Her teasing tone removed a tinge of Jack’s frustration. ‘‘Anything I can do to help.’’ He hoped his vocal inflection provided enough innuendo for her to catch on.
Leaning her hips against the counter, she tipped her head, her sweet smile sending a coil of warmth through Jack’s middle. ‘‘You’ve been very helpful, Jack. I don’t know how the girls and I would have kept things going after my accident if you hadn’t been willing to come by every day. And all the chores you’ve done for me, even helping with canning vegetables, which I know you didn’t enjoy. We’ve argued a lot, but—’’
‘‘You know I’d do anything for you, Anna Mae.’’ His voice turned husky as his fingers tightened on the chair. He wished he could reach out to her, draw her near.
‘‘You’ve done more than enough.’’ Pushing off from the counter, she said, ‘‘But if you’d like to do one more thing . . . ?’’
He released the chair and took a step toward her. ‘‘Sure.’’
‘‘If you don’t have anything pressing to do, could you just stay here for a half hour or so? Both girls are napping—neither have been sleeping well with the wind and heat—and I’d really like to take a walk. Just stretch my legs good. Would you mind?’’
A strand of hair slipped free of its tail and fell along her jaw. Jack pushed his hand into his pocket before it reached out and put that strand back in place. ‘‘I don’t mind at all. But I gotta tell you—’’ he grinned, cocking one eyebrow high—‘‘no walk’s gonna work off that belly of yours.’’
She blushed crimson, but she laughed, tucking her hands beneath the mound. The tug of fabric accentuated the roundness. ‘‘No, I suppose not. But it’ll still feel good to get out a bit.’’ She headed for the kitchen door, but when she reached his side she paused for a moment. ‘‘Thanks, Jack. You—you’ve become a good friend in the last few weeks.’’
She moved on then, before he could answer, but it wouldn’t have mattered. He wouldn’t have been able to find enough words to express what her statement meant. In his heart, the words reverberated, taking on a deep meaning.
Anna Mae will be mine.
Harley slapped the block of shale and hollered, ‘‘Good to go, Ted!’’
The crane operator gave a nod, and the machine roared into action. Harley watched the chain go taut and the rock rise as the boom lifted. He stayed in the block’s shadow as he walked toward the wall, his gaze following the progress of the rock. It was sure good to be back on the job. Three more rows of blocks all the way around, completion of the turret, and the castle would be finished, and he would be on his way home. Harley’s chest expanded in eagerness.
Two men stood on the second-story floor, waiting to catch hold and guide the block into position. At the base of the wall in a wide patch of shade, Dirk chatted with Mr. Peterson, but their words were lost on Harley. He focused on the placement of the next piece of the wall. A shiver went down his spine, and he licked his lips in anticipation of the moment when the rock would become a part of the castle. It was like watching a huge puzzle piece slip into place.
From the west, Nelson charged up the hill, coming to a halt directly in front of the boss. ‘‘Peterson, I gotta talk to you about the doorways on the privy. Hendricks says—’’
The roar of the crane swallowed the rest of Nelson’s statement. That was fine with Harley; he didn’t much care to listen to Nelson talk. The rock dangled directly over the castle wall, ready for its descent. The men on top raised their arms, reaching toward the rock. But then—Harley couldn’t be sure why—the rock slipped sideways in its chain.
‘‘Look out!’’
The cry came from one of the men on the scaffolding. Both men dove backward, away from the boom’s chain. The boom jerked, and the rock fell free, hitting the wall of the castle with a crack that seemed to echo through Harley’s gut. To his horror, the wall shuddered, a section seeming to take a huge breath as it shifted forward.
Peterson bolted down the hill to safety, but Harley stood, watching, frozen by fear.
‘‘Harley, move!’’ Dirk’s voice, frantic. A pair of hands smacked Harley on the back, knocking him flat on his face. He rolled, shifting his gaze in time to see Dirk lunge toward Nelson, who stared stupidly upward, his jaw slack. Dirk tackled Nelson, shielding the man with his body.
Harley screamed Dirk’s name as a chunk of wall fell, hitting Dirk squarely in the back. Harley scrambled to his knees. But another block fell and caught him on the left leg, right below his hips. He screamed again—this time in pain—and collapsed, smacking his chin in the dirt. Nausea attacked, his whole body breaking out in a cold sweat. Though his eyes were open, darkness descended, leaving only a shallow tube through which he could see. The scene filled his throat with bile.
Dirk, sprawled on Nelson. Nelson, arms and legs flailing. But Dirk . . . no movement. No movement at all.
Dirk . . . Dirk, no . . . God, please no . . .
The tube narrowed, the light dimmed, and Harley was blanketed in darkness.
Anna Mae stooped down and plucked a cluster of goldenrod from its thick stem. She smiled, sliding her finger along the outer edges of the delicate petals on a dime-sized blossom. Raising her gaze to the sky, she said, ‘‘You’ve tried, old sun, to make everything shrivel. But look at this—wild flowers as fiery orange as your face at sunset, still managing to bloom.’’
She chuckled to herself as she began walking again. As a little girl, she’d often taken long walks and talked to whatever she encountered—the bane, she supposed, of spending so much time alone. In childhood, her desire to escape solitude had often sent her scampering across the property line to Jack’s place, to beg him to come out and play. Yet it was comforting somehow on this day to visit with the sun, to pick a wild flower, to amble across the empty fields with only herself for company.
Although September had arrived, the summer-hot weather continued. She sought the shade offered by the scraggly clusters of trees along the edge of the property. Wind whistled, interrupted occasionally by an odd whiz and thump she’d never heard in all of her childhood meanderings. She tipped her head, straining to identify the sound. She wasn’t certain of the source, but she surmised it came from somewhere ahead and to the right, off behind the windbreak of cottonwoods and hedge apples. Curious, she headed toward the sound.
It took her a while to find a place to ease through the windbreak. Dead branches caught at her clothes and hair, and she grunted when she encountered a spider web. Yet onward she pressed, determined to discover the source of the strange sound. And she found it: some odd, bucking black monster.
An oil pump?
Looking across the expanse of Berkley land, she spotted at least three more. Her brow furrowed as she stared, unable to believe what she was seeing. Oil? In Spencer? She’d heard of it being found on the other side of Hutchinson, but she never dreamed it was this close. Why hadn’t Jack said anything?
Her gaze shot back to the closest well. Her scalp pricked. She turned and looked toward the spot of land where her own house rested. Exactly where did the property line fall between her land and the Berkleys’ holdings? If she was correct in her estimation, this well stood on her land.
Now that she knew what made the sound, her curiosity should have been satisfied. Instead, it was piqued. A dozen questions crowded her mind. Who put the well here? Why? How long had it been pumping? Had anyone gained anything from it? If so, where was the money? Could it be used to pay the tax bill and keep the land from going to auction?
Anna Mae needed answers to those questions. She broke back through the windbreak and headed toward the house, huffing as she pushed herself in the blistering heat. By the time she reached the back porch, she was drenched in sweat and she had a cramp in her side, but she ignored the discomfort and burst into the kitchen. Jack and Dorothy sat at the table, glasses of milk and slices of bread spread with sandplum jelly in front of them.
‘‘Hi, Mama,’’ Dorothy chirped with a bright smile.
Anna Mae gave her daughter a brief hello, then turned to Jack. ‘‘I just found oil pumps. And I think one of them is on my property. Do you know anything about that?’’
Jack grimaced, ducking his head for a moment. Anna Mae held her breath, waiting for his reply.
‘‘Yeah. I know about that.’’
She pulled out a chair and seated herself stiffly, her hands clasped in her lap. ‘‘You put them up?’’
‘‘Yeah.’’
‘‘All of them?’’
‘‘Yeah.’’
She collapsed against the chair’s back. ‘‘Why didn’t you tell me?’’
Jack shrugged—a slow, embarrassed gesture. ‘‘I didn’t want to get your hopes up.’’
‘‘My hopes up? Jack, oil—’’
He held up a hand. ‘‘Listen, Anna Mae. It’s a pump, okay? I had surveyors come out, and since your land is so close, I had them prospect yours, too. We put up the pumps, but there’s no guarantee anything of worth’ll be found. It’s just a . . . a gamble.’’
Anna Mae scowled, her thoughts running willy-nilly. A gamble? Oil pumps cost money to put up. She didn’t know a lot about drilling, but she suspected no one would go to that expense unless they were reasonably certain they’d get a return on the investment. But there was something else more pressing to understand. ‘‘So you paid for my pump?’’
His lips pressed together for a moment, as if he were irritated. ‘‘Yeah, I did.’’
Another debt she couldn’t repay. ‘‘Who gave you permission to put one on my property?’’
Again, that slow shrug. He didn’t quite meet her gaze. ‘‘Didn’t take too much to get it arranged. I hoped . . . Well, that I could surprise you. But you ruined it.’’
A little pang of guilt struck. Small wonder he was irritated—he’d tried to do something kind for her, and all she could do was interrogate him. She reached across the table and placed her hand over his. ‘‘I’m sorry.’’
He looked fully into her face. An odd smile—almost conniving—curled his lips. Anna Mae went to move her hand, but he captured her fingers and held on.
‘‘I’d forgive you anything, Anna Mae.’’
‘‘Th-thank you, Jack.’’
‘‘You’re welcome.’’ He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her fingertips. ‘‘Just remember, honey—whatever I do, it’s for your own good.’’
She pulled her hand free. Her fingers tingled. She wrapped her hands into fists and buried them in her apron. He smiled again—another smile that gave her a shiver of unease.
‘‘Good-bye, Miss Dorothy.’’ He bowed toward the child who sat with jelly on her cheeks, sent a wink in Anna Mae’s direction, and then slipped out the back door.
Anna Mae stared at the empty doorway, confusion making her stomach clench. ‘‘Whatever I do, it’s for your own good.’’ Why did words that should be reassuring make her feel so unsettled?
Pain like fire shot through Harley’s hips into his back, bringing him to full consciousness. He gasped, and a hand clamped on his shoulder.
‘‘Easy, there, we’re going to help you.’’
The soothing voice was unfamiliar. Harley squinted. The face, hovering only inches above him, looked fuzzy, the features undefined. Who? He tried to grab hold of the man’s shirt front to pull him close enough to see clearly, but his weak fingers missed their target and fell to his side.
‘‘Don’t bother with me. Help Dirk. My friend . . . Dirk . . .’’ The words came in spurts, his breathing erratic.
The hand squeezed. ‘‘Mr. Phipps, all that can be done was done for your friend. Don’t you worry now.’’ The hand left his shoulder. ‘‘Lift.’’
The ground beneath him jerked, and Harley felt himself floating. No, not floating—being carried. Every slight movement brought stabs of agonizing pain, and he breathed as shallowly as possible, a feeble attempt to control the pain.
‘‘Where . . . where are you taking me?’’ All he could manage was a hoarse whisper.
‘‘To the hospital, buddy.’’ The same voice, calm, soothing. ‘‘Just hang in there.’’
‘‘Take my friend, too.’’ Harley grimaced as the stretcher thumped onto the floor of the ambulance. ‘‘My friend . . . Take care of my friend.’’
Doors slammed behind his head. The thud startled him, made him jerk, and the pain stabbed again. With a deep gasp, he squeezed his eyes shut and gave in to the darkness.
24
‘‘AT THE CASTLE SITE? ARE YOU SURE?’’
The General Merchandise owner leaned his elbows on the high counter and gave a firm nod. ‘‘The salesman who came through here said he heard it straight from the project boss’s mouth—a man was killed. An’ he said the man came from Spencer, Kansas.’’ Martin tipped his head, his eyebrows high. ‘‘You know anybody besides Harley Phipps who was workin’ on a castle?’’
Jack ran his hand through his hair, his forehead pinched, his chest tight with the heavy beats of his heart. ‘‘No. Nobody but Harley.’’
Martin sighed, straightening to reach beneath the counter and retrieve a feather duster. ‘‘Yes sir, a sad thing. Mighty sad thing. Anna Mae with those two little girls an’ another’n on the way . . . Don’t know what she’ll do now.’’
Jack knew. He caught hold of Martin’s arm, bringing the swish of the turkey feathers to a halt. ‘‘Listen, Martin, this is gonna hit Anna Mae hard. It’d be better if . . . well, if it came from a friend. Do me a favor and don’t say anything to anybody else. At least until I’ve had a chance to talk to Anna Mae, okay?’’
Martin’s eyes widened, and he held up both hands as if in surrender. ‘‘Sure thing, Jack. I wouldn’t want to bring no extra heartache to Anna Mae. I’ve known her since she was no higher than a horse’s kneecap.’’ He shook his head, his lined face sad. ‘‘Just such a sad thing to have happen.’’
‘‘Yeah, sad . . .’’ Jack lifted a hand in good-bye and hurried from the store, his shopping forgotten. He and Pop could do without that cornmeal and sauerkraut, and Anna Mae’d survive without bluing for another day or two. He had to get to Anna Mae’s place before word reached her another way. He had to be the one to tell her.
He drove his Model T like it had never been driven before over the dirt roads, hitting potholes so hard the car left the roadway a time or two. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but one thing: Harley was dead. Out of the picture. He was never coming back. And that meant there was no barrier standing between himself and Anna Mae.
All the years of Anna Mae’s marriage to Harley, he’d stuck close around, befriending Harley so he could keep an eye on him, remaining under his father’s roof so he’d be near if Anna Mae needed him for anything, going to sleep every night with images of Harley lying next to her in that feather bed in the front bedroom of her little house. For years he’d tried to erase Harley from the picture in his mind, and finally it was done.
He hit another pothole and the car jerked so fiercely, he nearly lost control. ‘‘Slow down,’’ he murmured, following his own direction. No need to kill himself—that would be plenty foolish right on the verge of having his long-held dreams come true. Anna Mae wasn’t going anywhere—except where he took her.
‘‘Maa-ma!’’ Dorothy’s singsong voice carried through the kitchen window. ‘‘Mr. Berkley’s Model T is comin’.’’
Anna Mae glanced out the window. A cloud of dust indicated the vehicle’s approach. She moved the soup pot from the stove and headed outside to wait with Dorothy for the car to pull into the drive. She’d given Jack a dime for a bottle of Mrs. Stewart’s bluing, and the laundry waited its arrival.
The moment the auto heaved to a halt, Jack leaped from the driver’s seat and rushed at her, arms outstretched. Before she knew what was happening, he captured her in a firm embrace. Jack’s hand cupped her head, holding it tight against his shoulder, and his other arm curled around her waist. Too stunned to struggle, she remained motionless within the circle of his arms.
<
br /> Dorothy giggled. ‘‘Mr. Berkley, why’re you hugging Mama?’’
Jack pulled loose by inches and glanced down at Dorothy. His hand reached out to tousle her hair, and a weak smile creased his face. ‘‘Just thought your mama might need a hug, honey. Do you need one, too?’’
With a huge grin, Dorothy catapulted into Jack’s arms. He met Anna Mae’s gaze over Dorothy’s blond head, and something in his expression made Anna Mae’s knees feel weak.
‘‘J-Jack?’’
He put Dorothy on the ground and took hold of Anna Mae’s upper arm. His thumb stroked in a gentle caress. Looking at Anna Mae, he said, ‘‘Dorothy, get the watering bucket, would you? I’ll be back in a minute or two to help you water the tomatoes.’’
‘‘Okay, Mr. Berkley.’’
Dorothy skipped in the direction of the shed. Anna Mae allowed Jack to guide her to the house and push her into a chair. Shaky as she felt, she welcomed the solid wooden seat beneath her. He crouched before her and took her hands.
‘‘Anna Mae, I . . . I gotta tell you somethin’, and it’s not gonna be easy for you.’’
Anna Mae broke out in goose bumps. Her hands trembled, and she felt Jack tighten his grip. ‘‘What is it? Is it about the farm?’’
He shook his head, his gaze sorrowful. ‘‘No, honey. It’s about Harley.’’
Her shoulders jerked back, fear striking as hard as a blow from a stick. Her mouth went dry, and her tongue seemed to stick to the roof of her mouth. She sat, silent, waiting for the second blow.
‘‘Martin at the store . . .’’ Jack ducked his head for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. ‘‘He said a salesman traveled through from Salina and told him that there was a death at the castle site.’’ His voice was soft, gentle, in direct opposition to the hard grip he kept on her fingers. ‘‘He . . . he said the salesman mentioned a man from the city of Spencer.’’
Anna Mae yanked her hands loose to cover her mouth. Her fingers held back the cry that built in her throat.
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