Where Willows Grow (25 page)
‘‘Had a phone call about an hour ago.’’
‘‘About Harley?’’ Jack’s heart picked up speed.
Pop’s face twisted into a frown of confusion. ‘‘No. From Robert Somebody-or-Other at the Reno County Courthouse.’’
Jack’s heart thumped double hard.
‘‘Wanted me to tell you the auction’ll take place first of October, and you can turn in your bid anytime before that date.’’ Pop’s forehead turned into a series of creases. ‘‘What auction, son? What are you planning to buy?’’
Jack walked around the vehicle and put his hand on Pop’s shoulder. ‘‘Don’t worry about it. There’s something more pressin’ you need to know.’’ Briefly, he recounted his conversation with Martin.
Pop’s face drooped with sorrow, and tears appeared in the corners of his faded eyes. ‘‘Do we know for sure?’’
Jack held out his hands. ‘‘Well, Martin said the salesman mentioned Spencer by name.’’
Pop shook his head. ‘‘Ah, poor Anna Mae. Too bad she doesn’t at least have letters from Harley to hold on to. Those letters, they’d be her last words from him and would mean an awful lot. Might ease the pain.’’
Jack shot his father a sharp look. What was he intimating? Did he know that Jack had stolen the letters? Jack swallowed. ‘‘Yeah.’’
Pop remained silent for a long time while Jack ignored him, busying himself by using his shirt cuff to clean a splattered moth from the headlight. At last Pop sighed and asked, ‘‘What’s she gonna do?’’
Jack shrugged and leaned down to check the left tire. ‘‘Don’t know she knows for sure yet.’’ But she’d know soon. He’d help her make all the decisions. She’d be okay soon.
Pop slipped a handkerchief from the rear pocket of his overalls and blew his nose. ‘‘I should go over. Sit with her. She doesn’t have a dad to do that for her.’’
‘‘She’d probably appreciate it.’’ Jack offered his father a brief smile.
‘‘I’ll go in about an hour. Take her some muffins or somethin’. I can make pretty good muffins.’’ Pop followed Jack as he moved to the back of the auto. ‘‘But, son, about that auction . . .’’
Jack forced a laugh. ‘‘Now, Pop, don’t get all worked up. I’m not leaving you.’’ He turned back to the tire.
Pop followed. ‘‘That ain’t what I asked.’’
Jack skimmed his hand along the black rubber, keeping his tone casual. ‘‘I’m just picking up another piece of property, that’s all. Call it an investment. A man can’t go wrong buying land, can he?’’
‘‘Where is the property?’’
Jack released a huff of annoyance and swung around to face his father. ‘‘What difference does it make? It’s my money and my decision. I’m a grown man, Pop. Do I need your permission?’’
Pop took a hesitant step backward. His quavering hand rose to rest on the hood of the car, as if he needed support. ‘‘No, of course not, son. It’s just—’’
Jack shook his head. ‘‘Look, Pop, I know what I’m doing, and we both stand to benefit from this acquisition.’’
Pop shrugged, gave the Model T a pat, and then stuck his hands in his overall pockets.
Jack headed around to check the last tire. From the corner of his eye, he spotted Pop still standing beside the car, watching him with an odd expression on his tired face. He shook his head. Pop had no reason to worry. In a few more days, he’d be celebrating just like Jack, having Anna Mae and her little girls livening up the place.
Patience, Pop. Just trust me. I have it all worked out
.
Ern Berkley bounced his knuckles off the porch door’s frame a few times. He’d walked over; only a quarter mile separated his farmhouse from the Elliotts’ if you took the shortcut across the pasture. It reminded him of old times, trekking across the dried grass while dusk settled around the landscape.
How many times had he and Ginny, arm-in-arm, made the cross-pasture journey to enjoy a cup of coffee and a time of fellowship with Ben and Margaret Elliott? He sighed. The sting of losing Ginny had lessened over the years, but a part of his heart would never be the same again. And now Anna Mae—Ben and Margaret’s little girl—was feeling that same hurt.
The kitchen door stood open, just as it had in years past, and through it he could see the table, still scattered with dishes from the supper Anna Mae had prepared. He shook his head at the sad sight of those abandoned dishes. Anna Mae had been taught to clean up the table right away, so if she left that mess behind, her heart was in a sorry state for sure. At least she’d cooked. He hoped she’d also eaten. She’d need her strength to face the days ahead.
He balanced the bulky, paper-wrapped package in one hand and gave a second light knock. Although lights were on all through the house, except for the back corner where Anna Mae’s bedroom used to be, he got no response to his gentle knock, so he tried again, harder, rattling the screen door in its frame. And this time Anna Mae appeared from the little hallway that led to the bedrooms. Ern could tell from her red, blotchy face that she’d been crying, and a paternal swell rose in his heart.
Lord, why’d you have to take Harley away from this girl?
Anna Mae pushed against the screen door, the discordant squeak of its springs a harsh contrast to the soft sounds of evening. ‘‘Mr. Berkley . . . come in.’’
He smiled and touched her cheek as he stepped past her. Placing the packet of fresh-baked muffins in an empty patch on the messy table, he said, ‘‘I brought you a little somethin’ to munch for breakfast tomorrow. Some honey-bran muffins. Baked ’em myself with Ginny’s recipe.’’
Anna Mae moved beside him and touched the paper-wrapped bundle. ‘‘Thank you. You didn’t need to do that.’’ Her voice, usually so expressive, sounded flat.
Ern took hold of her shoulders, turning her to face him. ‘‘It’s not so much, Anna Mae. It’s a lot less than I’d like to do.’’
Tears flooded bloodshot eyes that were already puffy and sore looking. She ducked her head, swept away the moisture with shaking fingertips, and whispered in a ragged tone, ‘‘I don’t know what to do.’’
Ern gave her shoulders a pat. ‘‘Well, I do. First of all, let’s get this table cleared off. I’ll wash; you dry. Then we’ll sit and chat, okay? Get things sorted out in your head.’’
She nodded.
He glanced toward the hallway. ‘‘Are your girls sleepin’?’’
‘‘Yes. I know it’s early, but . . .’’ She lifted her gaze. ‘‘I need to tell Dorothy, at least. Marjorie’s too little—it wouldn’t mean anything to her—but Dorothy needs to know. And I just can’t—’’ Her face crumpled.
Ern followed his instincts. He pulled her tight beneath his chin in a fatherly embrace, rubbed her quaking shoulders, and murmured soothing words into her ear. And all the while, he prayed inwardly. While putting away laundry last week, he’d found something unexpected in Jack’s bureau drawer: letters. Letters that appeared to be meant for Harley and Anna Mae.
Lord, I don’t know what my foolish son is up to, but please prompt
him to give those letters to Anna Mae
.
H
ARLEY WINCED AS HE STRETCHED
to place his half-empty plate on the table beside his hospital bed. Any movement at all, despite the thick cast wrapped around his left leg and the stabilizing straps that elevated his foot twelve inches above the crisp sheets, brought stabs of pain. The doctor had explained it was good that he felt pain—it meant the nerves were mending themselves despite the bone-crushing blow from the block of shale—but Harley wished he could escape it.
And the pain in his leg was nothing compared to the pain in his heart. He couldn’t get away from that, either. The knowledge ate at him like a cancer, stealing his appetite and tormenting his dreams.
Dirk was dead. The memory of Dirk’s final minutes made Harley’s stomach roll until he feared he’d lose the little bit of supper he’d managed to swallow. Kind, gentle, smiling Dirk. Dead. It wasn’t fair!
Harley threw his arm over his eyes as hot tears stung behind his lids. Why had Dirk done it? Why had he stayed beside that wall and pushed Harley aside? Why had he protected Nelson? Nelson had never done anything to warrant Dirk’s protection. Dirk should’ve saved himself, not Nelson.
‘‘Harley?’’
Harley dropped his arm, tipping his chin down to peer toward the door. Mr. Peterson stood framed in the doorway, his hat in his hands.
‘‘You up to some company?’’
Harley nodded even though he preferred to be alone. Talking took energy he didn’t have.
Mr. Peterson grabbed a metal chair and dragged it over beside the bed. The screech of chair legs against the tiled floor sent a chill up Harley’s spine. There were so many unpleasant sounds in this place—and smells. A part of him longed for the day he’d be released, and a part of him dreaded it. He had no idea what the future held for him now.
Peterson seated himself, resting his hat on one knee, and gave Harley a sad smile. ‘‘So, are they treating you okay? Feeding you well?’’
Harley glanced at the plate. The sight of congealed gravy made his stomach churn. ‘‘Feedin’ me, but the cooks could take a lesson or two from my wife. They don’t seem to know what a salt shaker’s for.’’
Peterson chuckled softly. ‘‘Yes, well, lots of upset stomachs in hospitals, so they have to keep things bland.’’
‘‘I reckon.’’ Harley shifted a bit, grimacing with the throb of pain in his hip. Where was that nurse with her little pills that sent him back to dreamless sleep?
‘‘Here.’’ Peterson leaned forward, giving a tug on Harley’s pillow that brought it more beneath his shoulders. ‘‘Better?’’
Harley nodded.
‘‘Now, tell me what the doctor says about your leg.’’
The throb increased as Harley’s muscles tightened. He swallowed hard. ‘‘Doctor says the surgeon did the best he could to repair the break. They’re gonna keep me strapped up like this for another week yet to let everything heal. Says it’s good that the leg tingles and hurts ’cause it means the nerves are healing. But the bone . . .’’ He licked his lips, reliving the terror-filled moment when that rock slammed him to the ground. ‘‘The bone was pretty much shattered. There’s no promise on how the leg’ll work. I . . . I don’t know if I’ll be able to farm—’’ His voice broke as he considered the magnitude of his admission.
Mr. Peterson nodded. ‘‘I’m sorry.’’
The men sat in silence for a long while, their breathing an accompaniment to the unique sounds of the hospital floor—rolling carts, soft voices, occasional moans, the
rattle-swish
of curtains on iron runners. Each sound pierced Harley. He might not ever walk normally again, but he was alive and able to hear, thanks to Dirk’s quick actions. But Dirk . . .
‘‘I brought something from the men.’’ Mr. Peterson’s voice intruded into Harley’s private thoughts.
Harley opened his eyes and watched Mr. Peterson slide a thick envelope from a pocket inside his jacket. When he didn’t reach for it, Mr. Peterson placed the envelope on the mattress next to Harley’s hip.
‘‘We took up a collection. The government will pay your hospital bills, but we figure there will be other expenses—a train ride home, bills to pay while you gain your strength so you can start working again . . .’’ The man swallowed, his expression mournful.
Harley shook his head. ‘‘I don’t want it. Give it to Dirk’s family. They’ll need it worse than I will.’’
‘‘We did the same thing for Dirk. I sent it the day after the accident, and I got a thank-you from his mother today.’’ Mr. Peterson reached into his jacket again and withdrew a sheet of paper, folded down into quarters. ‘‘She included this for you.’’
Harley didn’t reach for that letter, either. His heart pounded. How could he bear to read words penned by the mother of the man who died in Harley’s place? She would certainly condemn him, but no more than he’d already condemned himself. ‘‘I . . . I don’t want it.’’
Mr. Peterson slid the letter underneath the envelope, one corner sticking out, inviting investigation. ‘‘I understand. But in case you change your mind, I’ll leave it, along with the collection from the men.’’
‘‘No, please . . .’’ Harley didn’t want that letter or the money left here. ‘‘Take it. Please, just take it.’’
Mr. Peterson frowned. ‘‘Don’t you think your family can use it?’’
Harley considered this. As much as it hurt his pride, he knew he wouldn’t be much use to Annie and the farm. Not for a long while, if ever. She could use that money. He released a huffing breath. ‘‘Can you—can you send it to my wife?’’
‘‘Do you want to write a letter to go with it?’’
Harley shook his head. He had no idea what to say to Annie now.
‘‘Do you want me to put in a note?’’
Very slowly, Harley nodded. ‘‘Yeah. But . . . don’t tell her I’m hurt.’’
The boss’s eyebrows formed a sharp
V
. ‘‘You haven’t let her know about the accident?’’
‘‘No.’’ Harley swallowed. ‘‘She can’t do nothing about it. It’ll just worry her, an’ she’s expectin’ a baby. She doesn’t need the worry. Can you . . . can you think of some reason to send it?’’
‘‘I’ll see what I can do. But I won’t lie to her.’’
‘‘Wouldn’t ask you to.’’
Mr. Peterson nodded. ‘‘All right, then. I’ve got the address in your paperwork at the job site.’’ He rose, putting his hand on Harley’s shoulder. ‘‘I’ll come by and see you again, Harley. You take care.’’
Harley nodded and watched the man leave the room, his hat still in his hand. A nurse bustled in and picked up the plate from the table. She shook her head. ‘‘Mr. Phipps, how do you possibly hope to regain your strength if you don’t eat? I’ve not seen you finish one meal all week.’’
Harley scowled. ‘‘Bring me somethin’ that tastes good, an’ I’ll eat it.’’ He slumped back against the pillow, clenching his teeth against the pain that shot through his hip and into his leg. The letter Mr. Peterson had left behind slid off the bed onto the floor, and the nurse reached for it and handed it to Harley. He held it between his thumb and forefinger, his heart thudding, then laid it on his chest.
Now to find the courage to read it.
Anna Mae placed the last plate on the shelf and turned to Mr. Berkley. ‘‘Thank you so much for your help.’’
His eyes crinkled with his smile. ‘‘You’re welcome. And now we can sit, sip some coffee, and talk.’’ He poured himself a cup and settled himself at the table.