The bus pulled into the parking lot behind The Fox and Willow climbed down. Her bicycle leaned against the back wall of the theater behind the covered bench provided for bus passengers. Glad to be back in Fairbury, she pushed the bicycle through town and to the convenience store. The basket in front held a change of clothes and her tennis shoes. She stepped into the restroom dressed for town and emerged in old, faded jeans and a top that she now realized no other woman in Fairbury would ever wear. She frowned at her appearance in the mirror as she braided her hair for the ride home. “I don’t care. I like it even if no one else does,” she muttered as she gathered her things.
Officer Freidan drove past as she climbed on her bike, and Willow waved. Within minutes, she had turned onto the highway, pedaling hard and enjoying the feeling of the wind on her face. She hadn’t made it a mile when Chad pulled ahead of her and stopped. He climbed from the cab of his truck and waved as she slowed to greet him.
“Get in. I’ll take you home.”
“But I’ve got my bicycle.”
“And no helmet,” Chad countered. “Get in.”
“You’re awfully bossy today.”
“You’re awfully foolish. I told you it wasn’t safe to ride on this road without a helmet.” He glared at her. “Now get in!”
Willow almost refused. Her hands gripped the handlebars tighter and one foot rose as though to push down on the pedal once more. However, Chad pulled the sunglasses from his eyes as he moved to help lift the bicycle, and she saw the genuine concern there. It wasn’t the right time to assert her independence. She’d learned that lesson from Mother. Fear made people act in obnoxious ways.
Instead, she climbed into the truck and waited for him to take off before she said, “I got my I.D. I have bank accounts and credit cards and everything.”
“Well, you had those things before, didn’t you? You just couldn’t access them, right?”
“I suppose. Oh, and I also got a book on finances. By the time I’m done, maybe I won’t need Bill anymore,” she joked.
Chad turned into her driveway, speeding around the curve as if it was paved. As he parked, he said, “I don’t think he’d appreciate that.”
Willow glanced at him. “What do you mean?” Before he could answer, she opened the door and jumped to the ground.
Chad swung the bicycle over the truck bed and pushed it alongside her and into the barn. “I mean that Bill likes having an excuse to see you. Without that, he might have to make his interest a bit more overt.”
The puppy interrupted them, jumping on Willow’s legs and yapping. “Hey girl!”
“What did you end up naming her anyway?”
“Nothing. I can’t name an animal. I never could. Mother would take a dog or goat or even the barn cats, look in their eyes, and just know. I never can. I try out a hundred names and nothing fits. Mother tossed one name into the ring and it was perfect.”
Chad rubbed the puppy’s belly laughing at the scratching reflex. “Call her Saige. With an I. She looks like a Saige.”
Willow scratched behind the puppy’s ears. “Saige. I like it. It’s perfect. Why didn’t you name her sooner?”
“It never occurred to me.”
“Care to name the sheep too?”
Chad leaned against the barn door, his arms crossed across his chest and one foot propped up against it behind him. “Purl for sure. Like knit and purl not like the jewel. Purl and Nellie.”
“Why Nellie?”
“Well, I was thinking of needles and then somehow that made me think of how Nellie Oleson always needled Laura so I thought, ‘Nellie.’“
Something about Chad’s expression made her doubt the veracity of his story. “Did you really just make that up?”
“How’d you know?”
“You look like Mother did when she didn’t have an answer but thought I needed one.”
Chad kicked a rock across the yard, laughing as the pup chased it but refused to carry it back. “Honestly, I have no idea why. It just came to me and you’re right. I thought you would insist on an answer.”
Satisfied, Willow gazed at the lambs for another minute before she nodded. “Purl and Nellie it is. Perfect. Now I need to order my spinning wheel.” She paused, remembering. “What was that you were saying about Bill?”
Chapter Thirty
Thursday morning, once the routine outdoor chores were out of the way and breakfast eaten, Willow stared at the journal before her, frustrated. “Oh Mother, why didn’t you make me learn how to use that thing more effectively. I’ll be cutting hay all weekend.”
Dressed in milky white jeans streaked with a few grease stains that no amount of washing had removed, a white t-shirt several sizes too small, and a blousy white over-shirt, she braided her hair into a tight French braid and donned her wide-brimmed sisal hat. Thick heavy leather gloves and hard-toed boots completed her somewhat unusual ensemble. Willow stared at her reflection in the mirror for a moment and then jogged down the stairs ready to work.
In the barn, she flung open the back doors and wheeled out the garden cart. She raked the remaining alfalfa into a large crate and climbed up to the loft. From there, she pulled ropes through pulleys until the crate rose high enough to reach it. With the rope anchored to the wall, she pushed the crate onto the loft and scrambled back down the ladder.
Dust filled the air as she swept every inch of the concrete floor. She sneezed, and as if trying to imitate her, Saige sneezed as well. Careful not to miss anything, she hosed down the north corner of the barn swept the water from the area, and turned a large fan on in order to dry it quickly.
The tool wall loomed as she neared. The scythe hung where it always had but looked twice as large as she remembered it. Willow hated hay cutting. Mother had been the master mower—she was the transport. They were a well-oiled machine that was now missing a part. A huge part. The engine was gone.
Stuffing down a deep sigh, she loaded the scythe onto the cart and wheeled it to the alfalfa field. It was small by most standards but large enough to feed the goat, which was all they had needed. She picked up the scythe, testing its weight when she remembered the phone still sitting on the charging dock in the summer kitchen.
“Dratted man. I don’t have time to be running back and forth for things like phones and such,” she muttered to the pup dancing around her feet.
She paused mid-stride and thought. Did she want to go back? The chances of anyone calling were slim. The phone rarely rang, why get it? Irritation settled over her at the mental picture of Chad’s cruiser barreling down her driveway because he couldn’t reach her. Before that phone, she’d been her own person. She went where she wanted to go, did what she wanted or needed to do, and answered to no one but her mother. Now a handful of plastic tried to be her master.
Grabbing the handles to the garden cart, Willow wheeled it into the middle of the first third of the field. Chad’s face filled her mind once more. She saw the anger, frustration, and concern in his face when he found her shooting that first Thursday after her trip to the mortuary. She remembered rides home, help carrying heavy rugs, and the nights he’d done her evening chores so she could be somewhere else. A sigh escaped before she could stop it. The sight of the scythe cinched it. He would let her have it if he saw her awkward movements. Willow didn’t want another disagreement.
Saige jumped against her legs, sealing the decision. She’d cut the poor animal’s head off if she wasn’t careful. The phone won—thanks to an exuberant puppy and her poor mowing skills.
Once she tied up Saige, Willow strode into the summer kitchen and pocketed the phone. It didn’t take but five minutes to make the round-trip back to the field. How silly to get so worked up about a few hundred yards of walking. It’ll ease a friend’s mind. You’re selfish, Willow Finley.
The sun beat down on her as she worked. Perspiration streaked down her temples, down her back, and soaked her t-shirt. Occasional ripples of a breeze teased her over-shirt, billowing it out just enough to c
ool her. She cut, raked, spread, and finally layered a bit in the cart, taking it to the empty corner of the barn. Wouldn’t Willie love fresh alfalfa for dinner?
The fan tempted her. She adjusted it away from the hay and turned the knob to full blast. Her eyes closed and she held out her arms away from her body, reveling in the cool air. “Oh Saige, that feels good.”
She carried her sandwich from the fridge to the back porch steps and fed bites to Saige as she ate. “It’s a good name for you, girl. I like it. Maybe I should get you a friend.”
Sweat poured down her back soaking both shirts. The field wasn’t even a quarter finished. The unwieldy scythe cut awkwardly through the alfalfa as though duller than a butter knife. Willow remembered her mother’s graceful rhythmic movements and paused. Unable to control the weight of the scythe in full motion it ripped through her pants and cut deeply into her leg.
A wave of nausea washed over her as she saw the blood flow from the wound. Dizziness followed before a vague sense of falling wafted through her consciousness. She stared at the wound. Even through the pants, she could see it was deep. What to do? She knew that she knew what to do. It was there. Somewhere in the outer fringes of her consciousness, she saw it.
Her shirt. She must take off her shirt and press it to the wound. Seconds passed and the shirt soaked through. Now what? Something else—there was something else. Her head felt woozy as she struggled to remember what could help her. The phone! Her eyes grew wide as she punched Chad’s number and realized that she’d almost left it behind in anger.
His name popped up on the screen the moment she opened it. Last call dialed. It instantly became her favorite feature. “Chad. I’m hurt. Please come. I need a doctor.”
“What happened—” Even as he spoke, he realized she’d disconnected. No wait, she hadn’t. “Willow? Willow!”
No response. He stood between his truck and the cruiser he’d just turned in and wavered. With a siren— Chad raced into the police station and grabbed the key back from the rack. “Call the clinic and tell them there’s an emergency coming in. Willow’s hurt.”
In minutes, with siren blaring and lights flashing in the driveway, Chad raced into Willow’s house calling her name. He clattered down the cellar steps, and up to the attic. He burst through the back door and into the yard frantically calling but hearing nothing. The chicken yard was empty of all but chickens. The sheep and cow’s fields showed nothing but the animals who lived there. The barn held a yapping Saige, but a fan, fresh alfalfa in the corner, and a trail of broken hay led from the backside of the barn toward the tree break.
His heart plummeted into his stomach at the sight of Willow lying on the ground next to her scythe. Her pallor told him she’d lost a considerable amount of blood; the garish red of her pants confirmed it. Pocketing her phone and thanking the Lord for the prompting to buy it, Chad gingerly lifted Willow onto the garden cart. The blood dripped with every step. He grabbed the balled up and soaked shirt from the ground and twisted it into a strip. As he worked to tourniquet the wound, he reassured her, “I’ve got you. We’ll get you help just hang on.”
Weakly, Willow whispered, “Almost. Didn’t. Bring. Phone. Sorry.”
“But you did, and you’re fine. You’re going to be just fine. What happened?”
“Scythe.” Her voice sounded weak and shaky.
At the cruiser, Chad gently laid her in the back seat. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to grab a towel.”
“No, just—” She swallowed hard. “Just go.”
Dr. Weisenberg met Chad in the parking lot with a gurney and an IV bag. “You were right. She’s lost a lot of blood.”
Two nurses wheeled Willow through the urgent care doors and into an examining room while Dr. Weisenberg swabbed her hand and prepared a vein. Chad stood to one side, trying not to panic at the sight of the blood flowing again. Willow groaned, moaning something quietly to the doctor.
“She’d like you to get her purse and bring in the scythe. She doesn’t want it lying in the field all night.”
“What!”
A pointed look from the doctor was enough; Chad left.
Her purse. He must find her purse. Where would Willow keep something like a purse? Chad roamed her house looking for it, finding nothing.
Scythe. Bring the scythe inside. She probably thinks it’ll rust out there. I should leave it there and pray it does. Those Finley women! he growled to himself. He strode through the barn and to the field where he’d found her.
Chad’s heart stopped cold as he saw a pool of blood on the scythe blade and the ground nearby. No wonder she’d been so pale. His initial supposition of a severed artery seemed less of an overreaction. His phone rang. He listened, his brow furrowed in concern before he leaned his hands on his knees, praying after disconnecting the call. Surgery. Helicopters. He glanced at the field of alfalfa and realized that she’d never get the hay cut.
Bill heard Mari’s cry of dismay in the other room. Before he could stand and see what was wrong, she rushed into the room. “Willow Finley is being airlifted here. That police officer asked you to be there when she arrives, but that’s all he knows—Rockland Memorial.”
Without a word, Bill flipped calmly through his calendar, pointed out what appointments to reschedule and fired off three or four emails before he stood. “Once that’s done, you can leave for the day. I won’t be in tomorrow. Thanks, Mari.”
He fidgeted nervously as he wove his car through traffic to the hospital. His hands alternately gripped the steering wheel and then picked at it until he finally reached the parking garage across the street. After receiving directions from receptionist at the welcome desk, he grabbed the first elevator going up to the surgery floor.
The waiting room was scattered with nervous people—well, waiting. They waited for news. They waited for success. They waited. Then, when it seemed impossible to wait another moment, they waited some more. Bill, nervous and unsettled joined the ranks—waiting.
Chad found Bill an hour and a half later. “Hey, is she out yet?”
“No. The nurse at the station out there put it in the chart to come find me, um, us so—anyway, what happened?”
“She was cutting hay.” Even to his own ears, Chad sounded resigned—defeated.
“Ok so she got her foot caught in the mower, she ran over her foot, she stuck her hand in the tiller or whatever—what?”
Hanging his head and wringing his hands together, Chad tried again. “She was using a sickle or a scythe or one of those old things.”
“Like the grim reaper?”
With a shrug, Chad nodded. “Somehow she sliced up her calf pretty bad. Dr. Weisenberg said she hit the timorous artery and nerves or something.”
“Timorous?”
“Something like that. Tibial maybe.”
They sat in silence for several minutes until Bill asked another question. “If she was using a scythe, how’d she cut her calf? Did she fall?”
Chad hadn’t thought of how she’d cut herself, he’d been a little preoccupied with getting her help. How had she cut herself? “Maybe you swing it around in circles? Maybe it was coming from behind and she stepped back into it to steady herself?”
Chad stood trying to move in order to recreate the accident and nearly backed into a woman wearing scrubs. “I’m sorry—”
“Are you Bill Franklin?”
Bill stood and offered his hand. “I’m Bill; do you have information about Willow Finley?”
“Are you next of kin?”
The words tore at Chad’s heart. In his line of work, that was usually indicative of the worst news possible. Bill’s voice pierced his consciousness. “No. Willow essentially has no family.”
“She’s out of surgery. It went well,” the woman added quickly as if their need for reassurance was visible. “We have her in recovery, and once she’s awake, we’ll move her to a room. She should make a full recovery, but it’s going to take a little physical therapy.”
“W
hen can we see her?” Never had Chad been so grateful for his uniform. The doctor seemed to respond well to it.
“I’ll have someone come get you as soon as she’s settled in a room.”
The two men watched as the doctor disappeared through the doors. The tension that had hovered over them dissolved as the door closed behind her. Chad looked at Bill. “I’ll wait—”
“You can go—”
They spoke simultaneously. Chad swallowed hard. He didn’t want to admit it any more than it seemed Bill did, but he wanted to see her immediately—see that she was ok. Seconds passed before Bill tried again. “What about her animals?”
“I took care of them, but I’ll have to be back in the morning.”
Bill nodded at his uniform. “Were you on duty?”
“Just got off when she called. She sounded so scared.” The irrelevance of Chad’s statement to the question unnerved him. He was more shaken than he had realized.
Bill glanced at his watch and then sighed. “You’re probably hungry. I’ll go get you something to eat and go home for a bit. Around eleven, I’ll come back and swap out with you so you can get some rest before her rooster starts crowing or whatever signals time for more work out there.”
“Thanks. I’d love to stay all night, but I won’t be safe to drive home if I do.”
“That’s what I thought. What do you want to eat?”
“I’ll just go down and grab something in the cafeteria while we’re waiting for them to get through with her. If you could stay until—”
“Done. Get you some food.”
Chad reached the door and pulled it open. He turned and saw Bill’s face contorted with concern and uncertainty. As he walked down the hall toward the elevators, Chad prayed.
Past Forward Volume 1 Page 30
