What Once Was Lost

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

“You what?”

  Mr. Jonnson turned to Cora. “Could you take Tommy somewhere for a few minutes? Maybe to that room”—he tilted his head toward the bedroom—“or to Mrs. Beasley’s parlor?”

  Cora scowled. “We ain’t allowed in the parlor, an’ with that stinky sock in our room, I’m not goin’ in there.” She took Tommy’s hand and drew him away from Christina’s protective arm. “C’mon, Tommy. I ain’t seen the outside since last Sunday. Let’s go get us some sunshine.” She escorted the boy out the back door.

  As soon as the pair departed, Mr. Jonnson gestured to the small worktable. “Could we sit for a minute? I need to talk to you.”

  Each time over the past few weeks when she’d been invited to talk, the bearer had brought bad news. Christina’s stomach knotted. Instinctively, she reached for Papa’s watch and curled her fingers around the cool disk. Fortified, she gave a nod and preceded him to the table. The cat trotted along beside her and leaped into her lap the moment she sat.

  A lopsided grin formed briefly on Mr. Jonnson’s face before he slid into the opposite chair. He pointed to the furry creature. “Found yourself a friend, huh?”

  “Yes. She’s a sweet girl.” Christina ran her hands through the cat’s soft fur, finding comfort in the animal’s presence. “I’ll miss her when Cora and I return to the poor farm.”

  “When do you think that’ll be?”

  Christina frowned. “I wish I knew …”

  “It needs to be soon.”

  His somber tone chilled her. “Why?”

  Mr. Jonnson rested his joined hands on the table’s worn top and leaned forward slightly. Sunlight streamed through the window and fell on his face, bringing out the lighter strands of honey in his hair and emphasizing the green flecks in his eyes. “Because you have to get Tommy back to his home. You should’ve seen him in the room at the Tatums’ house. I couldn’t leave him there.” The man blanched. “It’s not a good place for him.”

  She ducked her head, guilt weighing her down.

  “The sooner you get the poor farm house repaired, the sooner he’ll feel secure again.”

  He wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t already know, but how could she do it on her own? She glanced at the letter she’d written, hoping the words would be enough to persuade the mission board to act swiftly.

  “It’s been what now … nearly three weeks?”

  Miserably, Christina nodded. Long, weary, sadness-laden weeks.

  Mr. Jonnson continued, his gloomy tone becoming matter-of-fact. “The weather’s nicer now. Spring is a good time for building, if the house can be rebuilt.”

  “It can be,” she injected.

  He tipped his head, genuine concern glimmering in his eyes. “Then why haven’t you started?”

  His insinuation that she had made no effort to repair the house or to see to the needs of the residents stung. “Mr. Jonnson, I cannot manufacture the funds required to take on a project of such magnitude. I rely on the mission board for financial support, and they are—” In her mind’s eye the disdainful faces of Mr. Regehr and Mr. Breneman chastised her anew. She couldn’t bear to tell Mr. Jonnson the mission board was unwilling to support her place of ministry. Somehow she would convince the members otherwise. She would!

  Mr. Jonnson sat silently for several seconds before clearing his throat. “Are they lacking funds?”

  Christina knew the board struggled to keep all its projects in operation. She nodded.

  “What if I …” He leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment, as if arguing with himself. Then he gave a little jolt and fixed his unsmiling gaze on her once more. “What if I donated the lumber. Would it help?”

  Christina clapped her hands to her face. Had she heard him correctly? Had he just offered to provide the lumber needed to repair her home—her place of service?

  “I haven’t seen the house. I don’t know how much damage was done. But I could ride out today, take a look around, get an idea.”

  Christina’s ears rang, but Mr. Jonnson’s steady voice somehow managed to penetrate the high-pitched whine inside her head.

  “I’ve got some of last season’s lumber left over—knotty pine, all flitch cut, so there are different widths, but the depth is all the same. It would do for rebuilding the outside walls.”

  Excitement created a flurry in Christina’s stomach. “Y-you’d give it to me?”

  He offered a slow nod.

  She searched his somber face, her desire to understand this man overriding every other emotion. “But why?”

  His lips twisted into a wry grimace. “I … have my reasons.” And then he fell silent.

  Christina fiddled with the letter she’d penned. If she added yet another paragraph, sharing Mr. Jonnson’s wonderful contribution with the mission board, would it be enough to convince them to reestablish the poor farm at its present location? Might they even credit her with acquiring such a generous donation and rethink their stance on her ability to lead? Her breath came in little spurts as she considered the mill owner’s offer. She couldn’t refuse. She didn’t dare refuse.

  But before she accepted his offer, she needed him to know exactly how much lumber would be required. She set the letter aside. “Before you commit to this donation, Mr. Jonnson, it’s best you examine the house. Noon is still three hours away. If we hurry, we can be there and back before it’s time for Cora and me to serve lunch. Would that be acceptable to you?”

  Chapter 18

  Cora, one arm around Tommy and the other holding the quilt closed around them, jounced back and forth as Mr. Jonnson’s wagon rattled along the road on the way to the poor farm. Tommy was pressed so tightly against her side they moved as one in the wagon’s bed. She smiled down at him even though he couldn’t see it. It felt good—right—to have him nearby.

  She’d been drawn to Tommy from her first moments at the poor farm. Any fool could tell he was hurting. Hurting from being shucked away, same as she’d been. Maybe he’d been able to sense her deep pain—he possessed an odd way of seeing with his heart since his eyes didn’t work anymore—because he’d seemed to attach himself to her. Seemed to like her more than the others at the poor farm. She chuckled, marveling. What a pair they were, him with his broken eyes and her with her broken spirit. And no hope for either of them to regain what they’d lost.

  The wagon hit a rut, jarring the wagon. Tommy released a little yelp and flailed his arms. Cora gripped him tighter and turned to glance at the seat, where Mr. Jonnson and Miss Willems sat side by side in silence. “We almost there?”

  Miss Willems stayed facing ahead, all hunkered in her coat with a lap robe pulled clear up to her hips, but she nodded. “I can see it now.”

  Mr. Jonnson lifted his chin as if peering ahead. “From the front you wouldn’t know there’d even been a fire.”

  “The kitchen was added on the back, along with a bedroom that was originally used by the maid,” Miss Willems explained. “The bedroom was badly damaged, but the kitchen is nearly destroyed.”

  “So the fire started there?”

  “Yes.”

  Beside Cora, Tommy began to quiver. His face had turned white. She jostled his shoulder. “Tommy?”

  He bit his lower lip and buried his face in the quilt.

  Concerned, Cora started to tell Miss Willems that something was wrong with the boy, but before she could, Mr. Jonnson turned in at the poor farm’s lane, and Miss Willems pointed ahead.

  “Wes is here tending the animals. Do you want to park near the barn? Perhaps Tommy and Cora would like to visit with Wes while you and I go to the house.”

  Mr. Jonnson drew up alongside the poor farm’s wagon, and his pair of horses greeted the poor farm’s mare with some snuffling noises.

  Cora threw aside the quilt and helped Tommy to the side of the bed. Mr. Jonnson caught him under the arms and lifted him out. Then the man reached for her. For a moment she froze, another picture replacing the one of Mr. Jonnson. Hands extended to her, a wide grin and knowin
g eyes offering an invitation. That day she’d taken those hands, let them pull her into a clutching embrace. And now nothing was the same. She scrunched her eyes tight, willing the memory away, then opened them to look into Mr. Jonnson’s face. His friendly, honest face. She shivered. She wouldn’t allow any man to touch her. Not again. She shook her head, and he backed away.

  Mr. Jonnson offered his help to Miss Willems instead, and she accepted without a moment’s pause. Jealousy coursed through Cora. If only she could turn back time. Not go to that hayfield with Emmet Wade. Then maybe she’d feel worthy of attention from a nice man like Mr. Jonnson. But then again, maybe not.

  Gaze downcast, she clambered out of the wagon bed, careful to keep her skirts tucked tightly to her legs. When Miss Willems alighted, she and Mr. Jonnson headed for the house. Part of Cora wanted to follow them—to hear Mr. Jonnson say whether or not he had enough leftover boards to repair all that needed fixing. But most of her wanted to escape the uncomfortable feelings caused by looking at his hands extended to her.

  She caught Tommy’s elbow. “C’mon. Let’s go check on Wes an’ all our critters, huh?”

  Tommy nodded. He still looked a little pale, and he crunched his lips together as if something pained him. Maybe the cold air and bouncing around had been hard on him—he had been awful sick after all. Cora hurried him into the barn, where it was warmer.

  Wes came at them, pitchfork in hand and a huge smile splitting his face. “Hey!” He caught Tommy in a bear hug, then grabbed Cora the same way before she had a chance to think. “What you doin’ out here?” He bumped Tommy’s shoulder with his massive fist, still grinning. “You come to help muck stalls?”

  “Miss Willems an’ Mr. Jonnson’re lookin’ at the house, checking out the damage,” Cora said. Tommy rocked in place and bobbed his head around, sniffing the air. Remembering how he’d smelled the fire first, she wondered if he was reliving their last night in the poor farm house. If so, they weren’t good memories. Cora went on, hoping her next words would cheer the boy. “Mr. Jonnson says he’s willing to give us the wood to fix it. Leastways, the outside. An’ Miss Willems said if we can get the outside done, we can live in it until we have enough money to fix the inside.”

  Wes let out a whoop, and Tommy jumped at the sound. Cora threw her arm around the boy’s shoulders and squeezed, trying to give some comfort. Tommy sure seemed rattled. Or spooked.

  Holding on to Tommy, she spoke to Wes. “I wouldn’t complain about leavin’ the boardinghouse. That Mrs. Beasley, she’s a real bearcat.”

  Wes ambled toward a back stall, the pitchfork over his shoulder. “Least you got a decent place to stay.” He jammed the fork’s tines into a pile of hay and tossed the clump of yellow straw over the stall’s wall for the cow. “Me? I been sleepin’ with the animals.” He paused, leaning on the pitchfork handle, and sighed. “Been warm enough and dry. Even so, sure will be glad to get in a bed again.” He returned to forking up hay.

  Cora looped her arm through Tommy’s and followed Wes. “You know anything about buildin’, Wes?”

  Wes paused and puffed out his chest. “I know … some.”

  “How long, you reckon, before those walls are all fixed again?”

  He worked his lips back and forth, his forehead wrinkling in deep thought. “Well … if just one man’s seein’ to it, it’ll take a while. But if there’s a whole crowd …” His eyes flew open wide. “Hey! You ever heard of a barn raisin’?”

  Cora shook her head.

  “I seen ’em. Lots of ’em where I used to live.” Wes shivered. Cora suspected they were excitement shivers instead of cold ones. “Whole lotta folks get together. The women, they bring food to keep everybody satisfied, an’ the men all work an’ get a barn up in one day.”

  Cora crinkled her nose. “A day? You sure? That don’t seem likely.”

  “I’m tellin’ you, I’ve seen it.” Wes poked straw over the stall where the two goats resided, and they bleated in appreciation. “If a whole bunch o’ folks from town would come together, we could get that house built—outside an’ inside—an’ all move back in again, like it oughta be.”

  Cora chewed the inside of her lip. “Dunno, Wes. Seems like we’d need more’n just hands to get all that work done. Takes a heap of money, too. An’ money ain’t somethin’ we’ve got.”

  Wes headed for the toolroom at the back of the barn. Cora took Tommy’s hand and trailed after him. He hung the pitchfork on its hooks, then stood staring at the implement, his hands in his pockets. “When Mr. Willems ran things, there was always money. Never any extra, but the mission board, they sent what he needed. Didn’t seem like it took all that much to get help.” He turned toward Cora and frowned. “Don’t wanna sound mean or anything, ’cause you know I’m right fond of Miss Willems, but I can’t figure why them mission men ain’t wantin’ to give her the money. They don’t even wanna keep her in charge.”

  Tommy’s mouth dropped open. “They—they’re sendin’ her away?”

  Cora shook her head hard, giving Wes a fierce look to hush up. But the big man kept on talking.

  “They said a man oughta be runnin’ the place.” Wes scratched his head. “I’m wonderin’ if they’ve got a man all picked out to run the place. They talked about Ham Dresden. Sure hope they ain’t gonna put that lazy coot in charge.”

  Tommy’s entire frame began to tremble. Cora huffed in aggravation at Wes’s thoughtlessness and turned Tommy toward the wide doorway. They’d only taken a couple of steps when Miss Willems entered the barn. Tommy must have heard her skirts swishing or smelled the lilac water she wore, because he broke loose from Cora’s grip and stumbled forward, his hands reaching out.

  Miss Willems dashed forward and caught him. He fell against her, shaking. Miss Willems looked at Cora, all befuddled. “What’s wrong with him?”

  Cora chewed her lip. “It’s—We was just—”

  Wes stomped up behind her. “It’s my fault, Miss Willems. I was tellin’ Cora an’ Tommy about what the mission men said—about them thinkin’ it’d be better if somebody else ran the poor farm.” His face changed to a rueful scowl. “I didn’t mean to upset Tommy.” He stretched out one hand and gave the boy a few awkward pats on the back. “I’m sorry, Tommy. I shoulda kept quiet.”

  Cora gave the talkative man a blistering look. He should’ve kept quiet, for sure! She turned to Miss Willems. “But don’t you worry, Miss Willems. We—all of us—we wouldn’t want anybody but you to take care of things. If those mission men ask us, we’ll all say we want you. Won’t we, Wes?”

  Sheepishly, Wes scuffed his boot toe on the ground. “ ’Course we will.”

  “So see?” Cora forced as much cheeriness into her tone as she could muster. “You don’t got to worry for one minute, Miss Willems. Like you’re always sayin’, God’ll take care of it.” Was the God Miss Willems prayed to listening? “You ain’t gonna be goin’ anywhere.”

  Miss Willems set Tommy aside. “Did you hear what Cora said, Tommy? There’s no reason to worry, is there?”

  Tommy couldn’t see the fear in Miss Willems’s eyes, but Cora sure could. She held her breath while Tommy gave a hesitant nod.

  Miss Willems took Tommy’s hand. “We’re finished here, and we need to get back. Are you ready to go, Cora?”

  The women said good-bye to Wes and then hurried out to the wagon, where Mr. Jonnson stood waiting for them. He boosted Tommy in first, then helped Miss Willems onto the seat. Cora used the wagon wheel as a ladder and climbed in with Tommy. As soon as they were settled, Mr. Jonnson pulled himself up next to Miss Willems and released the brake.

  Mr. Jonnson and Miss Willems talked quietly together on the seat, but the grind of the wheels on the hard ground kept Cora from hearing their words. She wondered if Tommy could hear them. His ears seemed to pick up things easier than hers did. She started to ask him, but when she glimpsed his worried face, she decided to leave him be. Instead, she stared at the poor farm buildings slowly disappearing behind the gentle
rise in the road. Her heart twisted in her chest. The poor farm was the best home she’d ever had. And Miss Willems was so nice, taking in people nobody else wanted, like Tommy with his blind eyes and Wes with his simple brain. When Cora finally found the courage to tell Miss Willems her secret, surely the lady wouldn’t make her go away. But if some man came along to be in charge, he’d send her scooting for sure.

  She pulled Tommy tight against her side, seeking comfort. He rested his head on her shoulder. “It’ll be all right,” she murmured. “ ’Course it will.” She hoped Tommy found more peace in her assurances than she did.

  Levi drew the team to a halt outside the boardinghouse. He watched the young woman named Cora plant a kiss on Tommy’s cheek and whisper something in his ear before scrambling over the edge of the wagon and dashing for the house. Tommy sat right where she’d left him, in the middle of the hay-strewn bed, hands limp in his lap and his shoulders slumped.

  Frustration stabbed, carried on a wave of anger. In his short time with the Tatums, the boy had lost the fragile confidence Levi worked so hard to instill in him. He wouldn’t take Tommy back to that house no matter what Miss Willems said.

  Aware of Tommy’s very sharp hearing, Levi dropped his voice to a whisper. “Mrs. Tatum told me a family named Spencer took in the other two youngsters from the poor farm. Do you suppose they’d be willing to let Tommy stay there, too?”

  Miss Willems sent a quick, sympathetic look to the back of the wagon. Moisture brightened her eyes, and she shook her head. “I asked. Although they aren’t terribly young—late twenties or early thirties—they’ve only been married a couple of years. They said three children would be overwhelming.”

  Despite the seriousness of their conversation, Levi battled a grin. Miss Willems’s gravelly voice didn’t fit the sweet curve of her jaw or the soft upturn of her lips. Full sunlight brightened her face, bringing every small feature into view. Levi found himself examining her by increments, and he found the inspection pleasing.

  Up close, her eyes were a clear blue lined with thick, curling lashes. Three very faint freckles decorated the bridge of her nose, and one more resided on her left cheekbone—the perfect spot for a man to place a kiss. A few gentle lines creased the corners of her eyes, and her lips were full and a soft rose color. She was as she described the Spencers—not terribly young—but she appeared as fresh and unspoiled as a new oak leaf freshly unfurled.