Where Willows Grow (19 page)

Harley lifted his gaze as Mr. Peterson’s truck rolled onto the work site and rattled to a stop beside the boss’s shack. Must be nice to be able to go home to a wife and a home-cooked lunch every day. Harley watched the boss step out. Then the man reached back inside the cab for something. Harley squinted, his heart thumping hopefully. Yep, Peterson held a package. Harley’s hands curled around the shovel handle, ready to drop it and trot over when his name was called.

Peterson shielded his eyes with his hand, scanning the grounds, and his gaze went right past Harley. The rise of expectation was crushed by a wave of envy when he heard the boss call out Dirk’s name. Giving the shovel a jerk, he spun from the sight of Dirk jogging to the boss’s side. That made three packages in addition to the letters that arrived twice weekly for the young man. Harley hadn’t yet heard from Annie. Not once. She knew she could reach him at Peterson’s place—why didn’t she write? She must still be powerful mad to hold out this long.

‘‘Hey, Harley!’’

Harley turned slowly to face Dirk, who bounded across the dry landscape. ‘‘Lookee here. Ma sent me clean socks and a loaf of pumpkin bread loaded with cinnamon and pecans.’’ He laughed, his face nearly split from his grin. ‘‘Bread’s purty well smashed, but reckon it’ll taste the same. We’ll have us quite a treat for our supper tonight. Just can’t beat Ma’s pumpkin bread.’’

Harley tried, but he couldn’t muster so much as a smile in response.

Dirk pointed to a crumpled note in the bottom of the box. ‘‘Ma says to give you one of these pairs o’ socks’’—he held out a gray pair with red toes and heels—‘‘and to tell you thanks again.’’ Dirk shook his head. ‘‘This paycheck’s been a real help, Harley. Don’t know what we would’ve done if you hadn’t happened along.’’

Harley fingered the socks, his calluses catching on the soft woven cotton. ‘‘You don’t need to keep thankin’ me. I’m just glad it worked out for both of us.’’

Dirk’s smile faded. He nudged Harley with his elbow. ‘‘Hey. What’s wrong?’’

Harley angled his gaze past Dirk’s shoulder. The empty landscape appeared as lonesome today as it had when he’d first arrived. The lonely ache in his heart hadn’t gone away, either. ‘‘How long we been here now?’’

Dirk shifted the box to his hip and scratched his head. ‘‘Gotta be eight weeks at least, ’cause we just sent off our second paychecks to home.’’

Harley nodded slowly, squinting against the high sun. ‘‘Long time.’’

Understanding dawned across Dirk’s face. ‘‘You ain’t heard from Annie, have you?’’

Harley swallowed. ‘‘Nope.’’

‘‘Worried something’s wrong?’’

Harley released a short huff. ‘‘I reckon she’s still mad at me for goin’. ’Course, she was mad about some other things before I left. Reckon she’s just . . . mad.’’

Dirk shook his head, sadness drooping his face. ‘‘Aw, I’m sorry.’’

Harley forced a wry chuckle. ‘‘What you sorry for? You didn’t have anything to do with our fussing. That’s just what Annie and me do—fuss.’’ Although he tried to make light of it, the truth of his statement struck hard. Why had he and Annie turned to fussing so much? His folks had fussed at each other. A lot. He’d never liked listening to it, and he’d always sworn he’d avoid it if he was ever lucky enough to have a family. Yet he fussed at Annie, and she fussed at him. Their peaceful times ended when the rains went away. Would it change if the rains started falling again?

Dirk rocked back on his heels, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. ‘‘Well, I ain’t got a wife, but I guess I’ve learned from watchin’ my folks that fussin’ just happens sometimes, mostly when a body’s tired. And I’d have to say hardship makes a body tired. Can’t hardly live with somebody without fussin’ now and again. But . . .’’ He scrunched his lips to one side, his forehead crinkled. ‘‘Gotta be careful that the fuss doesn’t turn into a grudge. Grudges are harder to set aside.’’

Harley nodded. For a young man, Dirk had a lot of wisdom.

Dirk gave Harley a firm clap on the shoulder. ‘‘Listen, don’t let it get you down. You’re busy here—reckon she’s busy there. Probably just busyness that keeps her from writin’.’’

Harley scuffed his toe in the dirt. ‘‘You’re probably right. Busy. Yeah.’’ Although, what did she have to do besides care for the few animals and the garden? Maybe she was busy with things that had nothing to do with the farm. Like spending time with her neighbor.

Harley’s chin shot up, his gaze colliding with Dirk’s. ‘‘Dirk, you . . . you said you’d been prayin’ for Annie?’’

Dirk nodded, his hair flopping. ‘‘Every day.’’

Harley swallowed again, his dry throat making it hard to form words. ‘‘Could you maybe add a prayer for her to . . . to forgive me? So maybe she’d write and let me know for sure how she and the girls are doing?’’

‘‘Sure, I’ll do that. But’’—Dirk clamped a big hand over Harley’s shoulder—‘‘you know you can talk to God yourself. God’s ears are open to the prayers of every man.’’

Harley shook his head, releasing a mirthless chuckle. ‘‘Can’t imagine why God would want to hear from me. I’m not so much.’’

Dirk’s hand tightened. ‘‘To Him, you’re everything, Harley. You’re so much, He let His only Son Jesus be nailed to a cross just to take on your sins. That’s a love that can’t be measured.’’

Dirk’s serious tone and fervent expression made Harley squirm. ‘‘Well . . .’’ He shifted, pulling himself away from Dirk’s warm hand. ‘‘Since you’re already on a first-name basis with Him, I guess I’ll leave the prayin’ to you.’’ He bent over and picked up his shovel, ignoring the worried look on Dirk’s face.

‘‘Farley!’’

The angry voice made both Harley and Dirk turn quickly. They looked toward the half-built castle, where Nelson stood, hands on hips.

‘‘What’re you doin’? Lunch break is over! Stop yammering and get to work!’’

Harley’s hackles rose. Who put Nelson in charge?

Dirk offered a brief wave in Harley’s direction. ‘‘Catch ya later, Harley.’’ He backpedaled toward the castle. ‘‘I’ll be prayin’ for your wife, but remember what I said—you can talk to God yourself. It’s a good thing to be able to talk to God.’’

‘‘Farley!’’

‘‘Comin’!’’ Dirk spun around and took off at a trot.

Harley watched him for a moment before turning back to his shoveling. Dirk’s words replayed in his head as he forced the metal blade into the hard ground.
‘‘To Him, you’re everything.’’
Harley broke loose a clump of sod and tossed it aside. Everything, huh? No-account son of a whiskey-drinking sharecropper was everything to God? That didn’t make sense.

Harley paused, a band clamping painfully around his heart. Might be nice to think of being loved that much, loved so much someone was willing to die for you. But he didn’t even know God. God surely didn’t know him. Why would God care? No, it was better to let Dirk do the praying if there was any hope of prayers being heard. Harley’d spent too many years denying God’s existence for God to pay him any mind now.

Still, as Harley jammed the shovel into the ground, a part of him wished he could be wrong about God.

‘‘Still nothing?’’

Anna Mae clapped a hand over her mouth. She hadn’t intended to voice the question aloud, and Jack’s quirked eyebrow magnified her embarrassment. She should have known the answer since he returned from the mailbox empty-handed. Why hadn’t Harley responded to her letters? She wrote faithfully every week. It was too much to expect he’d write lengthy letters in return, but couldn’t he send a note? Something to let her know how he was? To let her know he thought about her, was worried about her recent accident, or happy she hadn’t lost the baby after all?

And why hadn’t another paycheck arrived? More than enough time had passed for him to have received a second check. In one more month the taxes would be due. After paying Doc Warren for his visits and paying Mrs. Stevenson for her care, Anna Mae had nearly used up the money Harley had sent the first time. Even if she used every cent from the bank on the windowsill, there still wouldn’t be enough. They needed his paycheck, and soon.

Tiredness sagged her shoulders. It seemed as though, despite all the resting she’d been forced to do since her tumble from the ladder four weeks ago, she couldn’t get her energy back. Disappointment was a weight too heavy to carry on top of all that tiredness. Jack slid his hands into his pockets, his shoulders high. ‘‘I’m sorry, but I can’t give you anything today.’’

‘‘I know.’’ She sighed, turning toward the stove to stir a thick, bubbling vegetable stew. ‘‘I just hoped by now . . .’’

Warm hands closed around her upper arms, the touch intimate. ‘‘Anna Mae, can I say something without you getting upset?’’ Jack’s voice, whisper soft, stirred the hair behind her left ear.

Anna Mae’s hand on the wooden spoon stilled, and she held her breath. ‘‘W-what?’’

‘‘It’s about Harley.’’

She felt Jack’s chin brush against the side of her head. A prickle of awareness shot down her spine. Releasing the spoon, she twisted away from the stove and walked to the sink. From this safer distance, she asked again, ‘‘What?’’

Jack leaned his weight on one hip, slipping a hand into his pocket. With the other hand, he clasped the back of his neck. The pose gave the impression of great worry, and Anna Mae’s heartbeat accelerated.

Jack drew in a deep breath. ‘‘Do you remember when you told me you were going to marry Harley?’’

Frowning, she nodded.

‘‘I tried to talk you out of it, remember?’’

She gave another nod.

‘‘Why?’’

Because you were jealous
. But she couldn’t say that out loud. Instead, she pressed her memory, trying to come up with the words he’d used. It didn’t take a great deal of effort to find them; he’d made her so angry that day. ‘‘You said Harley was a no-good drifter only after my daddy’s land.’’ Even after all the time that had passed, repeating his statement made her angry all over again.

Jack must have seen her temper rising, because he raised his palm toward her as if to head her off at the pass. ‘‘Now, I don’t want to upset you, but I just wonder . . . Is it possible Harley has drifted off? It’s too hard to make a living here, so he’s decided to move on?’’

Anna Mae raised her chin, her jaw jutting forward. ‘‘Without the girls and me?’’

Jack held out his hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘‘Don’t get riled. It’s an honest question.’’

Anna Mae plunked her fists on her hips. ‘‘How so?’’

Jack’s lips quirked. ‘‘He’s been gone . . . what, now? Over two months? How often have you heard from him? Once?’’

‘‘So?’’ The defensiveness came automatically.
You’ve got no
right to be putting down Harley, Jack
.

‘‘So Harley wasn’t raised like you and me, Anna Mae.’’ Jack lowered his tone, taking a step forward. If he stretched out his hand he’d be able to graze her cheek with his fingertips. She watched his hand to be sure he kept it to himself. ‘‘He wasn’t brought up in the church, or with any kind of real tie to anything. Sharecroppers are a different lot; they don’t own anything, so they never learn pride of ownership. Doesn’t hurt them to walk away.’’

‘‘That’s not true.’’ Anna Mae shook her head wildly. ‘‘Harley takes a great deal of pride in this farm. He—he takes care of it like it has always been his.’’ Jack hadn’t seen Harley the day he’d walked away. Anna Mae had. It had hurt him. It had hurt him a lot.

‘‘Yeah . . . he took care of it while it was producing.’’ Jack’s words came out slowly, deliberately, cutting Anna Mae like a knife. ‘‘But now that he can’t get anything out of it, what’s he done? Took off for parts unknown.’’

‘‘He had to!’’ Her vehemence made her chest hurt. ‘‘We need the money. And he isn’t gone to
parts unknown
. He’s right across Kansas, at a job site in Saline County.’’

‘‘Are you sure?’’

‘‘Of course I’m sure. Why shouldn’t I be?’’

‘‘Don’t you think, if he were there, he’d be answering your letters? You were hurt, Anna Mae, and he didn’t come home or even write to check on you? Maybe he’s moved on, so he’s not even getting your letters. Is it possible?’’

The question brought her up short. Was it possible? She hated that Jack made her wonder, made her think for even one second Harley might not be where he said he would be, doing what he said he would do, earning money to take care of his family. She pointed to the door. ‘‘Get out of here, Jack.’’

‘‘Anna Mae—’’

She hardened her heart to his pleading look and jabbed her finger toward the door. ‘‘Get. Out. Now.’’ She kept her voice low, but the tone held conviction. ‘‘And don’t come back until you’re ready to apologize for slandering Harley. He’s my husband. I love him. I trust him. He’s out there working at some lonely place so he can provide for me and our girls, and I won’t have you putting thoughts in my head to the contrary. Out!’’

He had the audacity to chuckle. ‘‘Okay, then. Sorry I made you mad. I’ll go, but I’ll be back tomorrow to see to the chores, like I’ve been doing ever since the husband you love and trust decided to walk down the road.’’

She still held her finger, aimed at the door, like a pistol. It trembled. ‘‘Sometimes I hate you, Jack Berkley.’’

He raised one eyebrow, his smile sardonic. ‘‘Be careful, Anna Mae. Hate and love are both fiery passions, and they’re only a hairsbreadth apart.’’

She picked up an enamel plate from the shelf beside the sink and threw it at him. It clanged off the door as he slipped through and closed it behind him. Marjorie’s startled wail carried from the bedroom, and Dorothy came running from the parlor, her doll tucked under her arm.

‘‘Mama, what was that noise?’’

Anna Mae pointed to the plate, which rolled underneath the table and twirled to a halt. ‘‘Mama dropped a plate, darlin’. No need to worry.’’ She brushed past Dorothy to enter the bedroom and lifted Marjorie from her crib.

Dorothy padded along beside her. ‘‘You dropped it clear across the room?’’

‘‘Yes.’’ The word clipped out. Anna Mae patted Marjorie, bringing the baby’s crying under control.

For the remainder of the evening, Jack’s comments caused a lingering question to haunt Anna Mae’s mind. While she talked with the girls, cleaned up dishes, and read bedtime stories, it never left her. Even as she remembered her adamant support of Harley’s actions and thought of more things she wished she’d said to Jack, the question whispered through her mind. And even as she lay in bed, her arm thrown across the empty slice of mattress where Harley used to lie, missing his presence with an intensity that hurt, one question hovered on the fringes of her subconscious.