Where Willows Grow (9 page)

Dear Lord, I don’t think this is a good idea to go with Jack, but
how else are the girls and I going to get to church? Every other churchgoing
neighbor is on the far side—it would be out of their way to come
get us
.

Anna Mae kept her gaze forward and didn’t answer.

Jack’s chuckle rumbled, matching the tone of the car’s engine. ‘‘I know your mama taught you to say thank you when somebody gives you a compliment.’’

Anna Mae pursed her lips for a moment. Jack was too sure of himself. He always had been. What had Harley been thinking to ask him to look out for her and the girls? She finally made eye contact with him. ‘‘Jack, I appreciate your giving the girls and me a ride to church. I appreciate your help with the chores while Harley’s gone. But we’ve got to get something straight. Our—’’ she licked her dry lips—‘‘friendship . . . ended a long time ago. As far as I’m concerned, you’re just a hired hand around the place ’til my husband returns. Don’t try to make it into something more.’’

Jack ran his fingers along the edge of the steering wheel, his gaze aimed ahead. He worked his jaw back and forth. After several long seconds passed, he gave a brusque nod. ‘‘Okay, Anna Mae. I’ll keep my compliments to myself.’’ He glanced in her direction. ‘‘But I gotta say one more thing first. If I was your husband, and you were carrying my baby, I never would’ve walked down the road and left you behind.’’

Anna Mae’s face felt hot. She sought words to defend Harley, but none came. To her relief, the Model T rolled into the churchyard, ending their conversation. Jack killed the engine, and the automobile heaved a rattling sigh as the motor died. Anna Mae waited until Jack came around and opened the door for her. He took her elbow as she struggled out, Marjorie’s weight making her clumsy. His hand lingered a moment too long.

She sent him a warning look.

He backed off, his hands held up in a gesture of surrender. ‘‘Sorry, Anna Mae. Old habits die hard.’’

‘‘C’mon, Dorothy,’’ she said, turning her back on him. ‘‘Let’s get you to Sunday school.’’

After the service ended, Jack followed Anna Mae, watching the sway of her slim-fitting skirt as she made walking on high-heeled shoes look graceful even when clumping across the hard-packed earth of the churchyard.

Her hips were a little wider than they’d been in her teens—she’d always been such a willowy thing—but that was to be expected. After all, she’d borne two babies. The added curves did nothing to diminish her attractiveness, Jack acknowledged. If anything, it increased it. The woman Anna Mae had become was even more appealing than the girl she had been. And how he’d loved the girl.

They had attended this little clapboard church for as long as he could remember. In their childhood days, their families had sat together on one of the wooden pews. Anna Mae had been nine years old when she made her trek to the front of the church at the end of service to shake the minister’s hand and announce her intention to be saved. Jack had waited two weeks to do the same thing—couldn’t let her think he was copying—and even after all these years he remembered how she’d beamed her approval when his name had been announced as a new entry in the Lamb’s Book of Life.

Only eleven years old, but he’d decided in those moments that Anna Mae Elliot had to be his someday.

Growing up on side-by-side farms with parents who were best friends had given him many opportunities to be with Anna Mae. And as they’d reached their teen years, it had been easy to see himself and Anna Mae as one. One farm, one home, one family. And then Harley had come along and disrupted everything.

But Harley was gone now. Maybe even gone for good. It wasn’t unheard of in these troubling times for a man to abandon his family. Jack was back in the picture, and he liked the looks of things from this angle.

Anna Mae stopped beside the Model T and shifted her weight to balance Marjorie on her hip. She stretched her hand toward the door, but Jack dashed around and popped the handle before her fingers could close on it. Her gaze flitted upward, her expression wary. Giving a nod and smile, he gestured toward the seat and quipped, ‘‘Your chariot awaits.’’

‘‘Thank you.’’

The words were uttered in a clipped, tight tone that didn’t reflect gratitude, but Jack offered another grin and a warm, ‘‘You’re quite welcome, Miz Phipps.’’ He walked around to his side of the car, and Dorothy trailed behind him on bare feet, her shoes in her hand. She was a miniature version of her mama, and just looking at the golden-haired child opened another floodgate of memories. This child should have been his.

He winked at the little girl. ‘‘Hey there, Miss Dorothy, didja have a good time in church?’’

Dorothy yawned and scratched her head, making her bow slip a little closer to her left ear. ‘‘It makes my feet tired.’’

‘‘Your feet tired?’’ Jack could make no sense of that.

‘‘They have to hang.’’ The child’s blue eyes blinked twice. ‘‘ ’Cause the seats are too tall. And it makes them tired.’’

Now Jack understood. ‘‘Well, just tuck them up underneath you. Then they won’t have to hang.’’

Dorothy pursed her lips, clearly disgusted. ‘‘Mama won’t let me. Says it’s not ladylike.’’

Jack laughed out loud. ‘‘Well, your mama’s a perfect lady, so I reckon she’d know. Better do what she says. Now climb on in there.’’

He waited until Dorothy climbed into the backseat before kneeling beside the car and reaching beneath his seat to turn on the gas. Still on his knees, he leaned into the cab and turned the carburetor knob forward nearly a full turn, then reversed it slightly. He hid his smile at Anna Mae’s curious expression as he flipped the ignition switch to the left, then moved the spark lever to its highest position. He’d learned a long time ago he wanted the spark retarded unless he wanted a good kick from the hand crank.

He had to stand to reach the throttle, and he pushed the lever down about one-third before yanking the hand brake lever to its farthest position to ensure no forward motion when the engine sparked to life. Those things accomplished, he strode to the front of the Model T and curled his hand around the crank, keeping his thumb tucked up out of the way. After two controlled forward jerks, followed by a hard shove to set the crank spinning, the auto rewarded him by roaring like a mad bull.

Quickly, he jumped inside the car and adjusted the throttle to bring the kicking and heaving under control. Once the machine reached a dull roar, he tweaked the carburetor until the roar turned into a lion’s purr. Only then did he slam his door shut, release the brake, put the vehicle into reverse, and pull out of the churchyard.

On the road, dust rolling behind them, Anna Mae shook her head, her eyes wide. ‘‘You have to go through all that every time you want to drive this thing?’’

Jack grinned. ‘‘Yep.’’

‘‘It’s a whole lot less work to hitch a horse to a buggy.’’ She tightened her arms around a squirming Marjorie as the Model T bounced through a rut.

‘‘That could be,’’ Jack said, patting the steering wheel, ‘‘but it’s not nearly as much fun.’’ He glanced in the back, where Dorothy sat on her knees, bobbing up and down with the car’s movements. ‘‘Right, Dorothy?’’

‘‘Right!’’

Anna Mae peeked into the back, a scowl on her face. ‘‘Dorothy Mae Phipps, sit on your bottom.’’

‘‘But, Mama, my feet hang!’’

Anna Mae opened her mouth, but Jack intervened. ‘‘You can sit cross-legged in here, Dorothy. Won’t hurt a thing.’’

With a triumphant grin, the little girl followed Jack’s instruction. Sitting like a little Indian in front of a campfire, she craned her neck to peer out the window.

Anna Mae shot Jack a scathing look. ‘‘Don’t interfere when I correct my daughter, Jack.’’

He shrugged. ‘‘It’s my car, and her feet on the seat don’t bother me a bit.’’

Anna Mae pinched her lips together and didn’t say another word the rest of the way to her house. Jack let the car idle as he ran around to open the door for her. She pulled away from his hand when he reached to help her, turning her back on him the minute she was out.

‘‘Come on, Dorothy, hurry up,’’ she prodded as Dorothy took her time scooting across the seat. When Dorothy emerged, Anna Mae took her by the hand and headed for the house. She offered neither a thank-you nor a fare-thee-well in parting.

Dorothy peeked back at him from around Anna Mae’s skirt as they rounded the porch, and Jack offered a smile and wave that the child returned. Then Anna Mae ushered her through the door, and the door closed with an audible
whump
.

He shook his head, unable to stop smiling. She might think she was dissuading him with her snooty attitude, but she’d forgotten just how persistent he could be. Didn’t she remember that he liked a good challenge? Well, he’d just have to remind her.

Swinging back into his vehicle, he gave his door a solid yank and set the vehicle in motion. He’d be back. Not today—no reason to come back today since the milk truck didn’t run on Sundays—but he’d be back. Full of smiles, helpfulness, and cheery words—and one other thing he’d noticed she needed. He’d get a thank-you out of her tomorrow for sure.

10

M
WAAAAAAH
.

Anna Mae waved her hand, trying to push away the intruding noise.

MwaaaAAAaaah
.

It came again, more insistently. She opened her eyes, then slammed them shut against the light. Her heart lodged in her throat—the sun was up! How could she have slept so late? The poor cow must be miserable. She forced her eyes open as she threw back the sheets and leaped from the bed. The floor seemed to tilt. She grasped the iron bedpost with both hands and held on until she gained her bearings.

Mwaaaaaah
.

The animal’s cry tormented Anna Mae. She pushed off from the bedpost and raced through the house and onto the porch. An arm across her churning stomach, she snatched up the clean milk bucket, which waited upside down on its shelf, and dashed across the yard. ‘‘Please, Lord, let the girls sleep a little longer,’’ she prayed aloud. Rocks bruised the soles of her bare feet, but she ignored the pain and yanked open the barn door.

‘‘Hey, Bossie, I’m here,’’ she soothed as she patted the cow’s hide. Bossie watched with wide, blinking brown eyes as Anna Mae grabbed the little milking stool from the corner. She placed the bucket into position, hiked her nightgown above her knees, straddled the stool, and set to work relieving Bossie of her discomfort. The cow nodded her great head, as if offering a thank-you.

After nearly a week of doing the milking, Anna Mae’s arms no longer cramped with the chore. A blessing, for sure. She whispered a quick prayer of thanks for this gaining of strength. Finished, she gave Bossie another pat and said, ‘‘Okay, old girl, let me get this milk inside, then I’ll come serve you your breakfast.’’

She rose, pulling the bucket of milk safely away from the cow’s shifting feet. She returned the stool to its corner, then lifted the bucket and headed for the door. As she stepped from the barn into the yard, she heard the
clip-clop
of horses’ hooves. Jack Berkley’s wagon turned in from the lane. She glanced down her nightgown-covered length and released a groan.
Oh, please,
not now!

Jack brought the wagon to a stop between the barn and the back porch, cutting off her pathway. Anna Mae longed for another pair of hands to cover her glowing cheeks as he hopped down from the wagon seat and sent a lopsided smile in her direction.

‘‘Good morning, Anna Mae.’’ His eyes roved from her tousled hair to her bare feet, while her embarrassment increased by the second. ‘‘Late start this morning?’’

‘‘I . . . I don’t have the milk ready to tote to town yet, Jack.’’

The customary grin grew broader. ‘‘I can see that.’’ He strode toward her, holding out his hand. ‘‘Here, let me take that in for you.’’

She scuttled around the bobbing noses of the horses, her sudden movements splashing a few drops over the brim of the bucket. ‘‘No. I can do it.’’

Jack quirked one eyebrow and gave her a sardonic look. ‘‘I didn’t say you were incapable, Anna Mae. I only offered to help.’’ He ambled up beside her.

She hefted the bucket higher in an attempt to hide behind it. ‘‘I know. But I can do it myself. You’’—she walked backward toward the porch—‘‘just head on home and come back later.’’
When I’m dressed, combed, and ready to face the day
. ‘‘Okay?’’

The back of her heel connected with the porch step. The jolt off-balanced her, and she jerked her arms upward, instinctively trying to save the milk. ‘‘No!’’ she cried as she fell backward against the closed porch door. The screen twanged in protest with her weight. She planted one elbow against the doorjamb and pushed herself free of the door, but she stumbled sideways. The bucket tipped, sloshing warm, creamy liquid down the front of her nightgown. One horse released a nervous whinny.

Jack leaped forward, grabbing her elbow with one hand and the bucket with the other. He gave a tug that should have put her back on her feet, except the ground was slippery from the milk. To her horror, her right foot slid north and her left foot south. She released the bucket to clutch Jack’s shirt front with both hands. Her arm slammed into the bucket, and another wave of milk splashed out, soaking the left side of her gown and his pant leg.

Still unbalanced, she clung harder to Jack’s shirt, her weight shifting as she tried to find her footing. Jack took an awkward step backward, swinging Anna Mae away from the patch of soppy ground. At last she got her feet back under her, and she was able to release his shirt.

She realized he still had hold of her elbow, and she jerked loose, spinning to turn her back on him. Her soaked nightgown clung to her front. She crossed her arms over her chest and hunkered forward. She hadn’t been in such a state in front of Jack since she was eight years old and they had played in the creek together. She no longer had that little-girl body. Her face burned as she considered what he must have seen. Tears stung behind her eyes, and she clamped her jaw, determined to hold them back.

‘‘Anna Mae, you okay?’’

There was no teasing in his tone at all. If only he
would
tease. She could get good and angry at him then.