Debra Holland (16 page)

“I hope I’m not disturbing you, Reverend.”

“Not at all.” He folded the paper and set it under a book on his desk. “I was just reading a letter from my son. Until a few months ago, Joshua was a missionary in Cameroon. Then his wife died, and he and his son left to come back to America. They are presently visiting for a while with his wife’s family in Nebraska, and then they will continue on to Sweetwater Springs.”

“You must be excited.”

 
“Most certainly. We’ve never met our grandson, Micah. He’s David’s age.”

“After Cameroon, Sweetwater Springs will be quite different. Perhaps he and David can adjust together.”

“They will both have their challenges.”

Will your son and grandson live with you?”

The minister gave a rueful glance around the small room. “Yes.” He shrugged. “Somehow the Lord will provide. But enough of my family.” He gestured to a chair, laden with books. “Just set them on the floor and tell me how things are going with David.”

“On the surface, well.” Ant ticked off his fingers. “He’s safe. He’s clean. He’s fed. He’s clothed.”

“Those are things that must be taken care of before you can see to his healing.”

“The doc says he’s malnourished, but otherwise he’s well.”

“I mean to his inner healing.”

“That’s why I’m here. Originally, I’d planned to take David back with me to New York. But he’s in no condition to travel, to be thrust into city life.”

“Why don’t you two stay here in town?”

“I’m considering it.”
 

“I think you’ll be welcomed. It’s a good community. I think both you and David will be able to put down roots.”

Ant remembered the fanciful image he’d thought of earlier. “Perhaps,” he said in a noncommittal manner.

“The town, like the people who reside in it, has its faults. I think you may have already encountered some of them.”

“If you mean Widow Murphy and the Cobbs, I’ll say yes.”

Reverend Norton’s expression didn’t change, but his blue eyes twinkled. “In any town there are people who are our crosses to bear. But what we do have in Sweetwater Springs....”

“Even with your crosses?”

“Even with our crosses.... What we do have is grit and heart. Two things you and that boy of yours are going to need in full measure.”

Ant let out a discouraged sigh and dropped into the chair. “I don’t know that I have enough of either.”

“Son, I don’t know that anyone thinks they have enough. Both are qualities that take patience and persistence, especially during times of great difficulty.”

“This seems like one of those times.” Ant rose from his chair and paced the room. Four steps could take him from end to end. “Yet that notion also seems ridiculous. I have David. He’s safe… Great difficulty was when I found my murdered sister’s body and realized that David was gone. Great difficulty was times I had to endure in my two-year search for my nephew. This
shouldn’t
be a time of great difficulty.”

“But it is,” the minister said, compassion in his voice. He waited a beat. “I’m sorry to hear about your sister. When a loved one is murdered, we feel a grave sense of injustice and anger…. Sometimes that anger can interfere with our mourning.”

Ant felt himself close up. “The murderer, David’s father, is dead. It’s time to focus on the future, not the past.”

Like a snowy owl, Reverend Norton watched him with wise eyes.

Ant almost came close to pouring out everything, but he settled for a brief statement. He rubbed his hands over his eyes. “I’m thinking of staying here. I’m just not sure that’s the best thing.”

Reverend Norton held up one bony hand. “Let me get my helpmate in here. When it comes to children, I value her advice.” He paused. “When it comes to
anything
, I value her advice. Although, I’m told I frequently cut her off in my enthusiasm to voice my opinion.” He shook his head, as if thinking. “We’ll talk about it, then we’ll pray about it. Hopefully, both will help you find your answers.”

* * *

David awoke slowly, half conscious of the softness of the bed and the warmth of the coverings. In a moment his mother would come and urge him to get up but for now, he’d snuggle into… He went under again, and only later did he gradually float into wakefulness. Then a sharp feeling of fear propelled him into alertness, and he bolted upright, fists raised in protection, looking for his pa, prepared for the blow that would knock him off the pallet if he hadn’t scrambled off beforehand.

The unfamiliar room made him dizzy, and he glanced wildly around before the events of yesterday caught up with him. He wasn’t on a hard pallet on the floor of the shack, but in a real bed.

Since he was alone in the room, David relaxed his fists and leaned a shoulder against the wall covered in little flowers. Tears choked his throat, and he tried to hold onto them. For a long time now, he’d manage to keep from crying, no matter what his pa did to him. But yesterday unsettled him somehow. That bath...remembering made him burn with embarrassment.

The tears now were different. They wanted to come from a place deep inside himself. He thought if he let them up, he’d never stop crying.
Be a big baby
. He had himself two choices. He could drift away, or he could run.

Today, feeling stronger than he had yesterday...than he had in a long time...he chose to run.

Popping out of bed, David realized he was still clad in a man’s white shirt that hung almost to his ankles. He lunged for his new clothes, folded neatly on a wooden chair backed against the wall at the foot of the bed. For a moment he paused, running his hand over the stiff new material. He brought the blue shirt to his face and sniffed the crispness, feeling a tingly bit of happy in the pit of his stomach.

Disconcerted by his reaction, David dropped the shirt back on the chair. He fumbled with the stiff buttons of the man’s shirt, so different from the two that had remained on his old one, the thread holding them to the cloth so limp that the buttons sagged when pushed through the buttonhole.

David let the big man’s shirt drop to the floor, and he scrambled into the new clothes. He debated about the boots. He’d gone barefoot ever since his shoes had worn out at the end of the winter, but the shiny brown leather convinced him to pull on thick socks without holes, then the boots.

Once dressed, David clomped down the stairs and through the kitchen. He would have stopped to snatch something to eat, but the old biddy set up a squawk when she saw him and flapped her apron at him, just like an angry chicken. So he kept on going. He ran into the street, avoiding the few people he saw. The dust puffed with each step.

David felt a slight regret for the shininess of his boots, but even that didn’t stop him. He kept on running.

* * *

After an almost sleepless night, in which her mind refused to let go of the visions of her assault, Harriet dressed slowly. Her ankle ached, and she felt tired, sore, and reluctant to go downstairs and face the Cobbs, as well as everyone else. Even the treat of picking out a new shirtwaist wasn’t enough to prod her through the door.

She wondered if anyone would miss her if she stayed in her room and read.
The Count of Monte Cristo
beckoned to her. After all, she hadn’t touched that book since she’d joined forces with Ant to find David. It had been a tumultuous few days.
I deserve some solitude.

She almost sat down in the wooden chair by the window. She’d made a cushion for that chair the first few days she’d lived with the Cobbs. It was her favorite place to read. Now she longed with all her heart to plop down, well, ladies didn’t plop...gracefully seat herself...and shut out the world through reading a book.

But she doubted even revolutionary France would be enough of an escape from Sweetwater Springs. Even if she could immerse herself in the story, she’d still have to return to her surroundings when she stopped reading.

Besides she wanted to know how David was doing. Not that she could go to Widow Murphy’s to find out. After yesterday, with Mrs. Cobb’s insinuations about her reputation, Harriet had to tread carefully. Continued close association with Ant might, indeed, cause gossip and jeopardize her job. Besides, news of David’s condition would be all over town today.
The Cobbs probably already know. I won’t need to go over there—won’t need to see him … see them.
The thought hurt.

Her heart sank to her knees at the thought of interacting with the Cobbs.
How can I continue to live with them?
She’d wracked her brain much of the night, trying to come up with an alternative, but couldn’t see one—except for leaving Sweetwater Springs, which she didn’t want to do.

Single ladies had few respectable choices in a small town. Living with the Cobbs, paying only a small room and board, allowed her to save money for her eventual home. She should really count her blessings, instead of complaining.
Nothing good ever came of complaining
. One of her mother’s favorite sayings, uttered far too often, whether Harriet had actually grumbled or just expressed a wish for something her mother couldn’t afford.

Harriet braced herself and reluctantly descended the stairs. She took a deep breath and walked into the kitchen.

Mrs. Cobb stood at the stove, deftly turning bacon strips in the cast iron skillet. The smell made Harriet realize how hungry she was. Mr. Cobb was already seated at the table reading the day-old newspaper that had arrived on the train.

Neither greeted her, although Mr. Cobb made a grunting acknowledgement when Harriet took her place at the table. Mrs. Cobb bustled over, the towel-wrapped handle of the iron skillet in one hand, serving spoon in the other. She scooped some scrambled eggs onto Harriet’s plate, followed by two strips of bacon and a piece of toast.

Harriet ate in silence. The Cobbs sometimes spoke to each other, but didn’t include her in the conversation. Harriet didn’t care. She tried to ignore them in the same way they ignored her.

The name
Elizabeth Sanders
caught her attention. Mrs. Cobb started complaining about Nick’s wife shipping her family’s possessions from Boston to Sweetwater Springs. Mrs. Cobb seemed to think it was a deliberate slight to them. It wasn’t as if the mercantile could stock the valuable items Elizabeth had reportedly lived with.

Harriet thought her spirits couldn’t sink further. But at the thought of Nick and Elizabeth, they crashed to the floor at her feet. She kept her head down, slowly eating, although the food had lost its flavor.

“Six wagons, mind you. Six!” Mrs. Cobb exclaimed.

Mr. Cobb looked up from his paper. “Who all’s driving them wagons?”

She counted them on stubby fingers. “Nick Sanders, of course. Carter. Thompson. Mack Taylor. Payne. Hart.”

He snorted. “Be a regular parade. Probably have folks come just to gawk.”

Mrs. Cobb perked up. “That’s right. And since folks are here, they’ll probably frequent the mercantile.”

Harriet’s mind was full of memories, pondering the foolishness of first love. The whole time Nick was building a house on his new ranch, Harriet had fantasized about living there with him. She’d even secretly ridden over there one afternoon, stopping at the edge of the woods nearby. In her mind, she’d added a white picket fence with rose bushes trailing over it. She’d made curtains for the windows and planted a vegetable garden in the back. She had her own chicken house off to the side of the garden. She’d loved his house as much as she’d loved Nick, and giving up the dream of both had been the hardest thing she’d ever done.

Harriet had forced herself to stop fantasizing once Nick and Elizabeth had married and moved into the little house. Then the wealthy bride had commissioned a bigger house, using her funds to import carpenters and masons to build it on the hill overlooking a lake. When Harriet had heard the news, she’d felt outraged. She couldn’t believe Elizabeth didn’t appreciate the home Nick had built for her—one that Harriet would have given anything to have for her own. The workmen had just finished most of the new mansion and the couple was in the process of moving in, leaving the smaller house available for their foreman and his family. Harriet wondered if anyone but her would appreciate the modest ranch house.

Mrs. Cobb sniffed. “Invited everyone to a party afterwards, too.”

Harriet looked up at that comment.

Mrs. Cobb noticed and apparently condescended to talk to her. “You, too, Miss Stanton. Mrs. Sanders came by yesterday, while you were gallivanting on the mountain with Mr. Gordon.”

Harriet didn’t even have the heart to argue with her.

The woman gave her a sly look. “The party will be after they haul all that furniture and get it in the new house; dishes, bedding, and other things as well. I have a mind to see it.” Her tone turned malicious. “Although I’ve heard that everything is
not
the latest style.”

But I’m sure it’s all in good taste.

Mr. Cobb cleared his throat. “No need for me to go. I’ll stay here and mind the store.”

Harriet heard what he wasn’t saying. Mr. Cobb had no desire to be put to work lugging furniture.

“Then Miss Stanton and I will drive out in the buggy.” Mrs. Cobb shot a spiteful glance at Harriet.

The food balled in Harriet’s stomach. She didn’t want to go to the party, and she certainly didn’t want to travel there with Mrs. Cobb. And something else bothered her about Mrs. Cobb’s intentions, although she couldn’t identify what it was. She was used to the woman’s critical nature, yet this felt like something more….
It’s obvious she’s still angry with me, so why does she want me to go with her?