Dorothy suddenly tugged at Anna Mae’s arm. ‘‘Mama, what’s civil?’’
Anna Mae felt a grin twitch at her cheeks. ‘‘Why don’t you ask Mr. Berkley that while Mama carries the milk cans into the house?’’ She turned from Jack and headed to the back of his wagon. ‘‘And while you’re at it, Dorothy, didn’t you have another question or two for Mr. Berkley?’’
‘‘Oh yeah!’’ Dorothy turned her attention to their tall neighbor.
Anna Mae carried the milk cans one at a time to the porch, all the while listening to Jack field Dorothy’s question. She had to admit, he had a great deal of patience with the child. When the cans were on the porch, she said, ‘‘Okay, Dorothy, enough now. Finish up that watering for Mama.’’
Dorothy puckered her face, but she lifted her hand in a wave. ‘‘Bye, Mr. Berkley. I’ll see you tomorrow.’’
‘‘Yeah. Tomorrow.’’ Jack shook his head as the child scurried back to her task. Then he looked at Anna Mae, crossed to stand in front of her, and shook his finger. ‘‘That was sneaky, Anna Mae Elliott, and if your daddy were here, I’d encourage him to teach you some manners.’’
Anna Mae couldn’t stop the giggle that found its way from her throat. ‘‘I’m sorry, Jack.’’ She knew she didn’t sound sorry at all. ‘‘But you did say you wanted to help. You just saved me some breath. I answer questions all day long, every day.’’
He smirked. ‘‘That’s okay. It was worth it to get that smile out of you.’’
She felt the smile fade.
‘‘Now, don’t turn sober on me again. I declare, for a pretty girl, the faces you make could curdle milk.’’
‘‘Jack . . .’’ She allowed her tone to send the warning.
He shook his head and blew out a breath. ‘‘Okay, okay. I’ll get your milk out of the cellar and be on my way. You need anything from town?’’
‘‘Not today. Thanks for asking.’’
‘‘You’re welcome.’’ He turned toward the cellar.
‘‘Oh, and . . .’’ Anna Mae chewed her lower lip, holding Marjorie’s small, grubby hand.
‘‘And?’’ Jack waited expectantly, his eyebrows arched high.
‘‘And thanks for those shoes.’’ Anna Mae forced the words out through a closed throat. ‘‘Dorothy needed them.’’
A grin broke across his face. ‘‘Yeah, I know. You’re welcome.’’ Again, he shifted as if to move toward the cellar.
‘‘But . . .’’
The single word stopped him. He angled his gaze in her direction.
‘‘But you shouldn’t have.’’ Anna Mae drew her shoulders back, raising her chin a notch. ‘‘Harley would’ve taken care of that, as soon as he got a paycheck. So as soon as his first check gets here, I’ll be paying you back.’’
Jack shrugged. ‘‘Suit yourself.’’
Anna Mae nearly wilted with relief when he didn’t argue, but there was a look in his eyes that she couldn’t decipher. And for some reason, that look made her shiver.
‘‘If you was home right now, Harley, what would you be doin’?’’ Dirk spoke around a mouthful of beans.
Third day in a row they’d had beans for dinner. Harley didn’t particularly care for boiled red beans, but at seven cents they were the least expensive, most filling item on the menu at the little café where he and Dirk picked up their bucket lunch each morning on the way to work. At least this time the beans were seasoned with some pork—that helped.
Harley chewed his bite and swallowed. ‘‘I’d be sitting at my kitchen table, eating a good lunch of Annie’s pickled cabbage and fried pork. I’d probably be watching Dottie hold a chunk of meat on her fork and nibble at it like an ice cream cone until Annie made her stop. And I’d be listening to Margie thump her fists on the high-chair tray and beg for her mama to feed her some more.’’
He closed his eyes for a moment, battling a wave of homesickness so strong he feared he might lose his beans. Each evening, as the men packed up and headed to their homes, his heart lurched with desire to head straight across Kansas back to Spencer and his own family. But instead, he and Dirk returned to the little storage shed behind the Petersons’ place, where the boss had set up some cots for their use. Using that storage shed saved them the expense of a boardinghouse, and he appreciated it, but it sure was lonely without his girls. He wondered if the letter he’d sent from Lindsborg last Saturday had reached Annie yet. He hoped it had, and that she’d already written back. He didn’t like the way they’d left things between them the day he’d headed out.
Harley smiled as he thought of Margie’s dimpled fists and Dottie’s sweet smile. How he loved his little punkins. And right now they were growing and changing, and here he was miles away. All because the rain forgot how to fall in Kansas.
Laughter broke out from a group seated a few feet away from Harley and Dirk, and one of the men cursed roundly. Dirk grimaced. A teasing voice called, ‘‘Hey, watch your language, Nelson. Preacher over there can hear you.’’
The hair on the back of Harley’s neck bristled. Although he wasn’t keen on listening to Dirk’s sermonizing or recitin’ of Bible verses any more than the others, he also didn’t care much for the way some of the men—Nelson, especially—tormented the gentle giant. Dirk didn’t do anything to deserve their mocking him. He opened his mouth to defend his friend, but Dirk cut him off.
‘‘It’s okay, Harley. They don’t mean nothin’ by it.’’
Harley snorted. ‘‘Oh yeah?’’
Dirk shrugged, a weak grin lifting one side of his mouth. ‘‘Well, maybe they do. But they aren’t really hurting me with that talk. They’re grieving my Savior. That’s why it bothers me.’’
Harley shook his head. ‘‘You really believe someone else is listenin’ to that and cares what they say?’’
Dirk’s wide-eyed look reminded Harley of Dottie’s innocence. ‘‘Sure I do. God’s ears are always open and listening. He hears His name called whether in prayer or in curse.’’ The big man lowered his head. ‘‘Must make His heart hurt to hear His Son’s name used that way. . . .’’ Dirk straightened. ‘‘But every time I hear one of ’em take God’s name in vain, I say a little prayer for the one doin’ the cursin’. One thing about it—it’s increased my prayer life somethin’ fierce.’’
Harley hooted in laughter. ‘‘I hope someday you get to meet my Annie. I think she’d approve of you.’’
‘‘That’s about the best compliment I ever got.’’ Dirk leaned sideways to prop himself up on his elbow. ‘‘I hope I get to meet that wife o’ yours who’s handling a whole farm on her own right now. She must be a strong woman.’’
Harley nodded thoughtfully. Strong. Yes, that described Annie. Had to be strong to contend with him. Harley knew he was about the most headstrong man ever put on the planet. Yet Annie stood her own against him. He smiled, remembering the early days of settling in as husband and wife. How they’d tussle. And make up. The making up was always worth the tussle.
His smile drooped as more recent memories drifted across his mind. When had her spiritedness faded? It had started even before the drought, creeping up so slow he hadn’t really recognized it until she seemed more resigned than feisty. He remembered her pondering gaze aimed out the kitchen window, her sad voice asking, ‘‘Know what I miss, Harley? The scent of rain . . .’’
Harley inhaled, searching for that scent. He got a snoot full of dust and sneezed.
‘‘Bless you,’’ Dirk said.
Despite himself, Harley chuckled. ‘‘There you go, sounding like Annie again. Never can so much as snuffle around her without hearin’ those words.’’ He scowled. ‘‘She means ’em, too.’’
Dirk stretched out his booted foot to nudge Harley’s leg. ‘‘You miss her bad, huh?’’
Harley lay back, his hands beneath his head, and stared at the quivering sun directly overhead. ‘‘Yeah.’’ His voice sounded tight. He cleared his throat. ‘‘Yeah, I miss her bad.’’
‘‘I pray fo
r her every day, Harley.’’
A lump formed in the back of Harley’s throat. ‘‘Y-you do?’’ The words came out in a croak.
‘‘Sure I do. For protection and health for her and your little girls. For her to keep up her strength and be able to keep things goin’ ’til you’re home again with ’em.’’
Dirk’s words made something sting at the back of Harley’s nose. He closed his eyes. ‘‘That’s nice of you, Dirk.’’ Not that Harley believed those prayers did any good, but the idea that Dirk would do that . . . ‘‘Thanks.’’
‘‘It’s not a problem.’’ Dirk remained silent for a few moments. Then his voice came again, husky and a near whisper. ‘‘Pray for you, too. ’Cause I know it’s hard for you to be so far away from them you love.’’
Harley nodded. Yes, it was hard. But at least he’d left his wife and children in good hands. Jack was there. A living, breathing man with two strong arms and a willing spirit. Jack was better than a God Harley’d never seen. Wasn’t he? Suddenly, for some reason, Harley wasn’t so sure.
12
ANNA MAE TIPPED HER HEAD sideways to better enjoy the breeze coming in through the open window of the Model T. As he’d done the previous two Sundays, Jack’s father had insisted she take the front seat rather than climb in the back with the baby. Mr. Berkley had always been a chivalrous man, so she wasn’t surprised by his gentlemanly gesture. She hummed ‘‘Bringing in the Sheaves,’’ one of the hymns sung during the Sunday worship service.
‘‘Mama?’’ Dorothy’s voice carried from the backseat, where she sat cross-legged next to Mr. Berkley. ‘‘How come the hes don’t get bringed in?’’
‘‘What?’’ Jack asked the startled question, his gaze bouncing to Anna Mae and back to the road.
Anna Mae turned backward to peer at her daughter. ‘‘Honey, I don’t know what you mean.’’
Dorothy released a disgruntled huff. ‘‘In the song.’’ She sang, slightly off key, ‘‘ ‘Bringing in the shes, bringing in the shes, we will come rejoicing, bringing in the shes.’ ’’ She crinkled her brow. ‘‘Only the shes. Where are the hes?’’
Jack’s laughter rang loud and clear.
Anna Mae bumped his arm and whispered sharply, ‘‘Shh.’’
He stopped, but his cheeks twitched with the effort of holding back his amusement.
Anna Mae kept an eye on him as she answered Dorothy. ‘‘The song isn’t ‘bringing in the shes,’ it’s ‘bringing in the sheaves.’ ’’
Mr. Berkley tapped Dorothy’s knee. ‘‘Sheaves are bundles of wheat, honey. I bet there’s a picture in your story Bible. Ask your mama to show you when you get home.’’
Dorothy nodded slowly. ‘‘Ohhhh, sheaves.’’ Then her face crinkled again. ‘‘But we don’t bring wheat to church. How come we sing about it?’’
Jack laughed again. ‘‘Answer that one.’’
‘‘You just hush.’’ Anna Mae tried to send him a disgusted look, but she ruined it by grinning. She faced forward again, careful not to disturb Marjorie, who dozed against her shoulder. Sometimes she felt as though she’d moved backward in time—to the days when she and Jack ran barefoot along the creek bed, chattering about everything and nothing, happy just to be. And with each realization of how easy it was to be with Jack, she experienced a stab of guilt. A married woman shouldn’t be so comfortable with a man other than her husband. What had Harley been thinking, asking Jack Berkley to take care of her in his absence?
The Model T rolled into her yard, and Jack left the motor idling as he came around to open the door for her. Anna Mae swung her legs out and struggled to her feet. Dorothy scrambled over Mr. Berkley’s knees but then peeked back in the car to wave at the older man. ‘‘Bye, Mr. Berkley.’’ She turned to Jack. ‘‘Bye, Mr. Berkley.’’ Her face twisted into a scowl. ‘‘This mixes me up having two Mr. Berkleys.’’
Jack’s father pulled himself from the backseat and touched Dorothy’s head. ‘‘Well, I think I can fix that.’’ His gaze flitted briefly in Anna Mae’s direction. For some reason her heart set up a patter. ‘‘Why don’t you call me Papa Berkley? Will that keep things from being mixed up?’’
‘‘Papa Berkley . . .’’ Dorothy seemed to test the name. She broke into a smile. ‘‘Okay.’’
‘‘Good.’’ Mr. Berkley pushed his hands into his jacket pockets and smiled at Anna Mae. The fondness in his eyes was exactly the same as it had been when she was growing up. ‘‘Papa Berkley it is.’’
Papa Berkley? If she and Jack had married, that might have been what their children called Ern Berkley. Anna Mae felt as if a cord had tangled around her heart; it was suddenly hard to breathe. She should protest the title, yet how could she do so graciously?
Dorothy skipped toward the porch, waving over her shoulder. ‘‘Bye, Papa Berkley! Bye, Mr. Berkley!’’
‘‘Good-bye, child.’’ Mr. Berkley sat in the Model T’s seat but left the door open.
‘‘Bye, Dorothy.’’ Jack’s lips twitched into a smirk. ‘‘Think up some questions for your mama this afternoon, okay?’’
‘‘Okay!’’ The child stepped through the porch and disappeared into the house.
Jack chuckled. ‘‘She’s somethin’ else.’’
Anna Mae managed a brusque nod. ‘‘Yes, she is. Thanks for the ride, Jack.’’ Eager to separate herself from the odd feelings churning through her middle, she headed toward the house.
‘‘Anna Mae, wait a minute.’’
She turned back impatiently. ‘‘What?’’
‘‘It’s Marjorie’s birthday this week, isn’t it?’’ He touched the sleeping baby’s soft curls.
Jack’s hand on Marjorie’s head increased the discomfort in Anna Mae’s stomach. She took one sideways step to put some distance between them. ‘‘That’s right.’’
Jack shifted his weight to one hip and scratched his left ear. ‘‘Well, I was thinking. The Fox Theatre is showing a movie your girls might like—called Dimples with that little girl, Shirley Temple. You could come, too.’’
Anna Mae felt her hackles rising. ‘‘Jack Berkley, Harley might have asked you to look out for the farm, but that doesn’t include taking his wife on dates!’’
‘‘Whoa! Hold on!’’ Jack’s indignant tone stopped her short. ‘‘I’m not taking you on a date. I’m taking the girls for a movie ’cause it’s a special day and I thought they’d like it. Don’t turn it into something it isn’t.’’
Anna Mae eyed him suspiciously.
Jack tipped toward her, his hands held out in supplication. ‘‘If Harley were here, wouldn’t you do something special?’’
Anna Mae disliked the niggle of guilt his question raised. Was it fair to Marjorie to do nothing just because her daddy wasn’t here? ‘‘I’d want to do something special, I suppose. But all the way to Hutchinson . . .’’ Marjorie stirred, and Anna Mae automatically rocked back and forth.
‘‘It’s the closest theater,’’ Jack pointed out. ‘‘And I bet Dorothy’s never been. I’ll spring for popcorn and soda pop, too. What do you say? We’ll make an afternoon of it for the kids—give them a time to remember.’’
Anna Mae had a hard time meeting his earnest expression. Was he truly sincere in wanting to provide a good time for the girls, or was his motivation less pure? Or was it only her own uneasy feelings creating this wariness of Jack’s motives? ‘‘I don’t know, Jack. . . .’’
‘‘What if,’’ came Mr. Berkley’s voice, ‘‘I went along, too?’’
Both Jack and Anna Mae looked toward the Model T.
Mr. Berkley sat with his legs out of the vehicle, hands propped on knees. ‘‘Been a long time since I’ve seen a moving picture. I wouldn’t mind a trip into Hutchinson myself.’’
Anna Mae considered the situation. If Jack’s father went along, no one could cast aspersions at her being with Jack. Jack couldn’t pull any of his shenanigans, either, with his father looking on. She’d never been to the picture show, and a desire to see the movie Jack
mentioned created a strong pull. Still, she hesitated. What would Harley think?
‘‘Mama!’’ Dorothy’s cranky voice carried across the yard. Anna Mae turned her gaze to spot the child pressing her nose against the porch screen. ‘‘I’m hungry.’’
Jack cupped his mouth and called, ‘‘Dorothy, you want to go see Dimples at the picture show?’’
Dorothy jumped up and down and clapped her hands. ‘‘Yes! Yes!’’
Jack gave Anna Mae a smug look. ‘‘Say no now, Mama.’’
‘‘That was underhanded,’’ she accused. Now she had no choice except to agree to Jack’s invitation. She couldn’t disappoint Dorothy.
Jack grinned and rounded the Model T as his father pulled his legs back inside. Jack looked at her across the top of the car. ‘‘We’ll swing by on Friday around noon and pick you up.’’ He slid into the vehicle and reversed down the lane to the road. With a grinding of gears, the Model T hop-skipped in a forward motion, then Jack waved out the open window as the car chugged down the road.
The screen door slammed and Dorothy joined her mother in the yard. Together they watched the vehicle round the bend.
Dorothy peered up at Anna Mae. ‘‘Mama, what’s ‘dimples at the picture show’?’’
Anna Mae frowned. ‘‘A whole lot of trouble, that’s what.’’
‘‘Son?’’
Jack barely heard his father over the chug of the Model T’s engine. ‘‘You say something?’’
‘‘Yeah.’’ Pop cleared his throat and spoke louder. ‘‘You sure you know what you’re doing?’’
Jack clenched the steering wheel as he guided the automobile around a large pothole in the road. He knew what his father meant, but he feigned ignorance. ‘‘Doing with what?’’
His father shook his head. ‘‘Squiring Anna Mae and her girls to church is one thing—a person could see it as a Christian act of kindness. But to the picture show? Can’t hardly call that a Christian act. That’s purely personal.’’
Where Willows Grow Page 9
