Noble heaved a mighty sigh, feigning great disappointment. “I wish I could tell you otherwise, but, no, I am not that jolly old elf.” Noble shepherded the group toward a line of horse-drawn carriages. “But I can tell you that he and I are very close friends, and he doesn’t mind at all that I’ve borrowed his beard. He will not, however, lend me his red coat and hat.”
Lesley stared at Noble in open-mouthed amazement for several seconds, then he burst out laughing. “You’re funnin’ with me!”
Noble laughed, too, and rubbed his hand over Lesley’s head. “Indeed I am. You’re very clever to realize it.”
Lesley flashed a grin at Letta. “He says I’m clever.” Letta merely shrugged in reply.
At the carriage Noble lifted Annamarie inside, then Lesley. The little boy snuggled as close to Annamarie as he could get without sitting on her lap. Caroline climbed in and sat opposite Annamarie and Lesley. Letta and Lank crunched in next to her. They were tight, three abreast, but she wouldn’t complain.
Noble said, “I’ll fetch our bags, and then we can be on our way.” He closed the door, sealing them in the leather interior.
While they waited for Noble to return, Annamarie began a steady flow of questions. At first only Lesley answered, but soon Letta dropped her guard a bit and offered a few stilted replies. Lank remained silent, which didn’t surprise Caroline. The boy rarely spoke even to his brother and sister. But his interested gaze bounced back and forth between Annamarie, Letta, and Lesley, and longing to be included clearly shone in his eyes.
Two successive thuds overhead signaled the arrival of their bags, and then the door opened, revealing Noble’s smiling face. He climbed in, rocking the carriage. Lifting Lesley from the seat, he slid in next to Annamarie. Then he perched Lesley on his knee. The boy sat as proud as a king on his throne. Noble announced, “To the Troubadour Hotel we’ll go. Children, I’d like you to be our lunch guests. Yes?”
Before Letta or Lesley could reply, Caroline intervened. “Instead, Noble, I’d like it very much if you and Annamarie would agree to lunch at a little café downtown.” She couldn’t wait for her longtime friends to meet her newest friend. And when the three of them began working together, the Holcomb children would soon be laughing and smiling. If only Ollie could join them. Then her circle would be complete.
Her body gave a jolt. She blamed the involuntary start on the carriage’s sudden forward movement, but she knew the truth. Her casual inclusion of Ollie in her makeshift family rocked her to the core. That man had somehow managed to weasel his way into the center of her life. Ludicrous. Unwarranted. Even unwise. But did she want to send him packing?
She refused to contemplate the honest answer to that question.
Letta
A stubborn red leaf broke loose of its branch above Letta’s head. She watched it swirl downward and land on Pa’s sheet-shrouded chest. She stared at the bold color on the white cloth. Like a splash of blood. Her stomach turned a flip.
Lesley stepped from beneath her arm and flicked the leaf with his finger. The leaf caught the breeze and whirled into the hole on the other side of Pa’s body, out of sight. Lesley returned to her and snuggled close. Letta gave him a squeeze to thank him.
On the far side of the grave, the minister read from a big black Bible—something about mansions. Letta almost snorted. Miss Carrie’d said the minister would say words about Pa, but instead he talked about mansions. Letta knew what a mansion was. She’d seen them in the nicest part of town. Tall houses of red or brown brick with white spindles on their porches and lots of lacy-looking wood trim, set on lawns of thick green grass. So different from the little unpainted clapboard house where she’d lived with Pa and her brothers. Mansions? What did that have to do with Pa? She wished they’d hurry up and put Pa in the ground so she could take her brothers and go.
Lesley shifted from side to side, his brand-new boots squeaking. Mr. Noble and Mrs. Annamarie, as Miss Carrie’s friends told her and the boys to call them, had taken all three of them to the general merchandise store after lunch and let them choose a whole outfit to wear to Pa’s burial. Letta didn’t understand why they needed new clothes when Pa just wore strips cut from an old sheet, but she wouldn’t argue. Lesley’d never owned anything other than Lank’s hand-me-downs, which were plenty worn-out by the time he got them. Lesley’s pride in those shiny new boots made her want to smile. But she didn’t. A burial wasn’t a place for smiling.
Behind her someone wept softly. Either Miss Kesia or Miss Carrie—Letta couldn’t be sure. But she wouldn’t turn around and look. Neither Lank nor Lesley cried, so she wouldn’t, either. But it was harder than she’d imagined to keep her tears inside. Not until they’d arrived at the graveyard and seen Pa’s body laid out next to a black hole, like an open mouth waiting to swallow him up, did it all seem real.
Pa was gone. Really, truly gone. Just like Ma. Except not like Ma, because Ma could come back someday. Not that Letta expected her to. Not that Letta wanted her to. But Ma was still alive as far as Letta knew, and Pa was dead. Dead. Dead was forever. A big lump formed in her throat. Tears pushed hard against her eyes. But if she started crying, would it be for Pa or for herself? She didn’t know. She only knew if she started, she might not be able to stop.
So she tightened her arms around Lank and Lesley and looked up at the tree branches. At the last waving red leaf with a little bit of gold around its edges. And she didn’t cry. Not one tear.
Caroline
Caroline pressed a handkerchief into Kesia’s hand. The older woman smiled her thanks and dabbed at the tears rolling down her wrinkled cheeks. Caroline wondered at her own failure to shed tears. Sorrow weighted her chest, heavy as a boulder, but her eyes remained dry even when the children stepped forward at the minister’s invitation to toss a handful of dirt on top of their father’s body.
Kesia, Noble, Annamarie, and Caroline participated in the sad tradition, each parading past the grave and releasing their own handfuls of dirt atop the sheet-wrapped body stretched out in the hole’s depth. Was there a more dismal picture than clods of black dirt scattered over a white sheet? Caroline turned away from the grave and hurried across the soggy brown grass to the other adults, who surrounded the children.
The minister bade them farewell. The gravediggers took up their shovels and began the task of covering Mr. Holcomb’s body. Caroline slipped her arm around Annamarie’s waist, ready to suggest they board the carriage and return to the hotel.
But before she could offer the suggestion, Noble stepped forward and put his hand on Letta’s shoulder. “You were very brave, Letta. I’m proud of you for being strong for your brothers. But remember there’s no shame in crying. God gave us tears to help us release our hurts. If you need to cry, no one will think less of you.”
His deep voice, tender in its delivery, brought the sting of tears to Caroline’s eyes. How many times had he spoken to her in just that way? Even when she resisted him, pretended to ignore him, told him to stay away, he was always kind. And eventually he’d earned her trust.
Letta sent a brief, unsmiling glance in Noble’s direction, then stepped away from his hand. “I don’t need to cry. C’mon, boys.” She fixed Caroline with a warning look. “We’re goin’ home now.”
“Oh, but—”
Noble held his hand out to Caroline, silencing her protest. “I have an idea.” He addressed the boys, wisely recognizing if he won them, Letta would follow. “Mrs. Annamarie and I rented a suite at the hotel. The suite has two large sleeping rooms as well as a lounging room with a fireplace. We would like it very much if you would join us there. You’d have your own room to be alone if you wanted, but we could also have time together in the lounging room.” He smiled, his merry eyes warm and inviting. “We’d like the opportunity to become better acquainted with you.”
Letta’s gaze narrowed. “Why?”
Noble’s smile remained intact. “Why not?”
The girl scowled, drawing back slightly.
Annamarie inserte
d, “Please join us, children. The suite truly is too large for just the two of us. We’d welcome your company.”
Lesley tugged at Letta’s sleeve. “Ain’t never stayed in a hotel before. I wanna go, Letta. So does Lank, don’tcha, Lank?”
Lank’s head bobbed once, ever so slightly, but his eyes glowed with longing.
“Can’t we go, Letta? Huh? Huh?”
Letta huffed. “You’re an awful pest, Lesley.”
The little boy hung his head.
Letta gazed down at her bereft brother, and a hint of remorse softened her scowl. “All right, then. If you boys wanna go—”
The boys’ freckled faces lit with joy. Lesley let out a whoop and galloped the three short paces needed to reach Annamarie. He caught the woman’s hand and beamed at her. “We’re comin’, missus! We’re comin’!”
Annamarie smoothed Lesley’s untamed hair into place, but she aimed her smile at Letta. “I’m so glad. Let’s go then, shall we?” The boys fell in step on either side of Annamarie, and Kesia commandeered Letta’s elbow, guiding her along behind the happy trio.
Noble captured Caroline’s hand and slipped it into the bend of his elbow. Maintaining a slow saunter that put them several feet behind the others, he released a long, slow sigh. “So tell me, my dear, are those dark circles under your eyes due to your responsibility at the factory, the burden of taking charge of these three orphaned youngsters, or something else entirely?”
Caroline kept her gaze ahead, afraid if she met Noble’s eyes, he’d discover her uncertainty concerning her feelings for Ollie. She forced a light laugh. “I’m tired, Noble. Working nights and not being able to sleep days …” She waved one hand toward the children, a rueful grin tugging at her lips. “Those three have completely disrupted my world.”
Noble pressed her hand to his ribs. “But they’re worth it?”
A full smile broke effortlessly across her face. “You’ve taught me well. Yes. They are worth it.”
He chuckled. “I suspected as much. But.” His smile turned to a concerned frown. He drew her to a halt several yards from the waiting carriage, where Kesia, Annamarie, and the children stood in a small circle, visiting quietly. “You can’t go without sleep, Caroline. I left word with the Labor Commission that I’d be gone at least a week. During this time Annamarie and I will assume responsibility for Letta and the boys. This will enable you to get your rest but also to complete the investigation.”
Caroline blew out a relieved breath as a weight seemed to roll from her shoulders.
Noble went on. “I was pleased to know a blueprint of the elevator exists. Have you had an opportunity to view it yet?”
She shook her head. The children’s disappearance, Mr. Holcomb’s burial, and Ollie’s concussion had sent her attention in different directions.
Noble gave her hand a pat and set them in motion once more. “Perhaps you’ll be able to do so tonight. But for now”—he raised one snow-white eyebrow and pointed his finger at her—“we shall drop you at your building, and you are to sleep the rest of the day. Don’t give a thought to the children. Annamarie and I will take good care of them. You simply rest. Agreed?”
Although she still needed to seek Noble’s advice about the children’s aunt, the thought of uninterrupted sleep proved too much of a temptation. “Agreed. And thank you.”
Caroline punched her timecard and dropped it in her slot. She then retrieved her tools from the metal locker near the break room and hurried toward her station. The hours of sleep and reprieve from worry had revived her, and she couldn’t resist giving a little hop-skip as she rounded the corner.
Immediately she plowed into a solid body and bounced backward. “Ooph!” The air whooshed from her lungs, forcing her to double over. The hammer slipped from her hand, bounced off the floor, and clunked her hard on the shin. She let out a yelp of pain.
“Serves you right,” came a caustic voice.
She lifted her head to find Gordon Hightower glaring at her. What was he doing here?
“You really need to be more careful, Miss Lang.”
His derogatory tone, coupled with the memory of slamming Ollie with the door, raised her defenses. “I couldn’t see around the wall.”
“I’m not interested in your excuses.” He bent over and scooped up her hammer by the handle, then bounced the iron head lightly against his palm. “You’re lucky you didn’t break anything, or I would have needed to extract payment.”
A chill wiggled its way down Caroline’s spine. His extracted payment wouldn’t be a monetary one. Eager to escape his leering grin, she held out her hand. “I apologize, Mr. Hightower. It won’t happen again. Now, if you’ll return my hammer, I have work to do.”
“Yes, work … Odd that you would mention work.” He stepped forward, but instead of placing the hammer in her hand, he caught her wrist and yanked her hard against him. His hot, senna-scented breath washed across her cheek. “We’ve had this conversation before, Miss Lang. You seem an intelligent woman, yet you can’t seem to follow simple instructions. Let me tell you again. You were sent to third shift to do a specific job. Sealing crates. That’s all you’re to do. You aren’t to ask questions. You aren’t to snoop in elevators. You are to seal crates. Seal crates. Seal crates.” His voice grew harsher, more sinister, with each repetition. “Do you understand?”
Her heart pounded in fear. She tried to answer, but her dry tongue seemed stuck to the roof of her mouth. She might as well have been a mouse caught in a trap, staring into the face of a hungry tomcat. Helplessness weakened her knees.
Hightower curled his hand around the back of her neck and shook her, his lips set in a snarl. “I’m waiting for an answer, Miss Lang. Do you understand?”
Too frightened to do otherwise, she squeaked, “Yes. I … I understand.”
“Good.” He released her with a slight shove.
She fell against the wall, grateful for its sturdy support.
Hightower extended the hammer to the side and let it fall. The iron head clanked resoundingly against the concrete floor. “Get to work, Miss Lang. You’re wasting time.” He tugged the lapels of his jacket into place, smoothed a finger over his mustache, then sauntered off, his head at an arrogant angle.
Caroline pressed her back securely to the wall, her trembling legs unwilling to carry her forward. Hightower knew. Somehow he knew. But how? Until tonight she’d never seen him lurking in the factory during the third shift. Someone must have tattled. And to her knowledge only one person was aware that she’d made a sketch of the elevator’s inner workings.
Nausea rolled through her gut. He wouldn’t betray her … would he?
Gordon
Gordon strode around the corner, then stopped and wheeled back to peer from his hiding spot. At his last meeting with Carrie Lang, she’d seemed more annoyed and surprised than truly concerned. But he’d managed to put some fear in her this time. How gratifying to see her cowering against the wall, face as chalky white as the unpainted plaster behind her. Even from this distance he noted the tremble in her hand as she reached to retrieve her hammer. He covered his mouth, muffling his laughter when it took her three tries to hook the tool’s handle through the loop on her belt. Then she scurried up the hall toward the crating area as if pursued by a swarm of bees.
He let the laugh roll, unfettered. Finally he’d succeeded in silencing her endless questions about Bratcher. But then he felt a tinge of regret. Such fun he could have had if she’d refused to comply. Up close she smelled sweet, like lilacs. Her womanly form, warm and padded in all the right places, fit neatly against him. He wouldn’t have minded stealing a bit of pleasure from her, but there’d been too many workers milling about. Not that any would intervene. They had more sense than to risk their jobs for one foolish woman who didn’t know how to keep her curiosity to herself. But he didn’t care for voyeurs.
When he took his pleasure from Miss Lang—and he would make good on his threat if he received one more report of her putting her prett
y little nose where it didn’t belong—it would be in private. Where he could enjoy her at his leisure. He tapped his lips with one finger, brow puckered. Should he have held back a bit, given a milder warning so she might be brazen enough to continue gathering information? No. Regardless of the fun he’d sacrificed, he had a greater reward waiting. Once the factory was his—completely his—he’d be free to sample whatever and whomever he liked.
He sauntered up the hallway in search of the night foreman. A quick conversation with Alden, and then he’d head home. His work here was done. For now.
Oliver
Oliver caught a glimpse of his reflection in the small round mirror above his wash basin. He groaned. Over the past couple of days the colors had expanded and brightened. A veritable garden of blues, purples, and greens bloomed along the side of his face. When would the bruises fade? As much as he’d disliked lazing in his bed—even as a child, he’d fought against lying about in a sickbed—he’d cheerfully dive back under the covers if it meant avoiding the inevitable questions and teasing he’d receive from his coworkers at the factory.
He plopped his hat on his head, adjusting the brim low and to the side, an attempt to hide at least a portion of the bruises. The eye was still swollen, but thanks to Kesia’s enthusiastic application of cold, damp cloths, he could hold it open enough to see—a vast improvement from two days ago when he viewed the world through a mere slit. A dull ache remained in the back of his skull, but he was thankful the deep, throbbing pain had departed. He moved across his small bedroom, gathering his jacket, gloves, and scarf. His scarf lay on the floor beneath a straight-backed chair, and when he bent to retrieve it, no dizziness attacked. Yes, he was well enough to return to work.
Where Carrie would be waiting to view that blueprint.
Thoughts of Carrie hurried him to the door and onto the street. After delivering him to Kesia, she’d disappeared. Not that he’d expected her to visit him at his apartment—that would be highly improper—but he would have welcomed a note. Kesia could have delivered it when she came to check on him. The dear lady had visited three or four times each day of his forced rest. Didn’t Carrie worry at all about his injury? He wouldn’t have taken her to be so uncaring. But maybe she was just busy. After all, she had to supervise the Holcomb children, plan a burial, and work nights. She had plenty to do without fussing over him. Still, he wished she’d found time for at least some contact.
Echoes of Mercy: A Novel Page 18
