Ripples Along the Shore (11 page)

“That’s Jack Rafferty’s sister.”

“In-law. Caroline Milburn.” Garrett stepped away from his wagon for a better look. “You know the dandy she’s with?”

“Yep.” Captain Pete scratched the white swirl of hair on his head. He let out a long, pained breath. “Thought everybody knew about him. Name’s Lewis G. Whibley.”

“Has a reputation?”

“Gambler and confidence man. Heard he could sell a plow to a sea captain.” Pete spit a brown streak on the sand. “What’s a fine eastern lady like her doin’ with a rogue like him?”

Garrett rubbed the back of his neck. “Good question.” And he’d make it his job to find out. Apparently, Caroline Milburn would require less looking after if she was on the trail.

He slapped his hat back onto his head. Since when was it his job to care for her, anyway?

Didn’t matter. His job or not, he probably began to care for the young widow the moment she rejected him at the wheel of her sister’s wagon, his punishment for having been a Confederate soldier.

Fourteen

C
aroline jerked her arm from the man’s hand, then slapped his smug face. Gloves would’ve protected her fingers from the sting but robbed her of the assurance that Lewis G. Whibley had felt pain too.

She took quick steps down the deck, her boot heels tapping the teakwood in rhythm with her staccato heartbeat. So much for her leisurely stroll to Heinrich’s store. She’d definitely taken the long way—seemed the only path God allowed her. No shortcuts. No easy way out of grief.

Or imprudence.

Standing at the bottom of the ramp, Caroline noted the freighter docked beside the
New Era
. Then she saw the wagon parked at the end of its stage, with two men standing beside it, one of them being the seemingly ever-present Mr. Garrett Cowlishaw. He wasn’t smiling. And neither was she.

Not only did life not afford her any shortcuts, but she was forced to battle demons at every turn. Looking straight ahead, she kept a steady pace until she turned up Jackson Street to Main. Shopkeepers swept the boardwalks outside their doors. Flower boxes brimmed with fresh soil. Businessmen scurried to and fro. Caroline dodged a fully harnessed stuffed horse in front of the saddlery shop. A few doors down, she stepped into Heinrich’s Dry Goods and Grocery.

The bell jangling overhead seemed intent on fraying her last nerve. Drawing in a deep breath, she made certain her hair was in place. Emilie’s father stacked canvas duck overcoats at the end of the counter. Another item she recognized from Mr. Cowlishaw’s list of provisions.

Straightening his back, Mr. Heinrich peered at her over the wire rims of his spectacles. “You’re a welcome sight, Mrs. Milburn.”

“As are you, sir. Thank you.” She looked toward the office. “Is Emilie working today?”

“Not this morning. She needed a book from the college library, so she’s studying at Lindenwood. Married life and higher education are keeping her busier than ever.”

Caroline nodded, noting the piles of merchandise needing to be put away.

“Is there something I can help you with?” He glanced at her reticule. “Did your sister send you with a list?”

“No sir.” She swallowed her hesitation. “I mean, yes. I think you can help me. No, I don’t have a list.”

His white eyebrows arched.

“I wondered if perhaps you might have work. For me.”

“Might I?” A generous smile deepened the creases at his blue eyes. “When can you start?”

The bell drew her gaze to the door. Mr. Cowlishaw stepped inside, his face stormy.

In no mood to receive any comments on her presence at the waterfront, Caroline nodded a greeting that she hoped told Garrett she was busy, then returned her attention to Mr. Heinrich.

“Tomorrow?” When Garrett Cowlishaw was nowhere in sight.

“Tomorrow is Thursday.” Mr. Heinrich seemed as distracted as she was by Garrett’s apparent pacing. “What about the quilting circle?”

“I need the work.”

Mr. Heinrich looked past her. “Do you have unfinished business with Mr. Cowlishaw?”

“It can wait.” He could wait.

“Tomorrow, it is.” Mr. Heinrich held his hand out to her, and she shook it. “You, Mrs. Milburn, are a godsend.”

“So are you, Mr. Heinrich. So are you.” Her a godsend? A burden, yes. And apparently an equal annoyance to the man expelling hot air behind her.

“Mrs. Milburn.”

She slowly turned to face Garrett Cowlishaw. He held his hat to his chest. “Yes, Mr. Cowlishaw?”

“Might I have a word with you?” Garrett tipped his head toward the door. “Outside, perhaps?”

Caroline drew in a deep breath. The man was nothing if not persistent. If he’d followed her here, he wasn’t about to be easily dismissed. She may as well listen to what he thought she needed to hear, then be on her way. She had chores to do before she’d be ready to start her new job come morning. “Yes, a word would be possible. If you don’t mind waiting outside for a moment or two.”

He gave her a quick nod and waved at Mr. Heinrich before taking long strides out the door.

When the bell silenced, Mr. Heinrich slid his spectacles down the bridge of his nose and looked at her. “He’s a good man, that Garrett Cowlishaw.”

A good man for another woman.

“Is eight o’clock tomorrow morning suitable?”

“Yes. Thank you.” On her way out the door, Caroline breathed a prayer for patience with the man pacing at the street’s edge.

She’d no sooner closed the door behind her than Garrett motioned for her to join him at the far end of the building. When she obliged, he folded his arms, then unfolded them and shoved his left hand into his trouser pocket.

“Do you have something to say? If not—”

“I saw you.”

She lifted her chin. “You have nothing better to do with your time than to spy on me?”

His hazel eyes were more brown than green today. “I like you.”

“You pity me.”

“Now that makes as much sense as a … well, it doesn’t make any sense.” He swatted his leg with his hat, sending dust into the air between them. “Why would I pity a woman as fetching as a sunrise and as strong as a Virginia oak?”

Fetching?
Caroline pressed her lips together against a wall of emotions.
Flattery
. She’d had her fill of it.

“No. I don’t pity you. I truly like you.”

She watched his Adam’s apple bob in a swallow.

“But I don’t like being called ‘vindictive.’ ”

Caroline squirmed, recalling the moment she stormed from The Western House Inn.

“I assure you, I hold no malice toward you. Do you really believe me to be a vindictive man? Cruel and unkind?”

Despite the mid-March chill in the air, the back of her neck warmed. “No.”

His arms relaxed at his side.

“I shouldn’t have said it. I was angry.”

They both took a step closer to the brick building to allow room for an older couple to pass them.

“You were doing your job.” But she didn’t have to like it. Or him. As a matter of fact, she’d rather not.

Thankfully, he was a man who would, in two months, ride out of town with a ragtag collection of wagons while she created store displays of barrels of salted meats and tins of condensed milk.

“You seemed upset. At the river.” Garrett drew in a deep breath and blew it out. “I only wanted to make certain you were all right.”

She nodded and glanced down the street. “I best return home before my sister sends out a search party.”

He smiled. “Of course.” The smile deepened as he doffed his slouch hat.

“Good day.” Caroline turned and took slow steps toward her sister’s house.

How could she be all right if Garrett Cowlishaw was bent on being kind to her—and then leaving her? Phillip had done that.

And she was weary of being left behind.

Garrett watched the chunk of blue cheese melt into the flaky crust on his piece of apple pie. He pulled two forks from the white maple tray in the center of the kitchen table while Mrs. Brantenberg poured steaming coffee into two generous mugs. She returned the pot to the cast-iron stove and joined him at the table. Rutherford and Maren had gone upstairs to tuck little Gabi into bed for the night.

In boyhood, Rutherford had always been more sensible … less of a rebel. It figured that Rutherford would be the one with the family.

Mrs. Brantenberg rested her elbows on the table and peered over the top of her steaming mug. Mist beaded on the wisps of silver hair on her forehead. “Rutherford seems to have his heart set on going west.”

Garrett nodded.

She set the mug down. “Rutherford and my Gretchen had talked about going to California when they first married.”

“And you? How do you feel about the wagon train?”

“Finally, he’s like a son to me again. Maren, a daughter. And Gabi …” She lifted her cup to quivering lips.

Garrett scooped another bite of pie, sweeping his fork to catch a crumb of cheese. “I know Rutherford, ma’am. He wouldn’t leave you behind. You’re a family—the four of you.”

She nodded. “If he decides it is best that we go, we will. But …” The threat of rain moistened her gray eyes. “Life was bad in Germany. Gottfried Duden came to America desperate and returned to our homeland a dream spinner. He wrote a book about the wide expanses of land … the freedoms in America.” She wrapped her hands around the coffee cup.

Garrett swallowed another bite of pie.

“My Christoph dreamed of owning farmland in America and raising our Gretchen in its freedoms. In ’48, we boarded a ship that brought us here. Saint Charles has been our home … my home.” She looked toward the darkened window. “I know the good Lord will provide, but it’s not easy to think of leaving.”

“The war changed everything, ma’am.” Memories tugged at his shoulders. “Reconstruction here will take years. You’ll have military rule in Missouri for a long time. Folks want away from the bushwhackers and jayhawkers. You and your family can start afresh out west.” He hoped the same encouragement was true for him.

Mrs. Brantenberg raised a forkful of apple pie. “Do you still have family in Virginia?”

“No ma’am. My folks both passed.” Garrett straightened the stack of knives in the tray on the table. “My only brother is married with children and living in Florida.” Well, he was, last word Garrett had from the postmaster. Garrett was nearly ready to tell her why he didn’t know this for himself—and why he wasn’t present when his folks died. But instead, he just stared at his empty fork.

“Wide open spaces can only do so much for you, son. Don’t you want a wife and children?”

“I did.”

“Not any longer?”

“I was married.”

Compassion softened the line that framed her mouth. “Did she pass?”

He shook his head. “It wasn’t like that.”

“The war?”

He scraped the rest of the apple filling into a pile. “Mostly me.” He never did measure up. Not in his father’s eyes, nor where his former wife was concerned. He’d also let Caroline Milburn down. On more than one occasion.

No, he was better off alone.

“War can surely divide a family. And in many different ways.”

Giving in to resignation, he lifted his shoulders and let them fall.

“I’m sorry.”

He drew comfort from the compassion he saw on her kind face. “Thank you. I haven’t told Rutherford.”

“You will. When you’re ready.”

Her way of saying it was their secret until then. He couldn’t believe he’d told her and not his best friend. But the widow had a way about her. A mother’s way that his own mother hadn’t possessed, not in his lifetime.

If she’d ever had it before that, his father no doubt squelched it.

Fifteen

C
aroline had lain awake much of the night. When rain wasn’t tapping the roof, she listened to Cora and Mary’s sleep-breathing, a chorus of soft snores and gentle whistles.

Her mind no less active than the night’s sounds, Caroline considered the events of the past several months. Her stagecoach ride to Saint Charles from Philadelphia. Her first tentative ride to the farm to join the quilting circle. Garrett Cowlishaw delivering the news of Phillip’s death in Mrs. Brantenberg’s kitchen. Coffee-time conversations with Jewell, Mrs. Brantenberg, Maren, Emilie, Hattie, and Anna. The children’s laughter. Her vigil at Aunt Inez’s bedside. Gilbert’s suggestion that she go west with the caravan. Mr. Cowlishaw’s resounding “no.” Hearing the same man recite the prayer of confession in the church service. Lewis G. Whibley’s disdain when she’d caught him preying on another widow. Her job …

So many thoughts swirling with the raindrops.

She’d completed her first week of work for Johann Heinrich. Emptied crates of new shoes and boots. Filled out vouchers for folks bartering with eggs and milk. She’d even managed to play a couple of games of checkers with her employer. All in all, a good job for her until she could teach again.

When sleep still refused to pay Caroline a visit, she lit a candle lantern and propped herself on the bed. After reading the fourth chapter of James, she finished her square for the friendship quilt that would travel with those leaving Saint Charles come April.