Mail Order Mommy. Christine Johnson

Garrett’s men made great progress cutting the timbers for the launching ways and cradle. Before they could put them in place, the land by the river would have to be cleared. Since Roland owned that land, it meant getting his brother’s permission.

      With the weather holding fair, Garrett decided they’d best get the location ready before a storm rolled in and blanketed the ground with snow or the temperatures dropped and froze the ground.

      During the lunch break, he stopped in the mercantile. His brother stood at the counter, writing in one of the ledgers.

      “Roland, I need to talk to you about something.”

      Roland looked up. “You don’t have to use the front door like a customer just because you’re living down the street now.”

      The grin told Garrett that his brother was teasing. That’s the way they communicated. Each tried to best the other. Roland won most battles of wit, while Garrett could take his brother in a physical challenge any day. That didn’t mean he couldn’t throw back a decent retort.

      “Last I checked, I am a customer here. And I expect to be treated like one.”

      Roland’s grin broadened. “Then you arrived at just the right time. You can sign for the purchases Amanda is making.”

      “The what?” Garrett had left early this morning without quite figuring out what he was going to do about that situation. After the way he’d reacted last night, he figured she would never return to work for him.

      “Purchases.” Roland motioned toward a large basket beside the ledger. Garrett recognized that basket. It was the one Amanda had used to bring the delicious beef stew last night. Every bite had stuck in his throat. He owed her an apology, but...

      “Purchases? What kind of purchases?”

      “Food, Mr. Decker.” The formerly gentle and quiet Amanda Porter placed some tins in the basket. “Your children need more than crackers and porridge to eat.” She looked him in the eye, more like Pearl than the shy beauty he was used to seeing.

      He opened his mouth and then clapped it shut. What could he say to that? His children did need to eat, and he had neglected to fully stock the kitchen, a fact that he’d noticed at breakfast this morning. He cleared his throat and hoped Amanda didn’t see the heat creeping up his neck. “Of course. Well done, Miss Porter.”

      The faintest smile graced her lips and sent his spirits catapulting upward just as quickly as they’d gone down.

      Her attention returned to the basket of food. “I can only cook plain food. I hope that will be good enough.”

      But the stew hadn’t been plain, it had been delicious. With a start, he realized she must not have cooked it. She must have gotten it from someone else, most likely the boardinghouse.

      “The stew.” He halted, unsure what to say.

      She did not look up at him. “Mrs. Calloway’s efforts.”

      “I owe her then.”

      Amanda shook her head. “It was left over.”

      “But how, when there are a half dozen guests and the Calloways?” Before he finished saying the words, he knew.

      The portion he and his children had eaten was hers. She had gone hungry last night while he dined. Moreover, he’d accused her of neglect, when he was the one who had neglected his family. He owed her more than an apology, but at the moment he couldn’t think of what to say.

      He walked to her side. Roland scooted out from behind the counter on the pretense of checking for some cornmeal in the back. Anyone could see that the bin was half-full.

      Garrett waited until his brother was gone.

      Amanda fidgeted with the handle of the basket. “I hope I didn’t overstep my bounds.”

      “No.” He cleared his throat again. “Not at all. I did. I’m sorry. For last night. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions. The wrong ones.”

      Her head bobbed, as if she was gathering her composure, and the ribbons caught in her dark curls. He had to fight the impulse to lift them free.

      “It’s all right,” she whispered. “I should go. I promised to help Pearl at school this afternoon. If you can sign...”

      He turned the ledger and scrawled his signature on the line. But that didn’t get rid of the aching guilt. “I’m sorry. I hope we can start over again.”

      She lifted her tremulous gaze to him, and he was struck again by the similarity of her eyes to those of Eva. If Eva had ever given him such a look, it had been an act so she could get her way. Not Amanda.

      “I hope so, too.” Her faint smile wavered.

      “I can help you carry that basket to the house.”

      “Thank you, but I can manage. It sounded like you wanted to speak to your brother.”

      Garrett was ashamed of himself. Amanda thought only of everyone else’s needs. He could kick himself for being such a fool yesterday. His children were hungry, and she’d responded the only way she knew how. Instead of thanking her, he’d accused and blamed her. He would change. Next time he would give her the benefit of doubt. He owed her that much.

      * * *

      Making hash looked easy when Mrs. Calloway demonstrated it. First Amanda needed to chop up everything. Then she needed to cook it in a big, heavy skillet. It took a bit of searching with Sadie and Isaac before she found the knives, a big wooden spoon and the skillet.

      Peeling the potatoes had proved challenging, but she managed to get most of the skin off without cutting herself. The onion made her eyes water. The salt pork proved easiest of all.

      It took a while for the stove to get hot enough. Apparently Garrett banked the fire before sending the children off to school and going to work. That meant an icy cold house and stove, but by the time she’d stowed all the purchases and chopped the ingredients for the hash, perspiration rolled off her forehead.

      Now which went in the pan first? Amanda searched her memory but couldn’t remember. She took a guess. The potatoes were hardest. She seemed to remember Mrs. Calloway saying they’d take the longest to cook. She dumped them into the hot skillet first.

      “It’s my turn,” Sadie cried out from the bearskin rug, where they were sitting to play jacks.

      “No, it’s not,” Isaac retorted. “My turn isn’t over yet.”

      “Yes, it is. Miss Mana, tell Isaac to let me play.”

      “Everyone needs to have a turn,” Amanda said.

      “She just had a turn,” Isaac insisted. “And now she wants my turn, too.”

      At school, Pearl would send one student to one corner and the other to the opposite corner to think about how they ought to behave. At the Chatsworths’ house, a dispute had been settled with a few whacks of the strap on her behind. Amanda could not use either method. She wasn’t their teacher or their mother.

      Instead she joined them and knelt so she could look each child in the eye. “Is this the way your father would want you to behave?”

      “He doesn’t care about anything but work,” Isaac said, his little jaw stiff but his lip quivering.

      Amanda’s heart about broke. She would have to speak to Garrett about spending more time with his children.

      “Papa loves us,” Sadie cried out. She grabbed her old rag doll, the one Amanda had repaired soon after arriving, and hugged it tight.

      “Of course he does,” Amanda said. “He’s a busy man. All fathers are.” At least Mr. Chatsworth had always seemed busy. He was gone long hours, sometimes until midnight. She couldn’t remember much about her real father. He and her mother had died when she was five, but the tiny fragments she could recall always teemed with their