“A Chinese woman.” Leah waited, holding her breath, for Ellie’s response.
“Leah, people in small towns like Smoke River know the Chinese only from the railroad crews that have passed through. They were seen as ‘different.’ They drank tea, for
one thing. And their clothing was most unusual.”
Leah said nothing. She could do nothing to change her face, but perhaps she could do something else. “I must learn to be American,” she confessed.
Ellie grasped her hand. “I have an idea. After school tomorrow, I want you to come with me to the dressmaker in town. Will you?”
Overcome, Leah could only nod. She squeezed Ellie’s hand. “Yes,” she managed to murmur.
“Three o’clock tomorrow, then. I’ll drive Teddy home in my buggy and we can leave from your place.”
Leah grasped both of Ellie’s hands and squeezed them again. Luck seemed to be smiling on her; she wondered how long it would last.
The rest of the day passed in a blur. Leah skimmed the thick cream off the milk pans and shook it in a glass jar until it thickened into droplets of butter. Next she baked bread—the kind they ate in China. She made it with flour and water, and it came out of the oven hard and flat, like a big rice cracker. Tomorrow she would use it to make toast for
Thad’s breakfast, and she would ask Ellie how to make those messy-looking eggs.
At noon Thad strode in, hung his jacket on the hook by the front door and rubbed his hands in anticipation of dinner.
Leah looked at him blankly. “Dinner? I thought dinner was in the evening. In China we eat only two meals a day, breakfast and…”
Thad noted her cheeks had flushed in embarrassment. For a moment she looked like a frightened young girl, but then her eyes snapped and she pursed her lips. He couldn’t stop looking at her lips. They were the color of Hattie’s roses.
“I made butter this morning,” she announced. “And bread. Could you eat that?”
Hell, no, he couldn’t eat that. A man working a ranch needed fuel, a substantial meal in the middle of the day. But, goodness, the hopeful look on her face made his insides jump.
“Sure,” he said. He reached out to pat her shoulder, and she gave a choked cry and walked right into his arms.
Well, now! Her body trembled like a newborn calf, and he wrapped both arms around her. “Is it Teddy?”
She shook her head, her nose rubbing against his shirtfront.
“School?” Again she shook her head. Thad took a breath. “Is it…me?”
She started to nod, then shook her head so violently he had to grin.
“I know I’m gruff and preoccupied, Leah. I guess I’ve got too much on my mind.”
She tipped her head back and gazed into his eyes. Lord, her eyes were beautiful. “What ‘too much’?”
“Well, there’s Teddy, for one thing. The boy needs to learn some manners.”
Again Leah shook her head. “He knows how to behave, Thad. He does not want to be polite. He does not know what to do about…me.”
Thad could sure understand that; he didn’t know what to do about her, either. He liked holding her, feeling her soft, warm body pressed against his. He thought about kissing her, as he’d done at the church when they were married. He hadn’t expected to soar up to the ceiling at the taste of her lips, and that had scared him.
He jerked his mind away from that kiss. “Then there’s my field of winter wheat, the
one I told you about last night. I worry about what the snow and the rain will do to my crop. Can hardly think about anything else.”
Except her, he admitted to himself. He knew he wasn’t paying much attention to her, but he sure as hell thought about her. How good her hair smelled, like some spicy rosewater with a hint of lemon. How small she was; how physically strong she was in spite of her delicate build. How surprisingly frank she could be. She’d made him laugh more in one day than he had in the last month.
He’d like to take time to talk to her, tell her more about the wheat field he had so much riding on, but so far he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He guessed he was afraid she wasn’t going to like what he was trying to do. Or him.
But he’d married her, hadn’t he? The pain of losing Hattie still sliced at him when he least expected it, but he was not sorry Leah had stumbled into his life. And he wasn’t the least bit sorry he’d brought her to his home and into his son’s life.
And his own. At the moment he felt both disloyal to Hattie and intrigued at the new prospect before him.
“I am a stupid man,” he said against her
temple. He let his hand rest on her hair for a brief moment. “Can’t see what’s right in front of me.”
He’d seen her underwear hanging on the clothesline yesterday evening when he went to do the milking. The little scraps of fabric looked small and dainty—not like a farm wife’s duds. For a moment he’d felt a stab of guilt at admiring them because they weren’t Hattie’s, but they were downright pretty, anyway. So pretty he couldn’t take his eyes off them and he’d tripped over a gopher mound. Dammit, what was right in front of him was…Leah.
They ate in silence, punctuated by the snap of the cracker bread as Leah broke it into chunks. Thad stared at it, then at her. Leah thought the butter and the blackberry jam would help, but it did not seem to. Thad broke the chunks into tiny bits.
Heaven help her, she did not belong here. She did not belong anywhere. In China she was an outcast because of her white skin; here she was not accepted because she had straight black hair and tilted eyes. She hated not belonging, always being on the outside.
Being outside was a cold place. And it was so lonely she wondered if she would survive.
T
hat afternoon Leah swept the floor, dusted the sewing cabinet, laid a fire in the fireplace and straightened the sparse shelf of books. She recognized all the titles; thanks to Father’s supervision of her schooling, she had read every one.
But being well educated had not prepared her for life on an Oregon ranch. What should she cook for Thad’s supper? Beans, perhaps. And more biscuits? She hoped she could remember how to make biscuits.
In the pantry she found the bag of potatoes and a braid of onions and one of garlic; she used both to flavor the beans. Finally she cut up a double handful of apples, loaded the
slices into an iron skillet and sprinkled a mixture of flour, sugar and butter over the top.
Later Ellie stopped by to take Leah to the dressmaker in town. She had made a list of things she needed at the mercantile. Dried beans. Mustard and cinnamon. And green tea. But more than buying supplies, it was the visit to the dressmaker that made her uneasy.
The minute Leah climbed into the small black buggy, Ellie reached over and laid a book in her lap.
“Miss Beecher’s Domestic Receipt-Book,”
she read aloud. “Recipes!” She opened the book at once.
Potato soup. Scalloped potatoes. Strawberry shortcake! “Oh, thank you, Ellie.”
“My mother sent it from Boston,” Ellie said drily as she flapped the horse’s reins. “That is the third cookbook she’s sent since Matt and I were married last summer. It’s yours.”
Leah devoured the book until the buggy pulled up in front of the seamstress’s shop. The painted sign over the display window read
Verena Forester, Dressmaker
. Suddenly Leah’s stomach knotted.
With the recipe book Ellie had given her she could learn to cook the American way. Now she must calm her jittery nerves and learn to dress herself like an American
woman. With Western-style garments, she prayed she would fit in.
At the first tinkle of the bell mounted over the door, Leah felt a surge of hope.
Ellie approached the eagle-eyed woman behind the Butterick pattern stand. “Verena, this is Mrs. Thad MacAllister.”
The woman’s thin eyebrows rose. Her once-dark hair was gray-streaked, and her pinched face was white as flour paste.
“How-do,” she said in a toneless voice.
Leah attempted a smile. “How do you do, Mrs. Forester?”
“It’s
Miss
Forester, if you don’t mind.”
Leah covertly studied the woman while Ellie explained their mission.
“A skirt for Miz MacAllister?” Miss Forester barked. Her voice sounded tight as a Chinese drumhead.
“Yes,” Leah said. “For me.”
“Take off yer coat, then,” Miss Forester snapped.
Leah slipped off the gray wool garment, revealing her boy’s jeans and plaid shirt.
The older woman’s small eyes narrowed. “Huh. Sure could use some advice.” She pulled a tape measure from her pocket and
flicked it around Leah’s waist. “What didja have in mind?”
Leah looked to Ellie for help.
“A plain work skirt, Verena,” the teacher said. “And a shirtwaist.”
“Any lace?”
“Just a bit at the neck, I think. Mrs. MacAllister lives on a—”
“I know right enough where she lives,” Verena declared. “Isn’t like I never heard of Thad MacAllister. Isn’t like I’d forget a man like him. Thad and I are old friends. Good friends.”
Something in the woman’s tone made Leah blanch, but Ellie ignored the dressmaker’s pointed words. “Make the skirt of gray melton cloth, if you have it,” she directed. “And the shirtwaist of…let’s see…percale. Would you have a gray-and-white stripe?”
“Nope.”
“Oh, could it be red-and-white?” Leah blurted. “Red is a very lucky color in China.”
“Ain’t in China now,” Verena muttered. “I have a red striped muslin that’ll do for the likes of you, seein’ as you’re a—”
Ellie jerked her hand away from a bolt of black sateen. “Verena!”
“Ain’t used to Celestials,” Verena mumbled.
“They talk funny. Look funny. Dress funny.”
Leah stepped up to the counter. “I am sorry if it offends you, Miss Forester. If you were in China, I believe
you
would look and sound just as ‘funny’ to the people there.”
Verena glared at her and snapped her jaw shut. Ellie coughed politely. “Could you have the garments ready by Friday?”
“Friday! Well, I dunno. I—”
“Mrs. MacAllister will pick them up on Friday, when she visits the mercantile,” Ellie announced.
“Oh. In that case…I’ve always been happy to see Thad. He’s always been…well, not exactly a stranger.”
The schoolteacher frowned, took Leah’s elbow and firmly steered her out the door. “Let’s have some tea at the hotel, shall we? It may help take the sting out of Verena’s sharp tongue.”
Mute with fury and hurt feelings and questions about Verena Forester she could not articulate, Leah could only nod. They seated themselves at a small table in the hotel dining room and ordered tea.
“What did I do wrong, Ellie?”
“You did nothing wrong. That old maid
was rude and insulting.” An odd expression came over Ellie’s face. “I have just realized something. Verena may be a trial, but I shall never again describe any woman as an ‘old maid.’ For more years than I wish to count, I was considered an old maid, too. It was an extremely unhappy time in my life, but it taught me something.”
Leah folded her hands in her lap. “What did it teach you?”
The plump waitress brought a fat china teapot and two cups.
“Thank you, Rita.” Ellie reached for the teapot. “I learned how people see other people. How unthinking folks can be.”
Leah tried to smile. “What will being insulted by the dressmaker teach me?”
Ellie sipped her tea and set the flowered cup back on its saucer. “Verena is a fine seamstress. And perhaps she has what we call a chip on her shoulder. You see, Verena was close to Thad and Hattie. Perhaps what you learned today was how to pet a porcupine?”
Both women laughed. Even Rita, who was unobtrusively listening by the coffee stand, chuckled and twitched her apron. Verena Forester had sewed it, and the mean-tempered dressmaker had insulted her, as well. “It’s
good enough for a hired hotel waitress,” she’d said. Rita had been too humiliated to respond.
Now the waitress rubbed her palms together. This new woman in town might prove interesting.
That night, following the instructions in Miss Beecher’s recipe book, Leah dumped the entire pot of boiled beans into a baking dish and added some molasses and the mustard she had purchased at the mercantile.
Her reception by Mr. Ness, the proprietor, had been so unfriendly she’d forgotten all the other items on her list except for the mustard. Mr. Ness had insisted she buy the most expensive brand, “imported from France.” Now she wondered if Thad would even notice.
Teddy noticed right away. “What’s that awful smell?” he shouted from his loft.
“Boston baked beans,” Leah answered.
“We don’t live in Boston,” he yelled back. “And I ain’t eating’ any of your stinky ol’ beans.”
Leah sighed and then studied the biscuit dough she had mixed. Let him protest all he wanted; she had found instructions for making biscuits on her own.
Half an hour later she spooned the baked beans onto three plates and arranged two hot,
fresh biscuits alongside each serving. She didn’t have to announce supper was ready; both Teddy and Thad beat her to the table. She noticed their hair was slicked down, their faces were clean and their hands were scarcely dry from washing up at the pump. She added another small log to the firebox and slid her sliced apple crumble into the oven to bake.
Thad downed a forkful of beans while Leah fervently prayed she had followed Miss Beecher’s recipe correctly.
“What in tarnation…?” He scooped up another bite. “What didja put in these, anyway? No beans I ever ate before tasted like these.”
Leah’s heart tumbled down to her slippers. She rose, clenched her hands under her apron and faced him. “I added some mustard. Mr. Ness said it came from France.”
“France, huh?” He gobbled down another bite while Teddy watched.
“Pretty good! Try some, Teddy.”
Teddy picked up his fork but just sat there while his father ate.
“What else does Ness have that comes from France?”
Leah began to relax. “I do not know what else Mr. Ness stocks at his store. He—he
made me feel so unwelcome that I did not look. I walked out.”
“He did, did he?” Thad sent her a questioning glance and broke open one of Leah’s biscuits. The two halves fell into his hands like fluffy white clouds.
“Did Teddy make these?”
“No, I didn’t, Pa. Bet they’re awful, huh?”
Thad shoved in a buttery bite and then closed his eyes. “What do you want to bet, son? This is the best darn biscuit I’ve tasted since—”
He stopped abruptly, opened his eyes and stared at Leah, who was sliding back onto her chair with an odd smile on her face. He couldn’t stop gazing at her; she looked so pleased with herself her cheeks had flushed rose.
Teddy stabbed his fork into his beans and in the next five minutes cleaned his plate faster than Thad had ever witnessed.
“These here are Boston beans,” the boy explained to Thad. “Kin I have seconds?”
Leah sat up straighter, an expression of disbelief in her eyes. Her chest swelled under the red plaid shirt until Thad thought she might pop off a button. He let himself look longer than he should have, then wrenched his attention
back to his plate. What a surprise his new wife was turning out to be.
And then she plopped an oversize spoonful of something that smelled like apples and brown sugar into a bowl, and passed him the cream pitcher. At the first bite, the crispy topping on the dish melted on his tongue. Whatever it was called, it was even better than last night’s tart. Maybe even better than one of Hattie’s apple pies.
He closed his mouth with a snap. Nothing would ever be better than Hattie’s apple pie. Nothing would ever be better than having Hattie in his kitchen, no matter what she cooked.
He finished eating in silence.
After the dishes were washed, Thad noticed Leah pacing from the wide-armed chair to the settle, then back to the chair, while a sullen Teddy dried the plates. She seemed kinda fidgety. She’d been fidgety last night, too, and all at once he thought he knew why.
Going to bed with him made her nervous. He would never force himself on her, but she didn’t know that. He didn’t want to explain his reticence; it had too much to do with Hattie.
It would take time until he could muster the courage to risk his heart again. Something inside
him knotted tight at the thought of caring about Leah too much, but he knew he couldn’t make love with her only for physical release.
Leah’s soft, clear voice startled him out of his meanderings. “I looked over your bookshelf today. Perhaps I could read aloud?”
Thad grabbed at the offered distraction. “Sure. Choose any book you like.”
“I dowanna listen to a dumb old story!” Teddy announced.
Leah sighed. What was it Lao-zu said about progress? Two steps forward, one step backward? With Teddy it seemed
all
the steps were backward.
She ignored the boy’s outburst, sent Thad a half smile and settled his leather-bound copy of
Ivanhoe
in her lap. With a surreptitious glance at Teddy’s hunched shoulders, she began to read.
“In that pleasant district of merry England,” she began, “there extended in ancient times a large forest—”
“Aw, Pa, this is boring.” Teddy stomped across to the loft ladder and started to climb.
“No, it isn’t, son,” Thad returned in a quiet voice. “Just listen.”
Leah skipped some pages ahead. “They stood before the castle of Cedric, a low irregular
building containing several courtyards and turreted and castellated towers.”
Teddy plopped down on the bottom rung of the ladder. “What’s ‘cast’llated’ mean?”
On the back of an old calendar, Thad quickly sketched a castle with square stone towers, surrounded by a moat. “This is where Cedric the Saxon lives. Looks a bit like Scotland,” he commented.
Leah glanced up at him. “You have read this, have you not?”
“Yeah. When I was about Teddy’s age. That copy belonged to my father.”
“What’s a Saxon?” Teddy blurted.
Leah explained about Saxons and Normans, and Thad sketched the Battle of Hastings and a Templar knight in full armor. Teddy pulled his face into a scowl but kept listening.
She continued reading until the boy’s eyelids drooped. Finally, at his father’s suggestion, he dragged his thin frame up the ladder, and Leah found herself alone with Thad.
She waited for him to say something. Instead, he stood up, stuffed his hands in his jean pockets and began to pace from the living room to the kitchen and back, studying the floor.
What was wrong? Why would he not meet her eyes?
“Thad?” He kept pacing.
“Thad, have I done something wrong?” Perhaps she should not have made the biscuits for supper? Or read from
Ivanhoe?
Goodness, there were so many things in America she did not know about. How was she ever going to live in this house with him and his angry, hurting son, in this unfamiliar town, without making mistakes?
“Thad, what have I done?”
He stopped abruptly and swung to face her, his expression shuttered. “Wrong? Leah, you’ve done nothing at all wrong. Except,” he added with a fleeting smile, “maybe yesterday’s coffee.”
“Then why are you walking back and forth like that instead of—”
“Going to bed,” he finished. “Damned if I know. Just worried, I guess.”
“Is it about our marriage? About me?”
“Naw, not about you. Not exactly, anyway. I’ll explain later.”
Before she could think what to say, he was out the front door, his boot heels rapping
down the porch steps. She choked off an involuntary cry.
Something
was
wrong. Something he would not tell her, which made it more disturbing. She could do nothing if she did not know what the problem was. She thought back over the evening. He had liked their supper, or at least she thought he had. And he did like
Ivanhoe
, otherwise he would not have drawn those pictures of the castle.