Heartland Courtship (6 page)

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.