Prairie Fire (17 page)

As she turned, Caitrin’s green eyes flashed in Jack’s direction. Behind her, the setting sun lit her hair like a roaring inferno. Her brown dress shimmered and glowed like molten bronze as it flowed down to her toes in cascades and swirls of fabric. She bent to insert a brass key in the mercantile door, and a lock of loose, curly hair slid over her shoulder. Jack had never seen a volcano, but that tress had to be like lava the way it burned and tumbled slowly forward.

He dropped the sod brick he was holding and started toward her. These past months he’d been praying so often that words seemed to form in his heart without his planning them. He knew God heard him, even though he couldn’t always feel his Master’s presence and couldn’t always hear an answer to his constant request.
Father, I’ve tried to stay back,
his soul lifted up.
But there’s
something about her. Something I need. You brought me back here in
spite of everything. Help me now. Help me to bridge gaps… .

“Mr. Cornwall,” she said, clutching her workbasket in front of her. “Good evening to you.”

“And to you, ma’am.” Belatedly, he remembered to take off his hat. “I … ah … I thank you for the cookie. Chipper gave it to me.”

“Rose Hunter baked it.”

“Tasted good.”

She brushed the lava hair back over her shoulder and looked in the direction of her soddy. “Well, ’tis late. I must be getting home.”

“I’ll walk you.”

“No!” The green eyes darted up at him. “Thank you, Mr. Cornwall, but I know my way.”

He didn’t care how much his presence unnerved Caitrin. He had seen the look she flashed him from the mercantile door, and he fully intended to spend a few minutes with her.

“I’ll walk you anyhow,” he said. “It’s getting dark.”

She let out a breath and picked up her skirt. “The sun is still on the horizon.”

“Perfect time for the wild things to come out and feed.”

Her focus darted his way as they started along the narrow path toward the soddy. “I’m not afraid of wild things.”

“Really?” he said, matching her stride for stride. “Danger lurks in the most unlikely places.”

“Does it now?”

“In empty barns on autumn nights.”

“I’m not afraid of barns.”

“On isolated paths across windswept prairies.”

“I’m not afraid of paths.”

He followed her to the door of her soddy. “In lonely hearts at sunset.”

“I’m not afraid—” she paused and looked full in his face—“I’m not afraid of a lonely heart at sunset.”

“You should be,” he said.

CHAPTER 9

C
AITRIN held her workbasket at waist level, hoping in vain that Jack might keep his distance. Instead, he rested one hand against the soddy, leaning on his arm and trapping her beside the open door. If she ducked inside, he might follow … and she could never allow that. Her back to the rough wall, she lifted her chin and met his eyes.

“Mr. Cornwall, you must not—”

“Jack,” he cut in.

“As I was saying, Mr. Cornwall—”

“Jack.”

She moistened her lips. “You must not come to my house,
Jack
. The men have allowed you only one month to prove yourself. If Jimmy sees you talking with me, he’ll want to run you off.”

“I don’t care what Jimmy O’Toole sees. And I don’t care what he thinks, either. The only opinion I care about is yours. What do
you
want, Caitrin? If you don’t want to talk to me, tell me right now. I’ll back off.”

Caitrin could hardly believe how the man’s very presence stirred her. This was nothing like the giddy, girlish sentiment she’d felt for Sean O’Casey … where pride in his position and his good looks had impelled her love. The force of Jack’s determination cut into her, hewing down everything in its path. Jimmy had called him a liar. Yet she felt certain that this man, like none other she had ever known, was completely honest. He spoke his innermost thoughts aloud. He acted on his sincere convictions. And for the sake of peace,
she
must be the one to hide the truth.

“I think,” she began, “I think you must not speak with me, Jack.”

“I didn’t ask what you thought. I asked what you wanted.”

What did she want? Countless things! She wanted this man to take her in his arms and hold her day and night for the rest of her life. She wanted him to be her champion … to fight off every adversary that came between them. She wanted his deep voice ringing in her heart. She wanted his touch, his breath on her skin, his tender kisses. She wanted a world of passion and dreams come true!

“I want you to stay away from me, Jack,” she choked out. “Because I don’t want you to leave.”

“What do you mean by that?”

She shook her head. “You cannot be seen with me, or the men will send your family away. I heard the words they spoke of you, so I did. Sure, Jimmy looks upon you as the devil himself, Jack. Seth doesn’t trust you. Rolf is confused by you and probably a little jealous. Do you want to leave this town?”

“Do you want me to go?”

“No, and that’s why you must not come near me.”

“What’s the point of staying if I can’t talk to you, Caitrin?”

“Sure, you didn’t come to Hope just for me! You wanted to make a fresh start. You wanted to build your smithy. You wanted to find a place of solitude and protection for Lucy. You wanted to earn a living for your family.”

“I wanted to be with you.” He took a step closer, all but engulfing her in his presence. “When I met you, I was sure God had abandoned me a long time before. One bad thing after another had happened in my life, and I blamed him. But then you walked into Jimmy’s barn that night, and everything turned around. You’re the only good I’ve known in many years, and I’m sure God put you in my life. I’m not about to back off unless you tell me to.”

“Jack, God is not like a capricious fairy, showering us with bad luck or good according to his whims.” Fearful of being seen, Caitrin tried to look over Jack’s shoulder at the path to the mercantile. But the solid slab of muscle blocked her view. Praying for wisdom, she spoke quickly. “Life unfolds before us, good and bad. Often the bad is the consequence of our own personal sin. But sometimes … as with Lucy … dreadful things just happen. ’Tis the same with the good in life. Usually, we reap what we sow, and if we plant good seed, then good things happen in return. But sometimes the Lord permits good, even if his people don’t deserve it.”

“You’re the good God brought into my life.”

“But you mustn’t look to
me
if you want to know
God
. I’m a human, and I make many mistakes. I’m willful and mouthy. I shout and weep, and I … I throw plates.”

“Plates?”

“You must keep your focus on the Father, Jack. Talk to him and grow in him. Please … please don’t view my presence in your life as a sign that God loves you. He has loved you always, through good times
and
bad. You must have a strong enough faith that when things take a turn for the worse, you won’t believe God has deserted you. That’s when you will need him the most. And if the men here chase you away—”

“No one’s going to run me off, Caitrin. I’m a stubborn man.”

He fingered the tumble of curly hair that lay on her shoulder. “My convictions run deep, and I don’t give up easily. You saw the way I went after Chipper. Last autumn I was sure God had robbed me of the boy, and I held the Almighty responsible for yet another loss in my life. But it hit me this evening when Chipper brought along that cookie … I didn’t lose the boy after all. God gave him to me anyhow, just not in the way I’d planned. I’m beginning to think God has good plans for me, and he can turn the worst problems into blessings.”

Caitrin studied his gray eyes, reading the earnestness in them. How she loved to hear him speak! Though he was a common laborer, Jack might have been a scholar for the profound analysis he gave to his life and the world around him.

“When you look at it that way,” he said, “you could say I’ve blamed God for a lot of losses that turned out to be gifts. I fought in the war for the cause of freedom from tyranny. The South lost the war, but God gave me freedom anyhow. Look at me out here, carving a life from this prairie. That’s freedom, Caitrin. That’s hope.”

“I don’t want them to take it from you,” she whispered, her eyes misting. “Oh, Jack, please go away. Don’t let the men see us together. They’ll rob you of that freedom. They’ll steal your hope … and mine.”

“What hope do we have if we can’t even speak to each other, Caitrin?” He drew her into his arms. “I want to hear your passionate words and see the flash of fire in your eyes. I want to get close enough to smell that scent you wear.”

“Lily of the valley,” she murmured, dropping her workbasket and slipping her hands up the broad expanse of his chest. “Jack, hold me tight. Sure, my head is running in circles, and my heart … my heart …”

His lips pressed against hers in a tender kiss. She melted into him, reveling in the utter power of his embrace. For this moment she did not have to hold herself up. She could surrender … drift at peace in his strength … rest in the security of this man’s presence. His hands slid into her hair as his lips found her cheek, her ear, her neck. Struggling for control, he drew her close and nestled her head in the curve of his shoulder.

“I don’t care what they say, Caitrin,” he mouthed, his breath warming her hair. “I don’t care what they try to do to me. Unless you tell me to go, I won’t abandon you. I’ll never leave you. It’s a promise.”

With a last crushing embrace, he set her apart. Turning his back, he walked away into the dusk. Caitrin gripped the edge of the door behind her. In the distance she could just make out the glimmering light of oil lamps shining in the O’Tooles’ soddy across the creek … and in the Cornwalls’ small camp along the sandy bank.

“Lord, oh, Lord,” she whispered in prayer. “Bring us light. May it be the light of your love and forgiveness, and not—” she stifled a sob—“not the spark of a fire that will destroy us all.”

“
Three
pickles?” Caitrin eyed Mr. Bridger, the man who carried mail to and from Topeka. “Are you quite sure? You’ll be thirsty enough to drink up the whole of Bluestem Creek before you’re halfway home.”

The man laughed. “They’re not all for me. I’ve been raving about these pickles so long, my wife ordered me to bring her one. And then little Johnny piped up wanting a pickle of his own. If word gets out—and with my wife around, it will—you may have to shut down the mercantile just to make enough pickles to supply Topeka.”

“That will be my sister’s task, so it will. Sheena’s the pickle maker of the town. I’ll be sure to tell her of your abiding admiration.”

“My admiration for her
pickles
,” he clarified. “That Jimmy O’Toole may be skinny as a telegraph post, but I sure don’t want to tangle with him over a misunderstanding about his wife.”

Caitrin handed Mr. Bridger the wrapped dill pickles, their pungent green marinade already seeping through the brown paper.

She needed to tend the customers who had ridden in on the mail coach, but she knew her first loyalty belonged to the mail carrier. It was he, after all, who brought the others.

“I’m sure Jimmy knows you’re not the first to appreciate Sheena’s skills,” she said. “He’s a good man, so he is.”

“You’re right about that, but I’ve heard stories about the hullabaloo he put up over the building of the Hope bridge. And I know he wouldn’t allow the church to be raised on his land. O’Toole’s a tough old buzzard, if you ask me. You make sure he knows it’s the pickles that interest me, and not the wife.”

“I’ll do it,” Caitrin said with a chuckle. “But you mustn’t think too harshly of Jimmy—”

“Excuse me, ma’am.” A short, bullnecked man leaned across the counter. “I don’t mean to interrupt you, but when does the coach to Manhattan get in?”

Caitrin glanced up at the store clock. “It should be here already. It usually gets here the same time as the mail coach, and I can hardly catch my breath for the traffic. Are you bound for Manhattan, sir?”

“Yep.” He squared his shoulders inside the ragged gray Confederate army coat he wore. “Headin’ west. I’ll cover the whole state of Kansas before I’m through, if need be. Fact is, I’m on the lookout for an old friend of mine. Name’s Jack Cornwall. Ever hear of him?”

Caitrin’s heart dropped to her knees. “Cornwall,” she mumbled.

“Is that a … a Cornish name?”

“Don’t know and don’t care.” He rubbed the stubble of dark whiskers on his chin. “Near the end of the war, Jack Cornwall ran with my bunch over in Missouri.”

“Your bunch?”

“Group of men, soldiers mostly. We kept the cause alive, protected the poor farmers gettin’ eat up by Yankee aggressors, that sort of thing—not to mention a fair amount of drinkin’, cuttin’ up, and carryin’ on with women.” He gave a laugh. “Hoo, that Cornwall was a wild one, you know. Big tall feller, kind of a rough face, gray eyes. He worked as a blacksmith durin’ the war—shoulders from here to here, arms like blocks of steel. Drove the ladies crazy. You’d remember him if you saw him.”

Her back to the visitor, Caitrin busied herself tucking letters into the mail slots. “I’m sorry I can’t help you,” she said.