They made their way out behind the house to the summer kitchen. Although Anne didn’t cook, she managed to help out by fetching and carrying various things her mother and sister needed.
“I’m rolling out the dough now, Ma,” Millie said as they came in.
“The dough for what?” Anne inhaled the fragrant chicken boiling in a large pot on the black cast-iron stove. “Oh Ma, you shouldn’t be going to such trouble.”
“Yes, I should. I couldn’t have you leave without making your favorite dishes.”
“Tonight we’re having chicken pie, green beans, fresh bread, and Ma’s strudel for dessert.” Millie smiled broadly and brushed a strand of her bright blond hair from her face.
Tears caused Anne’s sight to swim for a moment. Blinking them away, she took a basket from the worktable. “I’ll go pick the green beans.”
“I’ve already done it.”
“Is there anything for me to do just now?” Anne asked hopefully.
Ma looked at her and then sighed. “No. You can go on out to the barn.”
She smiled. “Thank you, Ma.”
Anne stepped inside the barn and breathed in the familiar, earthy odor of weathered wood, hay, and straw. It was one of her most favorite places. She missed the days of her childhood when she would follow Pa from the haymow above to the milking stalls down below, helping him and the hired hands tend the livestock. But as she grew older, Pa told her she shouldn’t be hanging around the barn so much. Learning to take care of a home, not animals, was more important, he’d said. She found it a little ironic that the one thing she felt gifted to do on the farm was the one thing that wasn’t proper for her to do. At least Pa had allowed her a little leeway lately. A soft nicker greeted her approach to the horse stalls. A dark head with a graying muzzle appeared, and Anne smiled, drawing from her pocket the carrot she had snitched from one of the feed bins.
“Hello, Scioto,” she said, dropping it into his feed trough, glad that the horse would be coming with her.
Scioto belonged to Uncle Daniel. He leased a house on university grounds, and Pa had been boarding him while the university built a stable on the property. The horse finished the carrot and looked to her for more. She smiled as she scratched his withers, a favorite spot.
“That’s enough for now, boy.” Pa had left his care to her since she came home, and she had become attached to the horse over the past few months. The bay Morgan nuzzled her, and she stroked his neck.
“I hear you started packing your trunk. I don’t suppose Ma was able to talk you out of leaving.”
Anne turned to see Pa approach. She smiled apologetically, shaking her head. He sighed and wrapped his arms around her, bending his tall form as he did so.
“How’s my Annie?”
“I’ll be all right.”
She felt his arms tighten and knew he still struggled not to go confront Sam. A mixture of panic and guilt surged through her. What if he did? He would certainly find out that Sam had not led her on as she had allowed her parents to believe. No, he promised Ma, she told herself. And he never breaks his promises, especially to her. While the thought eased the panic, it did little to assuage her guilt, and the urge to blurt out the truth once again enveloped her. She bit her lip and clung to Pa. How she would miss his hugs and the way he called her “Annie.” He was the only person in the whole world allowed to call her that. Scioto snuffed at them, demanding attention, and Anne’s throat loosened as she laughed softly.
“This horse sure has become attached to you.” Pa released her to face the animal. “I hope he eats for whoever Danny hired.”
“So it won’t be me?” It was silly of her to ask, she knew, but she had hoped, since she’d been allowed to take care of him here—Pa laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“I only let you take care of him when you came home because it seemed to make you feel better, but it won’t be fitting for you to see to him down there. You let the stable boy see to him.”
“Yes, Pa.” She stroked the horse’s neck. If she didn’t take care of him, who would she talk to? Scioto had become her sole confidant. Well, she could still go visit him—in the evenings, maybe.
“Besides, all those young men down there won’t want you smelling like horse,” he added.
Anne said nothing and fussed with Scioto until Pa took her by the chin, forcing her to look up at him.
“I know it’s hard, but trust God with your heart and your future.”
Anne swallowed the words impossibly stuck in her throat. It wasn’t about trust. Not really. She trusted that God knew what He was doing. She just couldn’t understand why. With Pa’s gentle eyes still watching her, she tried to form a reply. The gentle low of a cow told her it was time to do the milking.
“The cows are waiting,” she said.
“I’d best go let them in,” Pa said slowly. “Think on what I said.” She nodded, and he gave her a quick hug then turned to leave.
Once he was gone, Anne fetched a brush and stepped into Scioto’s stall to groom him. The swish of the brush as it smoothed his coat usually had a soothing effect on her. But packing her trunk today had nudged her plans into motion, like the wheels of a train pulling from the station. She leaned against the horse’s shoulder, and he gently snuffed and nuzzled her. She shed a few tears into his mane then dashed them away when Pa came in to do the milking.
It was the ache in his head that woke Peter more than the fact he was comfortable for the first time in months. He raised his hand to his head then opened his eyes when it came in contact with a bandage. The images around him were blurry at first, and he blinked to clear his vision. It was dark outside, and the low lamplight glowed softly over the room. He was in a bed with clean sheets and, judging from the feel of the cloth against his skin, clean clothes as well. Raising himself up on one elbow, he tried to look beyond the edge of the soft pools of light. The room was small but nicely furnished. So much so, he wondered if he was back in Pittsburgh. As his eyes adjusted, he could just make out a man’s form in a chair near the foot of the bed. His heart started and he spoke without thinking. “Granddad?”
The man chuckled. “No, I’m not quite that old.”
“I’m sorry,” Peter said.
“Don’t be; I’m sure to be called that someday, just not quite yet.” He leaned into the light. Round spectacles sat on a slender face, which the lines of age were clearly beginning to march across. His dark blond Van Dyke beard and mustache were shot with a generous amount of gray, as was his hair, which was swept back and to the side. He had a reassuring smile on his face. “I’m Professor Daniel Kirby. Who might you be?”
“Peter,” he replied then looked down at the bedclothes. “Peter … Ward.” He’d dispensed with his real name long ago, but it still felt strange saying the new one aloud. Ward had been his father’s last name. The way Peter saw things, it was time the man who sired him contributed something to his life, seeing how he’d never wanted anything to do with him while he was growing up.
The professor was silent for a moment. “I see. We’ll let that be for now. What do you remember?”
Peter closed his eyes against the onslaught of memories the question evoked. One foolish decision had made him utterly homeless, and he’d been tramping his way around three different states in as many months. He’d gained a few friends as he eked out an existence, but it was still a lonely and often dangerous way of life. He remembered hopping a boxcar in Cincinnati and drifting off to sleep. The next thing he knew, he heard yelling and felt hands taking hold of him. “I remember being pulled off the train by a group of boys. They forced me to run between two rows of them while they tried to hit me with sticks.” He could feel the lump on his head through the bandage. “I guess I didn’t do too well.”
Professor Kirby nodded. “It’s called a ‘timber lesson,’ an education young boys and—I’m sad to say—some grown men like to give tramps.” He shook his head. “It all comes from too much freedom in the home. Boys raised like that
seldom end well.” Peter winced slightly, and the professor, his face full of concern, asked, “Are you in pain?”
“No, not really.” The truth of those words had stung, though. In the past months, he’d been forced to look his own lack of guidance square in the eye.
“The Lord was surely looking after you today. It had to have been His hand that guided my colleague, Professor Townshend, and me to pass that alley when we did. We put a stop to it, but not before you took quite a blow to the head.” The professor stood and gently forced Peter to lay back. “Professor Townshend also happens to be a medical doctor. He says you should stay in bed for a few days.”
“Then, I suppose, you’ll send me off to the poorhouse.” Sighing, he laid his arm over his eyes. He’d spent one night in a poorhouse and swore never to do so again. He’d been shocked to see people placed in such deplorable conditions just because they were poor.
“No.”
The professor’s decisive tone surprised Peter, and he lifted his arm to look at him. His face was just as firm as his voice had been.
“I’m curious about your clothes.” Professor Kirby nodded to where they lay, across the back of a chair next to the bed.
Peter’s heart began to pound. They were worn and dirty, but not nearly enough for someone not to see their quality.
“The sack suit jacket seems appropriate enough. But where does a man like you get such finely made shirt and pants?”
Peter swallowed and looked away. He already liked this man and didn’t want to lie to him. But how could he tell him the truth? Meeting his eyes, he settled for partial truth. “I didn’t steal them.”
There was a pause, then Professor Kirby nodded. “I believe you.” His gaze dropped and Peter just made out what he said next. “Looking at you, how can I not?” With a slight shake, he roused himself, raised his eyes, and smiled slightly. “We’ll leave the other mysteries about you for later. It’s late, and you should rest.”
“Sir?”
The professor looked back as he opened the door.
“Where am I?”
“You’re in my home. On the grounds of The Ohio State University in Columbus, Ohio. Try to sleep now.” The door closed quietly behind him.
But Peter lay awake. How would he explain the mysteries about himself to this man who had so kindly taken him in, at least for the moment?
“Too much freedom in the home.”
The words echoed in the walls of his heart, their truth tearing at him. Being forced to beg for food and shelter had humbled him considerably. He’d come to see how spoiled he was. Earning your food was much different from having it set in front of you by a servant every night. No wonder Granddad had been angrier about Uncle Randall’s cuts in the workers’ wages than about the money McCord Steel had lost under his uncle’s care. He’d seen more than his share of youngsters homeless because their families couldn’t afford to feed them. Saddest of all were those who couldn’t hold a job because something was wrong with them—their mind or body had been injured and work wasn’t possible.
As Hiram McCord’s grandson, he’d always thought himself too good to have to earn his keep. He didn’t think that way now. His uncle had been right, at least on that score: high time he earned his way in the world. The irony of it all was now that he wanted to work, he couldn’t find a job—one look at him and no one wanted to hire him. The professor was the first person in a long time to see the man, not the tramp.
“The Lord was surely looking after you today.”
Professor Kirby was clearly a man of faith. He said those words as if he’d been speaking of a friend. If anyone would be willing to help him find an honest job, it was him. He just hoped he wouldn’t have to tell the professor any more about his past than necessary. At least he’d believed him when Peter said he hadn’t stolen the clothes.
He found the man’s faith curious. Peter had never met someone who actually followed what the Bible commanded. He certainly hadn’t done so, nor had anyone else in his acquaintance. For appearance’s sake, Granddad had made him go to church every week without fail, and as a result, he’d taken to seeing God as nothing more than someone he had to listen to once a week. As sleep finally began to melt over him, he wondered if there might be more to God than just that.
Chapter 3
You’ve decided to keep the beard.”
Peter looked up from his breakfast to find Dr. Kirby scrutinizing him. It had been a week and a half since he’d been brought to the professor’s home. He was up and about now, and although he’d made some changes to himself, the beard hadn’t been one of them.
“Mrs. Werner tried to get me to shave it again this morning, but I told her I’ve decided to keep it.” He smiled, remembering the housekeeper’s less than enthusiastic reaction.
“I’m a little … surprised,” the professor replied. “I never liked having a beard when I was your age.”
Peter thought he sounded disappointed. In all honesty, he’d have rather been clean shaven, but the thought that his uncle might be looking for him was enough to decide otherwise.
“At least I look a little more presentable now. I can’t imagine why you bothered with me, looking as I did.” He’d been shocked to see himself in the mirror a few days ago when Mrs. Werner gave him a trim. His hair and beard had grown considerably in the three months he’d been on the road. “I must’ve looked like a wild man.”
“You were still a man, Peter. And in God’s eyes, you were worth the bother. Don’t you remember our discussion about Zacchaeus, yesterday?”
Peter nodded. That, and many other discussions, had been born out of his attempt to keep all conversation away from himself. Professor Kirby had been only too happy to talk about God, but Peter sensed he saw through his ploy. While that, indeed, may have been his plan at first, by his second or third day in bed, Peter began to feel a hunger for God he hadn’t known before. The professor’s kindness tapped something in his heart, and he drank up all the professor told him and eagerly read the Bible he’d loaned him.
“It doesn’t matter who you are in man’s eyes. God looks at the heart.” Dr. Kirby’s expression grew wistful. “That was one of my wife’s favorite verses. First Samuel 16:7: ‘For man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart.’ ”
Peter watched him, concerned. While he’d managed to reveal little about himself, Dr. Kirby shared much about himself and his family. He still felt keenly his wife’s death over a year ago. “Professor? Are you all right?”
“I was blessed to have my Katherine for the years I did.” Dr. Kirby roused himself. “She’s with God now, celebrating the decision you made a few days ago.”
Peter smiled. His second day out of bed had been fine, and he and the professor went for a walk. Dr. Kirby led them alongside a spring until they came to what the student body called simply the Lake, nestled in a tree-lined vale. On its shores, their conversation turned quite serious. And Peter decided to clothe himself with Christ.
But his excitement of feeling right with God was dampened because he couldn’t bring himself to tell Dr. Kirby his whole story. He couldn’t bear the thought of the disappointment in the doctor’s eyes when he told him about the ugly person he had once been. He could hardly think of it himself. Maybe it would be best if he moved on as quickly as possible. But how? He didn’t have a job. He didn’t even own the clothes he now wore. He looked at the professor.
“Thank you for giving me these clothes, sir. I’ll return them to you when my own are clean.”
“Keep them. I insist.”
Peter bit his lip. However much had been spent on him, he was determined to pay back.
They finished their breakfast, or rather, Peter did. Professor Kirby had been eating until he mentioned his wife. After that he’d allowed the rest to grow cold, between reading the Columbus Dispatch and staring out the window. He revived somewhat when he discovered Peter intended to spend time reading his Bible and invited him into the library.
&n
bsp; “Classes will begin soon, and I have lecture notes and lessons to review. It will be nice to have company for a change.”
The library connected to the parlor through a set of sliding doors, which were open. While the professor settled behind his desk, Peter found himself drawn to the pictures on the oak mantel.
“Are these of your family, sir?”
“Yes,” Dr. Kirby replied. “Please, feel free to look at them.”
The first was a photograph of two young people, only a few years younger than he. “Are these your children?”
“Yes. Rebecca and Joseph. She’s married and lives in Cincinnati. My son is in college—in Maine.”
Noting the slight pause, Peter looked closely at Joseph. Was his relationship with the professor strained? He thought better of asking, especially after noticing the pensive look that crossed the professor’s face before he turned his attention to the papers before him.
The next pictured a lovely dark-haired woman sitting on a chair, the professor standing behind her. It was, without a doubt, a picture of him and his wife, taken several years ago. They both looked so young. Peter now understood, if only a little, Professor Kirby’s pain. The look of kind serenity on Katherine Kirby’s face was enough to assume she must have been a gentle and gracious woman. In some hazy way, she reminded him of his own mother. He had vague memories of her having that same sweet look on her face, and dark hair as well. Peter moved to the next picture, and his eyes widened at the vision.
It would be nothing short of an insult to call the young woman merely pretty, at least to Peter’s way of thinking. As far as he was concerned, she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. The black and white photograph made it impossible to tell exactly the color of her hair, but her ringlets shone smooth, and her large eyes were lively above a small, straight nose and pert mouth. The more he looked at her, the more fascinated he became, and he immediately began to plan how to win her over. Every girl was different. Some required gifts, others responded to effusive compliments. He’d even attended a temperance meeting in order to win one young lady’s affections. Some girls were hard to crack, and some were ridiculously easy, but one way or another, they always laid their hearts at his feet. Certainly, she would be no different.
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