The boardinghouse owner answered Levi’s knock on the front door. She blinked at him blearily. Her dress was rumpled, her knot of gray hair askew, and she yawned widely behind her hand. Obviously he’d disturbed her Sunday afternoon nap. “Can I help you?”
Levi snatched off his hat and held it in both hands. “I’d like to speak to Miss Willems, please.”
A slight frown creased the woman’s face. “She ain’t here. Always spends Sunday afternoons with the poor farm folk. Last week they all went to Tina Claussen’s place, on Washington Street. Dunno where they went today, though.”
Levi fiddled with his hat. “When will she be back?”
“Somewhere around four so she an’ Cora can prepare supper for my boarders.” Her gaze narrowed. “But she’ll be workin’ then. No time for visitin’.”
Which meant he needed to locate her before she returned to duty. He slipped his hat into place. “Thank you, ma’am.”
She closed the door without a word.
Levi returned to the wagon and swung himself into the seat. He took up the reins but sat with them draped over his palms, unmoving. What should he do? He could return to the mill and come back tomorrow morning, but Wes would stumble upon that damaged lumber when he went out to feed the animals. No doubt the man would go straight to Miss Willems. Levi needed to be the one to tell her—he’d find a way to gently share what had happened rather than just blurt it out. But how would he find her? She could have been invited to lunch by any number of parishioners.
His stomach rumbled. He and Tommy needed to eat. Brambleville’s only café wasn’t open on Sunday, but they could go to the hotel dining room. Hopefully he had enough in his pocket to pay for two dinners. He tugged the reins, urging the horse to turn the wagon around.
Tommy grabbed the seat with both hands and looked back and forth. “Where we goin’?”
“To get something to eat.”
“Oh.” The boy aimed his face away from Levi and fell silent.
Levi gritted his teeth. They might both end up with indigestion, but while they ate, he’d talk to Tommy about putting other people’s needs ahead of his own. He couldn’t let the boy grow up to be self-centered and reclusive—Levi’s chest tightened—like him. Only a couple of wagons were parked outside the hotel, leaving Levi plenty of room. He called, “Whoa,” and his horse snorted as they came to a stop. Levi set the brake, hopped down, and said, “Let’s go, Tommy.”
Tommy eased his way to the edge of the wagon and took hold of the side. Slowly, as stiff as an old man, he lifted one leg over and found the wagon wheel with his foot. Levi stepped back, close enough to catch the boy if he fell but far enough away to give him space. Tommy’s feet met the ground, and he heaved a sigh of relief.
Levi took Tommy’s elbow and guided him onto the boardwalk. Even before they reached the door, the aromas of fried chicken, biscuits, and apple pie greeted them. Tommy sniffed the air, and Levi’s stomach rolled over in eagerness. He gave Tommy’s arm a little tug and sped his feet.
The dining room waited to the left of the wide hallway, its glass french doors open in invitation. From the sound of things, a sizable crowd was taking advantage of the hotel’s cooking today. Levi hoped there’d be room for him and the boy. They stepped from the stained-oak hallway onto a thick red carpet covered in green ribbon swirls and large cream-colored roses. Levi had always liked the feel of carpet beneath his feet—almost as nice as a thick covering of sawdust.
Round tables draped with white cloths crowded the room, and—as Levi had suspected—folks filled nearly every chair. He paused and glanced around, seeking an empty table. To his relief two were available. He urged Tommy toward the closest one.
The hotel owner’s daughters, Birdie and Virgie—a pair of stout young women who’d had the misfortune of inheriting their father’s oversize nose and broad chin—bustled from table to table, refilling coffee cups or delivering plates of food. He caught Birdie’s eye, and she hurried over as he and Tommy slid into chairs.
“Good afternoon.” She swiped at her glistening brow with the back of her hand. “Do you need to see a menu, or would you like to order the special? Fried chicken with fixin’s today.”
Levi plopped his hat on the table next to his silverware. “Is the Sunday special still thirty-five cents a plate?”
“Yep. Or forty cents with pie.”
Levi patted his pocket, imagining the coins inside. The cinnamon essence of the apple pie drifting from a nearby table enticed him, but he needed to be sensible. “Two specials, no pie.”
She hurried off.
Tommy sat with his head low and his shoulders raised, a familiar pose when surrounded by people. Levi was ready to tap his arm and instruct him to sit up straight instead of hiding like a prairie dog in its burrow, but the boy suddenly bolted upright, his gaze bouncing around. He groped and found Levi’s arm.
“Mr. Jonnson, I hear—”
Before the boy could complete the sentence, the swish of skirts alerted Levi to someone’s approach. He turned slightly and found himself looking at the round silver watch that always hung against the bodice of Miss Willems’s green muslin dress.
When Levi Jonnson entered the hotel dining room with Tommy in tow, Christina could hardly believe her eyes. She’d been certain some catastrophe had kept the man from venturing into town. Perhaps the rain had flooded his roadway, or maybe he’d had some sort of emergency in his mill. What other explanation could there be for his breaking his promise to bring Tommy to church? Now, seeing them share a round table as if coming to the hotel to eat were an everyday occurrence, anger stirred.
The man leaped to his feet. “Miss Willems.”
She aimed a frown at Mr. Jonnson while placing her hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “I see you’re surprised to find me here. Had Mr. and Mrs. Creeger not invited the poor farm residents to join them for a celebratory dinner today, you would have escaped my notice completely.”
“Actually, I’m glad you’re here.” Mr. Jonnson met her gaze. Something akin to sympathy glimmered in his eyes.
A prickling disquiet nudged her irritation aside. Beneath her palm Tommy shivered as if he were planted in a snowbank. She turned a worried gaze on the boy. “Tommy, are you ill?”
“He’s fine.” A hint of impatience colored the man’s tone. He held his hand toward the double doors leading to the hallway. “Could we step outside for a moment? I need to talk to you.”
One of the servers approached the table, balancing white plates piled high with crisp fried chicken, boiled potatoes, green peas, and buttery biscuits. She sent Mr. Jonnson a puzzled look. “You gonna eat?”
“Yes. Thank you, Birdie.” Mr. Jonnson took the plates and set them on the table, one in front of Tommy and one in front of his empty chair. “Tommy, go ahead and eat. I’ll be right back.” Then he commandeered Christina’s elbow and guided her to the hallway.
Her face flamed at his familiarity. The moment they cleared the doors, she pulled loose of his grip, but the imprint of his warm, strong hand lingered, sending odd tingles up and down her spine. She peeked into the dining room, certain everyone would be staring at them. But they all seemed focused on their meals. Relieved, she straightened her skirts and folded her arms over her waist in a protective gesture. “All right. I’m listening. Why did you not bring Tommy to service this morning if he’s fine?”
He ran his hand through his hair, leaving the thick, wheat-colored strands standing in appealing ridges. “He didn’t want to go. And I decided not to force him.”
“You decided—”
“Miss Willems, there’s something more important I need to tell you.”
Christina shook her head. “There’s nothing more important than Tommy’s spiritual development. I thought you understood—”
“Miss Willems!” Although he held his voice to a low volume, his tone became stern.
Christina clamped her lips closed.
He finger-combed his hair once more, his gaze dropping to the floor
for a moment. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to snap at you, but …” Raising his head, he looked directly into her eyes. The compassion she’d glimpsed earlier returned. “Tommy and I rode out to the poor farm this morning instead of going to services. I wanted to look at the house—see if the rain had caused any further damage.”
Christina’s heart fluttered in her chest. “And had it?”
“No. The canvas someone hung—”
“Wes,” she inserted.
“It kept most of the rain out. But there was … something else.”
Fingers of trepidation tiptoed up her spine. “W-what else?”
Mr. Jonnson pulled in a deep breath and released it. “Miss Willems, someone took an ax to the lumber I brought out to rebuild the walls.”
Christina’s head whirled. She reached for the doorjamb and missed. If Mr. Jonnson hadn’t caught her, she might have collapsed. He quickly put his arm around her waist and led her to a pair of chairs tucked in an alcove off the entry. She sank down, grateful for the sturdy seat beneath her. Placing her head in her hand, she moaned, “I can’t believe someone would do such a thing.”
Mr. Jonnson eased into the second chair. “I wouldn’t have either if I hadn’t seen it. The wood is a mess, completely unusable for building walls.”
She looked at the man, his image blurring through a spurt of tears. “Is that why Tommy is upset? Did you tell him about it?”
“He found the wood first. But he—” He drew in a deep breath, and when he spoke again, great tenderness colored his tone. “Miss Willems, he seemed more pleased than upset. He said if the lumber couldn’t be used, it would take longer for the men from town to repair the house. Then he could stay with me longer.”
He couldn’t have hurt her more if he’d lifted an ax and brought it down on her head. Tommy didn’t want to return to the poor farm. To her care. Tears filled her eyes, then lost their moorings on her lashes and spilled down her cheeks in a warm torrent. Abashed, she covered her face with her hands. She almost missed his quiet question.
“You don’t think Tommy was the one who swung the ax, do you?”
Protectiveness welled. She wiped away her tears and met his gaze. “Absolutely not. Tommy isn’t strong enough to wreak such damage. And even if he were strong enough and saw this as his means of … of staying with you, I can’t imagine him being deliberately destructive.” She lowered her head again, battling another wave of tears.
“I’m awfully sorry, Miss Willems. I know this is hard for you.” The man’s voice—soft, kind, understanding—cut through her fog of pain. “Remember he’s just a boy. A confused boy who feels accepted and needed with me.”
Though sweetly uttered, his comment did nothing to soothe her pierced soul. Tommy hadn’t felt accepted and needed by her?
He went on in that same tender tone. “I promised you enough lumber to fix your walls, and I’ll make sure you get it. It’ll take me a while longer now. I have to wait for my shipment of logs to arrive and then cut them. But you’ll have it.”
Of course she wanted the lumber. She couldn’t replace the kitchen without it. But even more than the lumber, she wanted Tommy’s devotion again. She’d cared for him for two years, and during that time she’d grown to love him as if he were her own son. Within the span of a few weeks, he’d transferred his affection from Christina to the mill owner. How would she regain it?
“I’ll have a talk with Tommy. I’ll make sure”—he hunkered forward as if his stomach pained him—“he understands his staying with me is temporary. As soon as the poor farm house is repaired, he’ll go back. I won’t allow any argument.”
A glimmer of hope wriggled its way through Christina’s breast. Yes, as soon as they were back under the roof of the poor farm, things would return to normal. Tommy was simply reacting to all the changes thrust upon him recently. He’d found a sense of security with Mr. Jonnson, and he didn’t want to lose it. Who could blame the boy? He needed a father figure, and Mr. Jonnson was strong and able and—she gulped, recognition dawning—worthy of admiration. His acceptance of Tommy, his willingness to provide lumber at no cost, even his determination to return Tommy to her care when she knew he’d grown fond of the boy endeared him to her.
She sat gazing into his handsome face, seeking a way to thank him. But words wouldn’t form. She drew in a shuddering breath, bringing her tears under control. “Your dinner is growing cold.”
He blinked twice, frowning slightly. Then his expression cleared, and he nodded. “And you need to return to your celebration.” He tipped his head, giving him a boyish appearance that set her heart fluttering in a strange and somehow pleasing manner. “What are you celebrating?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Creeger’s anniversary,” her voice squeaked out. She cleared her throat. “Their fourteenth.”
He smiled. “That’s nice.”
“Yes.” She jerked to her feet, wiping her cheeks to remove any vestiges of tears. “They’re probably wondering where I am.”
“Let me escort you.”
“No.” She backed away, suddenly very uneasy in his all-too-appealing presence. “I … I can find my own way.”
Disappointment seemed to flicker in his eyes for a moment, but then he nodded. “I understand.”
Did he? A new burst of heat seared her cheeks. She turned and fled.
Chapter 27
Tommy tipped his head, listening. The slight creak of rocking wood joined the gentle burble of the river. They’d reached the mill. In moments Mr. Jonnson would stop the wagon. He’d tell Tommy to climb down and go into the house. And he’d have to go in, because where else could he go?
His jaw ached from clenching his teeth so hard. He’d hated sitting there alone eating his chicken. He’d hated listening to all those voices from people at other tables and knowing none of them were talking to him. Then Mr. Jonnson hadn’t even apologized for leaving him by himself. And Miss Willems hadn’t bothered to say good-bye. And worst of all, Mr. Jonnson was angry with him. Angry. With him. Tommy’s stomach hurt.
“Whoa …” Reins squeaked, and metal fittings from the horse’s rigging clanked. The wagon creaked to a stop. The ahem of a clearing throat sounded next to Tommy’s ear, and then Mr. Jonnson spoke again. “All right, Tommy. Head inside. I’ll be there as soon as I unhitch the horse and put the wagon away.”
Tommy unfolded himself from the seat by inches. He’d sat so still and stiff on the ride from town his muscles didn’t want to cooperate. With jerky movements he managed to climb down from the seat.
“Maybe six steps to the porch. You can find the door from there.”
Tommy gritted his teeth and balled his hands into fists. He wished he could see where to go without having to rely on Mr. Jonnson’s instructions. He didn’t want to listen to the man. Didn’t want to need him. Not now. But he wouldn’t be able to find his way on his own. So he did what Mr. Jonnson said, but he dragged his feet rather than lifting them. On the sixth shuffling step, his toes bumped the edge of the porch stair. Hands stretched in front of him, he felt his way to the door and let himself inside.
Out of Mr. Jonnson’s sight, he walked without shuffling to the sofa and sat. Pressed his palms together between his knees. Stared straight ahead into the black nothing. And planned what he would say as soon as Mr. Jonnson came through the door. I thought you were my friend. I thought you liked me as much as I like you. I thought you understood me. But you’re not my friend. You’re a hypocrite, too. The thought of calling Mr. Jonnson such an ugly word stung, but he wouldn’t take it back. Mr. Jonnson was a hypocrite, acting like he cared about Tommy but then telling him he was all wrong.
Tommy remembered the man’s words, spoken in a nice voice but still scalding him with shame. “You need to think about Miss Willems’s feelings, Tommy. Think how much it will hurt her to put off rebuilding the kitchen so she can go home again. I’m disappointed in you for being so selfish.”
Mr. Jonnson had been disappointed in Tommy for leaving the Tatums and trying to
get to the mill again. Now he was disappointed in him for wanting to stay at the mill. Why couldn’t Mr. Jonnson support Tommy’s desire to be with him? Why couldn’t Mr. Jonnson understand how Tommy felt?
Miss Willems didn’t need him. He was just a burden for her, same as he’d been for Pa. Here at the mill, fending for himself and learning to do something useful, he’d finally felt like he mattered. Why should he want to go back to the poor farm even if it meant it would make Miss Willems happy? Didn’t Tommy’s happiness count for anything? Mr. Jonnson wanted to ignore Tommy’s needs. It hurt, being misunderstood and ignored. It hurt having Mr. Jonnson disappointed in him. And he didn’t like feeling hurt. He wished he could just not care at all.
Mr. Jonnson wouldn’t go to church because of the hypocrites. So Tommy wouldn’t stay with a hypocrite either. Just yesterday Mr. Jonnson had told him it wouldn’t be long before he’d be able to start working on that chair seat because his weaving was getting better all the time. As soon as he’d mastered caning, he’d leave. He’d go to a big city where there were factories, where they made furniture, and he’d show the boss how he could cane. And he’d get a job and take care of himself.
In the back of Tommy’s mind, worry niggled. How would he take care of himself? Would the people in the city run ropes everywhere for him to follow? How would he even find a factory? He pushed all the questions aside. He’d find a way to make it work. Because he sure wasn’t going to stay with a hypocrite. He wouldn’t stay with Miss Willems either. If he went back to the poor farm, he’d be treated like a baby again. And he might even get threatened again. His body broke out in goose flesh, and he pushed the memory deep down where it couldn’t escape. He had to get to a big city. He had to get away.
Suppressed tears created a sharp sting in his nose, and he sniffed hard. He wouldn’t cry. Babies cried. And he was no baby—he was a man. A man who could make it just fine all on his own.
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