Prairie Fire (21 page)

The Irishwoman herself entered the mercantile in a vision of shimmering emerald green. Jack thought he might fall right off the bench. Red hair swept up in a mass of sparkling combs and doodads, she fairly radiated as she greeted one person after another. Little girls swarmed her, touching the emerald fabric and lifting the hem of her skirt to peep at the rows of petticoats underneath. Caitrin laughed and chatted, her focus roving the room until it came to rest on Jack.

His heart slammed against his chest as she gave him a brilliant smile and started across the room. At that moment, Felicity Cornwall marched into the mercantile, sneezed loudly, and made straight for Jack’s bench. Cutting in front of Caitrin, the woman swept down beside her daughter and began to blow her nose on a violet-strewn handkerchief.

“I cannot believe this wretched cold,” she announced. And then she noticed her daughter. “Lucy, how lovely you look! The dress is gorgeous—although two of you could fit inside it, of course. You didn’t intend to wear that necklace, did you? Silver would look much better than gold with that blue.”

Lucy dropped her focus to her lap and laid a hand over the offending necklace. Jack clenched his jaw. Two paces away, Rolf Rustemeyer tapped Caitrin on the shoulder, gave her a dramatic bow, and began to describe in detail his plan to escort her to the upcoming spring festival. Jack picked up his Bible, opened it right down the middle, and searched for an appropriate psalm to fit his dark mood.

“Let us begin with a familiar hymn,” Casimir Laski announced, drawing everyone’s attention. While people scurried to find places on the benches, he began to sing in Polish. As though directing a hundred-voice choir, he waved his hands to and fro, bellowing out the song at the top of his lungs.

The congregation listened in silence, bewildered by the unfamiliar tune and the foreign words. Jack fought a grin. So much for harmony in Christ. He’d located one of David’s psalms pleading with God for justice upon his enemies. Jack found it particularly satisfying.

“Today morning, I talk about Gott,” Rolf Rustemeyer said, taking his place at the front. Huge shoulders squeezed into an ill-fitting jacket, the German had attempted to comb his unruly blond hair into some semblance of grooming. As he held up a heavy Bible and stumbled through the Galatians chapter 5 passage about the fruit of the Spirit, his jacket sleeve worked its way up his arm almost to the elbow.

“Gott is maken beautiful day,” Rolf said. “Fery goot the sunshine. Spring vill come soon,
ja?
But I haf question. Is spring inside you? In heart?”

Jack closed his Bible and tried to concentrate on Rolf’s sermon. His attention wandered over to Caitrin, seated with the O’Toole family two benches in front of him.

“
Ja
, I know I am goot man,” Rolf said. “And many of you are goot manners. Excuse me, goot men. Goot vomens, too. And childrens. But in mine heart is sometimes bad things,
ja?
Maybe I am telling a story not true. How you say in English, Rosie?”

“Lying,” she called out.

“Lying is bad thing. Or maybe I am want to have Jimmy O’Toole’s fery nice mule,
ja?
”

“Coveting,” Rosie spoke up.

“You are farmers, and in spring clear out all bad things from fields. Hoe, plow dirt, kill bugs,
ja?
Is because goot things cannot grow in bad dirt. So my question again. Is spring inside you? In your heart? Better you get all bad things out of your heart. Better you tell Gott, ‘I am sorry. Forgif me.’ No more hating, no more lying, no more covering—”

“Coveting,” Rosie corrected.

“Let Gott bring spring into heart of
you
,” Rolf continued, his eyes blazing. “Then goot things vill grow. You can be happy, kind, forgif other people,
ja?
”

He looked around. Jack felt sure the sermon of the day was over, but Rolf crossed his arms over his chest and stared out at his congregation. It occurred to Jack that the German was probably a very intelligent man, no doubt frustrated at his inability to convey his thoughts as clearly as he’d like. But he had brought a good message. One they needed to hear.

“I say to you,” Rolf boomed out, “no more talk bad about each other. Get rid of veeds!
Amen
.”

“Veeds?” Lucy whispered as Rolf returned to his bench and Casimir Laski stood to lead another song.

“Weeds,” Jack translated.

Lucy nodded and smiled. The transformation on her face lifted Jack’s heart. He could have kissed Caitrin Murphy right here in front of everyone. Lucy was better.
Thank you, God.
Thank you.

Another Polish hymn sung solo by Casimir Laski was accompanied by many dramatic gestures intended to encourage the congregation to sing along. As they hummed some semblance of the unfamiliar melody, it occurred to Jack that he ought to join Rolf Rustemeyer as often as possible in the final construction work on the new church. This town needed a pastor. And a song leader.

“How you like my talking?” Rolf asked, striding toward Jack as the congregation rose to make their way to the tables and sample the rolls and pies. “You understand what I say?”

“Perfectly,” Jack said. He gave Rolf’s huge hand a hearty shake. If anyone had determined to get rid of weeds in his heart, it was the German. He seemed to have decided Jack Cornwall was a friend, and his broad smile and strong white teeth displayed his acceptance of a former enemy.

“Who is pretty lady here with you, Jack?” Rolf asked, giving Lucy a little bow.

“Mr. Rustemeyer, meet my sister, Miss Lucy Cornwall.” Jack reached for the young woman, but she shrank backward, a look of horror filling her gray eyes.

“Oh no,” she mouthed. “No … please … I can’t …”

“It’s okay, Lucy,” Caitrin said, joining the group and slipping her arm through her friend’s. “Rolf, your sermon was an inspiration.”

“Inspiration?” He squinted his eyes, clearly uncertain whether he’d just received a compliment.

“’Twas very good,” Caitrin clarified. “Sure, you might want to apply for the position of minister yourself. And, Mr. Cornwall, how are you today?”

“Better now,” Jack said, drinking in her bold green eyes and pink lips. “A lot better.”

She laughed. “I’m certain you’ve heard about the spring festival that Rosie and I—”

“Lucy,” Felicity Cornwall interrupted, “you’d better come back to the camp with me now, dear. I’m sure Miss Murphy has had quite her fill of mollycoddling you this week. And I know for a fact the mercantile has gone untended so often that rumors are spreading amongst the customers.”

“Rumors?” Caitrin asked.

“I was in for eggs just two days ago,” Felicity said. “No one behind the counter, of course, and the mail coach from Topeka pulled up. The driver told me you had ignored two sets of customers, you had left the mercantile doors wide open day and night, and you’d completely run out of pickles.”

“Mr. Bridger,” Caitrin gasped. “He wanted more pickles?”

“I realize you intended to do a good deed by watching over my daughter,” Felicity continued, “but abandoning your commitments is quite irresponsible.”

“My Caitie—irresponsible?” Sheena O’Toole said, approaching with a huge cinnamon bun in one hand. “I should think not! Caitrin Murphy took on
your
responsibilities when she welcomed this poor madwoman—”

“Well,” Jack said loudly as his sister cowered behind him. “I reckon it’s time to head out into the sunshine. Beautiful day! Great sermon, Rustemeyer. Mrs. O’Toole and Miss Murphy, good to see both of you this fine morning.”

He shepherded Lucy toward the mercantile door, praying she wouldn’t collapse before he could get her outside. Caitrin followed close at his heels, and he could hear Sheena and his mother exchanging volleys of insults. He hurried his sister out the front door.

“Mr. Cornwall!” Caitrin cried. “Won’t you stay for a cup of coffee?”

The man stopped and faced her. “No, Miss Murphy. I won’t be joining the citizens of this town for their Sunday fellowship.”

“Why not?”

“Weeds,” Jack snarled, scooping his wilting sister up in his arms. “Too many confounded weeds.”

Caitrin hammered the last nail on the big sign outside the mercantile. “‘Welcome to the Spring Festival in Hope,’” she pronounced, reading the black letters she had painted on a white sheet. And then she muttered, “Hope, Kansas … home of the meanest, nosiest, grouchiest, and most intolerant people this side of the Mississippi River. Welcome one and all.”

She gave the nail head a final whack and started down the ladder. The festival was doomed. People were already driving their wagons across the bridge, and she hadn’t even bothered to dress for the occasion. What was the point? No doubt the event would erupt into another brouhaha just like the recent Sunday service. The guests of honor probably would be run out of town by the kindly folk of Hope. It would be a festival of welcome … and good riddance.

“I sound just like Lucy,” Caitrin mumbled to herself as she stomped back into the mercantile. “One bad thing after another. Perhaps her disease is contagious after all, and I’m destined to spend my life in chains of my own making.”

In frustration, she kicked at a marble one of the children had abandoned on the floor. The missile flew through the air, barely missing the glass counter that displayed men’s white collars and ladies’ lingerie, hit the wall on the other side, and bounced to the floor. Clapping a hand over her mouth in horror at the near catastrophe, Caitrin stood trembling. It was those horrid chains!

She couldn’t stop thinking of poor Lucy … back in chains for jumping in front of the Topeka stagecoach and nearly succeeding in killing herself. The horses had panicked, the coach had careened across the bridge with screaming passengers hanging on for dear life, and Mr. Bridger, the driver, had tumbled from his seat and broken his wrist. Lucy was found huddled at the foot of the bridge, her pale blue dress covered in mud. Chains again.

Caitrin heard the mercantile door open behind her and a group of excited children pour into the room. “It’s a party for Gram and Uncle Jack,” Chipper told the others. “Aunt Lucy might even get to come.”

“I thought she was crazy,” Will O’Toole said.

“She is, but only if you look at her or touch her.” Chipper tugged on Caitrin’s skirt. “Are we gonna bob for apples at this festibal?”

“Not this one, Chipper,” she said. “We’ll have to wait until autumn for apples, so we will.”

“Auntie Caitrin, where are all the fancy
shingerleens
you usually put into your hair?” Erinn inquired. “Sure, I thought you were going to wear the purple dress again, but you’ve got on this old brown thing.”

Caitrin tried to smile. “The color is bronze,” she said. “Can’t you see the fabric is all shot through with metallic threads? In the proper light, I shall fairly glow.”

“Ooh!” Erinn closed her eyes, clearly imagining the moment. “Will I be as lovely as you one day, Auntie Caitrin?”

“Lovelier.”

Caitrin bent to give her niece a kiss on the cheek as the Laski and LeBlanc families filtered into the mercantile. She was a little surprised they had come to the festival. After all, none of them had had a civil word for the Cornwalls. Of course, a quilt auction was planned for the late evening. Proceeds would be used to purchase the wood for pews in the new church. The women would want to see whose winter handiwork would bring in the most money. Certainly it wasn’t the prospect of welcoming the Cornwall family that drew them.

In moments the mercantile began to fill. A self-designated band gathered near the canned goods and tuned their instruments. Lines of children and their parents formed in front of the little booths erected around the room.

As the festival officially got under way, Rolf Rustemeyer’s harmonica provided a collection of tunes for a cakewalk. Carlotta Rippeto manned a make-believe fishing pond from which children could draw little candies, reed whistles, or corn-husk dolls. A group of young people gathered in a corner to play “graces,” using crossed sticks to toss a hoop from one member of the party to another. Many of the unmarried farmers assembled near the food table and sampled the slices of pie and plates full of cookies.

“Hello, Caitrin!” Rosie fairly skipped across the room to her friend. “Guess what. I didn’t spit up a single time today!”

“Wonderful,” Caitrin said, mustering a smile. “Perhaps you’re over the hump.”

“Hump is right. You should take a look at my stomach! I ate all day long. Tonight I could barely button my bodice.”

“Making up for lost time.”

“I guess so. I started with tinned peaches, went on to half a loaf of fresh bread, then oysters, lemonade, and salt pork. Do you have any of those wonderful pickles Sheena makes?”

Caitrin chuckled. “As a matter of fact, I restocked the pickle barrel three days ago. It’s right over there by Mrs. LeBlanc.”

“I hope I don’t make a pig of myself. Seth might stop calling me his little twister and start calling me his great big oinker!”

Rosie gave her friend a quick hug and started through the crowd. Caitrin searched the room for any sign of the Cornwalls. Not six months ago, Jack Cornwall had stirred up more than a little trouble in this very room—appearing at a party and accosting Rosie, and later fighting with Seth right outside the front door. Could the people of Hope ever put those events behind them? She had her doubts. Farmers had long memories, and Jack had branded himself a villain, as simple as that.