Heartland Courtship. Lyn Cote

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

      Just as he was about to go back to lie on his pallet, he glimpsed movement down on the street. Three men were creeping around the stores. One had a large, full sack thrown over one shoulder. A man didn’t have to have much imagination to come to a quick conclusion.

      Thieves.

      The three men were slinking toward the front of Ashford’s. Better to access the store on the side away from where the storekeeper slept.

      The uppity face of the owner’s wife came to Brennan’s mind. Her expression a few days ago—as she’d weighed and measured him and pronounced him wanting—had been burned into him. If she’d had the power, she would have caused him to vanish from her prissy sight that day. It rankled. Yet that he cared what she thought of him rankled more.

      He watched as the shadowy men paused as if waiting for something.

      Their plan unfolded in his mind. These river “rats” were using the saloon’s loud voices to mask the sounds of the thievery. He let out a breath. These little river towns were without any presence of the law and were easy pickings for thieves.

      The thought suddenly rolled like thunder in his mind. He didn’t want this little bump on the river to become a target for unlawful types. Not with Miss Rachel living just outside town. The memory of the ruffians who’d come to her place to find him goaded him. The thought of the innocent Miss Rachel being accosted sent icy shivers through him. Never. He had to make sure the reputation of this town stayed strong—for her sake.

      He crawled over to his knapsack, retrieved his two Colt 45s and checked to be sure both were loaded and ready. He scooted to the ladder and slipped down to the blacksmith shop. He paused, thinking of who could provide him backup. He crept to the lean-to and roused the blacksmith. Seeing Brennan’s index finger to his lips, Levi swallowed a waking exclamation.

      Brennan leaned close to the man’s ear. “Thieves.” He motioned toward the rifle hung on the wall and then for the blacksmith to get up.

      Soon, the two men stood side by side in the lean-to. Brennan outlined a plan and the smith nodded. They crept along in the shadows and took their places— Brennan across from the front of the General Store, closest to the river, and the smith slipped along another store behind Ashford’s. The familiar sensations of preparing for battle prickled through Brennan, keenly heightening his awareness of every sound and sight.

      Laughter echoed from the saloon and then one of the thieves raised his hand to break the glass next to Ashford’s door.

      “Hold!” Brennan roared, hidden in the shadows.

      The three men started and glanced around frantically.

      “Hold!” Brennan repeated.

      The three scampered toward the rear as if to hide themselves.

      Brennan let loose a warning shot over their heads. The smith let his rifle roar from the rear. The three men stopped, not knowing which way to run. Two had drawn pistols.

      “Drop СКАЧАТЬ