When influenza orphaned Tom at age twelve, Mary and Earl took him in as though he was one of their own. They loved him, fed him, and disciplined him right along with their other five boys. With seven males in the house to feed, Mary had needed to be an excellent cook.
“My stomach’s growling already.” Tom waved at Earl.
• • •
Abigail Craig’s place was a tiny, white, single-story, clapboard house. Colorful pansies bordered the walkway that led up to the front door. A wooden sign — Abigail Craig, Seamstress — hung by two short chains from the awning above the door, and it creaked as it swung in the wind.
Tom stepped up to the door, pressed his hands and face against the screen and peered into the kitchen. Abigail was standing at the wood stove with her back to him, and from the swaying movement of her body, Tom knew she was stirring something, something that smelled mighty good.
Silently, he opened the screen door, careful it didn’t slam shut behind him, then tiptoed up behind Abby and tapped her on the shoulder. She gasped and spun about, nearly smacking him with the large wooden spoon in her hand. The contents of the spoon continued its forward motion and splattered across Tom’s cheek.
“Tom Carver! You took ten years off my life!”
“Meaning now you’re only twenty-five. You should be thanking me.” With his wide, flat thumb, he scraped some food off his face and tasted it. “Hmm. That tastes like more.” He grabbed the towel that hung beside the wash basin and wiped his face clean before peering into the pot. “What are you cooking?”
“Just never you mind. Here.” She handed him a jar of beet pickles to open.
Tom unscrewed the sealer ring, then popped off the lid using the blunt edge of a knife. Before setting the jar on the table, he slid a pickled beet slice into his mouth, then sucked the red juice from his fingertips.
“Could you wait at least until everything is on the table!”
Uh, oh. Abby only snapped when something was bothering her and he knew from experience that it would be foolhardy to ask her what was wrong. Besides, he had a hunch as to why her back was up. There had been a tea in town. No doubt some old biddy had snubbed Abby because of her relationship with him. Why couldn’t women mind their own business?
Abigail sawed into a fresh loaf of bread. “I got a letter from Auntie Bets today. She wants me to go back East. Help with her millinery business.”
“For how long?”
“Permanently.”
Not in the least expecting that, Tom was taken aback. “What did you tell her?”
“Nothing. I haven’t decided yet.”
And he knew exactly why. She was wondering if he ever going to propose and give her a reason to remain in Whistle Creek. They’d been seeing each other for well over a year, enjoying all of the privileges that a marriage would bring. But their so-called union was very different from that of married couples. They were together only on Fridays nights. They began dating on a Friday night and because neither of them had other commitments on that night they continued meeting every Friday night. Somehow before they knew it, they had evolved into this one-night-a-week pretend marriage. And though Abigail often asked him to stay the night, Tom never did. He could tell himself it was only to quell the gossip for Abby’s sake, but regrettably, Tom had another reason to turn down Abigail’s invitations, one far less altruistic. He knew that staying one night would eventually lead to staying for another, and then another, and in no time at all they’d be kneeling before an altar. That was a commitment he didn’t want to make. Not yet.
Still, the time had come for him to make a decision, but because he didn’t know what to say, he changed the subject. “Did you hear that one of Carlson’s granaries burned to the ground?”
• • •
Beth decided the only good thing about that day was that it was Friday, which gave her a reprieve from planning the next day’s lesson. Drained from the day’s ordeal, she retired to bed early. She dropped immediately off to sleep and likely would have slept through the night if not for the loud voices in the kitchen.
For a few seconds she was disoriented, but then she realized that Bill was arguing with someone and it wasn’t Davy. Quietly she rose and donned her robe, pulled the sash tightly around her waist, and went to the door to listen. She groaned when she recognized the blacksmith’s deep voice. She had no choice but to open her bedroom door and face her nemesis.
“Good, you’re awake,” Tom said, coming to his feet when he saw her.
“How could I not be awake with all the racket? Is there a problem?” The wall clock said two-thirty in the morning.
Tom sat again at the table opposite Bill. “If you call stealing horses a problem, I guess there is.”
Beth tried to act calm despite her heart beating so wildly she thought it might explode. “I assume you think Bill is involved?”
“He’s involved, all right! I caught him red-handed, coming out of my barn with one of my horses. He sure as blazes wasn’t looking for stray cats!” Tom’s voice rose with every word, as did he, and when he finished, he was standing with both hands gripping the pine table’s edge.
Bill slapped his hands flat on the table. “I already tried to explain.”
“Be quiet, Bill, let me handle this,” she said firmly. “Please, Mr. Carver, sit down so we can discuss the matter calmly. And please keep your voice lowered. There is no need to wake Davy.”
Repressing his anger with a growl, Tom sat again.
“Now what do you propose to do?” Beth asked him forthright.
“Well, the way I see it, I have two choices. One, I contact the authorities and let them decide the punishment.” Beth felt her knees go weak and she sank into the nearest chair. The law would surely uncover more than Bill’s attempt at stealing a horse. If both she and Bill were sent to prison, what would happen to Davy? Her hands began to shake so she hid them in the folds of her robe.
Tom continued. “They might go easy seeing as he’s young. Then again, they might not. Just last month, over in Clapton County, they hung a fellow for the very same thing.”
Beth felt ill. She glanced at Bill. He looked like a wild animal ready to tear the blacksmith to shreds. “And the other alternative?” Beth asked, her voice squeaking.
Tom eased forward and clasped his hands on the tabletop. He stared at Bill. “I take him out back and give him some belt-driven logic. I prefer this option myself, but maybe Bill has something to say about it. Which should it be?”
“Surely, Mr. Carver — ” Beth started.
“Let the boy speak for himself,” Tom commanded. “Well, Bill, which will it be?”
“I already told you. I was walking by your barn and I thought I smelled smoke. I was trying to save your horses.”
“How commendable!” Tom replied. “Do you know what I think? I think it’s just too much of a coincidence I catch a Patterson in my barn two Friday nights in a row. I think maybe the two of you have yourselves a tidy little business.”
“No!” Beth said, and then added with a false laugh, “why, that’s ridiculous.”
“Really? I have a hunch that if I hadn’t caught you in my barn,” he said, pointing at Beth, “I’d probably be short one horse. And surprise, surprise, Hoosman lost a horse that very same night.” He pointed at Bill. “I think you stole it.”
Bill jumped to his feet, and leaned across the table at Tom. “You ain’t got any proof.”
“I found your pocketknife there.”
“That was my knife,” Beth interjected. “It has the initials B.P. carved into the handle for Beth Patterson.”
“Or Bill Patterson,” Tom said.
“But it isn’t Bill’s. It’s mine.”
Tom studied Beth and then her brother. “Sit down, Bill. You make me edgy standing over me.” To Beth he said, “Bring me the knife, would you?”
“Whatever for?”
“I just want to see it for a minute.”
That cockroach. He was calling her bluff, c
ounting on Bill having the knife in his trousers. And it probably was. She glanced at her brother, then excused herself from the table and disappeared into her bedroom. Fuming, she opened and slammed drawers as if searching. A moment later, she returned to the table. “I’m afraid I’ve misplaced it.”
“That’s handy.” Tom leaned back in his chair, all the while drumming his fingers on the tabletop as he stared at Bill. Finally the finger drumming stopped and he asked, “How old are you, Bill?”
“What difference does that make?”
“I asked you a simple question. The least you can do is answer it.”
Bill crossed him arms over his chest. “Don’t see as if that’s any of your business.”
“He’s sixteen.” Beth provided the information.
Tom nodded. “So, he’s a boy really.”
“The hell I am!” Bill would have said a mouthful more had Beth not kicked him under the table. Bill clamped his mouth shut, grimacing in pain.
Tom stroked his stubbled chin while his eyes shifted from Bill to Beth and then to Bill again. He seemed to be contemplating what to do with Bill. “I’m trying to remember what sort of trouble I got into when I was sixteen. I guess I did some pretty dumb things in my youth, though I never tried pulling the stunt you did.”
Bill opened his mouth to protest, took one look at Tom and wisely clamped his lips together.
“I didn’t have much more luck than you, Bill. I always got caught and had to deal with the consequences, and some of them weren’t too pleasant. But there was this one time, and I can’t exactly remember the circumstances, but I caught hell for something I didn’t do. And to this day it sticks in my craw.”
“So you believe me?”
“I never said that. I think you’re guilty as sin. But I don’t have definite proof.”
“Then this discussion is over.” Beth stood, indicating it was time Tom left.
Tom stopped at the door. “You got off lucky this time, Bill. But a word of warning. I’m going to keep an eye on you, and if I see you riding some horse down the street, you’d better have a bill of sale.”
When Tom shut the door, Bill slammed his fists on the table. “I hate that bastard!”
Chapter 4
Beth stayed late every afternoon, grading papers and preparing lessons. When they moved to Whistle Creek, she thought teaching would be an easy charade, never once imagining it would be so demanding to keep ahead of eight grades. At least Freddie no longer posed a problem. His father had pulled him from school, saying he needed him at the bank.
At five-thirty, a stack of papers still loomed before Beth. She sorted through what she would do at home and set the rest aside. She rose from her hard wooden chair and stretched her tired back.
“I’m finished for the day, Davy. Let’s go home. I need to get supper started.” When he didn’t respond, she went outside to see if he was in the schoolyard playing. He wasn’t.
That rascal. He was likely at the smithy again, despite her stern orders not to spend so much time there. She feared Tom Carver would press her brother about their past, and though Davy knew the gravity of their secret, he still might accidentally let some critical information slip.
She hurried to the smithy. Davy sat on a wooden workbench, playing with metal filings and a magnet. She glanced about the shop. Good, the blacksmith must be out back. She slipped in and tapped Davy’s shoulder.
“Come. It’s time to go.”
“I can’t.”
“What do you mean, you can’t?”
“Mister Carver asked me to look after the shop for him.”
“He left you here alone?” she asked, irritation etching her voice.
“I’m not alone. Jack’s here.” Davy hopped down from the bench and grabbed Beth’s hand, leading her around the forge to where the dog lay. “Shhh. He’s sleeping. He sleeps a lot on account of him being so old. But when he’s awake, we play fetch.”
Beth couldn’t imagine such an old mutt being able to get up, let alone retrieve a ball. Her doubt must have registered upon her face for Davy was quick to explain, “I roll the ball across the floor and when Jack wags his tail, I fetch it for him. I could wake him up and show you.”
Despite her annoyance, she smiled. “No, let him sleep. Old dogs are like old people. They need to rest.”
“Hey! That’s ’zactly what Mister Carver said. If he was here, you two could pinkie-wish.”
Her wish would be for Davy’s friend to drop off the face of the earth, not that she would ever be that fortunate. “Where did Mr. Carver go?”
Davy shrugged, returned to the workbench and began playing with the magnet again. “He’ll be back soon. Hey, I know,” he said, his face lighting, “while we wait, I can show you around the place.” He immediately skipped to the forge, grabbed the crank and gave it a couple of quick turns.
Beth hurried over. “Davy! You shouldn’t be touching things in here! It’s dangerous.”
“Ah, Beth, don’t get your shirt in a knot.”
She didn’t have to ask who taught him that clever saying.
“Every time I turn this crank, oxygen — oh that’s Mister Carver’s fancy name for air — anyhow, when I turn the crank, oxygen goes into the coals and then they burn better. It’s my job to keep the coals hot.”
“Your job? He has you doing jobs while you’re here?”
“Uh huh. Mister Carver says idle hands are the devil’s workshop.” Davy then led her to the center of the dimly lit building. The dirt floor absorbed much of the light that fell through the open door and she wondered how anyone could work in such dark place without tripping over stuff. But as her eyes adjusted to the dimness she realized the smithy was quite tidy.
“This here is an anvil,” Davy explained, pointing to the large oddly shaped piece of steel standing on the ground. “Mister Carver pounds iron things on it and it makes a ringing sound, almost like a church bell.” Davy picked up the sledgehammer from the workbench. Surprised by the tool’s weight, he dropped it, narrowly missing his foot. He glanced up at Beth, as if hoping she hadn’t seen.
But she had. “Now do you see what I mean?”
“It’s just a hammer, Beth.”
“A very heavy hammer and if it had landed on your toe, it would have flattened it.”
Not the least bit troubled by Beth’s admonition, he pulled her over to the east wall. “You see the horseshoes all along the wall?” Arranged on several wooden pegs were likely two dozen horseshoes of slightly different sizes and shapes. “Mister Carver wants me to make certain they stay straight.”
“Oh really,” Beth huffed, “how often does that need doing?”
“Every day, Miss Patterson.” Tom answered, entering the smithy. “Got to keep the place neat.”
Beth aligned her back and announced emphatically, “I do not appreciate Davy being left here alone. While you were gone, he almost injured himself.”
Tom frowned and glanced at Davy. “What happened?”
“I dropped your hammer.”
“It very nearly decapitated his toe.”
“Decapitated his toe?” Tom repeated with laugh.
“You know very well what I mean. He could have been badly injured. No six-year-old should be left unsupervised in such a place. This place is too dangerous.” Her heart was beating hard and fast. After all his lectures about how to raise her brothers, that insufferable man deserved to get an earful!
Tom glanced at Davy who stood staring at the floor, hands stuffed deep in his pockets. Tom nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, you’re probably right. I’m sorry.”
“You should be. And that’s not all! You … ” She stopped midsentence. He was agreeing with her? How dare he give in so easily! Beth felt cheated. For once her wrath was completely justified and he backed down before she could really light into him. She felt like a pot of boiling water pulled from the hot stove. All the steam she had built up diminished.
“You were going to say?” Tom urged.
�
�I … I was going to say … ” What was she going to say? He had her so flummoxed she couldn’t remember. “It … it’s time for Davy to get home.”
“Ah, Beth,” Davy whined.
“Now!” She stomped her foot.
Tom patted the boy’s shoulder. “Do what your sister says.” To Beth, he gave a nod. “Good afternoon, Miss Patterson.” Then he began putting away his tools.
• • •
“What’s the matter with you?” Bill demanded when Davy scratched his head for the third time during breakfast a few days later. “You get fleas from Carver’s stupid dog?”
“Jack’s not stupid. He’s smart!”
“Smart as a two-headed nail.”
In a rare show of defiance, Davy jumped from his chair, and began punching and kicking Bill with all the fury his scrawny body could muster.
Bill laughed, easily warding off Davy’s feeble blows. “Get away from me, fleabag! I don’t want your pets.”
“Don’t call me a fleabag!”
“Stop it,” Beth shouted, but not before Davy gave one last mighty kick at Bill and connected with the sturdy table leg instead. Immediately, he dropped to the floor and wailed pitifully.
“Serves you right, crybaby,” Bill taunted. “It’s probably broke and Doc will have to cut it off.”
“Bill!” Beth had had enough. “Leave him alone! If you’re finished with breakfast, go to work.”
Bill belched rudely, then pushed back from the table.
“And by the way,” Beth said, “plan on being home tonight.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s Friday, and you seem to have a habit of finding trouble Friday nights.” She felt a small amount of triumph when Bill slammed the door on his way out.
Beth turned her attention to Davy. “Let’s see your toe.”
Davy pulled his foot in closer to his body. “No. I don’t want it cut off.”
“You know Bill was teasing. Besides, how will you be able to count to ten if you’re missing a toe? Come on. Let’s see.”
Sniffling, Davy presented his foot for inspection, and scratched his head again.
“Nothing serious. You just chipped your nail.” Beth went for the nail scissors, and when she returned, Davy was working at a persistent itch behind his left ear. She pulled a chair close to the window where the lighting was best. “Sit here. Give me your foot.”
Carol Ritten Smith Page 4
