Had Pop done those same things with customers at the Beloit store? Had he called Charley “buddy o’ mine” and taught him how to do things, too? Had he told Charley, “Good job!” with the same pride as he showed for Bud?
Bud’s nose started burning again. He loved Pop, and he hated him. Hated him even more than he hated being picked on by Leon or Leroy, more than he hated lima beans, more than he hated Charley. How could he love Pop and hate him so much at the same time? It didn’t make sense.
Stupid feelings…
His backside started to throb where the root dug in. He lay on his side and curled up like a roly-poly bug. Tucking his hands into his armpits, he willed sleep to take him someplace far, far away.
Neva
Sleep was impossible. Neva alternately paced the floor of the mercantile, prayed, and emptied crates to keep herself occupied. With each pass near the windows, she paused to peer up the street, hoping to see one of the Randall boys guiding Bud home with a flashlight or Sheriff Caudel’s pickup with Bud riding in the cab.
At midnight Arthur—not Mr. Randall, because in a moment of weakness she’d agreed they should call each other Arthur and Neva—came by to tell her he was making his boys turn in. He’d promised to keep driving the streets in his Packard, however, and for the first time since he started his daily visits and kind deeds, she gave him a truly heartfelt thank-you.
By the time the bank clock rang out with two resounding bongs, she’d emptied every crate, her shelves were stocked, and exhaustion sagged her spine and her spirits. She dragged the cracker barrel close to the window and sat, then rested her forehead against the cool glass. Her eyes burned, and she rubbed them every few minutes, but she refused to close them. She might miss seeing either the sheriff or Arthur return with Bud.
When the clock bonged four in the morning, Neva forced her stiff body from the barrel and limped to the storage space under the stairs where she’d hung her wool coat, the one Warren had given her two Christmases ago, with the real fox fur collar. She gritted her teeth as she slipped her arms into the sleeves, recalling how she’d squealed with delight upon opening the box and discovering the lovely coat. Wearing it now nauseated her, but it would keep her warm even against the most vicious wind.
She fastened the carved ivory buttons all the way to her throat, pulled up the collar, and marched to the front door. As her fingers curled around the handle, her good sense returned. She couldn’t leave. Not with Belle and the children asleep upstairs. Belle was capable of watching the others, but sometime during the past hours Neva had vowed to stop leaving the care of Charley, Cassie, and Adeline to Belle. The added responsibility wasn’t fair to the girl, and Neva had to make amends. She’d do so by assuming the role of caregiver. Not aunt or mother but caregiver. It was the best she could do, but she intended to pray for God to open her heart to more. She could only trust He would do so in time.
Leaving her coat on, she returned to the cracker barrel, sat on its edge, and sighed. Her breath steamed the glass. She swiped it clean with her coat sleeve and then gazed out at the quiet scene. The street seemed so forlorn with its dim lamps forming fuzzy circles of light like dandelion puffs. The gusting wind turned dust into writhing snakes that slithered along the bricked street. The old building popped and moaned against the wind’s force.
Neva shivered. She hugged herself, gently rocking on the barrel. Such a storm. And somewhere out there, all alone, Bud was in the midst of it.
Bud
The ground beneath him vibrated. Drowsy, Bud grimaced and burrowed his face into his elbow. A horn honked, and someone—Mr. Randall?—hollered his name. Bud scrambled to his feet and plastered himself against the tree. His heart pounding, he blinked against the night and watched from the corner of his eye as the Randalls’ Packard slowly rumbled near, the headlights skimming the dry grass along the road.
“Bud? Bud? You out there, Bud?”
Light crept up on Bud’s right, and he held his breath until it transferred to the other side of the tree and appeared to float away. Mr. Randall kept calling, but his voice got fainter and fainter until it faded clear away.
With a sigh Bud slid down the trunk and sat for a moment, letting his galloping pulse return to normal. The wind was still blowing, but while he slept, the moon had sneaked above the dust. He could make out his surroundings well enough to walk without smacking into a tree or a building. If Mr. Randall was driving up and down the roads, chances were Ma had sent others out, too. He needed to get away from the places cars could go.
He gripped the tree and leaned out on one side and then the other, looking, listening. No headlights, no car engines. It was safe to move on. But to where? If he remembered right, the road ran north and south. He didn’t want to follow the road, so he needed to go either east or west. He scanned the two possibilities.
To the east was cleared farmland. Easy for walking even in the dark, but there was nothing to shield him from the moonlight, nothing to duck behind if a car happened along. To the west was a windbreak of trees. It’d be rougher traveling. Scrub bushes and low-hanging branches would probably try to catch him. But if he stayed in the windbreak, he’d just look like one more shadow to anyone who drove by.
The decision made, he took off at a lope for the thick, scraggly growth. He was right about the trees and such grabbing at him. Branches scratched his face and snagged his jacket. A branch like a skeleton’s finger reached down and caught his hair, and it took him a good three minutes to work himself loose. Maybe he should’ve asked Ma for a haircut before he set out.
Once free of the pesky branch, he slipped his jacket over his head the way a war chief huddled in a blanket. His hair didn’t get hooked again, but his sheepskin collar did. He was probably leaving little tufts of wool behind, like Hansel and Gretel’s breadcrumbs from the story Ma had read him and Belle when he was little. A grin of fond remembrance pulled at his cheek.
His steps slowed to a stop. He let his jacket slide back onto his shoulders. The wind tore at his hair and bounced little branches against him, but he stood there and let the leafless branches smack him. What was he doing taking off like this? Where did he think he’d go? Sure, he sometimes talked big about striking out, finding a job, carving a future the way Pop had when he was only fourteen. But deep down he didn’t want to be alone. And Ma would be half-sick from worry by now.
He gritted his teeth and forced a growl. Let her worry. She shouldn’t have taken in those kids. She shouldn’t have let Pop go off every other month. She…She…He hung his head. The anger wouldn’t rise. In its place was a heaviness he couldn’t toss aside. He was lonely out here. He wanted his mother.
Off to the right in the distance, a flickering light caught Bud’s attention. He squinted at it, his tired brain struggling to identify its source. Headlights? No. Then there’d be two lights. And this one wasn’t the right shape, more square than round. Ah, a window—or a lamp behind a window. Which meant there was a farmhouse, and somebody was awake.
His heart gave a hopeful stutter. Maybe the farmer would have a telephone he could use to call the sheriff’s office and ask Sheriff Caudel to come get him. Or maybe the farmer would be willing to take him into town. Most of the farmers had shopped at the mercantile a time or two, and he didn’t know of anybody who didn’t like Ma and Pop. Surely the farmer would do him a favor if he said he was Warren and Neva Shilling’s son.
Bud worked his way out of the windbreak and broke into a trot over the uneven ground, moving directly toward the square of light. When he’d gone half the distance between the trees and the farmhouse, a bobbing circle of light emerged from the house’s tall shadow and began floating toward the lurking gray shape Bud surmised was the barn. Apparently the farmer, with a lantern in hand, was heading out to do early chores—probably to milk. Hunger pinched Bud’s belly. Maybe he’d even get a little something to fill his stomach.
Bud forced his tired legs into a dead run and waved both hands over his head. “Hey! Hey, mister!”
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The bobbing circle stopped. A harsh voice broke through the murky predawn. “Who’s out there?”
Without slowing his pace, Bud choked out his name. “B-Bud—Bud Sh—”
“Whoever you are, you’re trespassin’! This is private-owned land, and you got no right to be on it!”
Bud stumbled to a halt. His lungs were heaving so hard he couldn’t catch his breath. He braced his hands on his knees and tried again to speak. “Mister, I’m—”
“You’re a dirty trespasser, that’s what you are!” The lantern’s glow began bouncing toward the house, twice as fast as it’d gone before. “I’m fetchin’ my shotgun. If you’re still out here by the time I get it in hand, you can figure on receiving a backside full of buckshot!”
Bud gave up trying to explain himself. Fear sent him running again, away from the farm, back toward the windbreak, where he could hide among the brambles. He tripped and fell flat. Stiff blades of dried grass speared his palms. He hissed in pain and rolled to his side, cradling his stinging hands against his chest.
Kaboom!
The blast of a shotgun launched him to his feet, and he took off again, panting in fear, his palms burning like someone had lit a match to them. His feet pounded against the ground in rhythm with his thudding pulse. Another explosion shattered the night, its echo filling Bud’s ears, and he screeched. He risked a glance over his shoulder, certain he’d see the farmer right on his tail, but there was no one behind him. And suddenly there was nothing under his feet.
Bud’s arms flew over his head as he rapidly descended into blackness. He scrambled for a handhold but came away with nothing more than clumps of dirt and broken fingernails. For a fleeting moment he wondered if he’d found the Alice in Wonderland hole. He hadn’t liked the book all that much when Miss Franklin read it to the class, and now that it had become his reality, he liked it even less. But instead of falling free into another world, his feet met a solid surface. The impact jarred him all the way up his spine, and pain exploded through his hips.
For several seconds he just stood, or lay—he couldn’t be sure since his body was wedged so tightly and the fall had muddled his brain—with his arms above his head and tried to calm his ragged breathing. Dirt filtered into his nose, making him cough. His eyes burned. He wanted to rub them, but when he tried to bring his arms down, his elbows caught. The close walls around him prevented movement.
He blinked a dozen times to clear them of dirt. It helped some. He leaned his aching head back as far as he could and squinted. Mostly all he saw was black. But far above him, a dim circle of pinkish gray gave him a tiny glimpse of the morning sky coming awake. He hoped some of the light would find its way down to him and give him an idea of how to get out of…Out of what? Where was he anyway?
Through rapid blinks he examined his surroundings. Not much to it—just a circular space, narrow, with crumbling dirt walls. An old well, maybe? If so, lucky for him they’d been suffering a drought. It was dry as unbuttered toast down here. At least he didn’t have to be afraid of drowning. Even so, he didn’t want to stay.
He tried grabbing the walls and pulling himself up, but his fingers were bleeding. It hurt too much to dig them into the hard walls. So he tried pushing with his legs. Pain stabbed through his hips and lower spine. He sucked in a sharp breath and went limp. The shooting pain changed to a dull throb. Bearable. Maybe he should just stay put until night fell again. Give his legs a chance to recover.
That farmer would likely be watching all day, and he’d shoot as soon as he saw Bud’s head pop up from the ground. Besides, he was tired. A good rest would give him the strength he’d need to pull himself out of here.
Yes, it was a good plan. He’d just rest up and wait until the dark came back. Bud tipped his head against his upraised arm, using it as a pillow, and closed his eyes.
Jesse
Jesse thought he’d felt bad when he couldn’t find the thief who took off with Mrs. Shilling’s money, but it couldn’t compare to the way he felt telling her he hadn’t been able to find her son. Arthur Randall kept a grip on her elbow, which Jesse surmised was the only thing keeping her upright. Her red eyes and haggard face told him she hadn’t slept a wink all night.
She gazed at him in complete helplessness, her hazel eyes swimming with tears. “Do you think he…he might have hitched a ride on one of the passing trains?”
Back home when his little sisters wailed over some calamity, he imitated them and called them crybabies. But he had no desire to treat Mrs. Shilling with such unkindness. She’d already been through enough. Funny how he could easily stir up sympathy for a woman he’d only known one month and had never manufactured it for the little girls who called him brother.
He grimaced. “I suppose anything’s possible. There were at least two trains through town last night.” One tear rolled down her cheek. Jesse, stung by the sad sight, hurried on. “But it’d be dangerous to try to hop one of those locomotives, and Bud’s not a foolhardy boy. I think it’s more likely he spent the night in a farmer’s barn somewhere. He’s probably tuckered out and sleeping in a pile of hay. When he wakes up and wants breakfast, he’ll make his way home.”
“Why, sure.” Randall added his booming opinion. “That would explain why he didn’t answer when we called his name—he was sound asleep. We’ll watch for him this morning. And if he isn’t here by noon, the sheriff and I will go out again, won’t we, Sheriff?”
Jesse had used an entire tank of gas last night, but he’d spend another two if he had to. What kind of sheriff couldn’t track down a fourteen-year-old runaway boy? “Absolutely. Now, ma’am, it’s time to open your doors to business, so I—”
“I’m not opening today!”
Jesse started to tell her losing business wouldn’t help her any, but Randall cut him off.
“Now, let’s think this through, Neva.”
Jesse jolted. Neva? Since when had the furniture seller and the mercantile owner become so familiar?
“Saturday is your busiest day. If you don’t open your doors, customers will go to the big grocer instead. What would Bud tell you to do?”
Mrs. Shilling rubbed her lips together, blinking fast. The moisture in her eyes disappeared. She sighed. “Bud has learned the mercantile business well. He’d say let the customers come in.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do.” The man beamed at Mrs. Shilling.
She shook her head. “You have your own business to operate today. Saturdays are busy for you, too.”
“Well, let’s compromise, hmm? I’ll have Leon help me, and I’ll send Leroy over here to help you.” Randall shook his finger at the woman, as playful as Jesse had ever seen him. “But only until Bud shows up. Then that boy needs to do his duty to make up for the worry he put you through.”
A slight blush colored her cheeks. Jesse sent a puzzled glance across the two of them. A night of no sleep sure affected people in peculiar ways. He cleared his throat. “As I started to say, I’ll get out of your way. Hold on to hope, Mrs. Shilling.”
Her weak smile thanked him, and he strode onto the sidewalk. Last night’s wind had finally died down, but the cold temperature it blew in remained. He pulled his twill jacket closed and buttoned it all the way up, then tugged his hat more firmly onto his head. The Stetson was getting a bit battered from everyday use, but he liked it and didn’t want a sudden gust to steal it from him. He aimed himself for the little house where Pastor Savage lived. He needed help, and he suspected the young preacher would offer it.
The minister’s wife answered his knock. Her face reflected surprise, but then she smiled and invited him in. “I’ll fetch Ernie for you.” Mrs. Savage headed for the doorway leading to the kitchen.
Jesse removed his hat and waited. The heat rising from the steam radiators felt good, and the smell of coffee warmed him even without taking a sip. The little house defined the word home and left Jesse feeling a bit melancholy. But it was probably only tiredness stirring the strange emotion.
&nb
sp; The young minister rounded the corner from the kitchen, his hand extended and a big smile on his face. “Jesse! Or should I call you Sheriff Caudel? I hope you’ve come to talk to me about church membership.” The man’s eyes twinkled.
Jesse hated to put a damper on the preacher’s good humor, but he didn’t have time for idle chitchat. “No, I’m here about one of your members—Mrs. Shilling.” He shared about Bud’s disappearance, the long night of fruitless searching, and Mrs. Shilling now greeting customers without enjoying a bit of rest. “She’s pretty worn out and I am, too. I’d like to try to grab a little sleep, so I wondered if some of your church members might lend a hand. Maybe the men could go out looking for the boy, and maybe a woman or two could offer to keep the mercantile open today so Mrs. Shilling can take a break, spend time with the other kids.”
“I’ll make some calls. I’m sure people will help.” Ernie angled his gaze over his shoulder and called, “Lois? Would you come here, please?”
Lois hurried into the room, her face pursed with concern. “What’s wrong?”
“We need to pray. Let’s form a circle.” He caught his wife’s hand, then stretched the other one toward Jesse.
Without thinking, Jesse took hold, and Mrs. Savage moved close to grab his other hand. The reverend and his wife bowed their heads, and Jesse automatically followed suit.
“Our dear heavenly Father and eternal God.” Ernie spoke in a strong, confident voice that raised a strange wave of longing in Jesse’s chest. “I praise You for being all-knowing and all-caring. I praise You because right at this very moment You hold young Bud Shilling in Your sight. You are there with Bud, keeping him safe, and You are with Bud’s mother, easing her worry and instilling a sense of calm. Your Spirit is here with us as well, almighty God.”
Room for Hope Page 21
