by Cindy Nord
“The moulder?” He frowned. “Isn’t that what the forms are for?”
“Well…” Jubal again moped his brow before stuffing the hem of his shirt into his britches. “Sorta. I’ll work da lumps o’ clay into da proper size, whiles you dash da forms with sand.” He pointed to a new pile of sandy shale he’d hauled to the site this morning. “Den we’ll roll da forms into dat sand over yonder…dats da dashing part…and then we’ll press the clay into da moulds.” He pointed toward a long, wooden oar-like object leaning against the closest tree. The flat end of the paddle lay submerged in a bucket of water. “One of us’ll den take dat striker ‘n rake it across da moulds to remove any of da excess.”
Brennen nodded. “So we skim off the extra clay to neaten things up?”
“’Dats right, suh.”
“But, why are we using sand?” Brennen asked in spite of his exhaustion, intrigued by the process.
“Da sand’s used like flour’s used in baking, to prevent da clay from stickin’ to the moulds after dere fired.” The foreman paused to gulp a swig of water from his canteen.
Brennen strode to the striker and lifted the paddle. Water droplets plopped on his filthy boot tops, swirling the grime into a muddy blotch. “You know, Jubal…I’m thinking there should be a far easier method to all of this.”
“Dere is…,” the foreman replied. “During da war, a brickin’ machine was built’n Philadelphia. Mista Chiswell told me ‘bout it afore he left. Said all they need do is just pile clay onto some sort o’ contraption belt, then everythin’ gets squished out da other end in a long ribbon all ready for da cutter. ‘Stead o’ da usual six bricks per frame we get now, ‘dis thing cranks out twenty-five at a time. ‘Magine dat? And one can even press dere name into ‘em, so’s others know’d who’s made ‘em.”
Jubal’s delight with all things modern reflected in his high-pitched tone. On the other hand, Brennen’s interest in the impressive machine rolled through him on exhilarating waves. Hell yes…a miracle invention by any standards. He’d complete his asinine responsibility to the nuns in triple the time!
B. Benedict. He chuckled. Oh yes, having his name emblazoned on 300,000 bricks immensely brightened his day. That’d teach that slick old abbess, and her good sisters of the cloth, to mess with him.
The thought of his moniker glaring back at them day after day during their meditations flung his exhaustion straight into the hot Kentucky wind. “A bricking machine, you say? Now that is interesting.”
In for a penny…in for a pound.
“Yes, suh. Thought you’d like to know.”
Brennen nodded as he plopped the striker back into the water. Damn straight. If this process could be easier, faster, then he was all for it. He glanced at his foreman now towered over the kiln. The years Jubal must’ve spent under such hard labor brought back a reminder of slavery and all the reasons this country had even gone to war. Muscles aching, Brennen scooped up a handful of the newly purchased bricks and headed toward the kiln to help him.
“I’m riding into town later this evening,” Brennen said, stacking the bricks. “Think I’ll talk over a few things with Mister Wise.” His attorney could investigate the cost and shipping of such a marvelous machine. No harm in updating the estate’s equipment. Might even yield a heftier asking price when the time came for him to sell.
With a smile tugging his lips, Brennen peered at Miss Swan. She still sat on the wagon seat in the blazing-hot sun. Except this time, she was staring straight at him.
His heart lurched against his chest. Before he could stop himself, he nodded.
Damn those green eyes.
She glanced away.
The little she-devil. If he believed in such foolishness, he’d think she read his mind.
With a muttered curse, he headed back to the creek and wrenched another slab of wet clay lose. She could stare at him all day long, jot down in her journal whatever ridiculous statements she wanted, but with each brick he made, with every day that passed, he grew closer to being free.
In the end, regardless of the cards dealt, he’d win.
And move on.
With a spring in his step, he hauled the mucky glop to the wheelbarrow, already envisioning the stack of bills the sale of the estate would bring. Too much to just walk away. Indeed, money drove him, made things tolerable. Hell, he could endure anything if he put his mind to it. And maybe tomorrow he’d bring along a chair and a small table with him to the work site. At least then the annoying little minx could sit in the shade to write. Not that he cared, or that she’d appreciate the gesture, but he didn’t want her any more cantankerous than necessary.
Sweat rolled down his cheeks as he shoved his hair from his face. God knew he looked like hell, and smelled even worse. Before heading into Owensborough, he’d wash up in the creek. And after his visit with his lawyer, he’d stop by Cleo’s for supper. The maddening pressure in his loins, thanks to Miss No-Nun over yonder, assured him he might well need to linger for…dessert.
Chapter Seven
Brennen stepped onto the curved front veranda of the four-columned mansion, his stomach full after a hearty breakfast. He hated cooking, but learned early on that fried eggs and bacon didn’t require much preparation. Sipping his coffee, he scanned the far horizon where dawn struggled to smother the lingering night. Another day...and more dollars spent. He dropped his gaze to his grip around the mug.
Calloused fingertips?
A curse rumbled out. He’d never expected to return to a labor-intensive life, and yet, after three weeks of hard work he’d become acclimated to the grueling routine.
Hell, he even slept better.
He grunted. Better able to face Miss Swan who kept her attention squarely focused on her note-taking. Not that he minded her silence. The less she talked, the more he could concentrate on making enough bricks to get the hell out of here.
Four strides took him to the top of the wide steps. He sipped his coffee as the remembered flash of her surprise the morning she’d discovered the chair and table beneath the elm rolled back into recall.
He’d even glimpsed a smile tugging at her lips while she’d journaled.
The aroma of coffee filled the air as he again raised his mug. How could the process of making bricks be so damned interesting anyway? If he were writing about all this, he’d summarize the task in one short paragraph: Mister Benedict is cursing again. He has no interest in this responsibility, and stumbling backassward into the creek a half-dozen times or more each day is creating a monster.
There. Note finished. He sighed. Regardless of how much he refused to think of her, the lingering image of Annabelle Swan refused to fade.
Miss Green Eyes. Her striking beauty haunted him, as did the hypnotic reach of her glances from across the clearing.
He scoffed and took another swig. Forget about her. Swallowing, he sent searing liquid down his throat. If only he could as easily burn her from his mind. Working until dark each day left him further on edge. His comfortable routine of sleeping until noon had been completely discombobulated. Now he rose at dawn and slept like a stone each night. He hadn’t shuffled a deck of cards in nearly a week.
Worse, trysts with Cleo now left him unsatisfied.
With his empty hand, he readjusted his wide-brimmed work hat. Where in the hell was Jubal? His foreman should be here by now. Brennen scanned the tattered daffodils that defied the odds and lived, thriving in a spot that offered them little succor. Hell’s fire, even a crumbling water well endured the swath of ivy that smothered its foundation and sent strangling tendril around every stone.
He frowned. When he returned home this evening, maybe he’d just clear away the foliage. Not that this was home. Or even because he gave a diddly-squat. Rather, the task wouldn’t be hard. A tug here and there would allow the well to claim a momentary victory.
And momentary victories immensely satisfied him as of late.
Brennen glanced toward the rusted farm equipment near the barn before scouring the fallow
fields. Everywhere he looked, Mother Nature fought her own war to reclaim his land.
Shit.
He looked sideways, his scowl deepening. Jubal should’ve damn well rounded the corner of the mansion by now. He’d give him five more minutes. After they’d busted their ass for two weeks, they’d barely made a dent in the number of bricks needed. He shoved aside his irritation. Day-after-day, the total count still grew. And then, the insane world of brick-making, along with that feisty French pastry, would be forevermore behind him.
Stop thinking about her.
Brennen took another swig, satisfied with the ripple of muscle that tightened up his arm. Even though he still ached like hell from the hard work, he did seem a tad-bit leaner. On occasion, he even felt a return of strength he’d thought long gone. Not that he gave a damn about his looks. A tougher body meant he could sling mud faster, lift the striker higher, and get the hell out of here even that much sooner. In a few months, the minx would have nothing left to scribble in her pointless journal except the words ‘He’s finished’.
He laughed and gulped again, enjoying the flow of coffee coursing through his veins. He scanned the far meadow thick with weeds. Ah hell, maybe he’d consider buying a few sheep to turn loose in the fields. They’d eat like kings, and he’d get a more manicured property to appeal to future buyers.
Brennen pulled himself up short. Jeezus. The back-and-forth swing of his emotions frustrated the hell out of him. This should be another man’s problem, and the forest could reclaim the whole damned place for all he cared.
Enough with the considerations of making this ramshackle estate more homelike. On a sharp curse, he tossed the remainder of his coffee to the flowers. Yellow petals sagged beneath thick bronze drips.
If Jubal didn’t arrive soon, he head to the shanty and drag his ass out.
A slap of hurried steps had him glancing sideways.
Jubal burst around the corner, face pale, eyes wide with desperation. “Mista Brennen…Mista Brennen!” he hollered, his arms waving wild.
Brennen shoved his cup onto a sidetable between two equally weather-beaten rockers, then descended the stairs in a couple of long strides. He met the frantic man at the bottom near the bricked drive. “What’s wrong?”
His foreman skidded to a stop and grabbed Brennen’s arm. “I-It’s Ruby, suh. S-She’s burnin’ up wif fever. She’s need help. I-I can’t leave her alone.”
Who the hell’s Ruby? He scrambled for an answer as he stared up at the frantic man’s face. Oh yes. His wife. He’d seen the small-framed woman in the distance a few times.
Brennen swept his gaze past Jubal to scour the faraway meadows and tree lines, his mind working to supply an answer. Owensborough, and any kind of medical aid was over a two-hour round trip away.
Sonofabitch. His gaze slid closer, focusing on a clump of oaks and maples just beyond the Knoblick.
Yes. Hell yes.
He grabbed Jubal by the upper arm, his fingers digging deep. “Go back to Ruby and wait for me,” he ordered with a reassuring nod. “I’ll be back in less than an hour with help.”
Decision made, he turned and bolted for the stable.
* * * *
Sunlight cut through the trees in great white streaks as Brennen halted his gelding before a wall tent in the middle of the dappled copse. As his boots hit the ground, he peered inside the structure fronted by an equally large canvas fly. The nuns sat around a table, their morning fare much leaner than the breakfast he’d slopped together thirty minutes prior.
He ducked beneath the canvas topper.
With the suspended rosary jangling at her waist, Mother Superior met him at the entrance to the tent. “Monsieur Benedict,” she said, her hand wrapping the center support pole to bar him further entry.
“Bonjour, Madame,” he said, tipping his hat. He glanced back to the tent for an interpreter. “I’m…needing…” pausing he looked inside once more as he struggled with his French. “J’ai besoin…de votre…um…aide…need help. Comprendre?”
She stepped out to join him, drawing the canvas flap closed in her wake. “Exactly what type of help do you need that would bring you around this early, Monsieur Benedict?”
Perfect English…the cunning shrew.
Inhaling, he tugged off his leather gloves, and bunched them in his hand. “Ruby…my foreman’s wife…is sick. An ongoing illness, I’ve just discovered. With his attending to her, he’s unable to assist me out at the Knoblick.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Can you not hire another man to assist you?”
He stepped closer, dwarfing her beneath his glare. “I can hire ten men, Your Reverence, but that’s not my point. I have no skill in the supervision of brick-makers. That expertise belongs to Jubal Jones. If he’s nursing his wife, he’s not helping me.”
“I am unsure why you have come to me concerning this matter.”
Was the woman daft? “I’ve come here because I need someone to nurse Ruby during the day, thus relieving my foreman.” He angled his jaw toward the scuffling sounds behind the canvas flap. Tips of black leather shoes peeped back at him from the bottom. “And you’ve got a passel of able-bodied nuns behind you just ripe for the pickin’.” Several gasps sounded along with a giggle. “So, what do you say, ma’am?”
The abbess clasped her hands tightly in front of her. “So, now you wish to buy one of my sisters to make things easier for you?”
“Easier?” His jaw stiffened. “Well…no ma’am. I’m not worried about me.” He forced a smile. The way she put things made him sound like a damned cad. “I wish to hire one of your good nuns to serve as a nurse for an ailing Mrs. Jones.”
“I am sorry, Monsieur Benedict. Every one of my sisters are needed here.”
“Look,” he snapped, his breakfast churning in his gut. “I’ll put this another way, then. One you might appreciate better. I need Jubal Jones, or you aren’t getting your bricks in any kind of timely fash--”
“However, I do understand your dilemma,” she said, her hand rising. “One moment, please.” Turning, she whipped open the canvas door.
Every nun peered wide-eyed back at him.
The abbess reentered the tent, and dropped the canvas flap behind her. Murmurs of French blended with English in a jumbled slur of whispers. A full minute passed. He stepped closer, bending to listen. Hell’s Fire, how long does it take to assign one nun?
“What?” came Miss Swan’s shrieking response. “Non. Non. Non.”
Brennen straightened, bumping the crown of his hat against the top pole that supported the canvas fly. Shit, no! Not her. Some other nun. The short, fat one with the sympathetic eyes.
The flap swept open, smacking him in the face. Heat climbed his neck as he blinked and shuffled back. The abbess stepped from the tent, followed by a fuming French beauty whose raven tresses were now braided and wrapped tight around her head like a coronet. Her pretty mouth pinched in a tight line.
Jeezus.
The abbess smiled up at him. “Miss Swan is quite skilled in nursing. In fact, she took care of her ailing sister for years before her sibling’s…untimely death.” She glanced at the minx, and nodded. “In light of this more pressing matter, I will temporarily suspend the task of journaling. Instead, she’s more than pleased to assist with Mrs. Jones. Without compensation. Aren’t you, dear?”
Suspend the journaling? He bit back a snort, still questioning why the damned notes even mattered. He cut his gaze back to the fuming beauty. “You’ll work for me for…free?”
“Oui,” Annabelle replied. Her grass-green eyes bored into his. “For free.”
Surprised by the starch in her voice, Brennen’s gaze narrowed.
“Excellent.” The old woman looked back, drawing his attention. “Off you go now, Monsieur Benedict. Inform your foreman help will arrive shortly…after she gathers a few things she’ll need. And, due to the medical situation, a chaperone will not be necessary during her stay at their place.”
Brennen lanced his gaze ba
ck to the minx. Stay at their place? Oh, hell no…not that close to my house.
He’d be bringing the woman back here each and every night. The slow pounding in his head intensified as he fought for control. First she’s a nun, then she’s a non-nun, and now she’s a nurse? What else did this woman hide? Not that she was the sole problem. The wily old nun ensured tight control over the purse strings that kept him tethered to this godforsaken place.
Things were getting more complicated by the minute. And unfortunately, he had no other choice but to capitulate. Sonofabitch. I should’ve just ridden to town for help. He jammed his hands inside his gloves. “Thank you for your help, Your Reverence.”
Brennen turned and strode from beneath the fly, a trickle of comfort spurting through him. At least Miss Swan wouldn’t be glaring at him for hours on end out at the Knoblick.
No more journal writing for you, wee lassie.
He remounted, nipping off the snide thought before it materialized into words. Out of sight meant out of mind, and that was what he craved most. And wanted to believe, except he couldn’t dismiss the dull disappointment that now rolled through him. He’d miss her riding up in her gig each morning to greet them.
On a curse, he set spurs to his horse and headed for home.
* * * *
An hour later, with fists stacked on her hips, Annabelle marched from the shanty. “This is completely unacceptable, Monsieur Benedict.”
Brennen scowled as he stormed after her down the dirt path that fronted Jubal and Ruby’s small shack. “What in the hell are you yammering about now?”
She whirled, nearly bumping into him. “That poor woman cannot remain inside such…such squalid conditions.” She pointed toward his manor house, her finger waggling with enough force to break a knuckle. “Not when there is a perfectly good mansion with half-a-dozen empty bedrooms right over there.”
He narrowed his eyes.
Who in the hell did this woman think she was…barging into his life, thinking she could change the way of things with but a reprimanding wave of her finger? He rather she be journaling, that way he could just ignore her. “As I tried to tell you inside,” he snarled with enough grit in his tone to strike a match, “these are proud people. You can’t just ride in here and uproot them from their home.”