by Ann Shorey
“She’s as good as promised to that Baxter fellow.”
“I don’t believe so. I think she’s hoping for a reason to turn him down. She just hasn’t realized it yet.”
Curt stared at his sister. How did women know these things? Judging from the amount of time Faith spent with Baxter, it looked to him like she was practically engaged. He placed the support bar and sandpaper on the porch railing, allowing enthusiasm for Rosemary’s suggestion to build in his heart.
“You think she’d agree to come with us?”
Rosemary jammed her hands on her hips and sent him a mock frown. “After all the time we’ve spent together, why wouldn’t she? You’re making this too difficult. ‘Faint heart never won fair lady.’ ” She poked his upper arm. “Ask her when you deliver the buggy.”
During her walk home, Faith thought about the baby carriage Curt was crafting for Amy—and Sophia. She pictured his intent gaze concentrating on the small pieces of wood necessary to build something for a baby. Amy would be thrilled.
She picked up her pace, walking faster to outdistance unworthy jabs of envy that pricked at her heart. If anyone deserved kindness, it was their young guest. As intense as Faith’s feelings of loss were for her brother and father, she didn’t believe they could compare with losing a husband.
As she drew close to home, Faith realized she hadn’t worried once all afternoon about leaving her grandfather alone. In fact, ever since Amy arrived, she’d had no need to worry about Grandpa. He seemed content to work on his memoirs at the house, with occasional evenings out spent with his friend, Dr. Greeley.
An idea buzzed through her mind. After supper, she’d see if Grandpa agreed.
24
Faith dried the final plate and stacked it with its mates in a cupboard next to the stove. Grandpa’s cane bumped against the floor as he crossed the entryway. She assumed he was heading for the stairs.
She poked her head out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. “Have you got a moment? I want to ask you something while Amy’s busy with the baby.”
“I always have time for you.” He tugged a chair away from the table and sat. “Any of that cake left? Amy’s almost as good with pastry as you are.”
“It’s Amy I want to talk to you about.” She cut a slice of Dolly Varden cake and placed it in front of him.
Grandpa separated the layers and forked up a bite of the filling. Faith grinned at the sight. She’d instructed Amy to spread extra berry jam on the cake, knowing her grandfather’s fondness for eating the filling first. Taking a chair across from him, she watched for a moment, then asked, “What would you say to inviting Amy to stay on permanently as our housekeeper?”
“Excellent idea. She’s a great help, and surely needs a home.” He poked at his cake, cutting one of the layers into squares. “ ‘Withhold not good from them to whom it is due, when it is in the power of thine hand to do it.’ ”
His words jolted something loose in her memory. “Where is that in the Bible?”
“Proverbs.” He pointed his fork at her. “You need to spend more time memorizing Scripture. God’s Word never fails.”
“You’re right.” As soon as he finished eating, she’d run upstairs and ask Amy if she’d be willing to stay on—officially. Then she’d take her Bible and search for the verse Grandpa so often quoted.
Faith walked through the store late Monday afternoon, flicking a duster over countertops and merchandise. Today was Mr. Grisbee’s turn to act as watchman. She imagined he was somewhere out back, patrolling the alley, but she didn’t need protection any longer. Several weeks had passed since the theft of her reticule.
She strode toward the storeroom. She’d tell Mr. Grisbee that he and Mr. Slocum could relax their efforts. The thief was probably long gone.
A rattling sound came from the storage area, followed by a crash and muffled curses. She pushed the curtain aside. “Mr. Grisbee! Are you all right?”
Light from the open door illuminated buckshot pellets strewn over the floor inside the back entrance. Faith lifted her skirt and stepped with care around the scattered lead balls. Mr. Grisbee must be in the alley. Lord, I pray he’s not hurt.
Outside, a heated breeze blew a puff of dust down the pathway between buildings. Mr. Grisbee came toward her in a fast shuffle from behind the newspaper office. “Blast it. He got away.”
“Who?”
“Your thief.” He put his hands on his knees and drew several deep breaths. Sweat trickled through his gray whiskers.
Faith’s hand flew to her throat. “He was here?” A shudder ran through her. She tucked her hand under the older man’s elbow. “Come inside and sit. I’ll get you a glass of ginger water and you can tell me what happened.”
When they stepped into the storeroom, she pointed at the floor. “Careful. A box of buckshot got spilled.”
“Hah! Me and Jesse come up with that. Worked too, ’cept I was too slow.” With the toe of his boot, he rolled the pellets aside.
She stared at him. “Buckshot?”
“Yep. Dumped it on the floor. Figured anyone who tried to sneak in would slip and fall, then we’d grab ’em. Only trouble was, he was too fast.”
He shuffled to a chair and mopped his forehead with a bandana while Faith poured a glass of ginger water. Her hand trembled when she handed him the beverage. “We need to tell the sheriff.” She sank into the chair next to him.
He patted her shoulder. “I’ll talk to him directly.” He chortled. “Meantime, we did a pretty good job of scaring that fellow off. Bet he’s got a bruise or two.”
After Mr. Grisbee left, Faith swept up the shot pellets, dumping them into a bucket in case the regulars wanted to use their trap again. Her head spun with worry. As far as she knew, none of the other merchants had been robbed. She was being targeted.
She hung the broom on a hook, then cocked her head and listened. A squeaking sound came from the alley. Her nerves tingled. Tiptoeing, she crept to the tool display and wrapped her fingers around a crowbar.
Someone knocked at the bolted door.
Clutching the iron bar in her right hand, she shot open the bolt and peered into the alley.
Curt stood outside, a sheepish expression on his face. He gripped the handle of what looked like a cradle on wheels.
“Finished the carriage.” He took a second look at her. “Who are you planning to attack with that weapon?”
“Mr. Grisbee scared off an intruder awhile ago. I thought the man had come back.”
“Thieves don’t knock.”
“I know.” She took a deep breath. “I wasn’t thinking.” She sagged with relief at the sight of his friendly face. “Come on in.”
Curt bolted the door behind him. “You weren’t harmed, were you?” His jaw tightened.
She shook her head.
“Did you tell the sheriff?”
“Mr. Grisbee did.” She paused a moment while her heartbeat slowed to normal. “I’d hoped to see you today.”
He shot her a smile and rolled the white-painted buggy into the mercantile, parking it near the front windows. “Thought you’d be the best one to take this to Amy.”
“It’s beautiful. But why did you come the back way?”
“Can you picture me pushing this down the street? I took the alley all the way from our house.”
Faith bent over to examine the workmanship. She patted the quilted lining, admired the curved hood, and exclaimed over the perfectly matched wheels. “You even made a tiny pillow.”
“Rosemary did that. I draw the line at sewing.”
They exchanged a smile. “I’m glad you’re here,” Faith said, remembering the news she wanted to share. “I have something to tell you.”
Did she imagine it, or did his face pale for a moment?
Curt swallowed. “First, I’ve got a message for you from Rosemary. She . . . we want you to go to the Independence Day celebration with us. The parade starts at ten. We can pick you up a few minutes earlier.” A proud expres
sion crossed his face. “Amy will have the carriage for Sophia.”
“I know she’ll be pleased.” She tried not to let a disappointed edge creep into her voice, but from his expression, she’d failed.
He eyed her for a moment, then moved toward the front. “Wednesday, then.” He turned the knob, jingling the bell.
“Wait.”
The bell chimed again when he closed the door. Faith scooted around to the cash drawer and slapped two ledgers on the counter. “Come see what I discovered.” She flipped a book open to one of the marked pages, then took her Bible from her carryall.
“You’ve got my curiosity up. Did your granddad explain his system to you?”
“In a way.” She opened her Bible to the third chapter of Proverbs and pointed at the twenty-seventh verse. ‘Withhold not good from them to whom it is due, when it is in the power of thine hand to do it.’ ” She smiled at Curt, triumphant. “Grandpa says that all the time. Last night I counted the books from Genesis on, and Proverbs is the twentieth one in the Old Testament.”
She moved her hand to the open ledger and ran her finger under the numbers 20327 at the bottom of the page. “Twenty. Three. Twenty-seven. The numbers written below each name when he gave merchandise away. Do you see?”
“Well, I’ll be.” His eyes shone. He took her face in his hands and planted a kiss on her forehead. “You’re a smart one.”
Faith stepped backward, the imprint of his lips warm on her skin. She stared at him with widened eyes.
He stared back, a flush climbing his cheeks. The scar on his neck pulsed red. “Forgive me. I had no right.”
She lifted a hand toward him and then let it drop. Her heart thrummed. “Of course I forgive you. We had something to celebrate, after all.”
“No. I was wrong,” he mumbled, striding toward the entrance.
The bell jangled. The door slammed.
Faith watched him lope down the boardwalk, wishing there’d been more she could say. Words that would keep him by her side.
Independence Day arrived. Faith and Amy waited on the front porch with Grandpa for Curt’s arrival, filled picnic baskets at the ready.
“Here comes a wagon. Must be him,” Grandpa said, pointing with his cane.
“How can you tell at this distance?” Faith asked.
“Slowest horse in town—bound to be young Saxon.”
Once Moses plodded to a stop at the hitching rail, Curt jumped down and sprinted toward the house.
Faith took a deep breath, ready for his greeting, but instead his gaze fell on Amy. “Does the carriage roll smoothly? I put bricks in it to test weight load, but bricks aren’t a baby.”
Amy lifted Sophia into her arms. “It’s perfect, Mr. Saxon. I’ve enjoyed taking her for walks. Thank you.”
He winked at Faith. “ ‘Withhold not good from them to whom it is due . . .’ ”
A flutter tickled her throat at the reminder of their shared discovery—and his kiss. Her lips curved upward. “It seems you’re accomplished at any task you undertake. Is there anything you can’t do?”
A shadow displaced his cheerful expression. “Hide from memories,” he said in a voice meant for her ears alone. “As you well know.”
The pain in his eyes penetrated her heart. She wished she could promise him that in time the memories would fade, but how could she? She was planning to run to Oregon to hide from her own memories.
When they reached the site of the celebration, Curt tied the horse and wagon in front of the depot and helped his passengers to the ground. He paused before carrying the picnic baskets to a grassy area under a maple tree. “Rosemary’s waiting for us. Earlier this morning we staked a spot with a quilt.”
The number of quilts spread over the grass formed a solid pattern of their own. Faith’s eyes lingered on the red, white, and blue bunting draped over the latticework on the bandstand, remembering her visit there with Royal a few days before. She hoped he wouldn’t appear today and disrupt her time with Curt and Rosemary, then felt a nudge of guilt at the thought.
At the far end of the parklike area, she noticed a string of booths labeled “Cold Lemonade,” “Soda Water,” and “Beer and Libations.” The beer concession seemed to be doing a brisk trade. Men’s raucous voices carried over the murmur of families gathered for the parade. Faith frowned, thankful the revelers were far enough away not to disturb their picnic.
In the distance, a band struck up “Columbia, Gem of the Ocean.” Flag bearers marched down Court Street, preceding the musicians. Faith tucked her hand under Curt’s arm. “Let’s hurry. I want to get close enough to see the parade.”
They gathered with the rest of the spectators lining the street facing the railroad platform. Faith stood between Curt and Grandpa, while Amy pushed the carriage over the grass to join Rosemary.
“I’ve never seen so many people turn out for the Independence Day celebration before,” Faith said.
Grandpa responded in a low voice. “We’re a Union again. That’s something to celebrate.”
The band marched into view, followed by a farm wagon filled with children dressed in costumes featuring stars and stripes. A brightly polished buggy was next. A portly red-faced gentleman in a frock coat and top hat sat behind the driver.
“One thing we can count on,” Faith whispered to Curt. “Mayor Hayes will treat us to a long speech.”
Several more entries passed by, including a small boy driving a dog cart and waving a flag. The Saint Bernard that pulled him had a red bow around his neck and flags flying from makeshift saddlebags slung over his back.
The home militia unit concluded the parade. As the crowd began to disperse, the soldiers halted, pointed their rifles into the air, and fired three volleys.
Curt froze.
Reacting without thinking, Faith clasped one of his fisted hands between hers. “You’re here with me. You’re home. You’re safe.”
Slowly his hand relaxed. His fingers wrapped around hers. He closed his eyes, breathing in short gasps.
In front of them, the leader of the militia led his men in a brief close order drill, then formed them up to march forward. As they moved down the street, the smell of gunpowder lingered in the air. Curt removed his hat and wiped sweat from his forehead. “I didn’t expect that, or I wouldn’t have come.”
Rosemary hurried over to them. A worried frown creased her forehead. “Are you all right?” she asked Curt.
“Yes. Faith here kept me from embarrassing myself.”
“The Lord helped you. I was just in the neighborhood.” Faith disengaged her hand from his.
“Why don’t we get comfortable? We can listen to the mayor speak and enjoy our picnic at the same time.” Rosemary pointed to their quilt in the shade of a maple tree. Amy sat next to the baby carriage, her dress a pool of black engulfing her slight figure.
“I’m ready to get out of the sun.” Faith exchanged a smile with Rosemary, then turned—and stopped short.
Sheriff Cooper stood near the tree watching them, arms folded over his chest. He tipped his hat. “Morning, folks. Fine parade, wasn’t it?”
“Indeed it was, Sheriff.” Faith’s mind went to the day their store had been robbed. Most of the townsfolk had been gathered near the railroad tracks then too. “But shouldn’t you be uptown keeping an eye on things?”
“Can’t be everywhere at once. Heard there might be a disturbance down here between Rebs and Union men. War’s not over for some, seems like.” His gaze flicked in Curt’s direction and then returned to Faith.
Feeling a surge of protectiveness, she stepped between the sheriff and Curt. “Any progress on finding the thieves who stole our merchandise?” She hoped he noticed the sharpness in her voice.
“I’ve got a pretty good idea who it was.” He tipped his hat again and ambled past them.
“He probably never gives it a thought unless I prod him,” Faith muttered under her breath.
Mayor Hayes concluded his lengthy speech at the same moment Faith rose
to gather the picnic leftovers and stow them in baskets. Once the man’s strident oration ceased, sounds of voices raised in argument drifted from beyond the bandstand. Undisturbed, Grandpa dozed, slouched forward on the camp stool Curt had provided for his comfort.
She turned, noticing Curt and Rosemary strolling under the trees with Amy, who pushed Sophia’s carriage over the uneven ground. Faith stared after them. Judging from Curt’s attentiveness, it wouldn’t be long before he courted Amy in earnest. Why else would he continue to call at the house now that they’d concluded their work on the mercantile’s ledgers? A shadow of jealousy stole some of the luster from the afternoon.
Faith picked her way across the grass toward their wagon with a filled basket in each hand. As soon as her friends returned, she’d suggest that Curt take them home. Her grandfather looked ready to tip over in the afternoon heat.
“Look out! They’ve got knives.”
Startled, she pivoted to locate the source of the alarm. A woman pointed in Grandpa’s direction. Behind his slumped figure, a blade flashed in the sunlight.
Two men circled one another, coming closer to Rosemary’s quilt and paying no attention to anything but their dispute. One of the men staggered, his weapon coming within inches of the stool on which her grandfather napped. Didn’t they see him?
Fear coursed over her body. How could he sleep through their grunts and muttered curses? She tore past picnickers, running straight at the two men. Part of her mind recognized that she still carried the baskets. She flung them aside without pausing.
“Stop! Don’t hurt him!” She waved her arms to attract their attention. A few more yards and she’d be able to thrust herself between the brawlers and her grandfather.
Her right foot sank into a soft mound of earth, twisting her ankle with an explosion of pain. Momentum carried her forward and she sprawled on the ground.
