by Dorothy Love
“They’re well. James Henry is growing like a weed.”
Mrs. Whitcomb’s knitting needles clicked as she started a new row of stitches. “It’s such a shame your poor brother didn’t live to see that child. Tell me, Carrie. How are you getting on?”
“To tell you the truth, things are just about as bad as they can be. I’m selling off some land—if Wat Stevens still wants it.”
“That’s too bad. Henry Bell set a lot of store by that farm of his.” She regarded Carrie over the top of her spectacles. “Whatever you do, don’t let Wat cheat you, girl. He’s a shrewd one. And he has the scruples of a horse trader.”
Carrie nodded. “I’m on my way to the bank. I’m hoping Mr. Gilman will advise me on what the land is worth.”
Mrs. Whitcomb rose. “That’s a smart idea. That man has a heart of stone when it comes to lending money, but he won’t steer you wrong. You got time for tea?”
“I’d love some, but I’m afraid I don’t have much time. Maybe another day?”
“Whenever you’re in town, stop by. My new tenants keep to themselves. It’s lonely here since Rachel moved to North Carolina and Lucy lit out for the west.”
Carrie smiled at the mention of the irrepressible Lucy. “Is she happy in Montana?”
“I’ve had only one letter.” The innkeeper chuckled. “I reckon that could signify she’s either too happy to write or too miserable. But I suspect she’s busy. Ranchin’ ain’t an easy life—as I am sure Ada Caldwell can tell you.”
“Ada loves it, though.”
“Ada would love any place Wyatt Caldwell hangs his hat. I swear, I never have seen two people more in love than them two. Well, you take care and I’ll see you next week. Maybe then you can stay longer.”
Leaving the Verandah, Carrie hurried along the sidewalk to the bank, her basket bumping against her hip. When she passed the post office, the clerk tapped on the window and motioned her inside. She pushed open the door.
“Got a package for you, Miz Daly. From that photographer feller up in Buffalo.” He handed her a flat envelope. “The one that was here taking pictures of folks during Race Day.”
“I remember.” Both she and the boys had been in high spirits that day. Amazing how one’s life could go from light to darkness in the blink of an eye. She tucked the package into her basket. “Thank you.”
“No trouble. And, Miz Daly? I want to say again how sorry I am about Henry. He was a good man.”
“Yes, he was.” She left the post office and started to the bank.
“Carrie?” Deborah Patterson hobbled toward her, her good arm outstretched in greeting. “I tried to catch you at the Verandah just now, but you’d already left.”
Carrie clasped her friend’s good hand. They’d seen too little of each other these past weeks. “How are you?”
“Very well. It’s Mr. Chastain I’m worried about.”
“What’s the matter with Nate? Is he ill?” With a start she realized she hadn’t seen him since Christmas. Not even when Henry died. Odd indeed.
Deborah drew her onto the bench outside the barbershop. “He’s fine in body, as far as I know. It’s the dear man’s spirit I’m worried about.” She nodded to a farm wife headed for the mercantile. “For a while after his wife took off, he started coming to church every Sunday. But he hasn’t been to services in nearly a month.”
“Neither have I. I know I should. Mary and I take turns reading Scripture on Sundays, but it isn’t the same.”
“No one expected you to come so far in the middle of winter, especially with a little baby.” Deborah patted Carrie’s hand. “Besides, our Lord says that when two or three gather in his name, he’s there too. But now that the weather is improving—”
The train whistle sounded. Mr. Gilman drove up to the bank and got out of his rig. Carrie clasped Deborah’s hand. “I’d love to talk longer, but I have business at the bank.”
Deborah nodded. “I wish you’d go see Mr. Chastain. He needs a friend.”
“I will. Soon.”
“But he’s hurting now. Please say you’ll go, just for a moment.”
Carrie studied Deborah’s face. How did she retain such love and trust in God when life had given her every reason not to? “All right. I’ll go now. Before I see Mr. Gilman.”
“I knew you would.” Deborah smiled and stood. “I must go. Daniel’s waiting for me to help ready the church for Sunday’s service. He’s surely wondering what happened to me.”
She waved and headed up the street. Carrie picked up her basket and crossed to the bookshop. The door bell chimed softly as she went in. She glanced around. The curtain was drawn against the light. Books lay in untidy piles against the walls. The shelves held a jumble of books, chipped coffee mugs, papers, flattened cartons, and empty sacks. Half of the hand-lettered labels she’d made were missing. She stared, sick with disbelief. All her work, destroyed.
“Nate?” Standing on tiptoe, she peered into the gloom.
He shuffled to the counter, India at his heels. He fumbled in his pocket for his spectacles and put them on. “Carrie. What do you want?”
“I don’t want anything. I was in town and realized I hadn’t seen you for a while. How have you been?”
He waved one hand. “What do you think?”
She wanted to cry. “Oh, Nate, what has happened to you?”
“Rosaleen Dupree happened to me, that’s what.”
“I take it she hasn’t come back.”
“No, and I hope she doesn’t.” He indicated a thick stack of papers on the desk beneath the window. “Can’t make heads or tails of my account books. And money is missing from my bank account too.”
“You don’t think she stole it?”
“Maybe she paid off my creditors with it, but I sure can’t find a record of that.”
“Well, if she didn’t pay them, you’ll hear about it sooner or later.” She opened the curtain, tidied a stack of books, and brushed at the dusty counters with her fingers. What a mess.
“Leave it.” Nate covered her hand with his own. “I have coffee in the back. Want some?”
Deborah was right. Nate needed her. Mr. Gilman—and Wat Stevens—would wait. “All right.”
He filled their cups and they sat by the window, she in the chair, he perched on the corner of the desk. She couldn’t help noticing the dark circles beneath his eyes. He’d lost weight too.
He glanced at her basket. “Still baking bread for Mrs. Whitcomb?”
“Yes. I delivered an order this morning.”
“I’m sorry about Henry. I should have paid you a call.” He gulped his coffee. “I don’t know why I didn’t.”
“That’s all right. Deborah Patterson delivered the ham you sent. I appreciate it, Nate.”
He nodded. “I should have done more to help you. Not that I have any money, but there are other things—”
“You don’t owe me anything.”
He toyed with his empty cup. “Do you ever regret the way things turned out? Between us, I mean.”
She scooped India into her lap. “The night you brought Rosaleen to the Verandah—”
“I made a mess of telling you about the marriage. I’ve regretted it ever since.”
“It was a shock. But then I realized that the plans we made grew out of other people’s expectations rather than our own.”
“I thought that too, at first. But now I realize how deeply I cared for you. I reckon I made a mess of telling you that too.”
“Yes, you did.” She smiled. “But really, it’s all right. I suppose I took you for granted too.”
He nodded. “It’s dreadful, isn’t it? Being without the person you love. I never understood just how much you missed Frank, but now—”
He took her hand, and alarm bells sounded in her head. Was he about to kiss her? She set India onto the floor and stood. “Nate, you mustn’t—”
“Carrie?”
“You’re married now. And I—”
“I know. You’
re in love with Rutledge. I saw it in your face the day Henry and Mary got married. Whatever chance I might have had with you disappeared the day he got off the train.”
“I was going to say that I hope you won’t let Rosaleen’s absence ruin the good life you built here. That I treasure you as the good and dear friend you’ve always been. As I hope you will continue to be.”
“I see.” He blinked as if waking from a dream and picked up their cups. “Well. Just . . . look at this place, will you? I reckon I’d best get to work. Get the ledger sorted out.”
“I wish I had time to help.”
“Nope. You saved my bacon once, and I let all your hard work go to waste. It’s time to stop feeling sorry for myself and get on with things.” He smiled, looking more like the old Nate. “Friends?”
“Always.” She kissed his cheek and picked up her basket. “I should go.”
Five minutes later she was seated across from Mr. Gilman. He listened intently while she outlined her plan to sell off some land.
“I need some advice on what to charge.”
He rubbed one hand across his face. “That’s a hard question. Bea Goldston sold off her land in Two Creeks for six dollars an acre. But that was before this depression got so bad. These days there are plenty of folks who already have more land than they know what to do with. No sense in farming it with prices as low as they are.”
“I see.” She opened the jewel case and set it on his desk. “Then I need to sell these. We—Mary and I—thought they’d make a nice present for Mrs. Gilman.”
He picked up the bracelet and turned it toward the light coming through his office window. “It’s a nice little trinket.”
“A trinket? These have been in Mary Stanhope’s family for three generations.”
He fingered one of the earbobs. “That doesn’t make them worth anything.”
“But they’re rubies. Set in gold. They must be worth something.”
He fished a pair of spectacles from his pocket and put them on. He placed the necklace on his white handkerchief, unfastened the clasp, and turned it over. He picked up his letter opener and made a tiny mark on the clasp. A sliver of the metal curled onto the handkerchief. He pointed. “See, underneath this gold plate is plain old tin.”
“But the rubies—”
“Are made of colored paste. I’m sorry. These are worthless.”
Fakes. She swallowed. “Are you sure?”
He returned the jewels to the case. “Over the years I’ve bought more than a few baubles for my missus. I’ve learned how to tell imitations from the real thing.”
She rose. “I won’t keep you any longer.”
“There’s one thing you might consider if you want to sell that land to Stevens.”
“I don’t want to sell it, but I have four other mouths to feed. Besides, you said the land is worthless.”
“No, I said a farmer might not need it for crops. Rumor has it that plans to build a resort here just might work out. That Blakely fellow from Baltimore is keen on the idea. If he decides to build, that land will be worth ten times what it is today . . .”
She saw him hesitate. “But?”
“It might be years before the resort is actually built. Wat Stevens is no fool, though. He knows what that land will be worth then.” He steepled his fingers and smiled up at her. “Sounds to me as if you can’t afford to wait. You need cash right now.”
“Yes. Desperately. I can’t earn enough baking bread.”
“Stevens can afford to buy that land and hold on to it. If the resort comes in, he can sell it off and make a tidy profit. If it doesn’t, he’s still sitting on some of the finest farmland in the county. When this depression ends, he’ll double his yield. If it was me, I’d ask ten dollars an acre. Firm.”
“Ten dollars?” It was a fortune.
“He can afford it. Don’t let him tell you any different.” His voice softened. “I’m real sorry about that jewelry.”
She left the bank and headed for the Stevens farm. Situated on a winding dirt road halfway between town and the lumber mill, it lay in a broad valley bordering the river. A series of wooden fences marked the boundaries and led upward to the Stevenses’ log farmhouse.
Carrie halted the wagon in the side yard and climbed down. The smell of burning fields teased her nose. In the distance, Wat Stevens walked behind a team of plodding horses, plowing up a cloud of black dust.
She rounded the house. Mrs. Stevens, a faded woman in a brown dress and a threadbare blue apron, was out back slopping hogs. They grunted and rooted in the long wooden trough near the barn. A line of laundry flapped in the March wind.
“Carrie Daly.” Mrs. Stevens set the slop bucket aside and pushed her sunbonnet off her head. “Ain’t seen you in a coon’s age. What brings you clear out here?”
“I need to speak to your husband. If he can spare the time.”
“What about?”
“Last year he asked my brother about buying some land.”
“Then maybe your brother ought to be the one doing the talking.”
“My brother is dead.”
The woman frowned. “Henry Bell is dead? How in the world—”
“An accident in the rail yard.” Briefly Carrie filled her in. “We didn’t know about it until Christmas.”
“Well, if that don’t beat all.” She shook her head. “Living way out here, we’re the last to know anything. I sure am sorry to hear it.”
She put her fingers in her mouth and emitted a piercing whistle that reverberated across the valley. Wat halted the team and looked up. His wife motioned him over.
He took off his hat and wiped his face with a crumpled bandanna. “Miz Daly.”
“Henry Bell went and got himself killed in Chicago,” Wat’s wife informed him. “It happened clear back in December, and we must be the last people in the county to know about it. I declare, Wat Stevens, you have got to do something to get us another preacher. Without church on Sundays, we don’t hear about anything.”
Wat squinted at Carrie. “That’s real bad news, all right. But you didn’t come all this way just to tell us about it.”
“I’m going in the house to get us something to drink,” Mrs. Stevens said. “My mouth is dry as dirt.”
Carrie watched her go. Her own mouth felt dry too. Bargaining with Wat Stevens would not be easy. But there was no sense in beating around the bush. “Last year you were interested in buying the twenty acres we own down by Owl Creek. Now that my brother is gone, the farm is too much for me to handle. I’m wondering if you’re still interested.”
“Maybe.” He leaned against a fence post, crossed his ankles, and studied her through narrowed eyes. “How much you askin’ for it?”
“Twelve dollars an acre.”
“Twelve . . . what on earth have you been swilling? There ain’t a tract of land in this whole county worth that kind of money.”
“Maybe not now, but I’m sure you’ve heard about the resort coming to town.”
“I’ve heard maybe there’s a resort coming to town. That’s a big difference.”
“But suppose it does happen? You could sell that land for twice what I’m asking.”
“Then why are you willing to let it go?”
“My brother is dead. I have to support his sickly wife and three growing children. I can’t plant it all, and I can’t afford to wait.” She crossed her arms. “It’s the best bottomland in the county. You know it’s worth it.”
“I wouldn’t buy heaven itself for twelve dollars an acre.”
Carrie waited. Surely he would make a counter offer. Whether Henry sold off a corn crop, a sow, or a wagon, he always started at a price higher than he was willing to accept. Bargaining was an expected part of doing business. But as the silence stretched out, broken only by the song of the little finches flitting through the hedgerow, she grew worried. What if she had squandered her best chance to sell the land at any price?
“Nine dollars an acre,” Wat said at last.
“But Mr. Gilman said—”
“I wouldn’t listen to him I if was you. I ain’t never met a banker yet I could trust. They all got bad reputations. Maybe he meant well, but twelve dollars an acre is outrageous. I’d be the laughing stock of the county if I paid that much for farmland in times like these.” He kicked at a dirt clod. “Now I’ve made you a fair offer. You can take it or not.”
“That land is worth ten dollars an acre, resort or no resort. It’ll be worth more when the depression ends.”
“Gilman said that, did he?”
“It’s only common sense, Mr. Stevens. But I can see you are not willing to make a fair deal. Perhaps someone else will be amenable to my price.” She headed for the wagon, determined not to let her disappointment show. She wouldn’t be cheated out of her birthright. She’d find some other way to make ends meet.
“All right.” Wat caught up to her. “Ten dollars an acre. To help out a couple of widows and a bunch of children. Come on in, and we’ll write up a bill of sale. We can meet on Friday to sign the deed and transfer the money.”
Carrie followed him into the house in a daze. She had done it. Two hundred dollars would be enough to keep the farm going for a very long time.
Wat pulled out a chair and scribbled out a bill of sale, then he and Carrie both signed it. Mrs. Stevens served buttermilk and slices of chess pie. Carrie finished both and rose.
The Stevenses followed her outside. Carrie climbed into the wagon. “Shall we say ten o’clock on Friday, Mr. Stevens?”
“As good a time as any, I reckon.”
“See you then.” She headed back to town in high spirits. At the Hickory Ridge Inn, she stopped to find Griff. Maybe he would be too busy to take time for her, but she was so relieved to have sold her land that she was unable to contain her good news.
The clerk looked up when she entered the lobby. “Help you, Mrs. Daly?”
“I would like to speak to Mr. Griffin Rutledge.”
“So would I. But he isn’t here.”
“Oh. Do you know when he’ll be back?”
The clerk snorted. “I’m not sure he’ll be back. He’s been gone for more’n two weeks, and he left here owing me for his room. Just up and left in the middle of the night.” He shook his head. “I knew he was no good the minute I laid eyes on him.”