Prairie Fire (25 page)

“No disrespect intended, Mama,” Jack said, “but where would we live in Missouri? Too many cities. Too many people. Folks here in Hope may not be comfortable around us, but they don’t stick their noses into our business much. If we go back into one of those crowded Missouri towns, they’ll have the law after us to put Lucy into an asylum.”

“Exactly where she belongs,” Felicity said, seating herself on a stool beside the door. “And don’t argue with me, Jack. You should just see your sister today. She can hardly open her eyes. She’s curled into a ball of misery on her bed with the quilt drawn over her head. The girl is completely useless to anyone.”

“I should be happy to drop by and visit Lucy,” Caitrin put in. “Perhaps she’d enjoy having a bit of company.”

Felicity gave a snort. “Don’t think you’re some kind of a miracle healer, Miss Murphy. My daughter has her good spells and her bad. You just happened to catch her in one of her better humors last time. You won’t talk her out of this with all your chatter about tea and cinnamon buns.”

Jack tugged his leather apron over his head and hung it on a hook in the door. He wished his mother could find something to talk about besides Lucy and her woes. They’d had the same conversation over and over. He could almost say her part from memory.

“Lucy has such troubling thoughts,” Caitrin said.

“She doesn’t think about anyone but herself.” Felicity picked up the poker Caitrin had brought in and examined it as she spoke. “Lucy’s selfish, that’s all. She pays no heed to the trouble she causes by demanding so much of our attention. She’s wrapped up in herself and all her mournful little worries, and she never stops to consider how
we
feel. I must say, I am vastly weary of it all. It makes me angry.”

Jack picked up his spoon and took a bite of stew meat. “Mama thinks Lucy just ought to come out of it,” he said, stating what he knew would be his mother’s next comment. Felicity always delivered her assessment of her daughter’s condition in three parts.

First, Lucy was selfish. Second, Lucy should just come out of it using sheer willpower. And third, if Lucy were a better Christian and prayed about her problems more diligently, God would deliver her from them.

“Yes, she could just come right out of it if she had the willpower,” Felicity said. “And if she’d turn her worries over to the Lord, she would see everything in a new light.”

“You think she could just pray herself right out of that bed and into her right mind?” Jack asked.

“I certainly do.”

He gave the stew a stir. “What do you think about all this, Miss Murphy?”

“About Lucy?” Caitrin’s eyes flashed in wariness. “Though I love her dearly, ’tis not my business to assess her troubles.”

“You spent a lot of time looking after my sister. Why do you think she’s the way she is?”

“Sure, I don’t know,” Caitrin said. “But God does. I suppose the best we can do is ask him to help her.”

“That’s exactly what I said.” Felicity nodded in self-assurance. “Lucy just needs to pray harder.”

“Caitrin said
we
ought to pray, Mama,” Jack corrected her. “I’m not sure Lucy can think clearly enough to pray. As a matter of fact, I don’t believe she can think straight about anything. She sure isn’t thinking about herself, how selfish she can be, and how much she can inconvenience the rest of us. The times she’s tried to do herself in, she was just wanting everything to be over. She wanted to stop hurting.”

“Hurting!” Felicity stood. “That child has everything a body could want. She’s not in any pain. Stuff and nonsense, Jack. You’re like putty in Lucy’s hands. All she has to do is gaze at you with those big eyes, and you do anything she asks.”

Jack looked up as a shadow fell across the door. Much to his surprise, Sheena O’Toole’s bright red hair, green eyes, and rosy cheeks appeared in a patch of sunlight.

“Sheena?” Caitrin said. “What are you doing here?”

The woman moved one step into the smithy and stopped, as stiff as a statue. “Good afternoon,” she said, her mouth tight and her focus on the rusty roasting spit in her hands. “Mr. Cornwall, I’ve come to seek your services, so I have.”

“My services?” he asked. “You mean you want me to do some work for you?”

“Aye. That I do.”

A flood of victory raced through Jack’s veins. Now was his moment! He could skewer the little biddy on her own spit. He could send the Irishwoman and her sharp tongue right back outside with a message he wanted the whole town to hear: Nobody messes with Jack Cornwall. If you need me, you’d better treat me right.

He stood to his full height, towering over her. He could see the white skin around her knuckles as she clutched the rusty iron spit, and he recognized the incredible tension radiating from her. He recognized it. He had felt it himself when he went to Seth Hunter to ask permission to build the smithy.

A river of remorse washed right over the flood of victorious revenge in which he’d been about to drown Sheena O’Toole. At first he thought he couldn’t even form the words that demanded to be spoken. But he’d prayed so hard that God’s love would be revealed in his own life, the message just came flowing out.

“I’m glad to see you today, Mrs. O’Toole,” he said, his voice more gentle than he’d ever heard it. “Looks like you’ve got a rusty spit bar there. That’s a big problem with all those children of yours. I’ll bet they want to eat day and night. If you were to put a big ol’ roast on that bar, it would probably bust clean in two.”

Sheena lifted her head just enough that the green of her eyes could be seen from under her dark lashes. “Aye,” she said. “I was afraid of that myself.”

“I can clean and mend your spit bar right here and now. But you’d do better with a new one. It would be stronger. Cleaner, too. I could have it ready for you by sunset.”

“How much?”

Jack pondered a moment, and then it came to him. This was the perfect opportunity to begin building bridges between himself and Caitrin’s family. The solution seemed heaven-sent.

“Tell you what, Mrs. O’Toole,” he said. “You invite me to your house for a sandwich of whatever’s left from the first roast on your new spit—and one of your famous pickles—and we’ll call it even. I won’t charge you one red cent. How’s that?”

Sheena sucked down a deep breath.

“She’ll never do it!” Felicity crowed. “She’ll never get her Irish mitts on that new spit unless she eats humble pie, and she’s too proud for that. You’ve caught her now, Jack. Well done!”

“Wicked man!” Sheena spat at Jack. “I came here humbly offering you an honest bit of work, so I did, and you pulled one of your Cornish tricks on me! Wait until Jimmy hears about this—”

“Hold on a minute, there, Mrs. O’Toole.” Jack caught her elbow as she made for the door. “I never meant a thing by what I said. I’ll be happy to fix your spit. I’ll make you a new one, if that’s what you want. All I intended was to—”

“To worm your way inside my house!” she hissed. “You’ve already taken liberties with our Caitrin, drawn her heart away from her own family. Look at her here, chatting with you as bold as a strumpet! You’ve already used my Jimmy’s barn for a camp. And now what would you have of us? Our very privacy? As if we’d let a man like you into our house! Demon!”

“Sheena!” Caitrin cried. “Please don’t be so cruel.”

“You were strutting about all cock-a-hoop before, Mrs. O’Toole,” Felicity said, “flinging your Irish pride in our faces. But now you’ve found you can’t do without my son, eh? Well, you’ll never see his fine work in your miserable little soddy—”

“Now hold on a minute here, Mama,” Jack cut in. “I just told Mrs. O’Toole that I’d make her the spit bar. I didn’t mean to—”

“Oh no, you don’t!” Sheena cried. “Don’t try to turn your trickery around with one of your Cornish lies, Mr. Cornwall.”

“Lies? Why, you witch!” Felicity raised the bent poker and shook it in Sheena’s face. “Out of here, you little red-haired leprechaun!”

“Oooh!” Sheena leapt at the older woman, rusty spit thrust forward like a sword. “Call me that, will you? Blast your soul, you’re a cheeky thing! A strap is what you are! A bold, forward, Cornish strap!”

Felicity swung the heavy poker upward to parry the thrust, and the clash of metal knocked Sheena off-balance. Recovering, the Irishwoman lunged at her opponent, and again spit clanged against poker.

“Stop this now!” Jack leapt at his mother, barely evading a jab from Sheena’s spit. “Mama, put down that poker before you hurt Mrs. O’Toole.”

“Sheena, don’t do this!” Caitrin cried.

“Look at her, look at her!” Felicity shouted, dancing from side to side. “She’s an imp of the devil himself!”

“Liar!” Sheena swung the spit, missed her target, and went spinning around in a wobbly circle. “Liar, liar!”

“Witch!” Felicity strained toward her adversary. “I’ll get you now!”

In a burst of furious swordplay, the older woman fenced Sheena right out of the smithy. Jack grabbed Caitrin’s hand and dashed after the two shrieking combatants. On the pale green springtime grass near the mercantile, the two women whirled and lunged at each other, their cries echoing like the wail of banshees across the open prairie.

“Stop this right now, Mama,” Jack called as he sprinted toward the women. “Caitrin, help me out here.”

“Sheena!” Caitrin headed for her sister, who was tottering off balance down the gentle slope toward the creek. “Jack, go after Sheena!”

“Witch, witch!” Felicity charged past Caitrin and chased after her foe, poker swinging.

“Shut your gob before I give you a sound larruping!” Sheena bellowed.

Caitrin grabbed Mrs. Cornwall around the waist, and at that moment, the older woman hurled the poker at Sheena. The iron rod tumbled through the air. Jack reached for the teetering Irishwoman. Just as he put a hand on her arm, the poker slammed into her head. A bright splotch of crimson instantly appeared on her face as she slumped onto the grass. Arms covering her head, she wailed aloud in pain.

His blood racing, Jack dropped down beside the fallen woman. Caitrin turned Mrs. Cornwall loose, ran down the hill, and sank to her knees beside her sister. “Sheena!” she cried, throwing her arms around the bundle of moaning misery. “Oh, Sheena! Are you injured? Let me see your head!”

“What have I done? Oh, what have I done!” Felicity arrived at the creek bed as Sheena clutched her stomach in agony.

“My baby,” the Irishwoman groaned. “I’m losing my baby! Caitie, where’s Jimmy? Oh, heavens, the baby!”

“Sheena?” Caitrin exclaimed. “Sheena, you never said anything about a baby. Jack, sure, you must run to the mercantile and fetch Rosie. Bring towels!”

God in heaven, help us all,
Jack prayed as he raced up the slope toward the mercantile. “Mrs. Hunter!” he shouted. “Mrs. Hunter, come out here!”

The young woman appeared in the mercantile doorway, her cheeks flushed. “What’s wrong, Jack?”

“It’s Mrs. O’Toole. She’s hurt bad. We need towels.”

“Oh, Jack!” Rosie grabbed her skirts and dashed back into the mercantile. She reemerged in a moment, arms filled with white cotton tea towels. “What happened to Sheena, Jack?”

“Trouble. Go fetch Seth!”

He headed back down the slope. Sheena hadn’t budged, her body doubled up and blood trickling down her temple. Felicity hovered over her, brushing back her tangle of red hair and trying to loosen the apron at her waist. Caitrin crouched in mute horror.

Jack dropped and slid the last two yards on his knees. “Mrs. O’Toole, can you hear me?” He dipped a tea towel into the creek and pressed it onto the gash on her head. “Mrs. O’Toole, talk to me.”

“The baby!” Sheena wept. “Don’t let me lose my baby!”

“We’ll do all we can. Caitrin, hold this cloth on your sister’s head.” He settled the young woman’s trembling hand on the wadded tea towel. “Push down as hard as you can. And don’t let her go to sleep. How far along are you, Mrs. O’Toole?”

“Four months, the same as Rosie. I didn’t want to tell it round and cut in on her joy. I’ve had my other babies, and this is her first, and—oh, Mr. Cornwall, where’s my Jimmy?” She clutched at his arms, her pretty face wreathed in pain. “I need my Jimmy!”

“I’ll get him in a minute,” Jack assured her. “Calm yourself, now, Mrs. O’Toole. Take a deep breath.”

“I’m going for blankets,” Felicity said. She leapt to her feet and ran toward the camp.

Jack took out his pocketknife and slit the ribbon that held on her apron. “Are you cramping up, Mrs. O’Toole?”

“Aye, I am.” She was crying now, tears running down her rosy cheeks. “Oh, I’m a bad, wicked woman!”

“No, you’re not. Things just got a little out of hand.” He lifted her head into his lap and used one of the tea towels to blot her forehead.

“But I am, I am. I was miffed at my dear Jimmy—and at God, too—when I realized I was to have another baby. I’ve five
brablins
already, you know, and the soddy is terrible crowded, so it is. I said—” she grimaced in pain—“I told Jimmy I didn’t want the baby. I prayed … prayed …”

“Now then, Mrs. O’Toole, try to calm yourself.”

“I prayed I would lose the baby!”

“Oh, Sheena!” Caitrin whispered. “You didn’t.”

“A terrible thing to do,” Sheena went on. “Wicked and sinful of me. I was so angry about it all. But now … oh, now … I want this child! I want my baby!”

“Of course you do.” Jack could feel his heart slamming against his chest. Caitrin sat paralyzed with shock, her face as white as her apron. Jack had had plenty of experience tending wounds on a bloody battlefield, but he didn’t have a clue how to take care of a woman in Sheena’s condition. And he sure didn’t know anything about hearing someone’s confessions.

“Oh, it hurts!” she cried out, squeezing his hand. “Help me!”

“Turn her to the side,” Felicity ordered, arriving back at the site of the catastrophe. “And for heaven’s sake, take Mrs. O’Toole’s head off your lap, Jack. She must have her feet up, not her head. Here, put this blanket under her legs.”

Glad to obey orders, he wadded up the quilt and stuffed it under Sheena’s feet.

“Drink this cup of cool water,” the older woman commanded. “Sometimes the cramps can come on from a thirst. Now, I’m going to check the baby, all right?”