Love in the Balance (31 page)

“Oh, hush! You said what you felt you had to say. Why don’t you be quiet and listen for once?”

Silence she wanted, silence she’d get. He went back to watching his line, every nerve pulled as tight as the strings on his guitar. Her hair was down. Occasionally a blond curl floated over to brush against his bare forearm. She might not notice, but he did. Of all the spots up and down the river, why did she come and sit by him?

To his surprise Molly flopped on her back, hands behind her head, and looked up at the stars.

“There’s a lot I want to say, and there’s no one I can talk to. Maybe that’s my own fault. I’m trying to make friends, but it’s too soon to pour my heart out to Mrs. Weems or Mrs. Nimenko. They don’t know me—not like you do—and I’d like someone to listen while I sort this out.”

“I don’t think I’m the right person. I haven’t been trustworthy—”

“I declare, Bailey Garner, you can’t keep your trap shut for anything. Hush, now. I don’t want to talk about the hearing. I don’t want to talk about any of that. Believe me, Mother and Father have already done the topic justice.”

One quick look at her, hair splashed across the grass, and Bailey knew he shouldn’t look again. The desire to be near her, to find comfort together was overwhelming, but his desire had already destroyed her. He could listen without looking.

“I have to have something to live for,” she said. “I won’t be satisfied hiding in the parsonage or in Mother’s parlor, arranging and rearranging knickknacks.”

Her bare toes peeked out from under her gown as she let them stretch toward the churning water. He’d held her little foot and traced it at the cobbler’s. He’d sewn the boots and tacked on the sole. He’d done the work, and in the end, the man with the money was the one who gave the gift and took the gift.

“I was reading yesterday,” she began, “Isaiah 61. So many phrases of promise—to give ‘beauty for ashes,’ ‘the oil of joy for mourning,’ ‘the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness’—I know God can do that. I already sent Nick a letter about possible employment, but until I hear back, God must have something for me to do here—not anything important like help at the church or join a ladies’ committee, but maybe I’m supposed to be a friend to people who need one. Even I could do that.”

The water continued to roar and so did his love for her. People thought he was a saint, but Molly had shown him more grace than he would ever possess.

Something nudged his line. Bubbles appeared in the smooth pool protected by a fallen tree. Probably a giant catfish trolling for a midnight snack. Bailey drew in the line to check the bait. He could feel Molly’s gaze on him as he pulled it up, hand over hand.

“I’ve always been so concerned about my future that I never stopped to see how anyone else was managing. Now that I don’t have a future”—she swatted at a mosquito—“perhaps I could help someone I avoided before.”

She rolled onto her side, propping her head up with bent arm. “You think they’d mind my getting involved?” She bit her lip. “Maybe I could use that settlement money for good. I could get Mrs. Weems started on the right foot, hire Mrs. Nimenko a farmhand so Ivan could go back to school. Small things like that?”

She looked so hopeful. Ready for the next challenge. Ready to move forward. He tossed the weighted line back out.

“Now I’m allowed to speak?”

She nodded.

“Then I’ll tell you, you rolled onto my worms.”

“Oh!” She sprang up and pulled a sticky folded piece of newspaper off her side. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You told me to be quiet.” Women. No pleasing them.

Molly scrubbed the wet spot on her dress with her shawl. “Revolting! They’re ground into the fabric. Little bits of . . .”

She clutched her stomach as her eyes widened. Uh-oh. Bailey dropped his fishing rod.

“Don’t get sick. Think about something else, Molly. Think about something else.”

With a lurch his fishing pole parted the thick blades of grass and sped toward the river.

“Catch it!” he called, but Molly was in no condition to lend a hand.

Crashing through the brambles and into the river, Bailey chased his pole. Water filled his boots and splashed his chest, but he’d rather be in the river than next to a nauseous woman. He reached far and snagged the rod before it disappeared into the depths.

“It’s a big one and feels like it’s hooked good.” He struggled against the pole, the water churning.

“Don’t let it get in the branches. You’ll never get it out.” Molly’s cheers confirmed that the worms were forgotten. “Oh, I saw it. That fish is as long as my arm.”

“And a sight thicker.” Bailey deliberately worked his way out from the bank, wading deeper and deeper. “I’m not going to be able to lift it with the pole. It’s too big. Should be a net hanging in the scale house.”

“I’ll be right back.”

———

Molly’s bare feet skimmed over the cool grass. Her arm brushed against the slick spot on her dress, reminding her of the disintegrated worms, but she kept moving, not wanting to ruin Bailey’s chances of success.

It’d been the right thing to do, leaving the parsonage that night. She hadn’t known Bailey would be at the fishing hole, but when she saw him she couldn’t stay away. Not after he’d stared her father down at supper. Only that gave her the courage to approach him.

Molly cut between the corncrib and the tack room, surprised to find herself out of breath, but when was the last time she’d actually run? When she’d worked at the courthouse, she’d rather incur Mr. Travis’s wrath for being late than rush down the streets of Lockhart. She rounded the side of the scale house and stopped. Through the shadows she could see that the door to the mule barn stood open.

She paused at the scale house, squinting at the building across the gravel drive. Getting the net was her first priority. She could lock up the barn on her way to the parsonage.

But then she saw movement. A large figure crossed in front of the doorway, headed to the stall.

“Excuse me,” she called. “What are you doing?”

He turned. It was Michael James. With a quick step to his left he disappeared into a dark corner of the barn.

Molly’s heart lurched to her throat. That feeling—the feeling of being watched—descended on her again. He hadn’t run off. He was waiting in the shadow. No mistake. He had come there for a purpose, and Molly might be all that stood between him and his goal.

Just like Saul Nimenko.

“Bailey,” she called. “Bailey, come quick.”

She could hear him, but his answer was unclear.

At the sound of a masculine voice, Michael darted from the building and sprinted to the shelter of the trees upriver. The saplings lining the banks shook as he passed through them until the darkness hid his progress. It didn’t look like he’d carried anything away, but what if he wasn’t alone? Molly kept her eyes peeled on the door and yelled for Bailey again.

She heard his boots sloshing across the yard. “What’s the matter?”

“Michael James was in the mule barn. He ran over there.” She wrung her hands. “I think he was robbing us. Should I get a gun? You know he shot the last—”

“Shh . . .” He pulled his knife out of the sheath and turned to look upriver. “I wouldn’t be able to catch him now. Let’s make sure there are no surprises in the barn. Run to the house if he returns.”

He squeezed her arm and motioned to her to wait outside the door. Poking his head in, Bailey looked both ways and then eased one heel at a time onto the straw as he snuck inside.

A mule snorted. She heard Bailey drop the pin into the latch. So the stall had been unfastened? Molly’s chin hardened and her elbows tensed. How dare someone take something that didn’t belong to him. How dare someone threaten the business she’d worked so hard to save.

The whole county was looking for Michael James, and she’d let him run away. Before she knew it she’d marched into the barn in search of a weapon. She made a beeline to the haymow and bent to retrieve the pitchfork. It was heavier than she’d expected, and when she finally pulled it free, she lost her balance and stumbled backwards.

Molly screamed as firm arms caught her from behind. A hand covered her mouth. She swung the pitchfork just as she realized who was holding her.

“Keep quiet or you’ll wake the whole household,” Bailey whispered.

He waited until she nodded before he uncovered her mouth, but his arms remained wrapped around her waist, her back pressed against his chest. She stilled, her anger forgotten. Did Bailey realize what he was doing? He was holding her, molding himself around her like they belonged together. She relaxed as the burdens she’d carried alone slid off her shoulders. With one hand Bailey took the pitchfork and tossed it aside before hugging her tight again.

He knew. He knew how much she needed him. He had to know how much she wanted him despite the fact that they could never be together.

His cheek pressed into her unbound hair. “Oh, Molly,” he said. And that was all. She felt his lips against her crown. Molly closed her eyes and covered his hands with her own. She didn’t want the moment to end. Every breath he took, every beat of his heart moved her—as it should. She’d ruined her chances, but nothing could ruin her love for him.

“I miss you,” she said. “I miss us. I haven’t been held like this since . . .” Was it the night of her father’s spell? Yes, that was the last time they’d been together.

Bailey slid his arms apart. With a heavy sigh, he stepped away. She wondered why her reminiscing had upset him, and then it was clear. The last person to hold her hadn’t been him.

“I think you’d better head to the parsonage before it gets any later.” Bailey’s shoulders slumped and he studied the dirt floor, looking like he wanted it to open and swallow him.

The shuffling of the mules filled the silence between them. Molly’s arms dropped. He would never forget. No matter how much he cared for her, he couldn’t forget.

The moment was ruined. When would she realize that Edward would always come between them? Her actions had put her forever out of Bailey’s consideration. She was unclean in his eyes.

“I’ll lock up,” he said. “No sense worrying your pa till morning.”

“Thank you.” She stepped outside. Although the parsonage wasn’t visible from the low riverbanks, she could find it while sleepwalking—as soon as she located her shoes. But she couldn’t leave without trying to restore the moment they’d shared. “And thanks for letting me talk. Maybe I can come tomorrow night.”

Bailey chewed his lip. “Didn’t plan on coming out tomorrow. Maybe some other time.”

She tightened her mouth briefly before forcing it into a smile. “Certainly. Some other time, then.” But now she knew there wouldn’t be one.

26

Bailey couldn’t look at the mule barn without warmth creeping across his chest, and yet he’d found excuses to walk by it a hundred times that day.

Men waved from the back of a wagon as it rolled out of the lumberyard to take them home. Bailey returned the gesture, but he didn’t have the heart to smile. No matter. They’d probably credit his melancholy to some deep contemplation of biblical scholarship, but his thoughts were occupied with a more earthly matter.

He entered the barn and saw that the pitchfork was still in the haystack where he’d tossed it. He inhaled the warm straw and animal scents, letting the memory of Molly in his arms return undiluted.

Why had he refused to meet with her? The answer was hidden somewhere between her past with Edward and their future. Could he forget her rejection when so many were eager to remind him?

The least he owed her was a sympathetic ear, but maybe another location would be better. His ear was attached to the rest of him, and there was no limit to the trouble found on a riverbank under the stars.

He latched the barn door and headed to the office to get the ledger. Thomas claimed to have gone over it like a mother searching for nits, but besides the low balance he could find nothing amiss. That wasn’t good enough for Bailey. What if they were losing money because of him? He was the new man, and he wanted assurance that the dwindling profits weren’t caused by his ineptitude.

Through the office window he saw Russell kneeling next to the woodstove. In his hand were what looked to be sales receipts. Russell swung open the square metal grate and stuffed the papers into the stove.

What in the world?

Striding through the door, Bailey snatched up the poker and stepped between Russell and the stove. He jabbed the rod into the blaze and tried to drag out the flaming paper, but it was too late to retrieve the receipts.

“What did you do?” He glared at the man crouched on the floor.

“I’m discarding the duplicate receipts. I didn’t want them to get mixed in and cause confusion.”

Bailey’s fingers went as cold as the poker. Part of him wanted to accept the weak excuse, to turn a blind eye so he wouldn’t learn anything he didn’t want to know. But the truth was truth, even if it proved him wrong.

“Why would we have duplicate receipts?”

Russell stood, his bald head glistening from the heat. “I spilt ink on a stack of them, so I had to rewrite them all. We can’t have two copies floating around.” He shrugged easily. “Here’s the ledger. Tell Thomas we had another busy day.”

Bailey took the leather-bound book from his hand. The bright flames had returned to their normal height. Russell closed the grate and reached for his tan felt hat—the same color as the hands that grasped it.

Bailey’s eyes narrowed. Russell’s hands were clean. Bailey walked around the desk and found no deep stains marring its surface. The trash bin held no blackened rags. Everything was tidy.

Russell had his hand on the door before Bailey spoke.

“Have you seen your son lately?”

Russell turned to him, his face blotchy. “I should deny it, but yes, I’ve seen Michael. I see him every chance I get. Look, you’ve always treated me fair. You have to understand that I can’t turn on my own flesh and blood. He’s in a lot of trouble, and I can’t refuse to help him.”

“Even if he’s a murderer?”

“But he’s not. It’s a misunderstanding.”