by Ann Shorey
The bell tinkled again and soon several customers demanded her attention. One by one, she helped them with their purchases, always keeping an eye on the woman in gray.
During the flurry of activity, Grandpa returned. Tipping the barrel of china at an angle, he rolled it toward the door. Faith shot a glance at him and waved over the head of her current customer toward the checker players. When they looked in her direction, she pointed at Grandpa’s back and mouthed, “Help him.”
Chairs scraped. The men stepped to either side of the barrel.
“You’re in my way,” Grandpa said, his voice gruff, but he allowed them to support the weight while he hefted the delivery into the wagon.
“It’s hard for some people to acknowledge their age,” a sympathetic voice said.
Faith started. She’d been so focused on Grandpa she hadn’t noticed that the woman had returned from the rear of the room, carrying a bolt of moss green fabric in a paisley print. Her hazel eyes were filled with compassion.
Drawn to the caring in the depths of those eyes, Faith blurted. “He’s my grandfather—all the family I have left. I worry about him.”
“Many of us have little family left these days. I believe the Lord put us here to comfort each other. To be sisters and brothers to those who have none.” She spoke as one stating a fact, not an opinion.
“I . . . I never thought of things that way.”
“ ‘Woe to him that is alone when he falleth; for he hath not another to help him up.’ That’s from the Bible.”
Faith’s heart warmed toward this woman with the kindly eyes and soft voice. “Are you new to Noble Springs? I don’t recall seeing you before.”
“Fairly new. My job ended, so I came to stay with my brother.” An impish smile lit her face. “He was alone.” She removed her glove and extended her hand. “My name’s Rosemary.”
“I’m Faith.” The woman’s palms were callused. Whatever job she’d had, she’d been doing manual work.
After she completed her purchase, Faith watched her leave. When Rosemary opened the door, she whistled two soft notes. A sable and white collie appeared from under the steps and trotted along the boardwalk at her side.
Faith sighed and turned away. How nice it would be to have a friend like Rosemary.
Two of Faith’s former classmates, Marguerite Holland and Nelda Raines, breezed through the open door in a cloud of flower-scented cologne. “Did you see her? Bold as brass. Like she’s as good as the rest of us.”
Curiosity piqued, Faith asked, “Who are you talking about?”
“Why, that vulgar girl who just left.” Nelda lowered her voice. “She was a nurse during the war. Can you imagine? Touching men’s bodies, and having the gall to walk around like she had nothing to be ashamed of.”
3
Faith bristled at the two women. “I hope someone with her compassion was with my father and brother when they died. I think caring for wounded soldiers was a courageous thing to do. Godly, you might say.”
“Well, you might say that. I certainly wouldn’t.” Nelda glanced around the store. “Where’s Judge Lindberg? I need to talk to him about my mother’s account.”
Sensing another unpleasant encounter, Faith’s stomach muscles tightened. “You can talk to me. My grandfather left me in charge.”
“No, thank you. I’ll come back another time.”
“That would be splendid.” She decided not to mention that she’d be in charge the next time they returned as well.
When they left, she closed the door, then dropped into one of the chairs next to the stove. She felt like she’d been thrown into Pioneer Lake and expected to swim.
Faith tapped a finger on the wooden arm of the chair. A glance at the clock told her the newspaper editor should be in his office at the Noble Springs Observer, although one never knew with Aaron Simpkins. He loved to act like a big city reporter. He could be off chasing rumors of bank robberies or someone’s barn going up in flames. Noble Springs hadn’t escaped the unrest that seethed through the Ozarks in the wake of Lee’s surrender.
Faith popped out onto the covered boardwalk and hurried next door, fingers crossed that Grandpa wouldn’t return in her absence and find the mercantile unattended. When she entered the office, her nose prickled at the smell of ink and hot lead.
Mr. Simpkins smiled at her from his desk, his gold-rimmed spectacles glinting in the light. “No new reports. The telegraph’s been silent this morning.” His smile faded to a look of sympathy. “Miss Faith, it’s been a year. I hate to say it, but you need to accept that Royal Baxter is dead, even if we don’t have confirmation. I’m told some men were so—” He cleared his throat. “What I mean is, we may never know all the names.”
She pressed her lips together. She’d accept no such thing. “Thank you, Mr. Simpkins. I’ll stop by again.”
He shook his head. “Feel free to drop in any time. But the answer will be the same.”
“I hope so. If he’s not on a casualty list, then he’s alive. Somewhere. Good day.”
She trotted toward the mercantile only to stop abruptly at the sight of the delivery wagon tied out front. Grandpa opened the door, his brown eyes snapping with anger. “You went off and left the cash drawer unlocked. Anyone could have walked in and robbed us blind.”
Her breath caught. Although managing the store would be temporary, she intended to do her best. Faith stared at the toes of her boots through tear-blurred eyes. “I’m so sorry. I just forgot.” She felt his thumb lift her chin so she could look into his face.
Grandpa patted her shoulder. “We all make mistakes.” He handed her the small silver key, then stepped inside and propped the “Closed for dinner” sign in the window. “It’s nearly noon. Let’s go home.”
Curt Saxon leaned against the doorway of the livery stable and watched while a yellow wagon rolled by. He didn’t need to read the black letters spelling “Lindberg’s Mercantile” on the side to recognize the girl on the seat next to her grandfather. The owner of the livery had told Curt her name when he asked soon after hiring on as stableman. But until today she hadn’t noticed him.
He traced his index finger along the scar on his neck. Did he look that frightening? Miss Faith’s expression when he’d asked her to follow him said he did. He’d have to change that impression.
The wagon stopped in front of a two-story brick home farther down the street. Once the judge and his granddaughter entered, Curt stepped into the dim interior of the stable.
“Mr. Ripley. With your permission, I’ll take dinner break now.”
“Told you, call me Rip.” The owner of the livery stepped from the tack room. A gnome-like man with a curly black beard, he clutched a half-eaten sandwich in one hand. “You don’t need my permission. We got no one wanting a horse now anyway. Go on with you.”
Curt thanked him and left the stable. Instead of turning toward West & Riley’s, the restaurant across town, he walked toward Judge Lindberg’s house. He’d find something to eat later.
When he reached the front door, he grabbed the knocker and rapped before he lost his courage. The door opened almost immediately.
The judge peered out, frowning. “Yes?”
Sunlight poured onto the polished entry hall floor, washing up against the hem of Faith’s blue dress. Her arms were folded across her trim waistline. She appeared as irritated as the old man sounded. From the looks of things, he’d interrupted a family dispute.
He removed his hat, mentally berating himself for his poor timing. “Wondered if you’d met up with your grandfather.” Curt directed his comment at Faith. “I see you have.” He turned to Judge Lindberg. “Miss Faith was worried when she couldn’t find you this morning.”
“Not really worried,” she said.
“I wasn’t lost,” the judge added.
Feeling foolish, Curt took a step backward and replaced his hat. His impulses seldom went as hoped, and today was no exception. “I’ve come at a bad moment. Please excuse me.”
“Now, now. Come on in, young man. We were going to take dinner. You’re welcome to join us.”
Faith’s eyes widened. “About those dishes for Mrs. Wylie . . .” She nudged her grandfather. “We need to deliver them first.”
He moved away from her, his expression obstinate. “Not necessarily.”
Curt remained on the stoop. The rich fragrance of baked ham swirled toward him from the entry hall, urging him to accept the invitation. On the other hand, Faith still wore her bonnet and an inhospitable expression.
She turned toward him. “I apologize. I just learned of a late delivery to a customer, and we really must attend to it first.”
“It’s a barrel full of china,” the judge said, his tone cross. “There’s no ‘we’ to it. You can’t wrestle anything that heavy from the wagon.”
“The two of us could do it, sir,” Curt heard himself say.
Faith gave him the same look he’d seen when he asked her to follow him that morning.
He tugged at the neck of his shirt, trying to cover the angry slash. No doubt there were scars in the Lindbergs’ lives, as well. Some showed, some were hidden. Everyone had them these days.
Before Curt could form words to reassure her, the judge spoke. “You know where Cletus Wylie lives?”
“The wagon maker? Yes.”
“Good, because I can’t remember.”
Faith stood at the open door until the wagon traveled out of sight. She prayed Grandpa would be safe. The stableman seemed trustworthy. But with all of the men displaced by war, it was hard to know who was honest and who was out for what he could steal.
Her gaze wandered to the maple tree bristling with red flowers next to the boardwalk, then to the weeds coming up in their muddy yard. Her thoughts went to the delayed delivery for Mrs. Wylie. Grandpa said he’d searched for the woman’s house for over an hour this morning. A customer he’d delivered to many times in the past, and today he couldn’t find his way. The sooner she could convince him to leave for the west, the better.
Back inside, she removed the ham from the warming oven and cut several thin pieces, then split leftover breakfast biscuits and placed a slice between each one. She dropped chunks of pickled watermelon rind on the meat before covering the filling with a biscuit top. By the time Grandpa returned it would be too late to sit down for dinner, so she wrapped their food in linen napkins. They could eat at the store after reopening for the afternoon.
After a moment’s thought, she prepared two biscuits for the stableman, bundling them in a clean towel. The least she could do was feed him after he helped with the delivery.
Minutes ticked on, and the two men didn’t return. Faith busied herself tidying the kitchen. Every few minutes she checked the case clock. If they didn’t hurry, they’d be late opening the mercantile for the second time in one day. With ten minutes to spare, she wrote a note telling Grandpa she had gone to the store, dropped their food into a basket, and left the house.
Her worries about the stableman mounted with each step through the warm afternoon. Buggies and riders on horseback passed by, but no yellow wagon. At around a thousand souls, Noble Springs wasn’t so big that they couldn’t have gone to the Wylie’s house and returned before now.
Trusting the stableman with her grandfather had been a mistake. She’d stop on her way past the courthouse and report him to the sheriff.
What was his name again? Curt Saxon. Scar on neck. He ought to be easy to spot. As she turned south on Court Street, Faith heard wagon wheels squawk behind her. A horse blew and rattled its harness.
“Miss Faith!”
She swung around.
The stableman stood in the wagon, reins taut in one hand. “Your grandfather’s hurt. I’m bringing him home.” He held out his hand. “I need your help.”
Faith fought a grip of nausea. Her grandpa was the only part of her life that had survived the war. She ran to the wagon and allowed herself to be hoisted up.
“Where is he?”
“In back.”
She pushed the curtain aside. Grandpa lay pale and silent on a wide plank turned lengthwise on the wagon bed. Faith hiked her skirt, scrambled over the seat, and knelt beside him. One temple was swollen and oozing blood. She jerked her bonnet off and rested her head against his chest, grateful to feel his heart thumping against her ear.
The wagon swayed as they covered the remaining distance to the house. Faith rested on her heels and called forward. “For mercy’s sake, what happened? I thought you were going to help him.”
“Wasn’t my fault, miss.” A defensive note crept into his voice. “His game leg gave out and he fell. Hit his head against the endgate.”
“How long has he been . . . like this?”
“Can’t be more’n ten minutes. Cletus Wylie helped get him loaded.” He stopped the wagon. “Be right back. Going to get Mr. Ripley to help me.”
The two men, one tall, one short, eased the makeshift litter out of the vehicle. Faith ran ahead and opened the door, then hurried through the house and motioned them to follow her. She pointed at a cot next to the wall in a small room behind the kitchen. “Please, put him there.”
Grandpa moaned when they moved him, but didn’t open his eyes. Faith’s heartbeat threatened to choke her.
She turned to Mr. Saxon. “I know we’ve been enough trouble to you already, but could you ask Dr. Greeley to come?” She rubbed her throat, willing herself to be calm.
“Already did, miss. Stopped on the way. He’s with a patient. Said to tell you he’d be here directly.”
She drew a chair beside the cot and sank onto it, clasping one of Grandpa’s hands between her own. “Thank you.” She addressed both men in a quavering voice.
“Glad to help.” The owner of the livery stable tugged at his curly beard and shuffled his feet. “Reckon I best be going. I ain’t no doc.”
Mr. Saxon moved to one side to allow his employer to leave. “You don’t mind, miss, I’ll wait out front until Doc Greeley gets here.”
“Thank you,” she repeated. “I’m grateful for your help.”
After he left, she stared around the small room. Intended as sleeping quarters for a house servant, the space had been unused for years. Dust tickled Faith’s nose. Not a good place for Grandpa, but as it was the only bedroom on the first floor, it would have to do.
Faith heard voices in the entry hall and then Dr. August Greeley appeared in the doorway. His white hair flowed around his shoulders, framing the precise white goatee on his chin. “The young fellow out there said your grandfather took a fall.” He patted Faith’s shoulder. “Don’t you worry. I’m sure he’ll be right as rain in no time.”
The doctor dropped his medical bag on the floor and bent over the cot. She watched while he raised one of Grandpa’s eyelids. “Hmm.” After placing an open pocket watch in one hand, he closed his fingers over the unconscious man’s wrist. Lips moving, he counted to himself.
“Pulse is steady. Can you fetch me some water so I can clean off this blood?”
Faith jumped to her feet, glad to have something to do. In moments she returned with a basin filled with warm water from the reservoir on the stove.
Once Dr. Greeley had swabbed and bandaged Grandpa’s temple, he sat in the chair Faith vacated and wiped his hands on a towel. “He should come around any minute. After he wakes up, he’ll need to be watched for a few days. Blow to the head’s a serious matter, ’specially on old fellas like me and Nate here.”
Faith looked past the doctor at her grandfather. She could barely discern the rising and falling of his chest as he drew breath. She squeezed a question past the iron bands of fear that circled her throat.
“What if he doesn’t wake up?”
4
Faith sensed a presence behind her.
Mr. Saxon stood in the doorway. “I saw this happen when I was soldiering. Most always, they came around.” From his expression, she knew he meant to be comforting.
“Most always?” She knit her fingers toge
ther and rested her chin on her clasped hands. “What happened when they didn’t? Did they—?”
Dr. Greeley interrupted. “Nate’s lips are moving.” He shot a stern glance at Mr. Saxon. “No need for worrisome comments.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to offend.” His face turned stony. “I’ll be going now.”
Faith glanced between him and the doctor. “Just one moment. I made up a meal for you since you missed your dinner.” She returned to the kitchen and handed him the towel-wrapped food. “You’ve been more than helpful. I can’t thank you enough.”
“No trouble.” Without his ready smile, his face relaxed into weary lines.
After he left, she noticed her bonnet on a table in the entry hall. It had been brushed clean of debris from the wagon. Grandpa’s cane hung from the edge of the table. Another kindness for which she owed thanks to Mr. Saxon.
“Miss Faith? Your grandfather’s asking for you.” Dr. Greeley motioned to her from the bedroom doorway.
“Praise God. He’s awake.” She stepped around the doctor and bent over the cot. “How do you feel?”
“My head hurts. What happened?”
“Mr. Saxon said your bad leg gave way and you fell. Your head hit the wagon.”
“Where were we?”
“At the Wylies’, delivering china. Don’t you remember?”
He started to shake his head, then winced. “Nope. Last thing I recall is young Saxon directing me to the Wylies’ house.” Grandpa shifted on the cot and looked at the doctor. “August, what happened?”
Faith’s eyes widened. “I just told you—”
Dr. Greeley held up a hand to stop her. “You fell and hit your head,” he told Grandpa. His voice was matter-of-fact. “You’ll need to stay home and rest for a few days. Mind yourself when you walk about.”
