Farmer's Daughter Romance Collection : Five Historical Romances Homegrown in the American Heartland (9781630586164)

by Peterson, Tracie; Davis, Mary; Hake, Kelly Eileen; Stengl, Jill; Warren, Susan May

  “No hard feelings?”

  She glanced up. The entreating look in his eyes reminded her of Samuel. “Would I ask a man to carry lemonade for me if I held a grudge against him?”

  Myles smiled. “Guess not. Or maybe you knew I’d spill it all over myself and wanted to get back some of your own.”

  Beulah opened her mouth to protest, but Myles laughed. “I’m teasing. You’re easy to provoke.”

  Warmth filled Beulah’s heart and her cheeks. “So they say. I’m trying to improve. I wish you would smile and laugh more often. Your laugh makes me want to laugh. Now will you come in for coffee and cookies?”

  His eyes twinkled. “Thank you. I will.”

  She lowered her chin and one brow. “What’s so funny?”

  “You. I’m glad you’re back to normal. Those elegant manners make me nervous.”

  Beulah laughed outright. Forgetting her resolve to be aloof, she grabbed him by a shirt button and dragged him into the kitchen. Planting a hand on his chest, she shoved him into a chair. “Sit. Stay.”

  He seized her wrist in a lightning motion. “Bossy woman. If you request, I am your humble servant. If you order…” He shook his head. “Another dunk in the creek might be imminent.”

  “You use awfully big words for a hired hand.” Beulah tugged at her arm. “Is that a threat?”

  “A warning.”

  “I guess your apology wasn’t genuine.” She pouted, thinking how nice it would be to slip into his lap. He smelled of soap and hair oil. “Don’t you want to be friends?”

  Pressure on her arm brought her closer. “Is that what you want from me?” The low question set her heart hammering. His face was mere inches from hers. Beulah licked her lips.

  Scrabbling claws skidded across the floorboards; then Watchful shoved her face and upper body between Beulah and Myles. Panting and wagging, the dog pawed at Myles’s chest.

  He released Beulah to protect his skin from Watchful’s claws. “Down, girl. I’m glad to see you, too.” He forced the dog to the floor, then thumped her sides affectionately. Glancing toward the door, he said, “Hello, Sam.”

  Samuel stamped his boots on the porch, tossed his hat on a hook, and flopped into a chair. “Howdy, Myles. You come for cookies?”

  “Just trying to sweet-talk your sister into giving me some. See if you can influence her.”

  Beulah propped her fists on her hips. “Not necessary. Samuel, you wash your hands first and bring in the milk, please.” She moved to the stove and poured two cups of coffee.

  The boy made a face at her back but obeyed.

  “Bossy, isn’t she?” Myles observed.

  “You said it!” Samuel pumped water over his soapy hands, then ran outside to the springhouse.

  Beulah’s spine stiffened. She set a steaming cup in front of Myles. “Sugar? Milk?”

  “Black is fine.”

  She felt his gaze while she took cookies from the crock and arranged them on a plate. “I’m not bossy,” she hissed.

  “Do you prefer ‘imperious’?” His eyes crinkled at the corners. “You’re rewarding to tease, and you somehow manage to be pretty when you’re cross. Unfair to the male of the species, since you seem to be cross much of the time. I have observed, however, that your smile is to your frown what a clear sunrise is to a misty morning. Each wields its charm, yet one is far more appealing than the other.”

  Confounded by this speech, Beulah settled across from him. She was pondering an answer when Samuel clattered up the steps, carrying the milk. “Save some for me,” he protested, seeing Myles pop an entire cookie into his mouth.

  Still chewing, Myles wrapped his forearms around the plate of cookies and gave Samuel a provoking smile. “Mine.”

  Samuel pitched into him. Myles caught the boy’s arms and held him off easily, but Samuel was a determined opponent. Beulah watched helplessly as they wrestled at the table. She rescued Myles’s coffee just in time. “Boys, behave yourselves!”

  The chair tipped over, and Myles landed on the floor, laughing. “Truce,” he gasped. “I’ll share.”

  Samuel was equally breathless and merry. “I beat you,” he claimed. He thumped Myles in the stomach, and the man’s knees came up with a jerk.

  “Samuel! Don’t be mean!” Beulah jumped to her feet. “Are you all right, Myles?”

  Samuel gave her a scornful glare. “Don’t be silly. I couldn’t hurt him.”

  Myles sat up, resting an arm on his upended chair. “Aw, let her protect me if she wants to. I like it.” Rubbing his belly, he smiled up at Beulah, and she felt her face grow warm.

  Myles and Samuel talked baseball and fishing while they finished off the cookies. Sipping her coffee, Beulah listened, watching their animated faces and smiling at their quips and gibes.

  “So where’s Al?” Samuel looked at Beulah, then at Myles.

  Beulah collected the empty dishes and carried them to the sink. Leaning back in the chair with an ankle resting on his knee, Myles stroked his beard. “Reckon he’s at home.”

  “Why didn’t he come with you?”

  “He didn’t know I was coming.”

  “He was here last night,” Samuel said. “Eunice and I played marbles with him. Do you want to come play catch with me tomorrow?”

  “Just might do that. Better enjoy free time while we have it. Harvest starts in a few days, and from then on, we work like slaves.” Myles rose and stretched his arms. “Guess I’d better get on back.”

  “Bye, Myles.” Samuel left the room without ceremony.

  Taking his hat from the table, Myles twisted it between his hands. “Thank you for the cookies and the good company, Beulah. Can’t remember when I’ve had a nicer evening.”

  “I can’t either.” Beulah clasped her hands behind her. “I’m glad you came over.” She backed away, giving him room to pass.

  His eyes searched her face. “So am I.” He clapped on his hat and disappeared into the night.

  Chapter 8

  He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds.

  PSALM 147:3

  Rapid footfalls approached the main barn from outside. “Myles? Al? Is anyone here?” Beulah called.

  “I’m here,” Myles answered. He set aside the broken stall door and rose, brushing wood shavings from his hands. “Al is out. Do you need him?”

  Beulah stopped in the barn doorway, eyes wide, chest heaving. “I…well…” She hopped from one foot to the other, her gaze shifting about the barn. “Oh, what can it hurt? I need your help! Please come quickly, Myles.”

  “Are you ill? Hurt? Come, sit down here.” He indicated the bench.

  “No, no, I need help,” she panted. “I found a cat caught by a fishhook down near the beaver dam. Do you have something I can use to cut it loose?”

  A cat? Myles put his hammer into his neat toolbox and selected a pair of pliers. After plucking his hat from a hook on the barn wall, he pulled it low over his forehead. “Lead on.”

  “I hope I can find the cat again.” Beulah was beginning to catch her breath. Her bound braid hung cockeyed on the side of her head; her sunbonnet lay upon her shoulders.

  “We’ll find it.” He followed her outside into blinding sunlight.

  She pulled her sunbonnet back into place and retied the strings. “Do you like cats? I’ve never been fond of them, but this one purred when I touched it. Even if it hissed at me, I still couldn’t leave it to die. Could you?”

  “Of course not.” Myles frowned, seized by a premonition.

  When they entered the forest Beulah took the lead. Myles followed her slim form through the trees, keeping close behind her. He heard the cat wailing before they crossed the dam.

  “Lucky you heard her instead of some hungry animal.” Myles pulled aside branches. Sure enough, there was a familiar round face with the white blotch on the nose. Sorrow and horror formed a lump in his throat. “Hello, girl. How long have you been here?” He snipped away a tangle of line until only a short piece dang
led from the cat’s mouth. Slipping one hand beneath her, he lifted Pushy free of the brush and cradled her in his arms. That rumbling purr sounded again, and the cat closed her golden eyes. Myles rubbed behind her ear with one finger, and she pushed her head into his chest. Dried blood caked the white bib beneath the cat’s swollen chin. She made a little chirruping noise, her usual greeting.

  He felt movement within her body, and the lump in his throat grew, making it difficult to speak. “I think she’s expecting kittens.”

  “Really?” Beulah breathed out the word. “Can you help her, Myles?” She stroked the cat’s side, then let her hand rest on Myles’s arm.

  “I’ll try. Let’s take her home.”

  Back in the barn’s tack room, he dug with one hand through a box of medical supplies until he found a bottle of ointment. “Please find a blanket to wrap her in.”

  Beulah returned empty-handed. “The only blankets I can find are stiff with horse sweat and covered in hair. Will my apron do?” she asked, untying it.

  He wrapped the cat in Beulah’s calico apron, securing its legs against its body so that it could neither scratch nor squirm. Pushy let out a protesting howl, but relaxed and began to purr when he rubbed her head.

  Beulah looked amazed. “This is the friendliest cat I have ever seen!”

  Myles gave her a quick smile. “She’s a special one. She won’t stay wrapped up long, so we’ve got to work quickly. You hold her head up and her body down while I cut off the end of the hook.”

  Beulah did as she was told and watched him work. The cat struggled when Myles had to dig for the hook’s barb, which protruded beneath her chin. Then snip and the barb fell upon Beulah’s apron.

  “Now we must hold her mouth open so I can slip out the rest of the hook.” Myles demonstrated how he wanted Beulah to hold the cat under her arm. Once she had the cat in the right position, he pried its mouth open and struggled to grip the hook with the pliers. Pushy squirmed, gagged, and growled. Myles heard claws shredding Beulah’s apron. His hat landed upside down on the floor.

  “Got it.” Myles held aloft the bit of wire and string. “Better get cotton over that wound before…”

  Too late. Blood and pus oozed from the wound and dripped upon Beulah’s lap. Myles snatched a cotton pad from the worktable and pressed it against the cat’s chin. “Sorry about that.”

  Beulah said nothing. Her eyes were closed.

  “Beulah? You…uh, might want to clean your dress there.” He dropped cotton wool on the spot.

  “I—I’m not very good around blood,” she whispered.

  Myles snatched the cat from her lap and pushed Beulah’s head down toward her knees. “Lower your head until the faintness passes.”

  The apron dropped to the floor. Pushy struggled, trying to right herself. Her claws raked across his chest. “Yeow!” Myles tucked her under his arm, and she relaxed. “Stupid cat.”

  “Do you think she will live?” Beulah’s voice was muffled.

  “I hope so. Although I’m sorry about your dress, it’s a good thing all that mess came out of her jaw. I’ll put ointment on her face and hope her body can heal what we can’t help.”

  “I’ve been praying for her.” Beulah lifted her head. Her face had regained color. She took the jar of ointment and removed the lid.

  “Have you? Good.”

  “Do you believe in God, Myles?” Beulah held out the jar.

  “I believe there is a God.”

  She smiled. “I thought you must. Al said you weren’t a believer.”

  He found it hard to meet her gaze. “Al can’t be blamed for that. I guess I’ve been fighting God. Painful things happened in my past, and I blamed Him.” Myles dipped a finger into the ointment. “I’ve had a lot of talks with Buck—Obie—about God.”

  “I know who you mean. All of Papa’s old friends call him Buck—it’s his middle name. So you don’t blame God now?”

  Myles evaded the question. “It isn’t logical to blame God for the evil in the world.”

  “Feelings are seldom logical,” Beulah said.

  His hands paused. “True. Which is why it’s dangerous to live by one’s feelings.” Myles held Pushy’s head still as he smoothed ointment over her chin. She resumed her cheery purr.

  “Pushy here must wonder why I am hurting her, yet she trusts me. This simple cat has greater faith than I do.” There was a catch in his voice.

  “She is your cat, Myles?”

  “She lives in our barn. I named her Pushy because she finds ways to get me to pet her and feed her. I realize now that I hadn’t seen her around for days, yet I didn’t think to search for her.” He fixed his eyes upon Pushy, trying to hide his face from Beulah. She would think he was foolish to become emotional over a cat. Pushy closed her eyes and savored his gentle rubbing.

  So lightly that he scarcely felt it, Beulah skimmed his hair with her fingers. “You can’t be everywhere and think of everything the way God does, Myles. I’m sure Pushy forgives you. You didn’t intend to let her down. It was a human mistake.”

  “We humans make a lot of mistakes.” Bitterness laced his voice.

  “My mother says that’s why we need to be patient with each other.” She sighed. “People can be so annoying, and my first reaction is to say something nasty. My mother says it’s because I’m proud and think myself better than other people.”

  Myles lifted his head until he could feel Beulah’s touch. “Do you?”

  “Think myself better? Sometimes I do,” she said so softly he could hardly hear. Her fingers threaded through his hair. “Deep inside I know I’m not better, though. I don’t like being mean.”

  Her touch made it difficult to concentrate. Myles closed his eyes. “You’re being nice to me right now. My grandmother used to rub my head like this.”

  “You look as if you might start purring.” Beulah laughed.

  Hearing laughter in her voice, he smiled. “P-d-d-r-r-r. I can’t do it like Pushy does.”

  Pushy climbed from his arms into Beulah’s lap, tucked in her paws, and settled down to purr. The two humans paid her no attention. Myles shifted his weight and sat close to Beulah’s feet. She put both hands to work, rubbing his temples and the nape of his neck. “I’ve got chills down my spine, this feels so good,” he said, letting his head loll against her hands.

  “Your hair ranges in shade from auburn to sandy blond.”

  “Yeah, but it’s still red hair.”

  “Did you used to get teased about it?”

  “My nickname was ‘Red.’ ”

  “The clown called you that, I remember.”

  “Antonio and everyone else at the circus. Wish I had dark hair and skin that didn’t freckle.”

  “Like mine?”

  “Yours or Al’s.”

  “I used to get teased about my big teeth and about being skinny.” She spoke quietly. “I’ve never told that to anyone but my mother before.”

  “It hurts, being teased.” He reached back and patted her hand.

  After massaging his shoulders for a few minutes, she touched the left side of his chest. “Is this your blood or Pushy’s?”

  Myles looked down, surprised to see a spot of red on his tan shirt. “Mine, I think. She scratched me.”

  “You had better put ointment on it,” Beulah advised. She held out the jar.

  Myles unbuttoned three shirt buttons, then his undervest and glanced inside. “It’s nothing.” He covered it up.

  “Let me see.”

  “Yes, Mother.” Feeling sheepish, he exposed the triple scratch, which was reddened and puffy. “I thought you couldn’t bear the sight of blood.”

  “Turn this way.” Beulah leaned over the sleeping cat and wiped a fingerful of ointment into the wound until his chest hair lay smeared and flattened across the scratches. “I’ve never done this before.” She pursed her lips in concentration. Myles tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry.

  She looked up and smiled. “There, that should feel better
soon.” The smile faded. “Did I hurt you? I tried to be gentle. Those scratches are deep.”

  “Uh…Pushy needs a drink.” His voice sounded like gravel in a bucket. “I’ll fetch milk from the springhouse.” Myles scrambled to his feet and rushed from the barn, shaking his head to clear it. The temptation to haul Beulah into his lap and kiss her had nearly overcome his self-control.

  He lifted the bottle of milk from its cold storage in the little man-made pool. Conflicting thoughts raced through his mind.

  She doesn’t know. She thinks I’m a Christian man like Buck and Al. If she knew me, really knew me, would she trust me, touch me with her dear hands? Myles shook his head, teeth bared in a grimace. Antonio said I’m poison—full of bitterness and hatred. I would destroy her, the one I love. God, help me! I don’t know what to do!

  He rubbed his face with a trembling hand. Yes, I do know what I should do. If I were an honorable man, I would tell her to leave me alone, tell her to marry Al and be happy.

  When he returned to the barn, Beulah still sat on the bench with Pushy in her lap. The girl’s eyes were enormous in her dirty face, and she was chewing on her lower lip. She opened her mouth, but Myles spoke first. “Sorry I took so long. Let’s see if Pushy can drink this.”

  “She’s asleep.”

  “I imagine she’ll wake when she smells the milk. Set her on the floor here.” He filled the chipped saucer.

  Myles was right. Pushy was desperate for the drink, yet she could not lap with her swollen tongue. She sucked up the milk, making pained little cries all the while.

  “I thought you were angry with me when you rushed outside,” Beulah said.

  “Why would I be angry?” Myles kept his eyes upon the cat.

  “I shouldn’t have touched you like that; you won’t respect me anymore.”

  He let out an incredulous little huff, smiling without real humor. “Won’t respect you? That’s unlikely.” He stared at a pitchfork, unwilling to grant her access to his chaotic thoughts. Do you know what your touch does to me? Do you dream about me the way I dream about you? Could you be content, married to a wretched, redheaded hired man? What would you think if you knew my past?