Wings of a Dream (30 page)

The crickets chirped. A few chickens squawked before calming. Ol’ Bob let out a plaintive moo. The pungent scent of manure wafted on the gentle breeze.

Frank shifted on the step, cleared his throat.

I made the effort of conversation. “Y’all certainly made a nice place here.”

He took a deep breath and nodded. “It’s all Clara and I ever dreamed of. Growing livestock and crops and children. Hard work, but honest. I can’t imagine a better life than this one.”

“But Brother Latham said something about railroad money.” I bit my lip as I remembered the strain between us that day, dining with the Lathams.

He pulled a weed and stripped the leaves from its stalk as he spoke. “I hired on at the railroad shortly after we married. Found I caught on quick about how things worked, how best to build. And where.” He shrugged. “It paid for this farm. We didn’t want to buy it on credit.”

My cheeks warmed. He hadn’t yet mentioned the five dollars on account at Crenshaw’s store. Did he know?

“It was why the army needed me,” he said.

Needed him? He hadn’t run off searching for adventure or wanting a reprieve from responsibility. He’d been asked to go. And in doing so, he’d missed a final good-bye to his wife. My throat tightened, imagining the agony of such a decision. “So what will you do now?”

“Keep on. God gives us dreams of what our lives will be, but He doesn’t guarantee them. Just asks us to trust Him with the changes.” Frank rose, extending his hand to help me to my feet, the lopsided grin on his face making him look no older than I. “Besides, I have you to help take care of things for a while.”

My fingers rested against his calloused ones for only a moment, but tingles raced all the way to my toes. I ducked my head and hurried into the kitchen. On the table, I spied Mama’s soggy letter.

No, she didn’t need to know Frank had come home. Not yet.

W
ondered if you’d like a little company.” Sheriff Jeffries stood in the kitchen doorway, his hat in its usual place—his hands. Interesting how he arrived just minutes after Frank left to help a neighbor repair some fencing.

I pushed back a strand of hair with my wrist, hoping the flour coating my hands didn’t dust my face in the process. “I just put a pie in the oven. You’re welcome to stay.”

Sheriff Jeffries slid into a seat at the kitchen table, laying his hat on his knee. I turned to the wash bucket and plunged my hands into the tepid water. The part of me that desperately needed a friend thrilled to see the sheriff. But the part that pondered my future trembled. Did I dare do as Frank and trust God to work out the changes to my dreams?

I dried my hands on a towel and pushed away thoughts of city lights and evenings at the theater and purchasing my own automobile. I had enough to occupy the present. The pie would take the greater part of an hour to cook. After that, it would need to cool. And in the meantime, the sheriff and I could share some friendly conversation.

“So what brings you out our way today?” I counted scoops of coffee into the pot before resting it on the hot stove.

“Nothing special. Helped pull a touring car from a ditch. Someone from over in Terrell.” He recounted the story, making me laugh. My spirit settled into comfortable as we talked of everyday things, neither of us mentioning the awkwardness of the past Sunday.

As I poured each of us another cup of coffee, the kitchen door swung wide.

“Smells good, Bekah.” James plopped himself on the bench at the table, his little legs swinging, his chin resting in his upturned hands. Dan’s actions mirrored his brother’s.

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Would you boys like a glass of milk?”

They both nodded. Then I heard Janie’s babble from upstairs. When I returned with her, the sheriff sat chatting with the boys and Ollie, just home from school.

“Pie’ll come out of the oven soon.” I set Janie’s feet on the floor, her hands banging on the bench seat. “We can all have a small piece now and still have some for after supper.”

Dan threw a wary look my direction. “Even Janie? She’s awful little.”

We all looked at the baby. She moved her feet until her hands gripped the spindles that formed the back of the sheriff’s chair. Two new teeth gleaming white in the midst of pink gums; she laughed as if she knew we spoke of her.

Then her fingers flew free of their grip. She tottered two steps and fell on her behind.

For a moment, no one said a word. Then Dan busted out laughing. “Janie walked.”

Ollie squealed and ran to her little sister. “Janie! You walked!”

Pride swelled my chest as I joined the celebration around the baby.

“What’s all the commotion?” Frank stood in the doorway, his face weary, his clothes dusty, but his eyes lit with our joy, even without knowing the source.

“Daddy! Janie walked! All by herself! Watch!” Ollie coaxed her sister into two more steps. I clapped my hands. Then I looked at Frank. The grief covering his face killed the laughter on my lips.

He walked from the room without a word.

By the time I pulled the custard pie from the oven, Frank had returned. But in spite of his efforts, I read the sorrow behind his eyes. The wishing that he could share the moment with Janie’s mother, not me. Not Sheriff Jeffries.

“Any news from home lately?” The sheriff sat beside me now, his question drawing me away from the family commotion around the table.

“Not much.” I ran my fork through my pie, lifted a bit to my mouth as I watched Frank interact with his children. “Mama seems on the mend. Will has gone off in his car to see the country.”

Sheriff Jeffries nodded. He glanced at Frank before turning back to me. “So you aren’t headed home anytime soon?”

“No.” My stomach twisted. I set down my fork and pushed my plate to the side.

“You done with that, Bekah?” James asked. “ ’Cause I could finish it for you.”

Frank looked at my plate. At me. At Sheriff Jeffries.

I avoided his eyes. “Share it with your brother. More coffee, anyone?” On my feet again, I smiled at both men and turned to get the coffeepot. I wanted to be sick, and I had no idea why. Instead, I played the perfect hostess, filling cups and chatting until finally the sheriff rose to leave.

We walked to his automobile, leaving the clatter of the kitchen far behind. Strings of clouds drifted near the horizon, like tufts of cotton ready to be spun into thread.

“May I come visit again? Saturday evening?” He glanced back toward the house.

“Visit? Us?”

“You, Rebekah. I want to visit
you
.”

A Saturday night visit. My mouth felt dry as dust, and my heart pumped faster. Should I commit to more than friendship?

I couldn’t let myself think too hard, so I stared straight into his face and answered. “That would be nice . . . Henry.” Why did I feel like a traitor as I spoke his name? “I’ll make another pie. Or a cake. Or something.”

A grin stretched across his face as he slapped his hat on his head. “I’d like that.”

He cranked the engine and waved as he climbed behind the wheel. I waved back. When he motored out of sight, I sighed and turned.

And ran smack-dab into Frank.

Hands on my arms, he steadied and dizzied me all at the same time. “Is he coming again?”

I nodded. “Saturday night.” I hesitated. “Is that okay?” I couldn’t look him in the face.

“If it’s what you want.” He nodded toward the retreating automobile, something wistful in his voice lifting my heart.

I raised my eyebrows, but my gaze skittered to the house behind me. Shy and uncertain, I longed for retreat, so I stepped around him. “I’ll start supper. That is, if anyone’s hungry.”

That night, I lay in bed sorting through the photographs in my mind. Barney Graves. Arthur. Sheriff Jeffries. Frank. The children. I spun out stories of the way things might go, but each ending soured with an unsettling regret, almost as if I’d baked a perfect cobbler but forgotten to sweeten the filling.

I pulled the covers over my shoulder and faced the wall. Mama would say to take the sure thing—but was anything in life a sure thing? Irene would say be careful not to overlook what appeared to be the less exciting choice. Yet right now, every path open to me appeared tainted with the mundane.

I wiggled onto my other side, facing the dark room.
What, Lord? What do You want me to do?

Silence, as usual. No direction. Not a niggling thought. Not a feeling. I could simply go ahead and make my own choice, but thus far my choices hadn’t exactly worked out. I imagined again Arthur’s golden hair lifted by a breeze, the hurtful words of his engagement spilling from his lips. Why, in spite of it all, did the thought of him still thrill my heart?

I tossed back the covers and shivered in the cold night. I hadn’t thrown out the last of the coffee. Maybe a cup would distract my thoughts. My socked feet muted my footsteps as I groped my way to the parlor and threw a quilt around my shoulders, holding it closed in front. Then I padded my way to the kitchen. I found the lamp, but my fingers resisted striking the match. A sliver of moon shone through the window. It would be enough.

A new piece of wood and a fraction of rearranging brought a flame to life in the stove. I reached into the cooler to pull out the last piece of pie, larger than I would normally eat, but comforting all the same.

Pie plate and fork resting in the center of the table, I touched the coffeepot. Almost ready. The door behind me creaked. I whipped around, my hand pressed against my hammering heart.

“I guess we had the same idea.” Frank’s voice loomed from the shadowed doorway.

“I guess we did.” I pulled the quilt closer to my body, thinking I ought to leave yet wanting to stay. “C’mon in. Coffee’s almost ready.”

I heard Frank step inside. He sat in the chair at the opposite end of the table.

“You willing to share?” He nudged the pie plate in my direction.

“Split it down the middle. There’s plenty for both of us.” I pushed it toward him, heard the scrape of metal against metal before the plate slid back in my direction. I could make out the glint of the fork resting against its side. Then the smell and steam of coffee curled around my nose, and I realized a cup sat in front of me.

“Thank you.” My fork slid through the creamy custard. A sip of coffee melted the sweetness in my mouth before mingling it down my throat.

“I’m sorry. About earlier.”

I took another bite. Another sip. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for.” Yet I wondered what he meant. Three quick bites and my pie disappeared, my fork clattering into the empty pan.

“It’s not any of my business what you do with your life.”

“No, it isn’t.” I wrapped one hand around my warm cup and lifted it to my lips.

“But do you mind if I ask what you intend to do with it?”

Uncertainty colored his voice. Was he afraid to hear my answer or afraid he couldn’t restrain comment on it? I cleared my throat, uncomfortable now, even with the cover of night over our faces. Yet something in me needed to talk. And Frank might understand. He’d lost his love, even if part of his dream remained intact.

“I’m not sure, exactly. I thought God had made it very plain. Now I don’t know.”

Quiet filled the room. Then his chair creaked.