Lessons of the Heart Read online

  Mary Alice was doing better, thank God. What would he do without his little girl? He’d had enough loss in his life for five lifetimes. This child was all he had left.

  But he wouldn’t let emotion get the best of him. He kept her at arm’s length on purpose. He couldn’t stand any more loss.

  “She isn’t drinking enough, is all,” Doc Potter said, after examining Mary Alice. “Miss Blackburn, in this heat, your students need breaks to drink.”

  “I know that, Doc. I keep a basin of cool water and a dipper in the back of the classroom, as you can see. The students are allowed to drink as needed. One of the big boys keeps it filled.”

  “Well then, Mary Alice,” the doctor said. “Are you getting up to drink as necessary?”

  “I thought I was.”

  “If you’re not using the outhouse several times a day, you’re not drinking enough. In this heat, water intake is essential. Otherwise, you may faint, as you nearly did.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mary Alice said.

  “She’s fine for now, Mr. Mackenzie,” Doc Potter said. “You may take her home. But I want her to rest for the remainder of the day. No strenuous activity. And lots of cool water.”

  Garth nodded and cleared his throat. Damned doctors. Thought they knew everything. “If this schoolhouse had proper ventilation, it wouldn’t be so hot.”

  Doc Potter nodded. “I can’t argue with you there. But this is the schoolhouse we have, and the town is fortunate to have it. And we’re indeed fortunate to have such a fine teacher as Miss Blackburn.”

  The doctor eyed the teacher again, and Garth’s jaw tensed. He wasn’t sure why.

  “Perhaps you would be interested in making some adjustments to the schoolhouse, Mr. Mackenzie.” The schoolteacher smiled. Such a pretty smile—full pink lips surrounding sparkling teeth. One of her front teeth overlapped the other just slightly. Garth had an overwhelming urge to run his tongue over the lovely imperfection.

  He brushed the image away. A pretty smile, all right. A pretty smile with an ulterior motive attached.

  The teacher continued, “That way, you can be assured your daughter and the other students won’t suffer so much from the heat.”

  Yep, ulterior motive. Just as he’d suspected. “I’m sure I don’t have the time, ma’am.” He turned to his daughter. “If you’re feeling better, Mary Alice, we’d best get home.”

  “Yes, Pa.”

  “What do I owe you, Doctor?”

  “For goodness’ sake, don’t worry about that,” Miss Blackburn cut in. “I’ll bake the doc a pie. This is my responsibility, as it happened in my schoolhouse.”

  Garth’s muscles tightened, and he placed his hat on his head while still inside. “I pay my own debts, ma’am.” He fished several coins out of his pocket and handed them to the doctor. “Will this cover it? If not, I’ll make good tomorrow at the store.”

  Doc Potter took a few of the coins and placed the remainder back in Garth’s hand. “This will do fine.”

  Garth nodded, took his daughter by the arm, and led her out of the schoolhouse, down the steps, and to his buckboard that was tied nearby.

  He helped Mary Alice climb up and then attended the horses. His gaze drifted back to the schoolhouse. Miss Blackburn stood outside on the steps with Doc Potter, chatting and smiling. The doc appeared enraptured. How might if feel to gaze into those dark sapphire eyes? And he wouldn’t have to look up, either.

  The thought quickly vanished. The nerve of her, offering to pay his debt. What kind of woman was she, anyway? One who clearly didn’t know her place.

  But as he glimpsed Doc Potter rest his hand on her forearm, Garth’s jaw tensed again. He shook his head and let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

  Time to go home. Chores weren’t going to do themselves.

  Chapter Two

  Ruth drew in a deep breath, gathered her courage, and knocked on the door. Driving out to the small Mackenzie farm had taken all the bravery she could muster. In the end, she’d had to come. Mary Alice hadn’t been in school since the fainting spell three days ago, and Ruth was worried.

  “Who is it?” Mary Alice’s small voice asked through the door.

  “It’s Miss Blackburn, Mary Alice.”

  “Oh.” The door opened slowly. “Good afternoon, ma’am.”

  “Good afternoon. May I come in?”

  The child hedged. “I… Well, certainly, ma’am, I suppose.”

  Ruth entered the small cabin and gasped. Disarray would be a kind word.

  “Have you been ill, dear? My goodness, this place is a travesty.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. I’ve had lots of chores around the farm, and there’s no one but me to see to the housework. Pa sent me in early today to tidy up a little. I was just getting started. But dinner has to be made.” The child sighed. “I don’t know how my ma used to do it. She died, you know.”

  “Yes, I know.” Ruth pushed a strand of hair out of Mary Alice’s eyes. “I’m very sorry about that.”

  “It was a while ago.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Seven.”

  Ruth took the child’s hand and led her to a sofa buried in laundry. She edged some of it aside—goodness, Mr. Mackenzie’s unmentionables—sat down, and pulled Mary Alice down beside her. “Mary Alice, your mother was a grown woman. You’re eleven years old. Of course you don’t know how she did it. A child can’t do what an adult does, and she shouldn’t have to.”

  “But Pa says—”

  “I don’t care what your pa says.” Ruth was overstepping her boundaries and she knew it, but she couldn’t ignore the look of quiet desperation on the child’s face. “I’ll speak to him. Or perhaps my father could.”

  “The preacher?”

  “Yes. Your pa might listen to him.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “Well, it’s worth a try.” Ruth stood and steadied Mary Alice on the ground. “For now, chip chop. Let’s get this place in order, and I’ll help you cook supper. How does that sound?”

  “I don’t know if Pa would like it.”

  “Well, Pa’s not here, is he?” Ruth sighed and looked around. Goodness, where to start? “You finish folding that laundry and put it away.” Mary Alice had to do that herself. Ruth couldn’t bear the thought of handling Garth Mackenzie’s drawers. The idea made her skin heat. “I’ll dust and sweep the floor. Then we’ll tackle the kitchen and start supper. Where do you keep your rags, Mary Alice?”

  “Off the kitchen, ma’am. In the lean-to.”

  Ruth scurried through the front room into the small kitchen. Land sakes. Soiled dishes and linens covered the small table. A cast iron skillet crusted with what looked like the remains of salt pork and beans lazed in a basin of cold water. Half a loaf of dense bread lay next to the basin.

  Dusting and sweeping could wait. Ruth was needed here.

  She spied a wrinkled calico apron hanging from a nail, grabbed it, and tied it around her waist. She started a fire in the cold stove. First things first. The child and her father needed fresh bread for supper. Fresh bread that would not masquerade as a brick.

  Ruth walked into the lean-to to check supplies. She didn’t have time to make a yeast bread. The small pantry housed plenty of saleratus, though, and cornmeal. She’d make a nice fluffy cornbread flavored with some of the maple sugar sitting next to the wheat flour. Sighing, she grabbed the flour as well. She’d put a loaf to rise and make sure Mary Alice knew when to bake it. They’d have fresh bread in the morning for breakfast.

  Ruth cleared a space on the table and set to work. Soon her loaf, covered with a cotton rag, sat next to the stove to rise. Next she tackled some of the disorder. She cleaned the skillet of the bean mess, dipped another rag in the tepid water and washed the dishes remaining on the table, and then the table itself.

  She piled the soiled linens in the lean-to and replaced them with wrinkled though fresh-smelling ones. A quick sweep of the kitchen floor with the broom, an
d she was ready to cook supper.

  Back to the pantry, she surveyed the meager offerings. Dried beans, of course, but they’d need to soak overnight.

  “I’m done with the laundry, ma’am.”

  “Perfect, Mary Alice.” Ruth turned and regarded the child’s fatigued, yet somehow content, face. Dark circles under her bronze eyes marred their perfection. Mary Alice needed rest. But alas, the front room needed to be swept and dusted. “Now you can dust and sweep the front room.” She handed her the broom she’d used in the kitchen. “Then I don’t want you working any more today.”

  “There’s supper, ma’am…”

  “I’m taking care of that. Tell me, what do you and your pa like to eat for supper?”

  “Whatever we have. Pa left a chicken outside the lean-to. One of the old hens who hasn’t been laying. He plucked it for me, and I’m supposed to fry it.”

  “Fried chicken?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Do you know how to make fried chicken, Mary Alice?”

  “Well…no. But there can’t be much to it. You dress it, cut it, and fry it in lard.”

  Ruth let out a laugh. “There’s a little more to it than that. Do you know how to dress the chicken?”

  “I’m not real good at it. Last time I tried I cut my hand something awful.” She held her hand out to Ruth. A scar sliced through her palm. “Pa usually comes in and does it for me if he has the time.”

  “Goodness, child. That must have been a nasty cut.”

  “It bled a lot. But Pa wrapped it up for me. Hurt something awful for several days.”

  “My goodness.” Be careful, Ruth. Don’t get too involved here. “Not to worry. I can dress the chicken this afternoon so your pa won’t have to. Someday soon, when we have more time, I’ll be happy to come over and teach you how to dress a chicken properly.”

  “Yes’m.”

  “Now, let’s see.” Chicken. Chicken pie. Had Mary Alice and her father ever eaten chicken pie? “How about if I make you something special out of that chicken? And if you and your pa like it, I’ll write down the recipe for you.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “It’ll be fine. And you’ll love it. I make the best chicken pie in the whole county.”

  “Chicken pie?” The child’s eyes widened into saucers.

  “Yes, chicken pie.” Ruth smiled. “Does that sound good to you?”

  “It surely does, ma’am. Why, we haven’t had chicken pie since… Well, since my ma passed on.”

  “Then it’s high time you had it again. Would you like to watch me make it?”

  “Could I?”

  “Of course. You do the dusting and sweeping, and I’ll dress the chicken. By the time you’re done, I’ll be ready to make the pie.”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am!”

  The joy in Mary Alice’s eyes warmed Ruth. “Skedaddle, now, and get your work done. I’ll call you when I’m ready to start the pie.”

  “Skedaddle?”

  “Yes, it means ‘go on.’” Ruth waved her hands.

  “Oh, I know, ma’am. My pa says that. Says he learned it in the war. I’ve…never heard anyone else use it, is all.”

  “Why, yes, Mary Alice, it is from the Civil War. I read it in a book and started using it.”

  Garth Mackenzie had been in the war? He must be older than she thought. He didn’t look much older than thirty or so. His eyes, though. They told a different story. Goodness, what those eyes must have seen.

  She had no business, but she had to ask. “How old is your pa, Mary Alice?”

  “He’s thirty-six, ma’am.”

  Thirty-six. Fourteen years Ruth’s senior. Strange that she cared.

  “My ma was thirty when she died. She had the consumption.”

  “I’m very sorry you lost her, Mary Alice.”

  “My baby brother died first.”

  “Oh.” Ruth touched trembling fingers to her lips. “I didn’t know you had a brother.”

  “Yes. He was four, and he died first. Then ma.”

  “My goodness.” Ruth’s heart ached for the child. And for her father.

  “We don’t talk about them much.”

  “I understand.” Ruth suddenly felt warm and uncomfortable. Not usually at a loss for words, she had no idea what to say. Her father would know. As a preacher, he was used to ministering to the grieving. She’d ask him at home tonight what she might do for this lonely little girl. For now, though, she had chicken pie to prepare.

  “Mary Alice, go on and do your chores. Then we’ll make the pie.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Ruth’s thoughts wandered to handsome Garth Mackenzie as she dressed the chicken and cut it into pieces. Losing a child and a wife—she couldn’t imagine the pain. Her sister, Naomi, had lost her firstborn a year ago. It had devastated her, but she still had her husband and daughter. If she had lost her husband as well… Ruth shuddered to think of it. Naomi and her family had since moved to Minnesota. Ruth often wondered if her beautiful sister’s face still paled with loss.

  She sighed, went to the basin, and rinsed her hands. Taking two cups of flour from the pantry, she mixed in some lard and made a crust for her pie. As the dough rested, she chopped carrots and onions and sautéed them in a pan with some more lard and some flour. She’d found no sage or other herbs in the pantry, so the onion would be the only flavoring for the pie. She inhaled the spicy aroma. It would still be delicious.

  * * *

  Garth stopped at the rain barrel outside the lean-to and scrubbed the grime from his hands and forearms. Perspiration stung his eyes. He’d worked hard today mending the roof on the barn. Damn place was falling down around him, it seemed. Always something to be fixed. As if he didn’t have enough work trying to make a decent crop. No sons to help him with his work, either. And no wife to cook and clean for him. To hold him at night and take away the stress of the day. No soft flesh for him, only nightmares.

  Inhaling deeply, he splashed some of the warm water on his face. Lord above, this day was hot. He inhaled again. What was that? Chicken? Onions? His mouth watered, and his stomach let out a rumble. Hungry, he was. Seemed he was always hungry. Mary Alice, bless her heart, wasn’t much of a cook. Only seven when Elizabeth passed, she hadn’t had the chance to learn much about cooking yet. Or housekeeping, for that matter.

  He walked through the lean-to and into the small kitchen. Mary Alice was bent over the cookstove, pulling a steamy pan out of the oven.

  “Careful, child. You’ll burn yourself.”

  “I’m fine, Pa.” She looked up at him, her pretty eyes beaming. “Surprise for supper. Don’t it smell good?”

  Garth eyed the steaming concoction, tan gravy bubbling out of the golden crust, and inhaled once more. It sure as shootin’ did smell good. Damn good. “What is it, Mary Alice?”

  “It’s chicken pie, of course.”

  “Where in tarnation did you learn to cook chicken pie?”

  “Well…” The child hedged.

  “Where, Mary Alice?”

  “I didn’t, actually. Miss Blackburn came by.”

  Garth tensed at the mention of the pretty teacher. “What was she doing here?”

  “She was worried ’cause I hadn’t been in school.”

  “None of her damn business whether you’re in school, girl.”

  “She’s the teacher.”

  “Still none of her business. So she taught you how to make chicken pie, did she? Thought her job was readin’ and writin’. And cypherin’.”

  “She didn’t teach me. She…uh…she made the pie. Said if we liked it she’d write down the recipe and I could make it again for you.”

  “She was in my kitchen makin’ supper?” Damn woman had a lot of gall. He looked around. The room was spotless. “Did she clean, too?”

  “Well…”

  “Answer me, girl.”

  “Y-Yes. She cleaned the kitchen. But I did the laundry and tidied the front room.”

  “I ought
to throw that pie out for the pigs.”

  “Pa, please!”

  His stomach growled, louder this time, and from the wide-eyed look on Mary Alice’s face, he knew she’d heard it.

  “You’re hungry, aren’t you, girl?”

  “Yes.”

  “You want to eat this pie.”

  “Yes. And the cornbread, too.”

  Cornbread? Damnation. “What else did she do?”

  “Just that. Well…and the loaf that’s rising. For our breakfast tomorrow. I’m supposed to put it in the oven after dinner and let it bake until it’s golden brown on top and sounds hollow when I flick my fingernail against the crust.”

  Garth glanced at the loaf next to the stove. Though covered, clearly it was rising high. Fluffy bread like Lizzie used to make. How long had it been since he’d had a decent slice of bread?

  So they’d eat Miss Blackburn’s creations. Mary Alice deserved a good meal. She worked hard for him, for the farm, and got little in return.

  Yep, he’d eat this savory-smelling chicken pie and the sweet-smelling cornbread. Even the wheat bread in the morning. Not for himself, of course. For Mary Alice.

  Tomorrow he’d pay a call to Miss Ruth Blackburn.

  Chapter Three

  The crimson river meandered down the pale neck of the dying man. Raspy moans, shallow inhalations. Blood trickled against the dull edge of Garth’s blade. When he finally eased it out of the man’s flesh, his hands were covered with the scarlet stickiness.

  He let the dead body fall away, and it hit the cold dirt with a thud. Garth dropped the blade next to his victim and examined his hand from every angle. Difficult to see in the murky darkness, but still it was a hand that had killed the enemy. A hand that had now killed a friend.

  Wetness drenched his neck. He reached toward the moisture with his other hand. Red, oozing. His own throat had been slit. No! No!