The Rain Sparrow

by Debbie Macomber

  He pulled her close this time, arms around her narrow waist, and settled in to savor the strawberry sweetness of her mouth.

  * * *

  JOSIE DIDN’T KNOW what was the matter with her. Perhaps seeing Thad’s scars or hearing about the fire had stirred her pity. Perhaps she was touched by the kindness he’d shown to Amelia, the stranger in town. Or maybe it was simply Thaddeus himself that had caused her to do such a thing.

  Kissing under the moonlight in an open meadow. Why, the very idea was—was—she closed her eyes and savored the memory—so incredibly romantic.

  Long after she’d gone to bed that night, she lay awake thinking of those kisses. Not only the way she felt in his arms but of the man himself. She admired him. There, she’d allowed the shameful thought. She admired a Yankee.

  In the darkness with his arms around her and his voice low and gently amused, he didn’t feel like the enemy.

  Her knees shook a little to think such a thing.

  Nevertheless, her interest was piqued, and she found more excuses to visit the mill in the following days. A Portland was needed there, and she was nothing if not a good hand with the shelling and bolting and bagging. If she and Thad migrated to the water bucket at the same time or bumped into each other on the stairs or lingered long after dark and walked home together, what harm was there in that?

  This particular morning she was in the mercantile, her shoes ringing hollow against the plank floor. There at Charlotte’s request, she delivered a load of meal in exchange for store credit to buy sugar and tea and coffee and other items the farm couldn’t grow.

  Ellen Stockton and her mother came inside the dim confines of Merriman’s Mercantile as Josie admired a bolt of the deep blue silk. Whatever was Mr. Merriman thinking to order such an extravagance? Even the banker’s wife couldn’t afford the luxury in this day and time. But, oh, the cloth was lovely, and her fingers itched to create something beautiful.

  “Hello, Josie.” Round and dimpled and a bit on the silly side though sweet and sincere, Ellen Stockton belonged to Josie’s weekly quilting circle.

  “Ellen,” she said. “Hello. And to you, as well, Mrs. Stockton. Isn’t this silk the prettiest thing?”

  “The color would be beautiful on you, Josie,” Ellen said and then clapped her dainty hands. “You should buy it and use those nimble fingers of yours to make something swoonworthy. Why, your new beau would find you positively irresistible.”

  Josie froze. Her nimble fingers, lingering on the silken fabric, grew chilled. “My new beau?”

  Ellen’s smooth brow wrinkled in worry as if she feared she’d spilled a secret. “I’m sorry. Have I misspoken? I thought—”

  “You do not need to apologize, Ellen,” Mrs. Stockton said. “Josie surely knows she’s the talk of the town. Once again.”

  “Mama. Don’t.” Ellen placed a hand on her mother’s arm.

  “Don’t shush me, Ellen. Better to speak to her face than talk behind her back.”

  A seed of anxiety, as unfamiliar as love, pushed into Josie’s throat. Animosity vibrated from her friend’s mother. The chance encounter had quickly turned sour. “Tell me what?”

  The older woman, her black hair pulled into a bun severe enough to make her eyes slant upward in a near-devilish manner, leaned closer.

  “Word is all over town that you are siding with slaves and lollygagging with that new Yankee miller in a most inappropriate manner.”

  Why, the old gossip. Josie’s lips tightened.

  “Mama, please. I beg you.”

  Ellen’s mother was not to be deterred. Her slanted eyes narrowed until Josie thought they’d disappear into the folds of fat and never be seen again, and a mercy that would be, she thought.

  As a woman who considered herself on the upper shelf of Honey Ridge society, Mamie Stockton was a battering ram who never missed an opportunity to impose her opinions on others.

  “Since you never had a mother to teach you right from wrong,” Mamie said, “I feel it is my duty as a Christian woman to speak up before you do something regretful and shame us all. Though it certainly wouldn’t be the first time.”

  Josie sucked in a roomful of coffee-scented air, the flare of temper beginning to crawl up the back of her neck. She couldn’t cause a scene here. Not in town. Not now. The urge to throw a hissy fit bubbled up in her chest until she feared she’d choke. But choke she would before she’d give this old biddy the pleasure of being proved correct. Nosy Mamie Stockton was fortunate indeed that Josephine Portland was no longer the impetuous girl of old.

  With all the dignity her temper would allow, Josie thrust her chin high. Lips tight and flat, she said, “Mrs. Stockton, I am at a loss. Perhaps we should speak of this at another ti—”

  “Your lack of understanding proves my point perfectly.” Worn lace fanned the air as the harridan shook her handkerchief at Josie. “Just because your family owns the only mill for miles around doesn’t make you immune to social conventions or give you a right to mistreat your own kind. First, that—that man takes Mr. Pitts’s job, and him a loyal employee for many years. And now the Yankee miller is courting Tom Foster’s fiancée. Shameful, I say.”

  Face flaming hot as a blacksmith’s forge, Josie shook with the need to strike back.

  Temper, Josephine, temper.

  “Courting?” She bit off the word in a low, furious voice. If this hateful old woman didn’t hush soon, Josie would not be responsible for the consequences.

  A well-bred woman practices self-control at all times.

  She’d heard the admonishment from grammar school teachers so often she had ultimately lost all control and screamed like a banshee.

  Mrs. Stockton probably knew about those little lapses, too. The old biddy.

  She and Thad weren’t courting. They were simply thrown together by virtue of proximity and the fact that her family owned the gristmill.

  And because they’d shared a few meaningless kisses. Kisses she couldn’t stop thinking about.

  Her fury drained away as quickly as it had come.

  Was Mrs. Stockton right? At least in part? Were she and Thad courting?

  “You’ll excuse me,” she said stiffly. “This conversation is over.”

  “Josie, I’m sorry—”

  She stayed only long enough to see Mrs. Stockton yank Ellen’s arm before she gathered up her purchases; then, head high and cheeks roasting hotter than a rabbit on a spit, she hurried out of the store.

  She was Tom’s fiancée.

  But she was falling in love with another man. Tom’s enemy. Her enemy.

  * * *

  THAD HAD NEVER imagined being happy again. He’d never imagined feeling anything for a woman other than Amelia. He’d never dreamed of wanting another, of longing for another.

  Yet in the days following that first moonlight kiss something akin to hope had sprouted under his rib cage like a wild, sweet vine reaching for the sunlight.

  Will teased him and Abram noticed his interest in the sassy redhead. Neither judged or chided him, and for that he was grateful. His insides were tangled enough as it was.

  That Josie found excuses to be at the mill and linger late for the walk home told him she was interested, too.

  Yes, indeed. Something pleasant was astir on the summer air.

  His heart tripped pleasantly as he crossed the grass between the rambling farmhouse and the garden out back.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” he said, coming up behind the woman occupying all of his.

  Brown skirt pooled on the dark ground, she bent low over a row of fat dangling green beans. A half-filled basket sat on the bare dirt at her feet.

  She straightened and turned to glare at him. Dust stuck to the sweat on her forehead.

  “My thoughts, sir, would curdle your blood. I d
early despise picking beans and have less-than-charitable thoughts at the present time. You would, perhaps, do well to give me a wide berth.”

  Amusement tickled the corners of his lips. Her cheeks were rosy. Green eyes glittered. She was in a snit. A pretty snit. If he said as much to her, she’d hit him with a rake.

  He removed his hat and rubbed at the sweat gathered at his hairline. “Why are you picking alone? Where are the others?”

  “They’re all busy snapping beans, shelling beans, canning beans.” She slapped another handful into the basket. “And the things keep growing. I swear I picked this row this morning.”

  “You won’t complain come winter.”

  She chucked a bean at him. “Must you always be sensible?”

  Chuckling, he yanked a few beans and retaliated. She ducked and made a growling sound, but her mouth quivered and the glitter in her emerald eyes became a twinkle. “Don’t make me laugh. I want to be annoyed.”

  “Laughter doeth good like a medicine.” Clapping his hat onto his head, he stepped over the row and began to pick from the opposite side. With long, strong fingers and wide hands, he gathered beans rapidly and tossed them into her basket. She was nearly finished with this row.

  “Then you, Mr. Eriksson, have never suffered the insult of castor oil. There is absolutely no good in that particular medicine.” She added a double handful of her favorite hated vegetable. Her fingertips, he noted with a hidden smile, were greener than her eyes. “What are you doing here in midday?”

  “Day is waning, Josie.” He hitched his chin at the western horizon. “The grinding was done, so I left.”

  She straightened, one hand to her back. She stretched and grimaced. “A behavior uncharacteristic of your overeager work ethic. Is everything all right? Have you taken ill?”

  Normally he found plenty of mill work to keep him busy. Today more pleasant pursuits occupied his thoughts.

  “Abram stayed behind to set up for tomorrow. Jenny O’Connor invited me for supper tonight.”

  Josie prickled. “Jenny did? Are you going?”

  Was she jealous? Just a tad?

  “Only if you agree to come along. The invitation was for both of us. Angus was at the mill earlier to deliver the message.”

  “Oh. Well. How thoughtful.” She worried her bottom lip as if the invitation troubled her.

  “Is something wrong? You dislike the O’Connors?”

  The Irish couple with their deep brogues and merry jokes were the first outside the Portland farm to offer friendship. Like Thad, they were not altogether welcome in Honey Ridge, nor anywhere else, for that matter, simply because they were Irish.

  He enjoyed their company, but he’d enjoy it more with Josie along.

  Josie, however, with her strong prejudices, might not be of the same opinion.

  “I like them well enough.” She yanked a bunch of beans as if she wanted to strangle them.

  “Then you’ll come with me?”

  “Would you go without me?”

  Exasperating woman.

  A grasshopper landed on his shoulder. He flicked the bug away, listened to the whirr of wings as it sought a leaf to feed on. “No, I would not.”

  She perked up. “No?”

  “No.” He regarded her with a mild look, holding her gaze steady. “This isn’t about eating a meal, Josie.”

  She understood his meaning. He knew because her breath quickened and a flood of color washed her pink as a peony.

  “No, I suppose it isn’t.” She ripped off a few more beans, and, finally, when he thought she might turn him down, her chin jerked up, her eyes flamed green fire and with almost grim determination, she said, “Yes, I will.”

  With a whoop, he hoisted her up from the dusty field and spun her in circle until her anger dissipated and she laughed down into his face.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Sometimes the smallest things take up the most room in your heart.

  —A. A. Milne

  Present

  BRODY DIDN’T COME to the library after school. By the time Carrie closed up the building at five o’clock, she was getting worried.

  She’d seen him that morning on his way to school and invited him to the inn for dinner with Hayden. As she’d told Hayden by telephone a short time afterward, the boy had grinned until his freckles popped up like measles. He’d been delighted that his hero was back in town and couldn’t wait to tell him about the bass he’d pulled out of Seth Westerfeld’s pond. A five pounder if it weighed an ounce. He had, of course, put the fish back to catch again someday, but his friend Spence had taken a photo with his cell phone.

  Carrie had gone to work cheered and happy, though tired from her late night. For once, a thunderstorm had produced something besides bags under her eyes.

  After activating the library’s alarm system, though she always wondered who would break in and steal books when they were free to borrow, Carrie locked the door and drove through town, past the school grounds and then to Brody’s house.

  No one answered the door, and the only visible sign of humanity was a cardboard shoe box crushed on the front porch.

  Thinking the boy had been so excited to see Hayden he’d walked to Peach Orchard Inn, Carrie called to check.

  “I haven’t seen him.” Hayden’s warm baritone tickled her stomach. “Perhaps he’s on his way. Give him another thirty minutes.”

  “You’re probably right.” She gnawed her bottom lip and stared at the Thomsons’ front porch.

  “You sound anxious.”

  “He said he’d come to the library, and he didn’t. That’s out of character.”

  “Maybe he had to stay after school for some reason.”

  “I never thought of that,” she said. “I’ll drive by the school again and back to his house.”

  “If he shows up here, I’ll call you. If you see him first, call me.”

  “Deal.”

  She hung up and drove around, but after thirty minutes saw no sign of the boy. When her phone rang, her hopes lifted but were soon dashed by Hayden.

  “No sign of him?”

  “Nothing, and I don’t know where else to look.”

  “I have some ideas,” Hayden said. “Maybe he’s at the creek or at his campsite.”

  “I don’t know where that is.”

  “I do. Come out. We’ll look together.”

  She started to ring off, but his voice drew her back. “Carrie?”

  “Yes?”

  “Stop worrying.”

  “Right.” But the bad feeling in her gut wouldn’t go away.

  * * *

  THEY WALKED THE woods and searched inside the gristmill, climbed the waterfall and called his name.

  Hayden pressed deeper into the woods where the trees still dripped last night’s rain.

  “Why would he be this far away from town?” Carrie asked.

  “Just a hunch I have. He built a hideout where he camps sometimes.”

  Carrie’s gaze flew up to his. “On the bad days?”

  He nodded. The bad days. Those were Brody’s words when Hayden asked about the rabbit.

  Hayden had understood more than he could say.

  “Not too much farther.” Hayden led through a bramble of blackberry vines and underbrush a quarter of a mile down the creek and back into the woods.

  Hayden lifted a hand, and both of them paused to listen.

  The soft murmur of Brody’s voice came from deep in the trees.

  “Sounds like his buddy is with him,” Hayden said softly.

  Hidden from the boy’s view by brush and trees, Carrie shook her head and whispered, “Hayden, I think he’s crying.”

  She started forward, but Hayden put an arm in front of her. “Wa
it.”

  The trees eavesdropped, too, their leaves whispering overhead as sun dappled the still-wet earth. Something skittered through the underbrush, but it was the boy’s words that grabbed Hayden’s attention.

  “You didn’t do nothing wrong,” Brody said, words shaky and broken. “You’re the best friend I ever had. I’m so sorry for what he done. I love you, Max.”

  Suddenly the boy’s voice ruptured into sobs, long and deep and wounded.

  Hayden exchanged glances with Carrie. She had tears in her eyes that matched those in his soul.

  “What’s happened?” she mouthed.

  He reached for Carrie’s hand, aware that he was chilled through his bones in a way that had nothing to do with the cooler day.

  Life was hell for some kids.

  Teeth tight, he nodded toward the sound. “Come on.”

  Dodging limbs and briars, they swiftly reached the crying boy. Brody huddled on the ground outside his brush lean-to, holding something in his hands.

  Hearing their approach, he glanced up, his face streaked with dirty tears.

  “Max is dead.” He held out a hand. The small lizard lay motionless on his palm.

  Stomach churning with dread, Hayden crouched at his side. “What happened?”

  Brody looked down at the lizard, tears falling, but said nothing.

  “You can tell us, buddy. We’re your friends. We liked Max, too.” Hayden touched the boy’s shoulder, letting his hand rest there in much the same way Mr. Franks had done for him. A connection, human to human, that said he mattered.

  Brody drew in a shuddering breath. “I’m real careful to keep him in the box at home. The old man never even knew.”

  “Your father did this.”

  Brody nodded. “I should have released Max sooner. Back to the wild. Before the old man found him.”

  “This wasn’t your fault, Brody.”

  “Max was a good lizard. He never bothered anything. He was my best friend.” Tears welled up. “He stomped Max. Stomped him with his steel-toed boots.”

  Carrie crouched beside them, horror in her eyes that said she couldn’t comprehend a parent who would do such things.

  A terrible sense of déjà vu roiled through Hayden like a consuming tidal wave eager to suck him beneath the cold, ugly, black water. The stray dog. Dora Lee. She could be so vicious.