“You wouldn’t have lasted two weeks in the army anyway. Someone, unable to put up with your mouth, would’ve put a knife in your back.”

“Horseshit!” Walter yelled, getting tired of the verbal sparring. “Why don’t ya go on over to St. Joe and waller ’round in that fine house that stingy ol’ fart-knocker left ya? I ain’t needin’ ya here.”

“Shut your mouth!”

“Shut yore mouth! Shut yore mouth!” he mimicked, his voice slurred. “I was good enough once.”

Evan drew back his fist. “Say one more word and you’ll be spitting out teeth.”

“Ah … shit—” Walter lay down on the couch and put his feet up.

Evan retreated to the safety of his upstairs room. He didn’t dare linger in the same room with the man for fear he would lose control and beat him to death.

Evan’s small room was as sparsely furnished as it had been when he was a youth: a bed, bureau, wardrobe and trunk. Besides his army pistol, his rifle and a few mementos, he had brought with him only his clothes, a few favorite books, his Victrola and his collection of records when he came back to the farm.

The quilt his mother had made, piecing together leftovers from the fabric she had used to make his shirts and her dresses and aprons, lay folded on the humpbacked trunk. A large picture of a boy and a big yellow dog hung over the bed, and on the opposite wall was a picture of an Indian on a tired horse. This room had been his sanctuary when he was a boy. He had come here to escape Walter’s drunken rages.

Evan wound his Victrola, put on one of his favorite records,
Una furtiva lagrima
, sung by Enrico Caruso, who had died the year before, and stood at the window. While listening to the soothing music, he pushed the curtain aside and looked out over the planted fields, the orchard, the cow lot and the wooded area north of the house.

He had not planned to spend the rest of his life here when he arrived, but the place had grown on him despite the detestable presence of Walter. Here he’d had a sense of belonging that he’d never had in the big house his grandparents had left him in St. Joseph.

Alerted by a dust cloud on the road, Evan watched as an open touring car turned into the lane and approached the house. It was a car he had seen parked at the courthouse in town and he knew it was the one used by the district marshal. Evan waited until the men got out of the car, then went down the stairs to open the front door as the marshal came up the walk, followed by his deputy.

“Hello, Marshal.” Evan stepped out onto the porch.

“Mr. Johnson.” Marshal Sanford held out his hand. “We’ve not met since you came back. I remember seeing you when you were a lad. You’ve grown up some.”

“Fifteen years makes a difference.”

“Yes, it does. Meet Deputy Weaver.”

Evan extended his hand to the tall, whiplash-thin man with dark gray-streaked hair. A handlebar mustache curved down on each side of his mouth. He shifted a chew of tobacco to the other side of his cheek before he spoke.

“Glad to meetcha.”

“Same here,” Evan said. Then, “What can I do for you, Marshal?”

“Is Walter here?”

“He’s here, but he may have passed out by now. Come in.”

Evan led the two men to the kitchen, where Walter lay on the couch.

“Get up,” Evan said roughly. “The marshal is here to see you.”

Walter slowly sat up and swung his bootless feet to the floor. He clutched his whiskey bottle in one hand, forked the fingers of his other hand through his hair and looked up at the men with bloodshot eyes.

“Whataya want?”

“Where did you get this rotgut whiskey, Walter?” Marshal Sanford reached over and took the bottle out of his hand.

“None of yore business,” Walter growled.

“I say it is. But I didn’t come out here to find out where you get your bootlegged whiskey. I’ve got a pretty good idea about that.”

“If hit ain’t ’bout the whish-key … what’s it?”

“I came to tell you that if I get any more complaints about your drunken rowdiness at the revival meeting, or anywhere else, I’m going to throw you so far back in jail you’ll never find your way out.”

“I ain’t been to no revival meetin’.”

“You’ve been hanging around outside trying to pick fights. Another thing, you’ve been out to the pavilion at Spring Lake causing trouble.”

“What’s that?” Walter’s words were becoming more and more slurred. Evan wondered how he could even carry on a conversation after so much booze. “I went … danc-in’, is all I done.”

“I’m warning you, Johnson. Stay away from the revival meeting and the Spring Lake dance hall.”

“I got rights to go where I want to. Ain’t no business of yores.”

“You have no right to disrupt a religious service or to disturb young folk having a good time. If you do, it’s my business and I’ll do something about it.”

The marshal rocked back on his heels, and his sharp eyes went from Walter to his son.

“I’m not his keeper,” Evan said stoutly, feeling that the man was conveying a message.

Sanford shook his head in disgust, set the whiskey bottle on the table with a bang and walked out of the room. The deputy followed. On the porch, Sanford turned to Evan, who stood with his back to the screen door.

“It’s like talking to a stump.” When Evan nodded in agreement, Sanford continued, “Drunk or sober, he’s been trouble for as long as I can remember.”

Evan nodded again.

“Ain’t you able to do somethin’ with him?” The deputy spoke for the first time.

“I didn’t come back here to be a nursemaid for Walter. I came to see that my mother’s farm wasn’t run into the ground.” Evan looked the cold-eyed deputy in the eye, wanting to make his position clear.

“The way he’s goin’, I ain’t goin’ to be surprised if someone ups and kills him.” Deputy Weaver walked to the end of the porch and spit into the Rose of Sharon bush.

Evan shrugged. “If they do, they do.”

“Be fine with you, huh? You’d have the farm. I reckon it’s worth a pretty penny. Right?” The deputy came back, stopped within a few feet of Evan and eyed him through half-closed lids.

“I’ll have it anyway,” Evan replied, looking the deputy squarely in the eye.

“Yeah, but maybe you ain’t wantin’ to wait.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Weaver shrugged, his eyes still on Evan’s face, his lips curled in a sneer.

Marshal Sanford stepped in to break the tension between the two men. He held out his hand to Evan.

“I’d be obliged if you’d do what you can to keep him away from town.”

“I appreciate the fact that it’s your duty to keep peace in this county, but as I said before, I’m not Walter’s keeper. He’s a grown man—a poor excuse for one, I admit—but he’ll have to take responsibility for his own actions.”

“He’s your pa, ain’t he? Don’t ya think it’s your duty to look out for your pa?” Weaver taunted.

Evan decided that he didn’t like the man’s attitude and gave him a cold stare.

“No. I don’t think it’s my duty to look out for
him
. If he breaks the law, it’s
your
duty to do something about it. It’s what you’re being paid for, isn’t it?”

“That’s clear enough,” Deputy Weaver sneered. “You don’t care if he disrupts church services, harasses young people or exposes himself to womenfolk. Did ya know that only about one in a hundred young ladies ever report being raped?”

“Damn you! Of course I care, but there’s not much I can do about it.”

“We’d best be getting on back to town.” Sensing the antagonism growing between Evan and his deputy, the marshal stepped off the porch and headed for the car. With one last openly contemptuous look at Evan, the deputy followed.

Evan stood on the porch and waited for his temper to cool. He watched until the big touring car turned around in the barnyard and headed back down the lane to the road before he went back into the house.

One glance told him that Walter had downed what was left in the whiskey bottle. Dead drunk now, he was sprawled out on the couch, mouth open, spittle running from the corner. There was a big wet spot on the front of his overalls. It was a thoroughly disgusting sight.

Needing to get out of the house, Evan stepped onto the back porch and picked up the staff he used when he walked out into the pasture to drive in their three milch cows. Walking along the fence line, he pondered what that smart-mouthed deputy had said. Was he accusing Walter of rape?

Good grief! Walter had always talked nasty. His mother had said that he did it to shock folks and get attention. Evan remembered the fear on the face of Julie Jones. Had he just talked nasty to her or had he threatened her and her younger sister?

If he touches either one of them I swear I’ll kill him
!

Evan did the chores as quickly as possible, then washed and put on clean clothes. He was looking forward to going to the ball game and seeing Julie Jones again.

Chapter 4

W
HERE’S
J
ASON
?”

The family had taken their places at the kitchen table for the light supper. Remembering Walter Johnson’s threat, Julie became alarmed when she saw that Jason’s chair was empty.

“Where’s Jason?” Julie asked again, louder this time.

“He’ll be along. Hurry up, Sis. Joe’s gonna play catch with me.” Jack, her sixteen-year-old brother, would rather play baseball than eat.

“Did Jason—”

“He’s finishing his chores.” As Jethro spoke, his youngest son came hurrying in through the back door. “Wash up, son. We’re waiting for you.”

Jason placed a basket of eggs on the workbench. “That danged old biddy pecked me.”

“She doesn’t peck me,” Jill said smugly.

“Then you can have the job. It’s woman’s work anyhow.”

“Sit down so Papa can say the blessing.” Julie placed a platter of sliced bread on the table and took her place next to Joy.

While the family helped themselves to fresh bread, apple butter, jam and scrambled eggs, Julie debated with herself about whether to tell her father and the boys about her meeting with Walter Johnson. If she didn’t and something happened to Jason or Jill, she would never forgive herself. She would talk to them later, she decided, when the younger kids were not around.

“I asked Evan Johnson to come play ball.” Joe reached for the bread platter. “Reckon the neighbors will snub him?”

“Because of his pa?” Jack asked.

“You know how the Birches are. Pete and Clem can be stiff-necked at times, and they hate Walter Johnson like poison.”

“Can’t blame Evan for his pa.” Jethro’s eyes swept around the table.

“Just like folks can’t blame me for mine,” Joe teased and hit his father on the shoulder.

“Watch it, young scutter. You’re not too old to whop.”

“Joe’s too big,” Joy said seriously.

“
You’re
not.” Jill couldn’t pass up the opportunity for the last word.

“I brought the cooler up out of the cellar,” Julie announced during a break in the conversation. “One of you boys can fill it at the well and take it out to the ball field.”

“Let Jill fill it. She can take it out in the coaster wagon— that is, if she gets through primpin’ for the Taylor boys before dark,” Jack said with a smirk.

Jason giggled.

“You shut up!” Jill rose up out of her chair and glared at her brother.

“Sit down, Sis,” Jethro said. “Stop teasing her, Jack.”

Joe, his dark eyes shining with amusement, winked at Julie. The handsomest of all the Jones siblings and just two years younger than Julie, he was her favorite, if she admitted to having a favorite. They had always been close. Lucky would be the girl who caught him.