Maryelle (War Brides Book 2)

by Linda Ford

  She needed no second invitation and hurried after him.

  He took her past the trees to a weed-overgrown bit of land. “Dad plowed this one year, then decided it was too small to bother with. It will need some work, but what do you think?”

  “It’s wonderful. As to work, I welcome the prospect.”

  “Then I’ll get started on it right now.”

  While he was away getting the plow, she walked the length and breadth of it, pausing to kick a lump of dirt, noting the green carpet of weeds already well on their way to producing another crop. And then Kingston returned with the horse and plow. “You stand back there and watch how it’s done.”

  Grinning at the way he preened before her, she plunked down on a grassy spot and watched him lay over neat rows of black earth. The musky smell pulled at her senses. She scooped up a handful of freshly turned soil, squeezing her fist around it, then smelling it before she crumbled it and tossed it down.

  Kingston paused as he drew to her side.

  She scooped up another handful and threw it in the air. “If only my dad could see me now.”

  Kingston grinned at her. “I’m sure he’d wonder what you were doing.”

  “No, he knew I loved to see things grow.” Her thoughts raced backward. “I used to ask so many questions of everyone that I wonder he didn’t get fed up with me. But all he did was smile and nod his head. It was as if he knew I had to know.” A gentle smile tugged her lips. “I miss him.”

  Kingston reached out and touched the tip of her nose. “I guess you do.”

  “They’re fond memories though.”

  He nodded and returned to his task, finishing it in a short time. As he took the horse back, she tramped across the now-plowed garden spot. Already she could see she would have her work cut out for her even before she could plant.

  When Kingston returned, she was yanking grass roots from the sod. “Here—try this.” He handed her a hoe. “Most of it is weeds. They’ll be dead by morning. It’s the grass you’ll have to work on.”

  “I am.” She grunted as she hacked away at a resistant clod.

  They worked side by side until it was too dark to see.

  “Oh, my aching back,” she moaned as she straightened.

  “If you want work, you’ve got work.”

  “I love the smell of the soil and the feel of it on my hands.”

  “You’d best be getting some gloves, or your hands will soon be as rough as a board.”

  They stood side by side. “I can hardly wait until morning so I can finish here.”

  He kissed her nose. “Don’t figure on doing it in one day.”

  Ignoring her aching muscles, she rushed through breakfast the next morning, gathering the dishes and plunging them into hot water with never a mind about the sharp looks cast in her direction. She washed them up and then headed for the garden.

  Before Kingston left, he’d handed her a broad-brimmed hat and a pair of gloves. “I don’t suppose there’s any point in telling you to take it easy, but at least protect your face and hands.”

  She thought they had done a large share last night, but in the light she saw how many chunks of sod needed to be broken up and lumps of weeds to thrash out—a lot of work. But as she knelt in the dirt, she breathed deeply and thanked God for the opportunity.

  Kingston wandered over later in the morning to announce, “It’s time for dinner.”

  She sat back and moaned, grabbing her neck.

  He reached out and pulled her to her feet. “I told you not to overdo it.” He massaged her neck.

  “I’ll be fine,” she murmured, stifling another moan as she straightened. “I’ll get used to it.”

  It took her three days of steady work with Kingston helping in the evenings before she felt as if the ground was ready. On the fourth day she wandered the perimeter. She had removed every stone she could find, piling them at one end. She had tidied the edges with a spade. Sighing, she leaned on a hoe. In her eagerness, she had worked herself out of a job.

  “What’cha thinking?” Kingston’s voice almost in her ear made her jump in surprise.

  “Where did you come from?”

  “Scared you, huh?”

  She waved the hoe at him. “You’re lucky I have nerves of steel, or I might have swung this at you and cracked your head.”

  “Then I wouldn’t be able to offer you a ride to town.”

  “Really? I can go to town with you? Can I get seeds there?”

  “’Spect so.” He narrowed his eyes. “Maybe you should wash your face first. I’ll wait for you in front of the barn.”

  “I’ll be there in a jiffy.” She raced for the house, burst through the door, ignoring the startled looks on Katherine’s and Lena’s faces. Mother Brown was absent, perhaps working in her own garden or having a rest.

  “Face is dirty,” Lena said.

  Maryelle nodded. “Kingston already told me. That’s why I’m here. I’ve got to wash so I can go to town with him.”

  “Why should you get to go to town?” Lena’s face grew dark.

  “Because he asked me.”

  “I haven’t been except on Sunday for ages,” Katherine said.

  Maryelle hesitated. Although she ached for a chance to be alone with Kingston, she knew Katherine had offered her a chance to make a friend of the girl. “I’m sure you could come along if you like.”

  Katherine half rose, then caught Lena’s sharp look and sank back down, ducking her head. “I don’t want to,” she muttered.

  “Another time, perhaps.” Maryelle hurriedly washed her face and dashed back out, having no desire to run broadside into Lena’s tongue.

  5

  In town, Kingston pulled up before a hardware store. “Do you want me to come with you to get the seeds?”

  “No, I can do it. Just aim me in the right direction.”

  He pointed across the street, then handed her some bills. “If you need any more just tell Mr. Scott I’ll settle up before we leave.”

  She looked at the still unfamiliar bills. “How long do I have?”

  “I have to see about repairs for the discer. I expect to be awhile, so take your time. It’s a small town. I’ll find you when I want you.”

  “Thank you, Kingston.”

  He waved as she hurried across the street. She knew what she wanted—root vegetables, salad greens, and flowers. In the store she found the seeds as well as a pleasant shopkeeper who helped her make her selection. “These do well here,” he said, tilting a package of carrot seeds toward her. “They’re a good keeper too.”

  “Keeper?”

  “You know. In the root cellar.”

  “Ah, yes.” She added it to her growing pile. “Now what about flowers?”

  Again he showed her a selection, and she chose most of them.

  “Anything else?”

  She nodded. “Gloves.”

  “I have just the thing for you.” He brought out a pair for her to try.

  “Perfect,” she said and paid for everything. “Thank you for your help.”

  “Thank you for your business and welcome to the community. I hope you’re finding it to your liking.”

  “Actually I’ve seen very little of the town. Kingston drove me through it the first day, but I can’t say I noticed much. Then we’ve come to church on Sunday.” The church was situated before the rest of the buildings, so she’d had little opportunity to see anything more.

  “Then you haven’t had a chance to see all the good things here. We have thirty thriving businesses: pharmacy, dry goods, hardware, blacksmith, a lawyer. The doctor has his office over there. We have three churches and a good school.” He had come to stand by her side and pointed out the window. “Even a nice library—”

  “A library? Where?”

  “Right around that corner and past the alley.”

  Maryelle peered through the window. The wagon stood across the street, but she saw no sign of Kingston. “If Kingston comes looking for me, will you t
ell him I’ve gone to the library?”

  “Certainly. Glad to be of help.”

  She hurried in the direction the shopkeeper had indicated and soon found the narrow white building with a sign assuring her she’d found the right place. A smaller sign informed her the library was open Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. Grateful she’d happened on a day when it was open, she stepped inside. She waited for her eyes to adjust to the dimness and filled her lungs with the smell of books and oiled floors.

  A few minutes later, she emerged with two publications on growing a garden in Alberta and two novels that would help pass the time once she got the seeds in the ground.

  That evening Kingston helped her stake out the rows and plant the seeds.

  “This was a good idea of mine,” he said, covering the pea seeds with the damp soil.

  “What idea was that?” She marched ahead of him, dropping seeds a few inches apart.

  “The garden, of course. Wasn’t it a good idea?”

  She laughed, pausing long enough to meet his blue-green gaze. “Guess this is one of those times when you and I are one, but you’re the one.”

  He laughed. “Yup.”

  “You know something? I don’t care whose idea it is; all I care is I finally have something productive to do. Something I’ve always wanted to do.”

  “I’ll make a real little farmer of you yet.”

  She grinned. “I don’t think you’d have to work very hard at it.” Again she dropped peas into the narrow trench Kingston had prepared. “Despite what Lena seems to think about my being a city girl, I’m really just a working class girl with a yen to get my hands dirty.”

  He rested the hoe against his leg and grabbed her hand. “I think your dreams have been fulfilled.”

  She laughed at the way he shook his head over her dirt-soiled, roughened hands.

  “Whatever happened to my fine English miss?”

  She finished the row and waited for him to catch up. “I think she’s turning into a farmer.”

  He dropped the hoe at the end of the row and checked over his shoulder both ways before he grabbed her in a bear hug. She clung to him. “Mrs. Brown, you have dirt on your nose.” He kissed the spot, then lowered his lips to her mouth.

  He released her and turned so they looked at the neatly planted rows. “Your garden is all planted, Mrs. Brown. What are you going to do now?”

  She shrugged. “Guess I’ll have to wait.”

  It was harder to wait than she could have imagined. The next morning she did up the few chores she was allowed to help with and wandered down to her garden, a book and her Bible in her hand. She found a grassy spot and spent a few minutes reading the Bible and praying for God’s strength to be patient and loving in this family. Especially, God, help me to trust Kingston’s love. Feeling she had to compete with the farm and his family for Kingston’s affections made her ache inside. When Kingston wasn’t at her side, she felt so alone, as abandoned as she’d felt when her parents died. He had helped her find her way back to God at that time. She vowed she’d not lose her faith again. She would trust God to lead her through this trying time to something better.

  Feeling new strength and encouragement, she began to read the garden manual she’d borrowed from the library.

  Later Lily wandered by to visit. “You want to see some baby kittens?”

  Glad of the diversion, glad of any diversion, and equally eager to see some baby kittens, she jumped up. “I’d love to see some baby kittens.”

  Lily bounced toward the barn. “Mitten had them in the loft.” She glanced over her shoulder. “You think you can climb the ladder?”

  Maryelle grinned to think that she appeared so old to this child. “You think you can help me if I can’t?”

  Lily drew to a halt. “I don’t think so. I’m just a little girl.”

  Maryelle laughed. “Don’t fret. I’ll be fine.”

  “Good.” Lily led the way into the shadowed interior of the barn. Maryelle had not been there before, although she’d wanted to see it. Somehow she had the feeling that unless she was invited, she wouldn’t be welcome.

  Shafts of light slanted through the high narrow windows, beaming their fingers on the dust Lily’s restless feet kicked up as she waited. Stalls lined each side of the barn; an array of reins, yokes, and other things she recognized as being used with the horses hung from nails. Maryelle breathed in a potpourri of scents—dusty hay, old horse sweat, worn leather, fresh dung; smells both familiar and strange, neither pleasant nor unpleasant, and yet exciting.

  “Up here,” Lily called, hanging from a rung of a ladder nailed to the wall.

  Maryelle climbed after her through a square hole in the ceiling to the loft, the floor smooth and slippery with bits of hay. She followed the child to a corner and saw the cat she’d met before, surrounded by five tiny little bodies. “They’re so small,” she whispered.

  Lily sat cross-legged, petting the mother cat. “You can touch them if you want.”

  Maryelle scooted close and reached toward a mottled kitten.

  The mother cat, purring contentedly under Lily’s petting, suddenly lifted her head and made an inquiring noise.

  Maryelle jerked back. “She doesn’t mind, does she?”

  “It’s okay, Mitten,” Lily crooned. “She won’t hurt them.”

  The cat continued to keep her eyes on Maryelle as she lifted one tiny body in her cupped hands. “I’ve never seen anything so small except a mouse.” Sheba had been scampering about, bright-eyed and full of mischief, when Dad brought her home. These little bodies were helpless, their eyes still closed.

  She put the kitten back. It nuzzled until it found a place to nurse.

  “You like cats?” Lily asked.

  “Umm. They’re my favorite.” She missed Sheba so much.

  “What was your cat’s name?”

  “Sheba. Queen of the cats.”

  Lily giggled. “What happened to her?”

  “She died of old age.”

  “Did you cry?”

  Tears flooded her eyes at the memory. “Yes, I cried a great deal.”

  “Oh.” Lily seemed at a loss for words at the idea of an adult crying.

  Maryelle smiled. “But Kingston was there, and he made me feel better.”

  “Good.”

  “In fact, it was Kingston who thought she should have a proper burial.”

  Lily turned to look at Maryelle, her wide eyes dark green in the dim light, her mouth a little circle. “What did you do?”

  Maryelle shifted to a more comfortable position, glad to talk to someone she was sure would share her sense of loss over her cat. “I guess I’ll have to tell you the whole story.”

  Lily nodded vigorously.

  “Sheba was very old. About all she did was climb down off my bed long enough to get something to eat and then go back and sleep some more. Kingston said she was a lazy cat, but of course he was teasing. I’m just so glad he was there when she died because I was very sad.”

  Lily nodded her understanding. “I would cry if Mitten died.”

  “I told him I couldn’t bear the thought of getting rid of her body, and he said why don’t we take the bus out to the country and bury her under a tree somewhere. So that’s what we did.” Sheba had been the last living thing holding her to London. When the time came, Maryelle found it rather easy to sell the shop. She was completely free to join Kingston. She had no other place she wanted to be. She sighed. If only she felt as if she belonged here.

  “I wish I could have a cat in the house,” Lily said. “I’d let her sleep with me every night.”

  Maryelle petted the five tiny kittens. “It’s nice. Sheba was my best friend.” They’d played together when they were both young. And Maryelle had found comfort in her soft fur and rough tongue when her parents had died. “I still miss her.”

  To Maryelle’s surprise, Lily scrambled over and gave her a hug. She held the child close and was comforted.

  Maryelle sprawled und
er the shade of the tree on her well-worn grassy spot. She’d read all her library books, including the gardening guides, several times. She’d dusted and rearranged the items in her bedroom repeatedly. She’d practically begged to be allowed to bake something, do anything, but Mother Brown had gone to her room, and Lena had refused Maryelle’s help in her usual blunt way.

  She rolled over on her back and stared at the leaves dancing against the blue sky. The plants were only beginning to poke their tiny leaves through the soil, but she’d weeded so diligently there wasn’t a weed or a blade of grass in the garden. She tried to read some more in her Bible and for awhile found it diverting and encouraging. She prayed for God to send something interesting into her life. But nothing happened, except the leaves whispered.

  She had nothing in the whole world to do. She was bored, bored, bored.

  She sat up, pulling her knees to her chest. The chickens scratched and clucked inside their fence. Behind them from the pigpen rose sounds of grunting contentment and a rather unpleasant odor. A few cows were visible in the field behind the barn.

  But Maryelle saw no sign of anyone human. Where was Lily? The child would have provided some welcome diversion.

  But she hadn’t seen Lily since lunch. Perhaps she had gone to her hideout up the hill. Maryelle considered trying to find the child, but it wasn’t childish company she longed for; she wanted something useful to do.

  If only she and Kingston had their own home, she could be busy cooking and cleaning and washing.

  She leaned her head against her knees. How long before they could be on their own? She straightened. Kingston had never come right out and said what he planned—only that there wasn’t enough money to build something for them and nothing around they could live in. If she knew how long she must endure this arrangement, perhaps she could be patient.

  With the light lasting longer in the evenings, she saw less and less of Kingston, and it grew increasingly difficult to be patient. The ache inside her grew. All she wanted was to be allowed to love her husband and not have to share him with so many other demands. Not that she thought having a home of their own would mean he danced at her side all day long. She wouldn’t want that. Please, God, I want to feel like a wife. I want to know he loves me as much as the farm.