Where Wildflowers Bloom: A Novel (2 page)

F
aith stared at her grandfather, fear prickling through her. They’d had a long discussion the previous evening about her need to learn the business. She put her hand on his arm, his flannel shirt soft under her fingers. “You wanted to show me the ledgers, who should get credit and who had to pay up front. That kind of thing.”

“Why would I want you to operate the store?”

She felt like she’d been punched in the stomach. “Papa and Maxwell were killed two years ago at Westport.” She spoke in a gentle voice, as though she were breaking the news to him for the first time. “You thought I could manage the mercantile for you now that I’ve turned twenty.”

He placed a hand over hers. Comprehension flooded his face. “You’re right. You should take over. I’ve decided to write my memoirs.” Grandpa gestured at the papers. “I’ve seen a great deal in my seventy years. When you get married, your children can read them.”

If
she ever got married. There was only one man she wanted, and like so many, he hadn’t yet returned from the war.

Grandpa blew out the lamp, jingling a ring of keys in his right hand. “Come with me. I’ll show you what to do.”

Her mind reeling at the swift changes in his behavior, she trailed him to the door of the mercantile and watched while he selected the correct key and clicked the padlock open. They’d no more than stepped over the threshold when a woman wearing a fashionably gathered dress pushed into the store.

“Your sign says you open at nine every morning but Sunday.” She made a show of lifting the watch she wore on a chain around her neck and pointing at the dial. “It’s nearly half past and your shades are still drawn.”

Grandpa patted Faith on the shoulder. “Please uncover the windows while I assist this lady.” Leaning close to her ear, he whispered, “She needs to pay up front. No credit.” With a bland smile, he turned back to their customer. “What can I show you this morning, Mrs. Wylie?”

Her skirt swished as she walked to a shelf displaying samples of china. “Mr. Wylie said we should have better dishes now that he’s opened the wagon factory. We will have to entertain buyers, you know.”

Faith half-listened to their conversation while she rolled up the shades between the window displays and the interior of the store. Mrs. Wylie seemed interested in the newest tableware that had arrived from back east. Thankful that Grandpa had recovered his wits and could help the woman, Faith located a feather duster in the back room and proceeded to flick dust from the new cookstoves on display. From there she moved to the hoes, rakes, and shovels, straightening handles in the racks.

Studying the merchandise, she decided that the first thing she’d do would be to enlarge the dry goods area by transferring the farm implements to a far corner. The farmers knew what they wanted, but ladies liked to browse. Even though they’d be selling the business as soon as Grandpa agreed, it wouldn’t hurt to make the store more inviting in the meantime.

Her mind spinning with ideas, she continued her circuit of the room until she reached the placard Grandpa had allowed her to mount on the wall behind the case holding oil lamps.

She’d copied a list from
The Prairie Traveler
, titling it “Necessities for the Overland Trip to Oregon.” The catalog of supplies represented the first step. Now she waited for an opportune moment to broach the subject of leaving Missouri to journey west. Both she and Grandpa would be happier away from reminders of the war and the losses it represented.

The voices in the background faded while she read through the items they’d need. Wrought iron kettle, coffeepot and heavy tin cups, iron frying pans, tin buckets . . .

“Faith, would you come over here, please?” Grandpa gestured from a counter across the room. Plates, bowls, and a cream-and-sugar set were arranged next to a ledger. “Here is the price for each piece. Tally the numbers and write the amount at the bottom. Mrs. Wylie will pay you while I pack her china for delivery.” He took a small silver key from the ring. “This’ll open the cash drawer.” While she unlocked the drawer, he tucked gold-rimmed plates into a barrel filled with wood shavings.

Mrs. Wylie leaned toward Faith and spoke in a confidential whisper. “Truthfully, my dear, I’ll have to wait to settle with you until Mr. Wylie obtains a few more orders for wagons. Could you see your way clear to put my purchase on your books for a month or two?”

Faith’s heartbeat increased. How was she supposed to refuse without offending their customer? She looked toward her grandfather for help, but he continued stacking china in the barrel, paying no attention to their conversation.

Harold Grisbee and Jesse Slocum, two of her grandfather’s cronies, entered the store and sought chairs next to the cold stove. Instead of talking to one another, they focused their attention on Faith and Mrs. Wylie. Faith tried to remember her grandfather’s dealings with customers on the Saturday mornings she’d helped by dusting shelves and sweeping the floors with oiled sawdust.

Mrs. Wylie drummed her fingers on the countertop. “Just give me a statement of what we owe you so I can be on my way.”

Faith met the woman’s impatient glare with a steady gaze. “I’m sorry. We require cash. If you can’t pay today, we’ll be glad to put the dishes aside until you have the funds.” Her heart boomed in her chest.

Mrs. Wylie’s face turned a mottled red. “Well! I’ve never been so insulted.” She dug in her reticule and dropped a gold piece on the counter. “Make sure you give me the correct change, young woman.” She swung around to face Grandpa, who watched with a grin lifting one corner of his moustache. “I’ll expect these to be delivered right away. And don’t hold your breath waiting for me to trade here again.” She swept from the store, banging the door closed.

Over the chuckles of the men next to the stove, Faith turned to her grandfather. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know what else to say. You told me not to give her credit.”

Grandpa threw his head back and guffawed. “She’ll be back before the week is out. You watch and see. She knows better than to ask me to carry her on the books, but she thought she could put one over on you.”

Faith slumped against the counter. “Do you deal with customers like her every day? I wanted to tell her to go home—without her dishes.”

“You’ll find most of the folks who shop here to be agreeable. Not too many bad apples in Noble Springs.”

The entertainment over, the men near the stove busied themselves placing red and black pieces on a checkerboard and debating whose turn it was to begin. She stopped Grandpa on his way to settle the dispute. “Before any more customers come in, please show me where to find the list of people who shouldn’t receive credit.”

He scratched the top of his nearly bald head. “Now where’d it go?”

While Faith watched, he riffled through the pages of the ledger, then bent over and brought a group of similar volumes from the shelf below the cash drawer. A musty smell rose from the pages of the dustiest books as he searched. “Put it somewhere safe, I reckon.” He chuckled. “It must be safe if I can’t find it.”

Grandpa lifted an invoice that had fallen from one of the ledgers and turned it over. “I’ll make you a new list. Keep it in the cash drawer.” He licked the tip of a pencil and scribbled a half-dozen names.

She peeked over his shoulder. “That’s all? I can remember that many easily.”

“There’s more, but right now I can’t call the names to mind. They’ll come to me.” Frustration shadowed his words.

Faith frowned. The man who could recite most of Longfellow’s poems, including the newest ones, couldn’t remember names of people he saw almost every day. She brushed her lips across his smooth-shaven cheek. “You’re tired. I heard you up pacing last night. Why don’t you see who’s winning the checker game? I’ll put these books away.”

“You sound like a mother hen. I’ve got a barrel of chinaware to deliver, remember?”

“Wait until this afternoon. The druggist’s boy can help you when school’s out.”

“I’m perfectly capable. I’ll go borrow Simpkins’s horse and hitch the wagon.”

The stubborn set of his mouth told her that argument would be useless. The thump of his cane against the floor punctuated his departure.

“Never been a woman could tell Nate Lindberg what to do, Miss Faith. Not Miz Clara, rest her soul, and not your mama, neither. Might as well get used to it,” one of the checker players said.

She nodded, ready to reply, when the bell over the door tinkled and a young woman she didn’t recognize entered. Dressed in dove-gray watered silk with a high white collar and matching silk bonnet, she formed a picture of modesty. Her eyes didn’t meet Faith’s as she walked to the fabric display at the rear of the room. Faith glanced at the list of names and hoped she wouldn’t have to handle another request for credit.

The bell tinkled again and soon several customers demanded her attention. One by one, she helped them with their purchases, always keeping an eye on the woman in gray.

During the flurry of activity, Grandpa returned. Tipping the barrel of china at an angle, he rolled it toward the door. Faith shot a glance at him and waved over the head of her current customer toward the checker players. When they looked in her direction, she pointed at Grandpa’s back and mouthed, “Help him.”

Chairs scraped. The men stepped to either side of the barrel.

“You’re in my way,” Grandpa said, his voice gruff, but he allowed them to support the weight while he hefted the delivery into the wagon.

“It’s hard for some people to acknowledge their age,” a sympathetic voice said.

Faith started. She’d been so focused on Grandpa she hadn’t noticed that the woman had returned from the rear of the room, carrying a bolt of moss green fabric in a paisley print. Her hazel eyes were filled with compassion.

Drawn to the caring in the depths of those eyes, Faith blurted. “He’s my grandfather—all the family I have left. I worry about him.”

“Many of us have little family left these days. I believe the Lord put us here to comfort each other. To be sisters and brothers to those who have none.” She spoke as one stating a fact, not an opinion.

“I . . . I never thought of things that way.”

“ ‘Woe to him that is alone when he falleth; for he hath not another to help him up.’ That’s from the Bible.”

Faith’s heart warmed toward this woman with the kindly eyes and soft voice. “Are you new to Noble Springs? I don’t recall seeing you before.”

“Fairly new. My job ended, so I came to stay with my brother.” An impish smile lit her face. “He was alone.” She removed her glove and extended her hand. “My name’s Rosemary.”

“I’m Faith.” The woman’s palms were callused. Whatever job she’d had, she’d been doing manual work.

After she completed her purchase, Faith watched her leave. When Rosemary opened the door, she whistled two soft notes. A sable and white collie appeared from under the steps and trotted along the boardwalk at her side.

Faith sighed and turned away. How nice it would be to have a friend like Rosemary.

Two of Faith’s former classmates, Marguerite Holland and Nelda Raines, breezed through the open door in a cloud of flower-scented cologne. “Did you see her? Bold as brass. Like she’s as good as the rest of us.”

Curiosity piqued, Faith asked, “Who are you talking about?”

“Why, that vulgar girl who just left.” Nelda lowered her voice. “She was a
nurse
during the war. Can you imagine? Touching men’s bodies, and having the gall to walk around like she had nothing to be ashamed of.”

F
aith bristled at the two women. “I hope someone with her compassion was with my father and brother when they died. I think caring for wounded soldiers was a courageous thing to do. Godly, you might say.”

“Well, you might say that. I certainly wouldn’t.” Nelda glanced around the store. “Where’s Judge Lindberg? I need to talk to him about my mother’s account.”

Sensing another unpleasant encounter, Faith’s stomach muscles tightened. “You can talk to me. My grandfather left me in charge.”

“No, thank you. I’ll come back another time.”

“That would be splendid.” She decided not to mention that she’d be in charge the next time they returned as well.

When they left, she closed the door, then dropped into one of the chairs next to the stove. She felt like she’d been thrown into Pioneer Lake and expected to swim.

Faith tapped a finger on the wooden arm of the chair. A glance at the clock told her the newspaper editor should be in his office at the
Noble Springs Observer
, although one never knew with Aaron Simpkins. He loved to act like a big city reporter. He could be off chasing rumors of bank robberies or someone’s barn going up in flames. Noble Springs hadn’t escaped the unrest that seethed through the Ozarks in the wake of Lee’s surrender.

Faith popped out onto the covered boardwalk and hurried next door, fingers crossed that Grandpa wouldn’t return in her absence and find the mercantile unattended. When she entered the office, her nose prickled at the smell of ink and hot lead.

Mr. Simpkins smiled at her from his desk, his gold-rimmed spectacles glinting in the light. “No new reports. The telegraph’s been silent this morning.” His smile faded to a look of sympathy. “Miss Faith, it’s been a year. I hate to say it, but you need to accept that Royal Baxter is dead, even if we don’t have confirmation. I’m told some men were so—” He cleared his throat. “What I mean is, we may never know all the names.”

She pressed her lips together. She’d accept no such thing. “Thank you, Mr. Simpkins. I’ll stop by again.”

He shook his head. “Feel free to drop in any time. But the answer will be the same.”

“I hope so. If he’s not on a casualty list, then he’s alive. Somewhere. Good day.”

She trotted toward the mercantile only to stop abruptly at the sight of the delivery wagon tied out front. Grandpa opened the door, his brown eyes snapping with anger. “You went off and left the cash drawer unlocked. Anyone could have walked in and robbed us blind.”

Her breath caught. Although managing the store would be temporary, she intended to do her best. Faith stared at the toes of her boots through tear-blurred eyes. “I’m so sorry. I just forgot.” She felt his thumb lift her chin so she could look into his face.

Grandpa patted her shoulder. “We all make mistakes.” He handed her the small silver key, then stepped inside and propped the “Closed for dinner” sign in the window. “It’s nearly noon. Let’s go home.”

Curt Saxon leaned against the doorway of the livery stable and watched while a yellow wagon rolled by. He didn’t need to read the black letters spelling “Lindberg’s Mercantile” on the side to recognize the girl on the seat next to her grandfather. The owner of the livery had told Curt her name when he asked soon after hiring on as stableman. But until today she hadn’t noticed him.

He traced his index finger along the scar on his neck. Did he look that frightening? Miss Faith’s expression when he’d asked her to follow him said he did. He’d have to change that impression.

The wagon stopped in front of a two-story brick home farther down the street. Once the judge and his granddaughter entered, Curt stepped into the dim interior of the stable.

“Mr. Ripley. With your permission, I’ll take dinner break now.”

“Told you, call me Rip.” The owner of the livery stepped from the tack room. A gnome-like man with a curly black beard, he clutched a half-eaten sandwich in one hand. “You don’t need my permission. We got no one wanting a horse now anyway. Go on with you.”

Curt thanked him and left the stable. Instead of turning toward West & Riley’s, the restaurant across town, he walked toward Judge Lindberg’s house. He’d find something to eat later.

When he reached the front door, he grabbed the knocker and rapped before he lost his courage. The door opened almost immediately.

The judge peered out, frowning. “Yes?”

Sunlight poured onto the polished entry hall floor, washing up against the hem of Faith’s blue dress. Her arms were folded across her trim waistline. She appeared as irritated as the old man sounded. From the looks of things, he’d interrupted a family dispute.

He removed his hat, mentally berating himself for his poor timing. “Wondered if you’d met up with your grandfather.” Curt directed his comment at Faith. “I see you have.” He turned to Judge Lindberg. “Miss Faith was worried when she couldn’t find you this morning.”

“Not really worried,” she said.

“I wasn’t lost,” the judge added.

Feeling foolish, Curt took a step backward and replaced his hat. His impulses seldom went as hoped, and today was no exception. “I’ve come at a bad moment. Please excuse me.”

“Now, now. Come on in, young man. We were going to take dinner. You’re welcome to join us.”

Faith’s eyes widened. “About those dishes for Mrs. Wylie . . .” She nudged her grandfather. “We need to deliver them first.”

He moved away from her, his expression obstinate. “Not necessarily.”

Curt remained on the stoop. The rich fragrance of baked ham swirled toward him from the entry hall, urging him to accept the invitation. On the other hand, Faith still wore her bonnet and an inhospitable expression.

She turned toward him. “I apologize. I just learned of a late delivery to a customer, and we really must attend to it first.”

“It’s a barrel full of china,” the judge said, his tone cross. “There’s no ‘we’ to it. You can’t wrestle anything that heavy from the wagon.”

“The two of us could do it, sir,” Curt heard himself say.

Faith gave him the same look he’d seen when he asked her to follow him that morning.

He tugged at the neck of his shirt, trying to cover the angry slash. No doubt there were scars in the Lindbergs’ lives, as well. Some showed, some were hidden. Everyone had them these days.

Before Curt could form words to reassure her, the judge spoke. “You know where Cletus Wylie lives?”

“The wagon maker? Yes.”

“Good, because I can’t remember.”

Faith stood at the open door until the wagon traveled out of sight. She prayed Grandpa would be safe. The stableman seemed trustworthy. But with all of the men displaced by war, it was hard to know who was honest and who was out for what he could steal.

Her gaze wandered to the maple tree bristling with red flowers next to the boardwalk, then to the weeds coming up in their muddy yard. Her thoughts went to the delayed delivery for Mrs. Wylie. Grandpa said he’d searched for the woman’s house for over an hour this morning. A customer he’d delivered to many times in the past, and today he couldn’t find his way. The sooner she could convince him to leave for the west, the better.

Back inside, she removed the ham from the warming oven and cut several thin pieces, then split leftover breakfast biscuits and placed a slice between each one. She dropped chunks of pickled watermelon rind on the meat before covering the filling with a biscuit top. By the time Grandpa returned it would be too late to sit down for dinner, so she wrapped their food in linen napkins. They could eat at the store after reopening for the afternoon.

After a moment’s thought, she prepared two biscuits for the stableman, bundling them in a clean towel. The least she could do was feed him after he helped with the delivery.

Minutes ticked on, and the two men didn’t return. Faith busied herself tidying the kitchen. Every few minutes she checked the case clock. If they didn’t hurry, they’d be late opening the mercantile for the second time in one day. With ten minutes to spare, she wrote a note telling Grandpa she had gone to the store, dropped their food into a basket, and left the house.

Her worries about the stableman mounted with each step through the warm afternoon. Buggies and riders on horseback passed by, but no yellow wagon. At around a thousand souls, Noble Springs wasn’t so big that they couldn’t have gone to the Wylie’s house and returned before now.

Trusting the stableman with her grandfather had been a mistake. She’d stop on her way past the courthouse and report him to the sheriff.

What was his name again? Curt Saxon. Scar on neck. He ought to be easy to spot. As she turned south on Court Street, Faith heard wagon wheels squawk behind her. A horse blew and rattled its harness.

“Miss Faith!”

She swung around.

The stableman stood in the wagon, reins taut in one hand. “Your grandfather’s hurt. I’m bringing him home.” He held out his hand. “I need your help.”

Faith fought a grip of nausea. Her grandpa was the only part of her life that had survived the war. She ran to the wagon and allowed herself to be hoisted up.

“Where is he?”

“In back.”

She pushed the curtain aside. Grandpa lay pale and silent on a wide plank turned lengthwise on the wagon bed. Faith hiked her skirt, scrambled over the seat, and knelt beside him. One temple was swollen and oozing blood. She jerked her bonnet off and rested her head against his chest, grateful to feel his heart thumping against her ear.

The wagon swayed as they covered the remaining distance to the house. Faith rested on her heels and called forward. “For mercy’s sake, what happened? I thought you were going to help him.”

“Wasn’t my fault, miss.” A defensive note crept into his voice. “His game leg gave out and he fell. Hit his head against the endgate.”

“How long has he been . . . like this?”

“Can’t be more’n ten minutes. Cletus Wylie helped get him loaded.” He stopped the wagon. “Be right back. Going to get Mr. Ripley to help me.”

The two men, one tall, one short, eased the makeshift litter out of the vehicle. Faith ran ahead and opened the door, then hurried through the house and motioned them to follow her. She pointed at a cot next to the wall in a small room behind the kitchen. “Please, put him there.”

Grandpa moaned when they moved him, but didn’t open his eyes. Faith’s heartbeat threatened to choke her.