Echoes of Mercy: A Novel (19 page)

“That’s blackmail.”

Oliver gave a short laugh. “Don’t be dramatic, Carrie.”

With a withering glare, she turned and stomped up the hallway, each step an angry outburst.

He fell into step beside her, trying not to grin at her display of ire. The red flush in her apple cheeks couldn’t quite cover the freckles. Corkscrew curls escaped her cap and bounced against her slender neck. She pumped her arms, her lips set in a beguiling pout. Sometimes she was entirely too cute.

When they reached the work floor, Carrie returned directly to her station, where crates bearing stamped jewel-toned tins of Dinsmore’s World-Famous Creams awaited their cushioning layer of straw and protective lids. Her hammer lay on the edge of one crate, and she yanked it up, then turned to face him, holding the tool the way a brave on the warpath might wield his hatchet.

Oliver instinctively took one step backward.

“You must be the most infuriating man I’ve ever met, but I’ll meet your condition.” She spoke through clenched teeth as if the words pained her.

Oliver swallowed a laugh and nodded in acknowledgment.

“However, I cannot talk with you now. I have work to do.”

Had he really survived three days of not looking directly into her enchanting face? Perhaps it was only the essence of chocolate in the air, but it seemed sweetness emanated from her. If he kissed her full lips, would she taste as luscious as she appeared? He folded his arms over his chest, glowering at her to hide his yearnings. “How ’bout when our shift ends?”

She lowered the hammer against her leg, the weight of the head pressing her skirt flat. “I can’t take the time. I need to wake Lank and Lesley, feed them
a cold breakfast—Kesia keeps me supplied with biscuits and cheese—and then visit Letta. She is still staying at the hospital with her father.”

Oliver gave himself a mental kick. How could he have forgotten about the children’s father. “He … survived?”

She hung her head, a sigh heaving her shoulders. “As of yesterday evening, he was still alive, but things are grim. The doctor fears the infection was too far reaching. They don’t offer much hope.”

He started to reach for Carrie’s hand but stopped short of actually touching her. “I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?”

She met his gaze. Her eyes held a sheen of unshed tears, heightening the brown of her irises. “You could pray for him and the children.”

Oliver recalled his promise to Letta to pray for her father. But he hadn’t done so. Guilt smote him, and he inched backward. “Yes. Of course. Well …” He cleared his throat, gesturing weakly toward the mop bucket in the corner. “I’d better go clean the break room. We … we can take a look at that blueprint tomorrow.”

“Not tomorrow,” she said, a weak smile playing on the corners of her mouth. “It’s Sunday. The factory will be closed.”

He could let her in on Sunday. He had a key. But he wouldn’t tell her so. “Monday, then.”

She nodded and returned to securing lids on crates as if he no longer existed.

Oliver retrieved the bucket and mop and ambled toward the break room, his slow gait a contrast to his galloping thoughts. What would happen to the Holcomb children if their father died? Would they go to an orphanage? Would Carrie keep them? Deep inside he wanted to do as Carrie and Letta had asked—he wanted to pray. But how? His studies had given him a broad vocabulary and the ability to use it, but he was even less competent at talking to God than he was at mopping.

Alone in the break room, he plopped the bucket on the floor, wrapped his hands around the mop’s smooth hickory handle, and stifled a moan. Images of Letta’s and Carrie’s faces, both sad and seeking, flashed in his memory. They’d asked him to pray. He’d agreed to pray. So now he must find the means of
keeping his promise. He jammed the strings of the mop into the bucket, sloshing water over the edges. It ran like a stream toward his feet and pooled around the sole of his boots. He lifted a foot and shook it, sending droplets in an arc across the floor. Each drop caught the light from the gas lamps and reflected like a miniature rainbow.

He seemed to recall a minister proclaiming the rainbow was a sign of God’s promise never to flood the earth again. He smiled as realization struck. Tomorrow was Sunday. Churches would be open. People who regularly attended church, such as Kesia and Carrie, knew how to pray. Tomorrow, instead of sleeping all morning, he would go to church. And he would learn how to pray.

The aching burden lifted. He put the mop to work, a smile on his face. He’d be able to keep his promise after all.

Caroline slipped her arm around Letta’s shoulders and held tight. Letta slumped on her half of the bench in the hospital administrator’s office, her head low and her hands clamped in tight fists in her lap. Although her pale face indicated distress, she made no sound and sat so still Caroline wondered if she even drew air into her lungs.

If only the girl would cry. Rant. Question. Caroline could comfort or assure her, but Letta’s silent, emotionless reaction to the news that her father had passed away left Caroline helpless and afraid. Had something within Letta died, too, when her pa left this earth?

The administrator, Mr. Stafford, sat stiffly behind his desk, his expression stoic. “The body is in the hospital morgue. I assume, given the man’s lack of affiliation with any of the local churches, you needn’t worry about planning a service.”

Beneath Caroline’s arm Letta shuddered. Caroline gave her a few pats while sending the man on the opposite side of the desk a steely glare. Must he be so cold? “I’m sure his children will be comforted by having at least a short
service, Mr. Stafford. They have an aunt in Baldwin City—their father’s sister. I’ll contact her by telegram and allow her and the children to decide what is appropriate.”

The man pursed his lips as if irritated by her interruption. He continued in the same bland tone. “We’ll arrange transport to the burial site once you’ve secured a plot. Please don’t dally in making those arrangements, Miss Lang, as we don’t have proper … er, storage facilities here.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll do my best, but I doubt I’ll be able to arrange anything today. It is Sunday, and.” Caroline gulped. Such a dismal way to spend the Lord’s day! “I … I’ll need to wait for the children’s aunt to arrive in Sinclair.”

Mr. Stafford rose and peered down his nose at Caroline. “Very well. I’ll expect to see you Monday. Early, preferably.”

Caroline struggled to her feet, drawing Letta with her. “As I said, I’ll do my best.” She turned Letta toward the door.

“Miss Lang?”

Caroline looked at the administrator. For the first time his indifference melted a bit. She rewarded the change with a quavery smile. “Yes?”

“Please accept the hospital’s condolences on your loss. I assure you, all effort was made to save Mr. Holcomb’s life.”

Caroline considered asking if the effort had preceded or followed the unknown benefactor’s promise to fund the man’s stay. But she decided her question would be hurtful to Letta. So she gave a nod and ushered the silent girl out the door. Lank and Lesley waited outside in the hallway, and they dashed to Letta.

Lesley threw his arms around his sister’s waist, looking up in disbelief. “One o’ the nurses said Pa died an’ is gone to heaven. Is it true?”

Letta, her arms dangling at her sides, made no effort to embrace her little brother. She stared unseeingly up the hallway as if in a trance.

Lesley shifted his attention to Caroline. “Is Pa dead, Miss Carrie?”

Caroline propped her hands on her knees and looked directly into Lesley’s freckled face. “Yes, Lesley. Your pa is dead.”

The little boy’s nose crinkled in confusion. “So he ain’t comin’ home again?”

Could an eight-year-old comprehend the meaning of death? Slowly Caroline shook her head. She brushed Lesley’s tousled hair from his eyes. “No, sweetheart. His body died, and his spirit went … away.” She looked at Lank, who stood behind Lesley with his arms crossed tightly over his skinny chest, his face set in a scowl. “He won’t be able to come home ever again.”

“Oh.” Lesley stuck out his lips for a moment, as if thinking hard. “Then he won’t be callin’ Lank a imbecile or takin’ the strap to us no more, huh?”

The boy’s blithe words pierced Caroline. Had he no pleasant memories of his father? “No. He certainly won’t.” But neither would he be there to see to the children’s needs, provide them with guidance, or watch them grow into adults. Caroline swallowed a lump of sorrow for all the family had lost.

She straightened and held her hands toward the boys. Lesley caught hold, but Lank scooted to the other side of Letta, as far from Caroline’s hand as he could go and still be close to his siblings. The boy’s behavior stung, but she wouldn’t hold his detachment against him any more than she would blame Letta for escaping somewhere inside herself to avoid her emotions. The children might not know the words to express themselves, but she read deep anguish, fear, and confusion on their young faces.

Caroline put her free arm around Letta’s shoulders and spoke kindly. “Come. We’ll go to the telegrapher’s office and send a wire to your aunt so she’ll know about your pa. Then we’ll visit an undertaker and.” She stopped, reminding herself that most businesses would be closed on Sunday. Except the train station. It operated seven days a week. She could send a telegram from there. Everything else would have to wait until tomorrow.

She escorted the children from the hospital, forcing her weary feet to carry her forward. If only she could fall into her bed and sleep. She’d intended to ask Letta to watch the boys in the lobby at her residence while she caught a short nap. But Letta was in no shape to care for anyone at that moment. There’d be no rest today.

Caroline straightened her droopy shoulders. The children needed her. She could catch up with her sleep tomorrow. Tomorrow. When she intended to retrieve the elevator blueprint from Ollie. If it showed the possibility of malfunction, then the questions surrounding Bratcher’s death might very well be
answered. And she’d be called back to Noble’s, away from the children. Away from Kesia and Ollie. She’d miss them all equally, she realized.

She glanced at the trio of redheads, and affection nearly strangled her. Although only days old, her relationship with them felt deeply rooted. How could she pass them off to an aunt they barely remembered? She swallowed hard. And how could she not?

Oh, Lord, why did You allow me to involve myself with the Holcomb children when You knew my time here in Sinclair would be short? Why did You bring Kesia and … and Ollie into my life when You knew I’d have to say good-bye to them?

She didn’t expect answers. God often allowed things that made no sense to her. Noble and Annamarie had taught her to take one step at a time, trusting God to know what waited around the bend. But Caroline’s natural inclination was to question—it was what made her a good investigator. So she asked, believing that the God who knew everything about her, including her faults, wouldn’t be offended by her openness. But even if she didn’t expect answers, she wanted them. It seemed unfair to put her in the center of a seemingly un-solvable muddle.

A brisk wind pressed at their backs, and Lank shivered. Lesley crowded close to Caroline, hunching his shoulders. The little boy squinted up at her. “It’s awful cold, Miss Carrie. Can we go to Miss Kesia’s an’ get some cocoa?”

Kesia had treated the children to cocoa one morning for breakfast, and the child hadn’t stopped clamoring for it since. Caroline hated to deny him, especially on the day he’d lost his father, but she had to answer honestly. “Miss Kesia’s café isn’t open today, Lesley. Remember? It’s Sunday, and she’s always closed on Sundays.”

“Oh.” The boy seemed to deflate. Then he brightened. “Can’t you make us some? We could go to our house. We got a stove an’ kindlin’ wood. An’ there’s canned milk on the shelf. I still got a chocolate bar Mr. Moore gave me. You can stir it into the milk, same way Miss Kesia does. Please, Miss Carrie? Please?”

“Oh, Lesley …”

As they stood on the boardwalk, two sullen faces turned outward and one hopeful face turned upward, a church bell tolled. Caroline looked toward the
inviting sound. On the corner a small white clapboard chapel with green shutters framing its arched windows seemed to beckon to her. What better place for her and the children to get out of the wind and find a covering of peace?

“Come, children.” She hurried them up the walk toward the chapel, joining several others attired in their go-to-meeting dresses and suits. Although the children wore their regular ragtag clothing and Caroline had dressed in a simple dark-blue muslin frock, no one looked askance at them. Instead, smiles and nods welcomed them. Caroline’s heart lifted, eagerness to fellowship with like believers putting a skip in her step despite her extreme tiredness.

She settled on a back pew with Letta and Lank on one side, Lesley on the other. Lesley leaned against her shoulder, seemingly intimidated by the strange surroundings. Caroline offered him an encouraging smile, then turned her attention to the front, where a black-suited minister stepped behind a simple pulpit.