Through the Deep Waters (19 page)

Ruthie

Ruthie slipped under the covers first, leaving Dinah to extinguish the lamp. She lay quietly while her roommate made her way around the bed, her feet scuffing on the floor and her hand trailing along the edge of the mattress until she reached her side. When she climbed in, the mattress shifted and the springs squeaked, and Ruthie held tight to the sheet to keep it from slipping from her frame as Dinah settled herself against her pillow. A soft sigh carried from the opposite side of the bed, somehow sad sounding in the darkness.

She’d waited all day for the right time to deliver Mr. Ackerman’s message, but even though her path had crossed with Dinah’s many times, she held the words inside. Now, lying there in the dark with the scented night breeze drifting in from the open window to kiss her cheeks and Dinah silent and still, perhaps even asleep already, she was tempted to forget the message altogether.

Guilt pricked, and she stifled a huff of frustration. Papa had taught her well—her conscience wouldn’t allow her to ignore what she’d promised to do, even though it seemed Mr. Ackerman was perfectly capable of seeking Dinah out himself. He’d done it once already. The familiar envy boiled in her middle. Another reason to feel guilty. She couldn’t carry two wrongs and get any sleep tonight, and the envy didn’t seem to want to leave her.
Oh, all right, then
.

She cleared her throat. “Dinah, I have another message for you. From Mr. Ackerman.”

A sharp little gasp, as if she encountered something frightening—or had been given a delightful surprise—escaped Dinah’s lips.

Ruthie hurried on before she changed her mind. “He said he missed you
in service today. And he hopes you’ll come next week.” He hadn’t come right out and said so, but Ruthie knew he wanted Dinah there. She gave a little jolt, awareness dawning. Shouldn’t
she
want Dinah there, too? Papa—and Mama—would be disappointed to know how their daughter had given up on reaching out to Dinah. Granted, Dinah did little to encourage a friendship, but her parents would tell her that wasn’t an excuse.

Even more guilt pressed down on Ruthie, and she blinked back tears. But encouraging Dinah to attend service would put her in contact with Mr. Ackerman. Ruthie’s whole life, instructed to put others first, she’d let younger siblings and schoolmates crowd her out. She willingly worked to help her family, but if Papa hadn’t been so adamantly opposed, she’d be a server rather than a chambermaid cleaning up behind rich people. People like Dinah. Couldn’t Ruthie, just once, put herself first? She and Mama had agreed to pray concerning her attraction to the chicken farmer. Couldn’t she wait to see how God answered before throwing Dinah at the man’s feet?

“I … I want …” Ruthie gulped, a mighty battle waging in her heart. She conceded defeat. Even for herself, she couldn’t betray her father’s instruction. “I want you to come, too.”

Dinah lay in silence so long Ruthie wondered if she’d drifted off to sleep. But then her quiet voice whispered, “No, thank you.”

Ruthie collapsed against her pillow, not even aware she’d been holding herself stiffly. Her relief was so immense she let out a little laugh, then bit down on her lip to still the sound. Bits and pieces from a hymn Papa had recently sung sneaked through her thoughts.
“ ‘Rescue the perishing … Tell them of Jesus, the mighty to save …’ ”
If Dinah died without Jesus, she’d be lost for all eternity. She couldn’t simply accept Dinah’s refusal. She
had
to
try
. For Papa’s sake.

After turning onto her side, Ruthie examined Dinah’s profile in the gray shadows. “Are … are you sure?” She held her breath.

Dinah swallowed and blinked rapidly several times. Then she lay unmoving for several seconds before giving an emphatic nod that made the springs beneath their heads twang. “I’m sure.”

Ruthie’s breath eased out in a long, slow exhale. “Well, you know you can change your mind. Yes? You know the church doors are open to anyone?”

Dinah’s lips quirked in an odd wry grin. “Go to sleep, Ruthie.” She rolled over with her back to Ruthie.

Ruthie sighed and turned over, too, facing the opposite wall. She closed her eyes, ready for sleep to claim her now that she’d performed her duties for both Mr. Ackerman and Papa. But the slight vibration of the mattress—Dinah crying?—kept her awake far into the night, even well past the time the shuddering movements stopped and all was still.

Amos

Monday morning, even before the rooster crowed, Samson and Gideon burst into a mighty ruckus. Amos sat straight up in bed, his heart pounding. The fox was back! He scrambled out of bed so quickly his bad hip nearly sent him face first on the floor. By hopping on his good leg, he caught his balance, and then he pounded across the floor. Dressed only in his long johns, he snatched his rifle from the pegs above the fireplace and barreled out the door on tender bare feet as quickly as his bum leg would allow.

In the predawn light, he saw both pups leaping at the ends of their ropes. Their shrill barks pierced his ears. He whistled but neither reacted a whit. And all their barking had the chickens in an uproar. An entire chorus of frantic clucks carried from inside the chicken house.

“Sam! Gid!” He tried once more to bring the pups under control, but even though they glanced at him, they still didn’t settle down. Whatever they’d spotted, it had them in a mighty dither. He aimed his hop-twice-and-shuffle way of trotting in the direction of the dogs, careful to keep the nose of the rifle barrel aimed skyward. But he changed direction when he noticed his rooster—the brave, cocky bird—in the yard near the spot where the barn wall met the chicken coop.

Wings outstretched and head bobbing, the rooster had cornered something
and prepared to charge. Amos’s heart leaped into his throat. How had the rooster escaped the barn? He always locked it up at night. The obnoxious bird would be no match for a fox or a bobcat. He jerked the gate to the chicken yard open and made straight for the rooster, waving his arms and adding a shout to the cacophony. “Yee-ah! Get outta there! Git! Git!”

The rooster, crowing in indignation, darted between Amos’s feet. He lurched to a stop, expecting a small furry beast to follow, but to his shock a shadowy figure—too tall to be a fox or bobcat or even a coyote—cowered against the barn wall. He thought he heard a voice. A
human
voice. But with the dogs continuing to whine and yip, he couldn’t be sure.

Daring to take his squinted gaze away from the intruder, he whirled on the pups and commanded, “Sam! Gid! Hush!” With a series of whimpers and weak growls, the pair finally hunkered against the ground, their eyes round and luminous in the waning moonlight. With the dogs’ calming, the ruckus inside the coop also decreased in volume. “Good dogs. Stay.” Then he turned and faced the barn. “You there. Come on out.”

“Please, mister, don’t let your rooster eat me. An’ don’t shoot me, neither.”

Now Amos knew the voice belonged to a human. A scared child, based on the high pitch and quaver. Even so, the kid was a trespasser. Amos kept a stern tone. “I won’t shoot you as long as you come out of there.”

“You sure?”

Amos came close to chuckling. “I’m sure. But don’t try any shenanigans, or I’ll set the rooster on you.”

“I won’t try nothin’. Honest.” Very slowly the figure shifted, and a boy no higher than Amos’s lowest rib stepped from the deepest shadows. Even in the dim light, the boy’s cheeks looked hollow, his clothes filthy. He dug a bare toe in the dirt and hunched his shoulders, peering at Amos with round, apprehensive eyes beneath a shock of thick, matted hair. “Y-you gonna whip me? Farmer up the road whipped me good a couple days ago.”

“Is there some reason I ought to give you a whipping?”

“Reckon so. I been stealin’ your eggs.”

As much as he hated to admit it, Amos admired the boy’s honesty. But
maybe he didn’t think he had any other choice with Amos at the ready with a rifle in his hand. Amos set his feet wide and glared down at the boy. “Stealing’s a sin.”

“I know.”

“Then why’d you do it?”

“’Cause I was hungry.”

Amos chewed the inside of his cheek for a few seconds. The kid’s confession cleared up the mystery of his disappearing eggs. At least he now knew his chickens hadn’t stopped laying. He found the realization assuring. Even though he didn’t appreciate this little scalawag helping himself to eggs that weren’t his, he experienced a pang of sympathy. The boy would have to be powerfully hungry to eat raw eggs.

Amos snapped out, “You like eggs, do you?”

The boy’s skinny shoulders rose in a shrug. “Like ’em best fried over easy with salt pork an’ biscuits. But I don’t got a stove. Or salt pork. Or flour.”

Another chuckle threatened. He’d never heard such a blatant hint.

Pink fingers of light shot upward from the east, and the rooster paused in its scratching to arch its neck and sing out its morning wake-up call. The boy cringed. He pointed at the rooster. “That’s a real mean bird, mister. He near pecked my toe off the last time I was here. You might consider fryin’ him up for your Sunday dinner.”

The boy was almost as bold as the rooster. “I don’t know if I should. He does a pretty good job of capturing egg thieves.”

His head ducked low, the boy returned to poking his dirty toe against the ground.

Both Samson and Gideon sat up and released twin whines. Amos hitched over to them, hooked the rifle in the crook of his arm, and bent over to give the pups a good-morning scratch behind the ears. He flicked a look at the boy, who stood as still as a statue in the chicken yard, his cautious gaze aimed at the strutting rooster.

Swallowing a chortle, Amos released the pups from their restraining ropes and didn’t even call them back when they shot straight for the boy, barking
with glee. The boy dropped to his knees and loved on the dogs, his smile so wide it seemed his face might split. Even though he’d lost eggs to this boy—as well as his peace of mind and a half hour of sleep—Amos couldn’t help grinning at the happy wrestling match taking place.

But the sun was rising and he had work waiting. So he snapped his fingers. “Samson, Gideon, come.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Gideon separated himself from the boy and galloped across the yard to Amos. Samson followed closely behind. Both pups plopped down on their bottoms and looked up at Amos with tongues lolling. He gave them each a pat on the head, then looked at the boy, who remained on his knees in the grass.

His heart panged at the child’s bereft face. “What’s your name, son?”

“Cale.”

“Cale what?”

He shrugged. “Just Cale.”

“How many eggs do you figure you’ve snitched from my chicken house or the barn?”

“Dunno.” Cale crunched his freckled nose. “Mebbe … nine?”

Amos snorted. “Try again.”

The boy ducked his head. “Prob’ly a good dozen an’ a half.”

“Sounds closer.” Amos pretended to think deeply, jutting out his chin and stroking his night’s growth of prickly whiskers. “That means you owe me roughly thirty cents.”

Cale bolted to his feet. “I don’t got any money, mister.”

Amos didn’t figure the boy did or he wouldn’t have been stealing food. “How are you going to pay me back for the eggs you stole?”

In slow, deliberate motions the boy turned his back on Amos and began removing his ragtag shirt. “Guess you can take it out o’ my hide, way the farmer up yonder done.” He balled the shirt in one hand and bent over slightly to rest his palms on his knees. “Just hurry an’ get it over with, huh?”

Amos froze in place, horrified not only by the inches-wide welts striping the boy’s narrow back but his resigned expectation of another harsh
punishment. His throat tightened, and his words pushed out low and grating. “Put your shirt on. Looks to me like the farmer took his due for both of us.”

Cale looked over his shoulder at Amos. “You ain’t gonna whale on me?”

Amos turned toward the house. “Nope.”

“But what about them eggs I stole?” Panic filled the child’s voice. He scampered over to Amos and trailed him across the yard. “You gonna give me over to the sheriff?”

Should he? The boy’s hunger, his thieving, his reluctance to share his last name all pointed to him being a runaway. He stopped at the edge of his porch and looked down at the boy, who gazed upward with wide, pleading eyes.

“How old are you, Cale?”

The boy squared his shoulders and stuck out his scrawny chest. “Thirteen an’ a half.”

Amos raised one eyebrow. “Try again.”

Cale grimaced. “I’ll be nine come October.”

As Amos had suspected, the boy wasn’t old enough to be out on his own, and if he kept taking things that didn’t belong to him, somebody might do more than take a strap to him—they might aim a rifle at him. He’d better take him in to the sheriff. But first … “How many eggs does a boy your age generally eat for breakfast?”

Cale’s eyes grew so round they looked like they might pop from his head. “Two. Sometimes three.”

Amos waved his hand toward the barn. “Well, you know where I keep ’em.”

“Honest, mister?”