Fergus' Honor (Grooms With Honor Book 2)

by Linda K. Hubalek

  And right now Fergus didn't know if Iris had a future. He worried whatever had happened to the woman would affect her for a long time, if she didn’t try to kill herself again.

  Chapter 3

  There was a light tapping on the wagon door, but this time Iris didn't jump at the sound. Fergus was polite and not a threat. He'd stopped the wagon every hour today to check on her, always letting her know first that he was going to enter the wagon.

  "We're going to camp here for the night. I'll take care of Dapper, then come in to light the stove."

  Iris nodded, and then laid back in the bed again, not feeling up to doing anything else but sleep. Thinking made her head hurt worse, plus she didn't want to remember the past or think about a future. All she wanted to do was go to sleep and not wake up again.

  Knocking on a door brought Iris out of her sleep again, but she only opened her eyes to be sure it was Fergus. But who else would it be? Well, that depended on her nightmares.

  "We're camping by a spring-fed creek so I brought in a bucket of water to heat up for you. Figured you'd like to clean up, maybe wash your hair, put your clothes back on..."

  "It'll take a while to heat the water on this little stove, so we'll eat first...if that's all right with you."

  At the last moment, she remembered to say "Thank you, sir."

  How many times had she been hit for not saying "thank you" and not adding the "sir" to the phrase? One more time that she'd planned to—so far—since she was still alive.

  "It's stew and crackers again tonight. I must say I'll be glad to be back in Clear Creek to enjoy some home-cooked meals."

  Fergus had mentioned the town of Clear Creek more than once, but she didn't have any idea where it was in Kansas, or how big a town it was.

  “Besides eating my ma's meals, we have the Clancy Café and the dining room in the Paulson Hotel."

  "Small town then," Iris answered before thinking.

  "Yes, it's just a small frontier town built when the railroad tracks were laid across Kansas in '68."

  Fergus opened a can of stew and spooned it into the pan on top of the stove. When he reached for another can, she spoke, not wanting him to waste food.

  "I don't have an appetite so please don't heat a can up for me."

  "I can eat two cans worth, so you eat what you want, and I'll finish it. Deal?"

  "Thank you, sir."

  "You're welcome, Iris."

  Neither talked as they waited for the stew to heat. Fergus concentrated on stirring the stew to keep it from scorching. Iris concentrated on counting the boards in the ceiling, again.

  "I believe it's ready now." He scooped a small amount of stew in a bowl and was ready to hand it to her then stopped.

  "Can you…scoot over? That's the only seating in the wagon and I'd like to sit beside you while I eat if you don't mind."

  "Oh, I'm so sorry," Iris said as she scrambled up to sit cross-legged in the corner of the bed space, pulling the quilt around her body. The interior of the wagon was so small the bed was also the seat. No wonder he'd been sitting on the floor when inside the wagon.

  "That's all right. I figured you'd share if I asked," Fergus replied as he handed her the bowl and a spoon. He picked up the pan and sat on the edge of the bed. He dipped the big stirring spoon in the pot and brought it up to his lips to blow on the stew a few seconds before eating the food off the end of the big spoon.

  Not only was she using his bed and sitting area, she was using the only bowl and spoon he had along for his trip.

  "I know it's only canned stew, but does it taste good? I want you to get your strength back."

  She didn't want to get her strength back but she couldn't be rude. "Yes, sir."

  "Please call me Fergus, Iris. I feel so old when you call me sir." He asked before dipping into the pan again.

  She used the term because she always had to, not because a man was elderly.

  "I assume you were raised in the South? What state?"

  A touch of panic tightened Iris' throat. She tried so hard to lose the accent, but the trauma of the day had made her slip.

  "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to pry, Iris. Back home, we've heard a variety of dialects over the years. Kansas became a place to start over after the Civil War, so we had families from both the North and the South settle in the area. And from other countries too. Lots of Swedish, German, and Irish immigrants."

  Iris ate her stew instead of saying where she was from. The less Fergus knew the better.

  "Actually I was born in Ireland and came to America when I was young." Fergus continued on the topic.

  "Really? You don't have an accent at all."

  "Guess I lost it in the mix of Clear Creek. Da and Ma, well my adopted parents, have a distinct brogue in their voices."

  "You were adopted into a family?" Sounds like he was lucky being raised by them, the way he spoke so highly of his parents.

  "Yep, I and my brother, Mack, were orphaned on the ship before it arrived into New Orleans. Ma was a mail-order bride from Ireland, coming to Kansas to marry Da. When our mother died at sea, Ma claimed me and Mack as her own children."

  "Why did she do that?" How Iris wished she'd been born to different parents. Growing up in the '60s in the South was a little easier for her than for her mother and grandmother, but the situation of their birth was still the same. A slave was treated as a slave as far as old Southern men—including her father—was concerned, even after the Emancipation Proclamation and the Union won the war. And it didn't matter if you were light-skinned either. Only a drop of Negro blood sealed your fate.

  "So we didn't get sent back on the next ship to Ireland."

  Or become orphans wandering the streets of New Orleans, sure to be picked up and sold in the slave market as mulattoes.

  "So where were you raised?" Fergus innocently inserted the question into the conversation again.

  "Kentucky," Iris answered, hoping that would end his prying.

  "Never been there but I'm sure the area's plantation houses are a tad grander than the homes I've been photographing here in Nebraska." Fergus chuckled trying to make a joke.

  But there might be more love and respect in the sod houses than what she'd experienced in the plantation mansion.

  "I'll step out a while after supper so you can bathe and wash your hair."

  "Why?" Iris hadn’t given a thought to how she looked, just how bad she felt inside.

  "Because you still have a streak of mud on your right cheek and your hair probably feels as if it's full of creepy crawlies after I rolled you around on the muddy river bank."

  Iris blushed thinking of her question and his answer.

  "Unless your back is bothering you and you can't raise your arm to wash your hair. I'd help you with that.

  "Or I can at least comb it out and braid it, if you wish for help."

  Iris couldn't help wishing another man she'd known had been so thoughtful and sincere.

  "I'll see how I do, and if I need help, I'll ask, how's that?"

  Fergus smiled wide as if she'd given him a whole warm apple pie to eat by himself, or finally opened herself up to him a little.

  It finally sunk in that Fergus was sincere and would respect her. Well, since she didn't die, at least her rescuer was a decent man. Her nightmare of a life might have continued, or become worse than before if not for this kind wandering photographer.

  *

  Cleaning herself with warm water and bar of Castile soap made Iris feel better, but had also worn her out. She reluctantly exchanged the union suit for her dress and dingy undergarments. The man’s garment was soft, warm and covered her skin, from her neck past her toes. Now she sat in the bed, her back to Fergus as he sat on the edge of the bed, ready to comb out her wet hair.

  "Any other sore spots to be careful with, besides the lump on the left side of your head?"

  "Um, no," Iris answered, thinking back to feeling that lump and how it had happened. Morris had lashed out at her when she elb
owed him in the ribs to get away from him. He’d fallen backwards to the floor, swinging his cane at her to stop her from leaving. The handle hit square against the left side of her head, causing her to collapse in shock and pain. Iris jerked upright when the cane contacted with her back next, but that gave her the determination to get on her feet and run.

  "I'll try to be careful, but I'll warn you your hair looks like a tangled mess and it might take some tugging to get the comb through." Fergus’ words pulled her back to the present and she willed her shoulders to relax after reliving Morris’ reaction to her pushing off his advances.

  "I usually work pomade through my hair before I comb it because of its, ah…texture, but I left it behind." No use lying since Fergus knew she jumped on purpose.

  "So you saying I need to hunt and shoot a bear for its fat just to get the comb through your hair?"

  Iris couldn't help smile at his idea. "I think raccoon or skunk fat might work just as well."

  "Maybe I'll just be careful, how's that?"

  Iris automatically tensed as he started combing the lower part of her hair against her back. She slowly relaxed, enjoying the sensation of being taken care of without having to be wary.

  He moved part of her hair across her shoulder, and then froze. Oh no! Fergus noticed what was on the back of her neck, and she was mortified that he'd seen it. She always wore her hair in a low bun at the back of her neck so it wouldn't show.

  Fergus cleared his throat and resumed combing. "Do you want one or two braids?"

  "One, please," she barely whispered. One braid down her neck to cover her mark.

  ***

  Fergus tried to keep his hands steady and his heart beat in check. There was a faded letter "K" branded on the back of Iris' neck. What all had Iris gone through?

  He continued to gently comb through her hair while thoughts ricocheted in his brain.

  Iris, if that was her name, could have been born before the War Between the States.

  Grew up in Kentucky, a slave state.

  The texture of her hair.

  Her skin was lighter than his was but she had very dark brown eyes.

  Vividly cringed when he asked about her father.

  The brand to show possession?

  But slavery ended in the '60s. Why had she been abused twenty years later?

  Fergus' guess was Iris had been a "kept woman" and apparently not of her own free will if she thought killing herself would be better than staying with the man.

  He'd like to ask more questions, but his curiosity wouldn't make her feel any better. She needed time to let reality sink in that she'd lived. But reality might be as scary as her past. Her fashionable dress spoke of having money, but they could have been bought by her keeper to show her off.

  What would she do now? Did she have any family home to go to?

  "I'll gladly buy you a train ticket if you want to travel home." Fergus felt like he was talking to a post since she'd gone so quiet and still. He dropped one section of hair since he'd worked through its tangles and gently lifted another handful, holding it steady as he tackled the snarled ends.

  Iris sniffed instead of answering. Fergus leaned to the left and witnessed the trickle of tears tracking from her eyes to drop from her chin. He wanted to pull her against his chest to give her comfort, but was afraid she'd panic.

  Fergus continued combing her hair, not wanting to end touching Iris, even though all the tangles were gone.

  "You have very pretty hair, Iris."

  Her shoulders instantly shot up, tensing for...Fergus closed his eyes, feeling tears sting his own eyes. Apparently, compliments hadn't been a positive experience in her past.

  "I'm ready to braid your hair now. Did you have a ribbon to tie at the end?"

  Iris dropped her chin to her chest. "No." Iris whimpered. And they had almost carrying on a normal conversation until he saw the brand.

  “I’ll just use a piece of string then.”

  Fergus stifled a sigh as he rose from the bed. It had been less than a day since she attempted to take her life, so she was still reeling, both physically and mentally from the event.

  After retrieving his paper-cutting scissors from his tool drawer and snipping a six-inch piece of string from his string ball, he turned back to the bed. Iris was braiding her own hair as fast as she could. So apparently, she didn't want him touching her again. He waited until she was to the end of the braid and handed her the string without a word.

  As soon as her braid was done, she was back in the corner of the bed, the quilt pulled around her like a shield.

  Fergus hated the idea that she was afraid of him. He had to reach through to her that she was safe with him. Ignore the situation and let her sleep another day, or try to again?

  Iris would sleep and heal better if she felt safe, knew what to expect, and had a purpose. She was like a wild horse being corralled, confused, and scared of what was going to happen next.

  "Before you go back to sleep, Iris, I'd like to show you what I've been doing this fall." He opened another drawer and pulled out his record keeping book, then another drawer for several examples of photographs he'd taken in the past.

  Oops… Could Iris read and write? His idea of showing her something to get her mind off her problems might backfire. It might make her feel worse, but he needed to try.

  Fergus sat on the bed and handed the book to her. "Go ahead and look at it," he encouraged her.

  She wiped her eyes before taking the book, being careful not to touch his outstretched hand.

  "I stop at homesteads, offering to take photographs of their family, home, or whatever they want. If they agree, I record their names, location, and any information I can think of so I can mail the right photo back to them."

  Iris had opened the book to the first page, her eyes skimming the page as if she understood what it said.

  "I don't have the best handwriting. Can you read what I've written?"

  "Yes." She must have read his mind, because her chin lifted a tad. "Yes, I can read and write."

  "So you see what details I need to take."

  Fergus laid out two cabinet card photographs of the same family between them on the bed. "I offer the choice of a black and white version, or I can oil tint it for an extra fee."

  Iris' studied the details in both photographs.

  "What do you think? Which would you choose?"

  She looked up, hesitating to answer?

  "Please, I need a critique of my work, good or bad."

  "I'm not sure which one I like." Iris bit her lip, as if she wanted to say something but didn't feel comfortable doing so.

  Fergus picked up the oil-tinted photograph and held it out until she took it from him.

  "I thought I'd get more orders for the oil-tinted ones, but so far it's been mostly the black and white. And I don't know if it's because they want the cheaper price or my painting is bad. You have to use a tiny brush to put just a dot of color on a child's cheeks, and that's hard to do with my big clumsy fingers."

  Now she studied the photograph, turning the picture back and forth to catch the best light from the lantern hanging above them. Her nose slightly wrinkled up as she squinted her eyes.

  "I'm no good at painting, am I," Fergus was blunt because the painting did look "off" to him.

  "I can't say." Iris carefully laid the portrait back on the bed.

  "Do you think you could do better?" Iris met his eyes but bit her bottom lip instead of answering.

  Fergus thought a minute before continuing. He needed to say the right words to Iris.

  "I’ll still stop at homes on my way to Clear Creek and I could use an assistant. Someone to write down the details of the photos so I know which photo goes to which family when it’s ready to mail back to them. It takes time for me to write down there's a dog sitting to the left of the photo, two horses and a buggy to the right, two boys and four girls, that sort of thing. Plus the family usually wants to visit, so sometimes I don't record my notes u
ntil I'm a mile down the road.

  "An assistant could write down all these details while I'm placing people, helping them arrange their organ—"

  "They bring their organ outside?"

  Fergus smiled, glad she was thinking of something else besides her misery.

  "So far this fall I've carried three organs, a sewing machine, two tables—complete with china place settings—and more cradles than I can remember."

  Iris picked up the book and looked at his entries again, using her finger to scan the pages. She smiled reading his scribblings now. "Child on goat?"

  "Yep. I'll recognize that family photo once it's developed."

  "What color was the goat?"

  Oh, oh. "Uh, brown I think...or was that the dog. Why?" Dread filled Fergus' stomach but it brought a slight smile on Iris' face.

  "Because you wrote down 'tint' at the end of the entry."

  Fergus wiped his hand over his face, trying to remember that homestead he'd visited a month ago. The goat and dog were about the same size. Surely, one was white and the other brown and it would show on the photograph.

  Apparently, he really did need an assistant, instead of just making up the position for Iris.

  Fergus cleared his throat.

  "So, if you didn't want to travel to your home, you could work for me as I travel south to Kansas. I’ll pay you a fair wage too. If you change your mind, I'll still buy you a ticket to go home."

  "Why?”

  Fergus wished he could magically wash the worry and fear off her face. He knew the "why" was a loaded question.

  Fergus shrugged his shoulders. "It's the right thing to do. I was at that spot at that moment to help you. I will not ask any favors from you—unless you can cook for us—and I will be a gentleman in every way. We will just be traveling and working companions, period."

  "Anything else?" She was biting her lip again.

  "I have the oil-tinting kit along. Could you try tinting a photo?"

  Her surprised face meant she was expecting him to ask for another kind of favor.