An Unexpected Partnership

Quaker Rachel Woolsey dreams of having her own bakery and her own homestead. But the odds are stacked against her—until the handsome ex-soldier she nurses back to health offers to help her. Like Rachel, Brennan Merriday is an outsider. But he’ll be the temporary ally she needs, and her foolish attraction will fade once he’s gone.

At first, the only thing Brennan wants to know about Pepin, Wisconsin, is how fast he can leave it. Perhaps in Canada he’ll find peace after a bloody war. Yet repaying his debt to the pretty baker offers unexpected solace. She saved him once. Now he longs to rescue dreams of family—for both of them.

Wilderness Brides: Finding love—and a fresh start—on the frontier

“What’d you come here for? To find a husband?”

If looks could slap, his face would have been stinging.

“No, I am not looking for a husband. I could have had one back in Pennsylvania. That is, if I didn’t mind being a workhorse, raising six stepchildren under the age of twelve.” Her tone was uncharacteristically biting.

She reddened. “I didn’t resent the children, honestly, but if I’d felt any love for their father… Or sensed that he might ever…” Her jaw tensed. “I like to do business, but marriage should be a matter of the heart, not something akin to a business contract. Doesn’t thee agree?”

A matter of the heart. His jaw clenched and his unruly mind brought up Lorena’s face. Miss Rachel wanted to be loved, not just needed. And he’d found out that his beloved one could let him down, turn her back and walk away.

Wrenching his mind back to the present, he held up both hands. “I get it. I ain’t looking for a wife.”

“That suits me.”

LYN COTE

and her husband, her real-life hero, acquired a new daughter recently when their son married his true love. Lyn already loves her daughter-in-law and enjoys this new adventure in family stretching. Lyn and her husband still live on the lake in the north woods, where they watch a bald eagle and its young soar and swoop overhead throughout the year. She wishes the best to all her readers. You may email Lyn at l.cote@juno.com or write her at P.O. Box 864, Woodruff, WI 54548. And drop by her blog, www.strongwomenbravestories.blogspot.com, to read stories of strong women in real life and in true-to-life fiction. “Every woman has a story. Share yours.”

Heartland Courtship

Lyn Cote

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, saith the Lord. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts.

—Isaiah 55:8–9

Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? And one of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father. But the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear ye not therefore, ye are of more value than many sparrows.

—Matthew 10:29–31

To my PA and dear friend, Sara Scholten

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

Dear Reader

Questions for Discussion

Excerpt

Chapter One

Pepin, Wisconsin

June 2, 1871

In the dazzling sunshine, Rachel Woolsey stood on the deck of the riverboat, gazing at her new home, its wharf and huddle of rustic buildings. After all the lonely miles, she’d accomplished her journey. Relief flooded her when she recognized her cousin Noah standing near the dock, his wife and children at his side.

But she stiffened herself against this warm, weakening rush. She didn’t want to dissolve in tears at the sight of family. She would make a life for herself here, fulfill her ambition of independence, start her own business, own a home—no matter what anyone said.

Her empty stomach churning, she smoothed her skirt, calming herself outwardly, and prayed silently for the strength to accomplish all she hoped. With God’s help, I will. Otherwise why did I leave my father’s house in Pennsylvania?

Finally, at the rear, the paddle wheel stilled, dripping and running with water. Porters carried her luggage onto shore where she tipped them and turned to her cousin. When she told him all her unusual—for a woman—plans, would he be a help or hindrance?

Holding his daughter, Noah enveloped her in a one-armed embrace. “Cousin Rachel!”

The intensity in his joyful welcome wrapped itself around her like a warm blanket and went straight to her lonesome heart. “Cousin!” She could say no more without tears.

Then he released her and his pretty blonde wife handed their little son to him and hugged her close. “We’re so happy you have come. It’s good to have family near.”

Rachel sensed a breath of hesitation in Sunny’s welcome. And Rachel guessed it must be because she knew of Sunny’s unhappy past. How could she let Sunny know she would never, never reveal what she knew? She wouldn’t tell anyone here that before marrying Noah, Sunny had borne a child out of wedlock.

“I’m so happy, Cousin Sunny,” she said with heartfelt sincerity. “I’m so happy thee and Noah look...good together.”

And they did. The two children looked happy and well fed. Noah looked healed, content and Sunny touched his arm with obvious affection. Then tears did come.

Maybe this place would be good for her, too. She realized that she did feel welcome, more than in her stepmother’s home where she’d been an unpaid servant instead of a beloved daughter. She tried to shake off the bittering thought.

At sounds behind Rachel, Noah looked up and frowned. Speaking past her, he asked sharply, “What are you men doing?”

“The captain say bring this man on shore to the doctor,” the black porter said.

Rachel swung around and saw that two porters were carrying an unconscious man, one holding his shoulders and one his ankles. A third porter followed with what looked like a bulging soldier’s knapsack.

“We don’t have a doctor here,” Sunny said, sounding worried.

“Well, then we suppose to leave him anyway,” the porter said, appearing abashed. “We got no one to nurse or doctor him and his fare run out two stops south.”

Rachel’s sense of right balked. “So thee’s just going to abandon him?”

The porters looked ashamed, helpless. “That’s what the captain order us to do.”

Rachel struggled with herself. She couldn’t take out her umbrage on these innocent men. She would tell the captain what she thought—

The boat whistle squealed. The porters gently laid down the shabby man and his travel-worn knapsack and then hustled onto the boat, which was already being cast free.

Within moments the boat was far from shore, heading north, the paddle wheel turning again. Rachel fumed at the departing craft as she dropped to her knees beside the man.

Thin, with a new beard and shaggy chestnut hair, he appeared around Noah’s age, in his thirties, and would have been handsome if not so haggard looking. Drawn to help him, Rachel touched his perspiring forehead. Anxiety prodded her. “He’s burning up, Noah.”

Her cousin knelt on the man’s other side. “We can’t leave him.”

“Of course we can’t,” Sunny agreed, holding her little girl back from going to her father.

Rachel rose with new purpose. “I’ll help thee carry him, Noah.” She bent and lifted the man’s ankles and Noah quickly grasped his shoulders. They carried him to the wagon and managed to arrange him on a blanket Sunny kept under the wagon seat. Rachel should have had a harder time carrying a man’s weight, but he must have lost pounds already, not a good sign.

Some of the shopkeepers and customers had come out to watch and a few helped wedge Rachel’s luggage on the other side of the wagon bed along with the man’s knapsack. They kept a safe distance from the feverish, unconscious man, evidently fearing contagion.

A man whom Sunny addressed as Mr. Ashford said, “He doesn’t look good. Be sure you don’t catch this from him.”

Rachel understood this sentiment, but didn’t let it sway her. Her father hadn’t raised a coward.

Noah voiced what she was thinking, “We’ll do what we can for him. It’s shameful to just drop a man off to die.”

“Irresponsible,” Ashford agreed, though he backed away. “But not every river man is to be trusted.”

Rachel couldn’t decide if the man was speaking of the captain who’d abandoned the man or warning them that this man might do them harm—if he lived. Indignation stirred within her.

Noah helped Rachel up onto the wagon bench to sit beside Sunny. Rachel accepted Sunny’s sweet little girl to sit on her lap. Noah turned the wagon and headed them home.

Rachel’s attention was torn between the beautiful thick forest they drove into and the man moaning softly behind her. As they rolled into and over each rut and bump, she hurt for him. After traveling alone for weeks, she was moved by the man’s plight. If she had become sick, would this have happened to her? “What does thee think he might be ill with?” she asked Sunny.

“I don’t know. I have some skill in nursing the sick, but he might be...” Sunny’s voice faltered.

Beyond our help, Rachel finished silently. A pall hung over them and the miles to Noah’s homestead crawled by. Rachel mentally went over the medicines she’d brought with her and where they were packed. She questioned Sunny and found that her stock of medicines was meager, too.

Rachel closed her eyes, praying for this stranger, for all traveling strangers. The man’s dire situation overlaid her joy at arriving here. Pepin was her new beginning. Would it be this man’s ending?

* * *

Brennan Merriday groaned and the sound wakened him. He heard footsteps. Someone knelt beside him. A cool hand touched his brow. “I have broth and medicine. Open thy mouth, please.” A woman’s voice.

His every joint ached, excruciating. His body burned with fever. He couldn’t speak, didn’t have the strength to shake his head no. A spoon touched his lips. The only act he could manage was letting his mouth fall open. Warm, salty broth moistened his dry throat. Then something bitter. And then more broth. He let it flow into his mouth and swallowed.

He moaned, trying to lift his eyelids. Couldn’t. Swallowed. He began to drift again. A face flickered in his mind—Lorena’s oval face, beautiful as ever with black ringlets around it, a painful memory that lanced his heart. He groaned again.

The same firm voice summoned him back. “A few more mouthfuls, that’s all I ask.”

The gentle words fell soft on his ears. He made the effort to swallow again. Again. And then he felt himself slipping away.

* * *

Half asleep, Rachel sat in the rocking chair, the fire very low on the hearth, keeping a small pot of chicken broth warm. Every time the stranger surfaced, she spooned as much into him as she could, along with willow bark tea for his fever. She was trying to keep him alive till his fever broke.

Still he looked emaciated and beneath his eyes dark patches showed signs of his decline. Would she succeed? Or would they bury him without a name? The thought lowered her spirits.

She had cared for him around the clock for nearly a week. Weariness had seeped in as deep as her bones, but her overall worry, that they might bury this man never knowing his name, pressed in on her more. Noah had gone through the man’s knapsack but had found nothing marked with a name.

Even sick, the stranger beckoned. Something about him drew her—more than merely the handsome face obscured by a wild, newly grown beard and mustache and the ravages of the fever. He looked lost somehow. Would he remain a mystery? Who was he? Why had he boarded the same riverboat as she? Was some woman pacing, worrying about him?

She’d thought she would quickly put her plans for her business into motion. But once again the needs of others took precedence. Just a little longer. I don’t begrudge helping this man, Father. Her chin lowered and she slipped into that fuzzy world of half sleep.

A loud groan woke her fully. Pushing away the dregs of a dream about home, she sat up straighter and looked down. In the light from the hearth, she saw that the stranger was awake. And this time he opened his eyes. She quickly moved into her routine. She knelt by his pallet and felt his forehead. She pressed her hand there again. Was she imagining that he seemed cooler?

With the top of her wrist, she touched her own forehead and then his. She stared down into his dull eyes. “The fever has finally broken.” Cold relief coursed through her.

The man tried to talk, his dry lips stuck together.

She held up a hand. “I’ll get the broth.” Soon she spooned more into his mouth. This time he didn’t fall asleep while she was feeding him. His dark eyes followed her and for the first time she knew he was seeing her. This made her uncomfortable, being so close to a man, a stranger, performing an intimate task for him. Finally, the bowl was empty. “More?”

His head shook yes fractionally.

She quickly fetched more and fed him a second bowl, very aware of her disheveled appearance—though in his state he wouldn’t have noticed even crossed eyes. And their being very much alone, even though Noah and Sunny slept in the next room, affected her oddly, too.

When done drinking, he closed his eyes and drew in a long breath. “How long have I been delirious?” A Southern accent slurred the words.

“Nearly a week.”

“Where am I?” His voice sounded rusty, forced. His I sounded like Ah.

“In the home of my cousin Noah Whitmore in Pepin, Wisconsin.”

His face screwed up as if the news were unwelcome. Then it relaxed as if he’d given up some struggle.

He might still die. She must know who he was. She couldn’t explain the urgency, but she couldn’t deny it. “What is thy name?”

His eyelids fluttered open. He had the thickest dark lashes she’d ever seen on a man. She held back a finger that errantly wanted to stroke their lush upward curve. “I’m Brennan Merriday.”

She smiled down at him, relieved.

“What’s your name, miss?”

“I am Rachel Woolsey,” she said.

“Rachel,” he murmured, rolling her name around his tongue. “You’re a good woman, Miss Rachel.”

Words of praise, so rare, warmed her with satisfaction.

She thought again of a woman, looking for him, a hitch in her breath. “Does thee have family we can contact?”

“No.”

The way he said the word saddened her. She’d been without family since her mother died and her father had remarried.

She touched his forehead again, more to connect with him than out of necessity. Was her compassion carrying her off to more than it should?

“Miss Rachel,” he repeated. Then he closed his eyes.

She didn’t think he had fallen back to sleep. He’d closed his eyes to shut her out. Was it her question that prompted this or was he too weak to talk further? Though his fever had broken, he would need careful nursing before he recovered fully. She sighed long, not letting herself dwell on her own plans, already much delayed.

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.

“Brennan Merriday,” the little Quaker scolded, “what was thee thinking?”

“Why do you always use both my names?” he snapped, breathing hard too and saying the first thing that came to mind that didn’t smack of rudeness.

“That is the Quaker way, our plain speech. Titles such as mister and sir are used to give distinction, and all are equal before God.”

She lay beside him, her arm lodged under his chest, much too close to suit him.

“God and Quakers may think that but hardly anybody else does,” he panted. He rolled away to stand but halted when he’d gained his knees. He had to get his breath before trying to stand to his feet, get away from this soft, sweet-smelling woman.

The Quaker sprang up with—he grumbled silently—a disgusting show of energy. “I’ll help thee.”

“I prefer to get up by my lonesome, thank you,” he retorted, his temper at his own weakness leaking out. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye.

Her hair had come loose from a single braid and flared around her shoulders. Her skin glowed like a ripe peach in the dawn light. He took a deep breath and tried to turn his thoughts from her womanliness.

“Why did thee do this without discussing it first, Brennan Merriday?”

“I reckon,” he drawled, “I overestimated my strength, Miss Rachel.”

“I don’t think thee understands just how ill...” She pursed her lips. “A little patience is what is needed now. I had planned to help thee take a short walk today. It is exactly what is needed.”

“Well, I saved you the trouble and took my own walk.” He couldn’t stop the ridiculous words.

She gave him a look that mimicked ones his sour aunt Martha had used often when he was little.

“I’m not a child,” he muttered.

A moment of silence. Miss Rachel pressed her lips together, staring at him. Then she glanced away. “I know that,” she murmured.

Slowly he made it onto one foot and then he rose, woozy but standing.

She waited nearby, both arms outstretched as if to catch him. “Should I call Noah to help?”

“I can do it myself. Just let me take my time.”

The family dog stayed nearby, watching as if trying to figure out what they were doing.

“You can go on in,” he said, waving one hand.

She studied him. “Very well, but since thee has so much energy, thee can help me today. I am going to try a new recipe and I need the walnuts I bought in Saint Louis shelled and chopped.”

“I’ll look forward to it, Miss Rachel,” he said with a sardonic twist and bow of his head.

She walked away and he had to close his eyes in order not to watch her womanly sway. Even a shapeless housecoat couldn’t completely hide her feminine curves. Why hadn’t some man in Pennsylvania married her? She wasn’t ugly or anything. And why was he, Brennan Merriday, drifter, thinking such thoughts?

He was the last one to speak about getting married. His wife had betrayed him, but perhaps from her point of view he’d betrayed her. Either way, Lorena was dead and he had no business wondering why someone was or wasn’t married.

* * *

After breakfast, Noah went outside to work on some wood project. Brennan watched him leave, wishing he had the strength to do man’s work. The pretty wife and children were off to visit friends and that left him alone with the spinster.

Miss Rachel began setting out bowls, eggs, flour, sugar and such. “I am baking rolled walnut yeast logs today. I recalled that it’s one of Noah’s favorites and I want to thank him for his kindness to me.”

Her remark caught Brennan’s attention. So she felt beholden to the Whitmores, too? And then he recalled that she had said she’d arrived on the same riverboat as he had. “What’d you come here for? To find a husband?”

If looks could slap, his face would have been stinging.

“No, I am not looking for a husband. I could have had one back in Pennsylvania. That is, if I didn’t mind being a workhorse, raising six stepchildren under the age of twelve.” Her tone was uncharacteristically biting.

She reddened. “I didn’t resent the children, honestly, but if I’d felt any love for their father...or sensed that he might ever...” Her jaw tensed. “I like to do business but marriage should be a matter of the heart, not something akin to a business contract. Doesn’t thee agree?”

A matter of the heart. His jaw clenched and his unruly mind brought up Lorena’s face. Miss Rachel wanted to be loved, not just needed. And he’d found out that his beloved one could let him down, turn her back and walk away.

Wrenching his mind back to the present, he held up both hands. “I get it. I ain’t looking for a wife.”

“That suits me.” She lifted her chin. “I’ve come to set up in business here.”

He couldn’t mask his shock. “You plan to have your own business?”

“I intend to open a bakery and sweet shop. And Pepin is just the kind of town that can support one.”

“Are you out of your mind?” he blurted. “A bakery in this little half-horse town?”

“No,” she said, dismissing his opinion. “I am not out of my mind. Pepin’s a river town. Boats stop daily, dropping off and picking up passengers and goods. I will sell my confections to the river boatmen and passengers. Candies and baked goods. I’ve rarely met a man without a sweet tooth.”

He glanced directly at her for the first time. “You good at makin’ candy and such?”

He glimpsed a flash of pleased pride in her eyes. “People have said I have a gift for creating sweet things.”

“Well, when am I gonna taste some?” he asked with a sly glance.

He’d made her smile. “Well, if you start shelling these walnuts, that would be today.”

She set a cloth bag of nuts, a small hammer and a slender, pointed nutpick in front of him. “Take thy time. I must mix the dough and it must rise once before I’ll need to roll it out, then spread the filling of honey, cinnamon and crushed walnuts and roll it back up to rise again.”

He usually spent his days sweeping out liveries or saloons or lifting and carrying at docks. It had been a very long time since he’d sat in a kitchen with a woman while she baked. There was something cozy about it. Then memories of shelling pecans for his aunt Martha came back to him. He shook out a few walnuts from the bag and stared at them.

Many minutes passed as Miss Rachel measured and mixed.

“I’ve been thinking about a proposition for you, Brennan Merriday.” She took a deep breath and plunged on, “I also intend to stake a claim for myself here.”

The few words shocked Brennan again. He’d never conceived of a woman doing something like this. “A single woman homesteadin’? Is that allowed?”

“It is. I am determined to have my own place.”

Unheard of. “You couldn’t do it. You wouldn’t have the strength to prove up, to do all the work.”

Proving up meant fulfilling the government requirements of building and clearing the land within the five year time limit. She went on, “That is where my proposition comes in. I was wondering if I could hire thee to help me out for a few weeks.” She wouldn’t meet his eyes, concentrating on her mixing and measuring.

He gaped at her. Work for a woman?

“Around here, men only work for others upon need or when their own chores are done,” she explained what he could already guess. “And this is the growing season. Men are plowing and planting...” Her voice faded away.

Work for a woman, he repeated silently. When he’d been without funds in the past, he’d done chores for women in payment for meals. But work for one like a hired hand? The idea sent prickles through him. He swallowed down the mortification.

“So?” she prompted.

“Even if I accepted this employment, I can’t build a cabin all by myself, not even with Noah’s help,” he pointed out.

“Noah says there is an abandoned homestead near town.” Her voice had brightened. “There is already a cabin. So that would mean just fixing it up. But I’ll also need someone to dig me a garden and so on.” She looked him in the eye, her expression beseeching. “Is thee interested in such employment?”

Brennan’s mind struggled to take this in. A woman stake a claim? A woman run her own business? Preposterous. And him work for a woman? An outlandish idea. Men didn’t do that. He could hear the kind of comments he’d get from other men about working for this spinster.

And Miss Rachel was just the kind of woman—respectable and straightlaced—he generally steered clear of. And he never stayed in one place long and this suggestion would interfere with that—mightily. Canada was calling him.

But then he recalled his debt to her and picking up the little hammer, he whacked the nearest walnut so hard it cannonaded off the table and hit the wall.

Miss Rachel’s finely arched eyebrows rose toward her hairline. She walked over and picked up the walnut. “Try it again, Brennan Merriday. If thee doesn’t wish to work for a woman, I will understand.” She turned her head away.

He could tell from the mifftiness of her tone that he’d insulted her. He hadn’t meant to. But Miss Rachel was going against the flow and probably knew what was in store for her, probably knew what people would say to him for working for her.

Why would she do this? He looked down at the returned walnut. He remembered Aunt Martha, his father’s unmarried sister, who’d lived with them. He’d just accepted that unmarried women spent their days looking after other women’s children and washing other people’s clothes. Had that made his aunt so crusty? Had she hidden blighted dreams of her own?

He couldn’t actually work for a woman, could he? He looked up. Did he have a choice? He owed this Quakeress his life. “I can’t take the job formal-like, Miss Rachel. But I will help you get set up.”

“Thank thee, Brennan Merriday. I’d shake thy hand but...” She nodded to her hands, already kneading the large bowl of dough. Her face was rosy from the oven and from their talk no doubt. He wondered why this woman kept catching him by surprise, causing him to want to shield her. She was not like any other woman he’d ever met.

He expertly tapped another walnut and it opened in two clean-cut halves. He felt a glimmer of satisfaction and began digging out the nuts, breathing in the scent of yeast and walnut oil.

He’d help this woman get started and then he could leave, his conscience clear. He’d start north to Canada again—Canada, where no one had fought in the war and held no grudge nor memory. Where he might finally forget.

Chapter Two

A week later, Rachel climbed up on the bench of the wagon with Brennan’s help. He had insisted that if he was accompanying her, he would do the driving. She’d given in. Men hated being thought weak and this man had been forced to swallow that for over a fortnight now.

Finally she’d be able to get started doing what she’d come to do, create her new life. A fear niggled at her. What if someone had gotten the jump on her and already claimed the property? Well, she’d deal with it if she had to, not before.

Another worry pinched her. The homestead might need a lot of work, more than Noah and Brennan could do. “Did Noah tell thee where to find the abandoned homestead?” she asked, keyed up.

“Yes, Miss Rachel, you know Noah explained where it was. What you’re asking me is, do I remember how to drive there.”

She grinned at him, ignoring the barely disguised aggravation in his tone. “Thee must be feeling better if thee can joke.”

He looked disgruntled at her levity but said nothing, just slapped the reins and started the horses moving. They rode in silence for the first mile. Against her own will, she studied his profile, a strong one.

Freshly shaven and with his face no longer drawn with fever, he was an exceptionally handsome man. She brushed a fly away from her face. She turned her gaze forward. Handsome men never looked at her. Why should she look at this one?

Brennan spoke to the horses as he slowed them over a deep rut. His Southern accent made her wonder once more. The horrible war had ended slavery, yet tensions between the North and South had not eased one bit. And after four years of war, the South was devastated. What had brought this Southerner north?

She watched his jaw work. She wondered what he was getting up the nerve to say to her. She hoped he wasn’t about to repeat the usual words of discouragement.

“Are you sure you’re ready to set up a place all by yourself?” he asked finally.

Rachel did not sigh as loudly as she felt like doing. Her stepmother’s voice played in her mind. An unmarried woman doesn’t live alone. Or run a business on her own. It’s unnatural. What will people say?

“Brennan Merriday,” Rachel said, “if thee only knew how many times that has been asked of me. I am quite certain that I can homestead on my own land.” Her tone was wry, trying to pass his concern off lightly—even though it chafed her. She had become accustomed to being an oddity—a woman who didn’t marry and who wanted to do things no woman should want.

“Why do you say thee and thy and your cousin doesn’t?”

This question took her by surprise. “I don’t really know except there isn’t a Quaker meeting here.”

“I take it that Noah’s the preacher hereabout, but not a Quaker.”

She barely listened to his words, still surveying him. His body still needed feeding, but he had broad shoulders and long limbs. Most of all, the sense of his deep inner pain drew her even though she knew he didn’t want that. She turned her wayward eyes forward again. “Yes, he seems to have reconnected with God.”

“Don’t it bother you that he’s not a Quaker no more?”

“We were both raised Quaker but I don’t consider other Christians to be less than we are. Each Christian has a right to go his own path to God.”

“And what about those who don’t want to have nothin’ to do with any church?”

She heard the edge in the man’s voice and wondered how to reply. She decided frankness should be continued. “When he enlisted in the Union Army, Noah was put out of meeting.”

The man beside her said nothing but she felt that he absorbed this like a blow to himself. She recalled praying for God to keep her cousin safe and reading the lists of the wounded and fallen after every battle, hoping not to see his name listed. The horrible war had made a dreadful impact on all their lives. Still did.

She brushed away another fly as if sweeping away the sadness of the war, sweeping away her desire to hold him close and soothe him as she would a wounded bird.

Brennan remained silent. His hands were large and showed that he had worked hard all his life.

Just as she had. “I know that people will think me odd when I stake a homestead,” she said briskly, bypassing his digression. “But I intend to make my own way. I’ve worked for others and saved money enough to start out on my own.”

Any money a woman earned belonged to her husband or father. Still, in the face of her stepmother’s disapproval, her father had decided that Rachel should keep what she earned. No doubt he thought she might never marry. His wife would inherit everything and leave Rachel with nothing. This had been her father’s one demonstration of concern for her. How was it that when she’d lost her mother, she’d also in effect lost her father?

Except for Brennan murmuring to the team, silence again greeted her comment. Finally he admitted, “I see you got your mind made up.”

They rode in silence then. The homestead Noah had told her about lay north of town within a mile and had been abandoned just before deep winter the previous year. Rachel gazed at the thick forest and listened to the birdsong, trying to identify the different calls.

Her mother had taught her bird lore. She heard a bobwhite and then a robin and smiled. A pair of eagles swooped and soared overhead. She realized she already loved this place, the wildness of it, the newness.

Another mile or so and Brennan drove through town and then turned the horses onto a faint track and into an overgrown clearing. A small log cabin and a shed sat in the middle of it. Stumps poked out of tall grass, dried from weeks without rain. Only deer had grazed here earlier this spring. The sight of the almost cozy clearing wound warmly around her heart. Would this be her home?

Brennan halted the team with a word and set the brake.

She started to climb down.

“Miss Rachel,” he ordered, “ya’ll will wait till I get there to help you down. I may be riffraff but I know enough to do that.”

She froze. “Thee is not riffraff.”

He made no reply but helped her down without meeting her eyes. Again, she longed to touch him, offer comfort, but could not.

So this man had also been weighed by society and found wanting. She recalled all the times people had baldly pointed out her lack of beauty or wondered why she wasn’t married yet—as if either was any of their business. And of course, she couldn’t answer back without being as rude as they.

Lifting her skirts a few inches, she waded through the tall, dry grass, which flattened under her feet. Noah had been praying for rain. The cabin’s door was shut tight. A good sign. She stepped back and bumped into Brennan, nearly losing her balance. He steadied her. She was shocked at the rampant and unusual sensations that flooded her. She pulled away. “My thanks.”

He reached around her and tried to push open the door. It stuck. With his shoulder, he had to force it. Looking down, he said, “Mud washed up against the door and under it and grass grew on it.”

She stepped into the dim interior and let her eyes adjust. Brennan entered and waited behind her. Finally she could see a hearth on the back wall, cobwebs high up in the corners and a broken chair lying on its side. Otherwise only dust covered the floor. “It just needs cleaning.”

“Look up.”

She obeyed. “What am I looking for?”

“I see stains from a few roof leaks.”

She turned to him. “Is that hard to make right?”

“No, I just need to bring a ladder to get up there and see where the shingles have blown loose or cracked.”

She considered this. “Thee can do that?”

“Sure.” He looked disgruntled at her question.

“Let’s look at the shed then.”

They did. Just an empty building but in good order. Excellent. Mentally she began listing the new structures she’d need. She noted how Brennan looked around as if tallying something, too. Finally she asked, “What’s thy opinion? Will this be a good homestead for me to claim?”

“Well, it’s fortunate to already have a cabin and shed on it.”

She pointed to a mound between the cabin and the shed. “Could that be a well covered over?”

“Might be.” He strode over to it and stooped down. “You’re right. They were good enough to cover the well and mud got washed onto the boards and then grass sprouted.” He rose. “Do you know why the family left the claim?”

“Sunny said the wife died.”

The bleak reply silenced them for a moment.

“Life is so fragile,” she murmured. Then she took herself in hand. “But we are alive and I need a home.”

“I do, too.”

She took this to mean that he’d decided to accept her position, but couldn’t bring himself to say so. And he would know he couldn’t live anywhere on the property of a single woman.

Tactfully she said, “I’m glad making this livable will not take long. It’s important I get my business up soon because the prime season for making a reputation for my sweets up and down the river is summer, when the boat traffic will be at its peak. This far north the Mississippi freezes, according to Noah.”

“You make good sense,” he allowed grudgingly.

She moved to look directly into his eyes. After a mental calculation she said, “I could afford to pay you two dollars a week. That would include meals.”

“I won’t take anythin’ for my work, but I’ll need to pay for a room.” He left it open that he’d need her to cover that.

“Where will you live?” she asked finally.

“I thought I’d ask in town who has room for me.”

She offered him her hand. “It’s a deal then. Let’s go to town and stake this claim.”

“Yes, Miss Rachel.” His words were polite but she caught just the slight edge of irony under them. What had made this man so mocking of himself and others? She would just take him as he was. Until he moved on.

And she ignored the sensitive currents that raced up her arm when he gripped her hand and shook it as if she were another man. Were foolish schoolgirl feelings going to pop up now when she least needed them? And when to show them would embarrass both her and this complex man?

* * *

Brennan halted the team outside the narrow storefront. In the window, a small white placard read simply Government Office and beneath that a smaller placard—Agent Present. He went around and helped Miss Rachel down. She looked sturdier than she felt as he assisted her. She was such a little bit of a woman—with such big ideas.

He seriously doubted she would be allowed to register for a homestead. The idea was crazy. Still, he asked, “Do you want me to come in with you?”

She looked up at him with a determined expression, her large gray eyes flashing and direct. “No, I can handle this myself.”

He listened for any sign she might want him to accompany her. But he caught only a shade of tartness in her tone. He accepted her decision. He didn’t like people hovering over him either. “Then I’ll be going to find me a room.”

“Very well. If I am not here when you need me, look for me at the General Store.” Without waiting for his reply, she marched to the door and went inside. He wondered idly why she never wore any lace or pretty geegaws. And she skimmed her hair back so severely. Didn’t she want to look pretty?

He stood a moment, staring after her. Northern women were different all right and up to now, Miss Rachel stood out as the most different he’d met. Lorena’s biddable face flickered in his mind, stinging as it always did. He walked resolutely away from the starchy Yankee and his own taunting memories.

He paused, scanning the lone dusty street for a likely place to ask for a room. This little dot on the shore of the Mississippi hadn’t progressed to having a boardinghouse yet.

Whom could he ask? Then he noticed the saloon at the end of the street, the kind of place where he always found an easy welcome—as long as he had money in his pocket.

No doubt it would irritate Miss Rachel if he went in there. So he strode toward it, reveling in the ability to walk down a street healthy once again. He pushed through swinging doors into the saloon, almost empty in the late morning. A pudgy older man leaned back behind the bar.

“Mornin’,” Brennan greeted him.

“What can I do for you?” the man replied genially.

Brennan approached the bar. “I’m new in town, need a room. You know any place that’d be good for me to ask at?”

They exchanged names and shook hands.

“You’re from the South?” Sam, the barkeep, commented.

“Yeah.” Though bristling, Brennan swallowed a snide reply.

After eyeing him for a few moments, Sam rubbed his chin. “Most shopkeepers have family above their place or build a cabin behind their business. Got a blacksmith-farrier in town. Single. Think he’s got a loft empty. Can’t think of anybody else that has room.”

“Don’t have many businesses in this bump in the road,” Brennan drawled, leaning against the bar, suddenly glad to have someone more like him to talk to. The Whitmores were good folk, but he had to watch his errant tongue around them.

Sam smirked. “You got that right.”

A look of understanding passed between them. Brennan drew in a deep breath. “Thanks for your advice about the room.”

“Glad to help. Drop in some evening and we’ll have a tongue wag.”

After nodding, Brennan headed outside. Miss Rachel probably hadn’t finished in the government office yet. So under the hot sun, he ambled toward the log-constructed blacksmith shop. The clang of metal on metal announced a smithy hard at work. Would the blacksmith be anti-Southerner, too?

He entered the shady interior and fierce heat rushed into his face. A broad-shouldered man in a leather apron pounded an oblong of iron, shaping it into some long-handled tool, sparks flying. Finally, after plunging the tool into a barrel of water, the sweating blacksmith stepped back from his forge. Over the sizzling of the molten iron meeting cold water, he asked, “What can I do for you, stranger?”

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?

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