Redemption
And wasn’t that the truth? She’d heard the murmurs behind her in the store yesterday, and noted the sidelong glances of ladies as she passed them on the sidewalk. It could not be helped, she decided. The welfare of a child was more important than any gossiping females.
Jake turned his chair and rolled it toward the parlor, Jason scampering ahead of him, and Alicia followed in their wake. The boy was industriously picking up an assortment of objects from the couch when she stepped into the room, and he dropped them with a total lack of ceremony onto the floor in one corner.
Jake looked her way and for a moment they seemed to be in tune, both aware of Jason’s meager attempts at straightening up the room.
“Have a seat, ma’am,” Jason told her, waving at the couch, where an unoccupied cushion awaited her. Even as she watched, his eyes filled with hesitant light, as if he feared her mission might prove to be not to his liking. “I haven’t done anything bad this week, have I?” he asked.
She shook her head and smiled, sensing that he’d feared that very thing. “No, you’ve been an exemplary student for the past couple of days, Jason. I appreciated the papers you turned in to me. They’ll help your grades enormously.”
“What’s exemplary?” he asked with a frown.
“It’s a word we’re going to use in our spelling lesson on Monday,” she told him. “If you know the meaning by then, you’ll receive extra credit.”
She looked at Jake McPherson then, wondering if he saw the boy as she did. If he noticed the ragtag appearance of the child, or if he just didn’t care. If he took note of the extraordinary intelligence that gleamed from his blue eyes when they weren’t dulled with unhappiness. Then she steeled herself, putting her plan in motion.
“I received a visit from your brother,” she announced tentatively. “He told me you were looking for someone to help out with Jason. A woman who would see to him choosing new clothing at the general store, maybe arrange for a haircut, or whatever else he needs.”
And for the life of me, I don’t know why I volunteered for the job.
“Cord told you that?” The subdued tone of Jake’s voice was a cover for anger. She could see it in the flush that touched his cheekbones, the flaring of his nostrils and the glare of fury that shone from his eyes. He wouldn’t be smiling today.
“Well,” she began, hedging a bit. “He didn’t say it in so many words. Just suggested that you might be amenable to accepting my help.”
The man looked her over then as if he saw her as a slab of meat in the butcher shop on Main Street. Disdain marked his face, disapproval glittered from his eyes. She felt the brunt of both as if a sharp knife had stabbed her, slicing her good intentions to ribbons. She was no raving beauty—her own mother had told her that more than once—but she was presentable.
“And you think you qualify as an expert when it comes to young boys?” Jake asked with a cynical smirk. “How many children do you have, Miss Merriweather?”
She dropped her gaze to her lap, noting that her fingers were twisting together in an agony of embarrassment. She lifted her chin and met his eyes head-on. “None, of course. As you very well know. But I’ve worked with children for almost ten years, Mr. McPherson. I’d say I have a fair amount of experience.”
“Enough to take on the raising of my son?” he asked.
“I’m not asking for that position,” she told him forcefully. “I have no intention of interfering with the job you’re doing. I only thought to lend a hand.”
“You don’t have enough to keep you busy at that schoolhouse?” he asked sharply. “You need to spend your leisure time offering to tend to your pupils in lieu of finding a husband and having your own crop of children to raise?”
“The chances are very slight of my finding a husband and having a family of my own, sir,” she managed to say with a reasonable amount of clarity. “I’m sure you don’t mean to be insulting, but your remarks are venturing in that direction.”
Jake tilted his head and looked at her as if she were a specimen under a microscope and he was trying to distinguish her species. “Do you always talk that way, Miss Merriweather, or is it just with me that you use such highfalutin language?”
She bit at her lip. “I speak the way I was taught to speak,” she told him. “My parents were educators and raised me to be a schoolteacher. I had a good education in preparation for my life’s work.”
“Didn’t your mother ever consider the idea of you getting married and having that family we spoke of?” He leaned back in his chair and watched her closely, deciding that the flush she wore made her look almost…pretty. He cleared his throat and looked down. Damn, sharp tongue and all, she was more appealing than he’d thought.
Alicia felt heat climb her cheeks, knew she was blushing furiously and yet refused to look away from the man. “I think it’s an insult for you to even suggest such a thing,” she announced.
His gaze found her again. “You’re a woman, aren’t you?” His eyebrow twitched, and his mouth followed suit, as if he mocked her. Not quite a smile, but almost.
“A woman, yes. But perhaps not the sort of female who appeals to men who are looking for a girl to marry.”
“What sort of female are you?”
As if he cared, she thought. The man was being downright rude, perhaps wishing he could push her from this room, out the front door and away from his house merely by his behavior. She would not allow it. Not until she’d had her say. If he refused her help, so much the better, as far as she was concerned at this very moment.
“What sort of female am I? I’m a schoolteacher-sort, Mr. McPherson. I’ve never planned on marriage. At my age, it’s out of the question, anyway.”
“How old are you?”
Rude. The man was rude beyond belief! “How old are you?” she countered smugly.
“Thirty-nine,” he said. “Not that that has any bearing on the subject.”
He looked at her expectantly. “Your age, Miss Merriweather?”
None of your business. The words were alive in her mind, but refused to make their way to her lips. Instead, she found herself obediently blurting out the truth. “Thirty. I’m thirty years old,” she said firmly. “On the shelf, I suppose it’s called.”
“Surely there’s been some farmer in need of a woman, or a parson looking for a helpmate,” he said, emphasizing the words that he obviously thought described her best.
“Apparently not,” she said, refusing to rise to his bait. “Had such a man offered for me, I doubt I’d have accepted. My future does not lie in raising a brood of children whose mother had the good sense to desert them, and leaving myself open to being used as a slave by their father.”
“Not all children left alone have been deserted by their mothers,” Jake said harshly. “On occasion, such women are stricken by illness, and they’ve been known to die, leaving their households without a woman’s touch.”
Alicia felt pain strike her, the aching knowledge that she’d hurt another person with no reasonable excuse. She’d spoken out of turn because of her anger with this man.
“I apologize, Mr. McPherson,” she said quietly, unable to look into his face but unwilling to remain silent when an apology was in order.
“I’m not sure why you think I merit such a thing,” he answered. “It seems we strike sparks from one another, Miss Merriweather. I was equally at fault.”
She looked up at him then, shocked by his words, stunned by the reasonable tone of voice he used. His face had lost just a bit of its stony demeanor; his eyes were narrowed as he looked her over. The change was quite disarming.
CHAPTER THREE
THE WOMAN HAD DUG DEEPLY beneath his skin. He’d been angry for three solid years, yet the emotion he’d bent in her direction today had made his fury during that time seem as nothing. Still, she’d tossed his anger back at him, as if she were untouched by his words. As a result he’d been unkind and insulting, to use her own description of his remarks.
Alicia Merriweather rubbed him the wrong way, and yet he felt a sense of anticipation as he thought of her next visit. Perhaps she would not return, and at that notion, he rued his bad temper.
Never in Jake’s life had he been so abrupt. Except for the early days, before the time when Rena had come back to him—those days when he’d made Cord’s new bride the target of his anger, reducing her life to a living hell for a matter of long weeks.
He thought of his brother’s wife, of the changes she’d made to his life, and then his mind compared her to the woman who had so recently left his home. Rachel was sweet, caring and petite, a woman who inspired a man to watch over her, as did Cord. Yet she was feisty, as Jake had reason to know.
On the other hand, he’d seldom seen so capable a woman as Alicia Merriweather. She was tall, big boned, and bore her weight well. He’d had a second look today. The dress she’d worn had fit somewhat better than the one she’d had on the last time she’d been here. It wasn’t too difficult to acknowledge the fact that there was, indeed, a waistline beneath its enveloping folds. Her hands were capable, her nails short, her fingers long and tapered. Her hair was nondescript in color. Brown was as close as he could come to describing it. Yet he wondered if it wouldn’t gleam with red undertones in the sunlight.
Jake shook his head. Of all the foolishness in the world, this really took the cake. Miss Merriweather was a self-proclaimed spinster. And yet, he vowed the next time he saw her, he’d coax a smile from those soft lips. Soft lips?
He shook his head at his fanciful thoughts. After all, her one redeeming feature was the fact that she seemed to truly like Jason. Make that two redeeming features, he decided with a satisfied nod of his head. She knew how to argue, and wasn’t afraid to open her mouth. A quality he admired in any human being. Rena had never allowed him to run roughshod over her, had always been vocal about her views and opinions.
Rena. My God. He bowed his head. He hadn’t known he would miss her so much. His teeth clamped together as he fought the sudden despair that gripped him.
“Pa?” From the doorway behind him, he heard Jason speak to him, and he blinked against the hot tears that threatened to unman him.
“Yes, Jason?” Was that his voice, that calm uttering of his son’s name?
“Pa, how come you and Miss Merriweather were fighting all the time she was here?” Jason sounded almost…bereft, Jake thought. And that would never do.
He turned his chair and fought for a smile. “I’ve always enjoyed a good argument, son,” he said. “I suspect Miss Merriweather does, too. I know it got a bit out of hand, but it’s all repaired now.”
“Pa? Have you thought about what she said? About taking me to the store for clothes? And to the barber for a haircut?” He thought a note of pleading touched Jason’s words, and he shot the boy a long look. Jason slouched in the doorway in a casual manner, but beneath his spoken queries lay a hope he could not hide.
“I’ve thought about it,” Jake answered. “Is that what you’d like to have happen?”
Jason shrugged as if it were of no matter to him, one way or the other. “I guess I wouldn’t mind if she took me, so long as she walked behind me or in front of me, or some way didn’t let everybody know she was takin’ care of me.”
The boy looked so earnest now, Jake almost smiled.
“I wouldn’t care, not for myself, but I wouldn’t want folks to be thinking she was trying to act like my mother. You know? They might not be nice to her.”
“Let’s send her a note, Jason.”
In an attempt that appeared aimed at hiding his pleasure at Jake’s announcement, Jason merely shrugged. “I’m goin’ outside, Pa. Just call me when you’ve got it ready, and I’ll take it to her,” Jason offered. Quite a turnabout for the boy.
Jake thought of what he might say in such an epistle. Something that would signify his change of heart, without letting her know he’d be beholden to her should she accept the task. He wheeled his chair to the dusty desk in one corner of the parlor. The rolltop slid up readily and he found a writing tablet there. A small bottle of ink and his pen lay beside it, both of them unused for so long. He’d had no reason to write a note to anyone in that length of time. Perhaps the ink had dried out.
He drew the paper before him and dipped the pen into the inkwell, pleased that it came out stained darkly. How to begin? Dear Miss Merriweather… Perhaps. Then again, she wasn’t his dear anything, now that he thought about it.
Alicia. There, that looked fine. Not that she’d given him leave to call her by her given name, but he’d managed to fight with the woman. Twice, for pity’s sake. That ought to entitle him to some small bit of intimacy.
And at that word, he stilled. Intimacy. He’d only thought it, not spoken it aloud, but the result was the same. How on God’s green earth could he think of Alicia Merriweather and intimacy in the same breath? She was a female intent on spinsterhood, a woman determined to make inroads on his life, and more frightening yet, he was on the verge of inviting her to do that very thing.
Jake pushed his chair away from the desk and looked across the room. The draperies were closed, only a crack of sunshine peeking through a place where the two panels didn’t quite cover the window. Cord’s words reverberated in his mind.
You need to open these windows and let the breeze blow through.
Rena would be heartsick if she could see her house as it was today. Just three summers past, the windows had gleamed from her efforts with vinegar and water. The floors had been burnished to a fare-thee-well, and even when the wheels of his chair had sometimes marred the surface, she’d only brought out her cloth and worked for scant moments on the trail he’d left behind, and then bent to kiss him as she passed his way.
He rolled closer to the window, tugged ineffectively at the heavy drapery and watched as a cloud of dust rose in the air. Another tug brought the rod tumbling to the floor and he winced as bright sunlight flooded the parlor.
Now, isn’t that better? He looked around quickly, for a moment convinced he’d heard her beloved voice. And then a flurry of movement from the yard caught his eye and he groaned aloud. Mrs. Blaine, a widow who had worked for him for all of three days, was marching with a militant stride up his front walkway. Even as she halted before the door, just out of his sight, he heard the back door open stealthily and his hackles rose.
“Mr. McPherson! I know you’re in there. Come and open this door.”
The woman had a voice loud enough to wake the dead, he thought, his ever-present anger fueled by the demanding tone. His chair rolled across the parlor floor and into the hallway. The doorknob turned at his touch and he looked up at the Widow Blaine’s furious face.
“Your boy has really done it this time!” Mrs. Blaine announced, her nostrils flaring, her teeth set rigidly. “If you don’t do something about him, the law is going to get involved.”
Jake sat glumly in his chair, wondering what Jason could possibly have done to infuriate the woman so. He raised his hand to cut her off mid-tirade. “What did Jason do, ma’am? And when did he do it?”
“What did he do?” Her voice elevated with each word.
“That’s what I asked you,” Jake said softly.
“I don’t need to listen to your smart mouth, Mr. McPherson. I worked in this house. I know the sort of man you are and what you expect of your help. And I certainly know that your son is capable of any number of pranks.”
“What did he do?” Jake asked again, his voice a bit stronger, his anger beginning to match that of the woman before him.
“He tore up my vegetable garden. That’s what he did. The tomatoes were just about ready to put in mason jars and the corn was ready to pick.” She took a deep breath. “On top of that, he tore down my scarecrow.”
“When did he do this?” Jake asked mildly, hoping against hope that Jason was not the culprit, and fearful that he was.
“Just about an hour ago,” she said.
Relief ran through his veins. “How do you know it was my son?’ he asked.
She sniffed, her gaze triumphant. “I saw him myself, a boy with a blue shirt and brown hair. Watched him run from my backyard, I did.”
Jake smiled grimly. “I’ll warrant there are a number of boys Jason’s size with blue shirts and brown hair.” He looked back over his shoulder, and his voice rose as he called his son’s name. “Jason? Come out here.”
Wearing a brown shirt, Jason came through the kitchen door and down the hall.
“Did you tear up Mrs. Blaine’s garden?” Jake asked him.
“No, sir,” the boy answered. “I’ve been here since school got out.” He looked at the Widow Blaine. “You can ask my teacher. She was here and we was talkin’ for a long time with my Pa.”
“Did you change your shirt within the past thirty minutes?” Mrs. Blaine asked, her eyes moving over the boy’s form.
“No, ma’am,” he answered politely. “I’ve worn this one all day long. Yesterday, too.” He thought for a moment. “Maybe the day before, too.”
Jake winced at that revelation. “Does that answer your question, Mrs. Blaine?” he asked, motioning Jason to step closer. From his chair he drew the boy to his side, his long arm circling the narrow shoulders, his hand gripping Jason’s upper arm. “You’re welcome to check with Miss Merriweather if you like. I think you’ll find she’ll verify my son’s story.”
“Well, I know what I saw,” Mrs. Blaine said with a good amount of righteous indignation. Turning on her heel, she stepped from the porch, almost tripping over the broken step. Only a quick grab at the railing stopped her from landing head over heels on the sidewalk.
She turned back and shook her finger at Jake, a good imitation of a schoolmarm if he ever did see one. “This place is a disgrace. You need to get it fixed up.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jake called after her as she stormed off. “Just as soon as I get my new legs I’ll do that very thing.”
“What new legs, Pa?” Jason asked softly, bending to look into his father’s face.
“I was being sarcastic,” Jake told him. “Joking.”
“You never joke around, Pa.” The boy looked dubious and Jake reached up to touch Jason’s face with his fingertips.
“Do you know that I love you, son?” he asked. “I know I don’t tell you often, but I do.”
“I don’t remember you ever tellin’ me that,” Jason said bluntly. “You just holler a lot. Especially when we get a new housekeeper.”
“Yes, I suppose I do,” Jake said. Frustration struck him a low blow as he shut the door, lending it a push that vibrated through the floorboards. He turned his chair back to the parlor and rolled to his desk. The single sheet of paper lay there with but a single word written on the top line. Without a word, he picked it up and crumpled it in his hand.
He would not, could not ask the woman to take Jason in hand. It would not only ruin her reputation to be hanging around his house, but make him look like an absolute failure as a father. He could not transfer his responsibility so readily, let her take the boy shopping, tend to his needs. Some way, he’d figure out another plan.
“I KNEW the meaning of it, Pa.” Jason’s eyes were bright with the joy of accomplishment as he waved his spelling paper before Jake’s face. “See, there it is. Exemplary. I knew how to spell it, too.”
The moments spent with the boy late last evening had borne results, Jake thought, and for a moment he shared Jason’s exhilaration. The spelling paper bore a bright red score at its top. An A was written with a flourish there, and Jake looked at the precise lines of the grade Miss Merriweather had given the boy.
“I’m proud of you, son,” Jake said, holding the paper in his lap. He wondered when he’d last said those words to the boy.
“Are you, Pa? Really?” The brown shirt was dingy from wear. How many days had Jason donned it early in the morning. Four? It exuded an odor of boyish sweat and a definite doggy smell.
“I think you might want to put that shirt in the trash bin,” Jake told him. “How about you taking a bath today?”
“A bath?” Jason cringed. “It’s only Thursday, Pa. I took a bath last Saturday.”
“No,” Jake said, correcting him. “It was a week ago Saturday, I believe.”
“I don’t think it’s healthy to be scrubbin’ up all the time,” Jason said earnestly. “It lets all the germs into your skin.”
“What do you know about germs?” And where on earth had he gotten that idea?
“Miss Merriweather has been teachin’ us about science stuff.”
“Well, if you ask your teacher, I’m sure she’ll tell you that a little soap and water never hurt anyone.” His words were firm, implying a stance he would not budge from, and Jason appeared to get the message.
“Do I hafta get the tub out? Or can I just wash in the basin like you do?”
“I wash in the basin because I can’t get in and out of the tub easily,” Jake told him, and wished for a moment that he might soak his body beneath hot water and allow the warmth to penetrate his skin.
“I could help you,” Jason offered, and Jake was hard put not to smile at the eager offer. The boy would collapse under his father’s weight should he attempt such a project.
“Let’s just concentrate on your own.”
Jason’s shoulders slumped as the ultimatum was delivered, and he trudged away toward the kitchen. “I’ll get out the kettles to heat the water,” he muttered.
Then Jake could only hold his breath and watch as his son poured the hot water into the round wash tub. The chance of Jason being scalded was slim, since they only heated the water until it was barely hot enough to allow steam to rise. The danger was in the kettles, and the fact that Jason was not tall enough to handle them readily.
Another housekeeper was becoming a necessity, Jake decided. The boy was in need of help. He scanned his mind for another prospect for the job, and came up blank. As Cord had said, he’d already gone through all the widow ladies and the women who were willing to work outside their own homes. His reputation had been blackened by the stories those women told—tales of his foul moods, the angry tirades he’d aimed in their direction when they’d attempted to open the windows and doors.
Jake looked now out of the single window that bore no covering to soften the glare of sunlight through fly-speckled panes. Rena would be aghast at the sight.
His chair rolled across the bare, wooden floor to the second window and he grasped the draperies in his fist, and tugged them from their moorings until they landed with a muffled thud on the floor. Somehow the act was satisfying, as if he rebelled against the darkness that had gripped him for so long.
“What’cha doin’, Pa?” Jason stood in the doorway, wide-eyed and pale, as if the disturbance in the parlor had frightened him.
“Your uncle Cord told me we needed to open the windows in here,” Jake told him. “Do you think you can push them up? Let some fresh air in?”
“I can try.” And wasn’t that the crux of the matter? Jake thought. If the boy was willing to try to change things, how could his father do any less?
“Let me know when the water’s hot and I’ll come out to the kitchen and help you,” he told Jason. “In the meantime I’m going to write a note to Miss Merriweather, and once you get cleaned up, you can deliver it.”
“I’m gonna get new clothes?”
Jake looked at the shaggy locks that covered Jason’s head and hung against his collar. “And a haircut,” he said firmly.
CAN YOU COME BY to talk with me?
The note was brief and to the point, Alicia thought, and looked into Jason’s face, aware that his eyes shone with a hopeful light. The man hadn’t even had the courtesy to sign his name, she thought, exasperation making her cross. It would do no good, though, to take it out on the boy.
“Tell your father I’ll come by tomorrow at suppertime.” A sudden urge prodded her to action. “Tell him I’ll bring a picnic with me. We can eat in the parlor.”