Where Willows Grow

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  ‘‘Mrs. Phipps.’’ The man’s stern expression and raised palm brought Anna Mae’s words to a halt. ‘‘I sympathize with your situation. Truly I do.’’

  Anna Mae saw no evidence of sympathy in either his face or his vocal tone.

  ‘‘But you must understand that taxes are required. If, within the next thirty days, this tax bill is not paid in full, there will be no other choice but to sell the property at auction. Do you understand?’’

  She wanted to ask that smug man behind the desk where she and her children would go if the government took her home away. But the cotton that filled her mouth made a reply impossible. She gave a miserable nod and rose, moving on stiff legs to the hallway, where she collapsed on a bench outside the county treasurer’s door.

  ‘‘Oh, Harley, why haven’t you sent any more money?’’ she murmured, tears stinging the corners of her eyes. ‘‘You love that land so much . . . surely you didn’t leave it. . . .’’

  ‘‘Hey, Anna Mae.’’

  Jack’s cheery voice jerked Anna Mae’s gaze around. Dorothy skipped toward her with Jack behind her, moving more slowly since Marjorie held to his index finger, toddling along on pudgy legs. The sight of Jack with her girls made her heart flip-flop in her chest. His words—‘‘You’ll be cared for’’—returned to haunt her. She shoved them aside and pushed herself to her feet.

  ‘‘Did you get everything done?’’

  Although she hadn’t accomplished what she’d hoped, she’d done all she could do. She answered in a dull tone, ‘‘Yes. Yes, it’s done.’’

  ‘‘Good.’’ Jack flipped Dorothy’s ponytail. ‘‘Then let’s go get some lunch.’’

  Anna Mae knew she wouldn’t be able to eat a bite, but Dorothy’s squeal of pleasure stifled her suggestion that they just go home. Jack reached down and lifted Marjorie, who giggled in his arms as he headed back toward the main lobby. Dorothy galloped beside him, chattering away. How easily the girls had accepted Jack’s presence. Sometimes it seemed as if they’d forgotten they had a daddy named Harley Phipps.

  Jack paused at the end of the hall, peering back at Anna Mae with a smile on his face. ‘‘Hey? You comin’?’’

  Anna Mae drew in a fortifying breath. She set her feet in motion. ‘‘Yes. I’m coming.’’ She joined her daughters and Jack, taking Dorothy’s hand and offering a smile when the child beamed upward. But her smile faded when Jack slipped his hand beneath her elbow and guided her toward the double doors leading outside.

  The girls may have forgotten about Harley, but she hadn’t. And she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t.

  Jack decided to allow Anna Mae to sit in silence as they drove from Hutchinson to Spencer. All through lunch, he’d done his best to engage her in conversation, but her answers were monosyllabic at best, lacking any enthusiasm. And he was tired of trying to draw her out. Let her sit there and brood, then.

  She glanced into the backseat, and a whisper of a smile crossed her lips. He peeked, too, and spotted Dorothy and Marjorie coiled together on the seat, asleep. The wind coursing through the open windows stirred their blond hair. Cute kids—really cute kids—even if they were Harley’s. He felt a smile tug at his cheeks. But when his gaze caught Anna Mae’s, her smile died, and she turned toward the window without a word.

  He tightened his fingers on the steering wheel. Her moodiness was becoming a real thorn in his side. Everything he did for her, and she couldn’t offer a smile and some casual conversation? Or better yet, a genuine show of appreciation? What was it going to take to get her to understand how much he cared for her?

  Jack bit down on the inside of his cheek. At least he knew what the moodiness was all about. The tax bill. She couldn’t cover it. There was no way she could cover it. He’d seen how much money she’d handed the doctor and Mrs. Stevenson, he’d seen what she’d paid at the store, and he knew what she’d given him for Dorothy’s shoes. He’d also seen what was left, and there was no way she could have paid that tax bill without the other check from Harley.

  What aggravated him was that she just sat there and stewed without opening her mouth and asking him for help. All she had to do was say the word and he’d pay that bill in a heartbeat. Hadn’t he told her he’d take care of her? Hadn’t he proven it by being there every day since Harley had gone? Hadn’t she learned that he wouldn’t abandon her the way her no-account drifter of a husband had done? He had Harley’s paycheck squirreled away, snatched from her mailbox, giving him the perfect opportunity to prove his dependability. And still she didn’t ask. . . .

  He flicked a glance in her direction. She remained with her face turned away, watching the countryside slide past. Wind tossed her hair, fine tendrils dancing along her delicate jawline. His fingers itched with the desire to smooth those strands back into place, to rest his hand along her cheek and cup her chin with this thumb, to turn her face toward him. His hand left the steering wheel, inching toward Anna Mae, but a dip in the road jerked the vehicle, forcing him to grab hold with both hands again.

  Releasing a mild oath under his breath, he returned his focus to the road. Anna Mae might not ask for his help, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t give it. Soon as they were home, he’d call the courthouse, find out what was needed for her bill, and send a check in the mail. He’d save that farm for her whether she liked it or not.

  He could do it, too. He wasn’t hurting for money like so many other area farmers were. Even though milk brought in a lot less these days, the steers he sold still earned a pretty good sum, as did the pecans. And if what he’d overheard while he was waiting for Anna Mae to finish her appointment proved accurate, he stood to make even more money.

  Oil. The very thought made his heart race with eagerness. Just six miles from his land, they’d found oil. If they’d found it on Jensen’s property, they might find it on his. It would only take a telephone call to bring the surveyors out, then a small investment to get wells put up, and he’d be bringing in money. Lots of money. Enough for himself, Pop, Anna Mae, and her children.

  An idea struck so hard he jerked the steering wheel. Anna Mae tipped toward him, her elbow bouncing off his. He put out his hand to steady her, but she latched on to the window ledge with both hands, keeping herself secure in the seat. Not once did she look in his direction. He frowned. Yes, it was time to get her attention good and proper. The only reason she didn’t depend on him now was because she still had a place to call her own. She’d keep hanging on to that farm as long as she could, for Harley. But what if she didn’t have the farm? She’d have no choice but to look elsewhere for help. And he knew where he wanted her to look.

  What if he paid that tax bill—but not right away? What if he waited until the property went delinquent and she was forced to let it go? With those two little girls and another one on the way, with no husband in the picture, she’d have no choice but to turn to Jack for help. He could invite her and the girls to move in with him and Pop, and with her under his roof, completely dependent on him, he’d finally have the chance to win her once and for all. Once she’d been convinced that she couldn’t get along without him, he’d secretly pay for the property and surprise her with it, telling her they’d keep it for Ben Elliott’s grandchildren. He smiled, thinking of the hug and kiss she’d bestow with the presentation of that gift.

  A deep sigh came from the other side of the seat. A sad sigh, a sigh filled with worry. For a moment Jack faltered. Should he offer to give her the money now?

  No. He hardened his heart with resolve. If he did it now, she’d have no need to lean on him in the future. He’d have to wait.

  Harley had never been right for her; she’d see that as soon as all of this was done. It was a matter of being cruel to be kind. It might sting for the moment, but in the long run, she’d be better off.

  ‘‘Well, men, it’s good to have that project done, isn’t it?’’

  Harley nodded in agreement with Peterson’s words. If he never lifted a shovel again in his lifetime, it would suit him just fine.
But he had to admit, there was a sense of satisfaction in having completed the difficult task. That sod was as hard as sunbaked bricks, but he’d broken it. He’d pleased his boss, earned a paycheck that was keeping his family fed and housed, and for the most part held his temper despite Nelson’s frequent attempts to rile him. Yep, Harley felt pretty good.

  ‘‘But now I’ve got to decide what to do with you.’’ Mr. Peterson pinched his chin between his thumb and forefinger.

  Harley waited beside the other two diggers, sweat dribbling down his forehead and between his shoulder blades. His gaze drifted to the castle, where a crane lifted a block of rock. The rumble of the engine sent vibrations down the backs of Harley’s legs, and he held his breath, watching as the crane operator guided the rock above the existing wall. Two men, standing on scaffolding, reached out with gloved hands to bring the block into position. Once the block rested in its proper location, the men released the chain, and the crane swung away for another block.

  Harley never tired of watching the erection of the walls. Over the weeks, the castle had slowly taken shape, with doorways a man could walk through and windows a man could peer out of and a staircase a man could climb to an observation loft. Instead of just a line of rocks on a hilltop, the structure had begun to look like the drawings on Mr. Peterson’s desk. Although he wouldn’t admit it out loud, it fascinated Harley. He’d used a scrap of paper to recreate the blueprint, and he planned to build a smaller replica of the castle on his own property when he got home, a play castle for Dottie and Margie.

  ‘‘Phipps!’’

  Harley set aside his daydreaming to focus on the boss.

  ‘‘I’m gonna have you work with Farley on sorting blocks.’’

  Harley swallowed his yell of triumph. He’d have a hand in building the castle after all! ‘‘Yes, sir.’’

  Peterson gave directions to the other two men, too, but Harley didn’t wait around to listen. He took off at a jog to join Dirk at the shale pile. ‘‘Hey, Dirk! Gonna be workin’ with you now.’’

  Dirk welcomed him with a broad smile and clap on the back.

  Harley wiped the sweat from his forehead. ‘‘So tell me what to do.’’

  The afternoon passed quickly. Worn out, Harley lay flat on his back in the bed of Peterson’s truck as the man transported him and Dirk to town. The metal bed was far from comfortable, but Harley was too pooped to care. He closed his eyes, a smile on his face, reliving the hours of wrapping chain around blocks of rock, then watching them rise above his head, carried by the crane. The grinding thud as they fell into position was as beautiful as music.

  He memorized the position of each rock his hands touched. Someday he’d bring the girls back here, and he’d point and say, ‘‘See there? That’s the ones Daddy added to the castle.’’

  Sitting up, he reached into his pocket and withdrew the drawing he’d made. Too bad he didn’t have a ruler—the lines would be straighter, the dimensions more accurate. He examined it, picturing the finished product in his mind. He was so wrapped up in his plans, he didn’t notice when the truck heaved to a halt. Suddenly Peterson was beside the bed, smiling in at him.

  ‘‘Planning to climb out of there, Harley?’’

  At the work site, Mr. Peterson called him Phipps. But at the house, it was Harley. The man’s friendliness gave Harley the courage to do something he wouldn’t ordinarily do. Thrusting the drawing toward his boss, he asked, ‘‘Do you think this could be built?’’

  Mr. Peterson took it as Harley scooted out of the truck. Dirk peered over the boss’s shoulder, his heavy brows pulled down in concentration. Mr. Peterson worked his jaw back and forth for a moment before raising his gaze to Harley.

  ‘‘You drew this?’’

  Harley nodded. ‘‘Tried to make it like the castle on the hill, but smaller. Probably won’t put a second story on it since it’ll just be a play castle, but I’d like a little balcony, at least. That’s what this is.’’ He pointed.

  Peterson nodded. ‘‘Yes. I could tell. This is crude but very doable, Harley. You have a natural inclination for balance and space.’’

  ‘‘Really?’’

  Peterson laughed, leaning against the dusty side of the truck. ‘‘Yes, really. Maybe you should consider that schooling after all.’’

  Harley took the paper back, folded it, and stuck it in his back pocket. ‘‘Nah, don’t think so. I’m a farmer. But I think it’ll be fun to put that thing together for my girls.’’

  Peterson nodded. ‘‘No doubt your girls will love it.’’ He pushed off from the truck, heading for the house. ‘‘Have a good evening, fellas.’’

  Dirk and Harley ambled to the water hydrant at the back of the property. A few minutes with the cold water revived them enough to walk to town for supper. Dirk ordered a hamburger, but Harley asked for the special: a thick ham steak, fried potatoes, and corn on the cob. For some reason, he felt like celebrating. Peterson’s complimentary words about his drawing, on top of the exhilaration of assisting with the castle’s construction, filled him with a sense of well-being. He wished Anna Mae were sitting across the table from him so he could tell her all about it.

  Scooping up a forkful of potatoes, Harley said, ‘‘Gonna write to Annie tonight. Tell her I helped put up blocks of stone today, and tell her to show the girls the drawing of their new playhouse.’’ His excitement faltered. He still hadn’t received a letter from Annie. The miles between them seemed to grow longer with each day that passed without word from home.

  ‘‘Betcha your little girls’ll be tickled to see what their daddy’s got planned,’’ Dirk said.

  ‘‘Yeah. Yeah, I hope they will.’’

  Dirk reached across the table and tapped the hand holding Harley’s fork where the bite of potatoes waited, uneaten. ‘‘Hey? What’s wrong?’’

  Harley shook his head. ‘‘Nothin’. Just thinkin’ about how long it’s been, an’ no word from Annie.’’

  Dirk took another bite, chewed, and swallowed before answering. ‘‘You’re bound to hear soon, Harley. In fact’’—he put the remainder of his hamburger on his plate and folded his hands—‘‘I’ll just pray about that right now.’’ He bowed his head. ‘‘Dear Lord, Harley here is lonesome for his wife an’ children. Could you please see fit to prod Annie to send him some word that things’re okay at home? He’d feel a lot better. Thank you, Lord. Amen.’’ He opened his eyes, picked up his hamburger, and took another bite.

  Harley sat, unmoving.

  Dirk poked him again. ‘‘Eat. I prayed. God’ll answer. You gotta trust.’’

  Harley chuckled. He finally put the bite of potatoes in his mouth. Talking around the lump, he said, ‘‘Sometimes, Dirk, you don’t act no older than Dottie.’’

  Dirk grinned. ‘‘I’m gonna take that as a compliment, my friend, ’cause the Bible tells us to trust like little children.’’

  Well, Harley thought as he stabbed his fork back into the mound of potatoes on his plate, I’m gonna keep writing to Annie until she sees fit to write back to me. In the back of his mind, a tiny ray of hope flickered that Dirk’s prayer would be answered.

  22

  AT THE WHOOSH-THUD OF THE MACHINE’S first thrust, Jack felt as though his heart rushed to the top of his head. He counted the heaves of the pump, imagining the extraction of gallons of oil. It was worth standing in the broiling sun, being pelted with dust by the gusting wind, just to see the pump in action.

  ‘‘I’m glad you contacted us, Berkley.’’ Floyd Tompkins slapped Jack’s shoulder, his smile wide. Jack had located the man at the Stamey Hotel in Hutchinson, where the oilmen all seemed to gather, and Tompkins had been pleased to come out and oversee the placement of Jack’s pumps. Now, having spent two hours in the pasture with Jack, getting the machines all running, the man’s face was shiny from sweat, his blue-and-white-striped shirt blotchy at the chest and under the arms. But he still looked happy. ‘‘This will prove lucrative for both of us.’’

  Jack nodded. Oh ye
s, four oil pumps on his property would surely prove lucrative. In more ways than one. He glanced at the scraggly row of cottonwoods that separated his land from Anna Mae’s. His heart picked up its tempo. How could she possibly turn away from someone who could provide financial security for her and her children? A smile tugged at his lips. She couldn’t.

  His gaze shifted to the fifth oil pump, the one that sat over the edge of his property line, on Anna Mae’s land. Sun glinted off the sleek black pump, making Jack squint, but he didn’t turn away. He’d had to do some string-pulling to get that one in place. But nothing he’d told the surveyors was untrue—the land was going delinquent due to nonpayment of taxes, and he would be snatching it up the moment that happened. So, in theory, it was already his land. Anna Mae stood to gain from that oil pump, so how could anybody think he’d done wrong by authorizing its placement there?

  Remembering Pop’s sad look when he’d seen the map and the Xs that indicated the pumps’ locations, Jack felt a small prickle of unease. Pop knew that fifth well wasn’t on their land. Pop thought Jack’d done wrong, but Pop didn’t understand how business worked. You had to strike when the opportunity arose or stand to lose. Once the money was rolling in, and once Anna Mae was living under Pop’s roof, he’d be glad Jack had moved ahead with these plans. Pop had always loved Anna Mae, and being Grandpa to those little girls would surely bring him a great deal of pleasure.

  ‘‘Well, they’re all workin’ fine.’’ Tompkins lifted his toolbox and turned toward his waiting pickup truck. ‘‘I’ll be back end of the week to check the output. See you then.’’

  ‘‘Bye,’’ Jack said. He watched the truck bounce across the pasture, dust kicked up by its tires. Cows shifted, turning their curious stares to follow the truck’s passage, then moved back into clusters. The animals kept a wide berth around the wells. Jack surmised they didn’t like the noise. That was okay—he didn’t want one of them getting hurt. Doctoring the cows was one of his least favorite chores.