Where Willows Grow (31 page)

He cleared his throat and formed a reply. ‘‘Thank you, ma’am. It’s—it’s kind of you to come.’’

‘‘We had to.’’

Mr. Farley nodded firmly at Mrs. Farley’s simple reply.

She went on. ‘‘We needed to see where our son spent his last months, get a look at the castle he helped build, meet the men he talked about in his letters.’’ Her eyes brightened with unshed tears. ‘‘And we needed to see you. You’re our last link to Dirk. Couldn’t rest until we knew for sure you were going to be all right.’’

A huge lump filled Harley’s throat. Their last link to their son. Could he carry that responsibility? ‘‘I . . . I’m so sorry . . . about Dirk . . .’’ The words choked out.

The woman sandwiched his hand between hers, leaning close. Behind her, Mr. Farley reached out to clamp Harley’s shoulder with one hand while the other curled around his wife’s slender waist. Harley felt his own shoulders heave with suppressed sobs. For long moments they remained silent, mourning together.

After swallowing a dozen or so times, Harley finally found his voice and said what his heart felt. ‘‘Dirk was the finest man I’ve ever known. You raised him right, an’ he lived what you taught him. I . . . I was proud to call him my friend.’’

Tears rolled down Mrs. Farley’s cheeks. Her hands pressed tighter for a moment, then slipped away. She straightened, leaning against her husband. ‘‘Dirk was proud to call you a friend, too. He talked about you in his letters to us. We brought them.’’ She looked upward at her husband, and he nodded. From inside his jacket, he withdrew a packet of envelopes, tied together with string. Mrs. Farley took them and handed them to Harley. ‘‘You read them. Then’’—she suddenly looked shy—‘‘you give them back. That’ll give you an excuse to visit us.’’

Harley offered a quavering smile. He’d visit them. He owed them that. But there was something else they needed to know. ‘‘I gotta tell you . . . Dirk talked a lot about God. More than talk, he lived what he believed. I—’’ He scratched his head, uncertain how they’d react to his confession. ‘‘I had a hard time buyin’ everything he said. Even though my wife had preached the same thing at me for years, it still just didn’t seem . . . well,
real
. How could some Jesus I didn’t even know love me enough to die for me? I’m not so sure my own father would’ve made that choice if it had come down to his life or mine.’’

The day of Dirk’s death pressed his memory, causing him to wince. His voice faltered. ‘‘But then . . . when the rock fell . . . and Dirk . . .’’ Tears stung his eyes. He closed them, his chin quivering. ‘‘When Dirk used his own body as a shield . . .’’ He opened his eyes, looking directly into Mrs. Farley’s stricken face. ‘‘I got a glimpse of Jesus. And now . . . now I know Him for myself.’’

Mrs. Farley covered her face with her hands. For one long moment she seemed to freeze, then sobs broke loose that shook her slight body. Mr. Farley rubbed her shoulders, resting his chin against the top of her head. Tears glittered in his eyes, his face contorting with the effort of holding back his own sobs.

Harley battled tears himself at their grief-filled reaction. He reached out and touched the woman’s elbow. ‘‘I’m so sorry, ma’am. I didn’t mean to upset you.’’

She shook her head, lowering her hands. Although her face was wet with tears, her eyes glowed with happiness. ‘‘Oh, please, don’t apologize. Don’t you see?’’ She looked up at her husband once more, and they exchanged a look of—what? Acceptance? Satisfaction? Harley couldn’t be sure. Looking back at Harley, she smiled and said, ‘‘If you’ve found the Lord, then Dirk didn’t die in vain. Your salvation makes his death worthwhile. Thank you, Mr. Phipps, for this gift.’’

Harley had a hard time absorbing all of the emotions that tumbled through his heart at that simple statement. With the woman’s words, some of the guilt he carried crumbled and fell away.

Mr. Farley offered his wife a handkerchief. While she cleaned her face, he turned to Harley. ‘‘We went out to see that castle. It’s a proud thing, there on the hill. Understand why Dirk got such pleasure in its buildin’.’’

Harley nodded. ‘‘Yeah. Dirk had more of a hand in the castle than I did. I did more diggin’, but it gives me pride to know that castle’ll be standin’ out there years from now.’’

Mr. Farley leaned against the edge of the bed, making the springs squeak. ‘‘We got to see all the places where Dirk worked. A Mr. Nelson showed us around.’’

Harley stiffened at that name. He clamped his teeth on his tongue to hold back angry words.

‘‘Nice man, humble. I know Dirk prayed for him a lot. He said so in his letters.’’

Nice man? Humble? Nelson? Dirk had left an impact on more than just one person, it seemed. He pushed his own resentment toward Nelson aside. If Dirk could pray for the man who’d been so unkind to him, then Harley could forgive him, too.

‘‘Our train leaves in less than an hour. We better go.’’ Mrs. Farley reached once more for Harley’s hands. ‘‘You will come see us, won’t you?’’

Harley nodded, giving the wrinkled hands a gentle squeeze. ‘‘Of course I will. I’ll bring my wife an’ little girls, too, if you’d like.’’

‘‘Oh, we would like that.’’ Mrs. Farley’s face crinkled with her smile. ‘‘Been since Dirk was a little boy that we’ve had a child laughing on the place.’’

She’d make a wonderful grandmother,
Harley thought. It saddened him to realize that Dirk’s death removed the possibility of grandchildren. It made him all the more determined to include this couple in his life from now on. He’d adopt them, just like they’d adopted Dirk.

They left then, leaving a heavy silence in their stead. Harley shifted his attention to the little packet of letters. An image of Dirk—big, laughing, open Dirk—appeared in Harley’s memory. What would Dirk have said about Harley? Nothing bad, he knew that for sure. Dirk wasn’t capable of speaking ill of anyone. Suddenly eager to connect once more with his friend, Harley tugged loose the restraining string, opened the first letter, and began to read.

31

A
NNA
M
AE TURNED THE CALENDAR
to October and drew in a big breath. She stared at the little square representing the first day of the month—the day her property would transfer to someone else’s hands—and said a little prayer of thankfulness.

It surprised her to discover there were several things for which she was grateful. Her father wasn’t alive to see the land change ownership. Since bids were turned in at the courthouse, she had been spared the humiliation of a public auction. And Harley didn’t have to experience this heartache with her.

As difficult as it would be to leave—and she still didn’t know where she would go—there were silver linings around each gray cloud. She chose to focus on those silver linings as she broke eggs into flour and stirred up Dorothy’s favorite breakfast—waffles flavored with vanilla and cinnamon. If this were to be one of the last days in her childhood home, she wanted to build happy memories of the time.

Dorothy’s squeal of joy when she spotted the waffles and strawberry jam on the table gave Anna Mae’s heart another lift. Marjorie hollered from her crib, and Anna Mae strapped her into the high chair, laughing as the baby banged her hands on the tray in excitement. ‘‘Eat, eat, eat,’’ she jabbered while Anna Mae broke a waffle into pieces for the baby to pick up.

As soon as Marjorie was able to eat, eat, eat, the kitchen grew quiet except for the sizzle of the waffle iron, the burble of percolating coffee, and the scrape of Dorothy’s fork against her plate. Anna Mae absorbed the peaceful morning scene: her daughters in their places at the oilcloth-draped table, a splash of sun painting a yellow carpet across the faded linoleum floor, the gentle lift and fall of the gingham curtains her mama had sewn for the kitchen window. She turned from one sight to another, burning the memories into her brain.

Through the kitchen window, Anna Mae watched Jack’s wagon pull into the yard. It rolled to a stop between the house and barn, and the sun glinted on his hair as he leapt from the wagon to the ground. He headed straight for the barn, as he’d done every day for the past week. She turned back to her waffle making, hoping Dorothy wouldn’t hear him moving around out there. The child missed his visits, and Anna Mae didn’t want any unhappiness to ruin this cheerful start to the day.

She poured herself a cup of coffee and stood at the counter, munching her waffle while waiting for another one to cook. Jack ambled out of the barn, milk pail in hand. She expected him to slosh most of the milk into a can in the wagon and then leave the remainder on the back porch for her use as he’d been doing since he stated his ultimatum. But instead, he came right on into the kitchen and placed the bucket on the counter next to her.

She offered a hesitant smile. ‘‘G-good morning, Jack.’’

He tipped his head and winked. ‘‘Good morning to you.’’

Apparently he’d decided to let things return to normal—another little silver lining. She felt her smile grow. ‘‘Would you like a waffle?’’

He sniffed the air. ‘‘Mmm, those smell great.’’ He grinned at Dorothy, who forked another waffle onto her plate and spooned out jam. ‘‘You gonna leave some for anybody else?’’

The little girl giggled. ‘‘Daddy says I’m a waffle-piggy.’’

Anna Mae’s heart caught, and she noticed Jack’s jaw tighten at Dorothy’s comment. Dorothy still refused to believe her father was gone. In the days since Anna Mae had told her about Harley’s death, the child had spoken of him more than she had in all the previous weeks of separation. Anna Mae feared the child was trying to keep her daddy alive, and she worried about the effect it would have on Dorothy’s faith when Harley didn’t return.

Jack cleared his throat. ‘‘Well, since you’re the piggy, I’ll let you go ahead and gobble.’’ He turned toward Anna Mae. ‘‘Thanks for the invitation, but I’ve got some errands to run today, so I need to hurry.’’

The urgency in his tone raised Anna Mae’s eyebrows. ‘‘Everything okay?’’

A smile formed quickly. ‘‘Oh yeah. Everything’s fine and dandy. And promising to get better every minute.’’

Anna Mae took in a sharp breath, her eyes widening in wonder. Was Jack experiencing the same rush of blessings that she’d felt this morning? She opened her mouth to question him, but he stepped forward and planted a kiss on her cheek, shocking her into silence.

‘‘Take care, Anna Mae. I aim to bring you a surprise back from Hutchinson.’’

Dorothy clapped her hands. ‘‘Me too! Bring me a surprise, too!’’

Jack swung his grin in the little girl’s direction. ‘‘Sure thing, Miss Dorothy. Now be good for your mama, you hear?’’ With a wink, he headed out the door with long, sure strides.

‘‘What’cha think he’s gonna bring us, Mama?’’ Dorothy’s eyes sparkled with anticipation.

‘‘I don’t know, darlin’.’’ Anna Mae touched her cheek where his lips had pressed for one possessive second. Jack’s familiarity threw a different cast on her day, leaving her feeling weak and almost queasy.

‘‘I hope it’s a doll. Or a new dress. Or a book.’’ Dorothy chattered as she stabbed her fork into her waffle and raised another bite. ‘‘It’ll be somethin’ good, though, I betcha.’’

Anna Mae managed a small smile for Dorothy’s sake and tousled her hair. ‘‘I’m sure you’re right. Now finish up there, and try to get the jam into your mouth instead of on your face.’’

Dorothy hunched her shoulders and giggled. ‘‘Yes, Mama.’’

Anna Mae poured the last of the batter onto the waffle iron and closed the lid with shaking fingers. Steam whooshed from the edges of the iron, scenting the air with vanilla. Anna Mae inhaled, hoping the smell of the waffle would drive the smell of Jack’s skin from her memory. She pressed her mind for a silver lining to the gray cloud his intimacy had created over her head, but for the first time that morning, silver linings escaped her. She could find no good in Jack’s impromptu act of ownership.

‘‘What do you mean someone outbid me?’’ Jack attempted to keep his tone controlled, but the anger welled up, forcing the words out harshly.

The clerk scowled. ‘‘Exactly what I said. Bids were accepted through five o’clock Wednesday, September thirtieth. You were outbid.’’

‘‘But that can’t be!’’ Jack put out his hand. ‘‘Let me see the bids.’’

The clerk pulled the file against his chest. ‘‘I can’t let you see. Closed-auction bids are called closed because that’s exactly what they are—and they are not a matter of public record.’’

Jack waited, his jaw clenched and hand extended toward the man on the other side of the counter. ‘‘Well, I’m not going to believe you unless I see it for myself. Hand it over.’’

‘‘No, sir.’’ The clerk raised his chin a notch, too. ‘‘You’re just going to have to—’’

‘‘What is going on out here?’’ A second, authoritative voice intruded.

Jack looked beyond the clerk to spot the county treasurer, Robert Syler, marching toward the counter. Jack pointed an accusing finger at the man’s chest. ‘‘That land was supposed to be mine. You told me last week I was the only bidder and I shouldn’t worry.’’

Syler frowned as the clerk shot a speculative look in his direction. He kept his voice low, but Jack didn’t miss the warning growl in the tone. ‘‘You know very well that would be privileged information. You must be mistaken.’’

Jack felt heat rush to his face. He needed to be careful. No sense in ostracizing the very person who could get this whole mess turned around. If the bids weren’t publically recorded, then surely anyone could be announced as the winning bidder. He took a deep breath.

‘‘I believe there has been an error. The clerk here—’’ he jerked his gaze briefly toward the man—‘‘seems to be reading the bids wrong.’’

‘‘I assure you I am not—’’ The clerk’s blustering reply was cut short by a firm look from Syler.

The county treasurer held out his hand. ‘‘Let me see the file.’’

The clerk released it, but his lips formed a grim line of annoyance.

‘‘Thank you, Lester. I’ll take care of this.’’

Muttering under his breath, the clerk moved away. Syler leaned across the counter, dropping his voice. ‘‘Look, Jack, I did what I could. I can’t help that someone came in here yesterday, right before five, and made a bid that was higher than yours.’’