“Your father died during the war?” Her words were a whisper as she watched Cord tie the team to the hitching rail. The boys dropped from the rear of the wagon and slowly approached, as if they sensed the gravity of the conversation of their elders.
“You comin’, Rae?” Jay asked in a cautious voice.
She gathered her skirts and stood. “Yes, of course.”
Cord held out his hands and she bent to him, allowing him to lift her from the wagon. As if aware of eyes watching their arrival, he stepped back, offering his arm, and she accepted the gesture. Behind them, the two boys followed.
“Brush the hay from your pant legs, Jay.” Henry gave his instructions quietly, and Rachel turned to find him tending to the younger boy.
The duty of one brother to look after another, she thought, her gaze scanning the two boys, her fingers smoothing Henry’s cowlick as they prepared to enter the church doors.
Chapter Nine
The piano beckoned her, its keys silent beneath the heavy lid, its music an unheard melody in her heart. Rachel dusted the top, moving the family portrait of Cord, Jake and their parents. The two boys were stiff and solemn, almost of a size, she thought, standing back, the better to see the comparison.
It was a formal pose, done, according to Cord, by a photographer who’d come through town, talking most everyone who had two nickels to rub together into having a portrait done.
Lorena laughed aloud from the doorway, and Rachel spun to face her, startled by the sound.
“There’s one almost like that in our parlor at home,” she said, strolling across the room, her gaze taken in by the framed memento. “Only ours has seven people in it, quite a challenge for the poor man, as I remember.”
“They looked alike, didn’t they?” Rachel asked, her eyes measuring the two boys who had donned Sunday best for the occasion.
“Still do, if you look close.” Lorena’s hand reached out, fingers almost touching the figure that was Jake McPherson, her expression tender as if she sought something of the man within the boy he had been.
“Cord’s father was quite strict, wasn’t he?” She was prying, and Rachel knew her questions would not be appreciated by either of the men who owned this house.
Lorena nodded. “Strict might not be the right word. He was harsh with Cord, maybe because they were so alike. He softened toward Jake, after their mother died. I think he sent him to New York because it was what his mother wanted for him, not because Harvey had any great love of music himself.”
“Was that before you and he…”
Lorena voiced a low sound, perhaps a chuckle, Rachel thought “I’ve loved Jake since I can remember. I used to sit on the ground outside that window and. listen to him practice when I was a girl.”
“And Cord? Weren’t you ever sweet on him?”
Lorena shook her head. “He’s been like a brother to me since we were kids. He used to look out for me and my sisters in school.”
“My fingers are just itching to get at this piano,” Rachel confided, lifting the lid to brush with reverence against the ivory keys.
Lorena smiled wistfully. “This house needs music. Contrary to what Jake says, music would be good for him. But if you play, you’re taking your chances with his temper.”
Rachel folded the lid back completely, her dustcloth forgotten for the moment. “Slide the doors closed on your way out,” she said, her thoughts already on the notes she heard inside her head.
“Why’d you close the doors? We could use a little cross draft in here, Rena. It’s hotter’n Hades this morning.” Jake rolled his chair with swift movements toward the sliding library doors as he glared his frustration at the woman who was making up his bed for the day.
“Just habit, I guess.” She moved to the opposite side of the bed, watching as he set one door in motion, sliding it into the wall.
“What the hell is she doing?” His eyes darted to Lorena, then back to the hallway.
“Sounds to me like she’s playing some Bach or something down in the parlor,” Lorena ventured.
“She’s making hash of the ‘Moonlight Sonata,’ and Bach never wrote a single note of it, Rena.” His heart was pumping, his face burning with a frustrated anger he hesitated to vent
“Jake?” Lorena’s whisper of his name brought his attention back to her as she crossed the room to him. “Don’t have a fit over this, please.”
“Having fits is what I do best, Rena. Hasn’t anyone told you about the cripple who carries on like a madman?” As if caught in a cross fire, he listened to Lorena’s words and at the same time allowed the notes from the parlor to be written on the pages of music he played over and over again in his mind.
“Damn, she’s got that part all wrong!” He tilted his head as a measure was repeated. Then the music paused and Rachel backed up to pick up the melody again.
“I told the woman to stay away from that piano. I told her pretty near the first day she was here. But would she listen? Fool girl thinks she can handle Beethoven, and I doubt she’s even tackled Schubert’s ‘Serenade.’” He rolled the wheels to and fro, the chair marking time as he pushed open the other door, allowing the music from the parlor full sway.
His head bent and he winced as Rachel halted in her rendition, stumbling over a phrase, then beginning anew.
Jake’s growl was deep in his throat, the emotion too deep for words as he spun his chair into the hallway, sending it to rest against the parlor doors.
He pushed them open, one hand on each, and the resounding clatter as they banged inside the walls brought Rachel to a halt. She swung around on the bench, and for a moment Jake was taken back to the day he’d first seen her there. Now she met his gaze without a trace of fear marring her face, her blue eyes steady as they watched his approach.
“I botched it, didn’t I?” she asked, and her grin was unapologetic. “I’m real good at Mozart, honestly. But for some reason I’ve never been able to do justice to—”
“Do justice? You butchered it!” Jake’s roar filled the room, and he wheeled himself closer to the piano. “If you can’t handle that simple little…”
Rachel shook her head firmly. “It’s not a simple little anything, and you know it, Jake McPherson. Beethoven wrote music that looks simple on paper, but only in the translation does it attain its full beauty.”
“Your hand is too heavy on the bass, Rachel. It must be solid, but it’s only the underlying foundation for the melody.”
She looked at him, her gaze meeting his, her blue eyes issuing a challenge. “Show me.” She rose, lifting the bench, and moving it to the right, then sat down just to the center of the piano, her hand poised over the keyboard.
“Show me, Jake. Wheel your chair up here and play the bass. I’ll do the pedal and the right hand.”
At the doorway, Lorena waited, her face pale, her eyes pleading with the man in the chair. He glanced at her, and a memory of the last time he’d seen her before the war filled his mind. She had looked at him so that day, when he’d left for New York.
Jake turned to the piano, his teeth gritting together, his thoughts uneasy over the plot Rachel had hatched with him in mind. That she had deliberately set him up for this was as certain as the sunrise. He scanned her face, spotting a glimpse of uncertainty behind the innocence of her blue eyes.
His chair rolled to a stop and he leaned to the right, his hand braced on the bench behind Rachel. It was an awkward position, but if the girl truly was not aware of the discrepancies in her technique, he’d better set her straight
“Play.”
She glanced at him and opened her mouth. Then, as if thinking better of it, she bit at her lip.
“From the beginning, Rachel.”
Her hand touched the keys and she began the sonorous melody.
Jake’s fingers cramped as he spread them to form the octave and he lifted them from the keys, clenching his fist several times. He cleared his throat. “All right, try it again.”
The first note
s came slowly, the minor key not lending itself to anything more than that. Rachel bent forward a bit, and her toe rose and fell from the pedal as she played. His fingers spread wide, his eyes closed, Jake touched the keys. The bass notes reverberated beneath the repetitious rolling chords she played, and their hands formed the beauty of the sonata.
His head bending forward, he felt the flex of muscles in his forearm, felt the music flow from his fingers to the tiny hammers in the wooden form of the instrument, faithfully carrying out the message he sent.
From deep within, a chill barrier he’d set firmly in place began to thaw. He took a breath, unwilling that the warmth spreading throughout his body should melt that cold expanse in its entirety, leaving him exposed.
At his right side, Rachel played, her fingers agile against the keys, passing the troublesome spot she’d stumbled over only minutes before.
“You’re a fake, Rachel Sinclair.” The accusation, softly spoken, bore not a trace of anger.
“So are you, Jake McPherson.” Without losing a beat, their hands played in tandem until he ceased, drawing back from the piano, rolling his chair backward until it halted next to where Lorena had kept watch.
“Now, play for me, Rachel. From the beginning.”
She moved the bench back to where it belonged and looked at him over her shoulder. “You really don’t mind?”
He was touched in some indeterminate way by the unconscious plea in her voice. Did she beg his pardon for the farce she had set up for his benefit? Or was she truly bereft by the loss of music in her life?
“I mind. More than you know,” he said gruffly. “But, play anyway.”
She began, her body erect, her hands flowing with the beauty of the composition she had obviously been more than competent at in times past. And as she continued, developing strength and intensity, she bent to the keys.
Beside him, Lorena lifted her hand to grip his shoulder. Jake leaned his head to the side, pressing his cheek against the back of her fingers, leaving a damp residue.
“Sam is moving back to the bunkhouse.”
“He’ll be fine, Rachel,” Cord said. He leaned back in his chair, watching as she opened the oven door.
“I know, but…” She turned with the roaster in her hands. “Put my breadboard on the table, Cord, will you?”
He complied quickly, adding a hot pad for good measure.
The lid was lifted, fragrant steam rising from the pot roast. “You can cook for me any day of the week, Rachel,” Cord said with great emphasis, inhaling deeply.
She cast him a sidelong glance, lifting the tender roast from the pan with two huge spatulas. After placing the meat on a big platter, she removed the roasting pan to the stove top. “I already do, McPherson. Every blessed day of the week.”
“Are you wanting Sam to take over again with Jake? Is that why you’re concerned about him going back to the bunkhouse?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No, Jake and Lorena seem to be getting along well together. He won’t let her do for him the way Sam did, and Rena says he keeps his distance for the most part. I just don’t want Sam to get infection in his burns, Cord. He’s not a young man, you know, and he’ll try to keep up with the younger ones.”
Cord folded his hands over his stomach, leaning back in the chair once more. “I’ll keep an eye on him, Rachel. By the way, I heard you played the piano yesterday.”
She grinned. “It was wonderful. Jake came in like a roaring lion and left like a lamb.” Sparing a look at the hallway door, she lowered her voice. “He even sat beside me and played the left hand for a bit. I was so excited, I—”
“Rachel! Rachel! We got company.” From the yard, Jay’s reedy voice piped the news, and Rachel bent to look out the kitchen window.
“My word! It’s the preacher’s wife,” she said, recognizing the woman from Sunday church. Hurriedly wiping her hands on her apron, she brushed back stray tendrils of hair.
Cord stood up quickly. “I’ll let you two have at it, and I’ll just lend a hand out back.”
Rachel frowned at him. “You told me you had an hour free, in between horseshoeing and working with your new horses.”
He moved toward the door. “I really shouldn’t be sittin’ around in the middle of the day, Rae. The quicker I get that little pinto tamed down good, the quicker Jay will have a mount of his own.”
His boots clattered as he ran down the porch steps and his hat lifted, a ready grin on his lips as he greeted the woman climbing down from a buggy. “I’ll tie your horse, ma’am,” he offered, taking the reins from her hand.
“I’ll be most obliged if you come back into the house after you do that task, young man,” Wilhelmina Bryant said firmly. “I need to talk to you and the young lady you have working for you.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Cord answered, his look resigned as he glanced back at the house, where Rachel waited at the door.
She opened it wide, a smile of welcome curving her lips, her eyes anxious as she glanced quickly at Cord, then back to their visitor. “Won’t you come in?”
The stout lady made her way to the porch, climbing the steps with thumping feet. “I was taking a chance that you’d be home, but I needed to talk to both of you.”
Rachel stuck out her hand, checking it quickly for stray bits of roast beef. “I know we met at church, but perhaps you’ve forgotten. My name is Rachel Sinclair. I’m the cook and housekeeper and…” She paused. “Well, I do most everything here.”
The older lady’s eye was sharp, obviously taking inventory of the slender girl who claimed to run the McPherson household. “That’s what I’m afraid of, young lady.”
Rachel blinked, aware that she’d missed something in the brief conversation. “Afraid?” She waved at a kitchen chair. “Won’t you sit down? Or would you rather step into the parlor?” She flushed, embarrassed at having such a lapse in manners. The minister’s wife would expect to be given the courtesy of a chair in better surroundings than the kitchen had to offer.
“This is fine,” Mrs. Bryant said sharply. She leaned to wipe her gloved hand over the kitchen chair and then settled her considerable bulk on it.
Rachel looked past her at the door, where Cord was making his way back into the house. He took off his hat and hung it on a hook, then waited by the window.
“I come on a mission that gives me great concern and sorrow,” Mrs. Bryant began briskly.
Privately Rachel thought the lady looked anything but sorrowful, her sharp eyes missing little in their perusal of the neat kitchen.
“What seems to be the trouble, ma’am?” Cord drawled.
“There appears to be a considerable amount of talk about this young woman living in your home, Mr. McPherson, without benefit of chaperon.”
He stood erect, his eyes glittering from beneath lowered brows. “Well, it just so happens that that situation is about to be remedied, ma’am,” he said, with a warning glance at Rachel.
“Also,” the lady continued, as if Cord’s words had gone right over her head, “I understand that Miss Sinclair appeared at the dance on Saturday night wearing a dress that could not be considered modest by the standards held in this town.”
“Now wait a goldurned minute.” Cord stiffened, taking a quick step toward the visitor.
“It’s all right, Cord,” Rachel broke in. “The neckline was a bit low. I hadn’t worn the dress in almost a year and I guess I…” She waved her hand in silent explanation, her cheeks flushed with mortification. That the preacher’s wife thought she hadn’t been dressed suitably for a dance! She’d never be able to show her face in town again!
“I didn’t see anything wrong with Rachel’s dress. And since she’s my intended, my opinion is the one that counts. Not some…” Cord halted at the offended look on Mrs. Bryant’s face and Rachel’s equally horrified features.
“Cord, we haven’t—” she began, just as the older lady sprang to her feet.
“Well, I never…” Mrs. Bryant spouted, tugging at her g
loves.
“Please, please wait, Mrs. Bryant,” Rachel begged, stepping in front of the lady, who was obviously on her way out the door. “This can all be explained. I’m working here for Mr. McPherson, and he is allowing my brothers to help out around the ranch. All that in return for a wage and a place to stay until we can move on west in the spring.”
Mrs. Bryant’s head swung in Cord’s direction, her eyes narrowed, her lips pursed. “I thought you said she was your intended.”
He nodded, his jaw clenched. “She is. Yes, ma’am, she surely is.” His look in Rachel’s direction was daunting. And then at the dismay written on her face, he stepped to where she stood and placed his arm around her waist. “We haven’t announced it in a general way yet. Rachel is busy making plans for the wedding, though, aren’t you, honey?”
Cord’s fingers clamped against her waist and she winced at the warning. “Getting ready for the wedding,” she repeated blankly, looking up at Cord, bewildered at the fast-moving events.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m plannin’ on having your husband out here before too long to do the ceremony for us.”
“You’re not going to have a church wedding?” the woman asked, her hand flying to her bosom, as though shocked by the very idea.
Cord shook his head. “My brother is unable to get around much. We’d like to be married here, where he can be a part of the ceremony.”
“He’s in an invalid’s chair, I understand,” Mrs. Bryant said, her stern features softening as she spoke of Jake.
“Yes, ma’am. A wounded war hero.” Cord’s voice was filled with pride, and Rachel looked down at the floor. Jake would be madder than a hornet if he heard his brother giving him hero status.
“Well, I can certainly carry the message to town with me if you like, Mr. McPherson.” Mrs. Bryant’s face broke into a smile. “My husband will be delighted to hear the news. I’m sure he’ll be happy to squelch the gossip that’s been going around lately.”
The Wedding Promise (Harlequin Historical) Page 12