Bending Toward the Sun (8 page)

He wasn’t in the living area, and the door to his bedchamber was closed. When she didn’t hear any hint of movement, she tapped on his door. “PaPa?”

A snort. Then a stomp, where he’d apparently stepped out of bed, followed by footfalls on the wooden floor. The door swung open and PaPa stood before her, shielding a yawn with his hand. “I didn’t hear the broomstick. You need me?”

“The order arrived.”

“Ah. Then we have a lot of work to do, don’t we?” He put his shoes on at the sofa.

“The senior Mr. McFarland asked me to pass his warm greetings on to you.”

“I regret missing him today. He’s a kind man.”

So is Quaid
. “They are a good and kind family.”

PaPa nodded, then closed the door behind them on the way out.

She yearned to ask if he’d said something to Quaid to make him stay away, but she followed him down the stairs in silence. If PaPa wasn’t feeling well today, it was best to wait for the answer. Besides, she’d know the next time she saw Quaid’s father making a delivery to the college or to the store that PaPa had interfered.

Unless the newness of seeing her again had worn off and Quaid had simply moved on.

Nine

A
t the quilting circle late Thursday morning, Emilie pushed her needle into the flower petal appliqué and pulled the thread through. A few more petals to stitch and she’d have her quilt top finished. She liked the cheery pattern of the flower baskets. She’d also liked the new pattern she’d seen taking shape in her life—the one in which she was friends with Quaid and was seeing him fairly regularly. Until that day in the storeroom. She pushed the needle into the design, butting it against the metal thimble protecting her fingertip.

“My brother, Charles, has been spending a lot of time at The Western House Inn.” Hattie removed the feathered crown from her head. “He’s attending the meetings with Rutherford’s friend Mr. Cowlishaw, the leader of the wagon train.”

Garrett Cowlishaw was also the capable handyman who had mended Jewell’s wagon and later come into the store asking about Caroline’s husband. He’d said he wanted to help her find the answer to Colonel Milburn’s fate, but that was nearly a month ago, and Emilie hadn’t heard from him again. Another man discouraged by her father?

Hattie set her hat on the table beside her. “In fact, Charles went to a meeting first thing this morning.”

Caroline squared her shoulders. “Your brother, who fought for the Union?”

“He did.”

Caroline drew in a shuddering breath. “Your father died for the cause, and your brother fought for it, and yet he still thinks Mr. Cowlishaw is the best man to lead the caravan? He could well be a bushwhacker, for all we know.”

Clearing her throat, Mrs. Brantenberg lifted her coffee mug from the table. “Even in our sorrow, especially in our sorrow, we must remember that God is Lord over all—the North, the South, and every mile surrounding them. God does not sow discordance.”

Her lips pressed together, Caroline returned her attention to the quilt top on her lap.

“Your brother is taking a wagon west, Hattie?” Maren reached for her cup. “Are you planning to go with him?”

“Mother and I are talking about it. However, we’re not sure Gram could make the trip.”

Emilie’s chest tightened. Could PaPa? Not that she wanted to leave Saint Charles, but, like so many others, he’d talked about it. Now he seemed unable to make it through a day without a rest.

“Charles had brought home newspapers from San Francisco and Virginia City with articles written by our very own Sam Clemens from Hannibal.” Hattie’s voice rose with the thrill of adventure. “It seems there’s no end to the opportunities there.”

“Phillip talked about going west. Before the war.” Caroline’s last words squeaked out.

Mrs. Brantenberg returned her mug to the table. “Who will pray for our dear Caroline?”

“I will.” Maren offered a heartfelt prayer, asking for God’s comfort and peace for Caroline and for the Lord’s divine stitching together of the scraps and remnants in her life.

“Thank you.” Caroline blotted her tears with a handkerchief. “I am thankful for this circle, and for your prayers.”

Emilie wiped tears from her eyes, then followed Mrs. Brantenberg into the kitchen, met by the sweet aroma of baking bread.

Mrs. Brantenberg stood at the stove, stirring a pot of onion soup while Emilie pulled a tureen from the shelf.

“What’s on your heart, dear?” She’d spoken in German.

Emilie met the woman’s tender gaze. “It seems quite selfish, given Caroline’s situation.”

“God sees you, too, dear.”

Emilie nodded. “On harvest day, Quaid McFarland came with the freight wagon.”

Mrs. Brantenberg pulled a loaf of bread from the oven. “I remember. The two of you seemed to enjoy each other’s company.”

“No. Yes.” Emilie moistened her lips. “We hadn’t seen each other since he’d gone to war. Yes, I enjoyed his company, and he seemed to enjoy mine.” Or he wouldn’t have bothered to catch up to her at Lindenwood.

Mrs. Brantenberg’s sigh waved the wisp of graying hair on her forehead. “Your father doesn’t like it.” A kindhearted look crossed her face.

Emilie shook her head. “No.” She wanted to say more, but didn’t wish to show disrespect.

“You care for Quaid.”

“Yes ma’am, I do.” Emilie set the butter crock on the table. “At first, I thought we were only old friends. Now I have feelings for Quaid that may run deeper.”

Mrs. Brantenberg’s thin eyebrows arched. “Sounds as if you may have stepped into a brier patch. Barefoot.”

“That describes it perfectly.” And it hurt, no matter which way she stepped.

“Without a doubt, a prickly place to be.” Mrs. Brantenberg enfolded her in a warm embrace. “I’ll remember you in my prayers, dear. Your father and Quaid McFarland, too.”

“Thank you.”

Mrs. Brantenberg set the wooden spoon on the counter. “In the meantime, the soup is ready.”

Emilie laid a patchwork mat on the table.

The back door swung open with a knock. Garrett Cowlishaw stepped into the kitchen, his hat in his hand. “Rutherford said it’d be all right for me to come in.”

Mrs. Brantenberg motioned him in farther. “I made enough soup for you and Rutherford.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I didn’t want to disturb your quilting, but.” He looked at Emilie. “I’m glad you’re in here, Miss Heinrich. I wanted to talk to you.”

Emilie’s heart raced. “You have news?”

“For Caroline?” Mrs. Brantenberg pressed her hand to her mouth.

Emilie didn’t bother to ask the widow how she knew.

“Yes ma’am.” His shoulders sagged. The message couldn’t be more clear. It was bad news.

“I’ll get her.” Mrs. Brantenberg spun toward the door, quickly returning with Caroline.

Caroline planted her hands at her waist. “Mr. Cowlishaw? What right do you have summoning me like this?”

“My apologies, ma’am. I wouldn’t trouble you, except that I have news of your husband.”

Caroline looked at Emilie.

“Mr. Cowlishaw came to the store concerned that you hadn’t received any word from your husband or the Department of War. He said he knew someone who might be able to obtain the answer you needed.”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

Emilie swallowed, breathing a prayer. “It was nearly a month ago, and I … we didn’t want to get your hopes up.”

“And now?”

Mr. Cowlishaw took a step toward her. “Ma’am, if you’d like to have a seat.” He pointed to a chair at the table.

“I prefer to stand.” Caroline stretched a red curl at her neck. “Thank you.”

“Very well then.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out folded paper. “The man who contacted me to master the train of wagons was a lieutenant in the Union Army. I told him of your plight and asked him to inquire about Colonel Phillip Milburn at the Department of War.”

“But you don’t know me. I wasn’t even cordial in our first meeting.”

“No ma’am.”

“Then why would you trouble yourself?”

“It pains me to see a woman in distress.”

Caroline blinked as if fighting tears. “You have my answer then?”

“This is the answer the lieutenant received.” He held the paper out to Caroline. “My deepest sympathies, ma’am.”

“You’re making this up.” Caroline grabbed Mrs. Brantenberg’s arm. “I didn’t feel it. Phillip
has
to be alive.”

Mrs. Brantenberg patted Caroline’s hand and gave Emilie a quick nod.

Emilie took the correspondence from Mr. Cowlishaw and unfolded the paper.

Department of War, Washington, District of Columbia

Dear Mrs. Milburn
,

It is with deepest regret that I write you. Your beloved husband, Colonel Phillip Milburn, served our country well, earning the loyalties of his regiment and indeed the entire army
.

Peril beset the good colonel in the Battle of Nashville, 16 December 1864, where the Union had suffered 387 killed, 2,562 wounded, and 112 missing. Colonel Milburn was instrumental in the taking of Shy’s Hill, the source of much of the carnage. Though mortally wounded, he led his artillery unit to destroy the entrenchment and the cover it had provided the sharpshooters of the Confederacy. The Union ultimately prevailed in the battle, with no little thanks to the sacrifice made by your husband
.

Caroline gasped. Emilie stopped reading while Mrs. Brantenberg guided Caroline to a chair at the table. With Mrs. Brantenberg seated beside her, Caroline looked at Emilie. “Is there more?”

“Yes.”

“Then please continue.”

Blinking back her own tears, Emilie fought to focus on the scrawling penmanship.

A brave patriot, your husband. He succumbed to his injuries the following day, 17 December 1864, and was buried with full military honors near Nashville
.

A box of the colonel’s personals will be forthcoming. You may expect it to arrive shortly
.

With deepest sympathies
,

Major Augustus Shnebley, United States Department of War

Caroline looked at her, tears streaming her face. “It’s true then? Phillip is dead?”

Emilie nodded, about to bite through her bottom lip. Listening to Caroline’s sobs, she thanked God for her small problems.

In the shadow of her friend’s staggering heartbreak, her own heartache was slight.

Ten

E
milie walked up Main Street with Maren and Hattie. They’d been planning this Saturday outing for nearly three weeks. Long before Caroline received the news that she was indeed a widow.

“It doesn’t seem right that I look for a wedding dress while Caroline mourns the loss of her husband.” Frown lines furrowed Maren’s brow.

Emilie had grappled with the same concern.

Hattie tucked a brown curl under her hat. “When my father died, I didn’t want everyone moping about feeling sorry for me. Caroline wouldn’t want that either.”

“Hattie’s right,” Emilie said. “God has given you and Rutherford a second chance at love. That’s a gift worth celebrating.”

A slow smile lit Maren’s blue eyes. “I do love that man.”

Emilie refused to give in to her regrets. She was blessed with a father who was still alive and loved her, a respectable job, and a gaggle of wonderful friends.

Hattie hooked their arms as they strolled the cobblestones past the millinery, toward Gut’s Saddlery and his daughter’s Queensware Emporium.

The sound of a familiar Irish brogue drew Emilie’s attention to the end of the block, where Quaid sat atop his parked wagon, visiting with a merchant. Her feet planted themselves. She needed to know if she’d imagined Quaid’s interest in her, or if something or
someone
had interfered. What would she say? How did one even broach the subject? She watched as he flicked the reins and his wagon rolled toward her, a smile of recognition lighting his face.

He didn’t look like a man trying to avoid her.

When the wagon stopped beside her, Quaid brushed the brim on his slouch hat. “Miss Jensen. Miss Pemberton. Miss Heinrich.” His greeting was impersonal, but the intensity she saw in his gaze was not.

“Mr. McFarland.” Her voice blended with the others.

“It’s good to see you.” He looked away, glancing toward the dry goods store. “But I can’t linger. I need to buy wood for repairs to the Renglers’ boat.”

Emilie nodded. If only she could ask him if his glance toward her father’s place of business was mere happenstance—or if PaPa was the reason he needed to flee.

When Emilie returned to the store, her father was engaged in a checkers match with Owen Rengler, while Oliver stood by looking on. She greeted them, then went upstairs to start lunch, welcoming time alone in the kitchen.

PaPa joined her within the hour. He clomped up the stairs as if his feet regretted each step. Seated at the head chair, he folded his hands on the edge of the table and offered the prayer of thanksgiving for their meal. Emilie recited the prayer with her father, but her mind was busy shaping questions.