Cross My Heart

by Robin Lee Hatcher

  “Hey, did I say something to upset you?” Ashley asked, real concern in her voice.

  “No.” He glanced her way once again. “Still disappointed about that horse, I guess.” It wasn’t the full truth, but it wasn’t really a lie. And since he wasn’t ready to talk about his mom’s threats regarding the farm, he would have to leave it there.

  Friday, February 20, 1942

  Andrew prayed for his nation. He resumed a practice from many years before, going to the barn loft where he could be alone before the throne of God, pleading for His mercies. He prayed when Wake Island fell to the Japanese in December. He prayed when Manila fell to the enemy weeks later, the Philippine forces under General Douglas MacArthur withdrawing to the Bataan peninsula. He prayed as many Americans began to realize that they would not whip the enemy in a matter of weeks, as some had boasted. He prayed they would have the strength to persevere through the months and, he feared, years to come. He prayed and kept on praying for his sons, for his family, for his friends, for his nation.

  Ben didn’t come home for his mother’s birthday. He called to say he had flight training the next day and couldn’t leave Boise. He also said something about a visit to the Forty-Second Bombardment Group at Gowen Airfield.

  Andrew wondered how long Ben would hold out. Many of his friends—those from his high school years in Kuna, others from his first year at college—had already joined up. Would Ben resist the patriotic urge to join now in order to be able to fly in combat later? Andrew didn’t even know what to hope for in that regard.

  It was a small birthday party for Helen on that Friday evening in February. Only Andrew, Helen, Mother Greyson, and the four younger kids. Andrew’s parents weren’t able to come because his dad had a bad cold, and the Finkels stayed home for the Sabbath. There was a cake, baked by Mother Greyson and Louisa, and there were a few simple gifts.

  Observing his family, Andrew wondered what would be different by Helen’s next birthday. Rationing of tires had begun in December, and the rationing of new cars had begun this month. Other items needed for the war effort would surely follow. Including food. Would there be enough sugar for a cake by next February?

  He shook his head, unhappy with the negative spiral of his thoughts. Had God’s presence through the Great Depression, the loss of a baby, the troubles in his marriage, and the adoption of three orphaned children not taught him anything? If God could bring the Hennings through all of that, could He not bring them through a war? Had Andrew’s heart been unchanged, despite the Lord’s faithfulness? Could he not say, “It is well with my soul,” no matter the circumstance?

  “You’re not yourself,” Helen said to him as they prepared for bed later that night.

  “Sorry.” He removed his shirt and draped it over a chair back.

  “It’s Ben, isn’t it?”

  “Mostly.”

  “He’s almost nineteen. He’s able to make his own decisions.”

  “Mmm.” He remembered himself at the same age. Back then he’d thought he knew everything. He’d thought himself a man. Now, at thirty-seven, he’d learned how little he’d known at nineteen and also realized how little he still knew.

  “Darling?” Helen placed her hand on his arm. “Ben’s worked so hard for what he wants. He’s got a good head on his shoulders, thanks to you. He’ll be all right.”

  Andrew nodded slowly. “I remember the first time I saw him. He was taking care of Oscar and Louisa. Ready to fight for them if he had to.” He offered a brief smile to his wife. “He’s still ready to fight for them. Just in a different way.”

  Wordlessly, his wife leaned in and kissed his cheek before she returned to the closet for her nightgown.

  “Maybe it would be different if I felt there was something I could do to help. I never served in the military, so I’m not officer material. And I’m beyond the age they want for regular soldiers. Besides, they classified me as III-A. Not that I couldn’t fight. I could fight.”

  Helen turned and stared at him, askance. “Andrew, would you really go off and leave us if your classification was different?”

  “No,” he admitted. “No, I wouldn’t.” Two women alone on a farm with four kids who ranged in age from just-turned-six to fifteen. Leaving them would be unthinkable. No, his contribution to the war effort had to be raising as much food as he could squeeze from the land.

  “Then don’t ever say such a thing again. It frightens me.”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said it. I guess I feel . . . ineffective.” He shook his head. “Or maybe I’m starting to feel old.”

  “Andrew Michael Henning.” Irritation had entered Helen’s voice. “You are not old.”

  A few quick strides carried him to his wife, where he gathered her in a close embrace. “You’re right. I’m not old.” He kissed her, forcefully at first, then with languid passion. “You keep me young.”

  Chapter 10

  On her first full day off work after the holiday weekend, Ashley drove to Mountain Home to look at some horses on the Richardson ranch. She hoped to find at least one that would be a good fit for the Harmony Barn. When she got out of her pickup, she was greeted by a hot, steady wind blowing across the high desert.

  “Hey, Ashley,” Ruth Richardson called to her from a nearby corral.

  “Hi, Ruth.” Ashley walked toward her.

  Ruth was closer to Ashley’s mom’s age than to Ashley’s, but that hadn’t changed the friendship that had blossomed between them because of horses. Mostly they kept in touch via email and texts since their paths didn’t cross all that often. Usually they didn’t see each other more than once, occasionally twice, a year. But it always felt like only yesterday.

  “It was good to hear from you.” Ruth latched the corral gate before giving Ashley a warm hug. “Been too long.”

  “I know. Seems I’m always running behind with everything.”

  “How’s your mom?”

  “Good. Worried about Dylan.”

  Ruth was one of only a few people who knew what was happening with Ashley’s brother. “Naturally,” she answered. “I’d be worried, too, if I was his mom.”

  Guilt twinged in Ashley’s chest. Was it a bad sign that she wasn’t worried about Dylan? That she thought it a good thing he’d been ordered into rehab, into a place where he couldn’t walk out when the going got tough?

  Ruth motioned toward a corral closer to the house. “I’ve got those horses ready for you to look at. I’m glad you called me. Your friend’s program sounds like something we’d like to participate in.”

  “I believe in it.” What she meant was she’d started to believe in Ben. A fact that still surprised her.

  “That’s good enough for me.”

  They walked together to the corral. Three horses stood inside, flicking their tails at flies. A tall black—about sixteen hands, Ashley estimated—walked to the fence and thrust his head over the top rail, nickering at them.

  “That’s Thunder.” Ruth laughed softly. “Trust me. He’s nothing like his name. I thought he might be good when there are larger, heavier clients. I didn’t figure they’d all be kids or weigh a hundred and twenty pounds or less.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Fifteen. Gets along with most everybody in the herd, although we’ve got a mare that likes to pick on him.”

  Ashley patted the gelding on his muscular neck. She liked the look of him.

  Ruth opened the gate, and they stepped inside the corral. The horse that was closest to them was an Appaloosa gelding. A full hand shorter than Thunder, he had a sturdy build.

  “That’s Klondike. He’s twelve. And the dun is Sundowner. He’s thirteen and quiet. Too quiet for most riders. Which might make him perfect for an equine riding program. All three of them are sound and well trained. Recently shod.”

  Ashley walked around both Klondike and Sundowner, studying them. One at a time, she attached a lead to their halters and led them around the corral, watching the way they moved. She ran her hands
over them and lifted their hooves. She trusted Ruth, but habit required that she know each horse for herself.

  “Which two is up to you,” Ruth said when Ashley stepped to the corral fence again. “Wish we could do more.”

  Ashley looked at her friend. “Two is generous, Ruth. Really. Ben will be bowled over when I tell him.”

  “I look forward to meeting him.” Ruth’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, as if something had occurred to her.

  For some reason, Ashley felt like squirming.

  Her friend continued, “How about, instead of you picking up the horses, you let me deliver them? That way I can see where they’ll be and get to meet Mr. Henning at the same time.”

  “Sure. If you want.”

  “I want.”

  Ashley felt as if Ruth knew something she didn’t, and it bothered her.

  “Made up your mind?” Her friend tipped her head toward the horses. “About which two you want?”

  Ashley cleared her throat. “Yeah. I think so. I like all three, but I feel like Thunder and Sundowner will be the best fit.” She hoped Ben would agree.

  “Then those are the two we’ll offer. Now, how about something cool to drink.”

  “Okay.”

  They left the corral and walked to the house. Ashley waited on the covered patio while Ruth went inside. A few minutes later she returned with two tall glasses of lemonade. By that time Ashley was seated at the patio table.

  “So . . .” Ruth sat opposite Ashley. “How many horses have you got on your little place now?”

  “Four. My own mare and three rescues.” She sipped her lemonade. “One of them is ready to find a home. The other two will need more time. They were part of a big rescue about ten days ago. You probably saw it on the news.”

  Ruth’s eyes darkened. “That place with the thirty starving horses?”

  “That’s the one. They had to put down some of them. The two I brought home were in bad shape, but I think they’re going to make it.”

  “I don’t understand people sometimes.”

  “Neither do I.”

  Ruth shook her head as if to dislodge the unpleasant thoughts. “Fortunately, there are more good people than cruel ones. Like this Ben Henning of yours. He sounds like a good one.”

  “He’s hardly mine, Ruth.”

  * * *

  Ben rapped on the door of the trailer. It was parked with several others on a half-acre lot not far from the Boise River. Tall cottonwoods towered over the trailers, casting spiderweb-like shadows across the ground. At one time there may have been grass growing around each of the trailers, but now there were only weeds. Rusting barrels stood near a fence that tilted precariously. Old toys, a couple of bent bicycle wheels, and other discards littered any free space.

  He rapped again.

  “Go away,” came a gruff voice from inside.

  “Guy. It’s Ben Henning.” He tried the knob. The door opened. “May I come in?”

  “Go away.”

  The interior was dim, the curtains drawn. Despite the lack of light, Ben could see dishes piled in the kitchen sink and empty liquor bottles on the counter. A movement to his left drew his eyes. Guy Turner was on the built-in sofa.

  “I’m coming in, Guy.”

  He left the door open behind him, hoping to improve the stale smell within. Guy sat up, groaned, then leaned his forehead against his hands. Ben cleared a spot and sat nearby.

  “How’d you know?” Guy asked.

  “Your sister called me.”

  “Debbie needs to butt out.”

  “Maybe. But she knows I’m your sponsor.” He waited a few moments before adding, “You should have been the one to call me.”

  Guy grunted but said nothing.

  Over the years of Ben’s sobriety, he’d seen plenty of anger and shame, including his own. He’d been sworn at by some men and had listened to the excuses of others. He’d witnessed courage and cowardice, sometimes on the same night, from the same person. He’d sat beside a kid of eighteen and an old man in his eighties, both of them debilitated by booze. He’d been in one home that was more of a mansion and in several hovels similar to the one he was in now.

  “What do you want?” Guy said into the lengthening silence.

  “To help you.”

  “I don’t want your help. I don’t want anybody’s help.”

  “That’s evident.” Ben stood and went to the nearest window, where he brushed the curtain aside, letting in more daylight. He almost wished he hadn’t. It revealed even more of the mess.

  “It’s useless.”

  Ben turned around. “There’s always hope.”

  “I’m a lost cause.”

  “I don’t believe in lost causes. I’ve been where you are now.”

  Guy lifted his head from his hands at last. His eyes were red rimmed, his complexion pasty white. He hadn’t shaved in days.

  “There’s always hope,” Ben repeated.

  He thought of the crazy, mixed-up teenager he’d been, of the trouble he’d courted. He thought of the accident that had changed both his life and the life of his friend, neither of them for the better. He’d thought of the way he’d tried to minimize the pain and the guilt with bottles of booze. He’d been a lost cause. His own mother had told him so countless times. And yet there had come the day that he’d grabbed hold of hope. If he could climb out of the pit, so could Guy.

  “Let’s get you cleaned up.” He reached for the other man’s arm. “And then I’d like to take you some place where they can help you get sober. If that’s what you’re ready to do.”

  Wednesday, May 27, 1942

  “You’re deep in thought,” Helen said as her hand alighted on Andrew’s shoulder.

  He looked up from the newspaper, open on the kitchen table. Foreign places most Americans had never heard of now appeared in the newspaper on an all-too-frequent basis. Bataan and Corregidor were two of those names. Bataan had fallen to the Japanese in April and Corregidor earlier this month. Men and women killed. Men and women captured. So much loss.

  Helen rounded the table and sat opposite him. “Do you suppose there’ll come a day when there’s good news in the paper again?”

  “It’ll change. It has to.”

  Now if either of them could believe it.

  At least their youngest two children were oblivious to the war. Frani had lived on horseback ever since discovering the novel My Friend Flicka, about a boy and his horse in Wyoming. As for Andy, he was consumed by the new litter of pups that had been born in a corner of the barn a few weeks earlier. What could be wrong with the world as long as there were horses and puppies?

  It wasn’t the same for the older Henning children. When together, Ben and Oscar talked of little else besides the war. The war and Ben’s interest in flight. As for Louisa, not quite sixteen, she was writing letters to a sailor. Not a boy she’d met before. He was the distant cousin of a friend. Just eighteen years old and already serving on a ship in the Pacific.

  “Heaven help us,” Helen had said the other night, “when she falls for someone she actually knows and can spend time with.”

  Andrew agreed with his wife. Louisa was a rare beauty with her pale-blond hair and her startling blue eyes. Ben’s college friends liked to come home with him for visits, and Andrew hadn’t failed to notice that they came more to flirt with Louisa than to spend time with Ben.

  Helen brushed hair from her forehead. “I think I’ll turn in early. Do you mind?”

  “Of course not. It’s been a long day.”

  This spring the Henning family garden had been tripled in size, leaving only a small patch of lawn. Just room enough for the picnic table Andrew had built five years earlier. On lined school paper, Helen had sketched the plans for this new garden, the rows of peas and beans, carrots and onions, peppers and tomatoes, beets and squash, lettuce and kale. As soon as the weather allowed, the planting had begun, with peas and lettuce going into the ground first. Helen tended to the garden daily, in addition t
o preparing meals and tending to the house and the needs of the children. It was no wonder she wanted to turn in early.

  Folding the newspaper and setting it aside, Andrew wondered what his father-in-law would think if he could see everything now. Frank Greyson had passed away before Frani or Andy Jr. were born and before Andrew and Helen adopted the three Tandy orphans. He’d passed away while the country lay in the grip of the Great Depression and while many other farmers had been displaced. He’d died while the world still believed that the Great War had been the war to end all wars. A pity that hadn’t proven to be true.

  Andrew rose and went into the living room. The room was empty, every member of his family now in their bedrooms, although judging by the sounds coming from upstairs, not all were asleep. He reached for his Bible as he settled onto the chair. He didn’t open the book at once. He simply sat, willing himself to be still, willing his mind not to spin off into worry, willing his heart to be turned to the Lord.

  At last he turned to the book of Joshua. He’d been reading and studying there for several months. He’d even memorized the ninth verse of the first chapter, repeating the words to himself when he felt overwhelmed by the news of the world. His eyes went there now and he whispered the verse aloud. “‘Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest.’”

  The story of Joshua had taught him, once again, that he must hold fast to God. He’d rediscovered that loyalty to God required sacrifice. Sometimes great sacrifice. He’d learned afresh that he wanted to finish well, to be faithful, and to trust despite his circumstances.

  He recalled now that the stones of remembrance taken from the middle of the Jordan River, the ones the Israelites used to build a memorial to what God had done, had come from the deepest part of the river. He’d made a note in his Bible that he, too, brought his own stones of remembrance from the deepest waters. The places that had been the hardest to cross through had also been the ones where he’d discovered God holding him up. Those were the times worth remembering, the times worth making a memorial of, to tell others about and to glorify God.