Heartland Courtship by Lyn Cote

*
    Brennan stood at the bar, staring at Sam, unable to talk.
    “What is it, Merriday?” Sam asked with concern. “You look like you seen a ghost.”
    Brennan’s mind felt like scrambled eggs. He braced his good palm against the bar, trying to get hold of himself. He’d sought this place to hide while he dealt with this turn of events. The expression on Miss Rachel’s face when she heard Jean Pierre... He shook his head as if that would shake it loose.
    “Is that kid really yours?” Levi in his leather apron asked the words before he even cleared the doorway.
    “What kid?” Sam asked. “What did I miss?”
    Brennan stared at the blacksmith he’d come to like and shook his head as if coming up from underwater. Was this boy his? “Gotta go.”
    He started up the road toward Miss Rachel’s at full steam but faltered, his mind dragging him back in time. Something like the Gulf surf roared in his ears. His senses reeled. As from far away he glimpsed familiar faces, then the blows began falling on him, forcing him to fight...
    He shouted aloud, “No!”
    The present sounds returned to normal, birds in the trees, squirrels chattering. The roaring in his ears receded. He bent and braced his good hand on his knee, panting for air. The urge to turn and run and keep running rolled over him. He stood his ground.
    Could it be possible? Had Lorena borne him a son before she died? When he’d gone back to Mississippi after the war, why hadn’t anybody told him? He recalled the bitter words and the sneering faces he’d encountered while trying to find out if his wife still lived and if she needed anything. They’d told him Lorena had died and they had literally run him out of town at gunpoint.
    And now he must face this child who—if he was really his son—probably hated him, too. And what did Miss Rachel think about him and this boy?
    * * *
    Wondering when Mr. Merriday would appear, Rachel halted Jacque at her door, seizing upon everyday needs to show her concern. Brennan must face this problem, but would he?
    “Jacque, please wash thy hands before entering.” She gestured toward the outdoor washbasin with its bar of yellow soap and linen towel on the peg.
    “Why?”
    “Because I promised thee sponge candy and one must eat only with clean hands.”
    The boy began to wash his hands that appeared to have several layers of dirt on them.
    When he reached for the towel before he’d worked his way through all the layers, she shook her head. “Keep washing till they are completely clean.”
    He glared at her but obeyed, his stomach growling. Finally clean skin appeared.
    Rachel nodded.
    He dried his hands and stalked into her cabin.
    “Come back and toss the water onto my flowers,” she said, standing patiently outside.
    He did so, glaring more, his stomach growling more.
    Then she motioned him inside. “I think more than just candy would be good for thee. Nibble on this while I fry some eggs.” She handed him a cinnamon roll.
    He ate it in two bites, standing.
    “Sit at the table, please.” Then she set her cast-iron skillet back on her stove, stirred up the fire and began cracking eggs. She stopped at four, not wanting to make him sick. The boy looked starved. “Hard or soft?”
    “Hard.”
    She soon set a plate with the four fried eggs and another cinnamon roll in front of him. She added a glass of fresh milk from deep in her root cellar.
    Before she finished her silent grace, Jacque began to gobble the food.
    She studied his face, trying to discern any resemblance to Mr. Merriday. “Slow down, please. There will be two more meals today and snacks if thee needs them.”
    “You talk funny.”
    “Thee do also,” she replied, alluding to his thick Southern accent. “Slow down and chew the food. Don’t make thyself sick.”
    “You’re not my aunt or anythin’.” He sent her an aggrieved look.
    Rachel reached over and pulled the plate from him. “I am the one who cooked breakfast. Sitting at my table means