‘‘Would you like me to send your family an update on your situation?’’
Harley shook his head. ‘‘No. My wife’ll only worry if she knows I’m hurt. It’s better she don’t know about this . . . yet. I need to find a way to tell her myself, when I’ve figured out for sure how I’m gonna take care of things. I need to pray about it some first.’’ Despite the situation, a smile tugged at his lips. Hearing himself state the need to pray wasn’t something he ever figured on. Yet the reality of it fit as neatly as a good pair of boots. But unlike boots, which must eventually be kicked off, he felt certain the need to pray would be a part of him from now on.
‘‘Very well, then.’’ The doctor took a step toward the open door. ‘‘I’ll leave you to rest. I’ll be in next week to get you up on your feet and practicing with a crutch.’’
Anticipation filled Harley’s chest. ‘‘It’ll be good to be up and moving again.’’
The doctor smiled, backpedaling toward the door. ‘‘I’m sure it will. But in the meantime, rest. Gain strength.’’ He pointed. ‘‘Read your books.’’ Pausing in the doorway, he smiled. ‘‘And pray.’’
Harley nodded. The moment the doctor rounded the corner, Harley closed his eyes and began. Dear God, about Annie an’ the farm . . .
Dear God, what should I do about Anna Mae and her farm? Ern paced in his room. Jack fully intended to steal Anna Mae’s land from her. That’s what it amounted to. Surely those checks from Harley would have covered the tax bill, but Jack didn’t let her have them. How hurtful Jack had been, letting Anna Mae believe her husband had abandoned her. Never, despite his son’s faults, would Ern have believed Jack’s selfishness would stretch to these lengths.
He left his room and stalked to the end of the hallway. Pushing back the lace curtains, he looked across the grounds toward the Elliotts’ land. If he squinted, he could glimpse the lights of Anna Mae’s house. Had she delayed supper waiting for him to show, or had she gone ahead and fed the girls? He hoped she hadn’t made the girls wait. No doubt it worried her when he hadn’t turned up as he’d said. Another burden on a heart already overburdened.
Sighing, he returned to his bedroom. He’d come up without eating lunch and he hadn’t gone down for supper. A rock filled his belly—there was no room for food. And he could hear Jack prowling around down there. He couldn’t face his son, even if he were hungry.
What could he do besides hide up here? Until he figured out a way to counter Jack’s threats, he was stuck. He’d seen fury in his son’s eyes. Jack had meant what he’d said. He’d throw his father out of the house and set the cows loose. Ern needed a firm plan in place. A few fuzzy ideas danced through his mind, but nothing he could firmly grasp. He slapped his hand down on his scarred dresser top, bouncing the framed photograph that rested there. He caught the frame before it tipped.
Rather than putting it back, he cradled the oval, filigreed frame in his hands. His eyes filled with tears as he gazed into the black-and-white image of his Ginny’s sweet face. ‘‘Oh, Mother, how disappointed you would be in the choices our son is making.’’ One child. All the hopes and dreams pinned on one child. All the training that went into forming the child into a man who would serve the Lord. Had they failed somehow? Was Jack’s fall from grace the result of something his parents neglected?
Looking into Ginny’s face, Ern was washed with a sense of peace. No, he and Ginny had done right when raising Jack. The Bible promised that if a person raised up a child in the way he should go, he would not depart from it when he was old. Well, Jack still had some growing to do, but Ern made the decision to trust that Jack’s childhood training would bring him back on the right pathway again.
He placed Ginny’s picture on the dresser, crossed to the bed, and dropped to his knees. Folding his hands, he once again petitioned his Father in prayer.
‘‘Here you go, Mama!’’ Dorothy held up a damp dress.
Anna Mae took the garment, gave it several brisk snaps to shake out the wrinkles, then clipped it to the line. Her hands shook, and she glanced toward the barn, wondering when Jack would reappear. She wanted to call out to him, ask why his father hadn’t shown up for supper last night, but the grim look on his face as he’d jumped down from the wagon seat and stomped across the ground to the barn without offering even a hello suppressed her question.
‘‘And another one!’’
Dorothy’s impish grin soothed the edges of Anna Mae’s frayed nerves. ‘‘Thank you, darlin’.’’ She secured the apron with clothespins and then peeked at the empty basket. ‘‘And that’s it. Now, we can—’’
Suddenly the horses raised their heads and snorted, rolling their eyes. One stamped the ground, and both released nervous whinnies. An unfamiliar noise intruded—a rolling growl similar to thunder, but from a far distance. Anna Mae scanned the horizon. Not a cloud in sight. What on earth? The horses pawed the dust, snorting and tossing their manes.
An odd sensation crept from the soles of Anna Mae’s feet up her legs. She froze, uncertain what had created the vibration. Was she going to faint? She looked at Dorothy. The child stood with her arms out from her sides, her face holding a wide-eyed look of terror. Dorothy’s frightened pose, combined with the horses’ strange behavior, convinced Anna Mae the sensation wasn’t hers alone.
‘‘Mama?’’ The single-word question quavered on a note of fear.
Anna Mae took two stumbling steps forward to wrap Dorothy in her arms. From the blanket under the weeping willow, Marjorie set up a wail. The baby pushed herself to her feet and toddled toward her mother, arms reaching. Anna Mae shuffled sideways, Dorothy pinned to her side, then dropped to her knees and gathered Marjorie near.
The three huddled together, both children panting in beat with Anna Mae’s rapid pulse, for what seemed hours until the odd quivering beneath their feet ended. The moment the gentle rumble stopped, Jack rushed out of the barn straight to the hugging group. He fell to his knees beside them, touching each in turn, his face white. ‘‘Are you all right? Were you hurt?’’
‘‘We’re fine,’’ Anna Mae gasped, her heart beating so hard she feared she might lose her breath. ‘‘What was that?’’
‘‘I don’t know, but we need to find out. C’mon.’’ He rose, tugged Anna Mae’s hands to help her to her feet, and then scooped up Marjorie. ‘‘Let’s go get Pop and we’ll go to town in the Model T.’’
The drive was made in tense silence. Jack’s knuckles glowed white as he gripped the steering wheel with both hands, his brows pulled down in a scowl of concerned concentration. In the backseat, Mr. Berkley tucked Dorothy and Marjorie snug beneath his arms. He offered an encouraging smile each time Anna Mae peeked into the backseat, but the pallor of his face filled Anna Mae’s heart with fear. First the drought and the heat and the wind, now that curious shaking of the ground. What else would go wrong in Kansas?
Jack was forced to bring the vehicle to a crawl when they reached Spencer. The streets teemed with activity—people talking in excited, nervous voices; cars and wagons entering from all directions; dogs running between vehicles, barking. The combined cacophony created a discordant chorus of confusion.
Jack stopped the car in front of the mercantile, where a cluster of townspeople milled on the porch. He jumped out and hollered over the din, ‘‘What’s going on? Does anyone know what happened?’’
Anna Mae opened her door, stepped out, and folded the seat forward so Mr. Berkley and the girls could climb out. Anna Mae lifted Marjorie to her hip. Dorothy pressed against Mr. Berkley’s side, her blue eyes wide.
A man—Rev. Tompkins—separated himself from the group on the porch and called an answer to Jack’s query. ‘‘Earthquake. It was an earthquake. Telegraph message said it came clear from Arizona.’’
Marjorie complained and wriggled in her mother’s arms. Anna Mae tightened her grip. ‘‘Shhh, darlin’,’’ she whispered, taking comfort herself in soothing the baby.
From the back of the mumbling group, a woman’s
strident voice carried. ‘‘It’s because of sin! All the things of nature going wrong around us—it’s because someone has sinned, and the Lord is exacting His punishment!’’
The reverend turned back to the crowd. ‘‘Now, we can’t be certain of that—’’
‘‘I’m certain!’’ The woman forced her way to the front. Fierce determination reddened her face. ‘‘The Lord can’t tolerate sin, and He says it will be meted with judgment. This quakin’ was proof of that! Someone needs to be awakened to his sins and set things right before his Maker!’’
The crowd’s murmurings increased, and the reverend raised his arms, his calm voice calling for reason. Anna Mae shifted to ask Mr. Berkley what he thought, but as she turned, her gaze drifted across Jack’s face. The expression there chilled her. Fear—and guilt—showed clearly in Jack’s colorless skin and wild eyes.
Anna Mae felt a chill of apprehension wiggle down her spine. What sin is Jack hiding?
30
A RUMBLING . . . FAINT AT FIRST, like the purr of a contented cat, then growing louder, turning into an old man’s snore. A trembling . . . first a quiver, then a rattle that shakes the house. Jack holds to the window frame, a futile attempt to still the shaking of his home. Beside him, a plate falls from a shelf and shatters on the wood floor. He remains mute, frozen by fear, as the ground begins to crack. The wide mouth of the crack rushes toward him, zigzagging like a snake, widening as it nears. It is coming for him.
The shaking grows severe, threatening to topple him. He tightens his grip on the sill as his heart pounds and his body sweats. No! No! But the words remain unspoken, so great is his fear. In a rush and roar, the crack broadens to encompass the entire width of the house, and Jack feels himself falling . . . falling . . . into the black chasm.
A voice speaks, ‘‘Sins will be meted with judgment!’’
‘‘No!’’ The hoarse cry awakened Jack. He sat bolt upright, his hands gripping the soggy sheets of his bed. Only then did he realize the frightened cry had been his own.
A dream. It was only a dream. The relief struck with such force, Jack collapsed against his pillows, completely limp. He stared at the ceiling, waiting for his heartbeat to return to normal, while snatches of the dream replayed in his head. The condemning voice echoed: ‘‘Sins will be meted with judgment! Sins will be meted with judgment!’’
Jack shook his head, fresh sweat breaking out on his already-soaked body. Sure, he knew God was a God of judgment. Of wrath. But that earthquake—that wasn’t because of anyone’s sin. It was just . . . nature. Nature had run amok in the past few years. No rains falling, winds trying to blow one county into another, the extreme heat . . . That earthquake was just another bit of evidence showing how nature was all confused right now. It didn’t have anything to do with somebody’s sin.
Did it?
Jack swallowed. He kicked his sheets to the foot of the bed and lay uncovered, blinking into the muted shadows of his quiet room. Across the hall, Pop snuffled in his sleep. Jack wondered if Pop blamed him for the earthquake. Probably not—Pop wasn’t a finger-pointer. Although he’d come mighty close to finger-pointing last Sunday.
Pop wanted Anna Mae to know everything Jack had been doing. Jack wanted Anna Mae to know, too—to know how he’d put that oil pump in place so she’d be making money, how he’d arranged to be the winning bidder for her daddy’s farm. He wanted her to keep count of how many times he milked her cow, weeded her garden, picked her tomatoes, answered her daughter’s questions. Those were the things that counted—the helpful things he’d done. All that other stuff didn’t matter in light of the good it would do her in the end.
He reasoned with himself, the dream slipping away as he balanced his actions on a scale of right and wrong. Sure, he’d kept a few letters from going back and forth, but what had that really hurt? Harley was dead—he wasn’t coming back—and those letters would just be a painful reminder. Anna Mae needed to look to the future, a future with Jack. Focusing on the past was just a waste of time.
And that earthquake was in the past, too. Nobody could change the fact that the ground shook in Kansas. So it was silly to lie awake, worrying over its cause. Instead of worrying, he should be planning. Planning his trip to Hutchinson to get that land deal finalized. His bid was in, and he’d been assured no one else had expressed any interest in the property. Now it was just a matter of stopping by the courthouse and making good on his bid.
While in town, he should visit a jewelry store, pick up a ring. Anna Mae would accept his wedding proposal given time. He needed to be ready. It might be best to wait until after the new baby was born before making things official; it would look better to others in the community if they didn’t rush things. But it was so hard to wait. He’d already waited a lifetime for Anna Mae.
His heart settled back into a comfortable beat. The fear that had been so overwhelming only minutes ago slipped away. Jack took in a deep breath and released it slowly, his body relaxing. It would be okay. Everything would be okay. Don’t lose sight of the goal. Anna Mae will be yours.
‘‘Pop?’’
Ern paused in the middle of buttoning his shirt and cocked an ear toward the open bedroom door. ‘‘Yeah?’’ The smell of bacon and eggs drifted up from the kitchen, letting Ern know Jack had finished the milking. He always milked first, then ate breakfast.
Jack’s voice came again from the kitchen. ‘‘There’s a plate in the hob for you. I’m headin’ over to Anna Mae’s. Gonna milk her cow and then meet the milk truck. I’ll see you around noon.’’
Ern’s heart thumped. Noon. Would that be enough time? ‘‘Sure, son. Thanks.’’
The slam of the kitchen door let Ern know Jack had left. He slipped his suspenders over his shoulders, releasing them with a light snap, then snatched up his shoes. Downstairs, he peeked into the hob. The eggs and bacon smelled good, but if he took the time to eat, he might not get his errands finished. His stomach cramped with hunger, but he chose to ignore it. Sitting in a kitchen chair, he grunted as he tugged his shoes over thick gray socks. His shoes tied, he grabbed his jacket from the hook by the door.
His knees trembled a bit as he crossed the yard to the barn where the Model T waited. He’d only driven the auto a few times—Jack usually drove—but he whispered a silent prayer for God’s help. He had to get to Hutchinson, take care of his errands, and be back before Jack returned with the wagon. He’d have to take the roads on the far side of Spencer, too; he couldn’t risk meeting Jack on the road. If Jack came home and found the automobile missing . . .
Ern shook his head, sadness striking. How it bothered him to sneak around, to be fearful of his own son. But he couldn’t predict what Jack would do anymore. Despite his worries, he would follow through with his plans. If Jack threw him out, he’d survive. God would provide. Ern had to trust that somehow all this would turn out to good.
He fumbled a bit as he pressed his memory to recall all the necessary steps to get the Model T’s engine running. A prayer of gratitude formed itself in his heart when the motor roared to life. He slipped behind the wheel, slammed the door, and shifted the car into gear.
‘‘Now, Lord, keep me safe as I travel, and let all the doors I need open wide for my entry. I’m countin’ on your help here, Father.’’
‘‘Mr. Phipps?’’
Harley jumped, startled from his nap. He yawned, rubbed his eyes, and focused on the nurse who stood in the doorway. He mumbled, ‘‘Yeah? Suppertime already?’’
The nurse smiled. ‘‘No. You have visitors. May I bring them in?’’
Harley pressed his hands to the mattress, pushing himself higher on his pillows. He scratched his whiskery chin. ‘‘Long as they ain’t offended easy, they’re welcome to come in.’’
The nurse laughed. She gestured toward the door. ‘‘Come on in, folks.’’
Harley’s eyes widened as his company entered the room. Mr. and Mrs. Farley! Immediately a pang of guilt ripped across his middle. Despite the letter, which had be
en so kind, he still carried a burden of responsibility for Dirk’s untimely death. He waited, unable to speak, as the couple approached. Mr. Farley guided his wife with a hand on her back. They appeared more frail, older, than the last time he’d seen them, yet the same joyful light he remembered still shone in the woman’s eyes.
Mrs. Farley reached her slim, wrinkled hand toward Harley, closing her warm fingers around his. ‘‘Mr. Phipps. How good to see you looking so well.’’
Harley held back the nervous chuckle that formed in his throat. Looking well? With his leg wrapped in plaster and elevated above the bed, his hair a mess, his face covered with a growth of whiskers, and him dressed in a hospital gown? Mrs. Farley surely owned a pair of those rose-colored glasses Dirk had been fond of wearing.
He cleared his throat and formed a reply. ‘‘Thank you, ma’am. It’s—it’s kind of you to come.’’
‘‘We had to.’’
Mr. Farley nodded firmly at Mrs. Farley’s simple reply.
She went on. ‘‘We needed to see where our son spent his last months, get a look at the castle he helped build, meet the men he talked about in his letters.’’ Her eyes brightened with unshed tears. ‘‘And we needed to see you. You’re our last link to Dirk. Couldn’t rest until we knew for sure you were going to be all right.’’
A huge lump filled Harley’s throat. Their last link to their son. Could he carry that responsibility? ‘‘I . . . I’m so sorry . . . about Dirk . . .’’ The words choked out.
The woman sandwiched his hand between hers, leaning close. Behind her, Mr. Farley reached out to clamp Harley’s shoulder with one hand while the other curled around his wife’s slender waist. Harley felt his own shoulders heave with suppressed sobs. For long moments they remained silent, mourning together.
After swallowing a dozen or so times, Harley finally found his voice and said what his heart felt. ‘‘Dirk was the finest man I’ve ever known. You raised him right, an’ he lived what you taught him. I . . . I was proud to call him my friend.’’
Where Willows Grow Page 24
