by Janette Oke
Kathleen even thought of Charles and young Edmund. Did they like the countryside? Had they been favored with ponies of their own?
Strangely enough, Kathleen even thought of the cranky old baker. Had he passed on her hawker’s basket to another poor girl? Kathleen didn’t even want to picture the girl in her mind. The back streets of London were really not a place for a young girl to be.
And over and over, Kathleen’s mind went to Donnigan. Once again she said to herself, the disappointment still intense within her, “Sure—he’s no Irishman, and that’s the truth of it.”
But what was he? And who was he? He was fine enough to look at—though his size disquieted her. He said he had a farm. Kathleen felt pleased about that. A farm would be a nice change from cluttered, dirty streets and dark, tall buildings.
He seemed a gentleman—though certainly not as polished and sure of himself as Erma’s Lucas. But even as Kathleen had the thought, she stirred uneasily. She wasn’t quite sure if she would have been pleased with a man like Lucas. He seemed so intense—so in control—so totally mechanical. Again Kathleen wondered if Erma would be happy.
“I must stop this,” Kathleen scolded herself once again. “I will be a rag in the morning and not fit for a wedding and that’s the truth of it.” But even as she thought the words, Kathleen wondered again if there really would be a wedding.
* * *
Donnigan retired earlier than he should have. He just didn’t know what else to do with his long evening. But he may as well have stayed up and paced the streets. He tossed and turned and thumped his pillow, then wadded it beneath his head and tossed again.
Never had his mind been in such a state. Never had he faced such a difficult decision.
“Twenty-one! That’s ridiculous. She’s more like—like—I know what I should do,” he told himself firmly. “I should bundle her up and put her right back on the stage and send her home to wherever she came from.”
But Donnigan knew that he didn’t have the money for a second passage aboard an ocean-sailing ship.
“Maybe someone would take her on as hired help—let her grow up a bit,” he thought next. But he quickly dismissed that idea. How would he know if she was properly treated or whether she was taken advantage of?
“Well, I shouldn’t marry her, and that’s for sure,” he told himself. But if he didn’t marry her, what would he do with her?
It was quite obvious from the little luggage she carried that she wouldn’t be able to financially care for herself.
“Well, I can’t just take her to the farm without marrying her,” fumed Donnigan. “Even if I slept in the barn.”
There just didn’t seem to be an answer. It wasn’t that he was displeased with her. She was a pretty little thing—and she had spunk. He had seen that firsthand. In fact, when he really thought about it, if he’d had his pick of the three women who had disembarked the stage, he likely would have chosen her. The tall, prim Risa certainly would have made him quake in his boots. He wondered how Wallis was faring.
And Erma, though she appeared to be agreeable and cheery, made him wonder if such a constantly agreeing person might soon get on his nerves. But little Kathleen—when she smiled, her whole face brightened, and when her temper flared, those dark eyes shot sparks. He had a feeling that living with her would be a rather exciting adventure.
But she was so small—so young. He tossed again and in the stillness of the hotel room he softly cursed Wallis and Lucas for talking him into this crazy scheme and then the man Jenks who had no more sense than to send a child in the place of a woman.
He tried to push the disturbing thoughts from his mind so he could get some rest. “Twenty-one!” he snorted in disgust. “Why did she have to go and lie about her age?” He’d have to have a talk with her and sort it out in the morning. And he did need to ask her to please stop referring to him as “sir.” He much preferred Donnigan.
* * *
Kathleen was up and dressed, her belongings carefully packed, long before the rap came on her door. She knew, with the aid of the mirror, that she didn’t look rested, but she figured that she could likely get through one more day on nerves.
Donnigan stood before her, silently fumbling with his hat. Kathleen felt relief in seeing him. At least he hadn’t skipped town. She thought he looked as though he hadn’t slept so well either.
He managed a smile. “Good morning,” he greeted. Kathleen did hope he wouldn’t ask if she had slept well.
“I don’t know about you, but I sure am ready for some breakfast,” he said in his easy manner, and Kathleen managed a smile and a nod. She had been feeling hungry for a couple of hours.
He led the way back to the dining room and placed their orders. Kathleen was glad for the strong, hot coffee. Not only did it taste good, but it gave her something to do with her hands.
“We need to talk,” he surprised her by saying. He looked uneasy, but seemed determined to say what he had to say.
“Quite frankly,” he began, shifting his big frame on the brocaded chair seat, “I had pictured a—an older woman. One a bit more—more mature. Bigger.” He indicated a rough shape with his hands.
Kathleen felt the color draining from her face. It was her limp, she just knew it.
He stopped, and Kathleen saw him struggle with what he should say next.
“Your—your—the piece of paper that I got said you are twenty-one.” His eyes seemed to challenge her. He hated lies. It had bothered him all through the night that she might be a person that couldn’t be trusted. How could you live with a person, sharing your life and your dreams, if you couldn’t even trust her?
Kathleen met his gaze steadily. He saw her eyes widen with surprise—then darken with concern.
“It said that?” she asked almost under her breath.
He nodded.
Kathleen’s eyes fell to her plate. She shook her head slowly. He thought he could see anger smoldering in the dark eyes when she raised them again.
“It’s that Mr. Jenks,” she said. “I—I told him my true age—but the man must have put down—I’m—I’m sorry.”
The last words were spoken so softly that Donnigan had to strain to hear them. But her eyes spoke volumes. Donnigan was ready to believe that she was sorry, just as she had said.
“I—I don’t think that Mr. Jenks is a man to be trusted,” she finished lamely and her eyes registered anger once more.
Donnigan shifted his weight again. Suddenly he felt anger himself. Anger toward the man Jenks whom he had never met. He had to move on with the conversation or he would find himself asking questions that he might wish he had not asked.
“Why did you come to America?” he asked her simply. “I mean, at your age—why aren’t you still home with your folks in Ireland?”
Kathleen took a deep breath. He had a right to some answers. She had a few questions of her own.
“I came from London,” she said first and saw the surprise in his face.
“Sure, and I am Irish. But I have lived in London ever since—ever since my father had to give up his land. My mother died when I was a wee one. I hardly recall her face. My father married again—to a woman from France. Then my father died a few years back. We were left in—in rather—difficult—circumstances. I worked—if you call hawkin’ rolls and pies on the streets of London work. And then—then Madam”—the name slipped out before Kathleen had time to change it—“my stepmum, decided to marry again.” She stopped and raised her eyes to his. “So I signed up and—” She shrugged and looked down at her cup.
Donnigan sat silently digesting all that she had said.
“Why didn’t you stay with your family?” he asked softly.
“They were moving to the country,” she answered evenly.
“You don’t like the country?” He thought of his farm and little cabin as he asked the question, and a strange fear accompanied the words.
“And I wouldn’t know, would I now, not having memories of my own. But my fa
ther always said it’s a fine place to be a livin’.”
“So why didn’t you move with them?”
Kathleen’s eyes dropped again. Her fingers slipped to her lap where they clasped in agitation beneath the spread of tablecloth.
At last she raised her eyes again and Donnigan saw hurt and confusion there. “I wasn’t wanted—except as household staff,” she said honestly.
“Staff?”
She nodded, a bit braver now. Her chin came up and he saw the fire back in her eyes.
“Madam gave me two choices. A member of the household staff in the country—or a hawker on the London streets.”
Donnigan had no comment. He lowered his own gaze and toyed with the cutlery by his plate. She’d really had no choice. And neither did he, he decided as he stirred restlessly. Child or not, there was really nothing for him to do but marry her.
* * *
They arrived at the small church at ten o’clock. There was no fancy white gown or formal black suit. Lucas, dark suited, took his place beside Donnigan. Erma stood at Kathleen’s side. They used their slightly wilted flowers of the day before. Only this time, Erma graciously offered Kathleen her bridal bouquet. The ceremony was short and direct, and in a few moments Kathleen looked shyly up at Donnigan. They were now husband and wife.
* * *
Donnigan did not really look at her again until they were traveling the dusty, rutted road to the farm on the high seat of the wagon. He wondered just how disappointed she was feeling, having visited Erma’s posh hotel suite of rooms before leaving town so that they could bid each other goodbye.
But her face did not look dark and gloomy. She lifted her hand to remove her bonnet and brushed back her straying dark hair. Her face turned into the breeze that rustled the grasses by the roadside, and she took a deep, satisfied breath.
“I’ve longed for the country ever since I was a child,” she admitted frankly, and Donnigan, relieved, took a deep gulp of the fresh warm air.
They rode in silence again, and then Kathleen tilted her head as though listening intently.
“What bird is that?” she asked, her voice expressing excitement.
“Just a wood thrush,” he answered.
“You must teach me all the birds,” she responded and then seemed to catch herself. She was not to be a chatterer. And she certainly was not to be giving orders. Her face flushed with her embarrassment.
But Donnigan seemed not to notice. “You like birds?” he asked, his voice deep and warm.
“Oh yes,” she breathed and then fell silent.
“Would you fancy some hens?” asked Donnigan after a few moments.
“Oh yes,” said Kathleen again. She would love hens—and geese—and ducks and—and maybe even—She checked herself again.
“We’ll get some—come spring,” said Donnigan, and the matter seemed settled.
Kathleen had so many questions she wished to ask. Where was his farm? What did he have there? If there were no chickens, were there sheep? Cattle? She wished he would talk about it. She longed to ask. But she would not make him angry by prattling on while he wished for solitude. She bit her tongue to keep the questions from pouring forth.
At the same time that Kathleen held herself in check, Donnigan was bemoaning the fact of her silence.
We’ll never get to know each other at this rate, he thought dejectedly There were many things he wanted to ask her. Wished to tell her. But she didn’t seem interested in conversation. He didn’t wish to make her uncomfortable by plying her with questions or to seem boastful by sharing with her about the farm he had carved for himself from prairie sod. But it was difficult to ride along for so many miles in complete silence. He would have been doing more talking if he were riding Black, he decided.
They drew near a small farm and Kathleen felt her heart quicken. Was it their farm? But no, Donnigan made no move to tug on the reins of the horses.
“That’s Wallis’s place,” he said, and Kathleen looked at it with renewed interest. They were almost past when Kathleen spotted Risa. She was in the shade of the small building, bent over a tub of washing. Already a line was filled with clothing that fluttered in the afternoon breeze.
“I see Risa has gone right to work,” observed Donnigan with a smile. Kathleen waved, but the busy woman did not look up from her scrubboard.
It wasn’t long until Donnigan did turn the horse into a farmyard. Kathleen fell in love with it at once. It was so much better than the dark little cottage along the London street. And it was easy to see that it was much nicer than the farm Wallis and Risa occupied down the road.
But Kathleen bit her tongue and tried not to let her intense excitement show. He already thought her a child. He would be more than sure if she bounced up and down on the wagon seat and clapped her hands at the sight of her new home.
Donnigan stole a sideways look. He hoped to see a sparkle in her eyes—but he saw instead a stoical face and hands tightly clenched in her lap.
* * *
Donnigan helped Kathleen down from the high wagon seat and deposited her on the ground. He saw her eyes go to the flower beds that he had labored over on her behalf and for one moment they brightened, but she made no comment.
“I’ll bring your things to the house after I care for the team,” he told her. “You go ahead on in.”
Kathleen hesitated.
“Would you like me to go with you—this first time?” asked Donnigan, almost shyly.
“Oh no. No, it’s fine,” replied Kathleen. But she did feel dreadfully strange about entering the home of the man, though she knew it must quickly become her home as well.
She lifted the latch on the unlocked door and stepped inside. The kitchen-living quarters were neat and roomy. Kathleen drew in her breath. It was more than she had dreamed of—her own country home. She wouldn’t have traded places with Erma for anything in the world.
She moved slowly forward, taking in the small shelves that were stacked with dishes, the big black stove with its copper kettle, the table, chairs, the shelf with assorted books and manly items like belt buckles and a checker board.
At last she dared to venture farther and found the bedroom beyond. So much room for only two people. She and Bridget had been forced to share a room where they could scarcely stand up beside the bed.
Kathleen did clasp her hands. She wanted to dance around the little room, but she thought she heard Donnigan coming. She forced her face to become blank, placed her hands demurely at her sides, and returned to the kitchen just as he placed her small trunk beside the door.
“Is everything okay?” he asked soberly, hoping with all of his heart that she would respond with some enthusiasm.
“Fine,” she said simply, with no emotion whatever.
He stood for one minute and then nodded his head. “I’ll get some fresh water,” he informed her and lifted the pail from its shelf.
After he had left the house, Kathleen did do a little jig around the table. It was perfect. Just perfect. She could be happy here. She knew she could.
She looked about again. “It will be so homey with curtains at the windows, hooked rugs on the floor, a throw over the big stuffed chair in the corner, a few bright—”
But Kathleen checked herself. He hadn’t brought her here to totally disrupt his home. If she began to make all of those changes, he would think she wasn’t happy with what she had. He would think her disgustingly demanding. No. Things were quite all right as they were. She would not risk his displeasure. She would ask for nothing.
* * *
Donnigan lowered the pail into the deep well, his thoughts on Kathleen’s response to the farm and house. Or rather her lack of it. He hadn’t realized how important it had been to him that she would like what she found. Now he looked at his place through different eyes. What was wrong with it? Did she want a place like Erma’s? Well, if she did, she had the wrong man. Lucas Stein was the only man in the whole territory who could afford a place like that.
He
knew his place was—plain. But with a little effort and the few dollars he could give her, she could fix all that. Women knew how to go about such things. He didn’t. Had he known, he would have done it for her—like planting the flowers.
And then he thought of the many changes and the long miles of travel. “She’s just played out,” he reasoned. “Give her a few days and she’ll get things in shape the way she wants them.”
Donnigan forced himself to whistle as he headed for the cabin with the fresh pail of well water in his hand.
Chapter Twelve
Settling In
The next morning dawned warm and bright, and Donnigan asked rather shyly if Kathleen would care to see the rest of the farm. She could hardly hide her enthusiasm but kept her face straight while she answered him that she would.
“Do you ride?” he surprised her.
She shook her head slowly.
“I have a mare that I’ve been working on for you,” he went on, “but I don’t think she’s quite ready if you’re not used to riding.”
Kathleen wished to protest, but she bit her tongue.
“How do you check the farm?” she asked him.
“I ride Black,” he answered.
“Black?”
“My stallion.” He waited, watching her face, but she was giving him no hints whatever. “He rides double,” he said at last.
Kathleen’s head came up and for one unguarded moment her eyes flashed excitement.
“Would you mind?” asked Donnigan.
“No. No, I wouldn’t mind,” she said simply, hanging the dishcloth over the pan on the wall.
Kathleen may have become an expert at hiding her feelings, but even she slipped when she saw the black. He was magnificent. He was also a bit scary. Could they both really ride him? she wondered as the black horse raced around the corral, tossing his head and snorting.
At one whistle from Donnigan, the black dipped his head, snorted, and trotted obediently toward his owner. Kathleen longed to reach a hand out to the silky side of the animal, but she dared not do so without permission, and she refused to ask.