Bending Toward the Sun (6 page)

Quaid scuffed the heel of his boot on the threshold, feeling tripped up in more ways than one. “What are you asking of me?”

“I’m asking you not to encourage my daughter’s affections. She is completing her education. She isn’t available. I’m asking you to stay away from her, except when it’s necessary to see her in passing.”

The man was asking too much from him.

Six

E
milie swept the plank floor around the barrels of oats, while Maren dusted the jugs and bottles on the shelves. With quick broom strokes, Emilie swept the trash to the back door, wishing she could manage her scattered thoughts so readily. She stopped at the side window and peeked out. “The freight wagon is still here.”

“Don’t you wish you could hear their conversation?” Maren said. “Then you’d know what your father is saying to him.”

“Actually, PaPa usually grows quiet when he’s … concerned.” Like he had on their return from the farm when she first reunited with Quaid. In this case, silence could be a blessing. She leaned on the counter as Maren dusted the kettles and pots that hung on the front of it. “I told you about the dollhouse I ordered?”

Maren stilled the feather duster. “It came in today’s shipment?”

“It did. I can’t wait to show it to you.”

“You’ve already seen it?”

“I was anxious, looking for it in the wagon. Quaid opened it for me.”

Maren glanced toward the storeroom. “That was sweet of him.”

“It was. He set the dollhouse on a barrel. We were admiring it when my father returned through the open back door.”

“Oh. Not what he’d consider the activity of mere
friends
?”

Emilie offered Maren a knowing smile. No need to waste her breath declaring she only thought of Quaid as a friend when they both knew her feelings for him ran deeper. Maren had watched her come in after her classes last Monday, especially cheerful, and heard all about the wagon ride.

PaPa burst in the door and set a crate on the counter beside her. “I sure hope folks are of a mind to buy. Because we have a lot to sell.”

“I may have gone a little overboard, but I think folks will appreciate the variety we have to offer.”

Maren moistened her lips. “Mrs. Applegate was in here this morning asking for the set of wool cards she’d requested.”

“Well, I’m sure we have them. Somewhere.” Emilie studied her father for a moment. He seemed a bit chatty for the way he’d sent her away from the storage room. Made her wonder what he and Quaid had said to each other. If anything.

A bell jingled, drawing their attention toward the front door.

“I’ll see to them.” Maren took quick steps toward the woman with a baby on her hip.

PaPa lifted the lid off the crate of enamelware. “The merchandise is unloaded, the most critical containers opened.”

“Good.” What concerned her was what he
wasn’t
saying. “Is everything all right?”

“As far as I know, it is.” German words mingled with English. “That Quaid McFarland is a hard worker.” He pulled a coffeepot from the crate and unwrapped it. “The wagon is empty. He’s on his way home.”

Except that she hadn’t had a chance to say good-bye, and she already missed him.

“You were right about the dollhouse, Em.” He pulled a bean pot from the crate. “It’s lovely. I already have just the little girl in mind to enjoy it.”

“You do?” Emilie knew she was a bit old for such toys but wouldn’t be opposed to saving it for the little girl she hoped to have … someday. Which now seemed a waste of her time if she wasn’t allowed to talk to any man she might care about.

“Little Gabi Wainwright.”

“Gabi is the little girl I had in mind when I ordered the dollhouse.”

“I have a mind to order another for her. After all, Christmas is coming.” Were his eyes actually sparkling?

Emilie added the pot she had unpacked to the collection on the counter and headed to the storeroom.

PaPa didn’t seem to be stewing over her friendship with Quaid in the least.

She wasn’t sure if that was a good thing … or not.

Quaid repeatedly pushed the saw through the oak beam he was forming into a railing for the Renglers’ boat. Sweat drenched the back of his cotton duck blouse. Never mind that the sun had begun its descent and the temperature outside hovered just above freezing. Or that his coat lay on the bench. He had more steam built up than the Rengler brothers’ boat ever did.

He pulled the saw toward him with a rip. He had always liked Johann Heinrich. Respected him.
Rip
. Everyone in town did.
Push
. The man had personally handed him a sack of provisions the Christmas before he went off to war.
Rip
. He still wanted to like the merchant.
Push
. After all, he was Emilie’s father.
Rip
.

The saw went silent. In hindsight, it was easy to see Emilie had tried to warn him about her father’s bias where his daughter was concerned. Heinrich’s objection shouldn’t have surprised him, except he’d given more weight to hope than to predisposition.

“I’m asking you not to encourage my daughter’s affections.”

Before today, Quaid supposed Emilie’s feelings of friendship toward him could be developing into deeper affections. Apparently her feelings hadn’t been his imagination, if her father had taken notice.

“I’m asking you to stay away from her, except when it’s necessary to see her in passing.”

Push. Rip. Push. Rip
.

Could he do what Johann Heinrich asked, when what he wanted to do was to see her every day? When what he wanted to do was build her a dollhouse?

The door to his shop screeched open and he stilled the saw. Mother stepped inside, holding her shawl tight at her neck.

“Dinner’s ready.”

She closed the door and walked toward him, her lips pursed. “Dinner’s ready, but my stew can wait on yours.” She stared at the saw, her frown deepening. “Did you mean to cut your workbench nearly in half?”

The bench had indeed suffered. “ ’Twas thinking about something else.” He laid the saw on the table. “Lots of deliveries today. S’pose I worked a little too hard.” And hadn’t worked hard enough at not developing deeper feelings for Emilie.

“I’ve seen you work too hard before, Son. Something else is going on.”

He brushed the sweat from his brow with his sleeve.

“You wish to tell me about it?”

“I’d rather not.” This was between him and Mr. Heinrich.

“You mean you’d rather not talk about
her
.”

Her father, to be more precise. He couldn’t bring himself to look his mother in the eye, even though he knew his inability to do so told her she was right—that his foul mood had something to do with Emilie Heinrich.

“Very well then. But I still have three things to say before we walk to the house.”

He nodded.

“One, never pick up a saw when you’re frustrated.”

He chuckled.

“Sure way to lose a finger.” She glanced at the bench. “Or worse.”

“Point made.”

“Two, don’t chase your feelings. Make them follow you.”

Could he mind his convictions when he wanted to follow his heart?

“Three, me son is a good man. You’ll do the right thing.”

“How will I know what that is?”

She patted his shoulder as if he were still a boy at her knee. “Don’t get in a fired-up hurry, and it’ll come to you.” She nodded toward the door.

He grabbed his coat off the bench, then followed her outside. “Beef stew with carrots and potatoes?”

“And soda bread.”

As they walked to the house, it wasn’t today’s menu on his mind, but Emilie’s brats and red cabbage. The odds that he’d ever sit across the dinner table from her had slid from slim to none.

Seven

The man that hath no music in himself
,

Nor is not mov’d with concord of sweet sounds
,

Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils;

The motions of his spirit are dull as night
,

And his affections dark as Erebus:

Let no such man be trusted
.

E
milie set the pages of Shakespeare’s play on the kitchen table. She’d been assigned
The Merchant of Venice
for her oral presentation on Wednesday, and Mrs. Barbour had stressed the importance of capturing the emotional essence of Shakespeare’s writings.

If it was emotion she wanted, Emilie had it in spades. Quaid McFarland was a man with music in him. And she missed hearing him play the harmonica. She missed his easy smile and rippling laugh.

She missed Quaid.

Deliveries were the only time afforded her to see him, and he hadn’t made any recently. At least not on the days she was at the college or in the store. Not since he’d lifted the dollhouse out of the crate. She knew he had taken on side work. That must be what was demanding his time.

Tired of sitting still, she walked to the window. The gas lanterns on the road below cast a golden glow on the falling snow. The temperatures had dropped last night. By midday, snow had begun to fall and hadn’t let up. Walking in the snow had been enough of a challenge, but driving a freight wagon in it could be treacherous. She breathed a prayer for Quaid’s safety, then added a selfish request, asking God to bring him back to her soon.

Quaid had bragged on how she was no longer a girl in braids but had become a handsome lass. A lass who had behaved like a giddy schoolgirl the last time he’d seen her. It was no wonder he hadn’t come around for three weeks, himself being all grown up after serving in the war.

PaPa had sold the dollhouse to the banker and ordered two more, along with another crate of cookware. Hopefully the order would arrive this week, and her wait to see Quaid would end. As it was, she was fighting the temptation to make a batch of brats and red cabbage and deliver it to the freight house for his lunch. Not childish behavior, but neither was it proper behavior.

Emilie pressed her finger to her chin. It wouldn’t be unreasonable for her to visit McFarland Freight Company as a businesswoman with an inquiry about a delivery. Minus the meal, of course. She shook her head. She needed to set her thoughts of Quaid aside, finish reading, and prepare her speech. Letting the curtain fall on her own drama, she willed herself to return to the table.

PaPa stepped into the kitchen, his tailored blouse billowing above his belt. Had he dropped pounds? He’d been eating well, hadn’t he?

“It seems the snow has decided to persist.” At the stove, he poured steaming coffee into his favorite cup.

“Yes.” She settled into her chair. “I’m thankful I don’t have classes tomorrow.” Especially if Quaid had a delivery for the store. She kept her favorite reason to herself.

PaPa stood at the table, looking at the pages spread before her. “Your studies look tedious, Em. I’d say you could use a cup yourself.”

“I could.” She started to rise.

He pressed her shoulder. “I’ll get it. It’s the least I can do, as hard as you’re working.”

“Thank you.” She swallowed a twinge of guilt. She’d spent most of the evening distracted.

She knew PaPa wasn’t in favor of her spending her attention on Quaid. She thought to ask him if he knew Quaid had given her a ride from the college on that day that now seemed so long ago. Or if he’d misunderstood her gaiety over the dollhouse. She could almost suspect him of keeping Quaid away from her, but that was an unfair notion. When PaPa returned to the store after helping Quaid unload the wagon, he was pleasant, even complimentary of the man.

Besides, the Irish were known for persistence. If Quaid truly valued their friendship, he wouldn’t be dissuaded by an overprotective father.

Which left her with one terrible conclusion: Quaid McFarland just didn’t want to see her.