Courting Kate (2 page)

“You watch your tongue, boy. Your poor ma would turn over in her grave if she heard you using that kind of language.”

Matt gave him a mutinous look, then slammed a skillet onto the cast-iron range.

Knowing it would be a while before he’d be able to eat, and deciding Matt might cook a little faster if he left the room, Tanner retreated to the fireplace to thaw out. As he held his hands toward the crackling blaze, he noticed the empty woodbox. He turned toward Luke who, as usual, had his nose buried in something to read—this time a well-worn newspaper.

“What happened to the kindling you were supposed to chop? And the wood?”

Luke lifted his gaze long enough to glare at him. “I had to do the dishes and scrub the floors, for all the good it did, considerin’ the mud you tracked in. The way you act, you’d think I spent the day a-twiddlin’ my thumbs.”

“While you
weren’t
cutting the wood, I was out there in the rain, working my rear off, dodging falling trees and doing my best to stay alive and keep a roof over your heads.”

“You wouldn’t have to work so hard if you’d stop being pigheaded and let one of us help you,” Matt yelled out from the kitchen.
 

“You know my answer to that.” Snatching up a towel, Tanner stalked toward the bedroom, stripping off wet clothes as he went. He couldn’t make them understand how dangerous the woods could be. He hadn’t understood either. His pa had warned him, but he hadn’t listened. He hadn’t even been aware of the danger he was in, until his pa shoved him aside. The limb had killed his father instantly. It had all happened so quickly. Tanner never had the chance to say he was sorry. Never had the chance to say goodbye.

Waves of grief and remorse nearly consumed him, and he forced himself to think of the present, to think of his obligations. He had learned the hard way, but his brothers weren’t going to. It was the only way he could make amends.
 

He hung up the coat and wet clothes, and rubbed himself dry with a towel. Then he unwrapped the shirt and checked his bleeding arm. It needed stitches, but he couldn’t do it himself, and he didn’t want the boys to know. So he cleaned the wound, pulling the gash together as best he could, and tore strips from an old sheet and tied the bandage in place.
 

Shivering, he opened the bureau. Empty. Then he looked in the closet. Nary a stitch. “Where are my clothes?” He poked through the clothes basket. A sheet and two of John’s shirts. Nothing of his. Finally he located a pair of tattered long johns beneath the bed. They made him itch and smelled of dust but they were dry, and he wouldn’t have to run around naked. Dragging them on, he strode back into the main room. “I can’t find any clean pants, or anything else. Mark, I thought you and John were going to do the wash.”

“We d-didn’t have any s-soap,” John yelled back. “‘Sides it’s been p-pouring rain all day.”
 

“It wasn’t raining yesterday. You could have done it then.” Tanner lifted the water bucket. “Empty! Might have known it.” He whirled to face them. “You haven’t done a thing you were supposed to. What have you been doing?”

Luke grabbed the bucket from Tanner’s hand and left the cabin, slamming the door behind him.
 

“W-why are you s-so mad?” John asked.

“He’s mad ‘cause it’s raining, so he takes his temper out on us.” Mark sighed. “Tanner, we work hard, too. I don’t know of another boy in Oregon that has to sew, wash clothes and iron. It’s plumb embarrassing.”

“How do you think I feel?” Matt complained, slapping the steaks he’d floured into hot grease. “Every time I go into Jacksonville, all those old biddies stop me on Main Street to give me their recipes.” He brushed a long hank of hair out of his eyes. “The fellers rib me. And the girls look at me funny—like I was peculiar, or something.”
 

Luke kicked the door shut and plopped the bucket of water down on the end of the counter. “Yeah. You treat us like we’re married to you, instead of like your brothers,” he complained, his voice cracking in an exasperating falsetto. “May as well start wearing petticoats.”

“At least you’d have
something
to put on.” Tanner motioned toward his only article of clothing.
 

“What T-Tanner n-needs is a wife,” John declared.

“Don’t start with that again,” Tanner warned.

“He ain’t never gonna get married,” Luke said with disgust. “Why should he? He’s got us to do all the work.”
 

“With that long hair and bad temper, who’d have him?” Mark asked. “‘Sides, he’d have to court them, and he wouldn’t take the time, nor the trouble.”

“Who’s got the time?” Tanner asked. He hardly managed to eat and sleep, let alone do anything else—much as he’d like to sometimes. Besides, that’s all he needed—another mouth to feed. Another person to complain. Another responsibility.
 

Again he thought of his near accident. How could he make them understand? He stared at the four of them, wondering how they would manage if something happened to him.

He picked up the pants Matt had abandoned and pulled them on.
 

“I wasn’t finished patching those britches,”
 

“I’ve got to put on something,” Tanner shot back. Every bone in his body aching, he sat down on the leather couch and stretched his bare feet toward the fire.
 

What would they do? He didn’t know.

He prayed they wouldn’t have to find out.
 

Soon the aroma of fried venison, beans and potatoes wafted through the cabin, and he could hardly wait until Matt set it on the table. When he did, Tanner quickly said the blessing so he could eat his fill. At the first mouthful, he sighed in appreciation. “Mighty good. Matt, you might make somebody a good wife at that.” Tanner reached up and caught the biscuit that Matt immediately sailed toward his head.

When he couldn’t eat another bite, Tanner rose from the table and washed his face and hands. His arm throbbed like blue blazes. Feeling his brothers’ eyes on him, he clenched his jaw against the pain. “‘Night, boys.” He retreated to the bedroom.

Mark followed him. “What’s that lump under your sleeve?”

“Had a little accident.”

“Let me see,” Mark insisted.

“I’m not one of your sick critters.” Then deciding that Mark wouldn’t leave otherwise, he rolled up his sleeve and took off the bandage.
 

A whistle of air slid between Mark’s teeth. “The ax?”

“No. A deadfall. I don’t want the others to know. Think you might be able to stitch it?”

“I’ve sewed everything else. Don’t know why your hide should be any different.” Mark left the room. He returned a minute later with an amber bottle, a needle and a spool of thread. “Had this rum left over from the fruitcakes.” He pulled the cork and dumped the liquor into the wound.

Tanner bit back a curse and closed his eyes against the pain.

Mark pulled the flesh into place and stitched it, cutting the thread when he was through. His movements quick and efficient, he bandaged the arm. “Keep it clean,” he warned. “We don’t want it getting infected. I’ll check it again tomorrow.”

“Thanks, doc.”

“You haven’t seen my bill yet,” Mark said, closing the door. As his abused muscles melted into the feather bed, Tanner could hear the boys complaining—about his marital status and about not being allowed to help in the woods. He’d heard it all before, and no doubt would again. But he would not let their complaints sway him. He would not lose one of them the way he’d lost his father.

Trying to shut out their voices, he turned onto his side and pulled the blanket up over his ear. It must have worked. The sounds became distant and muffled. He grinned and snuggled deeper into his pillow. It was then he realized he hadn’t muffled the sounds at all. His brothers were whispering.

Suspicious, he sat up and tilted his head, listening. Nothing. He couldn’t make out one word. Flopping back on the bed, he glared into the darkness. They were up to something. He could feel it. Well, it didn’t matter. He’d nip their shenanigans in the bud before they even began.

Just like he had the last time.
 

Chapter 2

Atlanta, Georgia
 

“She has to go!”

“What would you have me do, Stephen? Kathleen is my cousin. She has no other kin. I can’t throw her out into the street. She has no money. The poor dear has little more than the clothes on her back.”

Kathleen Deveraux stopped midstride in the hallway, her arms wrapped around a pile of newly washed sheets. Her fingers bit into the worn linen. Dear God, she hadn’t meant to be a burden. She had tried so hard to help. She should have realized. She eased closer to the doorway, closer to the words that were tearing into her soul.
 

“Melody, darlin’, I’m not trying to be mean. But I have to be practical.” Stephen Courtney tried to reason with his wife. “You know how difficult it’s been, how hard I’ve worked to feed the two—soon to be three—of us. Now I’m saddled with your spinster cousin as well.”

“It’s all Uncle Jason’s fault. You’d think he would have had more foresight, especially where the future of his only child was concerned,” Melody stated angrily.
 

“Well, he didn’t. The fool gave everything he owned to the Cause, then mortgaged the rest. You can’t blame the bank for foreclosing. He brought it on himself. Listen, I don’t have time to discuss this now. I have to get to work, but we will talk about it later tonight.”

“Lots of people lost their homes after the rebellion.”

“But most didn’t blow their brains out,” Stephen said.
 

A surge of grief rushed Kathleen, then anger. They were right about her father. How could he have done this to her? To
them
? But she had to accept blame as well. She’d taken it for granted that Stephen and Melody would take care of her. Never once had she considered their position. As a struggling bank clerk, Stephen barely made enough to support his own small family and the baby soon to come. Their house was tiny, with only one small bedchamber and an alcove that would be the nursery. They had done everything they could for her. She’d done nothing but add to their burden.
 

Smothered by waves of guilt and hopelessness, she turned away and silently went into the alcove she’d been using for a bedchamber. She set the pile of sheets neatly on the end of the bed and dropped down beside them. Tears stung her eyes as she tried to think. She had no money, nothing of value. For goodness’ sake, she barely had enough clothes to cover herself. Massaging her temples, she knew there had to be something she could do. But what? The men who normally would have courted her were either dead or financially ruined, as she was, by the war. And she had no training of any kind, unless one would pay for smiling prettily at guests or dancing the latest steps. Somehow she doubted that many of those jobs would be available. Still, she could learn. She glanced down at her hands, rough and red from lye soap. She had learned to do laundry, hadn’t she? Besides, she had no choice. She had to find work.

Rising from the bed, she checked her appearance in the cracked pine-framed mirror. Tucking a stray lock of ebony hair into the bun at the nape of her neck, she pinched her cheeks to bring a touch of color to her pale skin, then picked up her reticule and headed for the door.
 

Wanting to tell Melody her destination but knowing she couldn’t without revealing what she’d overheard, she slipped silently from the house. She’d find either employment or other accommodations. She had to.
 

Striving to keep her hopes high in spite of the gray clouds overhead, Kathleen hurried down the dusty street. But it was hard to be cheerful when the gutted buildings and the charred tree stumps reminded her at every turn of the way things had been, but would never be again.
 

Before the war, elegant mansions with broad expanses of green lawns had lined the tree-shaded streets. Then Sherman and his Union troops had marched through, burning, looting, leaving Atlanta in smoldering ruins. Some buildings escaped the fire, but most had not. Despite a few attempts at rebuilding, she doubted that Atlanta would ever see prosperity again.

She pushed open the weathered door of a millinery shop, activating a bell that jingled merrily overhead.

Immediately a small, white-haired woman in gray dropped the bundle of lace she been working with and hurried forward. “Hello. Can I help you?” she asked, her voice soft and Southern. Her blue eyes bright, the little woman smiled and clasped her hands together in front of her in a gesture of expectation.

“I wondered if you could use any help?” Kathleen asked, the words tumbling out in a rush of air.
 

“Oh.” The smile disappeared and a trace of sadness etched its way across the milliner’s face.
 

“I don’t sew very well, but I could learn,” Kathleen assured her. “I could wind laces onto spools, sweep, wash windows. Anything.”

The woman sighed and shook her head. “I’m sorry, dear. I sympathize with your plight. I wish I could help, but I, too, am in dire straits. I can’t afford to feed a stray cat, let alone hire help.” She moved to her window and adjusted a bonnet on the display stand, tilting the brim to a jauntier angle as if hoping that might lure someone into her shop.