“Oh, Willie Joe. What am I going to do with you?”
A series of loud raps came at the front door. “Molly! Oh, Molly!”
Molly recognized the voice even before she turned to face the primly dressed, gaunt matron who marched through the screen door uninvited. Her stomach gripped in knots. The flower on her uninvited visitor’s straw bonnet bobbed as though it were a baton wielded by an orchestra leader. Which, in essence, Molly thought, was what Iola Young considered herself—an orchestra leader, conducting the lives of those less fortunate.
Molly pushed Willie Joe toward the back door. “Run out back,” she whispered. “Quickly.”
“Wait up a minute, William.” A dervish of activity, Iola Young commanded attention.
Willie Joe stopped in his tracks. Turning he clutched a fistful of Molly’s skirt in a muddy hand, half hiding himself behind his sister.
“I’ve arranged to bring Mr. and Mrs. Rau by this afternoon, Molly. They’re anxious to meet young William. Clean him up and—”
Molly swallowed the retort that came to mind. “I thought you understood—”
“Molly, my dear, don’t make things more difficult than they—”
“We’re staying together,” Molly interrupted. “I’m twenty-one years old. That’s plenty old enough to raise the children.”
Iola Young cast a disparaging glance about the foyer. She peered with sharp focus into the parlor. “It’s been six months since your mother died, Molly. You haven’t been able to set up a proper home, yet.”
“I have—”
The persistent woman’s voice softened. “You know how we of the society feel about children remaining with their families, Molly. But you simply aren’t able to provide for the five. Why, child, you are barely able to provide for yourself. Your intentions are commendable, dear, but you can’t carry on like this. It isn’t fair to any of you.”
Molly responded mechanically, her energy sapped by the ongoing ordeal of convincing the Apple Springs Ladies’ Aid Society that she was capable of rearing her four siblings. Their crusade gained strength with each encounter, and they had no intention of giving up. That, she knew. The fact that their objectives were well-intentioned, that they had the children’s best interests at heart distressed Molly further. What if they were right? Would the children really be better off in the homes the Ladies’ Aid Society had carefully chosen for them?
And why, when her heart and mind were occupied with matters of such importance, had the arrival of a Rubal Jarrett look-alike set her in such a spin? Why on God’s green earth, had she allowed him to stay?
“We’ve discussed the situation, Mrs. Young. We’ve agreed not to split up our family.”
Iola Young pursed her thin lips. There had been a time when Molly had taken that expression for sympathy. Now she knew it was more akin to defiance. The President of the Ladies’ Aid Society did not like being challenged.
“I realize we haven’t found the perfect solution,” the woman was saying, “but there are no alternatives. No family can take in four orphans.”
Molly bristled. “The children in this house are not orphans. And regardless of what the society believes, I am capable of rearing my brothers and Lindy.”
Iola Young wagged her head, setting her bow in motion again. “Is that so, Molly? Travis has been offered an opportunity to go away to school. I suppose you have the means to pay his fees? And Lindy—that girl needs the firm hands of both a mother and a father. Girls that age can get in trouble if they’re allowed to live in…uh, unsatisfactory situations. My husband and I can make something of Lindy, if we get her before—”
“Mrs. Young, I don’t mean to be rude, but you’ve come at an inconvenient time. We’ll have to discuss this later. Please excuse me.”
“You’ll be ready for the Raus?”
Molly felt Willie Joe’s grip tighten. As the conversation had progressed, his had gone from clutching her skirt, to wrapping his arms around her leg, as though he were holding on for dear life. “Not today.”
Iola Young huffed, bringing little round pouches to her gaunt face. “If not today, when? After these poor hapless children have been ruined by living in a boarding house that caters to drummers and loggers and—?”
“We do not board loggers.”
“A single man is a single man, Molly. You’re of age, sorry to say. If you want to live in a houseful of single men, that’s your unfortunate choice. But the children—”
“Good day, Mrs. Young.” Molly’s arms trembled. Tears brimmed in her eyes. She fought valiantly to keep Iola Young from seeing either. “If you’ll excuse us, Willie Joe and I have work to do.”
Iola Young huffed again, but she turned and left, issuing a parting shot. “The Raus would make perfect parents for young William, Molly. They have the money to send him to school, should he turn out as bright as Travis. They’re decent, upstanding Christian citizens.”
The screen door squawked, slamming on the words decent and upstanding, as though to rebuke Molly’s right to keep her family together.
“I don’t wanna live nowhere else, Molly.”
“Anywhere else, Willie Joe.” Suddenly overcome by her myriad emotions, Molly knelt and clutched her muddy little brother to her chest. He smelled of sweat and worms and good clean dirt.
“I wanna stay here with you, Molly. An’ with Travis and Lindy and Little Sam.”
“You will, honey. All of you will. I promise.” She buried her face in his almost-white hair. The possibility that she could keep that promise became more doubtful with each passing day.
Rubal heard the exchange from his room near the front staircase. He was already put out with himself for lying to Molly, and unsettled by her claim to be engaged to the obviously successful man he’d seen arguing with her earlier. Listening to the conversation taking place in the foyer below, he began to put the pieces together.
Molly’s mother had died since he was last here, and the good citizens of Apple Springs weren’t too happy about Molly raising her younger siblings in a boarding house that catered to bachelors. Which meant his own presence wouldn’t be any help to her reputation, either.
Fact was, he seemed to be getting further behind with debts he owed Molly. Taking her innocence and running out like he’d done—he could never make up for that. Lying to her about his identity was sure to lead to a passel of trouble. Now, if the conversation he overheard was an indication, his presence as a boarder in this house could be the final straw that separated her family.
By the time he reached the stairs, the viper-tongued Mrs. Young had departed with a slamming indictment. Rubal watched Molly drop to her knees and hold her little brother. He heard her promises, noted the fear in her voice, and knew that if he intended to make up to Molly Durant for the wrong he’d done her, he’d best get started.
Hearing his footsteps on the stairs, she glanced up. Their gazes held just long enough for him to read the fear in her expression. Then her eyes, brimming with tears, turned cold. Rising hastily, she turned away, closing him out, like she had on the porch.
He knew what she was thinking: he looked a lot like his brother. If he could get her to stop thinking about Rubal every time she saw him, maybe he could win her trust.
That notion was so contradictory to the actual state of affairs that it left him dumbfounded that he’d thought it. Yet, he knew he had to convince her to think of him as someone other than the scoundrel who loved her and left her.
Willie Joe followed Rubal’s descent with wide blue eyes. “Ya mean we gotta boarder, Molly?”
Rubal took that to mean boarders were scarce as hen’s teeth, which didn’t surprise him, given the fact that she claimed not to cater to loggers. That would certainly explain the run-down condition of the Blake House—and its inhabitants. Too little money—too many mouths to feed.
“Who’s this young feller?” he asked, reaching the bottom step.
Molly avoided Rubal’s eyes. He watched her grip her little brother’s sho
ulder. “Willie Joe, say hello to Mr. Jarrett.”
“Hidy, Mr. Jarrett. You’re a boarder, huh?”
“For a fact.” Rubal extended a hand, which the boy grasped eagerly.
“Willie Joe! You’ll get mud all over him.”
Rubal winked at the boy. “Wouldn’t be the first time I had a little mud on me.” He watched Molly turn all businesslike.
“Run along, Willie Joe. I’m sure Mr. Jarrett needs to get to work.”
“Not today.” Rubal attempted to look into Molly’s eyes again, holding her gaze but a moment, before she turned away. But in that instant he could practically read her thoughts, and they were for the scoundrel she thought him to be.
Guilt flashed through him, chased by his natural, if sometimes unwarranted, sense of optimism. Her memories might be painful, but at least she hadn’t forgotten him—or their night in the barn.
“This is Saturday,” he told her. “Don’t figure too many sawmill owners or loggers would appreciate me taking up their time on Saturday. They’re likely ready to get home to wives and family.” The idea shot a pang of loneliness through him. Rubal had never considered settling down, but it hadn’t seemed to hurt those in his family who had been courageous enough to try it.
“I’ll put up my horse, if you’ll tell me—”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I…uh…”
“You’ve been busy, ma’am. No need to apologize. I can find the barn…uh, I mean, if you’ll point me in the right direction and tell me which stall.” By the time Rubal finished, he knew he’d done more than put his foot in his mouth. Why, for such a small thing, Molly Durant was an expert at keeping him tongue-tied.
“That’s Travis’s job,” Molly was saying.
“Travis? The boy I saw earlier?”
Molly still looked ready to burst into tears at the drop of a hat. “In the short time you’ve been here,” she said, “you’ve gotten an earful of our troubles. Travis would rather sweep the schoolhouse than chop wood.”
“Likely any kid’d take sweepin’, given the choice.”
“I didn’t give him a choice.”
“No, well—” Suddenly thoughtful, Rubal tousled Willie Joe’s tow head. “How old are you, Willie Joe?”
“Seven, sir.”
“You chop wood, yet?”
Willie Joe’s eyes grew round again. He shook his head.
“Come on, then. After we put away ol’ Coyote, I’ll give you a lesson.”
“You can’t do that,” Molly objected.
Rubal grimaced. “Sorry. I should have asked permission—”
“It isn’t that. I mean, you’re a paying guest, Mr. Jarrett.”
“I’ve never been much for sittin’ around.”
During the exchange, Willie Joe snaked out a small hand and grabbed hold of Rubal’s little finger. When Rubal looked down, it was into a pair of worshipful blue eyes. The fact that they were the same clear blue as the boy’s big sister’s didn’t do much to quiet Rubal’s jangling senses. He figured he’d chop half the wood in East Texas, if Molly Durant would look at him the way her kid brother was doing.
“Did I hear something about catfish for supper?” he asked the boy.
Willie Joe sighed expansively. “I lost him.”
“One fish wouldn’t go far, anyway, Willie Joe,” Molly consoled.
Chancing a look at Molly, Rubal grinned. She smiled. His hopes rose. “After we finish the wood, would you mind if we took another try at that fishin’ hole?”
“Boy, oh, boy! Can we, Molly, huh?”
“Mr. Jarrett, you don’t—”
“Jubal,” Rubal corrected.
Molly swallowed. “You’re a paying guest, Mr. Jarrett. There’s no need—”
“It’s pure-dee ol’ selfishness, ma’am. The mention of catfish set my mouth to waterin’.”
“Can we, Molly? Huh? Can we?”
While Willie Joe begged, Rubal watched Molly vacillate. He held his tongue, and finally the boy’s enthusiasm won over his sister’s better judgment.
“If Mr. Jarrett’s sure it isn’t an imposition.”
“Jubal,” he repeated. “And I’m sure.”
Willie Joe was already jumping from one bare muddy foot to the other. “Boy, oh, boy! Can we take Little Sam?”
“Little Sam?”
“My brother.”
“How…uh, little?”
Molly actually laughed. “He’s five, but you don’t have to—”
“I know, Molly.” His eyes held hers for what was maybe a second longer this time, before she ducked her head. “I want to.”
Molly watched them go, Jubal tall and lanky and far too handsome, looking for all the world like his no-good brother. And Willie Joe, grasping the new boarder’s finger, his short legs doing double time to keep up with his long-legged companion.
She shouldn’t have let him stay. Everything inside her screamed the warning. He would be trouble, and more trouble she didn’t need. She shouldn’t have let him stay.
In the kitchen Sugar sat in a cane-bottomed chair just inside the back door with a crock on the table beside her and a bushel of peas from the garden on the floor at her feet. Black as strap molasses, old as Methuselah, Sugar had worked for Molly’s family since before the war. When the majority of the family’s slaves, house and field hands alike, left to seek their fortunes, Sugar stayed on.
“My place is here,” she replied whenever anyone asked. “With the only family I ever knowed.” Of course, no one asked anymore. Sugar was as much a part of the Blake House as its peeling paint and sagging shutters and well-known recipes.
“We’ll have one more for meals for a few days,” Molly commented, entering the kitchen. With an extra-long pine table stretching down the middle, this was the most comfortable room in the house. Which was fortunate, Molly long ago decided, for it was where they spent most of their time—cooking, canning, cleaning.
Her mother had added a second cooking stove to accommodate the numerous diners drawn to the Blake House by the ample board and renowned fare. In her mother’s and grandmother’s day, folks came from as far away as Lufkin to sample the dishes prepared by old family recipes, which were guarded as though they had been handed down from on high.
“One of these days,” Molly’s mother was fond of saying, “we’ll collect them in a cookbook.” Of course, they never did. And now most folks had forgotten not only the Blake House recipes, but the Blake House, itself. Her mother’s illness had taken its toll on the family’s resources, emotional as well as financial.
The kitchen was Sugar’s domain and had been since before Molly was born. She insisted on keeping every window and both outside doors open to the sunshine. And what Sugar insisted on, Sugar usually got. When Molly’s mother was well, Sugar ran the kitchen, and Suzanna, Molly’s mother, ran the rest of the house. Now Molly and Lindy shared chores equally with Sugar.
Molly watched her old cook, housekeeper, and confidant. Sugar hovered over her shelling operation as if that were the only thing on her mind. By the way she crooked her head to look out the back door, however, Molly knew differently.
The old woman leaned forward in the cane-bottomed chair to peer through the screen. “I saw that new boarder,” Sugar admitted. “Mighty handsome feller, an’ right companionable, too. Took to the little boys right off.”
Molly followed Sugar’s line of vision. Rubal led his horse and Willie Joe tagged along, still holding the new boarder’s finger, his short legs running to keep up. They had been joined by Little Sam—the spitting image of Willie Joe, except for being a head and shoulders shorter. Instead of holding Rubal’s hand, Little Sam clutched Willie Joe’s. His other hand was in its usual place, at his mouth where he sucked his index finger. Although Rubal looked straight ahead, appearing not to give the boys a second thought, that must not be the case, Molly decided. She could tell they were engaged in a bantering sort of conversation.
She turned away. If he didn’t look so much like his brother, maybe she could
enjoy some of his companionship, too. “Humph!”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Just humph.”
“Humph what? He ain’t handsome or he ain’t companionable or he didn’t take to the little ones.”
“Oh, he took to them all right.”
“For my mind I hope he sees fit to stay aroun’ awhile. Them younguns can use a little attention from a man.”
Sugar didn’t continue, but Molly took her message. Sugar wasn’t sold on Cleatus Farrington, not one whit. She didn’t think he liked the children. That wasn’t true, but Molly hadn’t been able to convince Sugar otherwise. “Iola Young came by,” she commented, changing the subject.
“Heard her clear out here.”
“She isn’t giving up, Sugar.”
“She’ll play ol’ Billy hell takin’ them younguns away from their home.”
“She has the support of the other women in the community. And of Master Taylor. And the Reverend Callicott. And Cleatus’s foster mother.” Molly wrapped her arms around herself. “I’m scared, Sugar.”
The old woman looked up from her peas. “I am, too, missy, but that don’t mean it’s quittin’ time.”
The sound of wood being chopped came from behind the barn. Molly tried to shut out the image of Jubal, who looked so much like Rubal, chopping wood. She tried not to wonder whether he took off his clean blue shirt and hung it on a branch. She tried not to visualize him naked from the waist up, straining at the ax.
She tried, and the effort called forth her anger. She shouldn’t have rented to him. She had enough trouble without another Jarrett coming in and wreaking havoc with her life.
“You’d better not quit on us.” The voice belonged to fifteen-year-old Lindy, a younger version of Molly with her slender build and abundant black hair, which hung in two thick braids over her shoulders. Lindy, though, had her own father’s brown eyes. She breezed into the kitchen, dipped her hand in the shelled peas and let them fall in a rain of green drops back into the crock. Sugar jerked the bowl away.
Secret Surrender--Jarrett Family Sagas--Book Four Page 3
