What Once Was Lost (5 page)

“Miss Willems, that boy’s far too old to have you tucking in his shirt and buttoning his britches.”

Not a sound could be heard from the room behind her. Was Tommy sitting on the floor in the dark, waiting for someone to help him? She swallowed. “That may be, but Tommy isn’t like most eleven-year-old boys. He has a handicap. That makes him special.”

“But it doesn’t make him helpless.”

Irritation tightened her chest and sharpened her tongue. “Tommy has been in my care for nearly two years now. After only a few hours with him, you think you know what’s best?”

“I can safely say mollycoddling isn’t best.”

Her jaw dropped. “M-mollycoddling? That’s what you call giving him protection and care?”

“When it cripples him, yes.”

Christina gasped.

“Listen …” He tipped his head, his blond brows pulling inward. “Don’t you think it might embarrass him to have to ask for help with everything? Sure, it makes you feel good to help him, but thanks to you, that boy can’t even walk to the outhouse on his own.”

“Well, of course he can’t! He can’t see where to go!”

“But he can feel. And you said yourself, he can hear. Why not let him use the senses he’s got to guide him?”

Christina shook her head, frustrated. “How on earth is he supposed to
hear
his way to the outhouse?”

Mr. Jonnson chuckled. “Well, his nose works just fine, so …”

Was she really discussing outhouse usage with a man? And a stranger at that! She started to rise, but he reached out a hand to stop her. His palm and the pads of his fingers all wore calluses. For a moment Christina stared at his hand, amazed by what she perceived of Mr. Jonnson based on that wide, rough, work-marked hand.

“Miss Willems?”

She lifted her gaze to his face. Determination squared his jaw, but the flames from the fireplace made his green-blue irises sparkle, softening his appearance. Why hadn’t she noticed before how handsome he was? She gulped.

“I have a business to run here. I can’t spend my day taking Tommy back and forth to the outhouse, buttoning his shirt, or combing his hair. He’ll have to do those things for himself.” He pressed his palms to his thighs and rose to peer down at her. “So if you think that’s too much for the boy, then you might want to hasten finding someplace else for him to go. I won’t baby him.”

An uneasy thought wriggled through Christina’s mind. Was he contrary
enough to manipulate her? Perhaps he was being rough on Tommy so she would take him with her now. The idea rankled. “Mr. Jonnson—”

At that moment hinges squeaked, and shuffling steps sounded behind her. Christina turned in her seat and spotted Tommy inching toward the sofa, hands outstretched, chin bobbing in his awkward way of gaining a sense of placement. His shirt was buttoned unevenly, and one side of his collar was under his ear at an odd angle. He’d managed to jam the tails of his shirt into his pants, but wads of fabric clumped in front. His boot strings resembled snarls of yarn left over from a kitten’s wild play. Oh, such a sight! She jumped up and met him halfway across the floor, determined to put everything to rights.

Tommy clutched at her. The first smile she’d ever seen from him lit his thin face. “I did it, Miss Willems. Do you see? I did it.”

Christina blinked twice, amazed by the pride in the boy’s voice. “Y-yes. I … I see.”

A low-throated chuckle sounded from the other side of the room. Christina turned slowly and fixed her gaze on Mr. Jonnson. He stood, feet spread wide, arms folded over his chest, and a grin that communicated
I told you so
twitching at his cheeks. Heat flooded her face. She whirled back to Tommy.

“You did very well, Tommy.” She spoke briskly, trembling with embarrassment. “And since you’re all … all dressed,”—another rumble of amusement reached her ears and propelled her toward the door—“I should return to town.” She scurried to her waiting wagon before Levi Jonnson had another chance to laugh at her.

Chapter 5

Levi crossed the floor and fastened the door latch. Miss Willems had skedaddled in such a hurry she’d left the door yawning wide open behind her. Not too kind of her, allowing in the cold February air. But he supposed he wouldn’t hold it against her. Laughter threatened. She didn’t seem to like being proved wrong. But he’d sure done it. Or, maybe more accurately, Tommy had.

He turned and spotted the boy, rooted in place right where Miss Willems had left him. “Are you going to stand there all day?”

Tommy’s chin jerked, his head shifting to locate Levi. “N-no, sir.”

Levi rubbed his finger under his nose. The kid had dressed himself, but his stuttered speech and the way his fingers fidgeted against his pant legs screamed uncertainty. Without warning, an image from two decades ago paraded to the forefront of Levi’s mind—his father slumped in a chair, his blank stare boring a hole in the wall while Ma combed his lank strands of gray hair into place. Levi gave himself a shake, sending the memory into hiding again.

He crossed the wood-planked floor, retrieving his comb from the shaving table as he went, grabbed Tommy by the wrist, and pressed the comb into his palm. “Here. Use it. You’ve got a rooster tail tall enough to brush the rafters.”

Tommy jolted, but then a wobbly grin broke across his face. “You made a joke, Mr. Jonnson.”

Had he? Levi drew back, his pulse tripping into double beats. When was the last time he’d drawn on humor? Not since—

Tommy raised the comb and made an awkward sweep from his forehead to the base of his skull. Levi watched, battling the urge to guide the boy’s hand. But he knew all too well how treating someone like an invalid made him an invalid. He aimed his feet for the back door.

“When you’re done there, just drop the comb on the table. I’m going to rig up a rope from the door to the outhouse so you can find your way without my help. A boy who can dress himself and comb his own hair can take himself to the outhouse.” Levi grabbed his coat from the hook beside the door and headed outside.

Christina brought the horses to a stop at the livery stable and handed the poor farm’s wagon and team over to the livery owner with a polite thank-you. Icy wind turned the powdery snow into writhing snakes that danced across the boardwalk beneath her feet. Gusts tore strands of hair from the heavy twist on the back of her head and tossed them across her face as she made her way to the boardinghouse. She hugged herself as a shiver shook her frame, but not even the chilly blasts could erase the flush from her face.

Oh, how foolish—and even worse, how fastidious—she’d felt, standing before Tommy with Levi Jonnson’s low-pitched laughter rumbling in her ears. Hadn’t the man seen the ill-tucked shirt and mismatched buttons? If Tommy were to appear in town dressed in such a manner, he’d become a laughingstock. Yet somehow the man had made her feel as though she were in the wrong for wanting to help the boy!

She entered the boardinghouse through the kitchen door. “Only payin’ guests use the front entrance,” Mrs. Beasley had snapped when she and Cora had arrived early this morning. Christina looked around the room, seeking either Cora or their benefactor, but the room was empty except for a patchwork cat snoozing on the rag rug in front of the stove. Christina creaked open the door to the little room she and Cora had been instructed to share. Cora lay crosswise on the bed, a faded quilt wrapped around her body, sleeping soundly. Holding her breath, Christina backed out and closed the door with a muffled
click
.

Tiredness assailed her as she sank into a painted bentwood chair and rested her elbows on the worn surface of the kitchen worktable. She wished she could
stretch out and take a nap. But she had too much to do. Although each of her charges was sheltered for the moment, she needed to arrange for permanent placement as quickly as possible. First thing that morning she’d sent a telegram to the mission board, informing them of the calamity, but she should pen a long letter detailing the fire’s damage and making a formal request for the funds to rebuild.

The cat mewed and crept from its dozing spot, stretching each orange, white, and black splotched leg as it came. With a lithe leap, it claimed her lap and curled into a ball. Although Christina needed to locate pen and paper, she took a moment to run her fingers through the cat’s soft nape. A rumbling purr rose from the contented feline, and Christina relaxed against the back of the chair, some of the morning’s tension draining away.

“Feels good, doesn’t it, kitty?” she crooned in a singsong whisper. “You enjoy me petting you, and I enjoy it, too. I always feel better when I’m ministering to someone else, even if the someone else is a cat.” A bemused laugh left her lips, but as quickly as it rose, it faded. Mr. Jonnson’s comment concerning Tommy,
“Sure, it makes you feel good to help him,”
played through her mind, stinging her with its conjecture that she only reached out to Tommy to please herself.

Heavy footsteps sounded in the hallway. The cat dove off Christina’s lap, snagging her skirt with its back claws. The animal claimed a hiding spot beneath the stove, and Christina jumped up as Mrs. Beasley stormed into the kitchen.

“ ’Bout time you was back.” The boardinghouse owner plunked her thick hands on her hips and glowered at Christina.

“Yes, I realize I was gone a bit longer than I’d anticipated, but—”

“Don’t wanna hear no excuses.” The woman’s brows formed a stern V. “That lazy friend o’ yours put herself to bed right after you left an’ ain’t done a lick o’ work all afternoon. She gonna be takin’ an hourlong nap every day?”

Christina stifled a sigh and prayed for patience. Her father had always proclaimed a soft answer turned away wrath, but he might not have been so
quick to quote the proverb if he’d been forced to deal with Mrs. Beasley. “Cora is far from lazy, ma’am. We had a trying night, and—”

Mrs. Beasley waved her hand, shooing away Christina’s words. “Gonna be suppertime in less’n two hours, an’ I promised the boarders chicken an’ dumplings. So you’d best get to wringing a chicken’s neck.”

A sick feeling overcame Christina. She’d never killed a chicken. Before Father died, he’d handled such unpalatable tasks, and afterward Wes had done any needed butchering. “Oh, Mrs. Beasley, I—”

A loud snort left the woman’s lips. “Don’t tell me you’re squeamish.” She made it sound akin to being a bank robber.

“Well, I—”

“I’ll do it.” Cora entered the kitchen. Her eyes appeared bloodshot and her dirt-brown hair stood out in disarray, but she held her shoulders square. She snagged an apron from a hook on the wall and turned a resentful look on Mrs. Beasley. “I reckon I’m not too lazy to kill a dumb cluck.”

Mrs. Beasley’s gaze narrowed. “An eavesdropper, are you?”

“I don’t consider it eavesdroppin’ when you’re overhearing things about your own self.”

The older woman pointed a finger at Cora’s face and opened her mouth as if preparing to unleash a torrent of words, but Christina stepped forward. “If we’re to have chicken and dumplings ready by the supper hour, we’d better get to work. Cora, head out to the chicken coop and … do what you must.” She watched Cora scurry out the back door, then she moved to the stove and began ladling water from the reservoir into a pot. They’d need to scald the chicken before it could be plucked, and time was of the essence. “Mrs. Beasley, will buttered carrots be an acceptable accompaniment to chicken and dumplings?”

Mrs. Beasley’s thick brows crunched together. “You makin’ fun o’ me?”

Christina blinked in surprise. “Fun?”

She folded her arms over her chest. “The way you talk. ‘Acceptable accompaniment.’ You tryin’ to make me look foolish?”

“Of course not, ma’am!” Christina’s parents had valued education, and her
mother—raised and educated in the East—had tutored Christina. After Mama died, Papa sent Christina to the same boarding school Mama had attended, and she’d remained there for four years, developing the skills she needed to teach any children who resided at the poor farm. Her cultured speech made her feel close to her well-bred mother. She gulped and said, “I apologize if I’ve offended you.”

Mrs. Beasley sniffed twice, her chin high. “Buttered carrots’ll be fine. An’ bake up a gingerbread cake for dessert. Recipe’s in my little box on the shelf.” Nose in the air and skirts swishing, she stomped out of the kitchen. The moment she disappeared around the corner, the cat came out of hiding and preened against Christina’s leg. She scooped up the animal and gave it a nuzzle.

“I’m glad you’re more agreeable than your owner,” she whispered into the pointed black ear. After giving the cat a quick squeeze, she put it down and stoked the stove with an armload of wood to hasten heating the pot of water. Not until steam rose and little bubbles burbled along the pot’s edges did the back door open and Cora step through with a red-speckled hen dangling from her hand.

Christina stared at the limp bird, her stomach churning, then raised a sympathetic glance to Cora. “Oh, you did it.”

“I did it.” Her white face bore mute testimony to her displeasure in the task. She plopped the dead chicken on the table, then shuddered. “Probably wouldn’t have had the courage if she”—a belligerent toss of her head toward the doorway indicated Mrs. Beasley—“hadn’t got my dander up, callin’ me lazy.” Then her expression softened. “Thanks for defendin’ me, Miss Willems. I promise I won’t be sleepin’ any more afternoons away like I did today.”