The Heirloom Brides Collection (36 page)

They reached the Frazier yard, and Titus let Andrew use his arm as a support to swing down. He handed his brother the sack of sandwiches. “Wait here, and watch for Joshua and Floyd while I put Petunia in the corral. Wave them over if they come. Miss Frazier doesn’t know anyone besides me is coming, and I don’t want her to be startled if she sees strangers at her door.”

Andrew grinned. “You are getting kind of protective of Miss Frazier, aren’t you?”

Usually Titus didn’t mind his brothers’ teasing and he joined right in. But not where Clara was concerned. He scowled. “Just do as I say, Andrew.”

“All right, all right.” Andrew swung the sandwich bag. “But hurry, huh? There’s a good smell coming from the house. I’m ready for breakfast.”

Titus bumped his heels against Petunia’s sides and aimed her for the barn. Andrew didn’t know it yet, but his breakfast would be a sandwich. He’d have a sandwich for lunch and supper, too. Ma didn’t want the extra workers she’d sent eating up all of the Fraziers’ food, so she’d made enough sandwiches for Andrew, Joshua, and Floyd. He released Petunia into an open stall and trotted out to join Andrew. Maybe he’d be nice and eat some of the sandwiches, too. Then he got a whiff of what Andrew was smelling—sausage and biscuits.

Maybe he wouldn’t be nice, after all.

Titus knocked on the door, and he let out a little huff of laughter when Mr. Frazier, leaning on his crutches, opened it and Rowdy leaped over the threshold to attack Titus’s boot strings. He scooped up the pup while smiling at the man. “Look at you! No breakfast in bed today?”

Mr. Frazier blasted a hearty guffaw. “Oh no, I’m avoiding my bed as much as possible, thanks to my crutches. Come in, come in.” His gaze landed on Andrew, and his eyebrows rose in surprise. “And who have we here?”

Andrew whipped of his hat, tucked it under his arm, and held out his hand. “Good morning, sir. I’m Andrew Klaassen.”

Titus added, “Ma suggested I bring Andrew today to begin clearing the area for Cl—Miss Frazier’s garden.” Clara was at the stove, her back to them, busily stirring something in a frying pan. He gestured to the bag Andrew held. “But you don’t have to worry about feeding him. Ma sent plenty of sandwiches to carry him through the day.”

Mr. Frazier chuckled. “Your mother thinks of everything, doesn’t she?” He eased back a few inches, balancing himself on the crutches. “Come in and have a seat at the table. Clara Rose will set out an extra plate for you, Andrew. You can save those sandwiches for later.”

Andrew aimed a triumphant grin at Titus and hurried to the table. He sat in the chair Titus had always used. Swallowing a growl of aggravation, Titus set Rowdy on the floor and chose a different chair. Mr. Frazier stumped across the room and dropped into the seat across from Titus. He laid the crutches on the floor beside him, chuckling when Rowdy crouched and growled at the lengths of wood, and turned to Clara. “Daughter, we’ll need another plate.”

She flashed a weak smile over her shoulder. “Certainly, Papa.”

Titus rose. “You’re busy, Miss Frazier. Let me get it.” He crossed to the shelf near the stove where stacks of plates, bowls, and cups were neatly arranged. Clara kept house with as much care as she kept herself, always in a clean dress with her hair swept into a braided coil. He forced himself to glance past her enticing appearance to the pan on the stove. Thick, creamy gravy bubbled, releasing the rich aroma of sausage with each pop. He licked his lips. “That looks wonderful.”

While continuing to stir, she sent a brief sidelong look in his direction, a hint of a smile tipping up the corners of her lips. “Thank you. If you’d like to take the biscuits to the table, they’re on a plate in the warming hob. I’ll bring the gravy in just a minute or two.”

If she asked for his help, she must be starting to relax with him. The thought sent a tremble through his belly. He smiled. “Of course, Miss Frazier.” He removed the filled plate from the hob, his mouth watering at the sight of the light, fluffy, perfectly browned biscuits. He retrieved a plate from the shelf and a fork from a little basket on the possum-belly cupboard, then settled himself at the table.

Clara scurried over, carrying a rose-painted bowl filled with the gravy. Pepper flakes dotted the creamy expanse, and chunks of sausage formed dozens of little islands. Titus couldn’t wait to pour that gravy over biscuits and dive in. Clara slid gracefully into the remaining chair at Titus’s right. At every other meal, he’d sat across from her. Having her near enough to reach out and clasp her hand made his pulse gallop.

“Titus, would you ask the blessing?”

Mr. Frazier expected him to form a sensible prayer when his senses thrummed like a bee caught in a jelly jar? Titus swallowed the knot in his throat. “Y–yes. Sure.”
Lord, help me out here, huh?
He bowed his head and hoped everyone else did, too. “Dear Lord, we thank Thee for Thy care. We thank Thee for the food before us, and for the h–hands that prepared it.”
Don’t stammer!
“Bless it—the food—to our nourishment. Amen.”

“Amen,” Mr. Frazier echoed. He offered the biscuits to Andrew.

Andrew took three biscuits and passed the plate to Titus. Titus only took two, even though he wanted three. While they passed the food, he reined in his nervousness enough to speak coherently. The clock on the wall showed five minutes past seven, so he needed to let the Fraziers know about those who would arrive soon.

“Mr. Frazier, some men from town are coming out today to help burn your field. My pa suggested burning those stumps down, too, then hacking them out rather than trying to pull out the roots and leaving a big hole in the field.” He aimed an apologetic look at Clara. “I know you usually do wash on Monday, but I advise you to wait until tomorrow, or maybe even Wednesday, so your clothes don’t pick up the smoke smell.”

She frowned. “How many men are coming out?”

“Don’t worry about feeding them.” Titus hoped his words would remove the look of concern creasing her pretty, heart-shaped face. “My mother sent sandwiches for them.”

She shook her head. “I’m not thinking about the meal. Who will be here?”

Her consternation raised Titus’s nervousness. “Two men from our church, Joshua Gosen and Floyd Korfe.” He faced Mr. Frazier, hoping his explanation would put the daughter at ease. “Burning a field is never a one-man job. You want several people watching the fire. An out-of-control fire is not a good thing on the prairie. I’m sorry I didn’t ask beforehand, but…”

Clara’s uncertain expression remained intact.

Titus cleared his throat. “I suppose I should also tell you, next week—on Saturday—a group of men and women are coming out to paint your house.”

Mr. Frazier drew back, his eyes wide and jaw dropping. “They are?”

Clara rose so quickly, her chair legs screeched against the floor. Rowdy let out a yelp and darted through an open bedroom doorway. Clara pinned Titus with a glower. “Please tell them thank you, but that Papa and I are capable of taking care of our house on our own. Tell them…”

She closed her eyes, grimacing as if a pain stabbed her. She looked at him again, and to his chagrin, tears swam in her brown eyes. She gulped. “Tell them not to bother.” She hurried through the same doorway Rowdy had exited and shut the door behind her.

Titus turned to Mr. Frazier. “I apologize, sir, for offending you.”

Andrew scowled at the closed door. “It was Ma’s idea. She thought it would help.”

Mr. Frazier sighed. “Andrew, your mother is very kind for arranging a house-painting. And, Titus, we aren’t offended. I appreciate you being concerned for safety and asking for help with burning the field. My daughter is—Clara Rose only—” He picked up his crutches and struggled to his feet. “Please, excuse me.” He made his way to the bedroom door, knocked, and then entered the room.

Andrew blew out a little breath. “She sure is a strange one.” He jammed the last bite of his gravy-covered biscuit into his mouth.

“Don’t be unkind, Andrew.” Titus, his hunger gone, pushed his nearly full plate aside and stood. “Come on. Time to work.”

C
lara stroked Rowdy’s ears and pretended Papa wasn’t standing at the door, scowling at her. Why, just when she was beginning to appreciate Titus Klaassen, did he have to do something so unsettling?

“Clara Rose, you didn’t eat your breakfast.”

The concern in Papa’s voice stirred Clara’s guilt. She peeked at him through her eyelashes. “I’m not hungry. Not anymore.”

Papa sighed and thumped across the floor. He eased himself onto the edge of the bed next to her and buried his fingers in Rowdy’s thick ruff. “The promise of a kind act robs you of your appetite?”

Wasn’t she being a ninny? She wished she could explain why the thought of people she didn’t know swarming her home bothered her, but she couldn’t find the words. “Oh, Papa…” She leaned sideways and rested her head on his shoulder.

Papa tipped his temple against her forehead. “Clara Rose, when I bought this farmstead, it was with the intention of giving us a fresh start. I know it was hurtful and difficult for you to be the girl from the Washburn District who’d lost two beaus.”

Clara swallowed painfully.

“But no one in this town knows your past. You have no reason to hold yourself away from the people of Wilhelmina.”

She found her words. She sat up and shifted to face her father. “You’re wrong. Look at me, Papa. I’m twenty-four, not a girl anymore. Every other twenty-four-year-old woman I know is married with a family. I’m… different.” Oh, it hurt to say it out loud.

“Because you turned down proposals from two beaus?”

She nodded.

A slow smile curved Papa’s cheek. “Some would call you wise beyond your years. It takes strength to wait for the right person when everyone around you is half of a pair.”

Clara nibbled her lip. “You think I made the right choice, saying no to both Brant and Clifford?”

Papa made a face as if he smelled something rancid. “Oh my, yes. Brant was too stuffy for you, walking around with his nose in the air. And Clifford’s hands were always sweaty. I’ve never trusted a man with sweaty palms. It makes me think he’s nervous because he has something to hide.”

Clara raised her eyebrows and gazed at him. “You never acted as if you didn’t care for them.”

“Well, I didn’t want to be rude, my dear daughter, if you were fond of them. But truthfully, I wasn’t unhappy to see you part ways with either one of those men.” Papa squeezed her hand. “They weren’t special enough for you, Clara Rose.”

She hung her head. It would take a very special man to understand she couldn’t move far away and leave her father alone. He nearly mourned himself to death after Mama died. He needed Clara. And she needed him. No man would take a wife who insisted her aging father must be part of their family, too. She muttered, “Even if they don’t know about Brant and Clifford, I’ll still be different. I’ll still be the only woman in her midtwenties without a husband or children.”

“And that’s why you want people to stay away? So they won’t know you’re different?”

Stated that way, it seemed rather petty and childish, but she nodded.

Papa cupped her head and drew her to his shoulder again. “Do you remember what I told you when you asked about keeping Rowdy?”

“You said I was old enough to make my own decision.”

“That’s right. And I’m going to let you make your own decision concerning involving yourself with the people of this town.”

She sat up again. “You’ll tell Mr. Klaassen not to bring all those people to our house next week?”

Papa offered a sad smile. “No, Clara Rose. I won’t repay their kindness with rejection. Besides”—he chuckled softly—“the house needs a coat of paint, and I won’t be able to get to it for months. Their willingness is a true gift.” He pushed upright and settled the crutches into position. “But if you want to stay inside on that day rather than coming out and mingling with those who work, I will respect your decision.”

Mrs. Klaassen had said something similar about Clara’s choice to call her Mrs. Klaassen or Maria. She should be glad no one would force her to do something against her will, but at the same time, sadness pinched her. She wished she understood why.

Papa awkwardly leaned forward and brushed a kiss on her forehead. His warm breath eased past her cheek, reminding her of the nighttime kisses he used to bestow when she was a little girl. He’d always been the best, most attentive and loving father any child could want. Whatever decision she made, it would be for him. And then it would be right. An uneasy feeling tiptoed up her spine. Or would it?

Clara spent Monday morning holed up in the house with the doors and windows closed against the smoke rolling over the field. Papa watched the burning from the window in his bedroom, seemingly fascinated by the creeping line of fire that snaked its way across the acreage. Rowdy was afraid of the fire and smoke and refused to leave her side, and even after he had an accident on the floor, she didn’t make him go out.

Since she couldn’t do laundry, she pulled out her basket of mending and settled on the camelback sofa with a needle and thread. The closed-up house felt stifling after enjoying so many days with a breeze coursing through. Even while sitting on the sofa, only her fingers pushing the needle in and out—hardly a laborious task—sweat formed on her brow and moistened her flesh beneath her dress.