Margaret Brownley - [Rocky Creek 02] Page 7

  After the singing stopped, Reverend Justin Wells took his place behind the podium. He was a tall, handsome man who managed to combine a commanding air with a humble countenance.

  “Welcome on this glorious day the Lord has made,” he began. “I see some new faces out there.” He looked straight at Jenny. “Strangers to the town, but not to God. No one is a stranger to God.”

  Jenny’s face grew hot. Was she that easy to read? Both the pastor and his wife were able to accurately guess her discomfort. What else could they guess? Were her secrets not safe?

  Feeling exposed, Jenny glanced around. Her gaze inadvertently locked with the marshal seated on the other side of the aisle. He acknowledged her with a slight nod as if he, too, guessed the reasons for her reluctance to be there.

  Cheeks burning, she quickly pulled her gaze away. For the rest of the service, she focused on Reverend Wells, looking neither left nor right.

  After church Sarah introduced Jenny to her preacher husband.

  “Welcome to Rocky Creek,” Reverend Wells said, taking her hand in both of his. Elizabeth ran off and Sarah chased after her, leaving the pastor and Jenny alone.

  He released her hand but continued to study her. “Do you plan to make this your permanent home?”

  The question surprised her. She hadn’t even considered staying in town. “No, I’m here for only a short while,” she said. She had no idea what she would do once her sisters were married. “I may have need of your services in the near future.”

  “For a wedding?” he asked.

  “Weddings,” she said. “I have two sisters.”

  “Ah.” He lifted his gaze to watch his wife and daughter in the distance. The glow in his eyes brought a pang of envy that surprised her with its intensity. She would give anything to have a man look at her like Reverend Wells gazed at his wife.

  Maybe, with a little luck and careful selections, her sisters would one day soon come to know that kind of love. She never would, of course. Couldn’t.

  “Are you okay?” the preacher asked, cupping her elbow with his hand.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, feeling off balance. Lately, her mind kept wandering and it was so unlike her. What was it about Rocky Creek that made her dwell on the past?

  “You were talking about your sisters,” he prompted.

  “Yes, of course. How do I go about booking weddings at your church?”

  He dropped his hand to his side. “I will have to meet with all parties concerned. Marriage is a serious proposition.”

  “I know,” she said. “That’s why I’m taking such pains to find my sisters perfect matches.”

  He rubbed his chin as if the very idea amused him. “Where men and women are concerned, there’s no such thing as a perfect match,” he said. “There’s only a God match.”

  “A God match?”

  He nodded. “Sometimes God brings couples together for His own purpose.”

  Why God would concern Himself with matchmaking, she couldn’t imagine, but it didn’t seem proper to argue with a man of the cloth, so she said nothing.

  Sarah joined them. “If you have need for weddin’ gowns, those ladies over there can turn any garment into a bridal dress.” She pointed to a group of women whispering among themselves. “They made Elizabeth’s dress.”

  “It’s beautiful,” Jenny said.

  Justin picked up his little girl and jostled her up and down. “I’ll be happy to talk to your sisters any time.” He stared straight at her. “If there’s anything you would like to talk about, I’m at your service,” he said.

  Unnerved, she thanked him and was relieved when he turned to his wife and the two walked off together.

  Someone clapped. She knew even before she turned that she’d find Marshal Armstrong watching her. He leaned against a tree and folded his arms across his chest. A slight breeze ruffled his brown hair. Nothing seemed to ruffle the rest of him.

  “Congratulations, Miss Higgins. You’ve planned the wedding gowns and the church. You’ve only been in town for what? Four, five days? And already your sisters are two-thirds married. All you need are the grooms. From what I hear, you’ve even got that under control.”

  Not wishing to discuss her plans with him, she started toward the carriage where her sisters waited. Much to her dismay, he fell in step next to her.

  “Have you nothing better to do with your time, Marshal?” she asked.

  “I reckon keeping you out of trouble is about as good a use of time as any.”

  She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “I don’t need you watching everything I do.”

  He shrugged. “I guess you could say we have a difference of opinion in that regard.” He stopped her with a touch to the arm.

  The heat of his hand blazed through the sleeve of her shirtwaist. His sudden change of expression surprised her. He went from flippant to serious in a single heartbeat.

  “I noticed that Timber Joe was on your list of men to be interviewed.”

  Now she really was curious. For a man who claimed his only concern was to keep her out of trouble, he seemed to take an inordinate amount of interest in her matchmaking affairs.

  “I spoke to Mr. . . . Timber Joe,” she said.

  “Already?” he asked, clearly alarmed.

  “He was originally scheduled for next week, but I had an unexpected opening and he agreed to come in early.” She was forever changing times and days to accommodate various work schedules.

  He frowned. “Timber Joe has . . .” He hesitated as if searching for the right words. “He’s a good man, but . . .”

  “He has a soldier’s heart,” she finished for him.

  “You know?” He looked surprised if not altogether astonished.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” she asked.

  He studied her. “Most folks around here think he’s just plain loco.”

  “Haswell lost many young men in the war,” she explained. “The few who came back were never the same. Sometimes . . . things happen that change a person forever.” The war certainly did that, but other things did too.

  “Timber Joe had a twin brother.” Armstrong stared into the distance, his face a stony mask. She sensed that whatever he saw in his mind’s eye, he didn’t much like. The man was obviously having as much trouble running from the past as she was.

  “What happened to Timber Joe’s brother?” she asked. What happened to you?

  “They went off to war together. Vowed to take care of each other.” His gaze locked with hers. “Only one came back.” His voice drifted away along with eye contact.

  “That poor man,” she said softly. What would she have done had Brenda died during that long-ago winter? Clamping down on the memory, she studied him. The usual teasing lights were gone. Instead, she saw a glimpse of despair.

  “As long as he keeps playing soldier, he can pretend his brother is still alive,” he said.

  She hadn’t thought about that possibility, but it made perfect sense. Surprised by Rhett’s insightful perception, she asked, “How do you know so much about a soldier’s heart?”

  He hesitated. “The same way you do, I guess.” His voice was husky, distant. Without so much as a farewell nod, he walked away.

  Surprised and more than a little disconcerted by his abrupt departure, she called after him. “You needn’t concern yourself with Timber Joe. I’ll let him down easy.”

  The marshal kept going and never looked back.

  Brenda waited impatiently for her sister to finish stuffing her bodice with knotted handkerchiefs. It had become a daily routine. As usual, they hid behind the Rocky Creek Café and Chinese Laundry. Bedsheets, flour-sack towels, and men’s trousers flapped in the breeze.

  The smell of lye soap and wet wool did little to mask the reek of decaying garbage. Not only did the stench make Brenda sick to her stomach, she was in danger of being crushed to death by her double-hip corset.

  “I can’t stand this thing another moment,” she cried, shaking her arms. “You’ve got to do something.”

  Mary Lou straightened her square neckline, but no matter how many handkerchiefs she stuffed inside, it remained perfectly chaste. “Not again.”

  “Please,” Brenda begged. “I’m suffocating.”

  “Oh, all right. Turn around.”

  Brenda grimaced from the pain. “I don’t know why they invented these horrid things, anyway.”

  Mary Lou unbuttoned Brenda’s bodice in back. “To make men happy and women miserable.” She loosened the lacings. “There you go.”

  Brenda gasped for air but her relief was only temporary. Now that she could breathe freely, the stench of the alley hit her full force. “Hurry or I’m going to be sick.”

  “Hold still,” Mary Lou grumbled. She tugged and pulled and finally threw up her hands in frustration. “I can’t button the last two buttons.”

  Brenda wanted to cry. No matter how much she tried to control her eating, she couldn’t. The gnawing emptiness inside never seemed to go away, no matter how much food she stuffed in her mouth.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Mary Lou said. “The opening is hidden by your hair. Come on, let’s get out of here.” She led the way down the alley.

  They reached Main, and Mary Lou gazed up and down the street.

  Brenda took gasping breaths, filling her lungs to full capacity. The air smelled of dust and heat and horse dung, but she didn’t care. At last she could breathe.

  “Who are you looking for?” Brenda asked. Mary Lou had been acting even stranger than usual lately and had stopped confiding in her. That was always a bad sign. Mary Lou seldom held her tongue unless she was up to mischief.

  “I’m not looking for anyone,” Mary Lou said in a tone that clearly stated the opposite. She waggled her fingers. “Run along. I’ll meet you in a half hour.”

  Brenda eyed her with suspicion and more than a bit of envy. Mary Lou never worried about propriety. She did pretty much what she wanted to do, fighting Jenny all the way.

  “You seem awfully anxious to get rid of me,” she said.

  Mary Lou scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. I know you can’t wait to get to the general store to buy more candies. Would you see if their new shipment of dime novels has arrived?”

  “If Jenny finds out you’re reading those novels, she’ll have a fit,” Brenda said. Jenny called them potboilers and had forbidden them both to read them.

  Mary Lou gave an unconcerned shrug. “I don’t care. Anything’s better than Mr. Wordsworth. I’d much rather read about Indian wives and detectives than boring clouds and hills.”

  Brenda couldn’t argue with her there, though she did think the poet had a lovely way with words. “I’m not going to the store. If you insist upon reading those melodramatic novels, you’ll have to purchase them yourself.”

  “All right, I will.”

  “Good!” Brenda blew a wisp of hair from her face and one of her small bone buttons popped to the ground. She groaned. That did it. She wouldn’t eat another bite until she could button her dress again.

  Not wanting Mary Lou to see her tears, she started in the opposite direction. Ignoring the looks of those she passed, she came to the end of the street and kept walking. Up a hill and down she went, huffing and puffing all the way. She didn’t know how far she’d walked and didn’t much care. She just needed to be by herself, away from Jenny’s domineering ways and the town’s prying eyes.

  She stopped to rest along the babbling creek. Pulling off her shoes and stockings, she soaked her feet in the cool clear waters and watched a minnow swim away.

  She stretched out on the grass and closed her eyes. A slight breeze rustled the grass and fanned her face. She imagined the tantalizing aroma of fresh pastry floating on the gentle wind.

  Startled, she shook her head. Mustn’t think about food. She forced herself to absorb the sounds of nature. Birds chattering in the treetops vied with water gurgling over rocks. Both competed with the sound of her rumbling stomach.

  Finally, she could stand it no longer.

  She sat up and sniffed. It wasn’t her imagination. She really did smell something heavenly. Leaving her shoes and stockings behind, she followed her nose to a clapboard house hidden by a clump of trees. The house had a picket fence in front and a barn in back. Horses grazed in the distance and chickens pecked at the ground. A cow stared at her with woeful brown eyes, its jaw moving in circles as it chewed its cud.

  Walking closer to the house, she spotted two pies cooling on the windowsill. She closed her eyes and inhaled the delicious smell of warm berries and fresh-baked pastry until she felt dizzy. What she wouldn’t do for a piece of pie.

  “Who’s that?” a male voice boomed.

  Startled, she backed away, then turned and ran. The man shot out of the house and gave chase. “Wait! Don’t go.”

  Brenda ran as fast as her bare feet would allow, but it wasn’t fast enough.

  The man grabbed her by the arm. Thrown off balance, she tripped, pulling him with her, and the two rolled down a grassy knoll.

  They were both winded by the time they reached bottom. His eyes wide in alarm, he quickly pulled away.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said, blushing. He offered his hand and pulled her to her feet. “Are . . . are you all right?”

  She nodded, though she was a mess. Her skirt covered in grass and dirt, she was certain she’d popped even more buttons. Her unbuttoned bodice had slipped down her arm, revealing a bare shoulder and a ruffled corset strap.

  She looked up to find him staring at her, but he quickly averted his eyes. Blushing, she rearranged the front of her dress but nothing could be done about her gaping back or bare feet.

  “You can look now,” she said.

  Soft brown eyes met hers. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t mean you any harm. I saw you looking at the pies and I wanted to offer you some.”

  He sounded so apologetic, she smiled at him. “That’s very kind of you.”

  He was a big bear of a man whose rotund body more than justified his deep booming voice. Recognition crossed his face. “You’re one of the three sisters,” he said. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name. Hus—”

  “Higgins,” she replied quickly. “Brenda Higgins.” She waited, but when he made no move to introduce himself, she prodded, “And you are?”

  “Oh, sorry.” He looked flustered or confused, maybe both. “Kip . . . Kip Barrel.”

  She peered at the man through lowered lashes. “I wasn’t going to steal the pies, honest.”

  “If you were, you wouldn’t be the first.” He reached out to pull a blade of grass from her hair. His hand brushed her face, bringing an unexpected jolt to her senses. Looking embarrassed, he pulled his hand away and held his arms tight by his side.

  “You were in church Sunday. I don’t know if you remember me, but I sing in the choir.”

  Now that she had a closer look at him, she recognized him too. “I remember. You’re a beautiful singer.” Shyly, she bit her lip. “Some of the other voices are rather . . .” Not wanting to sound unkind, she quickly added, “What I meant to say was I wish you would sing solo.”

  Her enthusiasm for his singing seemed to break the tension, and he visibly relaxed. His face split into a wide grin that outshined the sun. He had a nice face, a gentle face. Round and full, it was like the sea with its ever-changing moods.

  A wistful look wiped his smile away. “I’m afraid singing solo is not possible.”

  “Why not?” she asked.

  “Whenever I sing solo in front of an audience, I sound like a screech owl.”

  “I don’t believe that,” she said. Not after what she heard in church.

  “It’s true. I wanted to be an opera singer, but I couldn’t get over my stage fright. I dreamed about being the Barber of Seville. Instead, I’m the barber of Rocky Creek.” He made a face and imitated a pair of scissors with his fingers to demonstrate.

  She couldn’t help but laugh, though he didn’t join her.

  Fearing she might have offended him, she quickly grew serious. “It seems like such a waste of talent,” she said. She would give anything to sing as well as he did. To do something, anything, that well.

  He gazed off into the distance as if looking at something outside his reach. “Life doesn’t always go the way we plan.” He studied her a moment and suddenly brightened. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

  Before she could say a word, he ran up the hill and disappeared among the trees, showing remarkable agility for someone his size. She quickly checked her dress. She managed to button one of the buttons in back, but not enough to close the gap.

  She patted down her hair and brushed off her sleeves. After putting on her shoes and stockings, she sank to the ground, her back to a willow to hide her unfastened dress. He returned a short time later carrying a pie with both hands.

  “Siebel gathered flowers and placed them at Marguerite’s door. Me? I have nothing to offer thee but pie.”

  She gasped in delight and clapped her hands together. “Please tell me you didn’t steal that. And who is Siebel?”

  He grinned and pulled two forks out of his pocket. “I didn’t steal the pie, honest. And Siebel is a young lad in the opera Faust.”

  She’d never heard of Faust and knew nothing about opera, but she liked the way his eyes sparkled when he spoke of it. “Is that your house?” she asked.

  “That’s Ma’s boardinghouse, and I live there.” He handed her a fork and sat down by her side.

  “Did your mother bake the pies?”

  He chuckled. “Ma’s the name of the proprietress. She’s not my mother, but everyone calls her Ma. She acts like a mother sometimes. And yes, she baked them.” He motioned toward the pie. “I believe it’s customary for ladies to go first.”

  That’s all Brenda needed to hear. She stuck her fork into the pie and lifted a morsel to her mouth. The pastry was flaky and practically melted in her mouth. She leaned her head back and savored the sweet, tart taste of fresh berries on her tongue.