Heartland Courtship. Lyn Cote

set posts.

      With a rumbling stomach and sharp anticipation of another tasty meal, at noon he sat down at Miss Rachel’s table. When she carried in the steaming crock from the outdoor kitchen, he noted she did not look happy. What was the bee in her Quaker bonnet?

      “Mr. Merriday, why didn’t thee tell me what happened last night?” She made it sound like a scold.

      He bristled. Why did she sound mad? After all, he’d done it for her. “Because I didn’t think it was worth mentionin’. That’s why,” he replied, eyeing the bowls of stew she was dishing up.

      She set the crock on the table and sat down.

      He waited quietly for her to finish silently blessing the meal as she always did. When the amen came, he picked up his fork and dug into her stew. The woman could cook as well as she could bake.

      “The Ashfords told me all about it. And about thy graceless behavior this morning.” She motioned toward the chair by the cold hearth. The dratted new clothing the storekeeper’s wife had offered him sat there, evidently drying after being washed. This aggravated him but he kept eating.

      “We have something in common,” she said, also beginning to eat. “We are different from everyone else here. I’m the pitiful and eccentric Quaker spinster.”

      Brennan suddenly felt ashamed of thinking of her with this less than flattering term. But he hadn’t meant it in a bad way. And Miss Rachel was unusual, who could argue that?

      “And Mr. Merriday is thought of as a shiftless wanderer. And ex-Confederate,” she finished.

      He chewed, trying to focus on the rich taste of the wild onions in the stew. After all, she wasn’t saying anything he didn’t already know.

      “Last night thy quick action saved the town from thievery. They wish to show their thanks. Why refuse it?”

      Annoyed suddenly, he barked, “Because I don’t care what they think of me!”

      She gazed up at him, unperturbed. “Everyone, even we, put labels on people. No doubt thee thinks Mr. Ashford is a prosy storekeeper and his wife, a know-it-all busybody.”

      Her apt descriptions of the two hit his funny bone. His heat turned to laughter. Chuckling, he picked up his fork once more.

      “But we all have worth to God.”