Through the Deep Waters (45 page)

“Good morning,” Preacher Mead said brightly. Then his brows furrowed as his gaze bounced up and down along Amos’s strange attire of britches over
long johns. “Did I wake you? I waited until nine o’clock to come out, figuring you’d be done with your morning chores. I’m sorry if I disturbed you.”

Amos flapped his hand in dismissal. “It’s all right. I—I needed to get up.” He winced as the sunlight hit his sore eyes. He took another backward step. “Come on in. I haven’t got my fire stoked yet, so I can’t offer you a cup of coffee, but if you don’t mind waiting, I can get a fire going and then …” Why was he blathering? He never blathered. Apparently his long stretch of aloneness had stored up words that needed release.

Preacher Mead tangled the reins around the rail running the length of Amos’s porch. Then he stepped over the threshold. “I won’t stay long, and I’ve already had my morning coffee, so don’t worry about fixing anything on my account. But get your fire going if you need to. I’ll talk while you work.”

With a shrug Amos hitched around the table to the wood box, loaded his arms, and then crouched in front of the hearth to begin the chore of fire building. He flicked a look over his shoulder, noting Preacher Mead standing halfway across the floor. He’d said he would talk while Amos worked, but he remained silent with a serious, almost uneasy expression on his face that set Amos’s teeth on edge.

As he arranged the logs over yesterday’s coals, Amos prodded, “What brought you out this morning?” He’d never had visits from anybody two days in a row.

Preacher Mead took in an unsteady breath and moved two steps closer to the fireplace. “Actually, Mr. Ackerman, I’m here because of Cale.”

Amos planted his palms on the floor and pushed to his feet more quickly than he knew he could move. “Did something happen to Cale?”

The man swept his hat from his head. “No, no, Cale is fine. It’s only—” He gestured to the table. “Could we sit?”

Nervous, Amos sidestepped to the table and eased into a chair. Preacher Mead sat opposite him and placed his hat on the table. “Mr. Ackerman, I hope you’ll receive this gift in the manner it’s intended.”

Amos scowled. “Gift? What are you talking about?”

“That mule hitched outside your door? Cale wants you to have it.”

Amos might’ve been mule kicked the way the statement affected him. He lurched back in the chair, banging his spine against the hard rails. Then he bounced forward and rose from the chair in one jarring motion. As he crossed to the door, Preacher Mead’s explanation followed him.

“Shortly after Christmas one of my parishioners gave the boys the mule and a pull cart. They’ve had great fun with it.”

Amos cracked the door and peeked at the mule. By the gray on the animal’s muzzle, clearly it had lived awhile. Although its back was swayed, its chest was fully muscled, and its legs were long and straight. The boys had received quite a gift. Amos closed the door and faced the preacher again.

The man continued. “When I came back from visiting you yesterday, I told my wife about your difficulty walking into town when it’s so cold and the length of time you had to be away from the farm because of the long walk. Apparently Cale was listening, and he gathered up his brothers and convinced them you needed the mule more than they did. Then he came to me and asked me to bring it to you.”

Amos’s throat tightened. Cale had been very open about Amos’s limp, often expressing concern about how long it took Amos to get from one place to another. Ordinarily he didn’t like having people make a fuss about his gimpy leg, but he couldn’t help but be warmed by the boy’s consideration. He returned to the table and sat heavily. “That’s kind of him.”

“I hesitated about bringing the mule to you. I know you’re a proud man—a competent man—and I don’t want you to feel as though the boys gave you the mule because they think you are less than able. Cale wanted you to have it so you could come to town even when it’s cold outside. He’s missed seeing you at church.”

Amos rubbed his palms up and down the thighs of his trousers. Head low, he muttered, “I … I’ve missed seeing him, too.”

“Then you aren’t offended?”

Amos managed to lift his gaze and offer a weak smile. “No. I appreciate the boy thinking of me.”

Preacher Mead slipped his hat over his hair and stood. “He’s a good boy.
We’re blessed to have him in our family. If you discover having the mule—by the way, its name is Jehoshaphat Isaac—”

Amos burst out laughing. Genuine laughter. He enjoyed letting it roll.

The preacher chuckled, too. “We didn’t name him. He came with that moniker, but since he responds to it, we didn’t change it.” He ambled toward the door. “Cale didn’t think about feeding and stabling the animal when he decided you should have him. If he’s too much trouble to keep, let me know. I’ll take him back and explain to Cale. I’m sure he’ll understand.”

Amos wouldn’t send the mule back. Ol’ Jehoshaphat Isaac was a marvelous gift. “Tell Cale and your sons thank you for me. Jehoshaphat Isaac will be of good use to me, I’m sure.”

Preacher Mead gave Amos’s shoulder a solid clap. “Cale is very fond of you, Mr. Ackerman. Every night when he says his bedtime prayers, he asks God to bless ‘Uncle Amos.’ He hasn’t forgotten you.”

“He hasn’t forgotten you.”
The sentence echoed through Amos’s mind, making his eyes sting. Unable to talk, he nodded.

The minister headed outside, pausing to give Jehoshaphat Isaac’s nose a rub as he stepped from the porch. He climbed into his wagon, waved good-bye, then aimed the horses for the road. Amos, on bare feet, moved to the edge of the porch and cupped the underside of Jehoshaphat Isaac’s jaw. The mule snorted but allowed Amos’s examination.

Amos sent a hesitant glance toward the sunny sky and spoke to God for the first time in weeks. “I don’t begrudge the gift. I’m glad Cale hasn’t forgotten me. But don’t think an old mule is enough to replace what I lost. I’m still mad.” He chuckled. A self-deprecating chuckle. Ma would probably say Ol’ Jehoshaphat Isaac wasn’t the only stubborn mule on his property. And Ma would be right.

Amos

Jehoshaphat Isaac, or “Ike” as Amos preferred to call him, proved to be a greater blessing than he’d even imagined. Amos rigged a makeshift harness so Ike could pull the egg wagon. Although it pained his hip to straddle the mule’s broad back for the trek into town, he found it much less tiring to climb up and down than it had to walk the distance himself.

He learned to pace Ike to avoid bouncing the eggs too much. One customer teased, “I’d rather my eggs didn’t get scrambled in the shell, so keep that noble beast from breaking into a run.” Even holding Ike to a gentle saunter let him deliver in half the time it had taken him to walk the route. Which gave him time to meander past the schoolhouse and let Cale and the other Mead boys leave the recess grounds to give their former pet a few nose rubs and sneak him a carrot or apple from one of their lunch pails.

He’d worried how Sam and Gid would react to having the mule take up residence in the barn, and he also worried how Ike would react to the dogs. Although full grown, the pair still scampered and played like puppies, and their rambunctiousness might startle the mule into kicking. A mule’s kick could do a lot of damage. But the worry was for naught.

Dogs and mule formed a fast friendship, and each morning Amos entered the barn to find the two speckled dogs curled next to Ike’s snoring form in the stall. Ike might have been the grandfather to the pups, the patient way he tolerated their antics. Sam and Gid showed their affection by washing Ike’s ears and giving his bristly back a scratching with their paws. Observing them, Amos often experienced a touch of jealousy over how well the three animals got along.

As January moved steadily toward its end, Amos looked ahead to spring and made careful plans. As soon as the snows were gone for good, he’d tear down the last of the small outbuildings and give the chicken house one more expansion to accommodate his ever-growing flock. He’d plant corn, oats, and barley to feed his animals and put in a sizable garden of vegetables for his own table. Thanks to Ike’s service, he would extend his delivery route. Each month over spring and summer, he’d set aside brooders to hatch chicks to increase his egg production.

He intended to ask Preacher Mead about hiring out a couple of his boys—Cale and the oldest one, Seth—for the summer months in exchange for eggs and butchered chickens. To get it all accomplished, Amos would need the extra hands. Cale already knew how to care for the chickens, and he trusted the preacher’s son to be a good worker. If all went well—if more hens than roosters emerged from the shells, if Sam and Gid kept wild animals away from his flock, if no illness or weather calamity affected his birds—by the end of the year, he would be close to having enough eggs to meet the needs at the Clifton Hotel. As he planned for the future, he added one more goal to the list: forget Dinah.

He needed to visit the hotel’s manager and assure him he was still working to provide the chef with eggs. But he couldn’t go there until Dinah had left. So he put off making the trip to the Clifton. He also continued to avoid Sunday services so he wouldn’t risk seeing her. No matter how hard his conscience poked him, he stayed away from the places where his path would most likely cross hers, determined to forget how she once filled every corner of his dreams for the future. And despite his efforts, Dinah persistently lingered in the back of his heart.

But, he consoled himself, once she was gone from Florence, he would be able to forget her. Only a few more days and she would be gone—off to train for a server position. He would be happy for her. And he would be fine here by himself. Of course he would.

Dinah

“Dinah, may I confess something to you?”

She paused in removing her ball dress from its hook in the wardrobe to send a surprised look in Ruthie’s direction. Over the past week of studying the Bible and praying together, Dinah had grown closer to Ruthie than she’d ever been to anyone. Except Amos. She gave herself a little shake. Hadn’t she decided not to think about him anymore? Yes, she had, but deciding it was one thing—actually doing it had proven to be quite another.

She focused her attention on Ruthie. “You can tell me anything.”

Ruthie sighed and sank down on the edge of the bed. She fingered the lip of Dinah’s travel valise and gazed into its open pouch with longing. “I envy you. I wish I was going off to train to be a server.”

Dinah recalled how smug she’d felt when the other servers and Ruthie all seemed to envy her invitation to the Calico Ball. This time Ruthie’s statement raised no hint of smugness. Instead she experienced a stab of remorse. She hated to see Ruthie sad, and she hated to tell her only friend good-bye.

She touched Ruthie’s hand. “Maybe your father will change his mind and let you train after all. Mr. Irwin said there are openings all up the Santa Fe line. I might go to one of the Harvey restaurants farther west once I turn eighteen.”

Ruthie tipped her head and frowned. “Why wait? If there are openings now, couldn’t you take one of them when you finish your training?”

Dinah shook her head. “No. I’m too young. Mr. Harvey made an exception because no other girls were interested in working in Florence. So he told Mr. Irwin I would have to come back here after my training. But once I’m eighteen, I could go to Colorado or Wyoming or even New Mexico.”

“Oh, how exciting it would be to travel …” Ruthie’s expression turned dreamy.

At one time the thought of traveling to such amazing places would have filled Dinah with delightful eagerness. But now, knowing what she would leave behind, she was plagued by a sense of loss. But it was best that she leave
Florence. Best for her, and best for Amos. She began folding the Calico Ball dress into a neat square. “You can ask your father again at service tomorrow morning. Since I’m going, he might think it’s all right for the two of us to go together.”

Ruthie crossed her arms over her chest and scowled. “He’ll never let me go. No matter how many times I’ve told him Mr. Harvey’s servers are well respected, he still considers waitressing a less-than-acceptable occupation for his daughter. Papa doesn’t seem to understand that Mr. Harvey’s standards are so high that becoming one of his restaurant servers is an honor.” With another melodramatic sigh Ruthie flopped flat on her back on the quilt with her arms up over her head.