Prairie Fire (28 page)

Skin color, size, interests, fears, dreams. What made a short person better than a tall one? A white-skinned person better than a brown one? An Irishman better than a Cornishman?

Nothing. Caitrin knew God looked on the heart of each man, and by that, his standing was determined. There were so many things in Hope to take people’s time and attention, yet they continued to focus on their petty differences. The only problem large enough to band the community together was the drought.

Caitrin wished it didn’t have to take something so serious to turn the focus of Seth, Rolf, Jimmy, and most of the other townsfolk away from the traumatic incident between Sheena and Felicity. While not forgotten, it had been relegated to a back burner as everyone worked to fill barrels with creek water in preparation to irrigate the dry fields. St. Patrick’s Day had come and gone, and the Cornwalls remained in their own small camp beside the creek.

Caitrin spoke with Jack briefly at least once a day when he brought tools to the mercantile to sell, but he had kept their conversation to a minimum. This was all right with Caitrin, for until this day she hadn’t managed to work up the nerve to tell Sheena and Jimmy that Jack had asked to court her. Or that Rosie had agreed to chaperone.

“What does Seth say about Rosie’s part in this grand scheme?”

Sheena asked.

Caitrin lifted the broth bowl from her sister’s hands. “I don’t know yet, but I’m sure he won’t mind. Seth has done his best to put the past behind him and see Jack as he really is.”

“A Cornishman.” Sheena clamped her lips shut as if that settled the matter.

“But he’s more than that. Sure, he’s a good man.”

“A demon. How could he be else with that wicked mother of his?”

“That day in the smithy, Mrs. Cornwall let her anger get the better of her, Sheena. As did you.”

“I was provoked.”

“I can’t understand why it happened at all.”

“Cornish. Don’t even let your thoughts dwell on those people, Caitie, my love. They’re Cornish, and that’s all you need to know.”

Sheena winced. “Oh, my head. At times it throbs so I can hardly bear it.”

Caitrin tucked in the edge of the quilt that covered her sister. Poor Sheena. When she moved about much, her head ached or the cramping in her belly started again. She was hardly able to do her chores, and she still had months to wait before the baby’s birth. If she were forced to stay in bed all that time, the O’Toole household likely would fall to ruin.

“Papa said the Cornish are all wicked,” Sheena said with a sigh. “And wicked is as wicked does.”

Caitrin considered this for a moment. “But Jack Cornwall is a Christian man, Sheena. He told me so himself. How can you call him wicked?”

“He’s Cornish!”

“Do people always come to you in great batches like pickles, Sheena? These are the dill pickles, and they all taste sour. These are the bread-and-butter pickles, and they all taste sweet. These are the pickled green beans, these are the pickled watermelon rinds, these are the pickled pigs’ feet—”

“What are you talking about?”

“People!”

“But you said pickles.”

“’Tis the same thing with you, so it is. These are the Cornish people, and they’re all wicked schemers and liars. These are the Italians. These are the Germans. These are the lunatics. You’ve put them into separate pickle jars, and you won’t let each person stand on his own.”

“Why should I?”

“Because I happen to know that Jack Cornwall is a man with a God-given talent. He can create beautiful tools from iron. He’s a loyal son and brother. He’s special and unique because he’s
himself
.”

“Jack Cornwall knocked me down, so he did.”

Caitrin let out a hot breath. “He was trying to protect you, Sheena. Will you deny it?”

“Jimmy’s furious with him.”

“That’s because Jimmy puts everybody into pickle jars, too. Jack Cornwall is a wonderful human being. And for all you know, Lucy may be a very nice young lady.”

“Ha.”

“Even though Lucy is deeply troubled, Christ taught us that he loves all people, not just the ones who behave as we’d like. In fact, the wickedest sinners and the most anguished souls need Christ the greatest. But if we shun them—”

“There you go again, Caitie. You’d change the whole world if you could.”

“Aye, and why not?”

“Will you defend Jack Cornwall and his family even though they’ve treated us so ill?” Sheena elbowed herself up in the bed.

“You believe I don’t like the man purely because he’s Cornish. Well, he’s done nothing to prove himself any better than the worst scum of that lot. I cannot understand why you’ve allowed yourself to be swayed by his sweet words and bold kisses. Sure, I thought my own darling sister wiser than that. Jack Cornwall has tricked you, Caitie. He’s nothing but a lying, bullying—”

“I won’t hear this, Sheena.”

“You will hear it, because someone has to talk truth to you.” She paused. “Get the door, will you? It’s one of the children. Tell them to run and play with Chipper.”

Feeling hotter than the late-March afternoon would warrant, Caitrin marched to the door. “I don’t believe people are pickles,” she told her sister. “I think each person stands on his own, and each person should have the right to prove himself. Rosie said if you glue a label onto a jar of grubby tomatoes, you’ll never be able to put strawberry jam into it.”

“Wait a minute, I thought we were talking about pickles.”

“We
are
, but …” Caitrin pulled open the door to the sight of Jack and Lucy Cornwall.

“Who is it?” Sheena called.

“Pickles,” Caitrin said, ushering them inside. “Mr. Cornwall is here, and his sister Lucy. It looks as though they’ve brought a gift.”

“It’s cinnamon buns,” Lucy said. She was holding a basket with her unchained hands, and her hair had been brushed into a rough knot at the nape of her neck. “I made them for you, Mrs. O’Toole. Jack told me you weren’t well, and he helped me last night with the dough. I … I hope you’ll like them.”

Caitrin met Jack’s eyes as Lucy walked shyly toward the bed. He shrugged. “Lucy’s had three good days in a row,” he said. “Matter of fact, she’s been looking after Mama a fair bit.”

“I’m happy to hear it.” Caitrin was delighted to see the young woman calmly set the basket on the bed and then take the stool beside Sheena. She wore the blue dress Caitrin had given her, its hem now dusty and its sleeves frayed. But she looked lovely all the same.

“Mama tells me if I’ll just stop thinking about myself all the time,” Lucy said softly to Sheena, “I’ll get better. I’m not sure she’s right, Mrs. O’Toole. It’s others who fill my thoughts, memories and worries going around … and around. And … and … all Mama and Jack could talk about was you and … and your baby …”

Lucy shuddered and fell silent. Caitrin glanced at Jack. He started toward his sister. At that moment Lucy spoke again.

“I … I just thought if I could help you out, Mrs. O’Toole,” she said. “I might feel better … and you might, too.”

Sheena stared at the young woman beside her. “You baked cinnamon buns for me?”

Lucy nodded. “Jack helped.”

“Not much,” he put in.

“And then I got to thinking,” Lucy said, “if you need some … some washing done, I can do that. And I’m good with a broom.”

“Glory be,” Sheena murmured. She sat in silence so long, Caitrin began to think she’d gone into shock. Finally a look of resignation crept over her face. “Well, there’s the broom then, girl. See what you can do with it.”

Lucy leapt to her feet and grabbed the broom propped against the wall. “Do eat one of those buns, Mrs. O’Toole. I used extra cinnamon.” While Lucy swept the rough dirt floor, Caitrin took her place on the stool and divided one of the sticky buns with her sister. One hand jammed in his pocket, Jack accepted another bun. All three watched, mesmerized, chewing slowly as Lucy worked her way around the soddy brushing up a pile that included bread crusts, potato peelings, ashes, and wood chips.

“Sure has been dry lately,” Jack said. “This drought is about to get the best of everybody. Didn’t have much snow, and we could use some rain.”

Sheena looked startled, as if she hadn’t expected the man to speak in normal human tones. “Aye,” she commented. “Jimmy says this is the driest spring he can remember.”

“Dry, dry, dry,” Jack said. “And not a cloud in the sky.”

“Have we had a rain yet this year?”

“Not a drop.”

Caitrin sank her teeth into a cinnamon bun. It wasn’t much of a conversation, but at least they were talking. She wouldn’t have interrupted if she’d been paid.

“Bluestem Creek is running mighty low,” Jack said.

“Jimmy heard someone saying the Kansas River itself is down,”

Sheena added.

“Sure is hard for the boats to get through when the water is low like that.”

“Aye. I expect we’ll have showers in April.”

“Hope so. I sure do.” Jack licked a dollop of cinnamon goo off his thumb. “I’m not a farmer, but I know the rain keeps folks around here going. I’d hate to see anyone go belly-up.”

“Thank heaven for the bridge tolls. They saved us last year after the grasshoppers passed through, so they did.”

“Well, I’m finished with that job,” Lucy said, coming back into the soddy after tossing out the rubbish she’d swept. “Would you like me to wash those dishes for you, Mrs. O’Toole?”

Caitrin watched a smile form on her sister’s lips—a warm smile, a smile reserved for people Sheena favored. She smoothed a hand across the quilt. “Not today, but thank you kindly, my dear,” she said. “Perhaps … perhaps you’ll pop round and visit me another time?”

Lucy beamed. “Yes.”

“Would you be willing to bake some of your cinnamon buns for us to sell in the mercantile, Lucy?” Caitrin asked. “I haven’t had time to start up the restaurant, but more and more people are stopping to take their meals at the mercantile. ’Tis the fresh-baked bread and Sheena’s pickles that draw them. But I know they’d adore your cinnamon buns. You could have all the money you earned from them.”

“Really?” Her gray eyes lit up. “Oh, Jack, I … I …”

“Sure, Lucy. You could do that.” He squared his shoulders. “And about that spit, Mrs. O’Toole. I made you a new one. We hope you’ll accept it as a gift.”

He stepped outside and reentered carrying a heavy spit rod with a sharpened skewer bolted near one end. He laid it across the hooks over Sheena’s cooking fire and gave the handle a turn. The shiny metal glistened as it spun, and Caitrin could all but hear the sizzle of meat.

“Thank you, Mr. Cornwall,” Sheena said in a low voice. “’Twas good of you.”

“You’re welcome, ma’am.” He straightened and took his sister’s hand. “We’ll be going now.”

“Good-bye,” Lucy called as he led her out of the soddy. “Good-bye, Mrs. O’Toole.”

The door shut behind them, and Caitrin felt her shoulders sag with relief. Sheena picked up another cinnamon bun. “These are quite tasty,” she said. “Lucy should do well with them at the mercantile.”

“She’s a sweet girl.”

“I suppose so.” Sheena licked her lips. “Of course, you and I both know they did all that just to soften my heart so that Jack Cornwall could court you.”

“Lucy said she was worried about your baby.”

“So she did. I don’t suppose she has the wits about her to lie.”

“I believe she does care about your welfare.”

“And he hopes to court you.”

“He does, Sheena. I’ve said I’ll go with him to the prayer meeting.” Sheena stopped chewing. “Caitie, my love. You mustn’t go out in public with the Cornish.”

“Pickles, Sheena,” Caitrin said.

“At least take Jimmy with you.”

“Jimmy needs to look out for you. Rosie will act as chaperone, and that means Seth will join us.”

“Honestly, Caitrin—”

“I might just wear my green dress for Jack Cornwall.”

“Oh, Caitie!”

“Pickles, Sheena,” Caitrin warned again.

“I don’t care if he did make me a new spit,” she cried. “That man is a dill if ever there was one!”

“We could color the eggs, Seth,” Rosie was saying as Caitrin stepped out of her soddy into the evening. “Oh, hello, Caitie! We could paint them blue, pink, green, yellow—”

“Green eggs?” Seth asked. “Evening, Miss Murphy.”

Caitrin walked toward Jack, who stood to the side, his hat in his hand. Glory be, but the man was a vision. Black coat, white shirt, a string tie at his neck, denim jeans, and a pair of boots … he wore clothing no more elegant than Seth’s hand-sewn jacket, but a thrill ran up Caitrin’s spine at the sight of him.

“Miss Murphy,” he said. Thick and soft, his brown hair tumbled over his forehead as he gave her a little bow. “Good evening. You look lovely tonight.”

Flushing with delight, Caitrin shook out the folds of her deep green skirt. “Papa bought this fabric for my sixteenth birthday, and Mama stitched it into a gown. This dress takes me all the way to the emerald sod of Ireland, so it does.”

“What would it take to bring you back to the dry prairie of Kansas?” Jack asked, taking her hand and slipping it around the curve of his arm. As they followed Rosie and Seth down the narrow path toward the traveling camp, he whispered against her ear, “Would this do it?”