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Authors: Lisa Plumley
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droppings to be shoveled. If you’d rather work all night, I won’t stand in your way.”
“I was joking!” Gus shook his head. “Tarnation, boss. You’re about as much fun as an undertaker with a rash.”
Owen only gazed at him. Work wasn’t supposed to be fun.
“I know, I know. Don’t say it—‘Hard work today makesfor peace of mind tomorrow.’ So you’ve told me. Over and over.”
Owen habitually told Élodie that, too. It was essential she understood how important hard work and good effort were. Until Élodie was capable of seeing to her own well-being, Owen meant to ensure the most providential future for her himself.
It was the least he could do. He wasn’t the most effusive of fathers; he knew that. He loved Élodie; he loved her to the stars and back. But Owen didn’t know if he loved her enough —if he loved her the way she deserved…the way Renée would have loved her. Just as insurance, Owen meant to give Élodie all the material blessings he could. That way, his own petit chou wouldn’t be too handicapped by not having a maman in her life.
He crossed his arms. “If you don’t like it, don’t stay.”
“All right! You don’t need to tell me twice.” His helper grinned, then jabbed his pitchfork into the nearest hay pile. “I ain’t one of those numbskulls out there, all cowed by your stone face and tree-trunk arms, you know. I seen you with Élodie a time or two. And if you ain’t the sweetest, taffy-pullingest—”
“I’m changing my mind about that manure shoveling.”
“No need to break out them crazy eyes. I’m going.” Still smiling, Gus grabbed his hat. He stuck it on his head, then hastened for the doorway. He saluted. “Tell Élodie hello for me. And tell her I hope her plan went down without a hitch, okay?”
Owen nodded. Gus probably meant the shindig down at the train depot. Élodie had been all keyed up about it this morning at Mrs. Archer’s. Likely, Mrs. Archer and her lady friends had made a fuss over Thomas Walsh’s raffle-drawing brouhaha, and Élodie had been swept up in all the excitement. It was only natural. Élodie didn’t have any other feminineinfluences. She had to look to Mrs. Archer and her friends for guidance.
Now that Élodie was getting older, it occurred to him, she would need even more feminine guidance—help in taking on such things as sewing, cooking, cleaning and embroidery. Owen might have darned a pair of socks a time or two, but he was ill equipped to teach his daughter any of those necessary home-keeping skills. When he sewed, his big, blunt-tipped fingertips got tangled in the thread. When he—infrequently—cooked, he turned out griddle cakes, pots of beans with charred edges or bakery-bought toast. When he cleaned—well, he rarely cleaned, beyond necessary tidying. Mrs. Sunley did all the scrubbing and scouring herself, as part of her housekeeping duties, and Miss O’Neill took care of Owen’s and Élodie’s laundry.
That left him with embroidery. Imagining himself trying to practice that intrinsically feminine art, hunched over a wooden hoop with his resolute gaze fixed on a nightshirt or some such, Owen shook his head. Likely, he’d embroider his trouser leg to his nightshirt, then gash holes in both garments while trying to free himself with his trusty jackknife—the only implement he ever found truly handy in his ramshackle “sewing kit.”
Renée had embroidered like an angel, he remembered, feeling sobered by the recollection. Renée would have taught Élodie all manner of stitchery. She’d embellished Owen’s handkerchiefs with fancy French monograms. She’d commemorated their wedding by putting up a set of fine pillowcases. But that good bed linen had been lost on the journey westward, and over the years, Owen had grown as comfortable with plain cotton linens as he had with cactus patches, flat Western dialects and lonesome fatherhood.
Reminded of Élodie, Owen glanced at the closed door through which
“I was joking!” Gus shook his head. “Tarnation, boss. You’re about as much fun as an undertaker with a rash.”
Owen only gazed at him. Work wasn’t supposed to be fun.
“I know, I know. Don’t say it—‘Hard work today makesfor peace of mind tomorrow.’ So you’ve told me. Over and over.”
Owen habitually told Élodie that, too. It was essential she understood how important hard work and good effort were. Until Élodie was capable of seeing to her own well-being, Owen meant to ensure the most providential future for her himself.
It was the least he could do. He wasn’t the most effusive of fathers; he knew that. He loved Élodie; he loved her to the stars and back. But Owen didn’t know if he loved her enough —if he loved her the way she deserved…the way Renée would have loved her. Just as insurance, Owen meant to give Élodie all the material blessings he could. That way, his own petit chou wouldn’t be too handicapped by not having a maman in her life.
He crossed his arms. “If you don’t like it, don’t stay.”
“All right! You don’t need to tell me twice.” His helper grinned, then jabbed his pitchfork into the nearest hay pile. “I ain’t one of those numbskulls out there, all cowed by your stone face and tree-trunk arms, you know. I seen you with Élodie a time or two. And if you ain’t the sweetest, taffy-pullingest—”
“I’m changing my mind about that manure shoveling.”
“No need to break out them crazy eyes. I’m going.” Still smiling, Gus grabbed his hat. He stuck it on his head, then hastened for the doorway. He saluted. “Tell Élodie hello for me. And tell her I hope her plan went down without a hitch, okay?”
Owen nodded. Gus probably meant the shindig down at the train depot. Élodie had been all keyed up about it this morning at Mrs. Archer’s. Likely, Mrs. Archer and her lady friends had made a fuss over Thomas Walsh’s raffle-drawing brouhaha, and Élodie had been swept up in all the excitement. It was only natural. Élodie didn’t have any other feminineinfluences. She had to look to Mrs. Archer and her friends for guidance.
Now that Élodie was getting older, it occurred to him, she would need even more feminine guidance—help in taking on such things as sewing, cooking, cleaning and embroidery. Owen might have darned a pair of socks a time or two, but he was ill equipped to teach his daughter any of those necessary home-keeping skills. When he sewed, his big, blunt-tipped fingertips got tangled in the thread. When he—infrequently—cooked, he turned out griddle cakes, pots of beans with charred edges or bakery-bought toast. When he cleaned—well, he rarely cleaned, beyond necessary tidying. Mrs. Sunley did all the scrubbing and scouring herself, as part of her housekeeping duties, and Miss O’Neill took care of Owen’s and Élodie’s laundry.
That left him with embroidery. Imagining himself trying to practice that intrinsically feminine art, hunched over a wooden hoop with his resolute gaze fixed on a nightshirt or some such, Owen shook his head. Likely, he’d embroider his trouser leg to his nightshirt, then gash holes in both garments while trying to free himself with his trusty jackknife—the only implement he ever found truly handy in his ramshackle “sewing kit.”
Renée had embroidered like an angel, he remembered, feeling sobered by the recollection. Renée would have taught Élodie all manner of stitchery. She’d embellished Owen’s handkerchiefs with fancy French monograms. She’d commemorated their wedding by putting up a set of fine pillowcases. But that good bed linen had been lost on the journey westward, and over the years, Owen had grown as comfortable with plain cotton linens as he had with cactus patches, flat Western dialects and lonesome fatherhood.
Reminded of Élodie, Owen glanced at the closed door through which
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