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and I cooked all the meals and took supper up to Ma every night.”
“Is she well now? She looks kinda pale.”
“Doc says she’ll be fine, but she’s gonna be weak an’ tired for a real long time. I’m sure glad you’re here, Mr. Winterman. I can’t hardly chop enough wood by myself.”
“How old are you, Daniel?”
“Nine. Molly’s just seven, and Ma won’t let her touch the ax, so I have to do it all by myself.”
The oddest sensation crawled into Cord’s chest. Here he was, out here on the Oregon frontier with no home and no money, trying to stay alive on an apple farm with not one thing that was working right. God had some sense of humor.
“You gonna stay with us, mister?”
“Yeah, I think so. For a while, anyway.” The warm feeling in his chest got bigger. Somebody needed him. Or at least needed his help. It made him feel...wanted. Worthwhile.
* * *
Eleanor glanced up as the wagon rumbled into the yard, a new screen door riding on top of a load of lumber. Oh, my heavens, she couldn’t afford all this, not even after the fall apple harvest came in and she had money in the bank. Her hired hand must have intimidated Ike Bruhn at the sawmill. Which wasn’t surprising, she thought as she watched him set the brake and climb down from the bench. Her hired man was tall and muscular; Ike Bruhn had been over-plump for years.
Mr. Winterman headed for the house with a bag of something—flour? Coffee beans?—over one shoulder. Daniel struggled to keep up with those long legs.
Her heart gave a queer little thump. Maybe if her hired man was around she would no longer have to make conversation with those too-eager young men from town, not until she was completely well and could fetch her own supplies.
Danny burst through the screen door. “Ma, guess what? Mr. Ness painted the mercantile pink!”
“Pink? Why on earth would he do that?”
“Actually, Miz Malloy,” said Mr. Winterman at Danny’s heels, “Ness claims his daughter Edith painted it. You want these coffee beans in the pantry?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Danny stopped short in front of her. “You all right, Ma? You look kinda funny.”
“Yes, I—Well, I tried to milk Bessie and I guess I overdid it.”
Cord stopped short. “I milked her before I went into town this morning, ma’am, even though you said not to. Didn’t you see the milk pail? I set it inside the back door.”
“I... Well, I...” How could she ever confess what she’d done?
He waited, a frown creasing his tan forehead.
“I, um, I accidentally kicked over the bucket. I had to mop it all up, and then I decided to milk her again, but first I had to catch her and...” She closed her eyes in embarrassment. Only an ignorant city girl would try to milk a cow twice in one morning, and she was certainly not a city girl. Ignorant, maybe, but not a city girl. And only a clumsy idiot would kick over a pail of milk.
Molly came to her rescue by stomping her little feet down the stairs. “Mama made me go to my room!” she announced in an aggrieved tone.
“How come?” her brother asked.
She stared at the floor. “Dunno.”
The hired man and the burlap bag of coffee beans disappeared into the pantry, and then he tramped back out through the screen door. When he returned he had a big white sack of flour over his shoulder. But this time the screen door twisted off its one remaining hinge and hung sideways. Without breaking his stride, he yanked it all the way off and sailed it off the front porch.
Molly and Danny watched, wide-eyed. “Wow,” her son breathed.
Suddenly Eleanor was bone-tired. She made an effort to breathe normally, in and out, like Doc said. In and out, slowly. She couldn’t manage all of this, the milk pail, the mop, the cow, Molly’s incessant questions, the screen door...she couldn’t manage any of it. She closed her eyes. She wanted to scream, but she didn’t have the energy.
She felt a hand on her shoulder and she snapped her lids open.
Cord stood beside her, dusting flour off his jeans. “Got any whiskey?”
“In the pantry,” she said wearily. “Top shelf.” She shut her eyes again and concentrated on her breathing.
“Ma’am?” He stood in front of her, holding out a cup of coffee. She hesitated, then lifted it out of his hand and downed a big swallow. Her throat convulsed as something hot burned its way down her throat. Tears came to her eyes.
“Guess you don’t drink much liquor,” he observed.
“I don’t drink liquor at all,” she rasped. She risked a dainty sip of the brew this time. “It tastes awful, like varnish.”
He chuckled. “You drink a lot of varnish?”
She laughed in spite of herself—in spite of her exhaustion, in spite of everything. She breathed in the scent of sweat and sunshine and caramel. “Mr. Wint—”
“Name’s Cordell.”
“Cordell—”
“Cord,” he corrected. At that moment Danny streaked out through the front door, stopping to inspect the space where the ruined screen had been. Molly tagged at his heels.
Cord pulled his attention back to Eleanor Malloy. “Guess you’ve had a tough morning, huh?”
At her nod, he continued. “Me, too. First there was that pink-painted storefront. Then what’s-his-name at the sawmill gave me some grief about putting the lumber on your account. And then,” he said with an exaggerated sigh, “Daniel ate all the caramels and wanted Molly’s lemon drops, too.”
“You bought lemon drops for Molly?”
“Sure. I knew Daniel’d brag about his caramels when we got home, so I figured—”
Without warning she started to cry.
“Well, now, maybe Molly doesn’t like lemon—”
“She l-loves lemon drops. Th-thank you.” She handed her coffee cup to him. “Mr. Winterman, I am feeling a bit tired. I think I will lie down for a few minutes.”
She managed to stand up without swaying and reached the settee in the parlor before her knees gave out. Cord thunked his cup onto the kitchen table, walked over to her and lifted her into his arms. She sure didn’t weigh much.
He started up the stairs. “Where’s your bedroom?”
“Last door,” she murmured.
Cord tramped down the hallway, swung open the door of her room and strode across the rag rug beside the bed. Then he bent and carefully laid her on the quilt. At once she curled up like a little girl and before he straightened up she was asleep.
The room was Spartan, just the bed and a battered armoire and a chest of drawers with a basin and china pitcher on top. No mirror. Ruffled white muslin curtains fluttered at the double window. Which, he noted in passing, looked out on the front yard where the discarded screen door lay between two maple trees. Daniel and Molly were squatting on their haunches with their chins propped in their hands, contemplating the rusty mess. He hated to think what project they’d come up with for the old screen—a safe one, he hoped. Mrs. Malloy, Eleanor, didn’t need any more worry.
He noted the intent look on both children’s faces and how they kept poking each other with their elbows. Guess he should be prepared for anything. Eleanor’s children were turning out to be fun to watch.
With a chuckle he went back down the stairs, climbed up onto the wagon bench and drove the load of lumber around behind the barn.