Heartland Courtship. Lyn Cote

expected this reaction and she had come prepared. “Excuse me, please, but it can be done.” She tried to keep triumph from her smile. “And quite legally. My father consulted our state representative to the U.S. Congress before I left Pennsylvania.” She pulled out the creased envelope. “Here is the letter.”

      The man did not reach for the envelope. “I know the law, miss. But a single woman homesteading, while legal, is ridiculous. You will never prove up your claim. Why put yourself through that?” His last sentence oozed condescension.

      Her irritation simmered. So many sharp replies frothed on her tongue, but she swallowed them. “I have already hired a workman and the claim I want is the one that the Ryersons left last winter. May I please begin the paperwork?” She gazed at him, giving the impression that she would sit here all day if need be. And she would.

      He glared at her.

      Seconds, minutes passed.

      She cleared her throat and pinned the man with her gaze. “Is there a problem?”

      “I think it’s shameful that your father would let you leave home and homestead on your own. What will people think of you—a single woman without a male protector? Have you thought of that?”

      Rachel shook off this measly objection. “Sir, I cannot think that anyone here would take me for a woman of easy virtue. And—” she didn’t let him interject the retort that must be reddening his face “—my cousin Noah Whitmore is here to watch over me.”

      “You’re Noah Whitmore’s cousin?”

      “Our mothers were sisters.”

      He stared at her again, chewing the inside of his cheek—no doubt trying to come up with another objection.

      She kept her steady gaze on him. The door behind her opened. Glancing over her shoulder, she glimpsed Brennan enter. She lifted one eyebrow.

      “Miss Rachel, aren’t you about done here?” he asked, hat in hand, but the willingness to dispute with the agent plain on his face.

      “I still need to fill out the claim form,” she replied evenly and then turned to face the government official who should be earning his money by doing his job and not wasting her time.

      With a glance at Mr. Merriday, the man whipped out a form and jumped to his feet. “I need to walk a bit.”

      She didn’t reply. Outside sea gulls squawked; the sound mimicked her reaction to this officious little man.

      After he exited with a huff in each step, she moved to his side of the desk and, using his pen and ink, neatly and precisely filled out the form. All the things she wished she could say to the agent streamed through her mind. She wore skirts—why did that make her incompetent, inferior?

      She knew all the various restrictions society placed on women and knew that many quoted scripture as their justification. But she never knew why submitting to a husband or not speaking in the church had anything to do with regard to a woman without one. And the Quakers didn’t believe in either anyway.

      Soon she finished filling out the form and read it over carefully to make sure she hadn’t omitted anything. When satisfied, she rose.

      “Miss Rachel, why don’t you go on to the store and I’ll find that government agent and give him your claim?”

      She paused to study Brennan’s face. Then she understood him. Oh, she hadn’t thought of that. Papers could go astray so easily. Though this goaded her, she said nothing, merely handed him the paper and walked out the door, thanking him for his help. Brennan might not approve of her intentions but he wasn’t treating her like a female who couldn’t know her own mind. A definite point in his favor. And no doubt why he’d begun popping into her mind at odd moments. She must be wary of that. He would be gone soon. She tried to ignore the shaft of startling loneliness this brought her.

      * * *

      Brennan accepted the paper, accepted that once again he was going against the grain by backing the unpopular horse, his curse it seemed. He let the lady go, determined to get her what she wanted. As little as Brennan approved of Miss Rachel’s filing for her homestead, he wasn’t going to let some scrawny government weasel gyp this fine lady. Not on his watch.

      Outside the office, he scanned the street for the man. When he didn’t see him, he headed for the saloon. Maybe the barkeep would know where the agent stayed when in town.

      He stepped inside and found the man he was looking for, pouring out the affront he’d just suffered in his office. “I don’t know what this country is coming to. Giving black men the vote and now a woman thinks she can stake a claim like a man. Next they’ll want the vote, too! A woman homesteading—I ask you!”

      “I know it’s not the usual,” Brennan drawled. “But it’s a free country. For women, too.” He didn’t like meddlesome little squirts like this man who liked to throw around their half ounce of power.

      The land agent glared at him. “Who are you?”

      Brennan eyed the man with distaste. Suddenly he felt proud to say, “I’m the one who’s workin’ for the lady.”

      “Then you’re as crazy as she is,” the agent declared.

      Sam moved back and leaned against the wall behind the bar as if enjoying a show.

      “I been called worse than crazy.” Leaning against the bar, Brennan began enjoying this rumpus. He didn’t cotton to the fact that he had to stay in this little town. So why did this man think he could have everything his way?

      The agent turned away from him, venting his spleen by muttering to himself.

      “I brought Miss Rachel’s paper.” Brennan said the words with a barely concealed challenge in his voice. “I want to make sure it gets into the mail today and marked in your records nice and legal.” Brennan had never staked a claim or done anything else with any government except enlist in the army. But he figured the agent should keep a record of the transaction and send one to Washington. That sounded right to him.

      The man swung around, glaring at him. “Nobody tells me how to do my job. Least of all some Johnny Reb.”

      Sam’s amused gaze swiveled back and forth from one to the other.

      Brennan did not respond to the derogatory Yankee nickname for Confederate soldiers. “I’m not tellin’ you how to do your job. Just...helpin’ you do it. After you.” Emphasizing the final two words, Brennan swept one hand, gesturing toward the door. Brennan itched to grab the man’s collar and drag him out.

      The man glared at him.

      So Brennan waited him out—not changing anything in his expression or stance, barely blinking.

      The land agent finally caved in, growled something under his breath about stinking Southerners, and stalked past Brennan out the door.

      Hiding a grin, Brennan nodded politely to the barkeep and followed the man to his office. Lounging against the doorjamb, he said nothing as the man sat at his desk, filled out a ledger. Brennan moved to look over his shoulder.

      The agent then slapped Miss Rachel’s application into a mailing pouch. “There! Are you satisfied?” the man snapped.

      “Anything else need doin’?” Brennan asked in a mild tone.

      “No!”

      “Then after you write me out one of those receipts—” Brennan gestured toward a pad of receipts on the desk “—I’ll just help you by taking this mailbag to Ashford’s store. I seen the notice in the window that he’s the postmaster hereabout.”

      The agent resembled a volcano about to blow, but he merely chewed viciously the inside of his cheek. Then he dashed off the receipt, ripped it from the pad and shoved the mail pouch at Brennan.

      “I’ll bid you good day then,” Brennan said drolly and strolled outside.

      A