As he rolled slowly toward the station’s loading dock, he examined a sizable pile of crates, sacks, and barrels stacked at one end of the long, planked deck. His eyes widened. Was all that hers? He squinted and made out the word Shilling stamped on a couple of the biggest crates. He whistled through his teeth. She’d placed a large order all right. Maybe it was good his things hadn’t taken up much space on the flatbed. He’d need all the room he could get for the mercantile’s supplies.
He pulled his truck as close to the dock as possible. If he ended up transferring those crates and barrels by himself, it would be easier to slide them from the dock right onto the bed of his truck. He turned off the ignition and hopped out, and at once a man in dusty pants, scuffed boots, and blue shirt straining at its buttons emerged from the little shack next to the dock.
“Howdy. You the one pickin’ up the Shilling order?”
Jesse held up his hands in surrender, grinning. “That’s me.”
“I had my boys put it all together here for you. Not an easy task. These things were tucked into three different freight cars.” The man shook his head, blowing out a breath. “First time ever we got involved in a shipment for the Shilling mercantile, an’ it happens after Shilling is dead. Kind of a strange state of affairs, wouldn’t ya say?”
Jesse tossed a sack of flour over his shoulder and stepped to the front of the bed. “If Shilling didn’t use the railroad, how’d he get his goods?”
The fellow grabbed one of the barrels and heaved it onto the flatbed. “Guess he bought ’em outright an’ carried them on that wagon he always drove. Asked him one time how come he didn’t let the rails carry his goods, an’ he laughed. Said he could get a better price goin’ face to face with dealers.” He shrugged and reached for another barrel. “Guess he finally changed his mind about orderin’ by telegram and lettin’ the trains do the totin’. Too bad he ain’t even here to see how easy it is.”
Jesse could have explained where the goods were going and who’d actually ordered them, but he decided the railroad worker didn’t need the information. He found it puzzling, however. The wagon Sheriff Abling auctioned off hadn’t seemed large enough to accommodate the size of orders Warren Shilling would have needed to fill the shelves at two businesses. Something didn’t make sense. He’d need to think on the situation some more.
When they finished transferring everything to his flatbed, Jesse offered the helpful fellow a fifty-cent piece as a thank-you, but the man backed up, shaking his head.
“I get paid well enough for my job, mister. Give that to whoever helps you at the other end.” He chuckled. “Your job’s only half done, you know.”
Jesse gripped his back and feigned a groan. “I know, I know.” With the man’s laughter following him, he slid behind the wheel and cranked the engine to life. He held the truck at twenty-five miles an hour the entire distance from Beloit to Buffalo Creek, swerving to avoid potholes so he wouldn’t bounce anything from the bed. Just shy of one thirty, considerably later than he’d expected, Jesse rolled onto his new town’s Main Street.
He downshifted and slowed his truck to a crawl. Ahead, automobiles of every kind and at least two dozen wagons with horses or mules napping within the traces crowded the street. He eased the vehicle forward, fighting the clutch—his old truck did better at full throttle than moving at a snail’s pace. Several wagons were parked clear up in the yard of the little chapel where Reverend Savage served. Jesse marveled at the sight. Half the town must be gathered there. Nuptials, burial, or revival?
The chapel’s windows were all raised, and the door stood wide, braced open with a brick. He killed his engine right in the middle of Main Street lest its rumble disturb the ceremony taking place in the small sanctuary. Sticking his head out the window, he strained to hear the minister’s voice. He caught two words—Warren Shilling.
He smacked the cracked steering wheel. Of course, the memorial service. Which meant Shilling’s widow would be there. Which meant the mercantile was closed. Which meant he couldn’t unload the crates until she returned. Which meant his belongings, which he’d put at the front of the flatbed rather than the rear, would have to stay put awhile longer. So much for getting his lodgings organized this afternoon.
But postponing his unpacking was small potatoes compared to what Mrs. Shilling and her children were doing. It wouldn’t be easy, laying Warren Shilling to rest with no body and no peace. Because how could she have peace, knowing what her husband had done?
Parking in the middle of the street wasn’t exactly legal, but he decided folks would understand, given the circumstances. So he hopped out of the cab and crossed the dead grass. He sat on the lowest porch riser and listened in. The same way they’d done at Shilling’s graveside in Beloit, people paid their respects by sharing their thoughts about the deceased man.
“He was a straight shooter in his business dealings. You always knew you could trust Warren Shilling.”
“What a gentleman he was, always in a suit and tie, always ready with a ‘yes, sir,’ or a ‘no, ma’am.’ We could do with more men like him.”
“Last spring, even though we were behind on paying our account, Mr. Shilling let me take home vegetable seeds for our garden and even slipped a packet of marigold seeds in at no charge. He said folks needed a little beauty to feed the soul. What a kindhearted man…”
“If you needed a hand—digging a cesspool, changing a tire, patching a porch roof—he’d take off his jacket, roll up his sleeves, and dive right in. He was never one to worry about getting his hands dirty.”
Just like in Beloit, everybody said good things. Jesse could have countered every last one of the statements, but would it help? Probably not. And it would surely hurt Mrs. Shilling and her children. But keeping quiet wouldn’t be easy. Not if people sang those praises to him. He’d never been able to hide his feelings. Whatever he thought showed on his face. His ma always said that was a good thing. A person shouldn’t find it easy to deceive others, because it only led to heartache. Mrs. Shilling must be experiencing that truth right about now.
The accolades seemed to roll forever. Jesse’s rear end was going numb by the time Reverend Savage’s distinctive booming voice brought an end to the service with a prayer. Even though Jesse was outside, away from the others, he stood, bowed his head, and closed his eyes out of respect for the reverend and for the God to whom the minister spoke. Even for Mrs. Shilling, who’d been deceived. But not out of any respect for the deceiver. Shilling had given up any right to respect a long time ago.
A resounding “amen” completed the prayer. Jesse turned, expecting to see a flow of people exit the chapel, but the minister spoke again. “The ladies of our congregation prepared a fellowship luncheon that will now be served in the basement. Everyone is welcome to partake.”
Apparently everyone chose to partake, because nobody came out. And who could blame them? Lots of folks scrambled to eat three meals a day. A free meal would be a big draw. But Jesse really wanted to get Mrs. Shilling’s goods off the back of his truck. He scratched his chin. Should he interrupt the luncheon to ask for a key?
He didn’t doubt she’d trust him to let himself in and out of the mercantile. He wasn’t exactly a stranger to her. Or maybe…A fuzzy image took shape in the back of his mind. Before he barged in on the church ladies’ luncheon, he’d find out whether his memory served him correctly.
He climbed back into the cab and coaxed the engine into turning over. Then he chugged the few blocks to the mercantile. As he had when he’d delivered the children, he drove through the alley to her back door. He glanced out the window as he rolled to a stop, and he couldn’t hold back a grin. Sure enough, there it was, the way he’d remembered.
A clay flowerpot—the only flowerpot in the whole backyard—sat on one corner of the stoop. A clump of something long dead straggled over the pot’s rim, but finger smudges on one edge of the pot let Jesse know someone had recently handled it.
He crossed the yard and tipped th
e pot. As he’d expected, a skeleton key lay on the gray concrete. He brushed it against his trouser leg to remove dust and then tested it on the back door. Moments later he used the pot to hold the door open, and he dragged in every crate, box, sack, and paper-wrapped bolt of cloth that had arrived at the train depot for Mrs. Shilling that morning.
He thumped the last crate to the floor and then paused, looking at the crowded area. Sympathy pricked him. She’d have quite a chore emptying all those crates. And to face the task after attending a service for her dead, philandering husband made it even worse. She’d be exhausted. Emotionally if not physically. But maybe he could help.
After two hours of frenzied activity, he was good and sweaty, so he borrowed the tin cup hanging on a bent piece of wire from the pump handle and cooled his throat with a drink and then his face with a splash. The water spattered his shirt front, too, but he didn’t mind. It would dry. And it felt good despite the breeze blowing from the east.
He locked the door and returned the key to its spot, careful to place the pot exactly the way he’d found it. The next time he saw Mrs. Shilling, though, he’d advise her to hide the key somewhere else. If he’d discovered the key, someone else could, too. And someone else might not be entering the mercantile for honorable reasons.
With the delivery complete and the mercantile secure, he could go to his new home and get settled. Come Monday he’d step into the position of sheriff. Eagerness propelled him across the yard. Whistling, he slipped in behind the wheel and bounced his way out of the alley.
Neva
“Belle, shake a leg.” Neva flicked her fingers at her daughter as if shooing flies. The luncheon and then responding to everyone’s condolences had eaten up the entire afternoon. The school buzzer had rung nearly half an hour ago. Charley and Cassie would fear they’d been forgotten if someone didn’t come soon.
“I’ll hurry, Momma.” Belle broke into a run.
Neva considered calling her back. The ribbon bow holding her hair in a fluffy ponytail had come undone at some point during the afternoon, and it flowed out behind her like the tail of a kite. Every Sunday Belle wore the inch-wide, cream-colored satin ribbon Warren had purchased during one of his away times. He’d bragged it cost him a full fifty cents. To replace it would cost dear. As she watched, the ribbon slipped from Belle’s hair and fluttered to the ground. Neva pulled in a breath, swallowed, and turned to Bud.
“Let’s go home, Son.” The two of them fell into step together. Usually Bud dashed ahead or lagged behind. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d walked side by side. To her surprise his stride matched hers, bringing a mixture of pain and pride. He was growing up so fast. She slipped her hand around his arm.
He shot her a startled look, but he didn’t pull away. They walked in silence for a few moments. Then he said quietly, “Ma?”
“Yes, Son?”
“Isn’t Charley big enough to walk back from school on his own? Belle and I made it just fine when we were eight.”
For once no rancor colored his tone. Perhaps the service had mellowed him. It had achieved the opposite effect within her. She offered a sad smile. “Charley’s different than you and Belle. He didn’t grow up here in Buffalo Creek. Everything is still new to him.”
Bud turned his gaze ahead and walked with firm, rhythmic steps. They’d traveled the distance of a block before he spoke again. “He’s a real pest, you know.”
Scolding words formed on Neva’s tongue, but she held them back. She didn’t want another argument.
“He follows me around at school during lunchtime. But he never says anything. It’s like having a half-sized shadow.” Bud crinkled his face as if he’d tasted something rancid. “Then at home, in my room, he sits on his bed and stares at me. Always quiet. Martin Buckwelder calls him a moron.”
“Martin Buckwelder should have better manners.” Neva frowned. “I hope you defend Charley when Martin is rude.”
“Oh, Ma…” Bud made another face. “Martin’s my friend. I don’t want to make him sore.”
“Well, Charley is your—” She stopped herself from saying “brother.” She floundered for an appropriate replacement. “Responsibility. He’s part of our family now. Would you tell Martin not to call Belle a moron?”
“Sure I would.”
“Well, then?”
Bud sighed. “Belle doesn’t act like a moron. She doesn’t deserve to be called one.” He peered at her out of the corner of his eye. “Sometimes Charley does.”
Neva stopped. Bud took another step, and she lost her light grip on his elbow. He angled a look at her over his shoulder. His hair had grown, and his bangs caught on his thick eyelashes. Instead of defiance, she read uncertainty in his gaze, and she couldn’t bring herself to berate him for the unkind statement.
She stretched out her hand, and he held out his elbow. She caught hold and they started off again. Quiet. With matching strides. The mercantile waited on the next block. When they reached it, they’d get to work and the opportunity for conversation would slip away. Even if it meant another argument, she needed to instruct him, once again, to be kind to Charley. She opened her mouth to speak.
“Ma, can I ask you something?”
She pushed her comment aside. “Of course.”
This time Bud stopped, drawing Neva to a halt beside him. He gazed at her with his eyes narrowed, as if it hurt to keep them open. “Did Pop adopt Charley and the girls?”
At least she could answer truthfully. “No, Bud, he didn’t adopt them.”
“Then why’d you tell us to have Miss Franklin record their names in the school records as Charley and Cassie Shilling? Don’t they have some other name?”
How could Warren have done this to her, putting her in the awful position of lying to their children? If he were there at that moment, she would rail at him the way she’d never railed at anyone ever before.
Her hand trembling, she cupped Bud’s smooth cheek. “They are Shilling, Bud, because your father wanted them to be Shilling. That will have to be explanation enough.”
He stared at her for several seconds, unblinking, eyes still squinted.
Farther up the block, tires squealed, a car horn honked, and someone hollered, “Moron! Learn how to drive!”
Bud’s lips twitched into a grin. “Want me to go tell him he’s rude?”
Neva laughed. She couldn’t help it. And it felt wonderful to release the burst of amusement. A tidal wave of love washed over her, and without thinking she grabbed Bud in a hug right there on Main Street.
He wriggled loose, then glanced right and left with his face glowing red. “Ma!” But his grin didn’t fade.
She laughed again. “I’m sorry. Was that rude?”
This time he laughed with her. They covered the final few feet to the mercantile’s front door with light steps. She unlocked the door and they stepped into the store, still chortling. But their laughter died in the same instant. Cold chills broke out from her scalp to her feet.
Empty crates were stacked beside the counter, their contents already on the shelves. The bean bins were full, the cracker barrel full, the sugar and flour barrels full. Canned peaches formed a pyramid on one end of the counter, and on the other end the glass candy jars each contained a fresh assortment. Although the gumdrop jar didn’t seem to be filled to the top.
Neva stood as if rooted in place, hugging herself, and stared disbelievingly, while Bud moved slowly through the store, his mouth hanging open. Bud finished his circle and stopped beside the row of candy jars. He gaped at Neva. “Who did all this?”
She shook her head, shedding the ridiculous thought that struck the moment she entered the mercantile, and made herself think rationally. Given his previous solicitous acts during the week, she would suspect Arthur Randall if he hadn’t been at Warren’s service.
“And look at this.” Bud picked up two dimes and held them out to Neva. “Whoever did all the work even left some money behind.”
A smile tugged at Neva�
��s lips. The missing gumdrops and the payment gave him away. “It must have been Mr. Caudel.”
“You think so?”
She knew so. Neva nodded.
“How’d he get in here?”
“I don’t know.”
Bud whistled softly. “He sure saved us a lot of time.”
Hours and hours of time. “He certainly did.”
Bud lifted the lid on the closest candy jar and fished out a few jellybeans. “Want me to start on some of those orders folks left with you? We can use these crates and get them all organized for pickup tomorrow.”
Neva gathered her senses. She hurried across the floor and took the candy jar lid from Bud. She clanked it into place, then turned him by his shoulders toward the staircase. “We’ll get started on those orders after we’ve changed out of our good clothes and had a bite of supper.” They could enjoy a leisurely supper, thanks to Mr. Caudel’s thoughtfulness.
Bud trotted off.
Neva started to follow, but then she stopped and sent one more slow look at the mercantile shelves. Although shoved in haphazardly rather than in soldier-like columns, he’d chosen the correct locations for everything. So much he’d accomplished. He couldn’t know unloading the goods onto the shelves was a task Warren insisted belonged to him.
In her mind’s eye she could see Warren with his sleeves rolled above his elbows, a hank of thick dark-brown hair falling across his forehead, emptying crates with movements as efficient as any machine. She heard his chuckle and then his voice.
“You’ve got lots of inner strength, Neva, but you need to leave the heavy work to me. That’s what husbands are for.”
She covered her warm cheeks with her hands, both flattered and flustered. What had compelled Jesse Caudel to put away her stock? And why was Mr. Randall being so attentive and helpful? What did they want from her in return?
Room for Hope Page 13
