Carolyn Davidson - A Man for Glory

“I thought you’d already made up your mind,” Glory told him, pouring the sausage gravy into a bowl, then scooping the eggs into another. She placed them on the table, then reached into the warming oven atop the range to pull out a pan of biscuits she’d stored there. In moments, she’d filled the glasses with milk, poured a cup of coffee and put it in front of Cade, and called out for Essie to come to the table.

The girl appeared from the direction of the hallway, a braid hanging ragtag down her back and a look of chagrin on her face. “I can’t do my braid the way you make it, Glory. I tried three times already and it don’t look right no matter what I do to it.”

“Sit down and eat, Essie. I’ll braid it up for you after breakfast. It just takes a bit more practice. You’ll catch on.”

The food smelled tasty, Cade decided, the eggs and gravy steaming in their bowls, the biscuits crusty on the outside, and when he broke one open the inside was light and looked to be tender.

“Mr. McAllister …”

He glanced at her. “Ma’am?” He looked askance, then noted the folded hands the children held before themselves, and bowed his head, holding his own palms together as he’d been silently directed.

Glory spoke a short prayer of blessing on the food and the family; her words were sincere, obviously used often. It was plain she was not displaying company manners, only performing a ritual common to this table.

After the children had chimed in on the “amen,” Cade spoke up. “After my pa died, my mama used to always pray before we ate, and then when my stepfather moved in, she said he should take his place in the house as man of the family and he always did it from then on.”

The children were silent, and Essie cast Cade a wondering glance, as if she sought out the truth of his position in this house. Glory simply smiled, her comment mild, but much what he would have expected of her.

“We’re always thankful for our meals, Mr. McAllister. I know we work hard growing much of the food, but we’re thankful for a place to put in a garden, and the rain that waters it for us, and a good well to take up the slack when the rain holds off too long. Sometimes we take turns saying a blessing. You’re welcome to take a turn if you like.”

The children grinned, and Essie kicked Buddy’s ankle and snickered behind her hand, as if imagining the big man across the table doing such a thing. They’d only done it themselves at first to please Glory, for Pa had said that she ran the kitchen, since she cooked the meals, and they must do as she said.

“I’ll take the job for supper at night, since I’m planning on being here—for a good while, anyway,” Cade said, tossing a look of satisfaction at Glory. He pushed his plate away, the surface of it almost as clean as it had been when it came fresh from the cupboard shelf. “Good breakfast, ma’am.”

“Thank you, sir. Now, if you’ll put the dirty dishes in the sink, I’ll take a few minutes to braid Essie’s hair for her.” The child moved to stand in front of Glory and in moments the braid was formed and Glory dropped a quick kiss on the smooth cheek as Essie whispered her thanks.

The child ran out the back door, calling for her brother as she went. Buddy left the table to run after Essie, and Glory’s eyes touched the man who had cleared the table in barely a minute. His eyebrow twitched and a grin tilted the corner of his lips as he returned her appraising look.

As if he could see within her, his gaze narrowed and his dark eyes glowed. She felt a twinge of uneasiness, wondering at his thoughts. And then he answered her unspoken question before it could be asked.

“We’ll work it out, you and me,” he said softly, his eyes warm on her face.

“I told you, Mr. McAllister, I don’t know if I’m ready for what you want.”

“Well, the first thing you might do to prepare yourself is forget the Mr. McAllister thing and remember that my name is Cade. After all, I’m the lucky man you’re going to be living with, one way or another.”

She looked up at him and her smile was quick, deepening the dimples that dented her cheeks. “You’ve got a slick way of putting things, McAllister, quite a line of blarney. It sounds to me like you’ve got things all arranged in your mind.”

He chuckled at her words. “Blarney, is it? You’re sounding like a colleen from the old country, Glory.”

She cast him a flirting glance. “I suspect I come by it honestly, Cade. My father came over on a boat from Ireland, met my mother in New York, who was fresh from England herself, and married her. I suppose I picked up a bit of his way of talking. I catch myself once in a while thinking in my mind, using his words.”

“I thought as much. There’s just a hint of Irish in your speech, not a lot, but enough to tease me as I listen. And your eyes are like the black Irish. They go with your dark hair.”

“My father was dark haired and blue eyed. I suppose I take after him, for my mother was fair.”

He hesitated for a moment and then pursued the point. “Would I be out of line if I asked about your parents? Are they still alive or have you lost them?”

“I know where they are, for all the good it does me. I helped bury them both along the trail near Wichita when a good many on the wagon train sickened with diptheria. So many died in those few days. When my mother sickened, she sent me to a neighboring wagon and I wasn’t allowed near my parents again. After they died, the wagon was burned and everything in it, and my parents were buried, along with a dozen or so others who didn’t make it.”

She spoke in a low voice, the words almost cold, as if she’d placed them so far back in her memory they were in a box named the past.

“You’re all alone in the world, then,” he asked quietly. “No brothers or sisters?”

“No, there was only ever me. Mama didn’t have any more babies. But I’m not alone in the world. I have Buddy and Essie. They’re my family. Harvey Clark gave them to me the day I moved into his house. They’re mine like a small sister and brother would be, almost my own kin.”

“You’ve done a fine job raising them, Glory. Buddy is a strong boy, seems honest and upright. And Essie is a real sweetheart.”

“She’s a good girl, is what she is. And Buddy will own this place when he’s grown and he’ll farm it like his daddy. And Essie will learn to wash clothes and tend to women’s work. Like scrubbing out a load of clothes before breakfast.”

She left the kitchen then, stepping off the porch, bypassing the farm wagon parked near the house, to where a wash basket sat beneath clotheslines.

She reached into the laundry basket and pulled out a pair of denim pants. Glory snapped them in the air and hung them by the back of the waist, leaving the wind room to blow the legs dry. Three more pair of trousers followed, two of Buddy’s and another worn pair, probably left from the children’s father. Several shirts followed them onto the line and then Glory lifted the empty basket and placed it on the porch.

She bent to pick up the long pole that would prop the line high, catching the rope between the two nails on top, then standing it upright to allow the breeze access to the clothes that began to billow at the wind’s bidding.

She looked up at the line, satisfied with her early morning’s work. Tomorrow she would strip the sheets from the beds. Or perhaps the next day, depending on the weather. If it should rain, she would bake bread and churn butter, sweep the parlor and tidy up the bedrooms a bit.

Being settled in a place she could call home was a fine thing, she’d decided three years ago when she’d first come here to live. No one kept an eye on what she did, so she’d done what she pleased, and Harvey Clark had kept his peace, satisfied with the clean house and well-cooked food on his table.