Where Willows Grow (11 page)

Dorothy skipped across the garden and waved as the wagon rolled to a halt between the house and barn. ‘‘Hi, Mr. Berkley!’’ She returned to the bucket, humming.

‘‘Hello there, Dorothy,’’ Jack greeted as he jumped down. He ambled toward the garden.

Anna Mae watched him out of the corner of her eye as she rounded the row of scrawny carrot greens. She bent down, busily plucking at nonexistent weeds, her heart thumping high in her throat.

A shadow fell across the neat rows of fledgling plants. By its size, she knew it was Jack’s. She pushed her chin against her shoulder and kept her gaze low.

‘‘Morning, Anna Mae.’’ The soft greeting held the teasing undertone she had come to expect.

‘‘Morning.’’ She didn’t look up. ‘‘Everything’s in the ’fraidy hole, same as always.’’ She picked up a clod of dirt and crumbled it in her hand, then patted the particles around the root of one plant.

The shadow shortened. She risked a quick glance. Jack crouched beside her, elbows on knees. ‘‘I got your empty milk cans in the back of the wagon. Do you want them on the porch?’’

Marjorie leaned sideways, reaching for Jack. Anna Mae pulled her back. ‘‘Yes, thank you. That’s fine.’’

But Jack didn’t move, and she heard him release a huff of breath. ‘‘Anna Mae, how long are you going to keep this up?’’

Anna Mae sent a brief, sidelong glance in his direction. ‘‘Keep what up?’’

He caught her arm and rose, pulling her with him. ‘‘Hiding.’’

She raised her chin. ‘‘I’m not hiding. Here I am, right out in the open.’’

He snorted. ‘‘Yeah, all squatted down like a roly-poly bug, hoping no one notices you there. Kinda silly, don’t you think?’’

Her face felt hot, but she told herself it was because the sun hit her full force. ‘‘I’m not hiding,’’ she insisted. ‘‘I’m just too busy to chat.’’

He crossed his arms and looked down his nose at her for a long time. She met his gaze squarely, which wasn’t easy with Marjorie squirming in her arms. Finally he shook his head. ‘‘Okay, Anna Mae, whatever you say. But keep this in mind. Harley asked me to help out around here. Harley’ll be gone for quite a while. Which means I’ll be coming around for quite a while. I don’t expect any big thank-you from you, but the least you could do is be civil.’’

Anna Mae dropped her gaze, shamed by his words. Mama would be appalled. Her mother and Ginny Berkley had been best friends. Jack was right. She should be civil. She should be more than civil.

Dorothy suddenly tugged at Anna Mae’s arm. ‘‘Mama, what’s
civil
?’’

Anna Mae felt a grin twitch at her cheeks. ‘‘Why don’t you ask Mr. Berkley that while Mama carries the milk cans into the house?’’ She turned from Jack and headed to the back of his wagon. ‘‘And while you’re at it, Dorothy, didn’t you have another question or two for Mr. Berkley?’’

‘‘Oh yeah!’’ Dorothy turned her attention to their tall neighbor.

Anna Mae carried the milk cans one at a time to the porch, all the while listening to Jack field Dorothy’s question. She had to admit, he had a great deal of patience with the child. When the cans were on the porch, she said, ‘‘Okay, Dorothy, enough now. Finish up that watering for Mama.’’

Dorothy puckered her face, but she lifted her hand in a wave. ‘‘Bye, Mr. Berkley. I’ll see you tomorrow.’’

‘‘Yeah. Tomorrow.’’ Jack shook his head as the child scurried back to her task. Then he looked at Anna Mae, crossed to stand in front of her, and shook his finger. ‘‘That was sneaky, Anna Mae Elliott, and if your daddy were here, I’d encourage him to teach you some manners.’’

Anna Mae couldn’t stop the giggle that found its way from her throat. ‘‘I’m sorry, Jack.’’ She knew she didn’t sound sorry at all. ‘‘But you did say you wanted to help. You just saved me some breath. I answer questions all day long, every day.’’

He smirked. ‘‘That’s okay. It was worth it to get that smile out of you.’’

She felt the smile fade.

‘‘Now, don’t turn sober on me again. I declare, for a pretty girl, the faces you make could curdle milk.’’

‘‘Jack . . .’’ She allowed her tone to send the warning.

He shook his head and blew out a breath. ‘‘Okay, okay. I’ll get your milk out of the cellar and be on my way. You need anything from town?’’

‘‘Not today. Thanks for asking.’’

‘‘You’re welcome.’’ He turned toward the cellar.

‘‘Oh, and . . .’’ Anna Mae chewed her lower lip, holding Marjorie’s small, grubby hand.

‘‘And?’’ Jack waited expectantly, his eyebrows arched high.

‘‘And thanks for those shoes.’’ Anna Mae forced the words out through a closed throat. ‘‘Dorothy needed them.’’

A grin broke across his face. ‘‘Yeah, I know. You’re welcome.’’ Again, he shifted as if to move toward the cellar.

‘‘But . . .’’

The single word stopped him. He angled his gaze in her direction.

‘‘But you shouldn’t have.’’ Anna Mae drew her shoulders back, raising her chin a notch. ‘‘Harley would’ve taken care of that, as soon as he got a paycheck. So as soon as his first check gets here, I’ll be paying you back.’’

Jack shrugged. ‘‘Suit yourself.’’

Anna Mae nearly wilted with relief when he didn’t argue, but there was a look in his eyes that she couldn’t decipher. And for some reason, that look made her shiver.

‘‘If you was home right now, Harley, what would you be doin’?’’ Dirk spoke around a mouthful of beans.

Third day in a row they’d had beans for dinner. Harley didn’t particularly care for boiled red beans, but at seven cents they were the least expensive, most filling item on the menu at the little café where he and Dirk picked up their bucket lunch each morning on the way to work. At least this time the beans were seasoned with some pork—that helped.

Harley chewed his bite and swallowed. ‘‘I’d be sitting at my kitchen table, eating a good lunch of Annie’s pickled cabbage and fried pork. I’d probably be watching Dottie hold a chunk of meat on her fork and nibble at it like an ice cream cone until Annie made her stop. And I’d be listening to Margie thump her fists on the high-chair tray and beg for her mama to feed her some more.’’

He closed his eyes for a moment, battling a wave of homesickness so strong he feared he might lose his beans. Each evening, as the men packed up and headed to their homes, his heart lurched with desire to head straight across Kansas back to Spencer and his own family. But instead, he and Dirk returned to the little storage shed behind the Petersons’ place, where the boss had set up some cots for their use. Using that storage shed saved them the expense of a boardinghouse, and he appreciated it, but it sure was lonely without his girls. He wondered if the letter he’d sent from Lindsborg last Saturday had reached Annie yet. He hoped it had, and that she’d already written back. He didn’t like the way they’d left things between them the day he’d headed out.

Harley smiled as he thought of Margie’s dimpled fists and Dottie’s sweet smile. How he loved his little punkins. And right now they were growing and changing, and here he was miles away. All because the rain forgot how to fall in Kansas.

Laughter broke out from a group seated a few feet away from Harley and Dirk, and one of the men cursed roundly. Dirk grimaced. A teasing voice called, ‘‘Hey, watch your language, Nelson. Preacher over there can hear you.’’

The hair on the back of Harley’s neck bristled. Although he wasn’t keen on listening to Dirk’s sermonizing or recitin’ of Bible verses any more than the others, he also didn’t care much for the way some of the men—Nelson, especially—tormented the gentle giant. Dirk didn’t do anything to deserve their mocking him. He opened his mouth to defend his friend, but Dirk cut him off.

‘‘It’s okay, Harley. They don’t mean nothin’ by it.’’

Harley snorted. ‘‘Oh yeah?’’

Dirk shrugged, a weak grin lifting one side of his mouth. ‘‘Well, maybe they do. But they aren’t really hurting me with that talk. They’re grieving my Savior. That’s why it bothers me.’’

Harley shook his head. ‘‘You really believe someone else is listenin’ to that and cares what they say?’’

Dirk’s wide-eyed look reminded Harley of Dottie’s innocence. ‘‘Sure I do. God’s ears are always open and listening. He hears His name called whether in prayer or in curse.’’ The big man lowered his head. ‘‘Must make His heart hurt to hear His Son’s name used that way. . . .’’ Dirk straightened. ‘‘But every time I hear one of ’em take God’s name in vain, I say a little prayer for the one doin’ the cursin’. One thing about it—it’s increased my prayer life somethin’ fierce.’’

Harley hooted in laughter. ‘‘I hope someday you get to meet my Annie. I think she’d approve of you.’’

‘‘That’s about the best compliment I ever got.’’ Dirk leaned sideways to prop himself up on his elbow. ‘‘I hope I get to meet that wife o’ yours who’s handling a whole farm on her own right now. She must be a strong woman.’’

Harley nodded thoughtfully. Strong. Yes, that described Annie. Had to be strong to contend with him. Harley knew he was about the most headstrong man ever put on the planet. Yet Annie stood her own against him. He smiled, remembering the early days of settling in as husband and wife. How they’d tussle. And make up. The making up was always worth the tussle.

His smile drooped as more recent memories drifted across his mind. When had her spiritedness faded? It had started even before the drought, creeping up so slow he hadn’t really recognized it until she seemed more resigned than feisty. He remembered her pondering gaze aimed out the kitchen window, her sad voice asking, ‘‘Know what I miss, Harley? The scent of rain . . .’’

Harley inhaled, searching for that scent. He got a snoot full of dust and sneezed.

‘‘Bless you,’’ Dirk said.

Despite himself, Harley chuckled. ‘‘There you go, sounding like Annie again. Never can so much as snuffle around her without hearin’ those words.’’ He scowled. ‘‘She means ’em, too.’’

Dirk stretched out his booted foot to nudge Harley’s leg. ‘‘You miss her bad, huh?’’

Harley lay back, his hands beneath his head, and stared at the quivering sun directly overhead. ‘‘Yeah.’’ His voice sounded tight. He cleared his throat. ‘‘Yeah, I miss her bad.’’

‘‘I pray for her every day, Harley.’’

A lump formed in the back of Harley’s throat. ‘‘Y-you do?’’ The words came out in a croak.

‘‘Sure I do. For protection and health for her and your little girls. For her to keep up her strength and be able to keep things goin’ ’til you’re home again with ’em.’’

Dirk’s words made something sting at the back of Harley’s nose. He closed his eyes. ‘‘That’s nice of you, Dirk.’’ Not that Harley believed those prayers did any good, but the idea that Dirk would do that . . . ‘‘Thanks.’’

‘‘It’s not a problem.’’ Dirk remained silent for a few moments. Then his voice came again, husky and a near whisper. ‘‘Pray for you, too. ’Cause I know it’s hard for you to be so far away from them you love.’’

Harley nodded. Yes, it was hard. But at least he’d left his wife and children in good hands. Jack was there. A living, breathing man with two strong arms and a willing spirit. Jack was better than a God Harley’d never seen. Wasn’t he? Suddenly, for some reason, Harley wasn’t so sure.

12

A
NNA
M
AE TIPPED HER HEAD
sideways to better enjoy the breeze coming in through the open window of the Model T. As he’d done the previous two Sundays, Jack’s father had insisted she take the front seat rather than climb in the back with the baby. Mr. Berkley had always been a chivalrous man, so she wasn’t surprised by his gentlemanly gesture. She hummed ‘‘Bringing in the Sheaves,’’ one of the hymns sung during the Sunday worship service.

‘‘Mama?’’ Dorothy’s voice carried from the backseat, where she sat cross-legged next to Mr. Berkley. ‘‘How come the
hes
don’t get bringed in?’’

‘‘What?’’ Jack asked the startled question, his gaze bouncing to Anna Mae and back to the road.

Anna Mae turned backward to peer at her daughter. ‘‘Honey, I don’t know what you mean.’’

Dorothy released a disgruntled huff. ‘‘In the song.’’ She sang, slightly off key, ‘‘ ‘Bringing in the
shes
, bringing in the
shes
, we will come rejoicing, bringing in the
shes
.’ ’’ She crinkled her brow. ‘‘Only the
shes
. Where are the
hes
?’’

Jack’s laughter rang loud and clear.

Anna Mae bumped his arm and whispered sharply, ‘‘Shh.’’

He stopped, but his cheeks twitched with the effort of holding back his amusement.

Anna Mae kept an eye on him as she answered Dorothy. ‘‘The song isn’t ‘bringing in the
shes
,’ it’s ‘bringing in the
sheaves
.’ ’’

Mr. Berkley tapped Dorothy’s knee. ‘‘Sheaves are bundles of wheat, honey. I bet there’s a picture in your story Bible. Ask your mama to show you when you get home.’’

Dorothy nodded slowly. ‘‘Ohhhh, sheaves.’’ Then her face crinkled again. ‘‘But we don’t bring wheat to church. How come we sing about it?’’

Jack laughed again. ‘‘Answer that one.’’

‘‘You just hush.’’ Anna Mae tried to send him a disgusted look, but she ruined it by grinning. She faced forward again, careful not to disturb Marjorie, who dozed against her shoulder. Sometimes she felt as though she’d moved backward in time—to the days when she and Jack ran barefoot along the creek bed, chattering about everything and nothing, happy just to be. And with each realization of how easy it was to be with Jack, she experienced a stab of guilt. A married woman shouldn’t be so comfortable with a man other than her husband. What had Harley been thinking, asking Jack Berkley to take care of her in his absence?

The Model T rolled into her yard, and Jack left the motor idling as he came around to open the door for her. Anna Mae swung her legs out and struggled to her feet. Dorothy scrambled over Mr. Berkley’s knees but then peeked back in the car to wave at the older man. ‘‘Bye, Mr. Berkley.’’ She turned to Jack. ‘‘Bye, Mr. Berkley.’’ Her face twisted into a scowl. ‘‘This mixes me up having two Mr. Berkleys.’’

Jack’s father pulled himself from the backseat and touched Dorothy’s head. ‘‘Well, I think I can fix that.’’ His gaze flitted briefly in Anna Mae’s direction. For some reason her heart set up a patter. ‘‘Why don’t you call me Papa Berkley? Will that keep things from being mixed up?’’