Mona Hodgson - [Quilted Hearts 03] Read online

  “Cora, dear.” The young widow tempered her voice. “It’s not a matter of whether or not I like Mr. Cowlishaw. We are scarcely acquainted.”

  “We know him, Auntie. He’s Mr. Rutherford’s friend. He lives at Mrs. Brantenberg’s farm.”

  The boy, Gilbert, shifted the valise to his other arm. “It’s possible to like someone you just met, if they’re likable.”

  The children clearly liked him. Problem was, in Mrs. Milburn’s eyes he was entirely unlikable, and understandably so. He’d fought for the South, then delivered the news of her husband’s death. He couldn’t expect her to like him.

  Her lips pressed together, Mrs. Milburn brushed a red curl the color of sunrise from her face. “You helped us with the wagon wheel last autumn, and it seems we are once again in need of your assistance.”

  “It would be my pleasure.”

  “I’ve been to Memphis to care for my aunt and returned with a heavy load.”

  He looked at the worn trunk by her side.

  “Might you be willing to haul the trunk to my sister’s house? It’s up the bank a bit.” Mrs. Milburn looked up the slope toward a row of small houses in the shadows of the main buildings downtown.

  “Consider it done.” Had her eyes always been that green? Like sycamore leaves in spring. “I hope she’s faring well. Your aunt.”

  “She passed on.”

  He removed his slouch hat. “My sympathies. I’m sure you did your best.”

  “Will it ever be enough?”

  A question he knew all too well. “Our best is all we have to offer, ma’am.” That’s what he’d told himself time and again.

  She nodded, her lip quivering, and he had to look away. He darted past her and had the trunk and valise loaded onto the tailgate in no time. This more vulnerable side of the widow tangled his insides.

  Caroline Milburn was easier to be around when she had her guard up.

  Two

  The limp Caroline had detected in her first encounter with Mr. Cowlishaw didn’t seem to bother him in the least. Within mere minutes of her request for assistance, the man had the trunk and her valise strapped into the wagon, and the children seated in the back beside them. Caroline and Jewell shared the driver’s seat with Mr. Cowlishaw, while Emilie chose to walk the short distance to her father’s dry goods store. Since it would be improper for a married woman to sit beside a man other than her husband, and Caroline was no longer married, she sat in the middle. She would’ve walked, but whether she liked the man or not, she didn’t wish to appear rude. Or ungrateful.

  Her niece’s and nephew’s forthright comments came to mind. She may have been amused by their candor had she not been so uncomfortable considering the question.

  Do you like Mr. Cowlishaw now?

  She didn’t want to like Garrett Cowlishaw. She shouldn’t. He may not have killed Phillip, but a man wearing a uniform similar to his had ended her husband’s life. Caroline straightened her spine against a shiver having nothing to do with the chill in the air.

  Mr. Cowlishaw flicked the reins, and the horses lunged forward. Even with layers of trouser, petticoat, and skirt between them, there was nothing proper about their thighs touching. Phillip would be mortified.

  If he were alive to care.

  Caroline drew in a deep breath, hoping the exercise created more space between them.

  “Mrs. Milburn.”

  The way he kept coming to their rescue, she should invite him to use her given name, but no amount of his chivalry could make that feel right. She angled her head to look at him. “Yes, Mr. Cowlishaw?”

  “Ma’am, I neglected to welcome you back to Saint Charles.”

  He was nothing if not a polite Southerner. Swallowing another dose of regret, she met his gaze.

  “Welcome back.”

  “Thank you.” She hadn’t noticed the dimple in his chin. “I hear you have a lot of folks interested in joining your caravan.” Simple conversation seemed the least she should do.

  “Yes ma’am. A handful of families are already making plans. Others are still thinking on it.”

  She nodded, then held her breath while the wagon rocked and clunked up the bank. According to her nephew, she should be among those thinking on going west. The silly notion of an eight-year-old child, certainly not the consideration of a rational woman.

  “How many months do you expect your journey will require?”

  His hazel eyes widened, furrowing his brow. “Why do you ask?”

  She hadn’t a reason, except to make conversation. Should she say that?

  He glanced at the children in the bed of the wagon. “Is your family contemplating a change?”

  “No.” Jewell’s resolute response startled Caroline, causing her shoulder to brush against the man’s firm upper arm.

  She leaned into Jewell. Her sister’s “no” was as deeply rooted as Jack was—immovable.

  Mr. Cowlishaw finally answered her. “Usually takes four months, if there aren’t any extraordinary delays. Taken as long as six months, when that’s the case.”

  Leaving in April, six months would take them into fall. No, thank you. Perhaps Jewell was right—the journey west by wagon was for men with a strong constitution.

  “This’ll be my third wagon train company on the Oregon Trail. My first as the leader. Worked as a scout on the first two.”

  Not only was the man a Southerner, he was a vagabond … a wanderer. When his muscular thigh relaxed against her, she again pressed against Jewell. Mr. Cowlishaw definitely fit her sister’s requirement for a trek in the wilderness. The man had to be strong to have been a soldier. If only Phillip had been the one to survive.

  An awful thought, she knew. Especially after Mr. Cowlishaw had been nothing but helpful … Still, he wasn’t Phillip.

  When the wagon stopped to let a carriage pass, Caroline recognized the familiar “Yoo-hoo,” then saw a gloved hand waving her direction. Mrs. Kamden sat beside a stick-thin woman, presumably her daughter-in-law, since five children filled the two back seats.

  Caroline waved, thankful Mr. Cowlishaw was turning in the opposite direction. The woman was nice enough, although a tad plainspoken for Caroline’s current sensibilities.

  “That’s our house. Up there.” Jewell pointed to the square-cut log cabin. Melting snow fell in chunks from the shingle roof, forming a berm along the front of the house, although it looked like someone had shoveled the path to the front door that morning. Most likely Jewell.

  Mr. Cowlishaw pulled up on the reins. “This is it?”

  Caroline nodded. “It is.” Before she’d left six weeks ago, she’d done what she could to help Jewell around the place, but there wasn’t much she could do about the winter drab that had settled on it. Outside, or inside.

  “Thank you.” Jewell stepped toward the back of the wagon. “We can carry the trunk in from here, Mr. Cowlishaw.”

  The brawny man looked from Jewell to the roughhewn door. “Your husband?”

  “He’s in there. But he can’t help.”

  “Pa lost a leg in the war.” Gilbert worked to untie the strap securing the valise. “That what happened to you? You get shot in the war?”

  “I’m sorry about your husband’s injury, ma’am.” He helped Gilbert with the strap. “I’ll be taking this inside for you.”

  Jewell sighed. “We’re much obliged.”

  “Happy to help.” Mr. Cowlishaw heaved the trunk from the tailgate and looked at the boy. “Naw, I wasn’t shot like your pa.”

  If Caroline wasn’t curious before, she was now. But the man didn’t offer an explanation as he followed Jewell’s slow steps up the slushy walk toward the house. Caroline fell into step with the children, close enough to notice the muscles stretching his chambray shirt tight. Her sister wiped her shoes on the braided rug on the small porch and pushed the door open.

  “High time you show up. Where you been?”

  Jack’s gruff welcome stiffened Caroline’s spine.

  Sadly, Jewell was a
ccustomed to his growl and charged on ahead. “I told you I was going to the river to bring Caroline home.”

  “Didn’t tell me you planned to lollygag. Woulda been nice to know.”

  Despite the heavy load he carried on a bum leg, Mr. Cowlishaw bounded across the slush and through the front door.

  Caroline thought to take the children with her in any other direction, but followed them inside anyway. She couldn’t leave her sister alone with the grizzly. And their good Samaritan’s gallantry now piqued her curiosity. How would he respond to Jack?

  “Mr. Rafferty?” A vein in Mr. Cowlishaw’s neck jumped.

  Jack glared at Mr. Cowlishaw, planting his hands on the arms of the wicker wheelchair. His crutch lay on the plank flooring beside him. “Who are you, and what are you doin’ with my wife?”

  Jewell motioned for the children to leave the room. The girls obliged, but Gilbert stood beside Mr. Cowlishaw, his grip on Caroline’s valise turning his small knuckles white.

  “A man who speaks to a woman that way—”

  “What?” Jack scooped up the crutch and attempted to stand, finally hopping on his left leg. “Should have his leg blown off?”

  Caroline stepped forward. “Jack, this is Mr. Garrett Cowlishaw. He’s with me.”

  Her brother-in-law’s hoot hung on the air like a midnight haunting. “You’re takin’ up with Southern men now, are you? I think Phillip would for sure have somethin’ to say about that.”

  For Jewell’s sake, and for the sake of decorum, Caroline swallowed the ire threatening to undo her and looked up at the man beside her. Clearly, a mistake. His jaw tight, Mr. Cowlishaw looked like a mountain lion ready to pounce on its prey. He’d have company.

  Caroline rested her hand on his taut arm, hoping to calm him some. Couldn’t know if it was effective, but she did feel her own shoulders relax a notch. She looked from the trunk he held to the single-pane window at the edge of the kitchen. “You can set it under that window, if you would.”

  He nodded and took long strides to the wall. As soon as the trunk touched the floor, he slid it to the wall, then stood and looked at Jack. Her brother-in-law’s empty pant leg dangled as if expecting to be needed again. “I’m truly sorry about your leg.”

  “Not sorry enough to trade your limp.” Jack sank onto the wheelchair. His scowl showed no hint of fading.

  Garrett Cowlishaw looked back at her, a mix of emotions clouding his eyes: Frustration. Compassion. Questions. Restraint.

  “Thank you for your help, Mr. Cowlishaw.” Jewell walked to the door and opened it.

  “Yes. Thank you.” Caroline met his gaze, hoping he understood it was best that he leave.

  “You’re welcome.” His chest expanded in a deep breath. Shifting his attention back to Jack, Mr. Cowlishaw exhaled through taut lips. “Very well.” Glancing once more at Caroline, he turned and left the cabin.

  Jewell pushed the door shut behind him and looked at her son. “Gilbert, take the valise to your sisters’ room.”

  Gilbert opened his mouth, but just as quickly closed it and trudged out of the room.

  “Didn’t have enough junk settin’ in my way that you had to bring more?”

  Jewell jabbed the air between them with her finger. “Jack, my aunt is dead. All I have left of her is in this trunk.”

  Caroline followed her sister to the trunk and pinched the latch open. She should’ve stayed on the boat. At the least, left with Mr. Cowlishaw. She hated living here. Hated that her sister, nieces, and nephew had to live here.

  And knew she was helpless to do anything about it.

  What are you going to do … now that you’re a widow?

  Caroline wasn’t any closer to having an answer to Mrs. Kamden’s question. Now a bigger question hung thick in the stifling air. Why did God choose to take kindly men like Phillip and leave men like Jack behind?

  It took all the self-control Garrett could muster not to yank that good-for-nothing out of his chair and whack some sense into him. History told him it would be a waste of energy. Instead, he marched to the wagon, snatched the reins from the hitching rail, and climbed onto the seat.

  In one last look at the cabin, he caught a glimpse of the Widow Milburn standing in front of the glassed window, her porcelain face framed by a threadbare curtain. The desperation etched on her features knotted his stomach … awakened best-forgotten memories. Garrett looked frontward and signaled the horses to move him. Away.

  Why had the widow returned to Saint Charles? To her sister’s hostile home?

  As soon as the thought formed, he knew why.

  Some folks would do anything for their kin.

  Three

  Thursday morning hadn’t come soon enough for Caroline. Since her return from Memphis, she and Jewell had been sifting through the things she’d brought back and sorting childhood memories of time spent with Aunt Inez. Even the children engaged in reminiscing, remembering Aunt Inez’s visit to Saint Charles while their father was away at war. But Caroline’s heart had placed a limit on how much nostalgia and sentiment it could keep in check.

  She was ready for a day away from the house and out of town.

  As her sister sat silent at the reins, the wagon rolled up Brantenberg Lane toward the farmhouse. Caroline found herself glancing from the garden to the barn, and the granary to the orchard. She told herself she wasn’t looking for Garrett Cowlishaw, but she knew better.

  She’d seen a different side of the man two days ago when he’d carried her trunk into Jewell’s house. Most impressive was the way he’d stood up to Jack. Even before that, the way he tried to comfort her when she told him of her aunt’s death.

  “My sympathies. I’m sure you did your best.”

  “Will it ever be enough?” A presumptuous question for a mere acquaintance.

  “Our best is all we have to offer, ma’am.”

  Now, Garrett Cowlishaw had met her brother-in-law. He’d seen that the best effort she had to offer wasn’t enough for Jewell or the children either. She’d felt helpless the past four years waiting for Phillip, and then witnessing Jewell’s harsh home life since Jack’s return. Caroline shifted on the wagon seat, feeling her chin lift. She would no longer stand by, waiting on those around her for change. It was time she took control and brought about reformation for herself.

  Although she couldn’t yet say how or what that would mean.

  Jewell gathered the reins in her right hand and leaned toward Caroline. “Despite your protests, you like him.” Playfulness blazed in her grin. Leaving the house today had been a boon to her sister as well.

  “I do.”

  “He’s an honorable man.”

  “I didn’t think that possible of a Confederate soldier.”

  “And now?”

  Now, she was looking for him. “I couldn’t find such a helpful man for hire.”

  Jewell’s giggle sent music into Caroline’s soul. “Reason enough to like a man, I suppose.”

  Rutherford Wainwright stepped through the open barn doors, his little daughter beside him, and greeted them with a broad wave. Gabi jumped at the sight of their wagon and called to Mary and Cora, then to Gilbert. Caroline suspected her nieces and nephew looked forward to Thursdays for the same reasons as their mother, but the farm also afforded them what their cabin in town didn’t—room to run and explore. Under Rutherford’s watchful eye.

  He motioned for Jewell to park beside Mrs. Pemberton’s wagon. “It’s a good day, Mrs. Rafferty.” He extended his hand to her.

  “It is indeed.” Jewell accepted his offer of help down from the wagon. “Thank you.”

  Caroline set her foot on the metal step, then onto the ground. As she lifted the girls out, she couldn’t help but wonder if Garrett Cowlishaw had told his friend about the encounter with Jack. But it didn’t really matter, if he had. Despite Jewell’s determination to keep her personal challenges private, Caroline had heard the whispers in town of folks expressing pity and judgment.

  “Mrs. Milburn.�
�� Rutherford Wainwright’s voice grounded her in the here and now. “I trust you are well today.”

  “I am. Thank you.”

  He watched as the children scampered across the snow and into the barn. “I thought Gabi might lose her mind waiting for your wagon.”

  “My children enjoy her company too.” Jewell glanced at the muddy ground. “Jack didn’t want us to leave this morning.”

  “Well.” A shadow darkened his face. “We’re all thankful you persisted.” Looking away, Rutherford unbuckled the girth strap. “I’ll unhitch the horses and put them in the barn with the others.”

  Caroline was tempted to ask after Mr. Cowlishaw, but didn’t wish to stir that pot. Her sister and Rutherford were sure to add assumptions to her inquiry.

  Seated at one end of the hand-carved Biedermeier settee, Anna Goben soaked up the activity in Mrs. Brantenberg’s sitting room. Maren Jensen and Emily Heinrich talked about their double wedding, planned for next month. Caroline and her sister Jewell pulled quilt tops onto their laps, speaking in hushed tones. Sixteen-year-old Hattie Pemberton removed the pins from her green felt hat while she and her widowed mother bantered with the elder Mrs. Beck and her daughter-in-law, Lorelei, about the recipe for Butterkuchen, the “Joy and Sorrow Cake” dessert Hattie had brought to the farm today.

  Mrs. Brantenberg took paper and pencils from a writing desk in the corner, then settled into a bentwood rocking chair. Steam rose from the coffee cup Maren had set on the side table beside her intended’s mother-in-law. Their German hostess looked around the room, a smile deepening the creases at her eyes. “I am a blessed woman to have so many precious friends.” She fixed her gaze on Anna. “And doubly blessed that you’re back in our midst, dear.”

  “It’s good to be here, ma’am.” Such a satisfying truth. Anna felt as if she’d received a drenching rain after months of withering drought. Drawing in a refreshing deep breath, she reached into her sewing sack. The last time she and Mutter came to the circle, Anna had cut strips and squares, expecting to make a new quilt for her brother.

  Anna pulled the fabric squares and her threaded needle from her sack. She’d make the quilt for her schrank chest instead, although even on the best days, such a hope seemed farfetched. Thankfully, no one had asked about Mutter. They didn’t need to. Everyone in town knew that, upon news of her brother’s death, Großvater had taken to his bed with sorrow … and her mother had befriended a flask.