Past Forward Volume 1 (44 page)

Willow rode home in a daze. While the fields
and trees whizzed past, her mind was occupied trying to digest all
that she had experienced and learned. Though she had planned to
read her book on personal finance, she found herself lost in the
events of the day. At Boho Chic, she’d enjoyed a tour of their
workroom and the new fabrics coming for the upcoming season. The
temptation to purchase another new skirt had amused the women in
the workroom—or rather, her refusal to give into it.

“Just go for it.”

“But I already have more than I need.
It’s silly,”
she’d argued. Of course, now she found herself
tempted to wear another of her older skirts to practice riding her
bike again. If she tore it…
That’s ridiculous, Willow Anne
Finley. Mother would be ashamed of you!

For what must have been the tenth time that
day, she peeked into her wallet to be sure the ID card was still in
its proper place. Two other new pieces of plastic flashed at her as
she closed it. Those cards seemed as good as cash—better if Bill
was right about the “cash rewards.” She knew he must be, but the
idea seemed absurd. Who would pay other people to spend their
money? Mother had explained how credit worked. It was a simple,
logical concept. Borrow a hundred dollars and pay the lender for
the use of the money. That idea she understood. Paying people to
borrow from you—ridiculous.

The bus pulled into the parking lot behind
The Fox and Willow climbed down. Her bicycle leaned against the
back wall of the theater behind the covered bench provided for bus
passengers. Glad to be back in Fairbury, she pushed the bicycle
through town and to the convenience store. The basket in front held
a change of clothes and her tennis shoes. She stepped into the
restroom dressed for town and emerged in old, faded jeans and a top
that she now realized no other woman in Fairbury would ever wear.
She frowned at her appearance in the mirror as she braided her hair
for the ride home. “I don’t care. I like it even if no one else
does,” she muttered as she gathered her things.

Officer Freidan drove past as she climbed on
her bike, and Willow waved. Within minutes, she had turned onto the
highway, pedaling hard and enjoying the feeling of the wind on her
face. She hadn’t made it a mile when Chad pulled ahead of her and
stopped. He climbed from the cab of his truck and waved as she
slowed to greet him.

“Get in. I’ll take you home.”

“But I’ve got my bicycle.”

“And no helmet,” Chad countered. “Get
in.”

“You’re awfully bossy today.”

“You’re awfully foolish. I told you it
wasn’t safe to ride on this road without a helmet.” He glared at
her. “Now get in!”

Willow almost refused. Her hands gripped the
handlebars tighter and one foot rose as though to push down on the
pedal once more. However, Chad pulled the sunglasses from his eyes
as he moved to help lift the bicycle, and she saw the genuine
concern there. It wasn’t the right time to assert her independence.
She’d learned that lesson from Mother. Fear made people act in
obnoxious ways.

Instead, she climbed into the truck and
waited for him to take off before she said, “I got my I.D. I have
bank accounts and credit cards and everything.”

“Well, you had those things before, didn’t
you? You just couldn’t access them, right?”

“I suppose. Oh, and I also got a book on
finances. By the time I’m done, maybe I won’t need Bill anymore,”
she joked.

Chad turned into her driveway, speeding
around the curve as if it was paved. As he parked, he said, “I
don’t think he’d appreciate that.”

Willow glanced at him. “What do you mean?”
Before he could answer, she opened the door and jumped to the
ground.

Chad swung the bicycle over the truck bed
and pushed it alongside her and into the barn. “I mean that Bill
likes having an excuse to see you. Without that, he might have to
make his interest a bit more overt.”

The puppy interrupted them, jumping on
Willow’s legs and yapping. “Hey girl!”

“What did you end up naming her anyway?”

“Nothing. I can’t name an animal. I never
could. Mother would take a dog or goat or even the barn cats, look
in their eyes, and just know. I never can. I try out a hundred
names and nothing fits. Mother tossed one name into the ring and it
was perfect.”

Chad rubbed the puppy’s belly laughing at
the scratching reflex. “Call her Saige. With an I. She looks like a
Saige.”

Willow scratched behind the puppy’s ears.
“Saige. I like it. It’s perfect. Why didn’t you name her
sooner?”

“It never occurred to me.”

“Care to name the sheep too?”

Chad leaned against the barn door, his arms
crossed across his chest and one foot propped up against it behind
him. “Purl for sure. Like knit and purl not like the jewel. Purl
and Nellie.”

“Why Nellie?”

“Well, I was thinking of needles and then
somehow that made me think of how Nellie Oleson always needled
Laura so I thought, ‘Nellie.’“

Something about Chad’s expression made her
doubt the veracity of his story. “Did you really just make that
up?”

“How’d you know?”

“You look like Mother did when she didn’t
have an answer but thought I needed one.”

Chad kicked a rock across the yard, laughing
as the pup chased it but refused to carry it back. “Honestly, I
have no idea why. It just came to me and you’re right. I thought
you would insist on an answer.”

Satisfied, Willow gazed at the lambs for
another minute before she nodded. “Purl and Nellie it is. Perfect.
Now I need to order my spinning wheel.” She paused, remembering.
“What was that you were saying about Bill?”

Thursday morning, once the routine outdoor
chores were out of the way and breakfast eaten, Willow stared at
the journal before her, frustrated. “Oh Mother, why didn’t you make
me learn how to use that thing more effectively. I’ll be cutting
hay all weekend.”

Dressed in milky white jeans streaked with a
few grease stains that no amount of washing had removed, a white
t-shirt several sizes too small, and a blousy white over-shirt, she
braided her hair into a tight French braid and donned her
wide-brimmed sisal hat. Thick heavy leather gloves and hard-toed
boots completed her somewhat unusual ensemble. Willow stared at her
reflection in the mirror for a moment and then jogged down the
stairs ready to work.

In the barn, she flung open the back doors
and wheeled out the garden cart. She raked the remaining alfalfa
into a large crate and climbed up to the loft. From there, she
pulled ropes through pulleys until the crate rose high enough to
reach it. With the rope anchored to the wall, she pushed the crate
onto the loft and scrambled back down the ladder.

Dust filled the air as she swept every inch
of the concrete floor. She sneezed, and as if trying to imitate
her, Saige sneezed as well. Careful not to miss anything, she hosed
down the north corner of the barn swept the water from the area,
and turned a large fan on in order to dry it quickly.

The tool wall loomed as she neared. The
scythe hung where it always had but looked twice as large as she
remembered it. Willow hated hay cutting. Mother had been the master
mower—she was the transport. They were a well-oiled machine that
was now missing a part. A huge part. The engine was gone.

Stuffing down a deep sigh, she loaded the
scythe onto the cart and wheeled it to the alfalfa field. It was
small by most standards but large enough to feed the goat, which
was all they had needed. She picked up the scythe, testing its
weight when she remembered the phone still sitting on the charging
dock in the summer kitchen.

“Dratted man. I don’t have time to be
running back and forth for things like phones and such,” she
muttered to the pup dancing around her feet.

She paused mid-stride and thought. Did she
want to go back? The chances of anyone calling were slim. The phone
rarely rang, why get it? Irritation settled over her at the mental
picture of Chad’s cruiser barreling down her driveway because he
couldn’t reach her. Before that phone, she’d been her own person.
She went where she wanted to go, did what she wanted or needed to
do, and answered to no one but her mother. Now a handful of plastic
tried to be her master.

Grabbing the handles to the garden cart,
Willow wheeled it into the middle of the first third of the field.
Chad’s face filled her mind once more. She saw the anger,
frustration, and concern in his face when he found her shooting
that first Thursday after her trip to the mortuary. She remembered
rides home, help carrying heavy rugs, and the nights he’d done her
evening chores so she could be somewhere else. A sigh escaped
before she could stop it. The sight of the scythe cinched it. He
would let her have it if he saw her awkward movements. Willow
didn’t want another disagreement.

Saige jumped against her legs, sealing the
decision. She’d cut the poor animal’s head off if she wasn’t
careful. The phone won—thanks to an exuberant puppy and her poor
mowing skills.

Once she tied up Saige, Willow strode into
the summer kitchen and pocketed the phone. It didn’t take but five
minutes to make the round-trip back to the field.
How silly to
get so worked up about a few hundred yards of walking. It’ll ease a
friend’s mind. You’re selfish, Willow Finley.

The sun beat down on her as she worked.
Perspiration streaked down her temples, down her back, and soaked
her t-shirt. Occasional ripples of a breeze teased her over-shirt,
billowing it out just enough to cool her. She cut, raked, spread,
and finally layered a bit in the cart, taking it to the empty
corner of the barn. Wouldn’t Willie love fresh alfalfa for
dinner?

The fan tempted her. She adjusted it away
from the hay and turned the knob to full blast. Her eyes closed and
she held out her arms away from her body, reveling in the cool air.
“Oh Saige, that feels good.”

She carried her sandwich from the fridge to
the back porch steps and fed bites to Saige as she ate. “It’s a
good name for you, girl. I like it. Maybe I should get you a
friend.”

Sweat poured down her back soaking both
shirts. The field wasn’t even a quarter finished. The unwieldy
scythe cut awkwardly through the alfalfa as though duller than a
butter knife. Willow remembered her mother’s graceful rhythmic
movements and paused. Unable to control the weight of the scythe in
full motion it ripped through her pants and cut deeply into her
leg.

A wave of nausea washed over her as she saw
the blood flow from the wound. Dizziness followed before a vague
sense of falling wafted through her consciousness. She stared at
the wound. Even through the pants, she could see it was deep. What
to do? She knew that she knew what to do. It was there. Somewhere
in the outer fringes of her consciousness, she saw it.

Her shirt. She must take off her shirt and
press it to the wound. Seconds passed and the shirt soaked through.
Now what? Something else—there was something else. Her head felt
woozy as she struggled to remember what could help her. The phone!
Her eyes grew wide as she punched Chad’s number and realized that
she’d almost left it behind in anger.

His name popped up on the screen the moment
she opened it. Last call dialed. It instantly became her favorite
feature. “Chad. I’m hurt. Please come. I need a doctor.”

“What happened—” Even as he spoke, he
realized she’d disconnected. No wait, she hadn’t. “Willow?
Willow!”

No response. He stood between his truck and
the cruiser he’d just turned in and wavered. With a siren— Chad
raced into the police station and grabbed the key back from the
rack. “Call the clinic and tell them there’s an emergency coming
in. Willow’s hurt.”

In minutes, with siren blaring and lights
flashing in the driveway, Chad raced into Willow’s house calling
her name. He clattered down the cellar steps, and up to the attic.
He burst through the back door and into the yard frantically
calling but hearing nothing. The chicken yard was empty of all but
chickens. The sheep and cow’s fields showed nothing but the animals
who lived there. The barn held a yapping Saige, but a fan, fresh
alfalfa in the corner, and a trail of broken hay led from the
backside of the barn toward the tree break.

His heart plummeted into his stomach at the
sight of Willow lying on the ground next to her scythe. Her pallor
told him she’d lost a considerable amount of blood; the garish red
of her pants confirmed it. Pocketing her phone and thanking the
Lord for the prompting to buy it, Chad gingerly lifted Willow onto
the garden cart. The blood dripped with every step. He grabbed the
balled up and soaked shirt from the ground and twisted it into a
strip. As he worked to tourniquet the wound, he reassured her,
“I’ve got you. We’ll get you help just hang on.”