Echoes of Mercy: A Novel (35 page)

For a moment she stood in the doorway, simply observing him. The bruises on his face had faded to a greenish-yellow mottled patch—an unattractive hue. Yet he was still infinitely handsome, and her heart fluttered at the sight of him. If only they’d met under other circumstances. If only she were just a woman instead of an investigator with a personal interest in ending child labor and he were just a man instead of the son of a factory owner who hired children to labor at his machines. There could be no future for them, and she had to put the whimsical imaginings from her mind.

All her inner confusion emerged in a simple, single-word utterance. “Ollie?”

He turned toward her. Apprehension tinged his features. “Carrie.” His simple response held a tangle of confused emotions as well.

Caroline swallowed. “May I speak with you for a moment?”

He hesitated briefly, then gave a brusque nod. “Of course.” He stepped to the doorway and stood, feet widespread, as if bracing himself. “What is it?”

“The Holcomb children …” She gulped, tears threatening. Hadn’t she placed them in God’s keeping? She must dispel this worry. She sniffed, squared her shoulders, and stated flatly, “They’ve run away.”

Ollie sagged against the doorframe, his stiff bearing dissolving in an instant. “Not again.”

She nodded.

“I guess that’s why you weren’t at Kesia’s for supper tonight, hmm? I looked for you.”

He had? She pushed aside the bubble of joy that rose with his words. “Yes. First we checked their house. Since that’s where they’d gone last time, we were hopeful. But we saw no sign they’d been there. So after searching on our own, we went to the police station and alerted the authorities.”

“We.” Ollie’s expression changed. Hardened. “Meaning you and Dempsey?”

“Noble, Annamarie, Mrs. O’Malley, and me.”

Ollie frowned. “Who are Annamarie and Mrs. O’Malley?”

“Noble’s wife and the children’s aunt.” Caroline blew out a frustrated breath. “You should have heard their aunt, Ollie. She—”

Ollie stood upright. “Wait. Noble’s
wife
?”

“Yes, Annamarie is one of the finest people I’ve ever known. She’s been like a mother to me.”

Ollie gawked at her for several seconds with his mouth hanging open, reminding her of a fish tossed onto a bank. Then he threw back his head and laughed uproariously. He caught her shoulders. “Noble’s
wife
?” He laughed again, bouncing her with his merriment. “And she’s like a mother to you, which would mean Noble …” He gasped, laughter stealing his ability to speak. “Noble is like a father?”

Caroline extracted herself from his grip. Had he lost touch with reality? She found nothing amusing in their conversation. “Of course he is. They took me in when I was eleven years old. They raised me. I couldn’t love them more if they were my real parents.” She loved them much more than the ones who’d birthed her.

Ollie brought himself under control, and he reached for her again. “Forgive me, Carrie. It’s just that I thought—” He placed his hand over his face, his shoulders shaking in a silent chuckle. When he removed his hand, all humor had fled. “Never mind what I thought. I’m so glad you have them. They obviously mean a great deal to you.”

“Yes, they do.” She observed him for a few seconds to be certain he wouldn’t break into another fit of unbridled, unwarranted mirth. “They came to Sinclair specifically to help me locate a suitable temporary placement for Letta, Lank, and Lesley while their father was so ill. Then they chose to stay and help find a permanent home for them. I don’t know what I would have done today if they hadn’t been here. When I went to school and discovered the children were gone, I—” A sob cut off her words.

Compassion flooded his face. His hands curled around her shoulders, and she found herself drawn into a snug, comforting embrace. Noble had held her just this way on many occasions, but the feelings that exploded through her were far different from any she’d known before. Within the circle of Ollie’s strong arms, her cheek pressed to his firm chest while his heart thrummed beneath her ear, she experienced a sense of being cherished. As if she belonged totally and completely to someone.

She coiled her arms around his torso and clung, eyes closed, reveling. She allowed herself the glorious escape for the span of a dozen heartbeats. And then reality crashed around her. What was she doing hugging Ollie Dinsmore? What must he think of the brazen way she’d melted against him?

Jolting free of his arms, she skittered backward several steps.

He looked at her in confusion. “Have I done something wrong?”

No, he’d done nothing wrong. He’d merely offered comfort—something she’d desperately needed. But in her heart she’d taken the embrace to levels where it shouldn’t have been. She slapped at her skirt, feigning great interest in
removing a few specks of sawdust that had transferred from his trousers. “No. No, of course not.” She spoke briskly. Even tartly. Holding her head high, she went on. “Now that you know about Letta, Lank, and Lesley, I …” She swallowed. Must he look at her that way—as if she’d somehow pierced him? “I have work to do.”

She turned to flee, but his hand caught her arm, sealing her in place. She looked away, her pulse pounding with such ferocity she feared he would feel it beneath his grasp.

“Carrie.” His voice rumbled near her ear, low and full of compassion. “I care about those children, too. I have connections. Father’s money opens doors to which some don’t have access. If I can help find them, you know I will. All you have to do is ask.”

Slowly she shifted her face until she met his gaze. She read concern in his eyes. He cared. Yes, he cared. But his statement about his father’s wealth had just solidified the vast differences between them.
Why, God, did You allow these feelings for Ollie to grow when there’s no hope for us?

Still caught in his grasp, she bobbed her head in a shaky nod. “If you want to engage your … your contacts in searching for the children, I would be indebted to you.”

A sweet smile tipped the corners of his lips. “Consider it done. Is there anything else I can do?”

Very gently she twisted her arm and stepped from his touch. “Yes. Yes, there is.” She drew a deep breath. “You can pray that they’re found quickly and returned safely.”

Dismay flooded Oliver, making his knees feel weak. Two opposite desires warred within him—to refuse or to receive her challenge to pray. The strange longing that gripped him whenever someone mentioned God took hold with such pressure that he found it difficult to draw a breath.

Carrie stood expectantly before him, waiting for his reply.

“Carrie, I’ll—” He started to say of course he’d pray. The words had stumbled from his tongue in the past even though he hadn’t known how to honor them. But this time they wouldn’t come forth. He took a deep breath and opened his mouth, determined to speak. To his surprise, instead of a confirmation, a question spilled out. “Are you sure prayer does any good?”

She gawked at him. “Of course it does. Prayer does much good.”

He couldn’t deny the conviction in her voice and in her expression, but he still held doubts. “I prayed for Mr. Holcomb. I prayed for him to recover. So did you and Kesia and Letta. But he died. If prayer does any good, why didn’t the man live?”

“Oh, Ollie.” The sorrow in her tone cut Oliver as deeply as if she’d picked up a knife and plunged it into his stomach. “Mr. Holcomb was very, very ill. The Bible says, ‘To every thing there is a season … A time to be born, and a time to die.’ Perhaps it was Mr. Holcomb’s time.”

An unsatisfactory answer. “Then why pray at all? If the outcome is already decided, what difference does it make if we pray?”

Tears winked in her eyes. Regret smote him. He was distressing her. She was already worried about the children, and he’d made things worse with his questions. Lifting one hand, he shook his head. “Never mind. It isn’t important. I’ll be sure to have Father contact our friends in law enforcement to—”

She reached toward him, capturing his hand. She held it between both of hers, looking up at him with such deep affection that whatever he’d intended to say fled. “Ollie, it is important. Prayer is very important, because it’s part of developing a personal relationship with God. Do you know God?”

Of course he knew of God. Who didn’t? He started to say so, but something in her expression held his tongue. He sensed her question went much deeper than simple head knowledge. The longing attacked again, stronger than ever. Unable to speak, he shook his head.

A slow smile grew on her face. She squeezed his hands, her eyes slipping closed, and she murmured, “Yes, now I know. Now I know.” He sensed she wasn’t speaking to him, so he remained silent.

Giving his hands one more squeeze, she released him and stepped back.
She wriggled in place, almost giddy. “Ollie, when our shift ends, I’m to meet Noble and Annamarie at Kesia’s for breakfast. Will you join us?”

He tipped his head to the side, examining her eager face. “Does your invitation have anything to do with prayer … and God?”

She nodded, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

“Then I’ll be there.”

Icy shivers crawled up and down Letta’s spine, awakening her. Her eyes slid open. A dim band of sunlight flowed at an angle through a wide-open door across from her spot on the floor. She blinked several times, confusion striking as hard as a stout wind. This wasn’t the hotel room she’d been sharing with her brothers. She glanced left and right. Panic sent her pulse galloping. Where were Lank and Lesley?

She bolted upright and staggered toward the open door, cobwebs and grit and whatever else cluttered the floor falling from her clothing as she went. She scanned the area in all directions. Not a sign of the boys. Where could they have gone? Her body quivered in eagerness to pursue them, but uncertainty about which direction to search left her rooted in place. Fear turned her mouth to cotton.

Cupping her hands beside her mouth, she hollered, “Lank! Lesley! You’d better come here right now!”

In reply she heard giggles, then Lesley’s cheerful crow. “He got ’im, Letta! He got ’im!”

The call came from somewhere ahead. Letta inched forward and finally noticed a trampled path in the grass leading over a nearby rise. She took off at a clumsy trot and met the boys coming from the opposite direction. Fear gave way to anger in one rush. She planted her fists on her hips. “What’re you doin’ out here? You want somebody to see you?”

Lesley shrugged, his smile undimmed. “Nobody around to see us. We was careful. But look what Lank caught!”

Lank held up a stick with a plump catfish speared on its end.

Letta forgot about being angry. She stepped past Lesley and stared in amazement at Lank. “How’d you do that?”

Lank grinned, shrugging. Lesley piped up, “There’s a creek just over yonder. Lotsa fish in it. Lank hopped out on a rock an’ waited for one to swim by. He missed the first couple of times, but he sure got this one!”

Letta examined the stick, noting its sharpened point. “Did you make this?”

Lank nodded. He reached into his pocket and withdrew his penknife, one of the few gifts Pa had bestowed on him. Lank always carried it. She’d never seen him do anything more than whittle with it, though. She hadn’t known he could be so clever.

Her mind whirling, Letta put her hand on Lank’s shoulder. “Do you think you could catch another fish?”

“Shuh-shuh-sure!” Lank pulled the fish from the stick, plopped it in Letta’s hands, then trotted off with Lesley scampering along beside him. Letta followed, holding the dead fish by its limp tail at arm’s length. She watched Lank give a nimble leap onto the flat surface of a rock a few feet from the creek’s edge. He crouched and scanned the water, his face serious and his arm holding the stick like a spear. Then, quick as a cat, he jammed the stick into the rippling stream. He held it aloft, a grin lighting his face and a wriggling fish flopping on the end of the stick.

Lesley jumped up and down. “You done it! You done it!”

Letta wanted to jump in excitement, too, but instead she called, “Toss that one over here, Lank, an’ then stab some more. Many as you can. All right?”