“Why did you leave without him in the first place?” she demanded of Mr. Ritter, who stood pounding with the palm of his hand.
He gave another hard whack. “I knocked this morning, but he didn’t answer. I figured he left without me.”
“You really believed he wouldn’t wait for you?”
Mr. Ritter glanced over his shoulder. “You heard him last night, same as I did. He wasn’t planning to wait for nobody.”
Nash doubled his massive fist and hit the door several times, so hard the frame rattled, then pressed his ear against the polished wood. Stepping back, he shook his head. “He ain’t in this room, that’s for sure. We could’ve raised the dead with all this ruckus.”
Several occupants along the hall stuck out their heads and glared their way. Nash jumped behind Emmy and Mr. Ritter in a feeble attempt to hide his bulk. “We best get on out of here,” he whispered. “ ’Fore we winds up in a mess.”
Emmy shook her head and rattled the doorknob. “I won’t leave without Buddy. He’s the reason we came. Help me get this open.”
Mr. Ritter placed his hand over hers on the knob. Compassion had softened his gentle eyes. “Buddy’s not here, ma’am. Come along now. Maybe he’s made it to the station by now.”
Nash shook his head. “If’n he did finally make it to the station, we’ll never know it. He’ll be somewhere on that big old train.”
Emmy spun around to face him. “And we won’t know whether to board or not!” She moaned, pressing her knuckles to her throbbing temples. “Oh my goodness, we’re just too addlepated for words. One of us should’ve waited on the platform. Now what are we going to do?”
She cast around in her mind for a solution. There had to be something sensible. If she could just get one moment to catch her breath, she knew it would come to her. Trouble was, they were fresh out of moments. That train wouldn’t wait.
Jerry started for the stairs, waving them on with his hand. “Let’s go,” he called. “There’s nothing more to do here.”
With some reluctance, Emmy moved to follow. Just as she gave in and turned away, just as her hand released the knob, she heard a sound from inside. It was a man’s voice, weak and faint, yet desperate in tone. She whirled toward the stairs. “Mr. Ritter, come back! He’s in there. Buddy’s in this room.”
Jerry stopped and stared at her. He hooked his long thumbs in the waistband of his trousers and let his shoulders slouch in defeat. “Ma’am, I understand your frustration—I really do. But I’m growing a mite impatient with you now.”
Emmy stomped her foot. “I tell you he’s in there and he’s in trouble. Get over here right now. Both of you.”
Like boys responding to their mama’s no-nonsense voice, the men dashed to her side and pressed their ears to the door.
“You right, Miss Emmy,” Nash whispered. “Somebody’s in there.”
Jerry nodded. “I hear it, too.” He stood up and rapped hard twice, then placed his mouth next to the jamb. “Buddy, is that you? Open up.”
Emmy felt her panic growing. “Nash, you’re going to have to break it down.”
Always ready to oblige, Nash backed up and prepared to charge. Before he could make his move, Jerry lunged in front of him.
“Now just hold on there. We can get inside without leveling the wall. I can’t afford to replace it. You two wait here and don’t move. I’m going after a key.” He wagged a finger at Nash as he jogged by. “Don’t get any more ideas about busting down doors.”
Emmy pressed her face to the inlaid panel. “Hang on, Mr. Pierce. We’re here to help you. Mr. Ritter’s bringing the key.”
She heard a loud groan in answer and thought to have Nash proceed with the original plan, but Mr. Ritter appeared at the top of the landing with a brass key dangling from his hand. He ran the last few steps toward them, and Emmy backed out of his way.
“I’m here, Buddy. Hang on,” he called as he worked the key in the lock.
When the door swung open, the three of them burst inside the room. An unbearable stench met them first, and Emmy covered her nose with her sleeve. Buddy sprawled across the mattress, on top of the covers, dressed in the same clothes he’d worn the day before.
“What in the world? Why, he’s not even made it to bed properly.” Mr. Ritter approached his friend and peered down. “What’s up, old man? What happened to you?”
Buddy’s eyes were bloodshot and glazed, his face the same shade of green as the blanket on which he lay. Nash nodded at the gruesome washbasin on the floor beside the bed and backed toward the exit. “He sick, that’s what. Powerful sick. Something done turned his stomach inside out.”
Tears flooded Emmy’s eyes. How could Buddy be sick? He was the one person in the world with any hope of saving Charity, but he had to be in Humble to do it.
Buddy raised a trembling hand toward Jerry. “Get me to the station,” he whispered.
Jerry shook his head. “Sorry, my friend. You’re in no condition for a train ride. You’ve taken ill.”
He motioned Jerry closer. “Not ill. Just a little weak in my gut. Too much sarsaparilla on an empty stomach.”
Jerry stared hard at him then doubled over and roared with laughter. “Are you telling me you got this way from drinking sarsaparilla?” He hooted and slapped his leg. “I never met a feller who couldn’t hold his sarsaparilla before. Maybe you should’ve stuck with whiskey.”
Grabbing the front of Jerry’s shirt, Buddy pulled him down against his chest and ground out a threat. “Ritter, you’d best get me down to that station right now, or I’ll...” He fell against his pillow, too weak to finish.
Jerry paled. Whether from Buddy’s anger or his foul breath, Emmy couldn’t tell, but the man had his attention.
“Have you lost your senses?” he wailed. “How am I supposed to get you anywhere when you can’t even stand up?”
“Carry me,” Buddy gasped. “Hog-tie me with a rope and drag me—I don’t care. Do what you have to do to get me on that train.”
Backing out of Buddy’s reach, Jerry crossed his arms. “I won’t do it. You’re far too sick to be moved.”
Buddy lunged at him. “Get me on that train, Jerry! I tell you I can make it.”
“No, sir. I’m sorry. You can’t.”
“Oh yes, he can!”
Buddy’s determination had lit a fire in Emmy. She pushed Jerry out of the way. “Nash, come over here and help Mr. Pierce out of this bed. Hurry. This man has a train to catch.”
CHAPTER 27
Bertha lay in Magda’s big bed with the covers pulled up to her chin. Awake for hours, she’d heard the creak of every settling board and the hoot of every barn owl. She was also privy to the snores, snorts, and sleepy ramblings coming from her roommate. Not to mention that Magda’s every toss and turn wrought a symphony of rattles and groans from the makeshift bed in the corner.
Thankfully, Magda stirred at last and eased out of bed. Bertha knew she should be up, too, and already down in the kitchen with a good start on breakfast, but she couldn’t convince her body to move.
When Magda tiptoed past for the third time, Bertha rolled onto her side and cleared her throat. “I ain’t asleep, you know. You can stop all that creeping about and light the lamp.”
In the dim room, Magda leaned to look at her from behind the wardrobe door. “Did I wake you, sugar? I tried real hard to be quiet.”
Bertha propped up on one elbow. “I hate to hear that, because you made enough noise to wake Rebel clear out in the barn. You never could tread softly worth a hoot.”
Magda came over and sat on the bed beside her. “I know. That’s why I was leaving the room.” She reached to touch Bertha’s forehead. “Are you feeling all right? You never sleep this late.”
Bertha took Magda’s cool hand and held it to her cheek. “No, I ain’t feeling one bit all right.”
“Are you taking sick?”
She nodded. “Heartsick, I guess.”
Magda patted her face. “I know, sweetie.�
�
“Charity’s run out of time.”
“I know,” Magda cooed.
“I’m her mama. I should be able to save her, but I’m not smart enough. I don’t know how to help her out of this one.”
Magda squared around on the bed and faced her. “Maybe you’re not supposed to. Did you ever consider that? Maybe Daniel’s the man God intended for Charity all along. Remember, she wanted to marry him once and with your blessing. The thing that turned you against Daniel is his jilting her, which he’s trying to make amends for.”
Bertha sat up and shook her head. “I don’t know, Magda. There’s something about that boy that ain’t quite right. I always sensed it.”
Magda gave her a piercing look. “Is this one of those feelings you get?”
She crossed her arms. “Don’t you go discounting my feelings again. They’ve served me well over the years. I believe they’re from God.” She jabbed Magda in the arm with her finger. “Anyway, look who’s talking. It was you who said he weren’t good for nothing but telling lies and shaming young girls.”
Magda nodded. “He did those things and that’s a fact—but, honey, people make mistakes. I do things every day that I regret. If Daniel really loves Charity, don’t you think he deserves another chance?”
Bertha took Magda by the shoulders and stared into her eyes. “Let me ask you this: If Daniel really loves my girl, how could he hurt her by tossing her aside like trash in front of the whole town? If he respects her, why did he spread lies about her virtue?”
Magda shook her head.
“Thad never would’ve done that to me. Willem couldn’t have treated you so shamefully either, and you know it. On my wedding day, I had no doubt Thad loved me, even cherished me. I want the same for my little girl.”
Magda nodded. “I remember your wedding day like it happened yesterday. You were a beautiful bride. Thad was so proud.” She got a faraway look in her eyes. “Honey, the way that man looked at you—” Picking up Bertha’s hands, she squeezed them hard. “Oh, Bert, you’re right. If we let Charity marry Daniel, it could ruin her life. What’re we going to do?”
Bertha set her jaw. “I don’t know just yet. One thing’s for sure—we need to pray like we’ve never done before.”
***
Charity came awake with a gasp. Her wide eyes sought something to ground her, to still her pounding heart. Recognition came slowly, one familiar sight at a time. First, the broad water stain on the ceiling in the shape of a woman’s boot—or the country of Italy, depending on how you looked at it. Just below the boot were the tall spires of a four-poster bed with a backdrop of bright yellow wallpaper. Her eyes quickly swept the other furnishings, and she released her breath. She had awakened in the Danes’ guestroom, in a bed as familiar as her own. Mother Dane and Mama were just down the hall.
So why did she feel so lost?
She moved to sit up and realized Papa’s Bible lay open across her chest. It came to her then in a rush, as the rising sun flooded the room. Her gaze jerked to the window. It looked like a beautiful morning, hardly a fitting start for the darkest day of her life.
When that same sun rises tomorrow, I’ll be married to Daniel Clark. Daniel. Not Buddy.
The thought of it crushed her, and she regretted waking. Rolling onto her side, she fought to return to unconscious oblivion, but sleep eluded her. The light was too bright, the truth too harsh to shut out. It didn’t help that her wedding dress hung on a peg near the window, mocking her.
The day before she had clutched the dress to her face and asked God for help. The words of her prayer came back, and she whispered them aloud. “I’ve never asked You for anything this important before. Can You? Will You?”
He could, of course. God could do anything. It would be a small matter for Him, a tiny miracle in the great scheme of things. The problem was, He hadn’t. For whatever reason, it appeared God wanted her to marry Daniel.
Disturbed by the thought, she picked up Papa’s Bible and sat upright in bed. Crossing her legs to cradle the worn book, she let it fall open in her lap. Then she closed her eyes and pressed her index finger to the page. Feeling foolish, yet afraid of what she might see, she opened her eyes and looked.
“Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.”
Her heart pounded. Was that the answer? Did God expect her to lay down her life, her future happiness, for her mama? Could she do it? Could she give up her dreams for love and contentment and never grow to resent it?
If God had truly called her to such an unselfish act, He would have to help her. It seemed beyond human strength, no task for mortal flesh. What sort of love was that anyway? And what was the source?
She remembered the passage in Corinthians from which Mama had taken her name. “Charity” in that text meant “love.” Mama always said love was the only fitting name for a child born to her and Papa.
Charity knew the verses by heart. She’d heard them often enough. Still, she thumbed her way to the scripture.
“Charity suffereth long...”
Well, that part rang true. She had suffered every day since Emmy fled the church with Daniel.
“And is kind...”
She had tried to be.
“Charity envieth not; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, doth not behave itself unseemly...”
These might require more diligence on her part.
“Seeketh not her own...”
That part felt like divine direction, but she didn’t like it much. She read on.
“Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things. Charity never faileth.”
The last part gave her pause. Love never fails. That’s what it really said.
She felt as if God had tossed her question back at her. “Can you? Will you?”
Charity closed the book, careful to tuck back all the mementos Mama kept inside. Scraps of paper, clippings and lists, pressed magnolia blossoms, and little notes from Papa, yellowed with age, were scattered throughout his Bible.
She wriggled one of the notes from between the delicate pages and smiled. Papa preferred lead to ink for writing and carried a pencil with him always. He once read that George Washington used a three-inch pencil when he surveyed the Ohio Territory in 1762 and that Thomas Edison kept one in his vest pocket to jot down notes. “Sugar,” he liked to say, “what’s good enough for George and Tom is plenty good for old Thad.”
She held the page closer to the window and strained to read the faded words, barely visible now. She could make out only, “Love always, Thad,” scratched at the end.
The words burned in her heart. Despite the fix they were in, despite evidence that Papa had caused it, she knew how much he had loved them. She knew he would sacrifice his happiness for Mama without a backward glance.
Charity fell against the bed and stared at the ceiling. The written words of both her earthly father and her heavenly Father conveyed the same message—a lesson on love—and she would do her best to listen.
Mother Dane and Mama were stirring down the hall.
Charity swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up. It was high time to get started, to quit stewing over things she couldn’t change. It was her wedding day.
CHAPTER 28
The whistle blew, followed by a shout for all to board. Emmy’s body tensed, and she picked up the pace, ears strained for the chug of the engine or the screech of turning wheels. She couldn’t see the platform for the row of buildings yet to pass, but she knew they were out of time.
She whirled to check the progress of her companions. The three struggled along several yards back, poor white-faced Buddy Pierce held up between Nash and a panting Jerry Ritter.
“Do hurry,” she shouted. “The train is leaving.”
“We is hurrying, Miss Emmy. It ain’t easy toting a grown man, and this one is a mite overgrowed.”
Emmy found it hard to feel compassion while saddled with a burden of
her own. Thankfully, Nash had stowed Buddy’s bag under his free arm, but the task of toting her own luggage and that of Mr. Ritter had fallen to her. Unaccustomed to carrying so much weight, she had to stop and shift the load a bit to ease her aching fingers. “Oh pooh. You could carry two more like him and you know it. Stop your bellyaching and come on.”
They rounded the corner of the last building together. Emmy sighted her mark, an open passenger car, and bore down on it just as the car began to move. The bespectacled conductor leaned halfway out of the door and watched her.
“Wait, sir!” she called to him. “Stop the train.”
The man shook his head. “Sorry, little lady. Can’t do that.”
“Oh please, you must!”
Emmy dropped the bags and ran. The man’s mouth was moving, but the churning wheels carried him away too quickly for her to hear. She gathered her skirts and ran faster. Nash shouted something, but she couldn’t make out his words either over the roar in her ears.
“Come on!” she screamed back at them. “Pick up your feet. We can still make it.”
Nash caught up with her then, lifting her away just as the last car rumbled by shaking the ground at their feet. He carried her some distance from the tracks and set her down hard on the platform.
“Miss Emmy, that was the most foolhardy thing I ever seen. Is you trying to get killed?”
Emmy turned toward Jerry, who stood pale as death staring her way, and Buddy, who sprawled in the dust where Nash had dropped him.
“I’m sorry, I...”
“You what?” Nash shouted. “A lunatic? Yes, you is. Now get over there away from these tracks.”
Without waiting to see if she complied, Nash headed for the scattered luggage. He retrieved the bags in short angry jerks, all the while rolling his eyes and muttering dark curses under his breath.
Emmy trudged to where Jerry stood and looked down at Buddy. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Pierce. Are you all right?”
Squinting against the rising sun, he peered up at her. “I reckon I will be. If I live.”
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