Home to Stavewood (Stavewood Saga Book 3) (2 page)

Chapter Three

    
 
M
ark Elgerson sat in the tiny office and tried to concentrate on the figures in the ledger before him. Had there been a small window he might have peered out through it but, window or wall, it did not matter. What he saw, as he stared off, was not in or near the room.

      His mind wandered home, to a sunny afternoon, maybe riding his filly, Strawberry, through a field, or plunging his feet into a cool creek on a summer day or biting into a fresh apple from one of the orchard trees. Every memory was sweeter than the one before until eventually he’d see Bernadette’s face, angry and bellowing and accusing. Or he’d see her in another man’s arms.

      Mark still insisted that he was never in love with her, but there was a time he called her a friend and he had trusted her. He had often asked himself if perhaps that was the problem. His world was filled with love, with trust, with kindness, and her violation had come as a total shock.

      He tried to tell himself that he’d just be careful and he’d find trust again, but wondered where he might find it so far from home.

      Samuel appeared in the doorway, a wide grin on his face.

      “I’m thinking about going back to that place where we ate the other night for some lunch. Care to join me?”

      Mark nodded and closed his books. It seemed the only place he had gotten a decent meal since they had arrived. The two passed a dime store and chose several postcards, Samuel picking colorful pictures of carnivals and clowns. Mark’s cards were street scenes, mostly photographs in black and white.

      The restaurant was quiet since it was too early for drinking, and they found a small table along the wall. They studied the menu and Mark found the aromas coming from the kitchen so appetizing he placed a large order.

      From his chair he could see the kitchen door swing open as the servers passed through it. It appeared that many of the restaurant’s deliveries were being made and he watched workers dropping off wooden crates and sacks of potatoes, onions and other roots. It was like snapshots in a picture book. The door would swing open as someone passed through and there would be a shot, a scene on the other side, and then the door would close. Someone else would pass through and he’d see another shot, sometimes a continuation of the picture he had seen before. Sometimes the entire scene would have changed and there would be new people, new crates and new activity.

      Their lunch was served and he savored the roasted mutton he had ordered. The oaten rolls pulled apart soft and steaming and the fresh butter melted into the bread. Mark continued to watch the scenes in the kitchen while he ate, listening to Samuel chattering while he observed the people on the streets with excitement.

      The door swung again and hung open as the server briefly held the portal ajar. On the other side he saw a girl. He stopped chewing and watched her.

      The door swung closed and he waited anxiously for the next opening so that he might see her yet again, but when it did, the scene had changed.

      Mark stopped and stared at his plate for a moment trying to commit the picture of her to his memory.

      He saw her in his mind’s eye. She was young, not tall, just a little over five feet, he figured. Her face was sweet with a complexion as creamy and fair as any he had ever seen. She had looked up for a moment and tossed her hair to the side as it fell across her face. It tumbled in a halo of a million tiny strawberry curls flowing around her sweet face.

      Her figure was curved and soft, a tiny waist with rounded hips and a full bust. An apron was tied tightly around her midriff and she had wiped her hands as she stood up and looked towards him.

      He noticed Sam still watching out the window and as he looked out himself he saw her again, on the side of the building, climbing into a battered milk truck. The vehicle bore the words
Muldoon’s Creamery.
He could see the driver was a large, ruddy man with a massive red moustache, who shook out the reins and the wagon pulled up the street.

      “Are you even listening, Elgerson?” Samuel continued his talking.

      “I’m sorry,” Mark apologized and turned back to his meal.

      At the boarding house he sat on the bed in his room. He had purchased new sheets and fresh bedding for both himself and his companion and he hoped for a good night’s sleep.

      The pocket watch was heavy in his hand and he flipped open the cover and checked the time. The watch ticked slowly, measuring the minutes and the young man sighed. The fine, filigreed gold shone in the soft light of the room and the engraving of the original mill near his home was delicate and expertly drawn. He knew his father had slipped the watch into his pocket that day at the station, the day he had left. He had seen the watch before, in the hands of his grandfather, Phillip, but had never known his father to carry it.

      He pressed the cover softly, snapped the watch closed and slipped it back into his jacket pocket where it hung on the bedpost beside him. He picked up a book and one of the postcards he had purchased and studied the photograph on the front.

      The picture captured a moment on the main street of Barite. It was stark, nearly all black and white with few shades of gray. It showed a few people, sharply dressed, walking along the boulevard past tall streetlamps and buildings with light colored awnings. There were carriages on the street and the rails from the streetcars. It looked cold and lifeless to Mark. It looked the same on the postcard as it did every day on the boulevard, he thought. No trees graced the streets to shade the walkways with the green branches of summer or the golden leaves of autumn. Even at the most bustling time of day he felt no life.

      He set his pen to the paper and addressed the card.
Timothy Elgerson
,
Billington City, Minnesota.
Then he stopped.
He wondered
if he had any more to say than on the last card. “Miss you all,” he wrote. “Mark.”

      Mark studied the card and imagined what it might say if he poured out the pain in his heart. There would never be enough room, he thought. Even had there been countless pages for the words to spill out of his pen, how could he send them the thoughts on his mind and in his heart?

      For the first time it occurred to him that he didn’t know when he could return home. His business would be finished in the spring and he would be expected to return, but his personal timetable was not based on that. He would not return home until it was right, until his self-imposed exile was complete. He did not know when that would be or how he would know it, but he knew it was not near.

      He prepared for bed and lay on the lumpy mattress staring at the shadows above his head. As he started to doze he could hear the laughter of children playing in the yard at home. The sound of hoof beats, the call of a cardinal chirping in the evening air. A single tear rolled down the side of his face and he fell into a deep sleep.

Chapter Four

    
 
R
oland Vancouver watched Mark’s filly circle the corral, tossing her head and whinnying loudly. He had ridden her for several hours and she still did not seem to tire. There was no question in his mind that the animal missed the young man. Although Roland tried to get out with her a least a couple of times a week, it seemed as if the horse wanted more.

      He crossed the field towards home, allowing his leg to relax on the walk. He didn’t struggle with it much any longer, but sometimes riding seemed to stiffen it up. He told himself he had no complaint. There was a time when he believed he would never walk again, never father a child, never be whole, but he knew now that none of that was true. Sometimes he’d watch Emma doing little things around the house and he would believe that, even if he had never completely healed, as long as he had found her his life would have been worth living. Now, he had a healthy son, who was growing faster than he thought was possible, and another child on the way.

      Sons, he pondered. Now that he had his own he saw things so differently. He’d hold his child and feel as if he would live forever somehow because he had a son. There was someone to carry on for him. He often wondered how his own father could have left, but he knew that sometimes, even with a child to love, life could pull you away. He was thankful that he could be near his own.

      He’d see Timothy’s expression change on occasion, and he knew he missed Mark terribly. He’d see Bernadette Shofield sometimes in town and think about the fact that she was carrying Jude Thomas’ child. Some men should be fathers, he thought. Some not. He hoped he would always be the best parent to his own that he could.

      Roland returned home, circling around to the east side of his property, past the Weintraub farm. The buildings were all in substantial disrepair now, the home included. It would make no difference if Jude Thomas returned now. Since he had not taken any responsibility the taxes remained unpaid. Both Roland and Timothy had considered putting a bid on the land. The Weintraub ranch was not only a good sized piece of land it also bordered both of their properties and was the neighboring plot to Roland’s. Although he had no specific need for the land, or the ranch itself, he thought he’d talk with Emma about purchasing it once it went up for auction. If nothing else he could have some control over who might move in. He would be glad to see it sold at all though. It had been used once by the man who had attacked his wife and he was never comfortable with the home being vacant.

      “I’ve been thinking about the Weintraub place,” he mentioned during dinner that night.

      “About buying it?” Emma took a stocking from her mending basket and slipped it over the darning egg. The egg was her favorite, the rounded portion carved from a nearly black piece of walnut and the handle filigreed silver, like that of a fine piece of a serving set. The item had been carved by a local artist from a scorched piece of wood after the area’s fire and polished to a smooth surface. She slipped the darning egg into the stocking, stretching a tiny hole over it and began to expertly weave a repair with her needle.

      “I don’t want to begin ranching right now, but since it’s so close by I might feel better not having it auctioned to just anyone.” He stood beside the window and looked out into the darkness.

      “Does Timothy want it?”

      “If I don’t he might, but I’m not sure.”

      “I have an idea why you might buy it,” she suggested.

Chapter Five

    
 
S
amuel Evens checked the bill of lading in the train yard against the load of lumber from the Elgerson mills. He inspected the stacks for quality, amounts and the lumber grades and then jumped down from the flat car and strode whistling toward the office.

      Mark compared Sam’s bill to those in his ledgers, satisfied that the shipment had arrived safely.

      “So we’re done for the day?” Sam asked.

      “Looks that way.” Mark slid his chair back from the desk.

      “That’s great,” Sam smiled. “If I had known we’d have to work every day I might have stayed home,” he chuckled. “Listen, I met these guys the other night and they’ve got a place not too far from here. Let’s get a couple of horses and go out see them. They were saying they had the best fishing hole in the whole area right on their land. I’ve had about enough of sitting around in that boarding house listening to that old woman coughing.”

      Mark had to agree. Other than the one place in town they had found with decent food there was little to enjoy in Barite. He could not recall ever having been bored at Stavewood. If there wasn’t something going on, there was always a stable that needed cleaning out or something that required repairing. He missed being useful and feeling as if he were accomplishing something. He also missed the real work at the mill. Counting lumber and money held no joy to his way of thinking. He decided he might talk to his father about going back onto the saw floor when he returned.

      They rented two horses and rode into the woodland towards the hills. The path was narrow and rarely traveled and Mark looked around apprehensively. “Are you sure this is the way?” he asked, speaking quietly to his friend.

      “This is what they told me. They said the house is down that way. But they have a shack up here and that’s where we should meet them.”

      Mark caught the scent of a small fire and they passed through a dark thicket of trees. There, nestled deeply in the woods, stood a rough shack. The building, such as it was, had no windows or doors that one could make out, and the ground was littered with broken shards of pottery.

      “You move a muscle and you’ll find a bullet in your back.” The voice was deep and seemed to come from every direction. “What do you want up here?”

      Mark held perfectly still, contemplating how he might get to the pistol he had tucked into his belt without being noticed. He surveyed the area for possible cover and thought he might make it to the side of the building when his companion spoke.

      “I was looking for Buck,” Samuel swallowed hard.

     
      “Sam?” A young man jumped from his position in the tree and landed with a thud in front of them.

      “Buck, you nearly scared us to death!” Sam struggled to catch his breath and Mark took his hand from his gun.

      “It sure is good to see you.” Buck shook hands with Sam and then offered his hand to Mark.

      The young man was close to their own ages, Mark thought, though considerably shorter than either of them and quite thin. He was also very dirty, he noticed. Not dirty from a day of hard labor, but dirty from bad habits. Mark shook his hand and nodded cordially, while trying to look Buck in the eye. He noticed that the Missourian not only avoided any eye contact but that his eyes darted around nervously and his speech was slightly slurred.

      “So,” Buck led them to the back side of the shack. “Let me show you what we’ve got going on here.”

      The inside of the hovel was dimly lit, the only light being that which filtered in through chinks in the boards. In the center sat a small fireplace of sorts, crudely built of stacked stones and what looked like baked mud. There was a low fire burning inside. Mark knew he had smelled it a good distance down the way, but never saw the smoke. Around the room were large oaken barrels connected by a series of bent pipes, some looking as if they had been hammered into shape.

      “Meet ‘Tornado’ boys, the finest still in all of Missouri!” Buck rubbed his filthy hands on his pants and pulled an earthenware jug from the corner. He poured a clear liquid into three tin cups, handing one to each of the others and gulped down his portion, smacking his lips.

      Samuel drank his down, began coughing and doubled over laughing. “Wow,” he whispered.

      Mark Elgerson peered down into the cup and the acrid aroma stung his nose. He knew it was liquor, but wasn’t too comfortable with drinking in the clandestine shack with a man who wouldn’t look him in the eye. He tasted the brew cautiously.

      “Drink that down,” Buck urged. “It works best going down nice and fast.”

      Mark decided he had nothing to lose, took a deep breath and gulped down the moonshine.

      The sensation hit him immediately. Later he’d recall that he felt off balance as they exited the shack and they all sat on stumps a few yards from the building. He struggled to focus on his surroundings. Sam and Buck were laughing quietly, whispering things about fishing and water, but Mark could not make out their conversation. He slipped off the stump and plunked down onto the ground and he could see that the other two were laughing at him hard. He smiled, feeling foolish, but not minding much. He didn’t care for the feeling of disorientation, but the sensation of being untroubled was pleasant. Mark could not recall feeling so relaxed at any time since he left home. He put his forearm against the stump and let the sensation flow over him.

      It was like spinning, feeling light, and he flowed with it until it completely engulfed him. It wasn’t until a few hours later that he had any recollection at all. When Sam kicked him with his heavy boot, Mark struggled to sit upright.

      He realized that he had been sick and his memories were foggy. His head pounded mercilessly and the night was pitch black.

      “Get up, Mark,” Samuel grumbled.

      He groaned and his stomach heaved as he struggled onto the horse.

      “I can’t see a thing,” Sam groaned.

      “This way, I think.” Mark settled into his horse and led the way. They circled in the woods for hours until they finally emerged on the other end of town and then took the back roads until they reached the stables where they could return their horses. When Mark tried to settle up with the stable owner he discovered that he had no money and his gun was gone as well.

      He shook his head in humiliation. He smelled terrible and Sam looked pale and exhausted.

      “One of you boys is going to have to stay here until the other brings the money you owe. You decide which one.” The owner glowered at the boys.

      “I’ll go,” Mark sighed.

      “I don’t expect you boys to be coming in this late every night,” Lillian Griffin coughed towards him as he let himself into the boarding house.

      “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he apologized. “I have to get something from my room, and then we’ll be back shortly.” He swallowed hard, squinting at the woman.

      “I can smell the drink on ya,” the woman snorted.

      Mark nodded in embarrassment and climbed the stairs to his room.

      When the boys had settled up with the stableman and returned to the boarding house, they found the door locked and bolted from inside.

      Too exhausted to confront the house mistress, the both of them tried to get as comfortable as possible in the dirty porch furniture and fell into a deep sleep.