Ours for a Season

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Anthony entered, holding the upper arm of a scruffy-looking youth. His gaze skimmed past Marty and landed on Brooke. “Well, here’s your squatter.”

  Brooke examined the thin, filthy teenager from his scuffed army boots to the gray floppy stocking cap drooping toward his left ear, all speckled with tiny bits of dried leaves. “I expected someone older. And bigger.”

  Anthony let go of the youth’s arm and grabbed the stocking cap. He pulled it straight up. Long, matted red-blond hair spilled across the thief’s narrow shoulders. Marty gasped. “A…a girl?”

  For the first time, Brooke noticed a slight protrusion at the thief’s chest level. She shook her head, releasing a disbelieving snort. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  The girl folded her arms over her chest and glared at the floor.

  Brooke held out her arms. “Marty, help me up.” Marty made a face that expressed her reluctance, but she caught hold and helped lift Brooke to her feet. One arm across her middle, Brooke shuffled across the floor to the girl who stood with her head down, chin jutted, body stiff. Brooke’s heart rolled over. It was a belligerent pose, but she suspected, underneath, this girl was quaking with uncertainty. The same way Brooke had so many times as a teen. The way she was now, with Park’s message rolling in the back of her brain.

  “What’s your name?” Brooke used a conversational rather than confrontational tone.

  The girl didn’t answer. She didn’t even blink. Brooke glanced at her audience. Anthony appeared aggravated, Nate and Charlotte uncertain, and Marty flat-out worried. Marty’s worry was probably because Brooke had taken a pain pill fifteen minutes ago and would soon be too woozy to stand. Brooke needed to get answers quickly, and she sensed she’d have more success if the four other people weren’t standing around, watching.

  She straightened as best she could and turned to Nate. “Why don’t you two go on back to your trailer? You both have an early day tomorrow, so go get your rest.”

  Nate flicked a questioning look at Anthony.

  Brooke rolled her eyes. “You don’t need his permission. Go on.”

  Anthony gave a barely discernible nod, and Nate escorted Charlotte out the door.

  Brooke shifted her attention to Anthony. “The drain in my bathroom sink burbles. I might’ve dropped something in it. Would you go take a look? If you have to take it apart, there’s a toolbox in the cabinet above the washer.”

  He didn’t seem happy, but he trudged off. Now to get Marty out of the way. That would be the hardest. Despite her promise not to hover, Marty had become an ever-present helicopter. Maybe if she appealed to Marty’s maternal side, she could buy a few minutes of privacy with this girl.

  “Marty, I imagine our young guest is hungry. Would you mind making her a sandwich? You know where to find everything.”

  Marty’s forehead creased and she chewed her lip. But she nodded and moved into the little kitchen area on the other side of the eating bar. With everyone else occupied, Brooke pinched the girl’s dirty jacket sleeve between her fingers and tugged. “Come sit down over here.” To her relief, the girl didn’t resist. She sat stiffly on the edge of the sofa cushion, and Brooke flopped down beside her.

  “Now, let me ask you again. What’s your name?”

  The girl hung her head, and her hair hid her face. She seemed to hunker into herself, like a turtle in its shell. “They call me Iris.”

  A chill wiggled up Brooke’s spine. “So is that what you want me to call you?”

  She shook her head, making her hair sway.

  “Then please tell me your name.”

  She raised her hand slowly and pushed the thick fall of hair behind her ear. Head still down, she licked her lips. “It’s Ronnie.”

  “Short for Veronica?”

  “No. Just Ronnie.”

  “All right, Ronnie. How’d you happen to end up here in Spalding? I mean, you seem like a smart enough kid. The big iron fence should have told you this is private property.”

  Ronnie angled her head until she faced away from Brooke.

  Marty approached the sofa with a sandwich wrapped in a paper towel. She offered it to Brooke.

  Brooke tapped Ronnie on the shoulder. It took more effort than she wanted to admit to raise her hand that far. Her muscles were turning into rubber, and her head was going fuzzy. “Here’s your sandwich.”

  Ronnie jerked around, grabbed the sandwich, and took a bite so big it bulged her cheek. She chomped twice, swallowed, and jammed another bite into her mouth.

  Not many things made Brooke cry, but whether it was the pill kicking in or Ronnie’s obvious hunger, she had to blink back tears. She looked at Marty. “Make her another one, okay?”

  Marty hurried off without a moment’s hesitation.

  Brooke angled her gaze at the teenager. “Listen, Ronnie, I’m not mad at you for being here. I’m not even mad at you for stealing food. A person does what she needs to when she’s hungry.” Brooke’s mouth felt dry, which made forming words a challenge. “But you can’t stay here. You’re what—thirteen, fourteen?”

  “Sixteen,” she said with her mouth full.

  Brooke didn’t believe her, but she let it go. “You ought to be with your family. Tell me your full name and I’ll—”

  Ronnie jumped up, scattering crumbs and little bits of dried leaves. “If you open the gate for me, I’ll leave. I won’t bother you again. I promise.”

  Brooke struggled to the edge of the sofa cushion. She didn’t dare try to stand, not with the way her head was swimming. “It’s late. It’s dark. You shouldn’t be out by yourself.”

  “I’ll be fine. I can take care of myself.”

  Exactly what Brooke would have said at sixteen. Or fourteen. So she knew what to say now. What she wished someone had said to her. “I’m sure you can, but you shouldn’t have to. You need somebody looking out for you.”

  Marty brought a second sandwich into the living area. She held it out, and Ronnie eyed it but didn’t reach for it.

  Brooke battled to keep her eyes open. “Tell me your name. Let me call your family.”

  Ronnie shook her head.

  Brooke’s strength gave out. She slumped against the couch’s padded backrest. “Then I’ll have to call the police.”

  Ronnie sprinted for the door, but Marty cut in front of her, calling, “Anthony!” He came at a run. Ronnie seemed to freeze in place, her wide-eyed gaze darting from Anthony to Brooke to Anthony again, back and forth like someone watching a tennis match. Tears welled and rolled down her face, leaving tracks on her dirt-smudged cheeks.

  “Please don’t let them arrest me. I don’t want to go to jail.”

  Brooke forced herself to sit up. “I already told you I don’t care that you stole food. I won’t press charges. I just want the police to take you home.”

  “But they won’t!” Her voice emerged two decibels higher than before. “They’ll put me in jail. Because I’m—” She clamped her mouth closed and breathed so heavily her nostrils flared.

  Brooke pulled herself to the edge of the couch again, inwardly cursing her uncooperative body. “Because you’re what?”

  Her panicked eyes fixed on Brooke. “I’m a prostitute.” She covered her face with her hands and burst into sobs.

  25

  Anthony

  Anthony had a hard time swallowing the scrambled eggs and bacon Charlotte fixed for the men’s breakfast the morning after finding a fourteen-year-old self-proclaimed prostitute hiding from the man who’d, as the girl had described it, pimped her out. Of course, he knew about prostitution. The practice dated back to biblical times. But he’d never looked it in the face before. He’d never imagined such a young participant in the vile industry. After seeing its evil etched into a young girl’s features, he feared he’d never be the same.

  The men had been affected, too. None o
f their usual breakfast chatter livened up the morning. Instead, they sat with sober faces. Even Lucas, the least serious of the whole bunch, was quiet, his forehead scrunched as if he had a headache. A bitter taste soured Anthony’s tongue, and he reached for his coffee, hoping another swig of the strong brew would wash the unpleasantness from his mouth and his mind.

  “What do you think’s gonna happen to Ronnie now?” Lucas blasted the question, and every man around the table seemed to freeze in place.

  Anthony lowered his cup to the table and curled both palms around it. Despite the warmth of the chunky mug, a chill exploded through him. “I don’t know. The policemen who picked her up said she’d probably go to a juvenile facility until they could find a foster home placement.”

  Charlotte crossed behind Nate and put her hands on his shoulders. Tears glistened in the corners of her eyes. “I wish there was something better for her. After all, she ran away from a foster home. That’s how she ended up with the awful man who…who sold her.” She shuddered, and Nate caught her hands and crisscrossed her arms over his chest. She sighed. “But she was so brave to run away from the truck driver who paid to be with her, and she must be very strong to have walked all the way here from Kansas City. Someone so brave and strong will be all right eventually, don’t you think?”

  Anthony considered Charlotte’s question and her comments about the girl named Ronnie. Last night the girl had quaked in fear, but mostly because the man who had forced her to sell something that should only be offered in love had convinced her she would be taken to jail if she tried to leave. What other lies had he told her? Probably many, yet she’d found the courage to escape. He nodded slowly. “Yes. Yes, I think…eventually…she will be all right.”

  A small smile lifted Charlotte’s lips. She slipped free of Nate’s loose grasp and started toward the kitchen.

  Elliott snorted. “All right? How can she ever be all right?”

  Charlotte stopped and turned back. “What do you mean?”

  He pushed his empty plate aside. “She was violated again and again by strangers. Worse, she was sold by someone she trusted to take care of her. She might be away from her pimp, but where she is now—a juvenile facility—isn’t much better. It’s a bed and three meals. That’s it. She won’t find any kind of healing there.”

  Anthony gaped at Elliott. In their days of working together, the man hadn’t said more than a few words. His outburst took Anthony by surprise, but more than that, his words struck like blows. He leaned forward and looked intently into Elliott’s face. “How do you know about the facility—that it won’t help her?”

  Elliott’s expression turned grim. “Because I’ve been in one, too.”

  All around the table, jaws dropped. Lucas drew back. “How come?”

  “My folks cut me loose when I was thirteen. I lived on the streets for a month or so. Then the cops picked me up. Said I was a vagrant.”

  Anthony couldn’t decide what bothered him more—what Elliott shared or the unemotional way he shared it.

  “They put me in a juvenile detention center, said I’d be there for a week, maybe two, and then go to a foster home. I stayed there almost two years.” His gaze dropped to his gripped hands, and he set his lips in a firm line for several seconds. “I never got put in a foster home. Most of ’em don’t want teenage boys.”

  “So where’d you go? Back on the streets?” Lucas’s face reflected both curiosity and revulsion. Anthony felt the same way, but he hoped it didn’t show.

  Elliott lifted his head and stared past Anthony’s shoulder. “A youth center. Kind of like a boarding school on lockdown. That’s where I learned construction and carpentry. They tried to keep us busy. If we were busy, they said, we wouldn’t cause trouble. So I helped add a wing to the dormitory.” He didn’t move his head, but his eyes shifted until they locked on Anthony’s. “Does all that make you want to fire me?”

  Anthony thought back to what Todd said the day they brought Elliott on the team, that it seemed Elliott needed to fit in somewhere. Todd had been right. Anthony shook his head. “It sure doesn’t. You’re a good worker, a good team member. I’m proud to have you with us.”

  “Yeah.” Todd slapped Elliott on the back. “You’re a good roommate, too, even if you do beat me at checkers most of the time.”

  Elliott blinked several times, and his chin raised a notch. “Well, I can tell you, if Ronnie’s gonna get better, she needs out of juvie hall. She needs to be with a family. Or someplace where she’ll get counseling. ’Cause if she doesn’t, she’ll probably end up doing what she did before she came here.” He shrugged. “Sometimes when you’re treated bad, you think that’s what you deserve. That it’s the only way. If she doesn’t learn different…” He pushed away from the table and glanced at the wall clock. “It’s almost seven. We better get to work.” He strode out the back door.

  Charlotte returned to the table and stood next to Anthony, wringing her hands. “What he said about Ronnie going back to…to what she was doing. Do you think that’s true?”

  Anthony wanted to say no, but he couldn’t. Didn’t most people do what was familiar? He’d grown up in the Old Order lifestyle. Even with all his traveling to secular communities, he’d always returned to what he knew best. So it seemed to follow that whatever a person knew, whether good or bad, would become their practice. Then again, Brooke had carved a different path than her mother, who, according to Marty, had spent too much of her salary on alcohol and neglected her daughter. So maybe it depended on the person. On their resilience.

  Everyone was looking at him, waiting for an answer. Waiting, probably, for wisdom. But he didn’t have any to offer. He pushed back his chair and stood. “Elliott’s right. We need to get to work. So let’s go.” The cell phone in his pocket rang. He pulled it out and waved at the men at the same time. “Go on—I’ll meet you there after I take this.”

  A glance showed Marty’s cell number on the little screen. His heart rolled over. She must have missed him last night as much as he missed her. He flipped the phone open and pressed it to his ear. “Morning, Marty.”

  “Morning.” No tenderness, only tension, came through the phone’s speaker. “Could you come by Brooke’s trailer before you go to work? She needs to talk to you about something.”

  Anthony swallowed a knot of part disappointment, part concern. “Is something wrong?”

  “She won’t tell me. She’ll only say she needs to talk to you and that it’s important.”

  Then something had to be wrong. Worse than a teenage prostitute hiding out on the property? He choked back a wry snort. Not likely. “Sure. I’ll be right over.”

  Brooke

  Anthony entered the trailer, looked her way, and turned brighter red than a vine-ripened tomato. Obviously he wasn’t accustomed to seeing a woman in pajamas. Other than Marty, of course. Even though her two-piece jammies hid everything except her head, hands, and feet, she grabbed the afghan from its spot on the sofa’s back and covered herself with it—chin to toes—for his peace of mind. Besides, she couldn’t seem to get warm. Probably the residual effects from the surgery.

  Marty gave him a quick hug, then headed to Brooke’s bedroom. She’d insisted on stripping the bed and washing the bedding—claimed Brooke would rest better on fresh-smelling sheets. Brooke doubted fresh sheets would make an ounce of difference in her ability to rest well. If pain from the surgery site didn’t disrupt her sleep, worry would surely keep her awake.

  Anthony sat in the recliner next to the sofa and plopped his cap over his knee, his gaze aimed beyond her shoulder. “What do you need?”

  She wriggled one arm free of the afghan and grabbed her cell phone from the end table. “Listen to this first.” She punched the voice mail button, and Tim Park’s voice came through the speaker.

  “Ms. Spalding, when my workers were at the site yesterday to connect the water lines for the
sinks and toilets in the new bathrooms in the bank building, one of them saw dry rot in the floor joists in that corner of the building. The floor will have to come up and the joists be replaced before we can put fixtures in there. I assume that’s something your general construction team can do, but if not, let me know and I’ll recommend someone for you. Either way, we’re at a standstill until that’s done. Call me if you have questions.”

  Even though she’d already listened to the message several times, she still shook her head in disbelief. She dropped the phone into her lap. “Unreal that the inspector who came out didn’t find this. He must not have gone into the crawl spaces, the way he’s supposed to.” She closed her eyes, battling weariness and self-recrimination. He was a new inspector to her, chosen by one of her investors. She should have come out with the man and supervised the inspection instead of trusting that it would be done right. She’d been in the business long enough to know dry rot was never good news. Tearing up the floor, replacing joists, and putting down new hardwood wouldn’t be inexpensive, but she could deal with the added expense more easily than the delay it would cause.

  She opened her eyes and frowned, a headache building in her temples. “Have you or your men noticed dry rot in any of the buildings?”

  Anthony toyed with the cap’s brim, his eyebrows low. “No, but none of us have been in the crawl spaces. Haven’t needed to since you hired other workers to do the wiring and plumbing.”

  She shot him a sharp look. Was he blaming her? She searched his face and saw no sign of accusation. Only concern. She was plenty concerned, too. She sighed. “I guess the best thing to do now is get someone out here to inspect the crawl spaces of every structure on the property. If dry rot’s in one building…”

  Anthony nodded, his expression solemn. “It’s likely somewhere else. I’m sure sorry.”

  Brooke massaged her throbbing temples with her fingertips. “Me, too.” According to her schedule, the investors planned their first walk-through on the fifth of August to see how things were progressing. Only three weeks away. A certification inspector was on the calendar for mid-September to check the plumbing and electrical systems. She needed the investors’ continued support, and she needed the certificate in hand before applying for licenses. “How long do you think you’ll have floors torn up?”