Where Willows Grow (29 page)
Ern shrugged. ‘‘I don’t think so. What are we gaining, son? We were doin’ just fine with the dairy. Didn’t need more money. House is paid for, got a good source of income between the milk and the beef. Got a whole lot more than most do these days. Seems to me we could’ve been satisfied. Why’d we need more?’’
Jack’s huff of laughter chilled Ern’s heart. ‘‘Pop, you’re hopeless.’’ He took another bite, shaking his head.
Ern tugged out a chair and sat. Drawing in a deep breath, he whispered a silent prayer for strength and addressed the issue he knew would have to be shared with Anna Mae. ‘‘Son, I know what you’ve been doin’, the tricks you’ve been playin’ to gain more.’’
Jack’s gaze jerked upward. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly. ‘‘What’re you talking about?’’ The words were more a growl than a question.
Ern folded his hands together to control their tremor. ‘‘I found the letters.’’
Jack sat straight up, his expression turning to a fierce scowl. ‘‘You went in my room?’’
‘‘Your room’s in my house.’’ Ern kept his tone calm. No sense in having a shouting match. ‘‘And what I did was a whole lot less wrong than what you did. Jack, you stole.’’
Jack slapped his sandwich onto the plate. The layers bounced apart, the bread sending crumbs across the table. ‘‘You had no right!’’
‘‘No right?’’ Ern shook his head slowly. ‘‘Jack, you shouldn’t be hollerin’ about me havin’ no right. You should be lookin’ at yourself. What right did you have to take those letters? They were private, between Harley and Anna Mae. You know how it’s hurt her, thinkin’ Harley didn’t care enough to write. And poor Harley on the other side of Kansas, wonderin’ why his wife didn’t write to him. Can’t you see how wrong you’ve been?’’
Jack leaped from the table, stormed toward the sink, then paced back. The veins in his temples pulsed purple as his face reddened. He clenched his fists, bringing them outward, and for a moment Ern feared his son might strike him. But Jack stayed on the opposite side of the table.
Slowly, Jack opened his hands and pressed both palms to the tabletop. His voice rattled with anger as he said, ‘‘I’m not wrong, Pop. Everything I’ve done has been for Anna Mae’s good.’’
Disbelief at his son’s statement sagged Ern’s shoulders. ‘‘How?’’
Jack waved a hand as if shooing away Ern’s question. ‘‘Harley was never right for her, we all know that. Her old man didn’t even approve of him. Ben Elliott wanted her to marry me. But she turned stubborn, married Harley against everyone’s advice, and she’s never been happy. All I did was set things to right.’’
Ern could have argued that Anna Mae had been happy. He’d seen enough of the couple to know, despite their differences when it came to faith, they’d found happiness together. Anna Mae’s sorrow at Harley’s loss also showed evidence of how deeply she cared. But instead of arguing, Ern pointed out, ‘‘Since when do a pile of wrongs turn into a right?’’
Jack huffed. ‘‘A pile of wrongs?’’
Ern nodded. ‘‘You’ve been doin’ wrong for weeks: stealing letters, puttin’ up oil pumps on property that doesn’t belong to you, robbin’ Anna Mae of that income—’’
‘‘Whoa, Pop!’’ Jack thrust his hand upward, stopping his father’s words. ‘‘I haven’t robbed Anna Mae of any income. I’ve been putting that aside for us. When she marries me, she’ll benefit from it.’’
‘‘And if she doesn’t marry you?’’
‘‘She has to.’’ Jack’s tone turned hard. ‘‘She can’t stay on that farm by herself. How can she keep it going without a man? It’s what should have happened seven years ago—what
would
have happened if Harley hadn’t wandered onto their place and asked for a job. Now Harley’s gone, and I’m just setting things back to right. If I have to do a little finagling to make her see the light, then so be it.’’
Ern rose to his feet and turned toward the door. ‘‘I was plannin’ to wait until evening, but she has to know all this, Jack. She has to know what you’ve been up to.’’
Jack’s pounding feet on the floor brought Ern to a stop before the hand grabbed onto his arm. ‘‘Oh, no you’re not. You’re not going to mess this up for me.’’
Ern jerked his arm free. He looked into his son’s hate-filled face and felt as though he were looking at a stranger. Where Jack’s fingers had cut in, an ache formed. But it couldn’t compare to the pain that stabbed Ern’s heart.
‘‘Stay out of it,’’ Jack said, his tone ominous. ‘‘If you walk out, I’m locking the door behind you. You won’t be welcomed back in.’’
Ern frowned, his heart pounding. ‘‘What do you mean?’’
A sly smile crept up Jack’s face. ‘‘You signed this place over to me, remember? It’s mine, Pop. I let you stay here, but . . . that could change. You own the cows, but I own the land. If you go, the cows go. I don’t need ’em. I got money coming in by the barrel. So before you march on over to tattle to Anna Mae, you might think about all those dumb animals in the pasture. Where you gonna keep them if you can’t stay here anymore?’’
Ern stuck out his chin. ‘‘I’ll take them to Anna Mae’s place. Milk ’em myself.’’
One sharp blast of laughter pierced Ern’s ears. ‘‘Oh yeah. Milk ’em yourself. With no machines, with your arthritic hands? Besides that, Anna Mae’s lost her land. She didn’t have enough to pay the tax bill, so it’s going to auction. And I’ve got it on good authority that her land will be my land.’’ He chuckled, a mirthless sound. ‘‘Don’t fool yourself, Pop. You need me. Just like Anna Mae needs me.’’ He smiled again, a smile that sent a chill straight through Ern’s chest. ‘‘Have a sandwich. Then go upstairs and take a nap. You’re beat.’’
For long moments Ern remained rooted in place, staring into the face of a son he no longer recognized, trying to decide what to do. The ache in his chest was nearly unbearable. For the moment, Jack did have him beat. He broke eye contact first, and Jack’s low chuckle as he turned and headed for the stairs sent a new shaft of pain through his heart.
He plodded upstairs, his steps heavy, his head low.
Dear heavenly Father, help me reach my son
.
‘‘I
THOUGHT YOU SAID
Papa Berkley was comin’ for supper.’’
Dorothy scowled across the table at her mother. Anna Mae put down her spoon and offered Dorothy an apologetic smile.
‘‘He was invited. I don’t know what happened.’’ She hoped her calm tone masked the worry underneath. Ern Berkley had seemed so burdened this morning. There was certainly something he needed to discuss with her—something important. Why hadn’t he come?
She hoped he hadn’t fallen ill. How she wished she had a telephone so she could call and check on him.
Dorothy sighed, resting her chin in her hand. ‘‘I wanted him to come. I wanted him to tell me stories. Nobody comes anymore. Not Daddy, not Mr. Berkley, not Papa Berkley . . .’’
Anna Mae reached across the table and stroked Dorothy’s hair. ‘‘I know it’s a disappointment, darlin’, but I’ll read you stories tonight, okay?’’
Dorothy sighed again. Her face twisted into a pout. ‘‘It’s not the same.’’
No, Anna Mae supposed it wasn’t. The presence of a man in a child’s life was so important. As a little girl, she had endlessly trailed behind her father, getting in the way of his work and asking questions that he had answered patiently—she smiled in remembrance—most of the time. She’d adored her mother, too, but there was something different about being with her father. A father-to-child relationship was the first glimpse of a Father God-to-child relationship, she realized. Where would Dorothy, Marjorie, and the new baby get that glimpse now?
Anna Mae stifled the sigh she longed to release. She tapped Dorothy’s arm and said, ‘‘I’m sorry you’re sad, but you still need to eat. Finish up that stew, and then we’ll have some canned cherries for dessert, okay?’’
‘‘Not hungry.’’ Dorothy turned stubborn, the thrust of her lower jaw reminding Anna Mae of Harley.
A mingling of fond recollections and deep loneliness struck Anna Mae with the reminder. She swallowed, blinking to hold back tears. ‘‘If you don’t want to eat, that’s fine,’’ she said, forcing a reasonable tone. ‘‘You’ll probably have a tummy ache in the morning if you go to bed with an empty stomach, but you go ahead and get down if you want to.’’
Dorothy looked at her mother, her head tipped and lips pursed in thought. After several long seconds, she blew out a breath of aggravation that imitated her father perfectly, picked up her spoon, and took another bite.
Marjorie banged her hand on the high-chair tray, reminding her mother that she was ready for another bite, too. Anna Mae carried a spoonful of stew to the baby’s eager mouth, her hand trembling slightly. Mr. Berkley’s peculiar absence added one more worry to a list already too long. Where was he?
Harley drew in a deep breath and held it while the doctor ran a small silver instrument from the heel of his bare foot to the underside of his toes.
‘‘Do you feel that?’’
Harley jerked his head in a brief nod, blowing out air through his nose. ‘‘Yep. Tickles. Don’t much like it.’’
The doctor chuckled. ‘‘Well, you should be thankful. That tickle tells me the nerves have healed.’’
‘‘And that’s good?’’
‘‘It’s very good.’’ The doctor slipped the instrument into his pocket and patted Harley’s cast.
‘‘So I’ll be able to walk without problems?’’
‘‘Well . . .’’
Harley held his breath again.
‘‘Based on my observations, the bone is mending, but it was shattered. We weren’t able to line things up perfectly, which means it lost some of its length.’’ The doctor looked at Harley straight on. ‘‘I’m afraid the leg will never be one hundred percent again.’’
Harley waited for anger to strike within his chest. It didn’t. He released the breath on a sigh. ‘‘So what can I expect?’’
Another pat. ‘‘You can expect to have less strength in your left leg. You can expect to walk, but with a limp.’’ The man’s brows tipped downward as he glanced at Harley’s chart. ‘‘You were a farmer?’’
‘‘Yes, sir.’’
‘‘Did you use motorized equipment?’’
Harley allowed a rueful chuckle to escape. ‘‘No, sir. I used mules and walked behind ’em.’’
The doctor grimaced. ‘‘Well, you might be able to continue farming with motorized equipment, but I don’t think you’ll be up to walking behind mules again.’’
Harley shrugged. ‘‘Sold ’em anyway.’’ The day rushed back—his pleasure at buying groceries and that flowered hat for Annie, Annie’s reaction, their fight, sleeping in the barn . . . Swallowing, he pushed his shoulders into another shrug. ‘‘With the drought, farmin’s not gone so good. That’s why I was workin’ at the castle site.’’
The doctor nodded. His gaze drifted to the bedside table and the stack of books. He tapped the top one. ‘‘Are you considering a different vocation?’’
Harley wasn’t familiar with the word
vocation
, but he figured it had something to do with jobs. He nodded. ‘‘Yes, sir. My boss from the castle site—Mr. Peterson—brought me those books to study on.’’
Picking up the top book, the doctor flipped it open and glanced at a few pages. His eyebrows shot high. ‘‘Intriguing. And I would imagine there will always be a need for draftsmen, considering how the country continues to grow and change.’’ He closed the book and put it back on the stack. ‘‘I wish you success in your new venture.’’
The doctor’s high-falutin’ talk gave Harley a reminder of Annie. His heart twisted painfully. What would it do to Annie, finding out he could no longer work her land? How could he expect her to give up her childhood home? ’Specially when there was no guarantee he’d be able to get schoolin’ and learn to draw blueprints. There wasn’t money lying around for things like school.
‘‘Would you like me to send your family an update on your situation?’’
Harley shook his head. ‘‘No. My wife’ll only worry if she knows I’m hurt. It’s better she don’t know about this . . . yet. I need to find a way to tell her myself, when I’ve figured out for sure how I’m gonna take care of things. I need to pray about it some first.’’ Despite the situation, a smile tugged at his lips. Hearing himself state the need to pray wasn’t something he ever figured on. Yet the reality of it fit as neatly as a good pair of boots. But unlike boots, which must eventually be kicked off, he felt certain the need to pray would be a part of him from now on.
‘‘Very well, then.’’ The doctor took a step toward the open door. ‘‘I’ll leave you to rest. I’ll be in next week to get you up on your feet and practicing with a crutch.’’
Anticipation filled Harley’s chest. ‘‘It’ll be good to be up and moving again.’’
The doctor smiled, backpedaling toward the door. ‘‘I’m sure it will. But in the meantime, rest. Gain strength.’’ He pointed. ‘‘Read your books.’’ Pausing in the doorway, he smiled. ‘‘And pray.’’
Harley nodded. The moment the doctor rounded the corner, Harley closed his eyes and began.
Dear God, about Annie an’ the
farm . . .
Dear God, what should I do about Anna Mae and her farm?
Ern paced in his room. Jack fully intended to steal Anna Mae’s land from her. That’s what it amounted to. Surely those checks from Harley would have covered the tax bill, but Jack didn’t let her have them. How hurtful Jack had been, letting Anna Mae believe her husband had abandoned her. Never, despite his son’s faults, would Ern have believed Jack’s selfishness would stretch to these lengths.
He left his room and stalked to the end of the hallway. Pushing back the lace curtains, he looked across the grounds toward the Elliotts’ land. If he squinted, he could glimpse the lights of Anna Mae’s house. Had she delayed supper waiting for him to show, or had she gone ahead and fed the girls? He hoped she hadn’t made the girls wait. No doubt it worried her when he hadn’t turned up as he’d said. Another burden on a heart already overburdened.
Sighing, he returned to his bedroom. He’d come up without eating lunch and he hadn’t gone down for supper. A rock filled his belly—there was no room for food. And he could hear Jack prowling around down there. He couldn’t face his son, even if he were hungry.
What could he do besides hide up here? Until he figured out a way to counter Jack’s threats, he was stuck. He’d seen fury in his son’s eyes. Jack had meant what he’d said. He’d throw his father out of the house and set the cows loose. Ern needed a firm plan in place. A few fuzzy ideas danced through his mind, but nothing he could firmly grasp. He slapped his hand down on his scarred dresser top, bouncing the framed photograph that rested there. He caught the frame before it tipped.