Jake boarded the passenger train, and she watched until she saw him settle in a forward-facing seat at a window. She could tell he’d put his boots up on the seat opposite. Of course he had. She longed to slap his feet down and give him a stern look, except it was best he not realize she was watching nearby.
The train pulled out of the station even as a distant whistle let everyone know another train was approaching. She snugged her jacket around her waist and ran fingers over her pearls to ground herself and push away any doubts. Jake was on his way and that was all that mattered. Now she could focus on relieving Mack of his ridiculous ideas about how to conduct business.
A sudden screeching of wheels, a grinding of metal, and then a horrific crash echoed through the town. Everyone, including Serepta, turned toward the sound as a few people began running. Charlie was at her side in an instant. He curled an arm around her waist, then remembered himself and took a step back. He didn’t speak, didn’t urge her to do anything, but instead stood there waiting to see what she would do. He was always and ever at her disposal should a need arise. Emotion welled within her for this man, but she quickly tamped it down.
“Let’s investigate,” she said.
He nodded and followed her, two paces behind, toward the source of the sound. While the crash had been brief, there remained the throbbing of an engine and now the cries of people clearly in distress. The sharp bite of coal smoke stung the air. Serepta wasn’t thinking of helping; she was simply feeling the need to know what was happening.
A man with his arm around a sobbing woman hurried toward them. “Don’t go over there,” he said. “It’s awful. Nobody should see such as that, much less a lady.”
Serepta kept right on walking. She’d never claimed to be a lady.
Men from the train scrambled to the ground. One lost his lunch in the weeds along the tracks. What might have been a truck smoked and steamed, a mangled mass of twisted metal. Serepta realized the people who had been in the truck—maybe riding in the bed—were scattered on the ground. Bloody. Battered. Dead.
To call the scene horrific was hardly sufficient, and yet she felt removed from it. As though someone were describing it to her after the fact. She’d learned this trick when her father had been cruel to her. Or worse, ignored her. She’d been able to step away and view whatever was happening as if it were a set of images she could analyze and learn from.
Today she was learning that the bodies on the ground appeared to form a family. There was a man still pinned behind the steering wheel of the truck who didn’t seem to fit with them. An uncle? A friend? But on the ground, she could see what she decided were a mother, a father, and four children. Such a waste.
Others gathered around the bodies. Someone laid his coat over the woman. A bystander sobbed while one of the men from the train wept into his hands where he’d dropped to his knees beside the tracks.
“She’s alive!”
The shout ushered in a moment of silence, followed by chaos as those gathered rushed to the side of a man in overalls kneeling beside the smallest child.
“Where’s the doctor?”
Another man carrying a black bag stopped his examination of the form still inside the truck and hurried over, waving everyone back.
Serepta watched as he checked the child—who couldn’t have been more than three or four—inch by inch.
“She’s unconscious, and I’m pretty sure this arm is broken, but otherwise I think she might be alright.”
“I seen it,” the first man said. “Her daddy flung her into the air right afore the train hit. The engineer was braking as hard as he could, but Bart Jenson—he’s the driver—must’ve stalled out.” He blinked and looked to the sky as though seeing the event replayed there. “I thought it was a sack of something at first, but then I seen it was a child.”
The little girl appeared to be unconscious, which was likely a blessing. The doctor gave instructions for her to be taken to his office while he finished confirming what they all knew. No one else had survived.
Without putting a great deal of thought into it, Serepta followed the man cradling the child against his chest. It was almost as though a rope tugged her along. She would see what happened to this child.
chapter
five
At lunchtime the next day, Colman went looking for Johnny and Elam. He found them where they’d crossed the tracks from the engine house to sit on steps cut into the steep hillside. They nodded in welcome, and the three ate in silence for a few minutes.
“Guess you two worked with Dad back in the day,” Colman said.
“Yup.” Johnny swiped at a sheaf of dirty blond hair falling across his forehead.
“And how exactly is it that we’re kin?” Colman asked.
Johnny swallowed his last bite of jelly biscuit and brushed his hands against his pant legs. “Our great-granddaddies were brothers.”
Colman nodded and bit into a hard-boiled egg. How was he going to steer this conversation the way he wanted it to go?
“You been talking to your pa?” Elam leaned his elbows on the step behind him. A head shorter than Johnny, he wore his dark hair slicked back behind ears that stuck out further than usual on a human being.
“I have.” Colman tried to laugh. “He’s been more talkative of late.”
Johnny nodded. “Heard Webb brung him liquor.” He shook his head. “Ain’t that just like Webb? He knows once Walter starts he can’t stop.” He looked at Colman with sad eyes. “The day your momma died I thought if the liquor didn’t kill him he’d surely drown, he drank so much. And you wouldn’t have known he’d touched a drop if it weren’t for the empty bottles and the smell. Guess he was trying to kill hisself, but he caught sight of you and asked me to hide the rest of the liquor from him.”
Elam unscrewed the cap on his thermos, and the aroma of coffee filled the air. “Only other time he drank like that was the anniversary of her death a few years later.” He chuckled. “Except he was the sort of feller who didn’t miss a day of work unless he was dead. And since he weren’t quite dead yet, he come on in and, well, that’s the day he lost most of his hand. I thought he’d give it up for good after that, but ole Webb . . . well, sometimes the ones who are closest to you cause the most trouble.”
Johnny folded the paper sack his lunch had been in. The paper was worn to the softness of fabric from many uses. “So, what’d your daddy tell you? That story about tongues of fire descending on the Harpes back in 1832?”
Elam snorted. “Reckon the Holy Spirit descended on the McLeans, too. Cain’t help if they weren’t willing.”
Johnny shot his cousin an inscrutable look, then turned back to Colman. “What you want to ask us? Spit it out. I can see it’s gnawing at your innards.”
Colman picked up a twig and snapped it in two. Johnny was right, he just needed to get this out. “I’ve been wondering what sorts of ‘gifts’ the Harpes are supposed to have. I mean, we all know I can hear real good, but is it more than that?”
Johnny squinted into the sun-bright sky, his hair falling back over his eyes. “You want to answer that one, Elam?”
Elam shrugged. “I’ve got the second sight.”
Colman saw Johnny roll his eyes. “Just ’cause you guess things right sometimes.” He jerked a thumb at his companion. “Elam calls it second sight. Others call it luck. I call it coincidence.”
“Aw, now, Johnny. The boy’s sincere. And you know his daddy has a way about him, too. And then there’s Webb, who can spot a weakness at a hundred yards. Just ’cause you ain’t figured out your gift don’t mean the rest of us are whistling Dixie.”
Elam turned to Colman and leaned forward. “Not every Harpe has a gift. I think you have to be open to the Spirit’s leading.” He shot an intent look at Johnny. “Some are more open than others.” He turned back to Colman and laid a callused hand on his arm. “You can hear more than most. Question is, are you listening?”
Johnny slung the last bit of coffee from his therm
os into the grass. “Maybe I know what my gift is, I just don’t much care to use it. Ever think about that?”
“Most every day,” Elam said with a chuckle. “I figure the Spirit blessed you with a knack for aggravating folks. Too bad we can’t unleash you on the McLeans.”
The men laughed and stood to return to work.
As they started away, Colman called out, “What’s Dad’s gift?”
“Sobriety,” Elam said and picked his way across the tracks.
Blessedly, the child remained unconscious until after the doctor set and splinted her arm. He fashioned a sling and then looked to Serepta. The man in overalls who carried the child in had sidled away while the doctor was focused on his work. Only Serepta remained, with Charlie waiting outside.
“I don’t suppose those folks were part of your family?” the doctor asked.
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Do you know if anyone around here is related? Someone needs to take charge of this child.”
“I’ll take her.” Her own words surprised Serepta. “Until her family can be found,” she added.
“I should ask you by what authority, but I know who you are, and I suppose you operate under an authority all your own.” The doctor began putting away his supplies. “I’ve given her something to help her sleep. And these”—he jiggled a small bottle of pills—“can be given for pain, although it would be best to just keep her comfortable and hope the pain isn’t too bad. It was a clean break, so I’m hopeful she’ll do alright.”
Serepta nodded. What had she just done? She’d spent a lifetime making well-thought-out decisions with clear benefits. Being frustrated with her sons and wishing for a daughter were not good reasons to take in an orphaned child. “How old is she?”
The doctor eyed the little girl and bobbled his head. “I’d say three, but I’m just guessing. Hopefully when she wakes up she can tell you.”
Serepta nodded again. She wasn’t sure why it mattered. Except that her earliest memory was from when she was four, and maybe she hoped this little one would not recall the day her family was violently torn from her. Serepta had seen—and even caused—plenty of violence in her life, yet she found herself wishing this child might be spared that.
“I don’t suppose you know her name.”
“The fella who carried her in here said it’s Emmaline.”
The ghost of a smile crossed Serepta’s lips. It was a good name. It fit the dark curls and the tiny turned-up nose. “Shall I take her now?”
“I’ve done all I can. Are you going to carry her yourself?”
Serepta answered him by scooping the girl into her arms. She might be petite, but she was ox-strong and proud of it. Besides, Charlie was just outside if she needed help.
“Watch that arm.” The doctor made sure it was snug against the child’s chest. Serepta felt the girl shift and turn against her bosom, snuggling tight. She wrapped her arms tighter and felt a lump form deep in her throat. She swallowed it down and moved toward the door.
“I’ll let you know if any family turns up,” the doctor said to her back.
Serepta paused but didn’t turn around. “You do that. I’ll be at home—I’m taking her to Walnutta with me.”
Colman wasn’t sure what to expect when he went to his father’s house the following Monday. He’d been pondering all he’d heard and still wasn’t sure what it meant to him. And then there was the call to tell the McLeans about God, a notion that weighed heavier by the day. As if he needed to pick up where that Holy Spirit preacher had left off a hundred years before.
This time, Dad was in his usual spot on the porch. He stood as Colman approached.
“Tonight I’m cooking,” he said.
Colman tripped on the bottom step, righted himself, and followed Dad into the house. If that didn’t beat all. Dad hadn’t cooked for him since the first year after Mom died. As soon as Colman showed the least inclination to take on kitchen duties, Dad let him.
“Johnny brung me a mess of ramps.”
Colman didn’t need to be told. The air was filled with the aroma of the pungent, garlicky greens. His father dished some boiled ramps into a bowl and set it on the table next to a bottle of vinegar. A cake of corn bread had been turned out onto a plate, and ham sizzled and popped in a skillet. Once all the food was on the table, they sat, said grace, and dug in.
As he ate his fill, Colman supposed he’d regret it tomorrow when his very pores would give off the sharp aroma of the ramps, but they were so good he couldn’t stop eating. His father ate as he usually did, as though it were a job to get done. There was little conversation.
Finally, as Colman was topping the meal off with another wedge of corn bread slathered in apple butter, his father cleared his throat.
“I may have said some things the other night that took you by surprise.”
Colman swallowed his last bite and rubbed his fingers on his pant legs. “You were some wordier than usual.”
Dad nodded. “I’ve not had much to do with the feuding between the Harpes and the McLeans. I was mixed up in all that before I married your mother.” He smiled. “You might say she distracted me.” The smile faded. “And you know how she felt about feuding. Then after she was gone I didn’t much care about anything. Although I always did care about you, even when I didn’t act like it.”
Colman could hear dogs barking from across the river. Like someone was coon hunting in the dusk of May. Just this once he wished he couldn’t hear anything beyond the words his father was laying out in the air between them.
“Your ma would be awful proud of you—a preacher and all. And I expect she’d be glad you’re not out there feuding.” His throat convulsed. “Although I think, maybe, you don’t have much love for the McLeans.”
“Why would I? They lie, cheat, and steal. And now one of theirs has murdered one of ours.”
“But you didn’t go with Webb to hunt Jake.”
Though it was a statement, Colman heard it as a question. “I don’t like the McLeans, but I guess God will deal with them in His own time. If I aim to be a full-time preacher, I’d best steer clear of that sort of thing.”
A smile bloomed on his father’s face. “Your ma liked to talk about God’s timing. She said it was perfect. Said it even when she was eat up with the cancer and knew she wouldn’t be here much longer.” He picked up their plates and slid them into a pan of soapy water in the sink. “Son, you need more family than I can give you. I’ve got this notion it’s time for you to know some of your kin better. When Johnny brung those ramps, he said him and Elam were hitching a ride this weekend to do some trout fishing over near White Sulphur Springs. You oughta go with them.”
Colman hesitated. Was this a new command from God, to draw closer to his family? Surely his own kin was more important than a bunch of McLeans, who weren’t going to be convinced by him anyway. Shoot, they’d as soon cut him as hear him preach. It was a fool’s errand to enter enemy territory and expect to change anything.
“Sounds like a fine idea,” he said at last. “Guess I don’t have anything better to do.” And with those words he felt a rush of relief partnered with a feeling akin to being caught snitching a biscuit from the dinner table before saying grace.
His father nodded, and just like that Colman had the sense Dad had used up whatever words were in him. The openness, the sense of connection and sharing, guttered and went out. Colman helped clean up the kitchen, and the two men didn’t speak another five words between them before Colman left for home.
Serepta cursed and flung her pencil to the desktop in the bright office. Another shipment of whiskey on its way to Pittsburgh had been intercepted, and she was pretty sure she knew who had done it.
Webb Harpe. Since he couldn’t find Jake to avenge his son’s death, he was exacting payment another way. It wasn’t so much the loss of profit—although that surely stung—it was the fact that every time one of her shipments went missing, a measure of respect went with it. If she couldn’t
keep her liquor secure, what other weaknesses might people suspect her of having? She needed to have words with that worthless Police Chief Harrison Ash. She expected more from him than simply looking the other way.
The thought that even now Harpe family members were drinking her whiskey and laughing at her was almost more than she could bear. She gazed out the picture window at the rolling land surrounding the two-story Queen Anne Victorian. Walnutta had been built and designed by Ellen Lively in 1906 with the help of a female architect—highly unusual in those days. Since she’d learned the story at fifteen, Serepta had coveted the graceful home with its sweeping porches and bright rooms. When Eli died she didn’t waste any time procuring the property, regardless of the cost. Now the thought that the Harpes might undermine all she’d fought for tarnished the satisfaction she normally took in the lovely home.
Emmaline stirred where she’d been sleeping on a pallet near Serepta’s desk, as if troubled by the emotion sweeping through the room. She blinked huge wet eyes and began to cry. It had been two days since Serepta carried the little girl home, much to the obvious surprise of her staff. Charlie was the only human being who could even come close to sassing her. When she’d loaded the child into the back of the car so he could drive them home, he’d looked at her with lips pressed tightly together, as though holding words in.
“Do you have something to share with me?” Serepta asked him.
“No, ma’am. I surely don’t.”
When Silence Sings Page 4
