Heartland Courtship by Lyn Cote Page B

maple, resting his arm in his sling, trying to think of some chore he could do with one hand. His wrist was swollen and painful. He’d felt guilty over eating breakfast at Miss Rachel’s table when he couldn’t work.
    From the corner of his eye, he noted the young woman who looked to be seventeen or so, the one he’d met at the Ashfords’ that evening when he’d gone to thank them. She was edging closer to them through the trees, as cautious as a doe. Fine, just what they needed—company. And what did she want?
    “Good morning,” Miss Rachel called out in a cheery voice that grated against his temper.
    The young woman entered the clearing. Her clothing looked as if it had been refurbished to look new, but was in fact an old dress. And her manner was cautious. “Good morning. I’m Posey Brown. I was taking a walk and I saw your clearing—”
    The distinctive call of a robin interrupted their conversation. The Quaker lady looked up and then imitated the birdcall. The robin hopped farther down the branch, moving in the breeze toward Miss Rachel, and sounded its call again. Miss Rachel replied, going to get the full water bucket. She then filled up a large wooden bowl attached to a stump. The bird flew down, perched on the side of the bowl and began drinking.
    Brennan watched and listened, reluctantly fascinated by the interaction of the bird and the lady. Finally the bird sang its thanks and then flew and hopped back to the crook of the oak tree to its nest.
    “That was like you were actually talking to each other.” Posey’s words radiated with wonder.
    He’d almost said the same words aloud. And suddenly he was more aware than before of his sour mood. He hoisted himself up onto his feet.
    “You put out water for the birds?” the girl asked as if this were the first birdbath she’d seen.
    “It’s been so very dry and several birds have nested nearby. I do it so they don’t have far to go.”
    “Cousin Ned says if we don’t get rain, one spark could burn the whole town,” the girl said in a voice that spoke of living in the South.
    Brennan thought Ned Ashford was right.
    Miss Rachel turned to the girl and smiled. “My mother taught me birdsong. She spoke to birds. And they seemed almost to understand her.”
    The way Miss Rachel said these words he knew that her mother had died and what was more, that she had been a beloved mother. His own ma had died young. He didn’t want to feel the connection to Miss Rachel this brought.
    “How old were you when she died?” Brennan asked gruffly in spite of himself.
    “I was nearly thirteen.” Miss Rachel turned back to scattering chicken feed.
    Posey edged closer. “My mother died during the war. That’s when Grandmother came to live with me,” Posey paused. “And Pa died in the war. He was in the Kentucky Militia.”
    At this Brennan looked at her sharply.
    Rachel motioned for the young girl to come forward. Rachel held open the bag of chicken feed, encouraging Posey to help her.
    Though sorry for the young woman and uneasy that she hailed from Kentucky, Brennan moved away from the tree, his unabated restlessness goading him.
    “It’s just my grandmother and me now,” Posey said, scattering the feed.
    “I’m glad thee has her.”
    “Yes,” Posey said, not looking up and not sounding happy.
    Sensing the girl had come to tell Miss Rachel her sad story, like females did, Brennan turned and started toward town. He had to get away from this homey scene, from hearing how the war had torn this girl’s world into shreds. He found that unfortunately he couldn’t walk fast without jarring his wrist.
    “I’m finishing cinnamon rolls this morning, Posey. Perhaps you’d like to help me get them ready to take into town. A boat is expected today.”
    “I heard how you sell baked goods. You must be good at that.”
    “I do my poor best,” Rachel admitted.
    Brennan walked carefully across the uneven ground through the wild grass, trying to get away.
    Miss