by Ann Shorey
“Who is it?”
“Faith.”
“Thought you were too busy.”
She turned the handle and slipped into the room. Clasping her hands together, she said, “I’m sorry, Grandpa. I shouldn’t have said what I did. Anytime you want me to read your writing, don’t hesitate.”
He placed his pen next to the inkwell. “You mean it?”
Faith stepped beside his chair. “Yes.” She kissed his cheek. “Get back to your memoir. I’ll be inside if you want me.”
With light steps, she hurried into the mercantile and hung the broom on a hook. She heard footsteps through the wall separating the storeroom from the front of the building. A deep voice called, “Is anyone here?”
She brushed through the dividing curtain and stopped short, her heart drumming in her throat. Royal Baxter stood inside the open front door. He removed his hat and pressed it against his trouser leg. “Miss Lindberg. I’ve thought of your pretty face ever since yesterday. I don’t know how I could have forgotten our meeting. Will you forgive me?”
Faith stared at him, speechless. Did he mean he remembered her? Or was he merely apologizing for his comments?
He shook his head. “I knew it. My behavior was unpardonable.” He turned toward the entrance. “I won’t bother you again.”
“Wait.” She closed the distance between them. “There’s nothing to forgive. I shouldn’t have assumed you’d remember me after nearly five years.”
“Would you consider getting reacquainted? There’s a dance planned at the hotel for a week from Friday to raise money for war widows. I’d like to ask you to accompany me if you’re agreeable.”
Agreeable? She’d dreamed of such an invitation. But now that he stood in front of her, she hesitated. If all went as she hoped, she and Grandpa would leave in another month or so.
Royal cleared his throat. “You’re a quiet one. Shall I ask again some other time?”
“Yes. I mean, no need. I’d be pleased to go to the dance with you.”
“Good.” He replaced his hat and crossed the threshold.
Faith hurried after him. “Don’t you want to know where I live?”
“I already asked someone.” He strode to a horse tied out front and swung into the saddle. “I’ll call for you at seven next Friday.”
“Yes,” she said to his departing back, then flopped onto a bench next to the entrance. Whatever his motivation, this was an invitation she’d waited years to receive. She had no intention of refusing.
Faith reached far into a barrel and dug through the excelsior for a last plate. A full set of tea leaf–patterned lusterware spread over a shelf to her right. The dishes had come at a high price, nearly a week’s worth of receipts, but she believed they wouldn’t sit long before enticing a buyer.
Rosemary leaned over the counter. “My, those are beautiful.”
Rubbing her back, Faith straightened and smiled. “Aren’t they? I’m hoping they sell quickly.” She wiped perspiration from her forehead with a corner of her apron, then grabbed the empty barrel and rolled it toward the storeroom.
“Let me help you.” Rosemary pushed while Faith steered the bulky wooden container across the floor. Bodie followed them, his tail beating the air.
Faith laughed. “He thinks we’re playing a game.”
“Everything’s a game to Bodie.”
“My father had a hunting dog named Flint. Grandpa gave him away after we got word of Papa’s death.” Faith placed the barrel with other empty ones and faced Rosemary. “I used to hug Flint and pretend he was Papa. I cried when he left with his new owner.” She shrugged. “Silly of me.”
Rosemary’s eyes welled with sympathetic tears. “Not silly. Small losses are nearly as painful as big ones.”
“Yes.” Faith dusted her hands together, dismissing the moment. “I know you didn’t come in today to roll a barrel into the storeroom. What can I get for you?”
“I’m on a mission this morning. Curt and I are going to Pioneer Lake for a picnic Sunday afternoon. We’d like you and your grandfather to join us.”
Two invitations in one day. After the somber war years, she relished the prospect of social activities. “Sounds delightful. We’d be happy to come. I haven’t been to Pioneer Lake for a long time.”
“I have a second reason for being here today.” Rosemary whipped a long apron from her carryall and tied it around her waist. “You need an assistant. The mercantile is too big for one person to handle alone.”
Faith pushed the burlap curtain aside and attempted to visualize her grandfather’s store as it might appear to Rosemary’s eyes. The long rectangular room was filled with merchandise on floor-to-ceiling shelves. Cookstoves, crocks and kettles, and a barrel filled with ax handles formed a row down the center. The fabric display occupied a prominent space near the door. A few bright calico work dresses, purchased from a local seamstress, hung from a rack near the notions.
She clasped Rosemary’s hands in hers. “I’d love to have your company, but are you sure you want to spend time here? Some of our town gossips can be cruel.”
“I can’t hide at home forever. If I’m to make a new start, it might as well be here.” She raised a questioning eyebrow. “Don’t you want me?”
“Oh, you know I do. We don’t earn enough to pay wages, though. I hope to change that, but for now my presence in the store has driven away the older customers. They don’t think it’s fitting for a woman to engage in commerce.”
Rosemary hugged her. “I don’t want wages. Curt takes good care of us. I just want to help you. I’ll come each morning and stay through the noon hour, starting today.”
“Done. Let’s see what people think of two women engaged in commerce.” Faith chuckled. “We’ll create a stir.”
Bodie pattered across the floor and sprawled outside on the boardwalk.
“See?” Rosemary said. “He’s already comfortable in his new position as doorkeeper.”
On Sunday afternoon, Faith filled a basket with cold roast chicken, buttered biscuits, and spice cookies. After a survey of the pantry, she added a jar of apple butter and one of peach jam. She needed to use last summer’s preserves. The glass jars were too fragile for travel over the Oregon trail.
Grandpa rapped his cane on the kitchen floor. “Are you ready? They’re waiting.”
“Coming.” She paused at the hall mirror to adjust her bonnet.
He fidgeted at the window. “Look at that sunshine. What a fine day for a picnic.”
She smiled to see him so eager. Linking her arm with his, she stepped out the door.
Once she and Grandpa were settled in the Saxons’ covered buggy, Curt shook the reins and they rolled west toward Pioneer Lake. Beyond the edge of town the road narrowed, winding between groves of oaks and chokecherry. Sunlight sifted through the branches, gilding water pooled in low spots.
Rosemary poked her brother. “Can’t we travel any faster? The day will be over before we ever arrive.”
“Moses only has one speed. Maybe you can make him hurry.” He handed her the reins.
She flicked them over the horse’s back. He jolted forward for several paces, then settled into his former walk.
Curt snickered. “What did I tell you?”
Faith’s throat tightened at the sight of brother and sister enjoying each other’s company. A shiver rolled over her. She missed Maxwell. Even after two years, memories of her brother never failed to bring tears to her eyes. The sooner they left Missouri, the better.
9
Curt stood on the shore of Pioneer Lake, shading his eyes against the sun that ricocheted off the glittering water. An image of himself hiding submerged in a creek jumped unbidden into his mind, obscuring the peaceful scene. He felt the water moving over his skin, and the choking sensation of trying to suck sufficient air through a hollow reed.
He balled his hands into fists. Not now. Not in front of Faith and her granddad. Cold sweat prickled his body. He took a deep breath and held it until h
e heard his pulse thud. The image faded. Curt raised his head, gasping. The lake sparkled in front of him.
The group sitting on blankets under a shade tree looked up from their conversation when he stumbled toward them.
Faith smiled in his direction. “There’s enough here for another meal. I was about to put the leftovers away.”
He collapsed next to Rosemary, relieved no one had noticed his weak-kneed gait. “I’ll help you eat them.” Holding his hand steady, he reached for the jar of peach jam and spooned a portion onto a biscuit. “I can taste summer in this fruit. Warm July evenings. Heat lightning.” He forced a smile. “I volunteer to pick peaches for you when they come ripe.”
“I hope you’ll pick some for us too.” Rosemary glanced at him with affection in her eyes.
Faith leaned forward, hands clasped in her lap. “We’ll be leaving before July.”
Curt dropped the uneaten portion of his biscuit to his plate. Faith would be gone in a few months? A sense of loss rocked through him. Then he forced himself to consider the bright side. He could relax. He’d no longer have to fight his attraction to the petite girl with the ready smile and bottomless blue eyes.
“Where are you going?”
“Grandpa and I are headed for Oregon as soon as we can sell the mercantile.”
“Don’t put words in my mouth. I haven’t agreed yet.” Judge Lindberg struggled to his feet.
Faith rose. “Grandpa—”
“This is a family matter. We’ll discuss our plans later.” He limped toward the buggy.
Rosemary stepped next to Faith. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Tears glittered on her cheeks. “I don’t want you to go.”
Faith looked like she was struggling not to cry. “I didn’t mean to blurt things out like that. I wanted to talk to you first. Sometimes my mouth runs off with me.” She slipped an arm around Rosemary’s waist. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. I shouldn’t have assumed you’d always be here.” Rosemary swiped at her tears. “You won’t be leaving for a month or more, will you?”
“Everything depends on whether we can sell the mercantile. And you heard Grandpa. Sounds like you and I have lots of time.”
Curt watched them, wishing he could comfort his sister. Faith’s friendship had made a difference in Rosemary’s life. She’d overcome her reluctance to face the stares of the proper ladies in town. He’d even caught her humming while she worked in her garden. Without Faith to draw her out, would she isolate herself again?
Grandpa sat at the kitchen table munching a cookie while Faith unpacked the picnic leftovers. She allowed his unspoken criticism to follow her around the room until she could no longer bear the silence. “Aren’t you going to light into me?”
He brushed crumbs from his moustache. “I don’t need to. You know you spoke out of turn.”
“But we’re going. You agreed.” She flung herself into a chair on the opposite side of the table.
“No, I said I’d think about it. If memory serves, you had plans to turn a profit at the mercantile. How are sales?”
Faith bit her lip. He stopped in at least once a day with his manuscript. He had to notice the lack of customers. “The yard goods are very popular with the ladies. I’ve sold fabric and notions for graduation and weddings.”
“How about plows and cookstoves? It takes a heap of fabric to equal the cost of one stove.” Grandpa bit into another cookie, watching her over the frames of his glasses.
“Times are hard. No one has cash money for something as costly as a stove.” She shrank under his steady gaze.
“It’s plowing season. Anyone come in for a new plow?”
She shook her head.
“I don’t mean to hector you, but you’ve got to look at facts. If we can’t sell the store, we can’t make the trip.” He pushed himself to his feet and walked around the table, resting his hand on her shoulder. “I told you I’d think about this journey. Why don’t you do the same? We’ll never travel far enough to flee from our sorrows.” He drew her against his chest and kissed the top of her head.
Faith leaned against him, blinking back tears. “Perhaps not, but maybe we could forget,” she whispered.
That night, she lay in bed staring at the ceiling. Pale moonlight whitewashed the curtains at the window. No matter how she fluffed her pillow or smoothed the sheets, the memory of Rosemary’s teary eyes wouldn’t let her rest. When would she learn to think before she spoke?
Rolling onto her side, she tugged the blanket higher to block the light. First thing tomorrow she’d go to the Saxons’ house and explain her decision. When Rosemary knew why Faith wanted to leave, she’d understand.
A tap at the door awakened her the next morning. “It’s after eight. Time to stir.”
After eight? Faith swung her feet to the floor and thrust her arms into the sleeves of her wrapper. “I’m up.” She filled her washbasin from the pitcher atop her bureau and splashed her face with cold water. Of all the days to oversleep. Now she’d have no time to speak privately with Rosemary before opening the mercantile.
As soon as she and Grandpa finished breakfast, they left for town. Faith matched her stride to his slower one, chafing at the delay. She tossed a wave in Curt’s direction when they passed the livery stable. No time to stop and explain herself to him, either.
Once inside the store, Faith hurried to open the shades, noticing the display in the front window needed to be dusted. She drew a breath and released it with a huff. She’d ordered the two new sets of iron cookware, spending almost a week’s receipts, certain that ladies would find the burnished gray finish irresistible. Now here the pieces sat gathering dust. There had to be a way to entice patrons through the door. Maybe Rosemary would have a suggestion. Faith would ask her as soon as she arrived.
The morning ticked past, the minutes marked by the eight-day clock behind the cash drawer. Every time the bell over the door tinkled, Faith turned, expecting to see Rosemary. By twelve, she’d lost hope.
She locked the back door and carried her dinner pail to the building where Grandpa worked on his memoirs.
“Noon already?” he asked, placing his pen next to the inkwell. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead.
“Yes.” Faith waved her hand in front of her face. “It’s like an oven in here. Why don’t you leave the door open?” She lifted two tin plates from the top of the pail and placed a wedge of cold cheese pie on each of them.
“Never thought of it. I’ve been too busy working.” He pushed filled pages in her direction. “Take a look. I’m up to the point where my uncle goes off to be a preacher.” Grandpa lifted his fork. “Where’s Miss Rosemary?”
“I don’t know. She didn’t arrive this morning. I’m afraid she’s upset with me.” She poked at her food.
He gave her his Judge Lindberg look and cleared his throat. “What do you plan to do about it?”
How like Grandpa to present her with a Solomon-like question. She’d had all morning to consider the importance of Rosemary’s friendship, so her answer came without further thought. “I’ll call on her as soon as I close the store this evening. Would you mind if supper is late?”
“Not a bit.” His eyes twinkled. “I hoped that’s what you’d decide.”
When Faith climbed the porch steps, Bodie roused from his nap on the doormat and nosed her outstretched hand. “Good boy.” She rubbed his velvety ears.
The door swung open and Curt looked at her, a surprised expression on his face. “Come in, Faith.” He turned to Bodie, patting the top of his head. “Some watchdog you are. You’re supposed to bark at strangers.”
Rosemary peered around his shoulder. “Faith isn’t a stranger.” In the shadows her skin appeared pale, with dark circles under her eyes.
Alarmed, Faith stepped past Curt to place a hand on Rosemary’s cheek. “Are you ill?”
“Nothing serious.” She cupped her hands across her abdomen. “I’ll be better tomorrow.”
Faith nodded understanding.<
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Curt gestured toward the sitting room. “Sit a spell,” he said to Faith. “I’ll bring you both some tea—raspberry leaf.”
“Thank you.” She smiled at Rosemary and lowered her voice. “How did you ever teach him to help in the kitchen? My father and brother . . .” She swallowed. “They never did.”
“He was forced to learn when he enlisted. That’s the only good thing I can say about that dreadful war.” Rosemary led the way toward two chairs accented with needlepoint cushions. “I’m glad you stopped by. I felt guilty about not coming to help today, but I just couldn’t.”
“I’m the one who feels guilty. You of all people deserve to know why I want so much to leave Missouri.”
“Tell me.”
Faith settled onto a chair and leaned toward her friend. “When I was ten, my grandmother died, then Mama passed shortly after that. My father and Maxwell, my brother, were all I had left—and Grandpa, of course. Then the war came. Maxwell and Papa enlisted in the Union army right away, even though Maxwell was only sixteen.” She closed her eyes for a moment, remembering. “Grandpa and I lived every day in fear they’d be killed, but three years went by and they were spared. Then . . .” She took a deep breath. “Then we got word they’d perished at the Battle of Westport. On Missouri soil—barely two hundred miles from home.” She held Rosemary in her gaze. “Don’t you see? I want to go somewhere and make a new start, like so many folks have done. The hard part will be leaving you.”
“It will be hard on me, also. I wish—”
Curt entered, placing two cups of tea on a tripod table between their chairs. He sprawled on the settee across the room and stretched out his long legs. “If you ask me, running away is a poor reason to pull up roots. Your granddad was born here. He wants to die here.”
“How do you know what my grandfather wants?”
“He told me.”
Shocked, Faith raised her teacup and then returned it to the saucer, untasted.
