“Maybe I have,” he answered boldly, courage found in the brief respite from his labors. “But duty calls, and I must answer.”
With a final nod, Harvey turned, his tall figure casting a long shadow as he strode back to his waiting farm. Barbara couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to be the woman waiting at that farm for him at the end of the day. Certainly, she would like to be the one keeping his house and cooking for him. And sharing his bed. She wanted that as well, but she pushed the thought away. She knew it wasn’t proper, and she shouldn’t think things like that when she was supposed to be teaching.
*****
The light from the hearth cast dancing shadows across the walls of the Williams’ house as Barbara carefully ladled out thick, savory stew into bowls. Her pa, seated at the head of the table, watched her with a furrowed brow. With each bowl she set down, a small smile tugged at her lips, brightening her gray eyes.
“Harvey sure was a help today,” she remarked, the warmth in her voice betraying more than simple gratitude. “He spent the whole afternoon fixing that back fence with Jed. Now cattle won’t be joining the congregation on Sundays.”
Her pa grunted, setting his jaw as he tore a piece of bread and dunked it into the stew. “That may be, Barbara,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of old grievances, “but I haven’t forgotten who his father is. George Bedwell caused nothing but trouble for everyone on the Trail. Stirred up a hornet’s nest before Mr. Appleby and Mr. Cauldron stepped in and took charge.”
“Pa, that’s in the past. Harvey’s not...” Barbara began, then stopped herself, sensing the futility of defending him now.
“Times were hard enough on that trail without George making it harder. I won’t have you mixed up with that family,” her father continued sternly.
Barbara nodded, silent, serving up the last of the stew. She knew arguing would only fan the flames of her pa’s temper. Instead, she resolved to do what she must: cherish the moments with Harvey away from her father’s disapproving gaze.
As they ate, the clinking of spoons against bowls mingled with the crackle of the fire. Barbara’s mind wandered to the days ahead, to stolen glances and secret smiles shared with Harvey. Maybe her pa couldn’t see it, but she felt in her heart that Harvey was different, and her feelings for him ran deeper than the well outside.
“Best keep your mind on your teaching and off young men,” her pa said abruptly. She met his gaze and nodded.
“Of course, Pa,” she replied, her voice steady, though inside, her heart raced with the thought of defying his wishes. For now, she would play the dutiful daughter, but tomorrow was another day.
Barbara scraped the last of the cornbread onto her father’s plate, the crusts golden and still warm from the oven.
“Barbara,” her father began, his voice grave as he pushed his empty plate aside, “it doesn’t matter how you feel about Harvey. He may have a kind face, but remember, he’s cut from the same cloth as his pa.”
She looked up. “Pa, I know about George Bedwell and the trouble he stirred up. But Harvey…he isn’t like his father.”
“Blood is blood, girl.” His eyes were flinty, his jaw set as if chiseled from the very rocks that lined their fields. “You’re a Williams woman, and we don’t mix with scoundrels. It’s for your own good.”
“Harvey has shown nothing but decency and strength. He works hard, and he treats me with kindness.”
“Decency doesn’t erase history,” he shot back.
“Maybe not,” she said, her tone softening, “but it can start a new chapter. Pa, I’m not blind to the past, but Harvey’s not the man his father was. And if he wishes to court me…” She paused, gathering the courage she knew was buried within her. “Then I will gladly give him my permission.”
Her father’s chair scraped against the wooden floorboards as he stood up, towering over her. “You think you know what’s best, but you’re still a child in so many ways.”
“Maybe so,” she conceded, her gray eyes unwavering, “but I’m old enough to know my heart. And it’s strong enough to risk a little for a chance at love.”
He shook his head, the lines on his forehead deepening. “You got your mother’s stubbornness, Barbara. I pray it doesn’t lead you down a path of regret.”
“Perhaps,” she whispered as he strode out of the kitchen and into the dusk of the evening, “but maybe it’ll lead me to happiness, just like it did for Ma.”
Alone now, Barbara folded a dishcloth with precise corners. Her heart was a battlefield of hope and apprehension, but she knew some things were worth fighting for—even if it meant standing tall against the fiercest storm or the hardest words of a loving father.
Later, Barbara lay staring at the wooden ceiling, her mind churning as she thought of Harvey, thinking of how he’d given her flowers and complimented her appearance. Oh, how she wanted to marry Harvey, but her father…she’d never defied him before.
Harvey was a good man, but her father saw only the shadow of George Bedwell’s former trespasses in him. Could she blame Pa? George had caused the death of his first wife, and he’d made everyone around him miserable on the Trail. It was one of the reasons she and her sisters had stuck so close to her mother on their journey west.
“Harvey isn’t his father,” she murmured into the darkness. The resolve in her voice surprised even her.
Knock. Knock.
Barbara’s pulse quickened. Pa had already left for the fields. Ma was making baby clothes for the baby Emma was expecting. Barbara hurried to the door.
“Miss Williams,” Harvey greeted, hat in hand, his brown eyes betraying a hint of nervousness that matched her own.
