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Authors: Stephanie Grace Whitson
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scampering attempts to catch up with it. Matthew went after it without thinking, moving in an easy lope that quickly retrieved the ridiculous thing, although by the time he did, the shimmering gold silk was much the worse for its encounter with various grasses and, Matthew saw as he bent to retrieve the parasol, a rusted can likely left by the encampment of soldiers who’d spent a few weeks here this spring.
He couldn’t quite decipher the look on her face as he carried the parasol toward her. Was she afraid of him? He supposed he did look rather . . . beastly. Something emptied his brain of words, and he stood, parasol in hand, as dumb as the oxen Jeb Cooper was yoking up over by the corral.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” she said, in a lilting voice that spoke of gentility and privilege.
What on earth was she doing out here? Still at a loss for words, Matthew reacted as habit dictated—or as it had for the past few years of his life. With a nod, he handed over the parasol and strode away.
Jubal A. Cooper—Plum Grove, Nebraska—1871. Together Matthew and Jeb lowered the massive inscribed trunk into the wagon bed Cooper had parked alongside the train. Next came the smaller crates, nearly a dozen of them, stamped Arbuckle Coffee , Lion Coffee , Paxton Coffee, and other brands Matthew had never encountered before. Finally, he joked, “You planning to open a dining hall?”
Cooper looked confused for a minute, but when Matthew pointed to the lettering stamped on one box, a chuckle rumbled from his thick chest. “It’s not coffee,” he said. He didn’t explain, although he did continue to chuckle as he shouldered the last box and settled it on the wagon seat. This one he wrapped in a rubber sheet before tying it down and pointing to the pile of lumber in the corner of the freight car. “That’s mine, too,” he said. Together the men piled board after board atop the wagon load until Matthew began to wonder if the oxen would be able to manage it. Finally, Cooper said, “That’s it,” and tossed the end of a rope across the load.
Matthew helped him tie it in place. Seeing that Linney had finished sweeping and gone inside, he walked alongside as Cooper drove the oxen past the dry goods store in the direction of the homestead north of town. The aroma of fresh coffee wafting through the front door of the dining hall made Cooper “whoa” the oxen to a halt. “Don’t mind if I have a cup,” he said. “How about you?”
Matthew hesitated. He’d already been in Plum Grove longer than he wanted to be, and he didn’t care to take a chance on having to explain to Linney— “Pa!”
—and here she was, broom in hand. “I thought you were headed back to the—” She stopped short, instantly shy at the sight of Jeb Cooper standing next to the wagon.
Matthew introduced Cooper even as he cast a desperate expression the man’s way. Please don’t let on. “Mr. Cooper was unloading by himself. It seemed he could use a hand.” He winced inwardly at the reference to hands, but Cooper didn’t seem to take offense.
“Then you’ve seen the ladies,” Linney said.
“Some of them.”
“Your pa here rescued a parasol for one of ’em,” Cooper offered.
“A gold one?” When Matthew nodded, she enthused, “Isn’t it the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen? Mrs. Jamison’s already come into the mercantile to see if Martha had anything suitable to mend the rip.” Linney frowned. “Of course we don’t carry silks and such. But Mrs. Jamison was so nice. Martha offered to special order for her and send the package over to Cayote. Martha said she wished they were staying here in Plum Grove. She doesn’t like Mr. Drake very much, and—”
Just then a stream of customers started heading their way. “Believe I’ll get that coffee now,” Cooper said. He ducked inside.
“I gotta get inside,” Linney said. “You won’t leave without saying good-bye again, will you?”
“Of course not.” With a
He couldn’t quite decipher the look on her face as he carried the parasol toward her. Was she afraid of him? He supposed he did look rather . . . beastly. Something emptied his brain of words, and he stood, parasol in hand, as dumb as the oxen Jeb Cooper was yoking up over by the corral.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” she said, in a lilting voice that spoke of gentility and privilege.
What on earth was she doing out here? Still at a loss for words, Matthew reacted as habit dictated—or as it had for the past few years of his life. With a nod, he handed over the parasol and strode away.
Jubal A. Cooper—Plum Grove, Nebraska—1871. Together Matthew and Jeb lowered the massive inscribed trunk into the wagon bed Cooper had parked alongside the train. Next came the smaller crates, nearly a dozen of them, stamped Arbuckle Coffee , Lion Coffee , Paxton Coffee, and other brands Matthew had never encountered before. Finally, he joked, “You planning to open a dining hall?”
Cooper looked confused for a minute, but when Matthew pointed to the lettering stamped on one box, a chuckle rumbled from his thick chest. “It’s not coffee,” he said. He didn’t explain, although he did continue to chuckle as he shouldered the last box and settled it on the wagon seat. This one he wrapped in a rubber sheet before tying it down and pointing to the pile of lumber in the corner of the freight car. “That’s mine, too,” he said. Together the men piled board after board atop the wagon load until Matthew began to wonder if the oxen would be able to manage it. Finally, Cooper said, “That’s it,” and tossed the end of a rope across the load.
Matthew helped him tie it in place. Seeing that Linney had finished sweeping and gone inside, he walked alongside as Cooper drove the oxen past the dry goods store in the direction of the homestead north of town. The aroma of fresh coffee wafting through the front door of the dining hall made Cooper “whoa” the oxen to a halt. “Don’t mind if I have a cup,” he said. “How about you?”
Matthew hesitated. He’d already been in Plum Grove longer than he wanted to be, and he didn’t care to take a chance on having to explain to Linney— “Pa!”
—and here she was, broom in hand. “I thought you were headed back to the—” She stopped short, instantly shy at the sight of Jeb Cooper standing next to the wagon.
Matthew introduced Cooper even as he cast a desperate expression the man’s way. Please don’t let on. “Mr. Cooper was unloading by himself. It seemed he could use a hand.” He winced inwardly at the reference to hands, but Cooper didn’t seem to take offense.
“Then you’ve seen the ladies,” Linney said.
“Some of them.”
“Your pa here rescued a parasol for one of ’em,” Cooper offered.
“A gold one?” When Matthew nodded, she enthused, “Isn’t it the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen? Mrs. Jamison’s already come into the mercantile to see if Martha had anything suitable to mend the rip.” Linney frowned. “Of course we don’t carry silks and such. But Mrs. Jamison was so nice. Martha offered to special order for her and send the package over to Cayote. Martha said she wished they were staying here in Plum Grove. She doesn’t like Mr. Drake very much, and—”
Just then a stream of customers started heading their way. “Believe I’ll get that coffee now,” Cooper said. He ducked inside.
“I gotta get inside,” Linney said. “You won’t leave without saying good-bye again, will you?”
“Of course not.” With a
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