Room for Hope

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Neva closed her eyes and moaned. “Why did such a cynical thought even occur to me?” Would Warren’s duplicity make her question every other man’s intentions?

  Jesse

  After unloading his belongings and organizing them in his new home, Jesse decided to treat himself to supper at Betsy Ann’s Café, a diner tucked between the hardware store and the sheriff’s office. How convenient to have an eating place so close to him. The house had a small Windsor stove with four burners and an oven the size of a breadbox—just about right for a bachelor. But if he was lucky, he’d never have to use it.

  He entered the diner, removing his hat as he stepped over the threshold. The place was quiet, every stool along the counter and every booth empty. But that wasn’t too surprising. Most families didn’t have money to squander at cafés these days. Being alone, he probably ought to take one of those round stools, but instead he chose a booth in front of the window where he could watch the street.

  A skinny woman with straggly dark hair streaked with gray scuffed out of the kitchen. She carried a coffeepot and a thick ceramic mug. Without asking she served him coffee, and then she announced in a flat voice, “The Friday special is Aunt Sue’s famous chicken an’ dumplings. Thirty-five cents a bowl. Coffee’s on the house.”

  Jesse thought about asking to see a menu—if he was going to be eating here regular, he’d like to know what his choices were. But her unsmiling countenance didn’t encourage conversation. He smiled. “Sounds fine.”

  Less than three minutes later she plopped a chipped bowl in front of him. No enticing aroma rose from it, but he thanked her anyway.

  “You’re welcome, mister.” She worried her stained apron in her hands and stared at him through watery eyes. “You the new sheriff?”

  “That’s right. Name’s Jesse Caudel.”

  “Betsy Ann Mullin. I own this place.” No pride colored her tone or expression. Betsy Ann Mullin looked and acted as bland as the bowl of chicken and dumplings smelled. “You married?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Me neither.”

  How did a fellow respond to a statement like that? He hoped she wasn’t hinting.

  She sighed. “Seems a shame. You look young enough to still catch a wife. If you get a hankering to marry up, let me know. I got two cousins of marriageable age.”

  He swallowed a snort of laughter. “Um…thank you, but being a lawman keeps me too busy to properly court a woman.” And marriage meant all kinds of responsibilities he’d rather avoid. Much easier to keep the law than take care of a family.

  She gave him one more long, searching look, then scuffed out of the dining room.

  Grateful to have escaped a proposal, he picked up his spoon and took a hearty bite. And almost spat it out. No wonder the booths were empty. Betsy Ann was a mighty poor cook. If Aunt Sue’s recipe was famous, it was likely for giving folks indigestion.

  Even so, he ate every bite of the stringy chicken and rubbery dumplings and lifted the bowl to drink the thin, flavorless broth. Never let it be said Jesse Caudel wasted food. But he’d give learning to use that stove in his house some serious consideration. Or maybe he’d just visit the Shilling share-kettle.

  He slid a quarter and a dime next to the bowl to pay for his meal, then added three pennies for a tip. He hollered a thank-you to the kitchen doorway, but Betsy Ann didn’t answer, so he slipped his hat over his hair and vacated the café.

  The sidewalks were almost as empty as Betsy Ann’s booths. Friday nights in Beloit were active, with folks spending their dimes at the picture show or gathering in the park for free-will concerts or just window-shopping. But up the street in Buffalo Creek, the lights around the Bijou Theater’s poster for Red River Valley were off. Gas lamps lit the grassy park and its weathered pavilion, but the area was quiet. Would Saturday night be more lively? In a way, he hoped not—less activity meant less mischief. But on the other hand, a fellow could get bored mighty fast with all this peace and hush.

  He scanned the east half of the business district. Two teenage boys loitered beneath the streetlamp outside the drugstore, and farther up the street a trio of elderly men sat chatting on the bench in front of the bank building. The teens seemed no rowdier than the old duffers, so Jesse turned his attention to the west side of town.

  Streetlamps dotted the sidewalks, but the businesses were dark. Except for one. Slivers of light escaped from around the lowered shades at the Main Street Mercantile. Apparently Mrs. Shilling was working. He hoped she wouldn’t mind an interruption, because he needed to tell her to move that key.

  He set out with wide strides, enjoying the thud of his boots against the sidewalk. He breathed in the musky air, cool with the arrival of evening but dry. With practice borne from years of keeping watch over a passel of younger sisters and then a town full of folks, he scanned the area, ears alert, muscles tense and poised for whatever action might be needed. But he reached the mercantile without a single reason to pause. Yes, sir, this was a peaceful town.

  He tapped on the door, and within moments the corner of the shade lifted. Bud peeked out. The shade dropped, a lock clicked, and the door popped open. Bud didn’t smile, but he did hold out his hand in an invitation to enter, so Jesse did.

  “Good evening. Sorry to intrude. I can see you’re working.” Working they were—the whole lot of Shillings from the proprietress all the way down to Adeline, who held a feather duster and marched around waving it as enthusiastically as a band leader waved a baton.

  Mrs. Shilling stepped from behind a crate, wiping her forehead with the back of her wrist. “Mr. Caudel, I’m glad you stopped in. Thank you for not only delivering my stock but putting most of it away.” She seemed extra animated compared to the café owner.

  He grinned. “How’d you know it was me?”

  She pointed at the gumdrop jar.

  He squelched a chuckle and shrugged. “Ah. Well…”

  She gave her hands a quick swipe with her apron and then extended them to him.

  He took hold of her smooth, dry hands and gave them a quick squeeze before slipping his hands into his pockets. He scanned the shelves. She’d already removed a few things. “I hope I didn’t mix up your system. I figured it would be easier for you to dive right back into shopkeeping if you didn’t have to worry about unpacking.”

  A glimmer of uncertainty flashed in her eyes, but then she graced him with another smile. “It was a great help, Mr. Caudel. Thank you. But”—a trickle of self-conscious laughter spilled out—“how were able to do it? When I left for the service, I locked all the doors.”

  Jesse explained his means of accessing the building. “It’d be a good idea, ma’am, to move the key. That little pot sitting there all alone, serving no other purpose, is a red flag to a lot of people, some of an unsavory character. If you’d like, I’ll help you find a safer hiding spot for your spare key.”

  “I appreciate your help. Especially considering…” She glanced at the children. With the exception of Adeline, who now whacked a row of cans with such gusto feathers flew from the duster, all had paused in their tasks and appeared to listen.

  Her voice unnaturally cheerful, Mrs. Shilling continued, “There are so many strangers passing through these days. One must be safe rather than sorry, yes?”

  He sensed she’d intended to say something else, but he wouldn’t prod her into sharing. Not with their audience. “It’s always best to err on the side of caution. That’s my motto.”

  Belle stepped away from the crate she’d been filling and approached Jesse, a shy smile on her face. “Mr. Caudel, have you moved to Buffalo Creek for good?”

  Jesse nodded. “As of today I sure have. I set myself up in that little house behind the sheriff’s office, and I’m calling it home.” He shrugged, aiming a sheepish grin at the girl’s mother. “Such as it can be with mostly empty rooms. This is the first time I’ve ever had a whole house to myself, so I’ve never had need for many personal effects. I plan on stopping by Randall’s Empo
rium tomorrow and see if he’ll make a good deal on some used furniture.”

  Belle’s forehead crinkled. “Mr. Randall only sells new furniture. My poppa only bought a few things from the emporium, because he said all of them cost a pretty penny. Maybe you should shop in a bigger city somewhere, the way Poppa did, to save your money.”

  The girl looked so worried for him Jesse couldn’t help but try to put her at ease. “Well then, I just might talk your momma into letting me have a few of these leftover crates. They’d make fine chairs and tables in a pinch, don’t you think?”

  Belle’s expression remained uncertain. Neva slipped her arm around the girl’s shoulders and fixed Jesse with a pensive look. “I haven’t paid you for delivering my goods.”

  He held up his hands. “I offered, remember? And I was coming from Beloit anyway so it didn’t cost me anything extra to bring those things.”

  “I know, but I’d still like to repay you. You did me a great favor, retrieving the orders from the railroad and even putting the stock on the shelves.” She bit the corner of her lip, flicking a frown toward the children. When she faced him again, she spoke in a near whisper. “The furniture you brought along with the children is still in my barn. Would you consider accepting a few pieces as payment?”

  Jesse drew back. The furniture in the barn was nicer than anything his folks had owned. Nicer than anything he’d ever expected to own. “That’s kind of you, ma’am, but—”

  “If you’d like, you can consider them a loan.”

  “A loan, you say?”

  She nodded, her eyes beseeching him. “That’s right. They’ll only go to ruin in the barn with its drafty walls and leaky roof. They’d fare much better in a house, so if you took them, you’d really be doing me a favor.”

  She was doing him the favor, and they both knew it. The stubborn side of him wanted to resist, but deep down he knew she was right—that fine furniture would go to rot if left in a cold, wet barn over the winter. But he couldn’t take it unless she’d let him balance the give-and-receive scales.

  “Mrs. Shilling, I’d be pleased to store your furniture in my house. I’ll take good care of it while it’s there. And as ‘rent payment,’ so to speak, you can consider me your personal drayman.” If every Friday was as quiet as this one, taking one day a month to drive to the Beloit train station and back shouldn’t be a problem.

  A weak smile toyed at the corners of her mouth. “A drayman generally refers to a man driving a horse-pulled dray, not an Oldsmobile truck.”

  He chuckled. “All right, then. Your personal, er, truckman. How’s that?” To his delight she laughed. It pleased him to coax laughter out of her, especially on this day, when she’d bid an official farewell to her dead husband.

  “Actually I prefer the title drayman. It sounds more dapper. But either way I appreciate your service, and I would like to confirm our arrangement.” She held out her hand.

  For the second time that evening, Jesse curled his fingers around hers. They shook hands, with him mimicking her mock-serious frown, and then at the same time they smiled.

  Across the room Bud cleared his throat.

  She yanked her hand free and gave Belle a little push toward the crates. “Finish packing that order now. We want all the orders ready to go out the door when we open for business in the morning.”

  “Yes, Momma.” Belle scurried back to the crate and lifted a sheet of paper.

  Jesse needed to let them all return to work. He eased toward the door. “I’ll fetch my truck and pull it around to the barn. Get started moving some of that furniture to my place.”

  “And then would you help me find a better place for the key? As you said, its current location is too conspicuous.” An odd half-sad, half-hopeful smile climbed her pale cheek. “I suppose I can trust a sheriff to keep secret a suitable hiding spot.”

  After what her husband had put her through, the fact that she could trust anyone—even a man sporting a sheriff’s badge—was nothing short of a miracle. He wove his way between the crates, heading for the back door. “Let’s go do that right now, ma’am.” He’d find a safe spot for that key. Nobody would bring harm to this family again. Not while he was on duty.

  Bud

  Bud slid open the barn door while Mr. Caudel pulled his flatbed truck up close. Pop had never put electricity in the barn even though he often talked about it. They’d never have electricity out here now. Ma wouldn’t think of it on her own, and he wouldn’t mention it, because it meant talking about Pop.

  Mr. Caudel peered into the barn, squinting. “Dark in there. Do you still have the lantern we used last time?”

  Bud nodded. He felt his way to Pop’s workbench along the west wall and located the lantern and a tin of matches. He tucked one match in the corner of his mouth the way Pop did, then used another one to light the lantern. He stretched up on tiptoes and caught the tin lantern on a hook in one of the ceiling beams. Not as good as electric lights, but at least they could see the furniture now.

  Mr. Caudel sauntered in and moved from piece to piece, as if taking stock. “Awfully nice of your mother to let me use these things. I already thanked her, but I’d be beholden if you’d tell her again.”

  Bud shrugged. “All right.” He leaned against the work counter, folded his arms over his chest, and watched the new sheriff. He was some taller than Pop and a little wider across the shoulders, but in some ways he acted like Pop—like he was comfortable all the time. How must it feel to just be comfortable?

  He pushed off from the bench. “I need to hurry up so I can finish helping Ma. Which things do you want? She said you were welcome to all of it.”

  The man chuckled. “I won’t have room for all of it. It’s a pretty small house. But to keep it from going to rot and ruin out here, we’ll pack as much in as we can. The rest? Maybe your mother can cover them with canvas. Protect ’em at least a little bit.”

  How come this new sheriff cared so much about the contents of their barn? The old sheriff hadn’t cared what was in a place unless something turned up missing.

  Mr. Caudel paused beside the velvet settee and ran his hand across the wooden back. “This is heavy furniture. Would you like to get your friends to help again?”

  “You mean Leon and Leroy?”

  “That’s right.”

  Bud snorted. “They’re not my friends.”

  “No?”

  “No.” And Mr. Randall wasn’t Ma’s friend either, even though he tried to act like it. Bud didn’t trust the father any more than he trusted the sons. “We don’t need them anyway. I helped Ma carry the bedsteads and bureaus upstairs.”

  The man’s eyebrows shot up. “You and your ma—all by yourselves—carried those walnut beds upstairs?”

  If Bud wasn’t mistaken, Mr. Caudel looked impressed. Unexpectedly, pride swelled. He fingered the sulfur end of the matchstick caught in his lips and rocked on his heels the way a detective did in a movie he’d watched over at the Bijou. The movie hero had seemed plenty tough. Bud wanted to look tough, too. “Yes, sir, we did. So I figure I can help you load these things on your flatbed without any other help.”

  The new sheriff grinned. “All right then. Let’s get to it.”

  Bud would never tell how hard it had been to get the heavy furniture up the staircase in the mercantile. And he’d never tell how much it strained him to heft these pieces onto Mr. Caudel’s flatbed. He hoped he and the sheriff had taken long enough in the barn that Ma and the kids got all the order boxes filled, because he didn’t want to lift as much as a can of peas by the time he and Mr. Caudel shoved the last dining room chair onto the wooden platform. But even more than his muscles ached, satisfaction filled him. He’d done it.

  Mr. Caudel wrapped twine around it all, gave a few items a tug, then nodded. “That oughta hold things. Especially since I’m only going a few blocks.” He grinned and gave Bud a light whack on the shoulder. “Good work there. You’re as strong as any man twice your age, I’d wager.”

&nbs
p; The praise reminded him of something Pop would’ve said, and it raised a good feeling in the center of his chest. Bud toyed with the chewed-up matchstick to hide his smile. He inched sideways toward the barn. “Gonna blow out that lantern now, then head in and see how Ma’s doing with those orders.”

  “Huh-uh. Hold up there.”

  Bud stopped, confused.

  “You think I’m gonna let you get out of carrying these things into my house?” Mr. Caudel chuckled again. He waved one hand toward the barn door. “Go ahead and extinguish the lantern, lock this thing up, and then climb in my truck. I still need your help.”

  This time Bud didn’t pinch back his smile. He just let it grow.

  “If Betsy Ann’s is still open by the time we’re done, I’ll take you in there and buy you a soda as a thank-you.”

  Bud grimaced. “Soda’s about the only thing a person feels safe ordering in Betsy Ann’s. She’s a terrible cook. Folks around town say that’s probably why she never married. Her husband would’ve ended up starving to death.”

  Mr. Caudel laughed. “Thanks for telling me. But you’re an hour or two late.” He clutched his stomach and made a terrible face. “I had supper there.”

  “The Friday special?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Ma keeps sodium bicarbonate behind the counter. While I lock up, you might go get some from her.”

  He laughed again. Harder this time.

  Bud grinned. He generally didn’t like grownups laughing at him, but for some reason it didn’t bother him so much tonight. Working out here with Mr. Caudel had almost been like working with Pop. He just might get to like this new sheriff after all.

  Jesse

  The clock on the wall showed twenty past eleven by the time Jesse finished arranging the furniture in the house. He would have been done earlier had he not taken Bud Shilling to the café for a bottle of Royal Crown Cola, but he didn’t begrudge treating the boy. No one could say Bud wasn’t a hard worker. His mother—and his father, if half of what Bud said about the man was true—had taught him the value of hard work. It’d been hard work for Jesse to keep a smile on his face while the boy bragged about his “pop.” His heart ached now, thinking how crushed Bud would be when he learned the truth. But he wouldn’t hear it from Jesse. That was Mrs. Shilling’s responsibility.