Authors: Megan Hart
"We castrate bulls around here,” Jed muttered and kicked the dirt floor of the barn until dust clouds puffed around his ankles.
More than anything, Jed was ready to settle down. He had his hundred and sixty acres of land, granted to him by Lincoln's Homestead Act of 1862. Lincoln's act required the landowner to live on the land he claimed for at least five years and make improvements upon it, notably, a house. The cabin he'd shared with Caitleen was his concession to Lincoln's rules.
The land had lain fallow for the ten years he'd had it. Trish had not wanted to leave Heatherfield. So he had stayed, breeding his father's horses and chafing for the day when he could build his own home and have his own stable.
He'd thought about moving out there himself a few times, but homesteading alone was more than tough—it was foolhardy. A man could lose his mind out there in the cold Montana winters with no one but himself for company. He needed a partner.
Before meeting Caitleen, he hadn't exactly been thinking about another wife. Now he had met her the idea seemed perfect. He'd thought Caite seemed the type of woman who'd be willing to take a risk or two. He guessed he was wrong.
Or was he? She'd said she didn't want to marry him, but she hadn't resisted when he'd kissed her. In fact, she'd gotten all warm and cozy with him, until the whole blasted conversation about love started.
Love had to ruin everything, he thought grimly.
The little room off the kitchen was furnished far more simply than Buck's room had been, but it was much closer to Caitleen's taste. The single window was large enough to provide ample light, facing south as it was, and the white-painted walls gave the room a light, airy feel she found extremely appealing.
Her clothes, liberated from the trunk again, hung in the simple wardrobe. The trunk she had placed at the foot of the bed as a bench. A single bed in one corner was covered by a faded quilt that reminded her sharply of home.
Caite sat at the tiny desk beneath the window, paper spread out before her and the inkstand uncapped and ready. She tapped the end of the pen against her teeth and thought about what to write. She wanted to let Gerda know she was all right, but without giving her too much information. Caite was still afraid the letter might fall into the wrong hands.
Where to begin?
She did not want to tell Gerda she was not going to be married after all. That might send Drake Hammond after her faster than gossip spread among old maids. Better to write vaguely just that the wedding had not yet taken place.
Caite wrote carefully, forming the letters clearly enough so Maisie, the girl who sometimes helped in the kitchen at Serenity, would be able to read them. Maisie would most likely be the one to read the letter to Gerda, who could recognize her own name on paper but not much else.
Caite signed her name at the bottom with a flourish. “That should do it."
It would at least give Gerda some peace of mind. Should the letter fall into her father's hands, however, there was no guarantee he would not use it to taunt Hammond. The dandy then might insist on coming to claim her. The rivalry between her father and Desmond had gone on for so many years, she would be surprised if he gave up his chance to take his rival's daughter without a fight.
It did not pay to be incautious. Until she decided what she was going to do with her life, she did not want any risk of her father or Hammond coming to Heatherfield to claim her. Caite was not certain how much the law would support her being gambled away like chattel, but she did not wish to find out.
Caite sealed and addressed the envelope, then sat back and rubbed her eyes. She would send the letter with Shorty on his next trip to town. Right now, however, she still felt ill. If she had not promised Lorna to help with the wedding quilt for Buck and Sally, she would crawl right back into bed until tomorrow.
I must've eaten something that disagreed with me, Caite thought. Nothing else could explain why she had so suddenly this morning been struck with such a bout of nausea. It had passed as soon as she had lost her breakfast, but she still felt tired.
"Caitleen?” Lorna peeped around the doorjamb. “Are you ready for the helping of the quilt?"
Caite managed a smile at Lorna's lilting voice. “Yes, Lorna. I've finished my letter. Do you think Shorty will post it for me the next time he goes to Staghorn?"
"Why, certainly, Caite. Shorty would to be happy to do such a favor for you,” Lorna replied, entering the room. “But he is not leaving Heatherfield for several days. He has just started with his new mare. Why do you not ask Jed?"
"Jed is going into town?” The news made her suddenly anxious, but she shook off the feeling. It made no difference to her if Jed was not going to be around. She certainly had no reason to miss him.
"Yes, yes,” Lorna tutted. “He is attending some business of his own before coming back to help with the training. Something to do with his land, I believe. Perhaps he is finally planning to leave us, yes?"
"Yes,” Caite echoed faintly, this second piece of information making her feel even worse than had the first. Again, she mentally shook herself. If Jed left Heatherfield, it would be better all around.
Lorna showed Caite the bag of scrap material she was holding. “But we are to be piecing this quilt. Buck has ridden off with Sally to show her the ranch. They will not be back for several hours. We are have plenty of time to start on this wedding quilt."
Caite nodded, got up from the desk and stretched. Only a slight headache remained to remind her of the morning's illness. It must have been something she ate. In fact, she felt much better now, even hungry.
"Do you suppose we could persuade Cooky to let us have some of his biscuits and jam?” Caite asked, following Lorna into the kitchen.
"I swear, Miss Caite!” Cooky declared from his post by the stove. “If I didn't know better, I'd say you were storing up those biscuits for winter!"
Caite laughed ruefully. “I have a frightful appetite, Cooky, and always have. Since coming to Heatherfield, though, I seem to be hungrier than ever! It must be your delicious cooking."
"Oh, pish-tosh! It is flattered he is, Caitleen, and don't let him be telling you otherwise,” Lorna said, shaking her finger scoldingly at her husband. “Do not be teasing Caitleen, Albert."
Impulsively, Caite hugged the both of them. “No, Albert, keep teasing me. Nobody ever teased me at home. I like it."
To Caite's surprise, the jolly cook blushed. “Well, then, Miss Caite, ‘twould be my pleasure to tease you anytime you feel like it."
"And he'll be doing it, too.” Lorna pinched her husband's reddened cheek. “He's an awful tease, my Albert."
Taking the bag of scraps from Lorna, Caitleen sat down at the long dining table. Lorna had already shown her the pattern for the quilt. They would be making a carpenter's wheel quilt, pieced in every color of the rainbow. Their first task would be to sort the scraps they planned to use by color.
"This is going to be a beautiful quilt.” Caite sighed, thinking for a moment it could have been her quilt. The thought did not make her melancholy. Everything had worked out for the best, so far at least. She still felt a little strange staying in the home of the man who was supposed to marry her, but she was getting used to it.
As if she had guessed Caite's thoughts, Lorna reached out and patted the younger woman's hand. “You will be having your own wedding quilt one day, Caitleen."
Caite paused in her sorting for a moment. “I'm not so certain of that, Lorna."
"Nonsense!” Lorna placed a square of red gingham on top of a pile of other red fabrics. “You will meet a man who is to be perfect for you, and then you will wish to wed him."
"Perhaps marriage is not for me,” Caite argued. She separated a large piece of green muslin from a darker blue scrap of corduroy. “After all, look how my first attempt turned out."
When Lorna did not answer, Caite looked up from her task to see the older woman looking quite chagrined. Realizing her comment had made Lorna uncomfortable, Caite patted Lorna's hand.
"I was joking.” Caite laughed to show Lorna she meant the truth.
Lorna sighed and shook her finger. “You should not be fooling old Lorna so, Caite."
The two continued separating scraps of dresses, shirts, skirts and trousers. Caite even found some material left over from the upholstery on the living room chairs. She fingered a piece of pale blue, watered silk. She knew it had come from a fancy dress. She wondered if the dress had belonged to Patricia.
"How did you and Albert meet?” she asked casually, forcing the thought of Jed's wife from her mind. It mattered not a whit to her if he had dressed her from head to toe in silks or satins, or if he had covered her with jewels. Resolutely, she put the silk aside and dug into the scrap bag again.
Lorna sighed, this time in dreamy recollection. “I was a young girl, just arrived in New York. My parents found us a place very close to the factories where we would all be finding work. Albert and his parents were living in the apartment next door."
"And you fell in love right away?"
"Not right away, no,” Lorna replied. “We did fight something fierce for many months before I was knowing it was love."
"And how did you know it was love?"
"Oh, my dear—” Lorna chuckled. “When you fall in love, you will be knowing it. Like a lightning bolt, it did hit me, the first time he kissed me."
Suddenly, the memory of Jed's mouth slanted across hers consumed her. She could taste him, nearly smell him even, and her breasts suddenly ached as if his hands were touching her there. Was that a lightning bolt then?
"Surely it's not like that for everyone,” she forced herself to say, pushing the thoughts of Jed from her mind as best she could.
"Perhaps not,” Lorna agreed, and Caite decided not to take the conversation any further.
The pair worked in companionable silence for another few minutes, sorting the cloth by color, and in some cases, material. The work soothed Caitleen, who had spent many hours at Serenity piecing quilts with Gerda and Maisie, or even occasionally a group of girls from St. Mary's church. Before, of course, her father's gambling and drinking so scandalized everyone that Caite O'Neal was banned from their quilting parties.
Caite felt a twinge of bitterness at the memory, but let it pass. She supposed she could not blame those women for not allowing their daughters to visit Serenity. One could never be sure Desmond O'Neal would be sober, after all, and they certainly would not wish such behavior to influence their tender and impressionable young daughters. Still, the memory stung. Her father's behavior had caused her more than one lonely Sunday afternoon.
"It is too bad,” Lorna remarked suddenly, sifting through the several piles of scraps they had made.
Caite was startled out of her reverie. Although she knew Lorna could not possibly have known her thoughts, the woman's comment had been completely appropriate. “Pardon?"
Lorna indicated the bundles of colored cloth strewn over the dining table. “We do not have enough pretty cloth for the border and center pieces."
Caite perused the cloth spread out before her. Already she could picture the finished quilt in her mind by looking at the color combinations they had lain out. It was going to be a lovely wedding quilt—one she was sure Sally would treasure. Lorna was right, however. They did not have enough cloth in just the right color to make the quilt's border and center.
"Yes, we do,” Caite declared determinedly, getting up from the table. “I shall be right back."
Going straight to her room, Caite opened her trunk. Inside was the only item she had not unpacked. Carefully pulling her mother's Sunday dress out of the layers of tissue in which she had wrapped it, Caite unfolded it and gently shook the wrinkles from the delicate cloth. She allowed her fingers to caress the rose-patterned silk for an instant, lingering briefly at the exquisitely hand-sewn ribbon rosebuds along the neck and hemlines. Then she hung the dress over her arm and went back to the kitchen.
"I think this rose silk will look perfectly lovely against the other colors,” Caite announced cheerfully, laying the beautiful dress down on the table for Lorna to see. “Where are your scissors, Lorna?"
Lorna gasped, touching the dress with the tips of her fingers. “Caitleen! Your beautiful dress!"
"It was my mother's dress,” Caite explained, searching for Lorna's scissors amongst the piles of cloth. “It was going to be my wedding dress, but..."
Lorna's second gasp interrupted her, but Caite continued as if she had not heard. “...but I am no longer getting married, so I think it will be a perfect addition to the quilt,” she finished.
At last finding the scissors, she prepared to begin cutting down the dress. Lorna stopped the first cut by grabbing the scissors from Caite's hand.
"You will be doing no such thing!” Lorna pulled the dress off the table and folding it with gentle hands. “Such a dress is not to be made into scraps, no matter how lovely it will be looking in the quilt!"
"Lorna, I'm touched you want me to keep the dress, but I do not need it. Besides—” Caite laughed unconvincingly. “—it is hopelessly out of fashion. I could never wear it anyway."
"No.” Lorna firmly waved away Caite's attempts to take the dress. “I will not allow it. We will be finding other material for the quilt."
Caite sighed. “All right, Lorna. We won't cut it up."
"Good.” Lorna nodded firmly. “I think we can to be starting the laying out of the pattern, then."
I really don't want the dress, Caite thought, taking it anyway and putting it back into her trunk. Not when it reminded her so much of what might have been.
"Get ‘im, Shorty!"
Jed's shout rang out through the corral as he watched Shorty, astride Pinta, trying to rope the calf. As he watched, the wily animal dodged another throw of Shorty's rope and ran between the pinto mare's legs. The mare squealed, as if to scold the calf and Shorty both, and Jed's laughter rumbled out of him.
"Jed?"
He turned, the smile still full on his face. To give himself credit, he barely flinched when he saw Caitleen standing along the fence beside him. Heatherfield agrees with her, he thought, noting how the faded gingham work dress she wore clung to every curve. She had filled out some since he'd met her.