“There’s pie for those who finish their food.” His gaze was directed at his son.
“But I don’t like turnips, Pa.”
“Shh … don’t complain.” Miss Barlow tapped Phillip rather roughly on the arm.
He ducked his head and folded his hands, resting them on his lap. “Yes, ma’am.”
Sarah halfway wished she’d allowed Luke to join them, but there wouldn’t have been enough room. At least he probably could have wrangled a smile from Miss Barlow.
A gentle breeze swished the oak trees overhead, creating a dancing dappled pattern on the tablecloth. The water on her right flowed so quietly she could barely hear it.
“There, now.” Mr. Barlow said as he set a crock of butter on the table. “I believe that’s all of the meal. Shall we eat?”
Phillip, napkin tucked into the front of his shirt, rose onto his knees and passed his plate to his aunt as if he did the same thing at every meal. Instead of filling it, she handed it to Mr. Barlow, who added a bit of each item then leaned over and set the plate in front of his son. “Shall I dish up your plate or would you prefer to do it yourself, Miss Worley?”
She’d expected someone to bless the food before filling the plates, but no one had suggested it. “Please, go ahead, but don’t give me too much.”
He nodded. “It would be my pleasure.” As he filled her plate, Aunt Esther grabbed her own and proceeded to stock it quite sufficiently. Evidently the woman liked to eat—or perhaps this meal was a bit fancier than the ones they normally enjoyed.
While Mr. Barlow took care of his own plate, Sarah ducked her head and asked God to bless her meal and their conversation today.
Mr. Barlow sat down and bit into a crunchy thigh then muttered, “Mmm … This tastes wonderful. We don’t get chicken often.”
“I recently purchased some hens and am looking forward to eating it again,” Sarah said.
Aunt Esther dabbed her mouth and caught Sarah’s eye. “Stephen says you won a homestead. Do you live there by yourself?”
“I will eventually, but right now, Jack, who is my adopted brother, is staying with me, along with his six-year-old son, Cody, and a friend.” She decided it was best not to mention that her “friend” was another man. She had the feeling Aunt Esther wouldn’t approve. “Mr. and Mrs. Peterson and their sons are also staying on my property while they build my house.”
Aunt Esther clucked her tongue. “Young ladies are too forward these days. I can’t imagine living on a homestead.”
Mr. Barlow grinned and rolled his eyes, forcing Sarah to focus on her plate to avoid smiling. “I bet you never imagined you’d be living in a tent in a brand-new town, Aunt Esther.”
The woman lifted her chin, staring at her nephew. “I wouldn’t be if you had any sense. You should have left Phillip at home with your nanny.”
“But I want to be here with Papa.”
“And so you are. Eat your turnips, son.”
Frowning, Phillip took a minuscule bite of the tablespoon of mashed turnips, licked the end of the spoon, and shuddered. Once again, she found herself fighting a smile. He reminded her of a tame version of Drew. Gabe and Lara had their hands full with that boy.
A wave of nostalgia washed over her. She’d never been away from the Coulter children for so long. She’d held each one with the exception of Michael on the day they’d been born, and they’d been so much a part of her life. She thought of them as her nieces and nephews, even though they weren’t.
“Where do you hail from, Miss Worley?”
She looked at Aunt Esther. “The Oklahoma City area. I’ve lived on a ranch near Guthrie for the past eight years.” What would the woman say if she knew Sarah had been born in the Indian Territory? No doubt she’d flee to her tent with her hands on her forehead in fear that Sarah would scalp her.
It mattered little to most white people that the Cherokee tribe was one of the Five Civilized Tribes. Wouldn’t the woman be surprised to learn that Sarah’s ancestors had been lawyers who owned a huge plantation in Georgia before they’d been forced to abandon it by the government and travel on foot to Indian Territory?
Thankfully, the meal passed quickly and in relative silence with Mr. Barlow asking a question now and then and Phillip saying something. Finally, the dessert was finished, and Sarah was more than ready to leave. She failed to see how her being here had helped the boy, other than that he seemed to enjoy her presence.
Mr. Barlow placed his napkin beside his plate and leaned back in his chair. “Aunt Esther, would you please take Phillip for a walk so I can talk with Miss Worley privately?”
Puckering her lips, his aunt nodded. “Of course.”
He rose and helped her from her chair. She cast a strange look at Sarah then snapped her fingers at Phillip. “Come along, boy. Don’t dawdle.”
“But I want to stay.” His eyes glistened with unshed tears.
“Not today. Your father has business to discuss.”
Phillip slid from his chair on Sarah’s side rather than on his aunt’s. “Will you come back again?”
Sarah’s heart ached for him, but she had to be truthful. “I don’t know.”
“Phillip. Come.” Aunt Esther snapped her fingers.
He fell against Sarah, giving her a hug, then rushed to his aunt’s side. As they walked away, Phillip wiped his eyes and looked back at her over his shoulder. She waved at him, earning a smile. When they were out of earshot, she looked at Mr. Barlow. “So, what did you want to talk to me about?”
He steepled his fingers over his chest and glanced toward his son and aunt then back at her. “I’d like to hire you to spend time with Phillip.”
“Spend time with Phillip? I don’t understand.” Sarah’s heart raced. She glanced over to where Aunt Esther and Phillip walked, hoping they’d come back this way soon. It was inappropriate for her to be alone with the boy’s father, especially since she barely knew him.
Mr. Barlow rubbed his hand across his chin. “As you well know, Phillip is attached to you.”
“I beg to differ. He doesn’t even know me.”
“You remind him of his mother.”
“But you did tell him that I’m not her, correct?”
A sad expression passed over Mr. Barlow’s face for a moment. He must have loved his wife dearly. “I did. He didn’t want to believe me, but Aunt Esther persuaded him to see the truth.”
Sarah wondered just how the aunt managed that with a five-year-old.
“I’ve thought about it, and I think it would help Phillip to adjust to his mother’s passing if you and he spent some time together.”
Sarah shook her head. “I don’t think that’s wise. He’ll only grow more attached if I do.”
Mr. Barlow sighed and tapped his well-manicured fingernails on the tabletop. “I’m willing to pay you handsomely. My son’s peace of mind is very important to me.”
“What would you want me to do?”
He shrugged. “Read to him, maybe play a game or take him for a walk. Aunt Esther watches him as best she can, but it would do her good to have a break in the middle of the day.”
“So, you’d want me to come after lunchtime?”
“If you would be agreeable to that.”
“Every day?”
“No, of course not. Maybe two or three times a week. Would that work for you?”
She fiddled with the fringe on her napkin, which she’d placed on the table. “I honestly don’t know. I don’t have a regular schedule yet. I help Mrs. Peterson with the meals for the men building my house, but once it’s done and they leave, I’ll be setting up my home.”
“Do you live far from town?”
She shook her head, not wanting to be specific about the location of her homestead. “No. Not all that far.”
“So it wouldn’t be a hardship to come to town on a regular basis?”
“It’s hard for me to say since I don’t know what all I’ll be doing after my house is done. But if I decide to watch Phillip, it
wouldn’t be a hardship to get to town.”
He nodded. “Good. So, is it settled?”
She turned and stood. “No, I’m afraid it isn’t. I need some time to consider it and pray over the matter.”
He rose, towering over her. “I see. I can pay you more, if that makes a difference.”
“It’s not about the money.”
“Very well. Would you let me know when you’ve made a decision?”
“Yes, of course. I should be going.”
“Let me escort you back through the tents.”
“I would appreciate that.” With her mind arguing between saying yes and turning him down, she kept pace with him. What could it hurt to spend time with Phillip? Wouldn’t his father be working? And as long as Aunt Esther left them alone, the time would be pleasant. Still, she wouldn’t give him an answer until she prayed about it and maybe even talked to Jack.
She knew well what Luke would have to say about the matter.
Luke kicked at a rock in the road, sending it skittering into the hoof of a horse slumbering at a hitching post. The horse crow hopped then looked back his way. “Sorry,” he muttered.
He had half a mind to follow Sarah and see what this fellow she was meeting with looked like, but he didn’t want to earn her ire. She was smart, but in many ways she was also naive. You’d think someone who’d lived in a brothel would have seen the worst in people and would be more cautious. But no, she just scurried off to meet this stranger because he had a little boy she was worried about.
He blew out a loud sigh. Might as well check the notices and see if any new ones had been posted. He shuffled toward the town square, feeling rather melancholy—not something he was used to experiencing.
Most of the time he worked from sunup to sundown, tending cattle, riding fence, and dealing with issues on Gabe’s ranch. Working on Sarah’s house had kept him busy part of the time, but it also left too much time to think—and stew over whether Sarah would ever come to care for him as he did her. And men weren’t meant to stew. They were made for action. Gettin’ things done.
“Lord, I need a lot to buy.” Then he’d have plenty of work building his livery. He searched the trees, but all the notices had been removed.
An elderly man in cowboy gear hobbled his way. “Hey, there, young fella. If ‘n you’re lookin’ for them notices about lots for sale, try the land office.”
Luke nodded at the man. “Much obliged.”
He grinned and scratched his whiskery cheek. “Glad to he’p.”
Shifting directions, Luke made a beeline for the land office. Today there was no line, so he walked through the open door.
A man looked up from the other side of the counter. “Can I help you?”
“I’m lookin’ for the notices of lots for sale.”
He pointed his thumb toward the wall to Luke’s right. “Over there. But I’m fairly sure all but one or two of them have been sold.”
He frowned. “Why are the notices still up if someone bought the lots?”
The man shrugged. “People forget to let us know about the sale.”
Luke sighed and stared at the pieces of paper tacked to the wall. The wind blew through the open window, curling them. He flattened one, read it, and then several others. He remembered them all from before and doubted the land was still available. As he read the final notice, he sucked in a breath. The ad was one he hadn’t seen before, and the lot was along the western side of town. He’d hoped for one on the northern boundary, but this one would work. He read the contact name: Mr. Herbert Brownlee. He tugged the paper off the wall and spun around. “You know where I can find Mr. Herbert Brownlee?”
“I think he owns the shoe store that opened up shop two streets to the east.”
“I appreciate the information.” He turned to leave.
“Wait a minute. Let me have that notice back.”
Luke spun, settling a big grin on his face. “No need. I intend to buy this hunk of land.”
The man narrowed his eyes at him. “If you end up not buying it, bring that back.”
“Will do.” Luke nodded, although he knew he wouldn’t be back. He dropped his gaze to the advertisement. This was exactly what he’d been waiting on. Maybe he wouldn’t have to work in Mr. Best’s hardware store after all.
Excited for the first time since the lottery, he skirted around two wagons loaded with someone’s belongings and hurried down the two streets the land agent had mentioned. Then he searched for the shoe shop. With most of the businesses still being in tents, they all looked the same unless they had a big sign or until you got right up on them and could peek inside. He passed one tent that was closed and continued checking the others as he came to them. When he reached the end of the street, he turned around and headed up the other side, hoping he’d simply missed the shoe store. He reached the beginning of the street and stopped, looking around.
The sounds of building echoed all around him. It wouldn’t be long and people would be working from their brand-new buildings. And his would be one of them—if he could find Mr. Brownlee.
He turned in a circle, wondering where to check next.
“Can I help you find somethin’, mister?” A man stood outside his tent, cutting stalks of broomcorn on a wooden table.
Luke crossed the street to talk to the broom maker. “I hope so. I’m lookin’ for Herbert Brownlee, owner of a shoe shop.”
The gray-haired man pointed a clump of broomcorn toward the tents in the middle of the street. “Down there. It’s the tent that’s closed.”
“Closed! At midmornin’?”
The man lifted one shoulder. “There’s no tellin’ a baby when to come, whether it be midnight or midday.”
Luke groaned. “I don’t suppose you know when he’ll open up again, do you?’
“Hard to say. Might depend on how his woman is doin’.”
“If you see him again, will you tell him that Luke McNeil is interested in the lot he has for sale and to not sell it to anyone else until I return?”
“It ain’t him that’s sellin’ it but his brother. That gent rode in on the train, took one look around, then told his brother he was leaving and to sell his lot.”
Luke rubbed the back of his neck, hoping to relieve the tension of the ache building in his head. “How do you know all of this?”
The man grinned, revealing a wide gap between his two front teeth. “Kind of hard not to when they was standin’ in the street, hollerin’ at one other.”
Luke glanced up to see where the sun was. He needed to head back to where he and Sarah were to meet. “I’ll ride into town later and see if he’s back. If he isn’t, I’d appreciate it if you’d let him know of my interest when you next see him.”
“I can do that. Hey, you don’t need a broom, do ya? Business has been a bit slow.”
Luke started walking. “Not today but maybe when I get settled.”
He hated being so close to owning his town lot and still so far away. It was rotten luck that Mr. Brownlee had been gone. He returned to the meeting place and stood in the shade of a tall oak.
A frazzled looking man in a white shirt with black trousers and a black string tie and odd cap rushed past him and into the gun shop. He was close enough to hear the man call out, “Anyone in here named Luke McNeil?”
His heart bucked. What could the stranger want with him? Had something happened to Sarah? He pushed off from the tree, heading straight to the man. “I’m McNeil.”
The wiry man spun around, looking relieved, and hurried toward him. “Do you know someone named Gabe?”
Luke nodded, wondering how the man knew his good friend. “I do.”
The man glanced at the paper he carried—a telegram, if Luke wasn’t mistaken. “What’s his last name?”
Luke stiffened. “Why do you want to know?”
“Got a telegram from him, and I’m just making sure you’re who you say you are.”
“Coulter. His name is Gabe Coulter.”
&nbs
p; Nodding, the man looked at the paper again. “And where does he hail from.”
“He has a ranch near Guthrie.”
Continuing to nod, the man relaxed. “I suppose you are Mr. McNeil. Here.” He shoved the telegram Luke’s way.
Luke took it and placed a coin in the clerk’s hand. Telegrams generally meant bad news. What had happened at the ranch that Gabe had to wire him about it?”
He unfolded the wrinkled paper.
GABE BROKE LEG. LUKE NEEDED AT RANCH.
Chapter 12
The morning after she had lunch with Mr. Barlow, Sarah watched with a heavy heart as Luke rode away on Golden Boy. He stopped at the edge of her property, turned back, and lifted his hat, waving it at her. He’d told her that he hated to leave with so many things up in the air, especially since he hadn’t been able to secure the lot he’d wanted, but he owed Gabe. She lifted her hand in the air then dropped it back to her side. Part of her wanted to go with him. What if Lara needed her help with Gabe hurt and in bed?
She sighed. Leaving now was out of the question. Still, she hated seeing Luke go when things between them were unsettled, but she didn’t know what to do about it.
The breakfast dishes were done, and turkey soup was simmering for their lunch. Zelma sat in a rocker under the shade of an elm tree, humming and doing her mending. Feeling out of sorts and not wanting to talk, Sarah grabbed a bucket and headed to the cornfield to see if any more ears were ready to be picked. She searched for Cody, hoping he might tag along, but he stood beside his father, proudly hammering nails into a plank of wood.
She stared at her house. The completed frame rose high above her, and the men were adding the clapboard on one side. Though they had made good headway, in her anxiousness to get settled, she wished they could work faster. She’d read in the newspaper recently that one day soon, a person would be able to order a kit house—a house that came with all the pieces, a list of instructions, and all a person had to do would be to assemble it. She shook her head as she angled down the path toward the river. “Imagine that. A house in a box—or maybe a railcar.” She chuckled as she crossed the rocks in the shallow river to the cornfield.
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