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No doubt it would irritate Miss Rachel if he went in there. So he strode toward it, reveling in the ability to walk down a street healthy once again. He pushed through swinging doors into the saloon, almost empty in the late morning. A pudgy older man leaned back behind the bar.
“Mornin’,” Brennan greeted him.
“What can I do for you?” the man replied genially.
Brennan approached the bar. “I’m new in town, need a room. You know any place that’d be good for me to ask at?”
They exchanged names and shook hands.
“You’re from the South?” Sam, the barkeep, commented.
“Yeah.” Though bristling, Brennan swallowed a snide reply.
After eyeing him for a few moments, Sam rubbed his chin. “Most shopkeepers have family above their place or build a cabin behind their business. Got a blacksmith-farrier in town. Single. Think he’s got a loft empty. Can’t think of anybody else that has room.”
“Don’t have many businesses in this bump in the road,” Brennan drawled, leaning against the bar, suddenly glad to have someone more like him to talk to. The Whitmores were good folk, but he had to watch his errant tongue around them.
Sam smirked. “You got that right.”
A look of understanding passed between them. Brennan drew in a deep breath. “Thanks for your advice about the room.”
“Glad to help. Drop in some evening and we’ll have a tongue wag.”
After nodding, Brennan headed outside. Miss Rachel probably hadn’t finished in the government office yet. So under the hot sun, he ambled toward the log-constructed blacksmith shop. The clang of metal on metal announced a smithy hard at work. Would the blacksmith be anti-Southerner, too?
He entered the shady interior and fierce heat rushed into his face. A broad-shouldered man in a leather apron pounded an oblong of iron, shaping it into some long-handled tool, sparks flying. Finally, after plunging the tool into a barrel of water, the sweating blacksmith stepped back from his forge. Over the sizzling of the molten iron meeting cold water, he asked, “What can I do for you, stranger?”
Brennan moved forward and offered his hand. “Name’s Merriday. Ah’m lookin’ to rent a room.”
Pulling off leather gloves, the blacksmith gripped his hand briefly. Brennan felt the power of the man in that grip.
“You sound like you’re from the South,” the man observed.
“I am.” Brennan said no more, though smoldering.
“Comstock’s my name. Levi Comstock,” the tall man said. “How long you staying here?”
“A few months maybe.” These few words cost him. He never spent a month in any place anymore. The disorienting flashes of memory and restlessness always hit him after a few weeks. He hoped in Canada he could finally settle down. But I owe Miss Rachel. “You got room for me?”
The blacksmith studied Brennan.
Brennan didn’t like it and pressed his lips together to keep back a nervy comment that itched to be said.
The man finally nodded toward a ladder. “I built me a lean-to to sleep in for the summer. Get the breeze off the river. Not using my loft now. It’ll be hot up there. I’ve been meaning to cut out two small windows for some air. Maybe you could do that.”
“How much do you want a week?”
“Four bits?” Comstock asked.
“That’s all?”
The man’s blackened face split into a grin. “You ain’t seen the loft yet. No bed. Just a dusty floor.”
“And two windows when we cut them.” Brennan knew he’d just taken a liking to this practical man and dampened down the lift it sparked in him. He’d be here only as long as Miss Rachel needed him. Then he’d move north and get settled before winter. The two men shook hands.
“When you moving in?”
Brennan considered this. “Soon. Maybe tomorrow.”
“See you then.” The smith turned back to his forge.
Brennan stepped outside and gazed around at the nearly vacant main street and sighed. What would he do in this little berg for a few weeks? And how was Miss Rachel faring with the land agent? He headed toward the office. Maybe Miss Rachel needed some backup by now.
* * *
Just inside the door of the government office, Rachel paused to gird herself for battle, quelling her dislike of contention. She knew she faced one of the the biggest battles of her life, here and now.
The small, middle-aged man in a nondescript suit behind a small desk rose politely. “Miss?”
She smiled her sweetest smile and went swiftly forward. “Good day, sir. I am Miss Rachel Woolsey.” She never used sir. Quakers didn’t use titles. But she couldn’t afford to be Quaker today. After she told him what she’d come for, she was going to brand herself odd enough as it was. Their hands clasped briefly.
“Please take a seat and tell me what I can do for you, Miss Woolsey.”
She sat primly on the chair he had set for her and braced herself. “I’m here to stake a claim.”
Shock widened the man’s pinched face. “I beg your pardon.”
“I am here to stake a claim,” she repeated, stubborn determination rearing up inside.
“Your husband is ill?” he asked after a pause.
Hadn’t she introduced herself as Miss? “No, I am unmarried.”
“Then you can’t stake a homestead claim.” Each of his words stabbed at her. “It isn’t done.”
She’d expected this reaction and she had come prepared. “Excuse me, please, but it can be done.” She tried to keep triumph from her smile. “And quite legally. My father consulted our state representative to the U.S. Congress before I left Pennsylvania.” She pulled out the creased envelope. “Here is the letter.”
The man did not reach for the envelope. “I know the law, miss. But a single woman homesteading, while legal, is ridiculous. You will never prove up your claim. Why put yourself through that?” His last sentence oozed condescension.
Her irritation simmered. So many sharp replies frothed on her tongue, but she swallowed them. “I have already hired a workman and the claim I want is the one that the Ryersons left last winter. May I please begin the paperwork?” She gazed at him, giving the impression that she would sit here all day if need be. And she would.
He glared at her.
Seconds, minutes passed.
She cleared her throat and pinned the man with her gaze. “Is there a problem?”
“I think it’s shameful that your father would let you leave home and homestead on your own. What will people think of you—a single woman without a male protector? Have you thought of that?”
Rachel shook off this measly objection. “Sir, I cannot think that anyone here would take me for a woman of easy virtue. And—” she didn’t let him interject the retort that must be reddening his face “—my cousin Noah Whitmore is here to watch over me.”
“You’re Noah Whitmore’s cousin?”
“Our mothers were sisters.”
He stared at her again, chewing the inside of his cheek—no doubt trying to come up with another objection.
She kept her steady gaze on him. The door behind her opened. Glancing over her shoulder, she glimpsed Brennan enter. She lifted one eyebrow.
“Miss Rachel, aren’t you about done here?” he asked, hat in hand, but the willingness to dispute with the agent plain on his face.
“I still need to fill out the claim form,” she replied evenly and then turned to face the government official who should be earning his money by doing his job and not wasting her time.
With a glance at Mr. Merriday, the man whipped out a form and jumped to his feet. “I need to walk a bit.”
She didn’t reply. Outside sea gulls squawked; the sound mimicked her reaction to this officious little man.
After he exited with a huff in each step, she moved to his side of the desk and, using his pen and ink, neatly and precisely filled out the form. All the things she wished she could say to the agent streamed through her mind. She wore skirts—why did that make her incompetent, inferior?
She knew all the various restrictions society placed on women and knew that many quoted scripture as their justification. But she never knew why submitting to a husband or not speaking in the church had anything to do with regard to a woman without one. And the Quakers didn’t believe in either anyway.
Soon she finished filling out the form and read it over carefully to make sure she hadn’t omitted anything. When satisfied, she rose.
“Miss Rachel, why don’t you go on to the store and I’ll find that government agent and give him your claim?”
She paused to study Brennan’s face. Then she understood him. Oh, she hadn’t thought of that. Papers could go astray so easily. Though this goaded her, she said nothing, merely handed him the paper and walked out the door, thanking him for his help. Brennan might not approve of her intentions but he wasn’t treating her like a female who couldn’t know her own mind. A definite point in his favor. And no doubt why he’d begun popping into her mind at odd moments. She must be wary of that. He would be gone soon. She tried to ignore the shaft of startling loneliness this brought her.
* * *
Brennan accepted the paper, accepted that once again he was going against the grain by backing the unpopular horse, his curse it seemed. He let the lady go, determined to get her what she wanted. As little as Brennan approved of Miss Rachel’s filing for her homestead, he wasn’t going to let some scrawny government weasel gyp this fine lady. Not on his watch.
Outside the office, he scanned the street for the man. When he didn’t see him, he headed for the saloon. Maybe the barkeep would know where the agent stayed when in town.
He stepped inside and found the man he was looking for, pouring out the affront he’d just suffered in his office. “I don’t know what this country is coming to. Giving black men the vote and now a woman thinks she can stake a claim like a man. Next they’ll want the vote, too! A woman homesteading—I ask you!”
“I know it’s not the usual,” Brennan drawled. “But it’s a free country. For women, too.” He didn’t like meddlesome little squirts like this man who liked to throw around their half ounce of power.
The land agent glared at him. “Who are you?”
Brennan eyed the man with distaste. Suddenly he felt proud to say, “I’m the one who’s workin’ for the lady.”
“Then you’re as crazy as she is,” the agent declared.
Sam moved back and leaned against the wall behind the bar as if enjoying a show.
“I been called worse than crazy.” Leaning against the bar, Brennan began enjoying this rumpus. He didn’t cotton to the fact that he had to stay in this little town. So why did this man think he could have everything his way?
The agent turned away from him, venting his spleen by muttering to himself.
“I brought Miss Rachel’s paper.” Brennan said the words with a barely concealed challenge in his voice. “I want to make sure it gets into the mail today and marked in your records nice and legal.” Brennan had never staked a claim or done anything else with any government except enlist in the army. But he figured the agent should keep a record of the transaction and send one to Washington. That sounded right to him.
The man swung around, glaring at him. “Nobody tells me how to do my job. Least of all some Johnny Reb.”
Sam’s amused gaze swiveled back and forth from one to the other.
Brennan did not respond to the derogatory Yankee nickname for Confederate soldiers. “I’m not tellin’ you how to do your job. Just...helpin’ you do it. After you.” Emphasizing the final two words, Brennan swept one hand, gesturing toward the door. Brennan itched to grab the man’s collar and drag him out.
The man glared at him.
So Brennan waited him out—not changing anything in his expression or stance, barely blinking.
The land agent finally caved in, growled something under his breath about stinking Southerners, and stalked past Brennan out the door.
Hiding a grin, Brennan nodded politely to the barkeep and followed the man to his office. Lounging against the doorjamb, he said nothing as the man sat at his desk, filled out a ledger. Brennan moved to look over his shoulder.
The agent then slapped Miss Rachel’s application into a mailing pouch. “There! Are you satisfied?” the man snapped.
“Anything else need doin’?” Brennan asked in a mild tone.
“No!”
“Then after you write me out one of those receipts—” Brennan gestured toward a pad of receipts on the desk “—I’ll just help you by taking this mailbag to Ashford’s store. I seen the notice in the window that he’s the postmaster hereabout.”
The agent resembled a volcano about to blow, but he merely chewed viciously the inside of his cheek. Then he dashed off the receipt, ripped it from the pad and shoved the mail pouch at Brennan.
“I’ll bid you good day then,” Brennan said drolly and strolled outside.
A stream of epithets followed him, including “Confederate cur.”
He ignored them and crossed the street, his boots sending up puffs of dust with each step. The drought filled his nose with dust, too. His destination in sight, he moved forward. He’d been inside Ashford’s store only once before on a trip to town with Noah. But he nodded politely at Ashford’s hesitant greeting and handed him the leather pouch, which read Official U.S. Documents. “I brought this over for the land agent. Do you think the mail will go out today?”
Ashford, middle-aged with thinning hair, consulted a notice on the wall. “Yes, if the Delta Queen arrives on schedule.” The storekeeper cocked an eyebrow at Brennan. “It’s odd that the agent let you bring this over.”
“Oh, I just told him I was on my way here. Now you watch over the mail pouches, don’t you? You don’t let anybody mess with the letters, right?” Brennan asked.
“I certainly do not let anybody interfere with the mail. I took an oath.” Ashford starched up.
“Excellent. Glad to hear it.” Brennan turned to Miss Rachel. “Here is your receipt for the land transaction.”
“Thank thee, Mr. Merriday.” She accepted the paper and slid it into her pocket, then dazzled Brennan with a smile that cast her as, well, pretty.
At this realization, Brennan stepped backward. Whoa, he had no business thinking that. Why had he thought her plain? Was it the way she hid behind that plain Quaker bonnet?
“I just staked my claim, Mr. Ashford,” Miss Rachel explained, “on the Ryersons’ abandoned claim.”
Ashford goggled at her. “Indeed?” he finally said.
“Yes, Miss Rachel’s makin’ her own way in the world.” Brennan regained his aplomb. “An independent woman.” Brennan relished setting another pillar of society on edge.
