Where Willows Grow

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  She shook her head, a slight smile tipped up her lips. ‘‘Harley’s boss—Mr. Peterson—took up a collection at the job site and sent it to me. If I can pay my taxes, surely the auction will be stopped, won’t it?’’

  Jack’s legs turned to rubber. He pulled out a chair and sat down.

  She crossed to the table and sat in the chair next to his. ‘‘I’ve got to at least try. Even if I can’t keep farming here, I need to have claim to the property. I may need to sell it for money to buy a place in town—maybe Hutchinson—where I can work and provide for the girls. With Harley gone for good . . .’’ The tears welled again, but she brushed them aside and continued. ‘‘The girls are depending on me now. I can’t let them down.’’

  Jack shook his head. Hadn’t she listened to anything he’d said over the past few months? His voice grated out, ‘‘The girls don’t have to depend only on you. I told you, Anna Mae—you’ll be cared for. I’ll take care of you.’’

  She ducked her head for a moment, making a steeple of her hands in her lap. ‘‘I know what you said, Jack, but we aren’t your responsibility. It shouldn’t be left to you to take care of us.’’

  ‘‘Didn’t I tell Harley I would?’’

  Her gaze shot up. ‘‘Yes, but that was for the milk—not for his wife and children.’’

  Jack took hold of her hand and squeezed gently. ‘‘Anna Mae, don’t you know my promise went deeper than taking care of the cow?’’ He leaned forward, bringing his face within inches of hers. ‘‘Why do you think I took over all the chores after you got hurt? Why did I put that oil pump out on your property? Why have I taken you and your girls to church and to the store and to the courthouse? It’s because I care about you. Haven’t you figured that out by now?’’

  Anna Mae gave a little tug on her hand, slipping it from his grasp. She cupped the rounded curve of her stomach with both hands and released a sigh. ‘‘I know you care, Jack, but . . .’’

  ‘‘But what?’’ He tempered the fervency of his tone with a forced smile.

  ‘‘But it would be wrong for me to lean on you now. It would be out of desperation, not love.’’

  Jack shot straight up, bringing his spine against the spindled back of the chair. He felt heat fill his face, and it was all he could do to keep a rein on his temper. After everything he’d done for her, her ingratitude was like a slap. All the time and money he’d poured into her since her husband headed off . . . She should be kissing his hands and thanking him.

  He took several deep breaths, trying to calm himself. ‘‘I guess it’s no secret I love you.’’ He heard his own clipped, flat tone. He saw her face turn white, but he didn’t care. ‘‘And I won’t lie right now. I can’t imagine why you’re still clinging to Harley’s memory. But you’re going to have to let go. You think you can run this farm on your own? You’re wrong. You think you can find a job in town and still take care of your little girls? Wrong again. Whether you realize it or not, Anna Mae, you need somebody. You need me.’’

  He rose, looking down at her pale face through narrowed eyes. ‘‘When you come to your senses, you’ll know where to find me—out in the barn, taking care of your cow. My offer stands—I’ll take you and the girls in, be a provider to all of you, including that new baby. I’ve got room, and I can afford to do it. But I won’t beg.’’

  He started for the door but then turned back, deciding she needed to hear one more thing. ‘‘And I also won’t keep this up forever. You’re right—it’s not fair to me to keep hanging around here, seeing to your farm, when I don’t get anything in return. So decide what you really want, Anna Mae—to be taken care of, or to be on your own.’’ He stomped through the porch, allowing the screen door to slam behind him.

  Back in the wagon, rolling out the gate, he felt a smile climb his cheeks. Laying out that ultimatum was the smartest thing he’d done so far. She’d come running now for sure. She’d never make it on that farm without him.

  27

  ANNA MAE LEANED FORWARD and kissed Dorothy’s cheek. She smoothed the hair from the child’s face, smiling as Dorothy’s eyes slipped closed and she nestled into her pillow. Turning from Dorothy, she peeked into Marjorie’s crib. Marjorie lay flat on her back, arms up over her head, her lower lip puckered out in a pout. A mixture of love and protectiveness welled up inside Anna Mae’s breast. The baby looked so innocent.

  She crept from the room, pulled the door closed behind her, then headed to the parlor. Opening the drop-down desk on the secretary, she removed the letter she’d written to Mr. Peterson and scanned it, frowning a bit as Jack’s words interfered with her focus. Carrying the letter with her, she crossed to the sofa, tugged the chain on the standing lamp, and sank down in the soft circle of yellow light. She set the letter on the cushion beside her and rested her head against the high back of the sofa, replaying the afternoon conversation with Jack in her mind.

  Although she had said little in response to his proclamations of love and his promise to care for her and the girls, he had certainly created a reaction in her heart. She had tried not to think about it over the years, but underneath she’d always suspected Jack still loved her. He’d never dated anyone after she turned down his proposal. When he’d come by the house, presumably to talk to Harley, he’d always made it a point to find her, greet her, ask how she was doing. She had kept her distance so she wouldn’t give him any encouragement, but over the past months she knew Jack had encouraged himself.

  His time in her barn, her garden, her fields. His carting her to church, to Spencer, to Hutchinson. His fetching the doctor, the groceries, the mail. All of these things had combined to make him feel like he was part of her life. She couldn’t blame him for thinking it was right to step in now and assume responsibility for her permanently—he’d had a taste of family life, and he’d obviously found it pleasurable.

  She shifted on the cushion as the baby moved, creating a pressure against her right side. This child was sure an active one. She rubbed her belly absently as memories continued to unfold. So many of her childhood remembrances included Jack. He’d been an annoyance much of the time, but they’d also had fun. Especially after Ben, Jr., went away, she’d relied on Jack for companionship. She cared for him as a dear friend, a brother in Christ, but she’d never loved him. Not the way he claimed to love her.

  Now she wondered: Could she grow to love Jack in that way? It would solve so many problems. She would have no financial worries, and the girls would have someone to call Daddy. Ern Berkley would certainly welcome them into his family. She smiled as she recalled the older man’s delivery of muffins, his tender hug, and his fatherly words of advice. He would be a wonderful grandfather for the girls, something they’d never known.

  A deep sigh escaped, and she opened her eyes. The wind had calmed, but a gentle breeze ruffled the lace curtains. In the distance, a coyote released one long howl. A second one replied, and then the two together gave a series of yips. Anna Mae imagined the two creatures frolicking in the empty field, happy for companionship. Her heart lurched. She needed companionship. Despite the presence of the girls, she felt so lonely. How she missed Harley.

  She wouldn’t need to feel lonely if she did what Jack suggested. If she married him, she would have companionship again, other adults around. Even if she didn’t love him like she’d loved Harley, having a helpmate would be good, wouldn’t it?

  Leaning forward, she rested her elbows on her knees and covered her face with both hands. She groaned. ‘‘Oh, what do I do?’’

  Come to me, all ye who are heavy-laden, and I will give you rest.

  The words came as clearly as if uttered aloud. Anna Mae jerked upright and looked around the room. She was the only one there, yet she knew without doubt she was not alone. Tears flooded her eyes. Slipping from the cushion, she knelt beside the sofa and clasped her hands together beneath her chin.

  ‘‘Thank you, Lord, for reminding me that you are here. You’re trying to take care of me, aren’t you? By sending the
money from Harley’s boss, and the groceries that came from town. I’m sorry I’ve been so focused on what I lost that I couldn’t see what I have—your presence in my life.’’ She swallowed, listening for a moment to the gentle whistle of the wind through the willow branches. ‘‘I told you I wouldn’t give up on my faith, but I need your strength right now. I’m scared, God. I don’t know what to do. Show me, please, where I should go.’’

  She sat in silence for several minutes, absorbing the peacefulness of the moment, relishing being in God’s holy presence. Slowly, her muscles relaxed, a calm filling her soul. She knew what she would do.

  She would send her letter to Mr. Peterson. When she had her answers, she would somehow travel to Harley’s grave site and say her good-byes. Before she could move forward, she needed to bring closure to her past.

  Harley closed the book in his lap and sighed, a deep sigh of satisfaction. Still trapped in this bed, still battling pain, still far away from his farm, his girls, his wife, and yet, somehow, Harley was happier than he’d ever been before.

  He wasn’t sure he understood the lightness in his heart. But he realized he didn’t need to understand it to celebrate it. The minister had been right: with the acceptance of Jesus into his heart, his perspective had changed. From the outside, everything was the same, but inside . . . Ah, inside Harley was a new man.

  This evening he had read portions from the third chapter of Colossians. So many of the verses held deep meaning for him. He needed to set aside anger, he needed to build his knowledge of God, he needed to forgive those who had hurt him. Including Nelson. He swallowed, realizing how difficult it would be. Yet he was sure he could do it, with God’s help. He closed his eyes and whispered a prayer.

  ‘‘Lord, let your peace rule my heart. Let me please you with my thoughts.’’

  A shuffle sounded from the doorway, and he opened his eyes, expecting to see the night nurse. It was time for lights-out. But instead, Mr. Peterson’s head and shoulders poked through the doorway.

  ‘‘Did I wake you?’’

  Harley shook his head and gestured with one hand. ‘‘No. Come on in. But aren’t visiting hours over?’’

  The man entered the room, crossing to stand beside Harley’s bed. A bulky burlap bag dangled from his hand. ‘‘Yes, but the nurse said I could come up if I only stayed a minute. I wanted to bring you something.’’

  Harley smiled. ‘‘You’ve brought me enough. The food was great, but . . .’’ He lifted the Bible. ‘‘This is the best. Thank you. Never had a book of my own before.’’

  Peterson’s face lit up. ‘‘I’m pleased to see you’re reading it.’’

  ‘‘Every day. Learnin’ a lot, too.’’ Harley frowned, regret striking. ‘‘Don’t know why it took me so long to start listening to God. My wife—she preached it at me for years, but I just couldn’t see it. Not until Dirk . . .’’ The picture of Dirk’s still form sprawled in the dirt flashed through his mind. He pushed the image aside, replacing it with one of Jesus with outstretched arms. The minister who had come at the nurse’s call last week had given him the suggestion of replacing unpleasant images with a picture of Christ. It helped.

  Peterson gave Harley’s shoulder a pat. ‘‘I know your wife will be thrilled to hear of your conversion. My wife and I celebrate it with you, too.’’

  Harley managed a wobbly smile. He’d had no idea how many people had prayed for him: Dirk and his parents, Annie, the Petersons. God had used so many people to bring his heart around. The knowledge of God’s love washed over him again, bringing the sting of tears to his eyes.

  ‘‘Have you written to your wife to let her know what happened?’’

  Mr. Peterson’s question sent a stab of guilt through Harley’s chest.

  ‘‘No, sir. I . . .’’ He shook his head. ‘‘I wrote to her lots of times, but she’s never written back. Not once. I . . . I don’t rightly know where I stand with Annie anymore. I’m afraid . . . Well, I’m thinkin’ she might’ve decided to carve out a life without me.’’

  Mr. Peterson frowned. ‘‘That doesn’t make much sense.’’

  Harley shrugged. ‘‘I don’t know what else to think. Why wouldn’t she ever send me any word? We . . . we’d been strugglin’ for quite a while before I left. Might be she’s just decided things’re a lot easier without me.’’ He forced a light chuckle. ‘‘Might be she doesn’t want me back.’’

  Mr. Peterson hefted the bag to the edge of the mattress, propping it next to Harley’s hip. Peeling back the top flap, he revealed several books. ‘‘Remember we talked about you learning to draw blueprints?’’

  Harley nodded, his eyes on the books.

  ‘‘I gathered up a few used textbooks. They aren’t new ones, but I think you’ll still get some benefit from them. According to the doctor, it will be at least another week before they let you try out your leg.’’ The man’s gaze flitted to Harley’s cast for a moment. ‘‘Just in case you aren’t able to farm again, I thought you might want to explore an alternate way to take care of your family.’’

  Harley’s heart picked up its tempo. He reached for the books. ‘‘Do you really think I could learn all this?’’ He flopped one book open, and his eyes widened at the columns of words and complicated diagrams. ‘‘I’m just a stupid farmer who never got much schoolin’.’’

  Mr. Peterson gave a snort. ‘‘Now, don’t defeat yourself before you begin. A stupid person can’t be a successful farmer. And schooling has nothing to do with intelligence. Believe me, son—from what I’ve observed, you’ve got the intelligence; now you need the training.’’

  Harley fingered the books, his eyes scanning the blue cover of the top book. Peterson’s words of praise made Harley’s chest fill with pride. No one had ever told him he was smart before. He didn’t know what to say.

  ‘‘Well . . .’’ Peterson glanced toward the door. ‘‘I better leave before the nurse throws me out.’’ He smiled down at Harley. ‘‘Enjoy that reading.’’

  Harley met the man’s gaze and held out his hand. He found his voice. ‘‘Thank you, sir, for everything you’ve done for me.’’

  Harley spent a few minutes after Mr. Peterson left just looking at the stack of books. Then, with some difficulty, he rolled slightly to his side and turned the little snap on the bedside lamp. He pulled out one of the textbooks, propped it on his belly, and turned to the first chapter: ‘‘Drawing to Scale.’’

  Ern Berkley lay with his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. He needed to repair that one long crack that ran from the center of the room to the northeast corner. He’d cracked the plaster when installing the electric light two years before Ginny’s death. Turned the screw on the ceramic plate too tight on one side. It took a whole year for the crack to wiggle its way clear to the corner. Funny—it had happened so slow he hardly noticed it until it was too long to ignore.

  Kind of like sin.

  Ern grimaced. Jack . . . When had his son started changing? The crack probably began the day Anna Mae said ‘‘I do’’ to Harley. That was the day Jack developed a veneer. Ern had ignored it, thinking Jack would come back around when the pain lessened, and return to being the lighthearted, happy-go-lucky boy he’d always been.

  But instead, Jack had nursed the pain—never looked elsewhere for a wife, stayed in his childhood home where he’d be close to Anna Mae, kept an eye on Harley. Watching, always watching. It hadn’t been healthy, but Ern hadn’t realized how wide the crack had grown until the day Harley headed down the road, trusting Jack to check in on his family.

  Ern brought down his hands, thumping his fists against the mattress. Jack’s choices in the past months had created a barrier between father and son, but more than that, they’d created a chasm between Jack and the God of his childhood faith. The relationship needed to be repaired. Jack needed to be convicted.

  But how? Ern wasn’t even sure where Jack was right now, at ten o’clock on a Saturday night. He should be in bed, sleeping, resting up for servi
ces tomorrow. But Jack probably wouldn’t go. He’d avoided church for the past four weeks, giving some excuse about a cow that needed attention or a pump that needed adjusting or something. Always something.

  Ern knew the truth. Jack was avoiding God. He was avoiding his conscience. He’d been raised to know right from wrong; he knew he was walking in the wrong, but he wanted to keep doing it.

  Instead of anger, only sorrow pressed against Ern’s chest. ‘‘Oh, Lord, I want to help my son.’’ The depth of his sadness pushed him from the mattress to his knees at the side of the bed. He prayed, pouring out his concern for Jack and his concern for Anna Mae. When he finished, he felt better, but he was still restless.

  He padded to the quiet hallway. Across from his own room, Jack’s bedroom door faced him. Closed. Another change. Jack had never closed the door to the room before Harley left. Ern’s heart beat a rapid tattoo. He knew what Jack was hiding, and he also knew Anna Mae had a right to know.

  Jack could return at any minute and catch him, but Ern decided it was worth the risk. Eventually Jack would need to be confronted anyway. If he came in and found his father rustling through his things, it would give Ern an opportunity to tell him it was time to ’fess up. Ern could no longer carry the burden of guilt. It was past time to set things to right.

  Moving forward on bare feet, he stretched out his hand and curled his fingers around the doorknob. He needed to retrieve the letters Jack had been hiding and show them to Anna Mae. ‘‘Lord,’’ he prayed, ‘‘please forgive my son.’’

  28

  MR. BERKLEY HELPED ANNA MAE down from the wagon seat and then reached into the back to lift Marjorie and Dorothy from the bed. He swung the girls high in the air before plunking them on the ground, making them both giggle.

  Dorothy took hold of Marjorie’s hand and guided her toward the porch. ‘‘Bye, Papa Berkley!’’ Dorothy waved with her free hand.