Prairie Fire (7 page)

Caitrin caught her breath, and her hands paused on the coffee sacks. “A great deal more what?” Jack asked, wondering whether that auburn curl would feel silky or coarse to the touch.

“Talkative,” Caitrin finished. “She talks a good bit more than I do.”

“I don’t mind your talk.”

“Don’t you?” She whirled around. “I suppose now you’ll tell me you have all manner of fine opinions about me.”

“I might.” He took the tendril between his thumb and forefinger. “I’ve been thinking all manner of fine things about this particular curl.”

Silky.
He stroked down the length of the tress until his fingers touched the bare skin at her nape. “As a matter of fact, I’d have to say that this is the finest curl I’ve ever seen on a woman. And it smells nice. What is that scent, Miss Murphy?” He bent his head and traced the side of her neck with his breath. “Flowers. Roses?”

“Lily of the valley,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

He could feel the tension emanating from her as she stood motionless, barely breathing. But she didn’t run. Didn’t protest. So he took the tendril and feathered it against her earlobe. “This is a fine ear, Miss Murphy. A perfect ear. And as for your neck …”

He trailed his fingertip down her velvet skin to the high collar of her dress. “It’s a fine neck you have, Miss Murphy. What you said a minute ago was right. I believe I do have all manner of fine opinions about you.”

“No,” she managed. “No, you don’t, and may the good Lord forgive you for your wicked lies.”

Her green eyes assessed his, and her voice grew in strength as she faced him. “Though we both may be fiery of spirit,” she continued, “you and I could not be more different in the way we have chosen to live our lives. You are a treacherous man, Mr. Cornwall, and I have great compassion for the poor woman who trusts you with her heart. You are not worthy of Jimmy O’Toole’s sheltering barn. You do not deserve one kernel of the kindness I have shown you. From this moment, I shall pray that you will mount your black horse and ride as far from this place as possible. Your words disgust me. Your touch repels me. And though you may wither away in this room, you will never see me again.”

Caitrin marched past Jack with her jaw set. He let her get as far as the storeroom door. “What was it you told me last night, Miss High-and-Mighty?” he said. “Those three little words?”

She stopped and faced him. “You’ll be fortunate to ever know the honest love of a good woman. If you don’t rid yourself of your burden of wickedness, you’ll never receive the great blessings of our Father in heaven. And for those two losses, sir, I give you
these
three words: I pity you.”

Caitrin was gone as quickly as she had come. Jack stared after her into the darkness.
Pity?
He clenched his fists, torn between desire for the woman whose scent still lingered in the room and fury at her bold rejection. She had labeled him a treacherous, wicked liar. What did she know about Jack Cornwall?

He yanked up his book and hunkered down on the pickle barrel again. Nobody was perfect, and Jack had his fair share of flaws. Sure, he possessed a lightning-quick temper, and he’d rather settle a score with a gunfight than a debate. He could hold a grudge better than any man he knew. He liked to do his work well, and he wouldn’t tolerate imperfection in himself or anybody else. And he didn’t have a lot of patience for nonsense.

Maybe he hadn’t set foot in a church for years—but that didn’t make him some kind of sinner condemned to the everlasting flames, did it? He’d sure prayed plenty of times on the battlefield. Caitrin had referred to his burden of wickedness. What did she know of the burdens he carried?

With a snort of disgust, he opened his book and took up where he’d left off. “‘Get thyself rid of thy burden,’” he read aloud. “‘For thou wilt never be settled in thy mind till then; nor canst thou enjoy the benefits of the blessing which God hath bestowed upon thee till then.’”

As the words sank in, Jack flung the book across the room. The movement tore through his injured shoulder like wildfire. Standing, he clamped a hand over his wound and stalked out of the room. Enough was enough. It was time to get on with life.

CHAPTER 4

H
AS JIMMY accepted the notion that Jack Cornwall has finally gone?” Rosie asked as she sat stitching beside the O’Tooles’ warm stove with Sheena and Caitrin. “I noticed he went out after supper tonight to check on the black horse.”

Sheena grunted. “Aye, after the men found no sign of the villain the other day, Jimmy vowed to keep combing the land. But he gave up on it today. The horse is ours, though we have no desire for it.”

“No desire for a good horse, Sheena?” Caitrin asked, looking up from a wool sock she was darning. Any talk of Jack Cornwall made her uncomfortable. She had kept her word and stayed away from the storage room the past five days, but she couldn’t seem to stop fretting about him. Though his horse remained, surely without fresh food or water the man himself had gone.

“Why wouldn’t Jimmy want a fine horse like that?” she wondered aloud. “’Tis better than a mule, so it is, and there’s no reason to hate the horse just because its owner was rotten. The trouble over little Chipper is ended. Cornwall must have surrendered the boy to Seth and Rosie and gone on his way. I can’t think the horse is anything but a gift.”

“A gift from a Cornishman?” Sheena spat out a snippet of thread. “I’d prefer a wheelbarrow full of rotten potatoes from a friend over a fine horse from a Cornishman.”

Rosie looked up from stitching her wedding dress—a pale yellow gown with a row of pearly buttons down the bodice. “How do you know Chipper’s uncle is a Cornishman, Sheena? Did Jimmy speak to him?”

“His name is Cornwall, isn’t it? I should think that settles the matter.”

“Cornwall is a county in England,” Caitrin explained. “It lies along the western coast. A rough place, so it is.”

“What’s wrong with Cornishmen?” Rosie asked.

“The Cornish are the very pestilence of the earth,” Sheena spoke up. “Tell her, Caitie.”

Caitrin sighed. “Here we are in Kansas, Sister, and half a world away from the shores of Ireland. What use is it to hate the Cornish?”

“What use? For a start, Jack Cornwall’s behavior toward us shows the very reason the Cornish are such a wicked people. They’re a greedy, selfish lot. They’ll lie and cheat an honest person into utter poverty if given half a chance. Tell Rosie about the Cornish, Caitie. Go on.”

“The troubles go back hundreds of years,” Caitrin said, unwilling to dispute the elder sister she always had loved so dearly. “The Cornish are a Celtic people, as are we Irish. They’re clannish and warlike, and their tales of King Arthur are as ancient as our legends of Bran the Blessed. Sure, the beloved green sod lies but a few miles from the coast of Cornwall, divided only by the Irish Sea.”

“And there’s half the trouble,” Sheena cut in. “Fishing.”

“The Irish claim certain fishing grounds, and the Cornish claim others. But it’s never quite settled which is which and whose is whose. We’ve battled over fishing rights for centuries.”

“Tell Rosie about the mining, Caitie.”

“Tin mining,” Caitrin explained wearily. She could hardly believe the scarlet hue that had risen to her sister’s cheeks over this discussion of a trouble so far removed. “Ireland has few precious things to dig out of the ground beyond peat and tin. We burn the peat, but we can sell the tin for a profit.” She thought for a moment about Sean O’Casey and his new wife, the daughter of a wealthy mine owner. “A man with an interest in a tin mine can earn himself a fair measure of riches.”

“And those wicked Cornishmen are tinners, too,” Sheena said, tucking pins into her unruly red hair. “Sure, they try to undersell us, don’t they, Caitie? They set their prices just a tad lower than ours, and all the market races after Cornish tin. Ooh, they’re a scheming, nasty lot, those snakes. I knew Jack Cornwall was as wicked as the rest of them, so I did, the very moment I heard his name. ’Twould be just like a Cornishman to chase after a poor, wee child and try to steal him away from his rightful papa. Viper! I do believe if I ever clap eyes on Jack Cornwall or any of his breed, I’ll wring their necks with my bare hands, so I will.”

“Sheena!” Caitrin jabbed her needle into the toe of the sock. “Would you be so cruel yourself, now? And you here in Kansas without a mackerel or a tin mine in sight?”

“A Cornishman is a Cornishman is a Cornishman,” Sheena said. “Take one of them out of Cornwall and put him in the middle of a desert—and he’ll try to cheat you out of the very sand you’re standing on.”

At that moment Jimmy stepped into the soddy and tugged off his boots. Caitrin eyed him in silence. She had no desire to continue this ridiculous discussion. Good or bad, a man should have the chance to prove himself by his own actions … and not be judged by the entire history of his race.

Jack Cornwall, of course,
had
shown himself a liar.

In his letter he had called Caitrin mouthy and stubborn. But fancying himself at an advantage in the barn, he had tried to woo her with all manner of pretty words. And then he had touched her. Caitrin shut her eyes, willing away the memory of the man’s fingers against her skin. Every time she thought of that moment, a shiver ran straight down to the tips of her toes. But Jack Cornwall had promised his life to another woman, a creature who even now sat waiting for him to come and make her a wife. How cruel of him to use two innocents for his own pleasure.

No, the man had proven himself unworthy—not because he was Cornish—but by his selfishness and troublemaking in both Missouri and Kansas. And
why
couldn’t Caitrin remember those things, instead of the tingling caress of his fingertips sliding down her neck … and the way his broad shoulders gleamed in the lamplight … and the look in his gray eyes when he spoke to her … ?

“You left a lamp burning in the storage room, Caitrin,” Jimmy said, crossing in front of the stove. “I spied it when I was seeing to that horse.”

“A lamp?” Caitrin swallowed and glanced out the window.

“No fear. I went in and blew it out.” He settled down on a stool with his pipe. “You’d left the door unlocked.”

“Caitie, that’s unlike you,” Sheena said. “You always lock the storeroom.”

“She’s been working too hard on my wedding,” Rosie put in. “You must be exhausted, Caitie. I’ll go lock up for you. Where’s the key?”

“No!” Caitrin stood quickly, almost knocking over her own stool. “I’ll do it. I … I want the fresh air.”

Jimmy gave a chuckle. “Fresh air? Sure, it’s cold enough to freeze your lungs out there. I’m expecting snowfall any moment. Leave the storage door unlocked tonight, Caitie. Nobody’s going to steal your precious supplies.”

“No, no. I’d better see to it.” Before the others could try to dissuade her, Caitrin grabbed her shawl, pushed open the soddy door, and hurried outside.

As she raced across the open yard toward the barn, her heart beat out a frantic prayer.
Oh, Father, what shall I do if Jack is still here?
How can I make him go away? And why does the merest thought of him
leap into my soul on wings of hope and joy? He’s not a good man. He’s
caused so much trouble for everyone. Father, I pray … oh, I beg of you
… don’t let my loneliness blind me! Show me the man as he truly is!

The barn was pitch-black inside, but Caitrin flew across the dirt floor without a thought for roosting chickens or clumps of hay that might trip her feet. Gasping for breath in the frigid air, she forced her steps to slow as she approached the storage room. She could see the faint outline of the open door, and she pushed it open with one hand.

“Mr. Cornwall?” she whispered. “Are you here?”

The little room was cloaked in silence. As she calmed, a chill crept up her bare arms. She stepped inside and peered around, but it was too black to see. “Mr. Cornwall?” she said a little louder. “’Tis Caitrin Murphy. Where are you?”

Again, nothing. Fumbling in the dark, she found the lamp on a shelf. She managed to light it and take it down. The faint yellow glow revealed an empty room. The pallet of quilts lay folded in one corner. The pickle barrel was shoved up against a wall. A stack of books sat beside it along with the crock of salve. The bandages lay in a heap on the ground.

So he had gone away tonight, just a little before Jimmy came in to blow out the lamp. Or perhaps Jimmy’s near-discovery had caused him to flee. Perhaps even at this moment, he was riding his black horse toward Missouri and the man who wanted to hunt him down. Swallowing, Caitrin picked up the length of bloodstained fabric and studied the delicate lace edging.
Been a long time since
I saw fine lace on a lady’s petticoat hem.
Jack’s deep voice drifted through her thoughts.
I decided you were something different, Miss
Murphy. Something I’ve been needing a touch of.

Why had he needed her? She reflected on their conversation, and the answer was obvious. Jack Cornwall had needed Caitrin Murphy because of the three words she spoke on their first meeting … words he confessed he had never heard in his life.
I love you.
So simple, so easy to say. He had asked those words of her again and again. Yet she had not deigned to speak them to him a second time.

Despite his poor opinion of her in the letter to his parents, Jack had expressed a need. But she had been too proud … too high and mighty … to fill the empty place in him. Because he thought her stubborn and mouthy and because he had trifled and flirted with her while intending to marry another woman, she had railed out at him. Called him wicked, treacherous, a liar.

The Lord Jesus would never have done such a thing. Though Christ stood in righteous judgment of the unrepentant wicked, he also loved them so deeply he came to earth to give his very life for them. Aye, he dined with tax collectors, forgave thieves, and protected wanton women. “He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her,” the Master had said. “All things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them.”

Oh, but the haughty Caitrin Murphy had been wounded. Too miffed to see beyond herself to Jack Cornwall’s need for true love—the love of God—she had spurned the man. And now he was gone.