Echoes of Mercy: A Novel

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  “And you’ll tell me what important errand has you dashing out the door?”

  Caroline wasn’t sure she’d have all the answers she was seeking by tomorrow morning, but she hoped to have uncovered at least one bit of information—the truth of who Ollie Moore was. She said, “We’ll talk more tomorrow. Please tell Noble and the children good night for me.” She headed for the door.

  “Caroline?”

  The worry in Annamarie’s voice brought Caroline to a halt, but she didn’t turn around.

  “Please be careful. Don’t do anything rash. If you have feelings for this man, God can remove whatever barriers seem to be keeping you apart. Will you trust God and seek His guidance rather than relying on your own instincts?”

  Slowly Caroline turned to face Annamarie. She forced her lips to form a smile while inwardly she quivered. “I’ll try.”

  Annamarie nodded, apparently satisfied. “Very well. Good night, Caroline.”

  She stepped into the hallway and then leaned against the wall, allowing her head to sag. Had she just lied to Annamarie? From the first time she met Ollie Moore, she’d felt a tug toward him. Yet the more time she spent with him, the more confused she became. She started to go back in and ask Annamarie if God would prompt her to engage in such a puzzling, uncertain, frustrating relationship. But, fearful of Annamarie’s answer, she crossed the tails of her shawl over her waist and headed for the factory instead.

  Letta

  “Luh-Luh-Letta?”

  Letta snuffled and rolled over on her cot to face the bed where her brothers lay under a fluffy blanket. Although the cot was more comfortable than anything she’d slept on before, she wondered what it would be like to sleep in the big feather bed. “Hush, Lank. Mr. Noble told us to go to sleep now.” She liked the big man well enough to mind him.

  “I know, buh-buh-buh-but gotta ask you suh-suh-somethin’.”

  Lank rarely used words, and over the years Letta had learned to read his gestures. But with the room all dark, she couldn’t see well enough to understand. Listening to him talk hurt her heart and made her impatient, both at the same time. “What’cha want?”

  “Cuh-cuh-cuh—”

  Lesley sat bolt upright. “We’re wantin’ to stay here instead o’ goin’ back to our house. Can we, Letta?”

  She tossed aside her covers and hopped out of the bed. The cot let out a mighty squeak, and she cringed. Would Mr. Noble or Mrs. Annamarie hear her moving around? She paused, ear turned toward the door, but when no footsteps approached, she tiptoed across the thickly carpeted floor and sat on the edge of the boys’ bed. She scowled at the pair. “That’s a stu—” She stopped herself from using the word Pa had thrown at his children. “That idea won’t work, Lesley.”

  Lesley’s long eyelashes swept up and down once. “Why? We like it here.”

  Letta liked it here, too. She liked the big, clean rooms and the nice furniture. She liked the indoor plumbing where all she had to do was turn a couple of knobs, and hot water came right out of the pipes. And everybody got fresh water for their bath. She liked how a maid came in every day and cleaned up after them. And mostly, she liked Mr. Noble and Mrs. Annamarie. But they still couldn’t stay. “Don’t matter. This is a hotel. Costs a heap of money to stay in hotels.”

  “But Mr. Noble’s payin’ for it.”

  Lesley had an answer for everything. Letta huffed in aggravation. “Sure he is, but he don’t live here. He’s just stayin’ here for a little while. He an’ Mrs. Annamarie’ll be goin’ back to their own house soon. Don’tcha remember them tellin’ us they’re leavin’ come the end of the week?”

  Lesley folded his arms over his skinny chest and poked out his lip. “Then I wanna go with ’em. I like ’em, Letta. I like ’em a lot. An’ so does Lank. Mr. Noble, he never tells Lank he’s a imbecile. An’ Mrs. Annamarie talks real nice an’ smells real good. So can we go live with ’em?”

  Letta understood why Lesley wanted to live with the Dempseys. She liked them, too. Down deep, she’d started wishing they were her pa and ma. Or maybe her grandpa and grandma since they were white haired already. But she knew it was all pretend. Nice as they were, they’d never said anything about keeping Letta and the boys.

  “No, we can’t.” Her whisper came out on a harsh note, but she did nothing to temper her voice, knowing Lesley wouldn’t listen to reason otherwise. “Remember that telegram Mr. Noble sent to Aunt Gertrude? He read it to us first so we’d know what he was doin’. What did it say?”

  Lesley lowered his head. “He told Aunt Gertrude to come get us.”

  “That’s right.” Letta gave her little brother a push that sent him against his pillow. “So no more talk about wantin’ to live with ’em. You neither, Lank. They don’t want us.” Sadness washed over her. She finished on a sigh. “No sense in wishin’ they do.” She rose. “Now both o’ you go to sleep.”

  She lay down on her squeaky cot and covered up with the soft blanket. Then she stared, wide awake, at the ceiling. Neither Lank nor Lesley spoke again, but every now and then she heard one of them sniffle. Probably Lesley. Lank wasn’t given to tears any more than Letta was. But she reckoned his heart was aching just as bad as hers.

  Ma hadn’t wanted them. Pa hadn’t wanted them. And now Mr. Noble and Mrs. Annamarie were ready to hand them off to an aunt who didn’t want them, either. Letta’s lower lip quivered, and she clamped her jaw hard. So nobody wanted them. So what? They didn’t need anybody anyway. And come tomorrow, soon as Miss Carrie dropped them off at school, she’d take her brothers by the hands and find someplace for them to live where nobody’d find them or bother them again. They wouldn’t stick around where they weren’t wanted.

  Caroline

  Caroline headed for her work station, tool belt dangling from her hand. Her gaze turned in every direction, her pulse thrumming in apprehension. Or was it anticipation? When Ollie Moore was involved, she couldn’t be certain of anything anymore. She only knew that when she saw him, the questions lingering on her tongue would spill forth. And she wouldn’t relent until he’d given satisfactory answers.

  She rounded the corner to her work station and came to such a sudden stop her feet slid on the concrete floor. Ollie was standing beside the low cart of filled boxes awaiting their lids. His unsmiling gaze met hers, and all the questions she’d intended to spew dissipated. In their place a desire rose to see him open his arms in silent invitation, an invitation she would accept without a moment’s hesitation.

  Apparently she hadn’t gotten enough sleep earlier that day.

  Giving herself a shake to cast off the odd longing, she set her feet in motion and marched directly to the cart. She hooked the tool belt around her waist, set her feet wide, and gave him what she hoped would be interpreted as an imperious look. “I would have a word with you.”

  “That suits me.” He stepped around the cart, caught her by the elbow, and began propelling her across the floor.

  She let out a squawk of dismay and smacked at his hand. “Release me!”

  His lips set in a grim line, he kept a grip until he’d guided her inside the janitor’s closet and closed the door behind them. The bulb hanging overhead was already on when they entered, letting her know he’d planned this clandestine meeting. She darted to the opposite side of the little room and stood glowering at him. Had Gordon Hightower forced her inside a closet with him, she’d have been frightened out of her mind. But the only emotion coursing through her as she faced Ollie was anger.

  “What are you doing? We’re on duty—we can’t be holed up in here together. What will people think?”

  He gave her a snide look. “Odd that you’d be concerned about what people think, considering …”

  She pinched her brows together. “Considering what?”

  “Never mind. It isn’t important.” He took a forward step, his expression hard. “I need to get something straight with you. Whatever information you’re seeking about Harmon Bratcher’s death, you’re wasting your time tryin
g to blame Fulton Dinsmore. I will not allow you to sully his good name, and should you choose to persist in this … this witch hunt, I shall be forced to act with all due haste and have you removed from employ at this factory.” His articulate speech poured out effortlessly as he staunchly defended the owner of the factory.

  Us. He’d said us when speaking of the factory. Understanding dawned. She jabbed her finger at him and found her voice. “Ollie Moore? Or is it Dins more?”

  He lifted his chin. Neither the factory worker attire nor the purplish and yellow marks on his face could hide his proud carriage. He patted his palms together in subdued applause, a sarcastic grin on his face. “Well done, Miss Lang. You’ve discovered one small truth.” Then his expression hardened. “And now that you know who I am, you know I can make good on my promise to send you packing. My father is well respected, his reputation as a fair, philanthropic man reaching far beyond the bounds of Kansas. Your accusations, even though unfounded and unsubstantiated, could cast a permanent shadow on his character. So I must insist they end here and now.”

  To Caroline’s surprise, her indignation melted, and in its stead came an envy unlike any she’d experienced before. Ollie so clearly loved his father. Admired and revered him even. To have a father so deserving of loyalty must have been a delight beyond all others. To her chagrin, tears pooled in her eyes, and she blinked them away, praying Ollie wouldn’t notice.

  “Carrie?” He took a step toward her, true regret coloring his tone and softening his stern features. “I’ve wounded you with my harshness.”

  He hadn’t, but she wouldn’t correct him. She had no desire to share the real reason for her emotional reaction.

  He went on kindly. “I meant to speak my mind—I needed to speak my mind—but I allowed jealousy to overcome chivalry. I assure you I was taught better by both of my parents. Please forgive me.”

  She sniffed, frowning. “Why would you be jealous?”

  He grimaced. “Never mind. Will you accept my apology?”

  She wanted to stay angry. To be indignant at having been duped into believing he was only another worker. Even to resent him for his affluent upbringing. But looking into his sincere, remorseful face, she couldn’t find it within herself to refuse. She nodded.

  A small smile—one holding warmth—curved his lips. “Thank you, Carrie.” The smile faltered. “But my apology doesn’t erase my expectations. I still insist you cease trying to blame my father for Bratcher’s death.”

  Caroline forced a cavalier shrug. “I’ve already eliminated him as a possible suspect. Noble and I—” Had she really intended to divulge Noble’s suspicion? She’d told Annamarie she was a good investigator, but she’d become far too lax on this particular job. And the reason for her lack of focus stood before her in tan dungarees, a blue shirt, and brown-and-yellow-striped suspenders, with a flat-billed cap sitting rakishly upon his head.

  She started to move past him. “The foreman is going to be looking for me if I don’t get to work.” She paused, worry making her mouth dry. “You … you won’t turn me in as an infiltrator, will you?”

  “It’s to my advantage to learn the truth. So, no, I’ll keep your purpose here a secret.”

  Heaving a sigh of relief, she moved toward the door.

  “Will you keep mine?”

  She angled her head, puzzled.

  “I must remain Ollie Moore to the others. You see, I joined the ranks as an employee to gather information about the inner workings of the factory from the viewpoint of a common laborer. My findings will enable me to make changes that benefit each person in my employ. But if they know I’m the boss’s son.” He held out his palms, offering a shrug.

  “I understand.” His desire to make things better for the workers touched her more deeply than she cared to admit. “You’ll remain Ollie Moore.” She turned again to leave.

  “Wait. There’s something else I want to tell you.”

  She shifted in place, eager to escape the closet, the man, and the odd feelings he conjured within her.

  “I want to know what really happened the night Bratcher died, too. Yes, it was deemed accidental, but I’m not sure all the facts were placed in evidence before the determination was made.”

  He had her attention. She gazed at him, her breath trapped in her lungs.

  “We need to fully examine the elevator, and we—”

  “We?” Caroline shook her head. “This isn’t your investigation, Ollie. It’s mine.”

  “I’ll help you.”

  “No.”

  “You were willing to accept my help before. Why not now?”

  Before he was Ollie Moore, a fellow employee. But now he was Ollie Dinsmore, son of Fulton Dinsmore, owner of Dinsmore’s World-Famous Chocolates Factory. But how ridiculous it would sound to speak the reason aloud. She scowled. “Because.”

  He rolled his eyes.

  “And don’t roll your eyes at me.”

  He did it again.

  Caroline huffed. “Will you let me pass before I’m given another write-up? One more and Hightower will let me go.”

  Ollie smirked. “Not without my father’s approval, and my father won’t approve it without my agreeing. So you see, Carrie,”—he leaned close, his eyes sparkling—“you need me as an ally. But we won’t be able to investigate during operation hours. We need to come when everything is closed and there are no watchful eyes.”

  He was right. Someone had been reporting to Hightower, or he wouldn’t have made threats against her. Even so, she wasn’t convinced she should continue joining forces with Ollie. She grabbed the doorknob and turned it, but before she could push the door open, Ollie placed his hand over hers.

  “Meet me at the back door at seven o’clock Sunday morning. We can set aside any snooping until then to avoid attracting attention. But on Sunday we’ll be able to explore at our leisure without worry.” His warm fingers slid across the back of her hand, sending tremors of awareness up her arm. “Yes?”

  She’d probably regret the decision for the rest of her life, but she opened her mouth and blurted a simple reply. “Yes.”

  Letta

  Chill air whisked across the plains and lifted the collar of Letta’s coat. She smacked it back into place with a grunt of annoyance. Beside her, Lank tripped on a railroad tie and nearly went down. She reached for him, but he caught himself in time, sent her a sour look as if she’d caused his toe to catch, then hunkered into his jacket and kept moving ahead without a word.

  She glanced back at Lesley, who plodded along, dragging his heels. For most of the first hour of their journey, he’d walked on the shiny rail, hands extended like a tightrope walker. He and Lank had thrown rocks into the thick grass alongside the tracks, chased rabbits startled by the rocks, and dashed back to her, all smiles from their adventure. They’d even considered it a game to hide in the thick brush when a train came, covering their ears against the clamorous chug, chug and rattle of the passing cars.

  But as morning slipped away, the wind picked up, and the novelty of walking the railroad tracks wore off. Both boys had become grouchy. She was feeling grumbly, too. They’d ditched all their books behind the school’s outhouse except her Bible—she couldn’t bear to leave the only gift she’d ever received. The Bible’s weight in her pocket pulled at her shoulder, and the handle of the lunchpail Miss Kesia had packed for them that morning cut into her fingers, making them ache something fierce. Her shoulder hurt, and her fingers hurt, and her feet hurt. She didn’t know how much longer she’d be able to keep moving ahead.

  She shifted the pail to her opposite hand again and searched the landscape in both directions. The sun wouldn’t go down for several hours yet, but she and the boys would need shelter when dark fell. She’d expected to reach another town by now. According to their teacher, Wichita was only fifteen miles south, and the train went right through it. She didn’t have a watch to know the time, but the sun was high overhead—past noon, for sure. They’d been walking for more than four
hours already. How much farther could Wichita be?

  “I’m hungry, Letta.” Lesley’s whining voice carried over the endless whistle of the wind.

  Lank nodded his agreement.

  Letta chewed her lip. She’d hoped to hold the boys off ’til midafternoon at least. They wouldn’t be getting any supper unless she found a farmer’s root cellar she could rob. She started to tell them to wait, but her stomach rumbled, too. She sighed. Might as well have a little something.

  She turned and sat on the silver rail, placing the bucket between her feet and rustling through it. Both boys sat opposite her, their eyes on the bucket. She announced, “We got sandwiches, cookies, apples, an’ my biscuits from breakfast.” She’d deliberately tucked them in with the lunch items, thinking ahead.

  Lesley stuck out his hands. “I want a sandwich, my apple, an’ a cookie.”

  Letta shook her head. “Huh-uh. Can’t have it all. Only one thing right now.”

  Lank scowled. “Wuh-wuh-why?”

  “Gotta save some for later.” Letta turned a stern look on the pair. “You’ll thank me when you’re hungry again and there’s still somethin’ in the bucket to eat.”

  The two fussed, but when Letta didn’t give in, Lesley settled for an apple, and Lank took a sandwich. Letta ate her leftover biscuits, which were dry and tasteless but at least helped fill her stomach. As they were finishing, the familiar rumble of an approaching train vibrated the ground beneath them.

  “Let’s go!” She snatched up the bucket, took Lesley by the hand, and with Lank on her heels, raced to a stand of scrub trees growing alongside the tracks. They crouched behind the sheltering brush and watched the train whoosh by. The ground trembled, making Letta’s skin tingle all the way to her scalp. She’d always wanted to ride on a train, but after having her hair tossed and her body rattled by its force, now she wasn’t so sure she wanted to climb on board one. They’d probably be louder and rattle even more from the inside.