”

She didn’t reply. Outside sea gulls squawked; the sound mimicked her reaction to this officious little man.

After he exited with a huff in each step, she moved to his side of the desk and, using his pen and ink, neatly and precisely filled out the form. All the things she wished she could say to the agent streamed through her mind. She wore skirts—why did that make her incompetent, inferior?

She knew all the various restrictions society placed on women and knew that many quoted scripture as their justification. But she never knew why submitting to a husband or not speaking in the church had anything to do with regard to a woman without one. And the Quakers didn’t believe in either anyway.

Soon she finished filling out the form and read it over carefully to make sure she hadn’t omitted anything. When satisfied, she rose.

“Miss Rachel, why don’t you go on to the store and I’ll find that government agent and give him your claim?”

She paused to study Brennan’s face. Then she understood him. Oh, she hadn’t thought of that. Papers could go astray so easily. Though this goaded her, she said nothing, merely handed him the paper and walked out the door, thanking him for his help. Brennan might not approve of her intentions but he wasn’t treating her like a female who couldn’t know her own mind. A definite point in his favor. And no doubt why he’d begun popping into her mind at odd moments. She must be wary of that. He would be gone soon. She tried to ignore the shaft of startling loneliness this brought her.

* * *

Brennan accepted the paper, accepted that once again he was going against the grain by backing the unpopular horse, his curse it seemed. He let the lady go, determined to get her what she wanted. As little as Brennan approved of Miss Rachel’s filing for her homestead, he wasn’t going to let some scrawny government weasel gyp this fine lady. Not on his watch.

Outside the office, he scanned the street for the man. When he didn’t see him, he headed for the saloon. Maybe the barkeep would know where the agent stayed when in town.

He stepped inside and found the man he was looking for, pouring out the affront he’d just suffered in his office. “I don’t know what this country is coming to. Giving black men the vote and now a woman thinks she can stake a claim like a man. Next they’ll want the vote, too! A woman homesteading—I ask you!”

“I know it’s not the usual,” Brennan drawled. “But it’s a free country. For women, too.” He didn’t like meddlesome little squirts like this man who liked to throw around their half ounce of power.

The land agent glared at him. “Who are you?”

Brennan eyed the man with distaste. Suddenly he felt proud to say, “I’m the one who’s workin’ for the lady.”

“Then you’re as crazy as she is,” the agent declared.

Sam moved back and leaned against the wall behind the bar as if enjoying a show.

“I been called worse than crazy.” Leaning against the bar, Brennan began enjoying this rumpus. He didn’t cotton to the fact that he had to stay in this little town. So why did this man think he could have everything his way?

The agent turned away from him, venting his spleen by muttering to himself.

“I brought Miss Rachel’s paper.” Brennan said the words with a barely concealed challenge in his voice. “I want to make sure it gets into the mail today and marked in your records nice and legal.” Brennan had never staked a claim or done anything else with any government except enlist in the army. But he figured the agent should keep a record of the transaction and send one to Washington. That sounded right to him.

The man swung around, glaring at him. “Nobody tells me how to do my job. Least of all some Johnny Reb.”

Sam’s amused gaze swiveled back and forth from one to the other.

Brennan did not respond to the derogatory Yankee nickname for Confederate soldiers. “I’m not tellin’ you how to do your job. Just...helpin’ you do it. After you.” Emphasizing the final two words, Brennan swept one hand, gesturing toward the door. Brennan itched to grab the man’s collar and drag him out.

The man glared at him.

So Brennan waited him out—not changing anything in his expression or stance, barely blinking.

The land agent finally caved in, growled something under his breath about stinking Southerners, and stalked past Brennan out the door.

Hiding a grin, Brennan nodded politely to the barkeep and followed the man to his office. Lounging against the doorjamb, he said nothing as the man sat at his desk, filled out a ledger. Brennan moved to look over his shoulder.

The agent then slapped Miss Rachel’s application into a mailing pouch. “There! Are you satisfied?” the man snapped.

“Anything else need doin’?” Brennan asked in a mild tone.

“No!”

“Then after you write me out one of those receipts—” Brennan gestured toward a pad of receipts on the desk “—I’ll just help you by taking this mailbag to Ashford’s store. I seen the notice in the window that he’s the postmaster hereabout.”

The agent resembled a volcano about to blow, but he merely chewed viciously the inside of his cheek. Then he dashed off the receipt, ripped it from the pad and shoved the mail pouch at Brennan.

“I’ll bid you good day then,” Brennan said drolly and strolled outside.

A stream of epithets followed him, including “Confederate cur.”

He ignored them and crossed the street, his boots sending up puffs of dust with each step. The drought filled his nose with dust, too. His destination in sight, he moved forward. He’d been inside Ashford’s store only once before on a trip to town with Noah. But he nodded politely at Ashford’s hesitant greeting and handed him the leather pouch, which read Official U.S. Documents. “I brought this over for the land agent. Do you think the mail will go out today?”

Ashford, middle-aged with thinning hair, consulted a notice on the wall. “Yes, if the Delta Queen arrives on schedule.” The storekeeper cocked an eyebrow at Brennan. “It’s odd that the agent let you bring this over.”

“Oh, I just told him I was on my way here. Now you watch over the mail pouches, don’t you? You don’t let anybody mess with the letters, right?” Brennan asked.

“I certainly do not let anybody interfere with the mail. I took an oath.” Ashford starched up.

“Excellent. Glad to hear it.” Brennan turned to Miss Rachel. “Here is your receipt for the land transaction.”

“Thank thee, Mr. Merriday.” She accepted the paper and slid it into her pocket, then dazzled Brennan with a smile that cast her as, well, pretty.

At this realization, Brennan stepped backward. Whoa, he had no business thinking that. Why had he thought her plain? Was it the way she hid behind that plain Quaker bonnet?

“I just staked my claim, Mr. Ashford,” Miss Rachel explained, “on the Ryersons’ abandoned claim.”

Ashford goggled at her. “Indeed?” he finally said.

“Yes, Miss Rachel’s makin’ her own way in the world.” Brennan regained his aplomb. “An independent woman.” Brennan relished setting another pillar of society on edge.

“And Mr. Merriday will help me as my hired hand,” Miss Rachel agreed. “Mr. Ashford, I will be back next week to pick up the flour, sugar and other items I’ve ordered. And please let it be known that I want to buy a cow and chickens from anyone who has any to spare. I’ll pay what’s fair.”

“Yes, Miss, but I still think you should have ordered much less flour to begin with,” the storekeeper said.

“I appreciate thy concern,” she replied, but this didn’t show in her tone. “Mr. Merriday, I think our town business is done now.”

He was back to himself. So he did find the lady pretty—what did that have to do with the likes of him? “Yes, Miss Rachel,” Brennan said, grinning with sass as he followed her to the door, opened it for her and let her step outside. He glanced over his shoulder to catch Ashford frowning. And mocked the man with a grin.

Back on the wagon bench beside Miss Rachel, Brennan slapped the reins and piloted the team toward home. A rare feeling of satisfaction suffused him. And he was beginning to like Miss Rachel. That was all. “You called me Mr. Merriday,” he teased. “Thrice.”

“Yes, I thought if I called thee by thy first name as Quakers do, the storekeeper might misunderstand our relationship. I think it will be best if I use Mr. Merriday so everyone understands....” Her voice faltered.

“I take your meaning, Miss Rachel.” He couldn’t stop his grin from widening. Working for Miss Rachel would certainly bring zest into his life for a time.

From the corner of his eye, he gazed at her profile. She sat so prim and proper, her back straight and her gloved hands folded in her lap. What would she do if he turned and kissed her? A startling, disturbing thought.

Then she glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “My thanks, Mr. Merriday, for thy support today.”

“Just part of my job, miss,” he said, taking control of his unruly mind. He owed this lady a debt, that was all.

And then the two of them rode in outward silence toward the Whitmore claim. But one sentence ran through Brennan’s mind—What have I gotten myself into this time?

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.