“I prefer to sit out here.” He tapped a hand on the rocker made of tree branches and thick slats. With a push of one boot, he set it moving and gazed forward.
Her father had made that rocker when the boarding house was new. He’d always complained her mother’s parlor chairs were too dainty. As realization struck, Ivey sucked in a breath. Papa had been a big man, too. Was that why Mister Spengler always refused her invitations to sit in the parlor? “Well, I’m glad you’ve found a way to enjoy the music.” Not even giving him a choice, she sat in the chair next to his, fluffing her skirts over her knees. Then she realized how frivolous her actions must look.
“I do. Even tapped my boot in time to the ones I know.”
“A chorus always needs a drummer.” She smiled, not knowing if he could see it in the lamp light shining through the windows. “I’m sure your percussive support was missed.”
“No one misses a quiet brute like me.”
“I wish you wouldn’t speak of yourself like that.” The part of her that needed to nurture everything around her ached when she heard such self-deprecation.
“Only repeating what I’ve been told.” The rocker moved faster now. “Since I was about seven, I’ve been bigger than others my age. Hardly seemed fair that I couldn’t do the same things.”
She noticed his low voice grew reflective and didn’t ask him any questions for fear he’d stop voicing his recollections. Making sure to direct her gaze upward at the emerging stars, she rocked with a gentle movement.
“I told Arney to get on his own limb. Not my fault that stupid tree branch wouldn’t hold us both. I was just a kid, too.” He pounded a fist on the chair arm. “I shouldn’t have been blamed for his busted leg. The resulting lameness was not my fault, either.”
The words sounded like they’d been ripped from his throat. Ivey blinked hard, willing her burning tears not to fall. This poor man had been estranged from others for a long time. At least now, he had the atmosphere of the boarding house to make him feel included. She wondered about the type of gesture that might offer comfort at this time. He’d always been appreciative of her baking. Inside the cookie jar were the last of the oatmeal cookies from Thursday’s batch. Maybe a glass of lemonade, too, or would he prefer a cup of coffee?
Grumbling deep in his throat, he shoved himself to his feet. “Pay no mind to my foolish blather.” With jerky moves, he jumped to the street and stomped away, disappearing into the darkness.
Later, in her bedroom, when she was truly alone, she let the tears fall for this gentle giant of a man with a wounded soul.
Chapter Three
All during Sunday breakfast, Ivey stole glances across the table at Berg, but he wouldn’t meet her gaze. Sleep had been slow in coming the previous night, because she kept running over in her mind what he’d shared about himself and his background. And how he’d used so many words and such long sentences. That conversation was the lengthiest one they’d ever had without being interrupted, and she savored what each of his statements revealed.
“Goodness, look at the time.” Ellen stood and gathered her plate, silverware, and cup. “We must clear the table and get ourselves across town for church services.”
“Mama.” Lydia rolled her eyes and giggled. “You make the town sound so big. We walk to the corner and down two blocks, and we’ve arrived at the church.”
Ivey stood and reached for the empty platter that had held eggs and bacon. “Remember, I’m meeting with the committee for the final details on the Fourth of July celebration. Most of the dishes for dinner are prepared and ready for you and the girls to heat for twenty minutes in a moderate oven.” She stacked the bread basket onto her plate and then added the butter dish to the top. “I should only be an additional thirty minutes or so.”
Everyone stood to make their way toward either the kitchen or the entry door.
Mister Spengler stopped at her side and tugged the string tie at his thick neck. He stared at the floor then took a breath and jerked up his head. “Miss Ivey, will you allow me to escort you to the town celebration?”
Hearing his rushed words, she stilled and stared. Her pulse danced like oil on a hot griddle. Today, he wore a butternut-colored shirt that she hadn’t seen before. His wavy hair was slicked close to his head, and the scents of coconut and custard wafted to her nose. If she wasn’t mistaken, he’d used Macassar oil like Penn did on special occasions. The style was more polished than she was used to seeing and didn’t fit well with his rough-hewn features. Before speaking, she bit back a smile. “Why, that would be wonderful, Mister Spengler.”
“All right.” He nodded and walked out of the room, shoulders arched backward and head held high.
What a surprise. Gaping at his retreating back, Ivey shook her head and walked into the kitchen, although she doubted her feet even touched the floor. I have a beau.
Two hours later, the Fourth of July celebration committee of six women settled themselves in the small living room of the parson’s home. A divan upholstered in a fleur-de-lis pattern of beige and black abutted one wall where a painting of a snowy mountain above a thick pine forest hung. Wooden chairs from the dining room faced the divan. The parson’s wife, Gwynne Oswallt, set a teapot painted with red roses on a low table next to a plate of golden sugar cookies. “Are we ready to begin, ladies?”
Ivey tucked her reticule at her feet and wondered which of the celebration’s activities might be Mister Spengler’s favorite. She couldn’t remember if he’d arrived in Dorado in time for the previous year’s festivities.
“Rhobert wanted everyone to know he procured six good-sized watermelons for the melon-eating contest.” Dark-haired Gwynne squinted at the pad of paper in her hand and made a check mark. She looked up and around the group with her light green gaze. “Who’s next?”
Alda Othmann, co-owner of the mercantile, lifted a thin hand. “I have the cloth strips ready for the three-legged races.”
Beside Ivey, her friend, Clari Rochester, bounced in her chair, sending her reddish-brown curls bobbing. “Trevor asked me to make a starting flag for the horse races, and it’s ready. Plus, I’ve got the marker that goes around the tree at the halfway point.” She glanced to the side.
Ivey leaned forward, scanning the circle of women. “I’ve set aside two dozen eggs for the children’s egg race. And my sisters and I are going blackberry picking tomorrow. That gives me plenty of time to make the six pies I promised. And Miss Fletcher asked me to report that she’ll have her iced vanilla cake ready.”
“My three Barbados cherry pies will make the dessert table of red, white, and blue items complete.” Gwynne held up her pencil. “Ladies, what did we decide at the last meeting about the foot races?”
As Ivey listened to the discussion, she realized Mister Spengler wouldn’t be comfortable entering any of the activities. All were aimed toward those who were fleet of foot or skilled on a fast horse. Also, she had no idea if he cared for watermelon. A man of his size would need a strength activity. She leaned forward, waiting for a break in the conversation. “What about a wood chopping event?”
Five widened gazes turned her way.
“Aye.” Kathleen O’Hara, the town’s laundress, bobbed her head. “I quite enjoy the sight of a brawny man wielding an axe.”
“I’m not so sure.” Gwynne frowned, her lips pinching into a bow, and scanned her list. “Why change the activity roster at this late time?”
Ivey didn’t want to call attention to her new interest but needed factual support for her suggestion. “Not all Americans honor Independence Day in the same way. I’ve read a few stories about different types of celebrations.” She adopted a nonchalant expression as she elbowed her friend who had a secret hobby of writing stories for dime novel magazines. She bit into a cookie that definitely lacked enough vanilla flavoring, hoping no one noticed her prompting Clari’s next statement.
“So true.” Clari jerked upright, and then reached for a sugar cookie of her own. “I’ve heard Trevor tal
k about the logger competitions he and his brothers entered back in Oregon Territory. There’s even a rolling contest where two men balance on a log in a pond.”
Alda huffed out a breath. “Only stock ponds here in central Texas.”
“Well, that was only one example.” Clari slumped back in her chair.
“I know just the place to hold the chopping contest.” Johanna Altbusser flashed a smile around the circle. She and her husband had volunteered a space on their ranch about five miles away for the town’s celebration. “Gerhard uses a couple of stumps out by the woodshed. I’m sure he’ll be happy to supply the deadfall branches, as long as we keep what’s been cut.”
“That is small recompense for allowing us to use your pasture.” Ivey couldn’t hold back a wide grin. “I heard the barmaids from the Golden Door talking about how Mister O’Shea might be acquiring Roman candles for the festivities. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?” A shiver ran over her skin.
“Those things scare me.” Alda tsked and shook her head.
“Oh, Aunt Alda, the candles just make flashes of light and a little bit of noise.” Clari waved a dismissive hand as she perched on the edge of her chair. “When I was a child back in Racine, my family would go to watch the fireworks display over Lake Michigan. Reflected in the water, the colorful lights were like magic.”
After a glance at the timepiece pinned on her dress front, Gwynne stood. “I believe we have the day well planned. The parson and I have a call to make this afternoon at the Reynard ranch.”
“Oh?” Mrs. O’Hara ran a hand over her skirt as she stood but turned her head, brows wrinkled. “No one’s ill, I hope.”
“No illness, thank the Lord. Just a social visit to an outlying ranch.” The parson’s wife held her hands clasped at her waist and smiled. “See all of you on Wednesday at ten o’clock.”
Ivey gathered her reticule and followed Clari from the room. They said their farewells on the boardwalk in front of the mercantile, and Ivey walked on. Her mind raced with the notion of sharing the fireworks spectacle with a beau. What a romantic idea.
Around five o’clock, Ivey felt anything but romantic. Somehow, she’d forgotten to pierce the potato skins when she put them into the oven to roast. So, instead of the split baked skins being filled with a fluffy mixture of potatoes, cheese, chives, and buttermilk, the potatoes would be plain old mashed tonight. Not enough time remained for the oven to cool, so the remaining bits of burst potato on the oven walls and floor would smolder as the peach cobbler baked. She reached over the bowl of steaming potatoes for the wire masher, and her sleeve dragged against her skin. Pain shot from the underside of her wrist. A red blister had popped up where she must have accidentally touched the oven while scraping.
As she knelt down to look under the sink for her tub of burn salve, she heard male voices on the veranda where her brother usually read on Sunday afternoons. Had Mister Spengler joined him? She rearranged tins and cans around looking for the brown crock, each movement adding a stab to the throbbing blister.
“Maisie?” Penn called out as he came into the entryway.
Ivey leaned back on her heels and tilted her head toward the doorway. “She’s visiting with Clari at the mercantile, I think.” Then she stretched her left hand to the far back section of the space, angling her right leg backward for balance.
Several bootsteps approached. “Well, sis, Dylan and his friend arrived a day early. He wanted to surprise her.”
Surprise Maisie? What about informing the cook? For just a moment, Ivey hung her head and pulled in a calming breath. Unexpected visitors right before a meal? Good thing, she usually cooked extra for supper. She scooted backward and braced a hand to push herself upright but was aided with a strong grasp at her elbow. Flustered by the surprising hold, she turned and looked into the unfamiliar face of a very tan stranger wearing a toothy grin. “Thank you.”
“With much pleasure, ma’am.”
Ivey turned to face her brother and the other visitor, a tall cowboy who was well-known in the household. “Good afternoon, Mister MacInnes. Nice to see you again.”
The dark-haired man pulled off his hat and smiled. “Same to you, Miss Treadwell. The gentleman still hanging onto your elbow is Gabrio Menendez. He’s a cowhand on the ranch who wouldn’t be denied when he heard about the town’s celebration.”
Stepping to the side, Ivey eased her arm from his hold. “Nice to meet you, Mister Menendez. Welcome to Treadwell’s Boarding House.”
With a great flourish, Mister Menendez swung his hat from his head and gave a sweeping bow. “Mucho gusto, señorita. I am very fortunate to have such a wonderful friend like Dylan who is willing to invite me along as his traveling companion.” He smiled, and his dark eyes twinkled as he stepped closer. “I have heard many fine things about your cooking, and I look forward to tasting all the dishes.”
The compliment brought heat to her cheeks. She couldn’t help but return the jovial new arrival’s wide smile. Well, this man certainly had no trouble putting his thoughts into words.
The back door opened with its accompanying squeak of the hinges, and two heavy footfalls sounded.
With a gasp, Ivey whirled and connected with Mister Spengler’s wide-eyed gaze. Her pulse raced. What must he think of me being so close to a stranger?
***
Monday morning, Berg tramped through the wild, overgrown bushes that edged the creek and grabbed another handful of blackberries, ignoring the scratch of thorns. If he’d wanted to do an activity alone, he could have stayed at the smithy. But here he was in the hot sun picking berries to help Ivey, although they hadn’t exchanged more than half a dozen words alone since the group left town. That new guy who wouldn’t stop fawning over all the Treadwell women, paying them compliments, and pointing out prickly pear cactus bushes—as if the ladies hadn’t lived here long enough to recognize them. The stranger hadn’t let him close enough to Ivey for a simple exchange of greetings.
If he didn’t outweigh the man with the accent by a solid eighty to ninety pounds, he might have been tempted to muscle his way close. But a stupid act like that would only cement his image as a brute. Had he misinterpreted the special moments on the veranda with Ivey last Saturday night? Was she sorry she’d agreed to attend the celebration with him?
“Hey there.” A male voice hailed the group. “Where is everyone?”
“We’re over here, Penn. Along the creek by the leaning cottonwood.” Maisie bounced and waved a hand over her head.
Trying to escape Mister Menendez’s incessant chatter, Berg moved along the creek, grabbing the ripe berries as he went, and looked up to see Penn escorting Miss Olivia and Miss Sally down the slope. He caught a wave from Miss Sally and nodded in acknowledgement.
In the next minute or so, he realized the only sound he heard was the buzz of flying insects. Such a relief. He turned to where he’d last seen the group and spotted Mister Menendez starring at Miss Olivia with his jaw dropped. So…that’s what was needed to shut the man up.
The bushes rustled, and Ivey came into sight. “How is the picking over here?”
When had he started thinking of her as just Ivey? When he decided to court her? Berg shook his pail and berries rattled against the metal. “Fair.”
She pulled several berries off the bush before glancing from under the brim of a light green bonnet. “The bushes over here could be stripped clean, and I’d still want to linger.” Her lips twitched before she grinned. “Quiet enough to hear the hummingbirds. See? Over there.” Stepping close, she pointed and tilted her head, her eyes sparkling.
Not wanting to break the spell she cast, Berg slowly turned his head and saw a pair of green-blue birds not a rod away. The birds dipped their long beaks into blossoms of the purple plumeria and yellow Indian blanket plants. Their movements were synchronized, like they were dance partners and the beatings of their wings made the music. Before he had a moment to reflect on the meaning of that out-of-character thought, he watched them flit away from the
plants, hover, and then dart out of sight.
“Aren’t they so graceful, like dancers?” Ivey gazed at the spot where they disappeared then turned to him with a wide smile.
Absorbing the fact they’d shared the same thought, he blinked a couple of times. That had to mean something special about their growing friendship. Maybe that she wasn’t as impressed by the always-smiling cowboy like he’d thought. “I agree.”
For the next thirty minutes, they moved up and down the creek bank, taking only the ripest berries. He picked a bit slower, pleased to watch her face as she worked. Once in a while, she hummed one of the tunes she played on Saturday nights, and he found himself echoing her at the parts he remembered. When needed, Berg offered his hand to help her climb the slope and switched out his partially empty can when hers became full. He’d be hard-pressed to remember a time of contentment in his adult life that compared equally with today.
“I think that’s the last ripe berry I can see.” Ivey dabbed a handkerchief over her face and neck. “Shall we call this picking a success, Mister Spengler?”
“I believe so.” He glanced at her flushed cheeks and how tendrils of brown hair clung to her temples. “Do you want to dip your feet in the creek? The water is real refreshing.”
“Oh my, the offer is tempting.” A smile stretched her lips. “I remember how good it feels from when I was a young girl. But how would this look?” She glanced over her shoulder and stretched to search for the others. “I don’t know. The group is a ways distant.”
He sat on a nearby boulder and tugged at the laces of his boots. “Well, I need to rest a spell. I might as well get some benefit. And using the creek to cool off is my reward.”
Tilting her head, she braced her hands on her hips. “I’d say a slice of blackberry pie will be a good reward.”
Once his wool socks were off, he felt immediately cooler. He rolled up the hems of his denim overalls before dunking his bared feet into the water swirling over smooth rocks. Ah, the effect made him close his eyes and let out a long sigh.
Sparked By Fire (Dorado, Texas Book 4) Page 3