Song of My Heart

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  He sighed, staring outward. “Yep. Slept in. Purely tuckered after all that buildin’ I did on the new porch an’ then stayin’ up late for your performances.”

  Sadie had stayed up late, too, but she’d managed to get up for church. She nudged him with her elbow. “Your folks wouldn’t be pleased to have you sleeping through services.”

  A brief scowl pinched his brow. “Only one Sunday, Sadie. I’m not likely to turn heathen just by missin’ one service.”

  She shifted slightly to face him. “No, probably not, but something has changed you. And I wish I knew what it was.”

  Although he didn’t move, she sensed him pulling away. “Whaddaya mean?”

  “I’ve never known you to snap at me, or act high and mighty.” Would he bluster in anger? His jaw tightened, but his eyes didn’t snap. She continued in a soft tone. “But more than once since I arrived in Goldtree, you’ve behaved boorishly with me.”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed. He still didn’t look at her.

  “Sid?” She placed her hand on his arm. He jumped as if she’d pinched him, but he didn’t pull away. “Have I done something to offend you? Because if I have, I’d like to make things right. You and I have been friends for too long to have this antagonism between us. Will you tell me what’s wrong so we can go back to how we used to be?”

  Sid jerked his arms forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “I don’t wanna go back to how we used to be.”

  His vehemence, as well as his strange statement, dismayed Sadie. “You don’t want to be my friend anymore?”

  He shook his head.

  Sadie looked down, blinking back tears. His rejection hurt more than she could understand. “Oh.”

  He wheeled on the seat of his pants, taking her chin in his hand and lifting her face. His eyes smoldered with deep emotion. “I wanna be more.”

  Sadie sucked in a sharp breath. “M-more?”

  Sid gazed directly into her face, his fingers possessive on her jaw. “I wanna be your beau, Sadie.”

  “Sid!” Sadie pulled back, out of his reach, but his hand hovered in the air in front of her face. She inched sideways, putting a little more space between them. “You can’t be my beau.”

  The dark scowl of days past returned, giving him a stern appearance. “Why not?”

  She held out her hands. “We’re cousins!”

  “Not by blood.” He rolled to his knees, anchoring her skirts to the ground with his weight. Then he leaned in, like a cat cornering a mouse. “You ain’t really a Wagner. Oh, sure, you call Uncle Len Papa, but he’s not your real pa. So that means we aren’t real cousins.”

  Sadie’s heart raced so fast, she could hardly draw a breath. “But . . . but . . .”

  “I tried to tell you how I feel by takin’ you to dinner. An’ givin’ you those flowers.” His familiar face, so close his breath touched her cheek, lit with fervor. “Those’re things a beau would do. Didn’t you understand?”

  How could she have been so blind? Now she recognized his childish tantrums as jealousy, his desire to please her as signs of affection. Her chest ached. “Oh, Sid . . .”

  He sank back, resting his backside on his bootheels. His expression faded from eagerness to apprehension. “What?”

  Sadie caught his hand and held it loosely. She didn’t want to hurt him, but she had to be honest. “I’m very flattered that you care so much for me. Any girl would be honored to call you her beau. But—”

  He yanked his hand free. “But you don’t wanna be that girl.” His voice sounded flat. Not angry, not even sad. Just emotionless.

  Tears stung her eyes. “I’m sorry.” He looked to the side, his jaw muscles twitching. Sadie dared to touch his arm. “You know I care about you. You’ve always been my favorite cousin. But that’s the problem—you’ve been my cousin. My playmate and companion. Not a prospective beau.”

  The beautiful early summer day lost its luster as Sadie watched Sid battle emotion. Frustration, sorrow, disappointment—they paraded across his face in quick succession while she prayed inwardly for him to understand. Finally he blew out a noisy breath and stretched to his feet. He stood, staring down at her, his eyes empty. And then determination bloomed across his features.

  “Sadie . . .” He swallowed. “I’m not willin’ to just be your cousin anymore.” His shoulders squared. “Whatever it takes to win your affection, I’ll do it. I’m gonna woo you like no man’s ever wooed a woman before. An’ I’m gonna win your love. You wait an’ see.” He spun and stomped away, his arms swinging.

  Sadie sank against the rough bark of the tree, no longer content. If Sid followed through on his promise to woo her, things in Goldtree could become very uncomfortable.

  15

  Early Monday morning, Asa poured himself a cup of stout coffee and peered out the square window—set low to accommodate his height—into his backyard. Dawn was breaking, sending a rosy glow across the landscape. More than enough light for a man to see where he was going. So where was that Scotty?

  He reached into his pocket and retrieved the brief telegram that had arrived Saturday. DELIVERY MONDAY SUNRISE STOP FIVE SAMPLES STOP CASH TO SUPPLY STOP. Asa scratched his head, yawned, and shoved the telegram back into his pocket. He hoped Scotty was as good as his word, or this too-early awakening would be for naught. Predawn rising was for chickens and dirt farmers.

  Memory carried him backward in time to Ohio, his family’s farmstead. Cornstalks rustling in the breeze, cows mooing in the pasture, Pa hollering, “Hurry up, Asa, an’ bring in that milk!” Never enough money. Or food. Or anything else that mattered. Asa slurped his coffee, swallowing the memories along with the steaming brew. Those days were far behind him. He was a businessman now, with a fine house, half a dozen tailor-made suits, a full pantry, and money in his cash box with plans to get a heap more. He’d never go back to cow-milking or scrabbling in the dirt for a measly living.

  But first he needed bottles. He squinted out the window again, willing Scotty to appear. As if the power of thought could make things happen, the squeak of wagon wheels reached Asa’s ears. He pressed his face to the windowpane and spotted a wagon pulling up beside the barn, just as Asa had instructed. With a gleeful chortle, he clacked the coffee cup into the tin sink basin and charged out the back door as fast as his short legs would carry him.

  He reached the wagon as Scotty swung down from the seat. “You get ’em?” he asked. No need for friendly greetings between superiors and underlings.

  Scotty nodded and headed for the rear of the wagon. “Right here.” He lifted out a slatted crate with bits of straw poking out from between the narrow bands of wood. He bent over to place the crate on the ground, but Asa waved his hands.

  “Somebody might see. Take it in the house.”

  Scotty sent a glance around the yard, his eyebrows high. “Who’s gonna see?”

  The snide question set Asa’s teeth on edge. So his house was a mile from his closest neighbor. So he didn’t expect Sid to fetch the wagon until after eight o’clock. So there wasn’t much chance of being seen. He still wanted privacy, and since he was the one paying, he would decide where he viewed the merchandise.

  With a grunt, he spun toward the house. “Just c’mon.” Asa led Scotty to the house and pointed to the table. “Put it there.”

  Scotty plopped the crate on the checked tablecloth while Asa closed and locked the door and then whisked the curtains together to prevent anyone from peeking inside. Asa caught Scotty’s derisive smirk. He decided to ignore it, but he’d give the man a stern warning about maintaining privacy before he left. Last thing he wanted was for somebody—especially that new sheriff who spent his days roaming the whole town—to start putting two and two together.

  “Let me see what’cha got.” Asa rested his fingertips on the edge of the crate, licking his lips in eagerness.

  Scotty dug through the straw and pulled out a short, roundish, yellow-colored bottle. “This here is called an onion bottle. It’s imported all the w
ay from Belgium. You can get it in this color or green or clear.” He pulled out a second one, similar in height but with a less-rounded shape and a longer neck. “This one, called acorn, is made in the east, so it don’t cost as much. Can probably get two acorns for the price of one onion.” He set them down side by side beside the crate.

  Asa discounted the bottles. Short and squatty, they reminded him too much of his own reflection in the mirror.

  Scotty pulled out two more bottles, both slender with smooth lines of deep red glass—one about eight inches in height and the other closer to a foot. “These’re hand-blown, so they ain’t cheap, but they’re the most common. Easy to hold. A fellow can drink straight from the spout.” He demonstrated, raising the shorter one to his lips.

  Although the ease of handling appealed to him—even his short fingers could maintain a sure grip on either bottle—the long, lean look put pictures of his long, lean sisters in his mind. Asa made a face. “I dunno . . .”

  “Well, then, there’s always the bordeaux . . .” Scotty held a fifth bottle aloft. Light green in color, the bottle featured a tall body that tapered from shoulder to heel. The neck was short, less than a third the length of the body, but distinct. “Since these’re made in a turn-mold instead of hand-blown, you can get ’em for a cheaper price.”

  Asa took the last bottle and examined it closely. A nearly invisible ridge ran from the spout to the base, the seam created by the mold. But how many men would care about the look of the bottle? What mattered most was what they found inside. He tapped the glass, smiling at the slight ping. “Can I get these in clear?”

  Scotty shook his head. “Pale green, like I got there, or aqua.”

  Asa frowned. Was aqua red? If he had to get a color, he’d like red. It’d match the color of his wine. “Wish you’d brought one of the aqua. Woulda liked to seen the different color.”

  Scotty just shrugged. He didn’t give a description of aqua, and Asa refused to ask.

  Asa tapped his fingertip on the bordeaux bottle, his lips sucked in while he thought. He liked the shape, but he didn’t want a green bottle. Too much like the cornstalks in his pa’s fields. Finally he clasped the bottle by its neck and held it out. “I’ll take six gross of these in aqua.”

  Scotty picked up the taller of the two long, slender bottles. “Sure you don’t want these instead? Skinnier—can pack more of ’em in a crate.”

  An image of Melva and Shelva flashed through Asa’s mind. He frowned. “I like this one.”

  “All right, then.” Scotty returned all but the one Asa had chosen to the crate, wriggling them deep into the straw.

  “What about corks?” Asa asked, running his finger around the narrow spout.

  “Fitted corks come with ’em.”

  “Good.” Asa carried the bottle to his cupboard and shoved it behind the stack of tin plates. “When will I get the shipment?”

  “If they come on the train, I’d say four weeks. If you want ’em by wagon—less likely for someone to peek in an’ see what they are—then they’ll hafta come in two or three separate shipments. First one’ll be here in about six weeks.”

  Asa sighed. Six weeks . . . seemed like a long time. But by then he’d have at least a dozen barrels of fine wine ready to bottle. “Let’s go with the wagon. An’ tell them people to use lots of straw. I won’t pay for no broken bottles.”

  Scotty scowled. “You gotta pay up front. Cash to supply, that’s what I told you in the telegram.”

  Asa scowled back, straightening to his full height, which still fell a good six inches shorter than the other man. But what he lacked in stature, he made up for in snarl. “I’ll pay half up front an’ half on delivery. You do a good job, an’ you’ll have a steady payin’ customer. I ain’t one to fly by night.”

  Scotty chewed his lip, frowning.

  Asa marched to the corner of the kitchen and opened a short, low cupboard. He withdrew his cash box and carried it to the table. Using the tiny key he always carried in his pocket, he unlocked the box and pulled out a stack of bills. He began peeling them off, one by one, while Scotty’s eyes grew wider with each swish of paper.

  “Workin’ with me means makin’ money. Take it or leave it.” Asa ran his thumb over the edge of the bills, creating a steady thrrrp, thrrrp. He hid a smile as Scotty nearly drooled, gazing with longing at the stack of greenbacks.

  Scotty stuck out his hand. “All right. Half now, half on delivery.”

  Asa smacked the money into Scotty’s palm. “But don’t deliver ’em here. I got a little place three miles south. Sits well off the road an’ looks like a shack stuck in the side of a hill. There’s a ‘No Trespassing’ sign nailed to a tree at the turnoff, so you can’t miss it. I’ll want the bottles delivered there. Send me a telegram with one word—‘delivery’—in the message the day before they oughtta arrive, an’ I’ll be sure an’ meet’cha there. I’ll examine the bottles, an’ if I’m satisfied with their appearance, you’ll get the rest of your money an’ we’ll be square.”

  “If you ain’t waitin’ there, money in hand, the crates won’t get left.”

  Asa narrowed his gaze. “I told you, I’ll be there.” He had too much riding on this delivery to risk losing those bottles.

  “All right.” Scotty picked up the crate and headed for the door. Asa followed, his gaze jumping around the yard, on the lookout for any watchful eyes. Scotty put the crate into the wagon bed and then turned to face Asa. “I hear tell you got a new lawman in town. How you gonna manage to keep him from knowin’ what you’re sellin’?”

  “Sheriff McKane?” Asa snorted. “He ain’t a real lawman—just a man our mayor decided to pin a badge on. An’ I’ve figured out his routine. I know where he’s gonna be an’ when—the man’s as predictable as a wound watch. All I gotta do is arrange my shipments while he’s otherwise occupied.” Asa puffed his chest, proud of how he had everything figured. “’Sides that, he knows I got a shippin’ business. Why would he be suspicious of one of my wagons comin’ or goin’?”

  Scotty didn’t look convinced. “Bet he ain’t seen you transportin’ crates with clankin’ bottles before.”

  “Who says he’ll see crates with clankin’ bottles?” Asa didn’t intend to share his whole plan with Scotty. The fewer people who knew, the better. He aimed a finger in the other man’s direction, setting his face into a fierce scowl. “An’ you take heed. That money box you saw inside? It won’t be in that spot by the end of the day, so don’t be thinkin’ you can send somebody over to rob me. You keep our dealin’s under your hat. You talk to anybody about what I been buyin’—anybody—an’ I’ll contact every lawman from one border of Kansas to the other to be on the lookout for you an’ arrest you as a bootlegger. I got a good reputation as a businessman in this state. You? You’re nobody—they’ll believe me an’ you’ll rot in jail.”

  Scotty tightened his fists, but Asa stared him down. The man finally pulled himself onto the wagon seat. “Don’t worry, Baxter. Your secret’s safe with me. We both stand to profit, now, don’t we?”

  Asa watched the wagon roll away, a satisfied smile on his face. Yes, sir, they both stood to profit. In no time at all, he’d be the richest man in Clay County. Maybe even in all of Kansas. And then nobody’d look down his nose at Butterball Baxter ever again.

  Sadie skipped down the stairs and rounded the corner to enter the mercantile. She plucked a crisp white apron from the pegs just inside the door and tied it over her blue-flowered dress as she hustled for the front door. The Baxter twins wanted the mercantile opened at precisely eight o’clock, not a minute before or after, and Sadie did her best to please her punctilious employers. She turned the lock and pulled the heavy wooden door inward, then placed a brick in front of it to hold it open. The morning breeze whisked through the screen door, and Sadie took a long, slow draft of the sweetly scented air. She loved mornings.

  She started to turn back toward the counter, but a fluttering sheet of paper held down by a small hinged box on t
he porch floor outside the door caught her eye. Puzzled, she creaked the screen door open and stood, half in and half out, with the door propped against her hip. She flicked a glance up and down the street, but no one seemed to be paying her any mind. Bending over, she picked up both items. On the paper, a simple message, scrawled in a familiar hand, caused her pulse to trip.

  Dearest Sadie, just a little something so you know I’m thinking of you. All my love, Sid.

  Her hands trembling, Sadie folded back the box’s lid to reveal a pale blue orb—half of a robin’s egg, she realized—nestled on a puff of cotton. She grazed the fragile shell with her fingertip, smiling as a long-ago memory rose from the recesses of her mind.

  “Lookit there, Sadie—a nest! Gonna climb up an’ take a gander at the eggs. I bet there’s three. How many do you think there’ll be?”

  Sadie grabbed the X of Sid’s suspenders, holding him in place as he attempted to climb the tree. “Leave the nest alone! If the mama bird knows you’ve been there, she won’t come back and sit on the eggs again.”

  Sid wriggled. “Lemme go, Sadie. Who cares if the dumb ol’ bird doesn’t come back? I wanna see how many eggs there are.”

  Sadie held tight. “Sid Wagner! Leave ’em be!”

  He spun to face her, hands on hips and confusion marring his young face. “What you gettin’ so mad about? They’re just eggs.”

  Sadie took a deep breath, battling tears. “It’s a robin’s nest. It’ll have eggs all pretty an’ blue like the sky, an’ when the babies are big enough, they’ll wake me up in the mornin’ by singin’. If you pester that nest, you’ll take away the song.”

  Sid stood looking at her for a long time, and then finally he sighed. “All right. I won’t pester the nest.” A smile broke across his freckled face. “Wanna go catch crawdads?”

  Sadie had chased after him that day, relieved because he’d left the nest undisturbed, but also pleased. He’d listened to her. Honored her request. Made her feel as though what she felt mattered to him—unlike neighborhood boys who used their slingshots to terrorize Sadie’s feathered friends.