“That concludes our service for today.” Mr. Mead closed the Bible with a gentle snap and set it aside. He turned a smile on Ruthie and then Dinah. “It seems my daughter has brought a guest. Ruthie, would you like to introduce your friend so we can all get to know her?”
Dinah’s mouth went dry.
“Yes, I would.” Ruthie bounced up, beaming. She pulled on Dinah’s arm, forcing her to rise. Dinah stood on quivering legs, facing the Mason jar of flowers, while Ruthie turned to look at those gathered in the room. “This is Dinah Hubley, who came to Florence all the way from Chicago, Illinois. She’s the new chambermaid at the Clifton.” Ruthie looked at her expectantly. Dinah pretended to ignore her.
Mr. Mead chuckled. “Miss Hubley, would you mind turning around so our congregation can properly greet you?”
Dinah didn’t want to turn around. She didn’t want to see all those eyes looking at her. But she had little choice. Drawing in a breath, she turned a slow circle and faced the small crowd. Light applause broke out across the room along with several politely uttered hellos and welcomes. Unnerved by the attention, she sought the one familiar face among a sea of strangers. But to her surprise, the spot where the egg man had been sitting was empty.
Dinah
Dinah stood with the others and listened while the congregation sang one more song—one about Christian soldiers marching to war—and then Mr. Mead dismissed them with another boisterous but short prayer. The moment he said, “Amen,” Ruthie dashed for her father, arms outstretched, and the pair embraced. Dinah watched their reunion with envy so deep and stifling she found drawing a breath painful. Had anyone, ever, been as happy to see her as Ruthie was to see her father? How would it feel to run to a father’s arms? She couldn’t even imagine it.
Ruthie’s brothers and sister edged close to Dinah, forming a half circle around her. The tallest boy stood an inch shorter than Dinah, and the top of the little girl’s curly head barely reached Dinah’s waist. But with all of them staring at her, she felt no larger than an ant. Ruthie and her father joined the circle, and Ruthie went down the line, hugging each of her siblings by turn.
Mr. Mead smiled at Dinah. In his hazel eyes, she saw the same friendliness Ruthie exhibited. “It’s so good to have you join us this morning, Miss Hubley. Ruthie has been lonely since her friend Phoebe left the Clifton. I’m sure you’re a great comfort to her.” When speaking one-on-one, he held his volume to a low rumble, but his tone still sounded strong and certain.
Dinah knew she wasn’t a comfort to anyone, but she offered a nod. “Thank you, sir. It’s … it’s good to meet you.” Would God strike her dead for lying in a church?
Ruthie pressed the group of children forward and lightly bounced her hand on each head as she introduced them. “Dinah, this is Seth, Jonah, Noah, Timothy, Joseph, and Dinah June.”
The youngest boy, Joseph, jabbed his thumb toward his little sister. “We call her Junebug because she’s so little.”
Dinah June’s round cheeks turned rosier than her strawberry hair. She buried her face in Ruthie’s apron. Ruthie laughed and smoothed the child’s tumbling locks. “Where’s Mama? I wanted her to meet Dinah, too.”
“She wasn’t feeling well this morning, so she stayed home.”
Ruthie’s mouth dropped open. “Mama missed church? She must be ailing to stay home from service!”
Mr. Mead patted Ruthie’s shoulder. “Now, now, don’t get yourself worked up. I’m sure it’s just a summer malaise. You know how the heat bothers her.”
Ruthie shrugged and turned to Dinah. “Well, you’ll just have to come back next week if you want to meet Mama.”
“Ruthie, Dinah!” Matilda called from the doorway. “Dean’s here with the buggy. We need to go.”
Ruthie bade everyone good-bye, bestowing another quick hug on each. Little Dinah June wrapped her arms around Ruthie’s waist and wouldn’t let go, but Mr. Mead eased her away and lifted the little girl in his arms. The group followed Ruthie and Dinah out to the yard and watched as the wagon rolled away.
Ruthie turned completely backward, bumping Dinah with her elbow as she waved. When the buggy rounded the corner, she flumped into the seat and sighed. “How do you all do it?”
Matilda looked over her shoulder at Ruthie. “How do we do what?”
Ruthie’s eyes filled with tears. “How do you survive, being so far from your families? Mine is right here in Florence. I see them every week on Sunday. And I miss them so much sometimes I think my heart will break right in two. Don’t you miss your families?”
Lyla shook her head. “Not me. I was only too happy to leave. I’m the ‘baby’ and my brothers and sisters expected me to stay home and take care of Ma and Pa. Now I just take care of me.”
“I miss mine,” Amelia said, “but I needed a job. I’ll stay as long as Mr. Harvey will keep me.”
Minnie shrugged. “I miss mine, too, but my ma really wanted me to work for Mr. Harvey. She said I’d have the chance to meet businessmen with money and find a husband who would provide for me better than Pa’s done with his pig raising. What about you, Dean?”
Dean laughed, flashing a grin at the girls. “Miss my folks? Nuh-uh! I’m havin’ too much fun to miss anybody.” He pulled the reins, and the horses turned the final corner. The wagon rattled over the railroad tracks, bouncing everyone in their seats. Dean hollered over the clatter of the wooden wheels on iron rails. “I’m hoping when I finish my year here, I’ll get sent farther up the line. Maybe to Colorado, or even to New Mexico. I hear there’s lots of action there.”
He drew the team to a stop near the front doors. “Hop on out, girls. Tell Mr. Gindough I’ll be in as soon as I get the horses back to the stable.”
The girls climbed down from the buggy and headed for the porch. Ruthie and Dinah fell in line at the rear. Ruthie linked arms with Dinah, and even though the familiarity made Dinah stiffen, she didn’t pull away. Ruthie seemed to need to hang on to someone, and it felt a little good to be able to provide some comfort, the way Mr. Mead had said.
“I hope you’ll go with me again next Sunday because I do want you to meet Mama. She’s the dearest woman in the world. I know you’ll love her.” Ruthie’s melancholy tone wove a blanket of sadness around Dinah.
“I’ll go.” But she wasn’t thinking of seeing Ruthie’s mama. Instead, thoughts of the egg man filled her head. Remembering his kind smile and gentle nod warmed her. But why had he left before the service ended? Or had she only imagined he was there? She realized Ruthie was talking again, and she pushed her reflections aside to pay attention.
“… you’re farther from home than any of the others working here. Well, except for Mr. Phillips. He came from Chicago, too.”
Dinah jolted. “Who is from Chicago?”
Ruthie paused beside the hotel double doors. “The hotel manager, Mr. Phillips. People say he’s the best paid man in all of Florence. Mr. Harvey hired him away from a fine hotel in Chicago. Didn’t you know?”
Her pulse skipped erratically. She shook her head.
A sad smile lifted the corners of Ruthie’s mouth. “Isn’t that nice for you? Even though you’re far from your family, there’s someone here who knows about your home. So when you’re feeling lonely, you could talk to him. It might help.”
Ruthie entered the hotel and Dinah followed. Her entire body trembled. The manager was from Chicago. Did he know about her home? Her head began to swim, and she stopped to lean against the wall until the feeling passed. If Mr. Phillips truly was familiar with her home, she wouldn’t be able to become a server. He’d tell Mr. Harvey she wasn’t qualified.
Ruthie had continued onward, but when she reached the end of the hallway, she glanced back. Concern pinched her face—as much concern as she’d shown when she discovered her mother wasn’t feeling well. She hurried back to Dinah’s side. “What’s the matter? Are you sick?”
Dinah couldn’t honestly say she was ill. She tried to shake her head, but dizziness attacked again.
Ruthie curled her arm around Dinah’s waist. “Come with me. This heat must be bothering you the same way it bothers Mama. I’ll get you a glass of water. You drink it all down and afterward you’ll feel better.”
Dinah allowed Ruthie to guide her to their little waiting room, but she didn’t answer. A glass of water couldn’t possibly make things better.
Amos
Amos dug through the soft straw in the roosting box, but he didn’t find an egg. This made the fifth empty box. Yesterday he’d found four empty roosts, and two the day before that. The two hadn’t bothered him much. An empty roost now and then wasn’t unexpected. But four? And then five? He scowled as he looked down the row of wooden roosts. Were the chickens not laying because they were upset about him bringing home that rooster and separating the flock?
He’d closed eighteen of the hens in the barn to hatch chicks, and the first day the ones outside the barn had carried on as if their tail feathers were on fire. Then the empty roosts followed. Concern churned through his stomach. Either the girls were being cantankerous or he had an egg thief in his midst.
With the basket of eggs cradled in his arms, he made his way out of the chicken house and across the yard. He’d hated leaving church before the closing prayer. Preacher Mead had a way of speaking to the Lord that let everybody know he and his Maker were good friends. Being a witness to the minister’s close relationship with God strengthened Amos’s resolve to draw ever nearer to his Father. But today, knowing there would be eggs waiting in the straw boxes midmorning, he’d hurried out to count eggs.
He stood for a moment, observing the chickens pecking in the yard. The rooster he’d purchased waved its wings, ducked its head, and charged at Amos. He stood as still as a scarecrow and waited until the bird had nearly reached his boots. Then he shouted, “Hah!” Clucking in angry little bursts of sound, the bird whirled and returned to the pullets.
It paraded around the yard with its head high and wings held at a jaunty angle. He’d chosen the bird from a farmer on the other side of town because of its large size and aggressive attitude. He wanted a bird that would protect the flock. But he didn’t like being attacked every time he came near his own chickens. If the obnoxious rooster didn’t settle down some, it might end up in a stew pot when the baby chicks hatched and he could replace it.
He carried the basket of eggs into the barn and put it with the ones collected over the past two days. Tomorrow he’d take his eggs to town to sell. Worry descended as he glanced across the smaller number of eggs. Choosing to set some aside for hatching as well as the lower count from the past days meant he’d have none to take the grocer for a credit on his account. And he needed some grocery items.
The morning scripture played through his memory, and he whispered it. “ ‘Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on thee.’ ” He sent an apologetic look toward the rafters. “Forgive me, Lord. I’ll try to think less about the number of eggs in the chicken house and more about the One who loves me and will always meet my needs. I trust You.” The prayer revived him, and he placed the basket he used to collect eggs upside down over the wagon and left the barn.
As he passed the chickens’ water pans, he noticed one had been dumped. He shook his head. Probably that strutting rooster again. The bird was almost more trouble than it was worth. He headed for the well to bring up the bucket. The dusty walk to and from town this morning had tired his bad leg, and his foot dragged across the ground. The toe of his boot caught on something, nearly sending him on his nose. He stopped to catch his balance and looked down to see what had created the obstacle. A fist-sized rock lay half-hidden in the grass.
With a grunt, he leaned over and picked it up. He started to toss it into the scrubby brush along the foundation of his house, but sunlight fell on a band of amber circling the stone. He froze. The deep gold matched the shimmering strands in the light-brown hair of the girl who’d turned to look at him in church that morning. He hadn’t recognized her at first. With her hair pinned up in a coiled braid and dressed in a hotel uniform, she looked much older than she had when he found her sleeping on the porch. But when he saw her eyes—eyes of larkspur blue—he knew it was her. And something in his chest fluttered.
He bounced the rock in his hand, enjoying the play of sunlight on the jagged band of amber. So the girl worked at the hotel. Good for her. She’d looked so lost and forlorn on the porch, but if she worked at the hotel, she had a roof over her head, meals every day, and a salary to boot. She’d be cared for.
He gave himself a shake. Hadn’t he learned woolgathering would lead him to harm? His bum leg proved it—as Pa had often grumbled, if he’d been paying better attention way back then, he might have been able to jump out of the way of the wagon’s wheel. So what was he doing, playing with a rock and thinking of a girl when the chickens needed water?
Tucking the rock into the pocket of his overalls, he hurried to the well. He drew up a bucket of cool water, filled the chickens’ pan, and shook his finger at the rooster. “Don’t dump it this time.” The arrogant bird ruffled its feathers and pranced off.
Amos returned the bucket to the well and headed for the house to rest, as the good Lord advised. Inside, instead of settling into his chair, he removed the rock from his pocket and turned it this way and that. Almost without thought, his lips drew upward into a smile. With great care, he placed the rock on his fireplace mantel next to the oil lamp and adjusted it to best display the band of amber. He backed up slowly, admiring it.
A snippet of a hymn rose from his memory—“He hideth my soul in the cleft of the rock …”—and he remembered the girl asking what had broken him. He eased into his chair, recalling how he’d wondered what created her skittishness. Concern rolled through him. Why did he worry so much about a girl he didn’t know? Didn’t he have enough to concern him without adding a stranger’s unknown plight to the list? She’d been in church. That should mean she knew to go to the cleft of the Rock when in need of comfort and peace.
He closed his eyes, but behind his closed lids the image of the rock played back and forth with the image of the girl that morning—wispy strands of soft brown hair falling alongside her heart-shaped face and blue eyes lighting with pleasure when they fell on him. And he never did rest.
Amos
The brooding hens eyed Amos as he crossed the hard-packed barn floor Monday morning. A couple raised their heads and clucked, as if warning him to keep his distance, but he ignored them and limped straight to the wagon, which waited in the deepest shadowy corner of the barn. He frowned when he spotted his egg-gathering basket on the ground instead of upside down over the hay, the way he’d left it.
He sent a frown at the hens. “Which of you has been climbing up here and trying to roost? You stay on your eggs over there. These are for selling, not hatching.”
One brassy hen clucked a reply, and he chuckled. He took hold of the handle and set off for town. His chuckle faded as he considered the fewer eggs he transported than he had in previous weeks. Many of his customers would be displeased today.
He cringed, the crunch of the little wagon’s wheels on the dirt road seeming to grind out a complaint. But then, maybe it was good he wouldn’t be able to provide eggs to everyone who’d come to depend on him. Because when his flock was big enough to meet the needs of the hotel’s kitchen, he wouldn’t be selling to individuals at all.
The faces of those he’d come to know in the past months paraded through his memory, and it stung to think of disappointing them. But he had to sell to a big company instead of to individuals if he ever intended to build his farm enough to support a family. Unless … He chewed the inside of his cheek, daring to let his dream expand even bigger. If he had sons—or daughters, too, he supposed—they could help on the farm. He’d be able to take care of a much larger flock. He could sell eggs and chickens to the hotel, to individuals, and maybe even to places far away. The railroad could transport his eggs just about anywhere.
His chest went t
ight, thinking of becoming such a successful businessman. After his accident Amos had listened to his pa bemoan how Amos would be a burden on the family, unable to pull his own weight. When he made his chicken farm a success, he would invite his whole family to visit. Wouldn’t it please him to see the surprise on Pa’s face?
Eagerness to see his plans through sped his feet, and he pushed his aching hip to cover the distance in record time. When he’d emptied his wagon of all but three lone eggs—in only eight stops—he visited the grocer and gathered staples to carry him through another week.
As Mr. Root tallied up Amos’s purchases, he commented, “No eggs to trade today?”
Amos grimaced. “No. Unless you want only three.” He must have miscounted when he put the eggs in the wagon. He thought he should have more than a half dozen left. “Five cents’ worth doesn’t seem worth the trade.”
The man laughed. “You’re right there. You must’ve had good sales today to run out of eggs so soon.”
“I sold all but these, true, but I didn’t have enough to go around today.” Amos shared the changes he was making out at his chicken farm. Mr. Root listened as if deeply interested, pausing with his pencil caught between his thumb and finger above the page. Amos finished, “So it might be a while before I have eggs to bring to you. I hope it doesn’t trouble you too much to be without my eggs.”
“Doesn’t trouble me nearly as much as it might some of my customers.” The owner set the pencil to work again, scratching out numbers while he spoke. “You’re setting your sights mighty high, especially for someone with—”
Amos sucked in a breath.
“—so few years on him.”
Amos’s breath eased out, relieved the man hadn’t mentioned his gimpy leg. “I’m not so young.” He’d felt older than his age ever since the wagon ran over him.
“No? Well, I reckon when you get as gray headed as me, most everybody under the age of thirty looks like a youngster.” Mr. Root wrote the total on the bottom of the pad and turned it around so Amos could check his figures.
Through the Deep Waters Page 8
