But even when he got the jobs completed, he still felt uneasy. The house still looked like just what it was: a bachelor’s quarters. Donnigan finally gave up. When it came to frills and gingham, he was out of his element.
He did take a look at the yard. He had thought that he kept it fairly neat. Now he could see that what he thought of as neatness might also be seen as clutter. He went to work moving the woodpile a ways from the door, stacking it neatly in a long row against the back fence. He filled in a few holes that had been made by the sows when they had escaped their pens one day while Donnigan had worked the fields. He even thought of constructing a fence, but there wasn’t time for that.
“It needs—it needs something,” he admitted as he stood back and squinted to get a full look at the house and yard before him.
He wasn’t sure what was missing, but he felt the picture he was getting was rather bleak and dull and desolate. He tried to go back in his mind to other houses he had seen in his younger years. His memory brought forth white picket fences and rose bushes in full bloom.
“Can’t fix that,” he said to himself, but, still dissatisfied, he shifted about to look at the house again.
At last he went to a shed and withdrew a spade. All along the path to the house and the wall by the door, he turned up the fresh soil and shook the grass roots from the dirt.
When he had finished his spading, he headed for the meadow behind the house. He had noticed many varieties of wild flowers there and considered some of them to be quite pretty.
He was disappointed to find that many of the prettier ones had finished their blooming season, but he went to work on what he found.
The transplanting was not easy. He had to trek back and forth, back and forth, one small plant after another held on the shovel surface so that its roots would not lose the dirt around them until it reached its new abode.
He was almost done with his task, gently patting another small plant in place while the sweat traced streaks down his dusty face, when a voice spoke directly behind him. Donnigan had heard no one approach and the voice startled him and brought him upright on his knees.
It was Lucas who stood beside him. Donnigan felt the color rise in his tanned cheeks. He opened his mouth to explain what he was doing, then closed it again. Lucas would have to be a fool not to see for himself.
Donnigan rose slowly to his full height and swatted the dust from his knees with the pair of work gloves he retrieved from the ground.
“Howdy, Lucas,” he said, hoping that his voice held more warmth than he presently felt. “Didn’t hear you arrive.”
“You were busy,” observed Lucas, and Donnigan wondered if he saw a glint of amusement in the other man’s eyes.
“Thought the place looked rather bare,” Donnigan offered in embarrassed excuse. “Don’t want her shocked by the drabness of it all.”
Lucas made no reply to Donnigan’s remark. He was carefully studying one of the small plants that Donnigan had just placed along the walk. “Where’d you get that one?” he asked simply.
“Down by the crick,” replied Donnigan, rather pleased that he had found such a pretty little cluster of flowers.
“What is it?” asked Lucas, bending down to get a closer look.
“I don’t know—but it was blooming and I thought it—that a woman might think it rather pretty.”
“Maybe it’s a weed.”
Donnigan straightened his shoulders and looked at the other man evenly. “I might not know the first thing about flowers—but I’ve made it my business to know weeds,” he replied evenly.
Lucas rose to his feet again and nodded in concession.
“Come in,” said Donnigan, moving toward the door. “I’ll put on the coffee.”
“Can’t stay,” said Lucas, and Donnigan hesitated.
“Wire came today,” said Lucas. “The ship’s in.”
Donnigan whirled to face the other man. Suddenly he felt like a small boy waiting for the Christmas that finally arrived. It was all he could do to keep himself from tossing his hat in the air and giving a loud whoop. He restrained himself and gave a slight nod instead.
“Wallis know?” he asked as calmly as he could. He looked at Lucas and was surprised to see the undisguised glow in the other man’s face.
“I’m stopping over there soon as I leave here,” Lucas replied.
Donnigan swallowed hard. Never had his emotions played such havoc with his normally calm demeanor. He shifted his feet uneasily, feeling that he would surely burst at any minute.
“It’ll take ’em a couple weeks to get here,” Lucas continued. “They’ll catch the train from Boston—then connect with the stagecoach the rest of the way. Jenks says he hopes to have them out here week from Saturday.”
A week from Saturday! Donnigan’s thoughts raced. After waiting for weeks—months—it suddenly seemed so soon and yet so long until he would actually be meeting—seeing for himself the one—He couldn’t even think about it. It made his heart race.
He shifted again.
“Well, I’d better get on over and tell Wallis,” Lucas went on. “He’s right anxious.”
Donnigan swallowed again and managed to nod his head.
Then Lucas reached into his inner coat pocket and withdrew a piece of folded paper.
“Here’s the name of the lady you’re to meet that Saturday,” said Lucas casually, and Donnigan held his breath as he accepted the sheet. He felt a cold sweat encase his body, and he took a long, deep breath to steady the pounding of his heart.
He had to say something. Anything. Just so that Lucas wouldn’t think him a complete fool.
“Suppose you’ve known your lady’s name for weeks,” he managed.
Lucas nodded his head. Took a step toward the team that waited where they had been tethered to a tree in the lane. Then paused and said simply, “It’s Erma,” and then walked away—but not before Donnigan had caught the excitement in his eyes.
Donnigan watched the man leave and then went in to put on the coffee. He knew that Wallis would be over just as soon as he got the word.
He was very conscious of the paper in his shirt pocket. He wanted to seize it quickly and pore over its contents—and yet could not bring himself to touch it. That little slip of paper—the name that it bore—was going to change his whole life.
He stoked the fire and filled the coffeepot with fresh water and poured in a handful of grounds before he allowed himself to sit down at the kitchen table and reach a trembling hand to the breast pocket.
“Name—Kathleen O’Malley,” he read aloud and stopped to let the name roll over his tongue a few times before his eyes crinkled in a smile. He liked it.
“Twenty-one. Dark hair and brown eyes. Lots of experience in cooking and keeping house.” That was all.
Donnigan read the paper again and again. He wished there were more—something to give him some—some indication of just what kind of person Kathleen O’Malley was. Was she tall? Short? Sullen? Cheerful? Did she like horses? Hogs? Would she want a garden spot? Hens? Was she—? Donnigan carefully folded the bit of paper and replaced it in his breast pocket. He sighed deeply. He guessed that he should be happy to have her name. At least he could step forward come the important Saturday and say, “Good-day, Miss O’Malley. I do hope your trip wasn’t too exhausting.”
The coffee began to fill the room with its steamy aroma, and Donnigan moved to shift it farther back on the stove.
“One thing for sure,” he murmured, surprising even himself. “I hope she’s not sulky and silent. I couldn’t stand that. I don’t want to have to still talk things over with Black once she gets here.”
And Donnigan moved restlessly to the window to see if Wallis was making an appearance on the country road. He did wish the man would hurry.