Where Willows Grow (24 page)
Although September had arrived, the summer-hot weather continued. She sought the shade offered by the scraggly clusters of trees along the edge of the property. Wind whistled, interrupted occasionally by an odd whiz and thump she’d never heard in all of her childhood meanderings. She tipped her head, straining to identify the sound. She wasn’t certain of the source, but she surmised it came from somewhere ahead and to the right, off behind the windbreak of cottonwoods and hedge apples. Curious, she headed toward the sound.
It took her a while to find a place to ease through the windbreak. Dead branches caught at her clothes and hair, and she grunted when she encountered a spider web. Yet onward she pressed, determined to discover the source of the strange sound. And she found it: some odd, bucking black monster.
An oil pump?
Looking across the expanse of Berkley land, she spotted at least three more. Her brow furrowed as she stared, unable to believe what she was seeing. Oil? In Spencer? She’d heard of it being found on the other side of Hutchinson, but she never dreamed it was this close. Why hadn’t Jack said anything?
Her gaze shot back to the closest well. Her scalp pricked. She turned and looked toward the spot of land where her own house rested. Exactly where did the property line fall between her land and the Berkleys’ holdings? If she was correct in her estimation, this well stood on her land.
Now that she knew what made the sound, her curiosity should have been satisfied. Instead, it was piqued. A dozen questions crowded her mind. Who put the well here? Why? How long had it been pumping? Had anyone gained anything from it? If so, where was the money? Could it be used to pay the tax bill and keep the land from going to auction?
Anna Mae needed answers to those questions. She broke back through the windbreak and headed toward the house, huffing as she pushed herself in the blistering heat. By the time she reached the back porch, she was drenched in sweat and she had a cramp in her side, but she ignored the discomfort and burst into the kitchen. Jack and Dorothy sat at the table, glasses of milk and slices of bread spread with sandplum jelly in front of them.
‘‘Hi, Mama,’’ Dorothy chirped with a bright smile.
Anna Mae gave her daughter a brief hello, then turned to Jack. ‘‘I just found oil pumps. And I think one of them is on my property. Do you know anything about that?’’
Jack grimaced, ducking his head for a moment. Anna Mae held her breath, waiting for his reply.
‘‘Yeah. I know about that.’’
She pulled out a chair and seated herself stiffly, her hands clasped in her lap. ‘‘You put them up?’’
‘‘Yeah.’’
‘‘All of them?’’
‘‘Yeah.’’
She collapsed against the chair’s back. ‘‘Why didn’t you tell me?’’
Jack shrugged—a slow, embarrassed gesture. ‘‘I didn’t want to get your hopes up.’’
‘‘My hopes up? Jack, oil—’’
He held up a hand. ‘‘Listen, Anna Mae. It’s a pump, okay? I had surveyors come out, and since your land is so close, I had them prospect yours, too. We put up the pumps, but there’s no guarantee anything of worth’ll be found. It’s just a . . . a gamble.’’
Anna Mae scowled, her thoughts running willy-nilly. A gamble? Oil pumps cost money to put up. She didn’t know a lot about drilling, but she suspected no one would go to that expense unless they were reasonably certain they’d get a return on the investment. But there was something else more pressing to understand. ‘‘So you paid for my pump?’’
His lips pressed together for a moment, as if he were irritated. ‘‘Yeah, I did.’’
Another debt she couldn’t repay. ‘‘Who gave you permission to put one on my property?’’
Again, that slow shrug. He didn’t quite meet her gaze. ‘‘Didn’t take too much to get it arranged. I hoped . . . Well, that I could surprise you. But you ruined it.’’
A little pang of guilt struck. Small wonder he was irritated—he’d tried to do something kind for her, and all she could do was interrogate him. She reached across the table and placed her hand over his. ‘‘I’m sorry.’’
He looked fully into her face. An odd smile—almost conniving—curled his lips. Anna Mae went to move her hand, but he captured her fingers and held on.
‘‘I’d forgive you anything, Anna Mae.’’
‘‘Th-thank you, Jack.’’
‘‘You’re welcome.’’ He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her fingertips. ‘‘Just remember, honey—whatever I do, it’s for your own good.’’
She pulled her hand free. Her fingers tingled. She wrapped her hands into fists and buried them in her apron. He smiled again—another smile that gave her a shiver of unease.
‘‘Good-bye, Miss Dorothy.’’ He bowed toward the child who sat with jelly on her cheeks, sent a wink in Anna Mae’s direction, and then slipped out the back door.
Anna Mae stared at the empty doorway, confusion making her stomach clench.
‘‘Whatever I do, it’s for your own good.’’
Why did words that should be reassuring make her feel so unsettled?
Pain like fire shot through Harley’s hips into his back, bringing him to full consciousness. He gasped, and a hand clamped on his shoulder.
‘‘Easy, there, we’re going to help you.’’
The soothing voice was unfamiliar. Harley squinted. The face, hovering only inches above him, looked fuzzy, the features undefined. Who? He tried to grab hold of the man’s shirt front to pull him close enough to see clearly, but his weak fingers missed their target and fell to his side.
‘‘Don’t bother with me. Help Dirk. My friend . . . Dirk . . .’’ The words came in spurts, his breathing erratic.
The hand squeezed. ‘‘Mr. Phipps, all that can be done was done for your friend. Don’t you worry now.’’ The hand left his shoulder. ‘‘Lift.’’
The ground beneath him jerked, and Harley felt himself floating. No, not floating—being carried. Every slight movement brought stabs of agonizing pain, and he breathed as shallowly as possible, a feeble attempt to control the pain.
‘‘Where . . . where are you taking me?’’ All he could manage was a hoarse whisper.
‘‘To the hospital, buddy.’’ The same voice, calm, soothing. ‘‘Just hang in there.’’
‘‘Take my friend, too.’’ Harley grimaced as the stretcher thumped onto the floor of the ambulance. ‘‘My friend . . . Take care of my friend.’’
Doors slammed behind his head. The thud startled him, made him jerk, and the pain stabbed again. With a deep gasp, he squeezed his eyes shut and gave in to the darkness.
‘‘A
T THE CASTLE SITE
? A
RE YOU SURE
?’’
The General Merchandise owner leaned his elbows on the high counter and gave a firm nod. ‘‘The salesman who came through here said he heard it straight from the project boss’s mouth—a man was killed. An’ he said the man came from Spencer, Kansas.’’ Martin tipped his head, his eyebrows high. ‘‘You know anybody besides Harley Phipps who was workin’ on a castle?’’
Jack ran his hand through his hair, his forehead pinched, his chest tight with the heavy beats of his heart. ‘‘No. Nobody but Harley.’’
Martin sighed, straightening to reach beneath the counter and retrieve a feather duster. ‘‘Yes sir, a sad thing. Mighty sad thing. Anna Mae with those two little girls an’ another’n on the way . . . Don’t know what she’ll do now.’’
Jack knew. He caught hold of Martin’s arm, bringing the swish of the turkey feathers to a halt. ‘‘Listen, Martin, this is gonna hit Anna Mae hard. It’d be better if . . . well, if it came from a friend. Do me a favor and don’t say anything to anybody else. At least until I’ve had a chance to talk to Anna Mae, okay?’’
Martin’s eyes widened, and he held up both hands as if in surrender. ‘‘Sure thing, Jack. I wouldn’t want to bring no extra heartache to Anna Mae. I’ve known her since she was no higher than a horse’s kneecap.’’ He shook his head, his lined face sad. ‘‘Just such a sad thing to have happen.’’
‘‘Yeah, sad . . .’’ Jack lifted a hand in good-bye and hurried from the store, his shopping forgotten. He and Pop could do without that cornmeal and sauerkraut, and Anna Mae’d survive without bluing for another day or two. He had to get to Anna Mae’s place before word reached her another way. He had to be the one to tell her.
He drove his Model T like it had never been driven before over the dirt roads, hitting potholes so hard the car left the roadway a time or two. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but one thing: Harley was dead. Out of the picture. He was never coming back. And that meant there was no barrier standing between himself and Anna Mae.
All the years of Anna Mae’s marriage to Harley, he’d stuck close around, befriending Harley so he could keep an eye on him, remaining under his father’s roof so he’d be near if Anna Mae needed him for anything, going to sleep every night with images of Harley lying next to her in that feather bed in the front bedroom of her little house. For years he’d tried to erase Harley from the picture in his mind, and finally it was done.
He hit another pothole and the car jerked so fiercely, he nearly lost control. ‘‘Slow down,’’ he murmured, following his own direction. No need to kill himself—that would be plenty foolish right on the verge of having his long-held dreams come true. Anna Mae wasn’t going anywhere—except where he took her.
‘‘Maa-ma!’’ Dorothy’s singsong voice carried through the kitchen window. ‘‘Mr. Berkley’s Model T is comin’.’’
Anna Mae glanced out the window. A cloud of dust indicated the vehicle’s approach. She moved the soup pot from the stove and headed outside to wait with Dorothy for the car to pull into the drive. She’d given Jack a dime for a bottle of Mrs. Stewart’s bluing, and the laundry waited its arrival.
The moment the auto heaved to a halt, Jack leaped from the driver’s seat and rushed at her, arms outstretched. Before she knew what was happening, he captured her in a firm embrace. Jack’s hand cupped her head, holding it tight against his shoulder, and his other arm curled around her waist. Too stunned to struggle, she remained motionless within the circle of his arms.
Dorothy giggled. ‘‘Mr. Berkley, why’re you hugging Mama?’’
Jack pulled loose by inches and glanced down at Dorothy. His hand reached out to tousle her hair, and a weak smile creased his face. ‘‘Just thought your mama might need a hug, honey. Do you need one, too?’’
With a huge grin, Dorothy catapulted into Jack’s arms. He met Anna Mae’s gaze over Dorothy’s blond head, and something in his expression made Anna Mae’s knees feel weak.
‘‘J-Jack?’’
He put Dorothy on the ground and took hold of Anna Mae’s upper arm. His thumb stroked in a gentle caress. Looking at Anna Mae, he said, ‘‘Dorothy, get the watering bucket, would you? I’ll be back in a minute or two to help you water the tomatoes.’’
‘‘Okay, Mr. Berkley.’’
Dorothy skipped in the direction of the shed. Anna Mae allowed Jack to guide her to the house and push her into a chair. Shaky as she felt, she welcomed the solid wooden seat beneath her. He crouched before her and took her hands.
‘‘Anna Mae, I . . . I gotta tell you somethin’, and it’s not gonna be easy for you.’’
Anna Mae broke out in goose bumps. Her hands trembled, and she felt Jack tighten his grip. ‘‘What is it? Is it about the farm?’’
He shook his head, his gaze sorrowful. ‘‘No, honey. It’s about Harley.’’
Her shoulders jerked back, fear striking as hard as a blow from a stick. Her mouth went dry, and her tongue seemed to stick to the roof of her mouth. She sat, silent, waiting for the second blow.
‘‘Martin at the store . . .’’ Jack ducked his head for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. ‘‘He said a salesman traveled through from Salina and told him that there was a death at the castle site.’’ His voice was soft, gentle, in direct opposition to the hard grip he kept on her fingers. ‘‘He . . . he said the salesman mentioned a man from the city of Spencer.’’
Anna Mae yanked her hands loose to cover her mouth. Her fingers held back the cry that built in her throat.
Jack gathered her in his arms. She allowed his embrace while her hands remained firmly over her mouth, her eyes wide, her heart pounding. Harley . . . gone? It couldn’t be. Oh, Lord, it couldn’t be.
Anna Mae had no idea how long she and Jack remained frozen in that position—she in the chair, he on the floor with his arms wrapped around her and his cheek against her hair—before Dorothy burst through the porch and into the kitchen. The screen door slammed behind her. From the bedroom, Marjorie began to wail.
‘‘Mr. Berkley? When’re you gonna come pump the water?’’ Dorothy hollered over the baby’s cry.
Anna Mae lowered her hands to push Jack away. ‘‘Go help Dorothy. I’m okay.’’ She heard her own voice, its normal delivery. How could her voice sound so calm when a storm raged through her insides?
Jack rose to his feet, his worried gaze pinned on her face. ‘‘You sure?’’
Marjorie’s screams intensified.
She nodded—a jerky, uncontrolled movement. ‘‘I’m sure. I . . . I’ll take care of the baby. You take care of the tomatoes. Then I’ll—’’ She’d what? She didn’t know. She’d been through deaths before—Ben’s and Daddy’s and Mama’s—but at those times she’d had people around her to help her make decisions. She had no idea what she’d do now.
Without another word, she moved to the girls’ bedroom. She closed the door behind her and crossed to the crib where Marjorie stood on her mattress, her little face red and tearstained, her pudgy arms reaching to be held. But Anna Mae didn’t pick up the baby. Instead, she stood beside the crib and closed her eyes, shutting out the sight of Marjorie’s distress.
While Marjorie continue to wail, she added her own cries to those of her daughter.
Jack killed the motor and let the Model T roll to a stop in the yard outside the back door of his house. Clem ran over to greet him, sniffing his pant leg as he climbed out of the car. Jack turned to inspect the Model T’s tires. His wild ride from town to Anna Mae’s might have done some damage. He bent over, ran his hand along the right front tire to feel for bulges, then straightened. Pop stood silently on the opposite side of the hood. Jack startled.
‘‘Pop, don’t sneak up on me like that.’’ He took in his father’s serious expression and scowled. ‘‘You need something?’’