A Thousand Little Blessings

by Claire Sanders

Once they were all seated, Oscar clasped his hands and bowed his head. “Thank You, Lord for this, Your bounty, and thank You for our health. Please look over little Melanie and let her know how much we love her. Amen.”

  Kurt squeezed Cora’s hand. Cora rested her head on his shoulder for a few seconds and then reached for the plate of cornbread. “Help yourself, Miss Davis.”

  Etta took a square of the golden cornbread. “I wish you’d call me Etta. I’m not that much older than you.”

  Cora smiled tentatively and passed the plate to her father-in-law.

  Oscar slathered butter on a large slice of cornbread. “Now then, Miss Davis, what is it that brings you way out here to our place? I know I’m not behind in my loan payments.”

  “You’re right, Mr. Beck. Your loan payments are up-to-date. But I wanted to ask if anyone from the bank has been out to collect from you.”

  “Just your uncle,” Oscar said around a mouthful of food.

  Etta’s heart sank. She’d wanted to be wrong. “Carl Stanley?”

  “That’s the one. He first came out about, what, last September?” Oscar looked to his son for confirmation.

  “That sounds right,” Kurt said. “He came by and said the bank was instituting a new service. Said that since it was difficult for farmers and ranchers to get into town, someone from the bank would be coming to pick up monthly payments.”

  “Did anyone other than Carl receive payments?”

  Oscar looked up from his plate and scowled at Etta. “Don’t tell me you don’t know.”

  Etta gazed back at the rancher, her silence implying her answer.

  Oscar’s fork clambered on his plate as he sat back in his chair. “Miss Davis, are you telling me someone stole our money?”

  “Did you get a receipt for the payment?”

  Oscar looked at his daughter-in-law. “Cora, you handed over most of the payment envelopes. Please tell me you got a receipt.”

  Cora nodded vigorously. “I did just what you told me. I got the receipt and put it in the brown envelope behind the clock on your desk.”

  Etta wished she didn’t have to burden these fine people with her problem. As bad as Carl’s thievery was, the fact that he’d involved the Beck family somehow made it worse. “It’s true that someone’s been stealing, Mr. Beck, but it’s the bank’s money that’s missing. That’s why I need to know who’s been intercepting your payments.”

  “Mr. Stanley usually came by himself,” Cora answered. “But one time he brought a young lady with him.”

  Despite her years of etiquette training, Etta propped an elbow on the table and rested her head in her hand. The weeks of denying her uncle’s embezzling scheme had been wasted energy. She had witnesses now. “If you saw the woman again, would you recognize her?”

  Cora’s eyes widened. “Oh yes. She was quite the fashion plate. Big feathers in her hat and paint all over her face. Fancy car, too.”

  Cora’s description matched the young woman Etta had seen with Carl at Hoffman’s Bakery. What was her name? “After lunch, I’d like to see the receipts so I can make a record of the collection dates. Do you know who else may have handed over payments?”

  Kurt spoke up. “I saw Diego Benavidez at the feed store a few weeks ago. He said Carl had let him drive his new automobile the last time your uncle was out at his place. Don’t know why else Carl would have gone to see Diego except to collect the payment.”

  “This is bad business,” Oscar said with an ominous scowl. “What are you going to do if Benavidez doesn’t have his receipts?”

  “I’m going to take his word for it and make sure the bank’s ledger shows his payments are up-to-date,” Etta answered. “If this comes to trial, you may be called as witnesses.”

  Oscar shook his head. “I stay as far away from the courthouse as possible. Only go in to pay my taxes and that’s once a year. Don’t be counting on me to show up.”

  “But, Pa, we could help put a thief in jail,” Kurt argued. “You’ve said a hundred times how good the Davis Bank has been to you over the years. They even suspended your loan payments last year when you got hurt. I think we should do whatever we can to help.”

  The hard expression on Oscar’s face showed little concession, but he gave one decisive nod. “Point taken. Miss Etta, if you need us, let me know.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Beck. I hope it won’t come to a trial, but I want to be prepared. I have just one more thing to ask of all of you.”

  Oscar narrowed his eyes and set his mouth in a rigid line. “What more is there?”

  “Will you help me keep this quiet? I’ll be presenting all my evidence to the county prosecutor soon, but until then…”

  “I know what you mean, Miss Etta,” Kurt said. “Don’t worry about us. We know how to keep a secret.”

  ****

  Gabriel trudged up the gentle rise that led to his parents’ barn. Was there nothing he could do to shake the dark emotions that plagued him? Ever since returning to Burnet, he’d been one degree short of bursting into rage. Visiting the families of his fallen comrades had proven futile and after learning about Etta’s engagement, he was twice as irritable as he’d been before. The only relief he’d found had been in Etta’s company, and now she was promised to someone else.

  His mother’s gentle voice sounded from the hen house. “Come on, my lovely girls. Give up the treasure.”

  “Chickens giving you problems, Mom?”

  Sara turned, a basket of eggs clutched to her stomach. “No more than usual. Where have you been all morning?”

  “Talking to the vet. One of Henry Davis’s mares had a bad hoof. Dr. Scott took care of it. I’ll keep an eye on her, but it shouldn’t be a problem.”

  Sara closed the hen house door behind her. “Did you go for a ride today?”

  “Not yet. Thought I’d get some lunch and then go back.”

  Sara gently stroked Gabriel’s shoulder, as though trying to smooth his ruffled feathers. “Sometimes I wish you were still my little boy. It was easier to comfort your hurts then.”

  Gabriel shrugged. “No need. I’m fine.”

  Sara stood on tiptoe to wrap one arm around her son and hold him tightly. “I know better, but I don’t know how to help. Won’t you tell me what’s wrong?”

  Gabriel’s chest expanded and contracted with a beleaguered breath.

  Sara tightened her hold. “What is it, son? You know you can tell me anything, and I’ll still love you.”

  Gabriel slid his arms around his mother’s waist and rested his head on her shoulder. “I’m OK. There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “But I do worry. I hear you go out in the wee hours of the morning. I rarely see you smile, and you walk as though you’re toting a boulder on your back.” His mother had always known how to comfort him, but not even she could ease this burden.

  Gabriel released his hold and took the basket of eggs from her. “Have you changed your mind about riding with me? This weather won’t hold much longer.”

  “Fine,” Sara said as she headed toward the house. “Don’t tell me what’s bothering you. But I’m going to keep praying.”

  Gabriel opened the kitchen door for her. “I know you will, Mom. I’m glad you remind the Lord about me once in a while.”

  “He never forgets you,” Sara said as she began to prepare Gabriel’s lunch. “And it wouldn’t hurt if you had a long talk with Him yourself.”

  Gabriel retrieved a pitcher of cool water from the ice box. “When are the ladies from your sewing circle coming?”

  “Two o’clock. We’re almost finished with Etta’s quilt.”

  Gabriel’s heart squeezed at the mention of Etta’s name. Maybe he should look for work in another part of the state. Otherwise, he’d have to see William Clark living in the Davis’s house. “I didn’t know Etta was part of the sewing circle.”

  “She isn’t, although she’d be welcome to join. Pour me a glass of water, too.”

  Gabriel filled two glasses. He placed one on
the table and drank from the other, recalling how he’d done the same from the battered cup at Lorena Scott’s cabin in Caldwell. She’d been proud of her water and of her son. She was content with her home and family. Maybe Gabriel should take a lesson from her.

  Sara set a plate of pork roast, potatoes, and biscuits in front of Gabriel. “Leftovers from last night’s supper.”

  “You won’t hear me complaining. Is Dad coming home for lunch?”

  “He usually shows up around one o’clock.” His mother sat down beside him. “You need him for something?”

  “I want to ask him if I can use the car tomorrow to drive into Austin. I thought I’d pay a visit to the Highway Department offices and talk to them about a job.”

  The smile on his mother’s face meant she approved of his plan. “See there?” Sara said. “That’s one prayer the Lord answered.”

  “You’ve been praying for me to get a job?”

  “In a manner of speaking. I’ve been asking the Lord to help you find your way, and a job seems like a step in the right direction. I can’t begin to understand what you went through in the Army, and you’re not about to tell me, but it must have been something truly awful to trouble you the way it does.”

  Gabriel forced the food down his throat. Should he tell his mother of his fatal error? He’d never doubted she’d love him, but was it fair to burden her with his guilt? “Have you ever thought much about the idea of a fellow forgiving himself for a mistake he made?” he asked.

  Sara was quiet for several long moments and Gabriel knew she was considering her answer. Finally, she asked, “Do you remember how Peter denied Jesus?”

  “Just before the crucifixion.”

  “Right. I’ve always thought Peter must have felt tremendously guilty about that. He denied being one of Jesus’s followers, and then Jesus was resurrected and came back to talk to the disciples. Can you imagine how Peter felt knowing that Jesus knew what he’d done?”

  “I never thought about it before now.”

  “I have. Remember when you were a little boy and you’d done something wrong? Most kids are scared their parents will find out and punish them. With Peter it must have been like that but magnified a thousand times.”

  “I don’t remember any place in the Bible where Jesus punished Peter for denying Him.”

  “That’s true. Reverend Martin preached a sermon once about how Jesus showed tremendous grace toward Peter and that we should strive to do the same toward people who harm us. But your question has me thinking a different way. How did Peter ever forgive himself?”

  Was Gabriel’s mistake as grievous as Peter’s? He didn’t know.

  “Peter was imprisoned because he wouldn’t stop preaching about Jesus,” his mother continued, “but that didn’t stop him. I think that receiving so much grace must have changed Peter in a very profound way.”

  “But did Peter ever forgive himself?”

  “He must have, Gabriel, because how else could he have done what he did? If he’d been going around, thinking only about what a terrible mistake he’d made, he could have never helped build the church. I mean, Jesus forgave Peter for denying Him, and once Peter received that grace, it must have been easier for Peter to forgive himself and go on with what the Lord wanted him to do.”

  Through the open kitchen windows, Gabriel heard his father’s truck stop beside the house.

  “There’s your father,” his mother said. “I’d better fix his plate.” She got to her feet, patted Gabriel’s back, and kissed him on the top of his head. “My, that certainly was a deep conversation. Maybe you should talk to Reverend Martin about it.”

  His mother busied herself at the stove while Gabriel finished his meal. He didn’t need to talk to their preacher. His mother had given him more than enough to think about.

  13

  Etta had never entered the county courthouse. Her mother had once described the two-story building as “no place for a lady,” and since the jail was housed within its limestone walls, Etta could understand why her mother had warned her. But Etta had business with the county prosecutor, and his office was somewhere within the imposing building.

  She took a fortifying breath, straightened her hat, and marched through the front door. The tall, narrow windows allowed little light to filter into the building, and Etta stopped near the entrance to let her eyes adjust. A small placard listing the location of the various county offices had been placed nearby. No wonder this place was so busy. Everything from the tax assessor to the sheriff was housed there. At last, she found the office of county prosecutor, located on the second floor.

  Halfway up the stone staircase, someone called her name. “Henrietta? What are you doing here?”

  Etta placed a hand on her hat as she raised her face toward the second floor landing.

  William hurried down the stairs, brows drawn and lips tight. He took her elbow and escorted her back toward the entrance. “What are you doing here, Henrietta? This is no place for you.”

  Etta stopped and moved her elbow out of his grasp. “Actually, I’ve come to see you.”

  William scanned the area. “You should have called. You have no idea of the type of people who frequent this building.”

  As if to make his point, a door opened and a uniformed deputy led three men toward the staircase. Shackled by leg chains and dressed in baggy brown jail uniforms, the prisoners shuffled up the steps, their eyes cast toward their cuffed hands.

  William placed his body between Etta and the men. “See what I mean?” he asked once the men had passed. “Those men are on their way to court. I need to go so I can present their charges. Go back to the bank, and I’ll come to your office as soon as I’m finished here.”

  “I have information about the embezzlement,” Etta said quietly. “I believe it’s time to turn it over to your office.”

  “Not now and not here,” William said through gritted teeth. He placed his hand on the small of Etta’s back and escorted her through the door. “I’m sorry you had to see that, Henrietta. Such distasteful concerns are best left to men. Now, you go on, and I’ll see you later.” William mopped his brow with a white handkerchief and left her on the sidewalk.

  Etta pulled at the hem of her jacket, as though straightening her clothes could straighten her thoughts. William had acted as though she’d walked into a saloon and ordered a drink of whiskey! Surely, women weren’t barred from the courthouse. After all, it was a public building.

  She rubbed her temple to ease the tension that built there. No one had spoken to her in such a domineering tone since she’d been a young girl, but William seemed to think that he had the right to dictate her behavior. George Owens had made that mistake, and she’d sent him packing. Etta wondered what her cousin Nora would say if she knew how high-handed William had been.

  Etta had managed to set George straight. Maybe it was time she did the same thing with William.

  ****

  Several hours later, William sauntered into Etta’s office, his hat in one hand and a small bouquet of red roses in the other. “I come bearing gifts,” he said with an unctuous smile. “I hope you will forgive me for not being able to meet with you earlier.” He held out the flowers like a schoolboy offering an apple to his teacher.

  Should she voice her resentment or swallow it?

  William laid the spray of roses on Etta’s desk and pulled a chair close to her. “Now then, Henrietta, what was it that was so important you felt you had to brave the dangers of the county courthouse?” He’d resumed the polite, friendly quality she’d always associated with him. Which persona was genuine? This courteous William or the one who had made it clear that she had crossed the line?

  Etta thought of Nora’s advice and squared her shoulders. “Surely there are women who have business in the courthouse,” she said.

  William crossed his legs and leaned back in the chair. “I will admit that I occasionally see a woman in the courthouse, but she is not a lady.”

  “A lady neve
r has to pay her taxes?”

  William removed a watch from his vest pocket and checked the time. “Her husband or another male relative takes care of that for her.”

  “A lady never has to appear in court?”

  “Very rarely. A lady has to provide testimony in a case, but most ladies would never find themselves in a situation where they witness something unsavory.”

  “A few years ago, Texas admitted its first women to the bar. Are you saying that female attorneys never have reason to step into a courthouse?”

  William leaned closer and took one of her hands in his. “Dear Henrietta, you should never argue with a lawyer. Arguing is what we like to do best. But to answer your question, I am sure that female attorneys have to conduct business in the courthouse. But the crux of my argument is this—female attorneys are not ladies. A lady would concede all business matters to her husband. A lady’s sphere of interest revolves around her home, family, and church.”

  “But what about me, William? I work in this bank six days a week. By your definition, I am not a lady.”

  “You have been raised to be a lady, Henrietta. One only has to be acquainted with your family in order to know that. I admit I thought it peculiar that your father allowed you to work as his assistant, but out of respect for Henry, I kept my opinion to myself.”

  Etta’s body tensed at the word. William thought it peculiar that she worked in a bank? She struggled not to jerk her hand away from his. “What would have happened if I hadn’t been able to take his place?”

  “I’m sure there’s someone at the bank who would have been able to take over. If you hadn’t been here, your father would have created an assistant position and trained someone. After all, once we’re married, you’ll be busy fulfilling your role as wife and mother. I may decide to run for a higher political office someday, and a lady such as yourself will be quite an asset.”

  William had everything worked out. He would marry her, tuck her at home with his mother and their children, and bring her out when he needed a demure, compliant wife at his side. He would certainly disapprove of her wish to continue working at the bank. William let go of her hand and straightened in his chair. “Now, then. What do you have to show me?”