Heartland Courtship

“Yes, with apple jam and cinnamon. Please help thyself.” And he did. And with his first bite, a powerful smile transformed his unwelcoming expression. “Just like my grandma used to make. You must be from Pennsylvania.”

She nodded, her heart calming. “Yes, I’m homesteading here and plan to sell baked goods and sweets to the river trade. I’m Miss Rachel Woolsey.”

“Pleased to meet you, miss. Do you have more of these? I know they won’t keep for more than a day, but I’d love to have one with my coffee later.”

“I fried three dozen this morning.” Then she turned to the crew hovering nearby. Her spirits were rising like dough on a warm, humid day. “I’d like each of thee to have a sample, too. Please.” She motioned toward them.

The men lined up and cleaned off her tray in seconds. One black porter gushed, “Best I eat since I was in New Orleans and had beignets, miss. And I thank you.”

“Beignets?” Rachel echoed. “Are they similar?”

“Yes, miss, but with powdered sugar.”

“Was it the same dough?”

“I’m no cook, miss.” The man shook his head and then grinned. “But you certainly are!”

The other men agreed heartily. And her spirit soared.

“Miss Rachel, thank you for letting us sample your wares. I’d like to buy another two dozen for me and my crew,” the captain announced.

Rachel thrilled with pleasure. “Wonderful. Thee is my first customer.”

“But not your last,” the captain said, smiling down at her.

Elated, she scurried back to her cart and Brennan met her there. “We need to bag up two dozen for this boat.” She busied herself wrapping each doughnut in waxed paper and filled two paper sacks. She delivered them to the captain.

He bowed. “Thank you, miss. You brought me sweet memories I had long forgotten.”

“My pleasure, captain. Please, I’d appreciate thy letting others know I’ll be here with fresh baked goods daily. I also plan on making fudge and other candy.”

A happy murmur from the crew greeted this.

Grinning and promising to see her the next time they docked in Pepin, the captain bowed again and then called cheerfully to his crew to get busy or they wouldn’t get another doughnut.

Buoyant with her success, Rachel walked back to the cart. Brennan lounged against it.

“We goin’ home now? That’s the only boat here today,” he asked.

She sensed now he was worried about something. What? “Let’s fill up the tray with the remaining goods.” Rachel glanced up the street. “And please help me with the strap again.”

He did so, arranging it around her neck once more. Their nearness once again distracted her, stirred odd sensations. She brushed aside their brief embrace the night before.

“What are you up to, Miss Rachel?”

“I need to make the mouths of my neighbors water, too.” She grinned at him. She’d learned today that while generosity should be its own reward, it also made good business sense.

Soon she entered Ashford’s store, jingling the bell. Brennan followed her in as if curious. Near the chairs by the cold stove sat only an older man in a wheelchair. He nodded to her politely. Had she met him?

Rachel nodded to him in case she had, then turned. “Good day, Mr. Ashford,” she greeted brightly.

The storekeeper looked dubious. “How may I help you, Miss Woolsey?”

“I am here to offer samples of my baked goods.” She stopped right across the counter from him.

He looked at her and then at the tray. He reached for one just as his wife walked down the stairs into the store. His hand halted in midair.

“Miss Woolsey,” Mrs. Ashford said disapprovingly, “I saw you just now talking to men on that boat.”

“Yes, I am starting my business. Today I’m giving away samples of my baked goods.”

Mrs. Ashford studied the tray of cookies and doughnuts. “I wonder that your cousin will abet you in this. You will find yourself in the company of all sorts of vulgar men.” Then the woman glanced pointedly past her and frowned deeply at Mr. Merriday.

Rachel guessed that she was suggesting Mr. Merriday was one of these low men. That goaded Rachel. She bit her lower lip to keep back a quick defense of the man. She must not insult so prominent a wife and perhaps start gossip.

And after a moment’s reflection, Rachel realized that Mrs. Ashford was the kind of woman who wanted to be consulted, to be the arbiter of others’ conduct. She’d met her ilk before.

This too grated on Rachel’s nerves. But nothing would be gained by telling the woman to mind her own business. “No doubt thee is right,” Rachel said demurely. “But even vulgar men will not insult a woman offering sweets.”

Brennan chuckled softly.

Discreetly enjoying his humor, she masked this with her most endearing smile. “Please, Mrs. Ashford, taste one of my wares and tell me thy opinion. I hear that thy baked goods are notable.” She did not like to be less than genuine, but the old dictum, that one attracted more flies with honey than vinegar, held true even in Wisconsin.

Mrs. Ashford picked up a fastnacht and tore it in two, the fragrance of apple and cinnamon filling permeated the air. The storekeeper’s wife handed half to her husband. They both chewed thoughtfully as if weighing and measuring with each chew. They looked at each other and then her.

“Very tasty,” the woman said, dusting the sugar from her fingers. Her husband nodded in agreement, almost grinning. “But most women here do their own baking,” Mrs. Ashford pointed out discouragingly.

“That’s why I’m courting the river trade,” Rachel assented. “And single men hereabout. And occasionally a woman might want to purchase something for a special occasion like a wedding.”

Mrs. Ashford listened seriously as if she were a senator engaging in a debate in Congress. “True.”

“Then I’ll be going on. Good day—”

“I’d like a sample too, miss,” the older man by the cold stove piped up.

Rachel turned and offered him her tray. He scooped up one sugar cookie and chewed it with ceremony. After swallowing his first bite, the older man announced, “I’m Old Saul, Miss Rachel. I heard from Noah you would be arriving this month. Much obliged for the cookie. I foresee success in your endeavor.”

His puckish style of speaking made Rachel chuckle. It was as if he had enjoyed her parrying Mrs. Ashford, too. “My thanks, Old Saul. Nice to meet thee.” She walked outside, feeling another lift in her spirits. She could do this. She walked toward the blacksmith shop, ready to offer another free sample.

Mr. Merriday walked a step behind her. She felt his brooding presence hanging over her spurt of victory. Why did people always have to make rude comments to him? Or stare at him with unfriendly expressions? The war had been over for better than six years. Wasn’t it time to let the old animosity go? And once again, the unwise attraction that drew her to him surged within.

He helped her restore the tray to the rear of the cart and then helped her up onto the seat. She had never been shown these politenesses before. Her father of course performed them for her stepmother, but Rachel was left to help her smaller stepbrothers and sisters. That must be why it touched her so every time he did this for her.

But I mustn’t become accustomed to his courtesies. I will be on my own soon enough. Too soon.

* * *

Brennan rolled over, half asleep, in the dark loft. Something had wakened him. What? Fire? The grass was tinder-dry and that had been a worry for the past few days. He listened, alert, to the sounds in the warm, humid summer night. More times than he wanted to recall, his acute hearing had saved his life. Then he heard the faintest tinkle of breaking glass.