Lyn Cote - Heartland Courtship

A man’s life was worth more than her business. And this man hadn’t chosen to be sick. She pulled the blanket up around his neck and smoothed it. Why had this desire to touch him come?

Finally she pushed herself up onto her feet before she gave in to temptation and did something like touch those thick lashes and embarrassed herself.

She settled back into the rocking chair with her feet on a three-legged stool. She pulled the shawl up onto her shoulders like a blanket and almost fell asleep. One thought lingered—the man did not seem very happy to wake from a fever. That could be due to his weakness. But from his few words, she didn’t think so. The lonely recognized the lonely.

* * *

Brennan lay on the pallet, still aching, feeling as flat as a blank sheet of foolscap. For the first time, he was aware of what was going on around him. The family who lived in this roomy log cabin had just risen and was getting ready to start its day. He hadn’t been this close to such a family for a long time—by choice. Too painful for him.

A tall husband sat at the table, bouncing a little girl on one knee and a baby on the other, saying nursery rhymes and teasing them. The children giggled; the sound made him feel forlorn. A pretty wife in a fresh white apron was tending the fire and making breakfast. Bacon sizzled in a pan, whetting Brennan’s once-dormant appetite. How long before he could get away from this homey place that reminded him too much of what he’d lost a decade ago? When he reached Canada, maybe then he could forget. When would he be able to travel again?

The woman who’d nursed him...what was her name? His wooly mind groped around, seeking it. Miss Rachel, that was it. She still slept in a rocking chair near him. He could see only the side of her face since her head had fallen against the high back of the chair. Light golden freckles dotted her nose. Straight, light brown hair had slipped from a bun, unfurling around her cheek and nape. From what he could see, she was not blatantly pretty but not homely either. There was something about her, an innocence that frightened him for her.

The smell of bacon insisted on his full attention. He opened his eyes wider and turned his head. His stomach rumbled loudly.

As they heard it, both the husband and wife turned to him. Miss Rachel’s eyes popped open. “Thee is awake?”

He nodded, his mouth too dry to speak. Thee? Quakers to boot?

“I’ll get you a cup of coffee,” the wife said.

Miss Rachel stretched gracefully and fully like a cat awakening from a nap and rose from the rocking chair, throwing off a shawl, revealing a trim figure in a plain dark dress. She knelt beside him and tested his forehead. “No fever.” She beamed.

He gazed up into the largest gray eyes he’d ever seen. They were serene, making him feel his disreputable appearance. Yet her gaze wouldn’t release him. He resisted. I’m just weak, that’s all.

The husband walked over and looked down. “Thank God. You had us worried.”

At the mention of God, Brennan felt the familiar tightening. God’s notice was not something he wanted. The wife handed Miss Rachel a steaming mug of what smelled like fresh-brewed coffee. She lifted his head and shoulders. Lilac scent floated in the air.

“I can sit up,” he protested, forcing out the words in a burst through cracked lips. Yet when he tried, he found that he could not sit up, his bones as soft as boiled noodles.

“Thy strength will return,” Miss Rachel said, nudging his lips with the mug rim.

He opened his mouth to insist that he’d be up before the day was out. But instead he let the strong, hot, creamy coffee flow in. His thirst sprang to life and he drank till the mug was empty. Then he inhaled, exhausted by the act and hating that. Everyone stared down at him, pity in their eyes.

The old bitterness reared. Enjoyin’ the show? he nearly snarled. His heart beat fast at the inappropriate fury that coursed through him. These innocent people didn’t deserve the sharp edge of his rough tongue.

“You’ll feel better,” the wife said, “when you’ve been able to eat more and get your strength back.”

“How did I end up here?” he asked, the thought suddenly occurring to him. Hadn’t he been on a riverboat?

“The captain put you off the same boat I arrived on,” Miss Rachel replied, sounding indignant.

Brennan couldn’t summon up any outrage. What had the captain owed him? But now he owed these good people, the kind who usually avoided him. The debt rankled.

“You’re from the South?” the husband asked.

There it came again. Most Northerners commented about his Southern drawl. Brennan caught his tongue just before his usual biting answer came out. “Yes.” He clenched his teeth.

The husband nodded. “We’re not still fighting the war here. I’m Noah Whitmore. This is my wife, Sunny, and our children, Dawn and Adam. And Rachel is my first cousin.”

Brennan tried to fix the names to the faces and drew in air. “My brain is mush,” he admitted, giving up the struggle.

Noah chuckled. “We’ll get you back on your feet. Never fear.”

The immense, unasked-for debt that he owed this couple and this Miss Rachel rolled over Brennan. Words seemed paltry, but they must be spoken. “You have my thanks.”

“We were glad to help,” the wife, Sunny, said. “We all need help sometime.”

Her last phrase should have eased him but his reaction was the opposite. Her last phrase raised his all-too-easy-to-rile hackles, increasing his discomfort. How could he ever pay what he owed these people? And he’d be forced to linger here to do that. Canada was still a long ways away. This stung like bitter gall.

* * *

Three days had inched past since Brennan had surfaced from the fever that had almost killed him. Noah had bathed him. And humming to herself, Miss Rachel had washed, pressed and ironed his clothing. The way she hummed when she worked, as if she was enjoying herself, made him ’specially fractious. Each day he lay at ease under their roof added another notch to his debt.

From his pallet now, he saw the sun barely lighting the window, and today he’d planned to get up and walk or know the reason why. He made himself roll onto his knees and then, bracing his hands against the wall, he pushed up onto his feet.

For a moment the world whirled around. He bent his head and waited out the vertigo. Then he sat in the chair and pulled on his battered boots. His heart pounded and that scared him. Had this fever affected his heart? Visions of old men sitting on steps in the shade shook him, moved him.

He straightened up and waited out a momentary wooziness. He shuffled toward the door and opened it. The family’s dog lay just outside. Brennan held a finger up to his mouth and the dog didn’t bark, gave just a little yip of greeting. Brennan stepped outside and began shuffling slowly down the track toward the trail that he knew must lead to town. The dog walked beside him companionably.

Brennan tried not to think, just to put one foot in front of the other. A notion of walking to the road played through his mind. But each step announced clearly that this would not be possible.

About twenty feet down the track, his legs began to wobble. He turned, suddenly wishing he’d never tried this stunt.

“Brennan Merriday!” The petite spinster was running toward him, a long housecoat nearly tangling around her ankles.

He tried to stand straight, but his spine began to soften.

She reached him just as he began to crumple and caught him, her arm over his chest, her hand under his arm. “Oof!”

Slowly she also crumpled. They fell together onto the barely bedewed grass, he facedown, she faceup. She was breathing hard from running.