Where Willows Grow (6 page)

‘‘Dottie-doll, I’m gonna miss you somethin’ fierce.’’

‘‘Don’t go, Daddy, please? I’m sorry. I won’t be mean no more.’’

A lump filled Harley’s throat, nearly choking him. ‘‘Dottie, I gotta go. An’ it’s got nothin’ to do with you being mean. I gotta get some money for our farm. Can’t grow crops without rain, an’ there’s no more rain in Kansas.’’ Harley set Dottie in front of him. ‘‘But I’ll be back. Maybe sooner, maybe later, but I won’t be gone forever.’’

‘‘Daddeeeee . . .’’ Dottie began to wail.

‘‘Listen, darlin’, I need you to be a big girl and help your mama while I’m gone.’’ His fingers curled around Dottie’s narrow shoulders. His chest ached with each heave of those skinny shoulders. ‘‘You remind your mama that Jack can tote the milk cans from the ’fraidy hole, and you help in the garden.’’

‘‘I w-will, Daddy.’’

‘‘Do you promise?’’

Dottie nodded, her tangled blond hair flying around her face. Her chin quivered. ‘‘I promise. An’ you’ll come back, right, Daddy?’’

Harley clutched her to his chest once more, breathing in the scent of her sweaty hair. His throat convulsed. ‘‘I promise, Dottie.’’ He cupped her head in his hands and kissed her forehead, both tear-damp cheeks, and the top of her head. Rising, he pointed to the house. ‘‘Go on, now.’’ His voice turned gruff, roughened by emotion he could barely contain. ‘‘And be a good girl, you hear?’’

Dottie nodded again, tears still raining down her pale face. She picked up Harley’s hat and handed it to him. He plopped it on his head, chucked his daughter beneath the chin, and headed for the gate. When he reached the bend in the road, he heard her call, ‘‘I love you, Daddy!’’

He turned to walk backward, lifting his hand in a wave. ‘‘I love you, too, Dottie-doll!’’

Anna Mae heard every word between Dorothy and Harley through the open kitchen window. Her fingers gripped the sink edge so hard it hurt as she battled the urge to run outside, race down the lane, and throw herself against Harley as freely as their daughter had. But her fingers didn’t let go. Not even when Harley finally turned forward again and the sight of his retreating back conjured memories of another leave-taking—her brother, Ben, marching off to join the Army. She hadn’t been much older than Dorothy.

What if this was the last time she saw Harley?

Come back, Harley. Please come back
.

But the words remained confined to her heart, and of course he didn’t hear them. A weight pressed against her chest. Even if he heard, he wouldn’t heed them. He’d made up his mind, and once Harley decided on something, there was no dissuading him. There never had been.

She found her voice and called, ‘‘Dorothy! Come on in here now and eat your breakfast!’’

Dorothy released the gate post and turned slowly, shielding her eyes with her hand as she peered toward the house. Then she looked back at the road.

‘‘Dorothy! Now!’’

The stern tone set Dorothy’s feet in motion, but the child scuffed slowly, head down, shoulders slumped. Anna Mae shifted her gaze so she wouldn’t have to watch her daughter’s heartrending journey to the house.

The moment Dorothy stepped into the kitchen, she ran across the floor and wrapped her arms around Anna Mae’s middle, snuffling against her mother’s apron. Anna Mae gave her a loving pat, then set her aside. ‘‘Come on, Dorothy. Let’s get you cleaned up and dressed, then you need to eat some breakfast.’’

‘‘Don’t want breakfast. I want Daddy.’’

‘‘Well, not eating doesn’t fix a thing, and it sure won’t bring your daddy back.’’ Anna Mae kept her tone matter-of-fact. ‘‘So come on, now. Might as well face the day.’’ She gave Dorothy a little push on the back of the head, and the child moved toward the bedroom. As Dorothy trudged away, Anna Mae’s gaze, as if by its own will, lifted to the window and looked once more toward the road.

No sign of Harley at all.

Harley paused, bending down on one knee to retie the lace on his left boot. He gave the laces a firm jerk. Rising, he pressed his hands to the small of his back and released a low groan. He’d left his old boots on the porch of Martin’s store after he’d bought this new pair. Still some wear in the old brown leathers—figured somebody could use them. Now he wished he’d brought them with him instead. These new ones were so stiff they’d rubbed blisters on both heels.

‘‘A blessin’ and a curse,’’ he muttered to himself. New shoes these days was a blessing, but those blisters . . . His mumbled comment reminded him of Annie’s pregnancy. Mixed emotions concerning the baby rolled through his gut. Guilt pressed at him for leaving her when she was sick with a pregnancy. ‘‘But,’’ he reasoned aloud, talking to himself for the lack of other company, ‘‘would it make sense to stay put and do chores and let my family starve? Can’t sacrifice it all for the sake of that baby, can I?’’

He chose not to answer himself. Didn’t know what to say in response anyway. He massaged the aching muscles in his back as he scanned the horizon. Must be about eight o’clock, he figured. He’d need to find a place to hole up for the night pretty soon. He’d made good distance today, following the highway. According to Martin’s calculations, Lindsborg was a little less than one hundred miles northeast of Spencer. He’d walked farther in his lifetime. Of course, he’d been younger then. Seemed like the last two years, with the constant troubles, had turned him older than his twenty-nine years.

A train whistle drifted across the quiet landscape. Harley grabbed up his poke and slung it over his shoulder. Forcing his tired feet to get moving, he considered that train. Following the railroad tracks might be easier going than roadways—more direct. But he’d only walk along the tracks. He wouldn’t hop the train. Although lots of fellas did that these days, he didn’t feel right about riding when he couldn’t pay. Plus it was too risky. Some railroad worker might catch him and clop him on the head.

‘‘But when I get that job an’ I’m makin’ some money’’—the sound of his own voice comforted him—‘‘I’ll buy me a ticket to go home on. It’ll be cold by then, probably. Don’t need to freeze my hide if I can avoid it.’’

Ahead and to the right, he spotted a farmhouse with a large barn. Maybe the folks there would let him bed down in the hay. Better than sleeping on the hard ground. His stomach growled, reminding him he’d eaten everything he had packed. All this walking increased his appetite. Maybe he could work off the price of a dinner, too. Worth asking, he decided. He left the road and headed for the farm.

Two large, speckled dogs greeted him with noisy barks as he entered the yard, but they didn’t seem fierce. Harley stuck out his hand and let them give him a good sniff. One ran back toward the house, but the second one trotted along beside Harley like a furry escort. By the time he reached the porch, a man stood outside, alerted by the dogs.

‘‘Howdy.’’ The unsmiling man looked Harley up and down as the dogs sat on their haunches at their master’s side.

Harley gave a friendly nod. ‘‘Howdy. Name’s Harley Phipps. I’m headin’ for Lindsborg an’ need a place to sleep. Wonderin’ if you’d mind if I slept in your barn.’’

‘‘Yup. I mind.’’

Harley pulled off his hat. ‘‘I’m willin’ to do some work for the privilege.’’

‘‘Don’t need nothin’ done.’’ The man plunged his hands into his overall pockets. His sunburned face remained stoic. ‘‘Don’t plan to become a stoppin’-off place for bums an’ hobos. So just head on down the road.’’

Bums and hobos?
Harley bristled at the implication. ‘‘Listen, mister—’’

‘‘No, you listen. Either you go, or I’ll sic the dogs on you.’’ The man removed one hand from his pocket and snapped his fingers. Immediately the dogs rose to their feet, teeth bared.

Harley plunked his hat on his head and gave a wave of his hand. ‘‘Fine. Have a good evenin’.’’ Anger churned through his belly as he headed back to the road. Bum? Hobo? He wasn’t either! He was a man looking to make things better for his family! What right did that ol’ coot have to accuse him of being a bum?

The anger made his feet pump hard despite the throbbing pain in his heels. It carried him to another lane that ended with a two-story farmhouse. Dusk fell heavily around him; he needed sleep and shelter. Yet he hesitated.
Don’t know if I can handle
gettin’ turned away a second time
.

Then he remembered something Annie’s daddy had said when trying to decide whether to switch from wheat to corn.
‘‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained.’’
A simple comment, but remembering it gave Harley the gumption to march on up to the second farmhouse. No dogs ran through this yard. The yellow glow in the windows told him folks were still awake inside. He stepped up on the porch and banged his knuckles against the door. A shadowy figure appeared behind the lace curtain shrouding the door’s glass pane, then the door opened and a middle-aged woman in an apron and kerchief smiled at him.

The smile eased the ache in his heart. He swept off his hat. ‘‘Evenin’, ma’am.’’

‘‘Evening to you.’’ Her eyes seemed kind.

‘‘I’m travelin’ on to Lindsborg where I got a job waiting, and I wondered if I might bed down in your barn tonight. I’m willin’ to do some chores in return for the favor.’’

The woman looked over her shoulder. ‘‘Eldo?’’

‘‘Yeah?’’ a deep voice replied from somewhere in the house.

‘‘Can you come here a minute?’’

Harley peeked through the opening and saw a tall, wiry man come from an arched doorway at the back of the sitting room. The man stopped behind the woman and looked at Harley.

‘‘This here is—’’ She paused, peering up at Harley. ‘‘I didn’t catch your name.’’

‘‘Harley Phipps.’’ Harley stuck out his hand.

The man shook it. ‘‘Good to meet you, Mr. Phipps.’’

The woman spoke again. ‘‘Mr. Phipps is traveling to a job in Lindsborg and wants to sleep in our barn tonight.’’

The tall man shrugged. ‘‘Sure. It’s nothin’ fancy, but the hay’s clean. Make yourself comfortable.’’

Harley released a sigh of relief. ‘‘Thank you. I’ll chore for you in the morning, if you like.’’

‘‘Well, a pile of hay is hardly worth chores,’’ the woman said. Her smile crinkled the corners of her eyes, reminding Harley of Annie’s mother. ‘‘You plan on having some breakfast with us, young man. That’d be a good exchange for chores.’’

Harley couldn’t stop the smile that grew on his face. ‘‘Thank you, ma’am.’’

‘‘You’re welcome. You get some sleep. We’ll see you in the morning.’’ She closed the door.

Harley turned from the porch and headed across the ground to the barn. Inside, it was dark, but after a few minutes his eyes adjusted enough to find an empty stall. He sat down and tugged off his boots. Felt good to have his feet free. He wiggled his toes and stretched out full length in the sweet-smelling hay.

His eyes slipped closed, and behind his lids he reviewed his day. Faces flitted through his memory—Dottie’s, tear-streaked and sad; Annie’s, rigid and determined; the first farmer’s, hard and unrelenting; and finally the woman’s, kind and welcoming. The last one was the most pleasant to remember. He held on to the image of the woman, whose kindness warmed him from the inside out. With her crinkly smile hovering in the fringes of his mind, he drifted off to sleep.

7

A
NNA
M
AE PRESSED HER FOREHEAD
to Bossie’s warm flank and willed her muscles to keep working just a little longer. Her arms burned, her fingers cramped, and all she wanted to do was quit. But the milking wouldn’t get done if she didn’t do it. So she set her jaw and made herself continue the squeeze-pull-squeeze-pull until every last bit of milk had been stripped.

Not even an hour into her day, and already she was tired. Her night had been restless, lonely. The bed didn’t feel right without Harley in it. And funny how every little creak of the farmhouse seemed threatening with him gone.
Lord, I’ve got to
have my rest. You’re going to have to remove these fears and let me
sleep nights, or I’ll be just useless to the girls and this farm
.

Her muscles quivered as she slid the bucket from between Bossie’s legs. Once it was safely out of reach of the cow’s feet, she swiped the back of her hand across her forehead and let out a low moan. ‘‘Oh, Bossie, how am I going to do this when the baby makes my belly so big it gets in the way?’’

‘‘Well, I suppose you could ask a kind neighbor to do the milking for you.’’

Anna Mae spun so fast she nearly fell off the stool. A man stood in the open doorway of the barn. The rosy sun coming behind him put him completely in shadow, but she recognized him instantly. Her hands flew to her wild hair, trying to pull the strands into a tail. Then, realizing what she was doing, she balled her hands into fists and pressed them against her apron. Why should she care if she looked a sight? There was no reason to impress Jack Berkley.

She struggled to her feet, placing one hand on Bossie’s broad back for support. ‘‘J-Jack. I didn’t expect you to come by ’til midafternoon.’’

He strode forward a few feet. His features came into view, and she could see his familiar broad, easy smile. ‘‘I figured on giving you a hand with the milking, but I see you’ve got it done. You always were one for tackling whatever needed tackled.’’

The approval in his tone sent a coil of warmth through Anna Mae’s middle. She pushed a hand to her stomach to remove the feeling and responded tartly. ‘‘Not much else I can do. Poor old Bossie here wouldn’t appreciate me leaving her untended.’’

Jack took one more step toward her. Even though a good four feet still separated them, it was too close for Anna Mae’s comfort. She moved to the other side of the milk bucket.

‘‘Did I hear you say you’re expecting another baby?’’ Jack’s voice indicated surprise. ‘‘Harley didn’t say anything about that when he came by.’’

‘‘We only just found out.’’ Why would Harley need to mention that to Jack anyway? It wasn’t any of his business.

Jack shook his head, his sun-bleached hair flopping down across his wide forehead. ‘‘Seems an odd time for him to be taking off, with you expecting.’’

Although a part of her agreed, this wasn’t a conversation she wanted to have with Jack. She shrugged, then bent over to pick up the milk bucket. Before she could straighten, however, Jack stepped forward and took the bucket from her hands.