To her delight—or her horror, she truthfully couldn’t say which—Sheriff Wright held her eyes for a long moment before guiding the horse around a turn. “I was doing my job.” He’d closed up the moment so neatly and completely, Holly wasn’t even sure it had happened at all.
But today has happened, her frayed spirit wanted to yell. We can’t go back from it. “Mr. Arlington was just doing his job, and now he’s...gone.” The memory of his blood seeping into the ground produced a shiver. We can’t go back.
“Best not to dwell on that.” He cocked his head toward the back of the wagon. “Not with all those little ones about.” After a short pause, he asked, “I think it was smart not to send them on, but have you got any ideas how we’re going to manage it?”
She did. The plan fell solid into her head as if God had sent it by telegraph. “I asked Ned to get Miss Ward to round up the ladies’ society and see to supper. When I get in, I can ask Reverend Turner to meet with them while they eat. He’ll know how to ease their minds and such. While he does that, Charlotte Miller and I can make up pallets so we can sleep them all in the schoolhouse. I’d let Miss Sterling have my bed in the house next door and offer to sleep with the children, but I don’t think she’d accept.” Holly cast a glance back to see Rebecca’s cheek resting on the head of a little girl. “I imagine it’s hit her hardest of all, poor soul.”
“And you?”
She was startled he asked. Such surprise did little to dismiss the black knot of fear that hadn’t left her stomach since her first glimpse of the bandit’s eyes. Like peering right into evil, it was. “I’ll be fine.”
Sheriff Wright shook his head. “Your hands are still shaking.” Holly tucked her hands into the folds of her skirt. “See to yourself is all I’m saying.” His voice sounded uncomfortable with the words, as though letting them out by force rather than concern. He straightened his hat and shifted in his seat. “You’ve been through just as much as they have. Sleeping with a gaggle of fussy youngsters doesn’t sound too sensible to me.”
Sensible? There were days when Holly felt like hearing that word once more would drown her in dullness. Nothing about today—nothing about how she currently felt, or who was in the back of this wagon, or what body would be lying in the back of Doc Simpson’s office—felt sensible.
And as for sleep, Holly didn’t think sleep would visit her tonight. Not when the clamoring silence of Mr. Arlington’s lifeless body echoed every time she closed her eyes.
* * *
When the wagon pulled up on Second Street and the church steeple came into view, Mason finally let down his guard. He’d barely been able to speak after she’d said “Thank you” with all that frailty in her eyes, and the spot where she touched him fairly burned from the memory. The impulse to grab her up and pull her from harm’s way had been a primal reaction, one his body hadn’t yet released. Holly Sanders always made him jittery ten ways ’til Sunday, and today hadn’t helped.
“Oh, thank You, Jesus!” Her sigh echoed far too close to his shoulder. “I don’t know when I’ve ever been so glad to be home.” Mason was sure he could hear her big blue eyes flutter.
There were good reasons he sat far away from those eyes during church services—on the rare occasions he even darkened the church door. It wasn’t disinterest that kept Mason away from Holly Sanders’s endless classroom projects. He resisted the pull of that woman with every protective bone in his body, knowing her book-and-fairy-tale world had no room for someone with the dark tale his life told. He wasn’t blind to her admiration—he’d caught too many of her stares not to see she fancied him—but that was only because Holly Sanders didn’t know the full story. If he told her, it’d put an end to her admiration, surely. Only, some part of him liked that regard as much as the other part of him resisted it. Seeing her in danger today had jumbled up his insides too much to think clearly. “I’m glad to have everyone safe back in town,” he admitted, meaning far more than the words conveyed on their polite surface.
Evans Grove was a small town, laid out in a tidy little grid around the town square they were just passing. As the wagon rumbled past Victory Street where the church was, he saw Miss Sanders’s nose wrinkle up in thought. “Speaking of safe,” she asked, “what will you do with the safe? Doesn’t it belong to the railroad?”
“I’ve been thinking on that.” He had. That safe contained more gold than Evans Grove had seen in a good long while, and while he knew from Curtis Brooks that there weren’t other railroad passengers’ funds or valuables in there, others did not. “It’s not the kind of thing we can leave unprotected. As for the rail line, I filed a report with the conductor, but with that kind of damage, I doubt they’ll want it back. It’ll spend the night with me in the sheriff’s office and then we’ll get Charlie Miller to open it in the morning.” Mason felt sure the village smithy—husband of the same Charlotte Miss Sanders just spoke of recruiting to help with the children—would be able to work that damaged door off its hinges.
“And then what?”
He allowed himself the luxury of watching her face’s peculiar vitality when working out a problem. All scrunched up and amusing, it was. It must be what made her the type to be a good teacher. Not him. Mason would rather deal with bandits than herd youngsters any day. The whining from the back of the wagon this afternoon had just about done him in, even though it didn’t seem to faze her one bit.
“The ‘then what’ is best kept between just a few, if you don’t mind.” He did not care to venture into a detailed discussion about anything with her, and keeping that gold hidden and secure was his top priority. Far too much depended on it.
“I’m sure you and Mr. Brooks will work something out.” She turned, looking behind her down the street for the other wagon.
“They’ll be another hour, I expect.”
“Are you sure they’re safe?”
He’d already gone over the tactic twice with Curtis Brooks. “I wouldn’t be here if they weren’t. You just worry about—”
“Look at that!” came a small voice from behind them on the wagon as they drove past Gavin’s General Store, which happened to have an unfortunate display of hard candies out in the window. “I’m hungry!”
“Me, too,” came another, followed by two more. Mason’s own stomach grumbled in sympathy.
“Goodness.” Miss Sanders’s hand went to her stomach. “I don’t think I’ve eaten since breakfast. I do hope Beatrice got to the ladies’ society.”
“You know Beatrice,” Mason chuckled. “She gets to everybody.”
As the town square came into view, Mason pointed to the collection of tables now set in the grove of Hackberry trees that gave the town its name. A gaggle of women chattered and scurried around Beatrice Ward, dashing here and there under the spinster’s barked commands. Flowers, tablecloths and other frills made the last-minute meal seem as if it had been planned for weeks.
“What a welcome for those tired folk!” Miss Sanders placed her hands on her chest. “God bless Beatrice Ward and the ladies’ society.”
Now there’s a thought I’d never have, Mason pondered as he pulled the wagon onto Liberty Street and headed for the town hall.
It was a matter of minutes before the wagon was surrounded by the good people of Evans Grove, and Miss Ward was giving a long, too-formal welcome speech. Impromptu as it was, the cobbled-together spread and Miss Ward’s grandiose gestures could make a person think they had stumbled into the annual town picnic. Had Miss Sterling taken note of the many buildings that were still in bad shape? Would Mr. Brooks realize how many lives had been washed away a month ago? Hope was wearing mighty thin in Evans Grove, but at least it was still alive.
“Come, Rebecca, sit down and have a glass of water. I’ll tend to the children.” Mason watched Holly Sanders guide Miss Sterling to a seat. How did the teacher manage such a cheerful and upbeat tone like that? He felt as if he’d lived a month in the last five hours. She must feel as bad, if not worse. He got his answer whe
n he saw her put her hand to her forehead and straighten up far too slowly from helping that tiniest of girls. He wasn’t the only one hiding wounds today in Evans Grove.
Mason told himself to look away, but when her gaze met his, he found he could not. A shadow crossed her pale blue eyes; he could see it even from this distance across the shady clearing. His mind pulled up the unwelcome memory of the desperate grip she’d given him over Mr. Arlington’s dead body. He recalled the hesitant touch she’d given him in the wagon. The day had done something to her, to be sure. Taken something from her, although he couldn’t say what just yet.
Then again he wasn’t sure just what the day had stripped from him, either. He only knew something under his ribs was out of place, and it wasn’t the sort of thing Doc Simpson could put right.
He needed to get out of here, away from the jumble her eyes made of his thoughts. He forced her touch out of his mind, tamping it down the way he tamped down all those sorts of things anymore. He had a foursome of criminals, a broken safe full of gold and a body to tend to. He had no time for picnics. Ignoring the look Beatrice Ward gave him when he snatched a pair of rolls from the buffet table, Mason turned back toward the wagon and the duties still awaiting him.
Life wasn’t going to allow him such an easy out, for Holly Sanders caught up with him just as he was about to swing up into the seat. “You should eat.” Her tone of voice was...what? Complicated was the only word that came to mind—half request, half scolding, and weighted with the combined gains and losses of the day.
He held up the pair of rolls as his answer, unsure of what words to use given the set of her eyes.
“More than that.” Her hands parked on her hips while her voice wove a combination of lecture and teasing. Did she realize what that half-playful tone did to him, or was that just a cruel trick of circumstance?
“Too much yet to do.” He shrugged. “I’ve got...things...to attend to that can’t wait for supper.” He saw her shoulders sag and knew he hadn’t hidden the weight of his tasks behind an innocent word like “things.” She’d tried to re-pin her hair during the ride, but wayward strands of her chestnut-colored locks still eluded that tight bun she always wore. The lace on one of her sleeves had torn, and he realized the brown smear on the hem of her pretty skirt was blood.
It bothered him that her gaze followed his, that she knew what his eyes registered. She worried her hands together, delicate fingers rubbing each other as if it would erase the taint of the day. “Where is...he?” He knew she was speaking of Arlington’s body, but her eyes looked up from her skirt to fix on Liam. The boy sat quietly on a bench running his fingers around the rim of a glass of lemonade. All the children were a heartbreaking mix of fidgety, tired and afraid.
“He’s at Doc Simpson’s, I suppose. He’s got no kin here to lay him out.”
Her sigh pressed against the hollow spot opening in his chest. “He has a wife...had a wife. And a daughter, according to Miss Sterling. We should wire—”
“No point until the morning, really. It’s kinder that way, anyhow.” Mason tried not to think of the story she should never know, the story of his own worst night. He’d barely survived the endless, excruciating hours after coming home to the body of his wife. To the loss of the child who in two months’ time would have come into the world as his firstborn. No, he thought, bad news is best saved for daylight.
She straightened her shoulders—almost by sheer will this time, not hiding her wince. It was the worst kind of torture that she’d shown a new side of herself to him today. He hadn’t counted on Holly Sanders’s gumption, thinking she had smarts enough but no strength. Her bravery at the rail line had shown that a lie. A man with his history could recognize a glossed-over wound a mile off. “Miss Sanders, you all right?” The words tumbled out of him, odd and over-fussy.
“Why yes, of course I am,” she replied too quickly, her voice pitched too high for calm.
“Surely that can’t have been the first time you’ve seen a man dead?” It was a fool thing to ask. Evans Grove had lost so many in the flood, nearly everyone had kin or friends now gone, and this was the last kind of conversation he should be having with Holly Sanders.
“No.” She looked him in the eye, her expression fierce and kind and hurt all at once with a dozen other things besides. “But it is the first time a man’s been killed right in front of me.” Her hands fisted against that pretty skirt. “And I hate the way it feels. When I think of what it must feel like for Rebecca or any of those sweet children, I...” She bit off the end of her thought, jaw working to hold her composure steady. “I’d better go tend to the beds. We’d best get those exhausted children washed and trundled off right after supper.”
How well Mason knew that impulse, that “stay busy or it’ll swamp up over me” drive. It had been his constant companion in the months after Phoebe’s death. Phoebe’s murder.
“You should eat.” Without thinking, he offered one of his rolls with her own earlier command. It was a pointless gesture—the woman was perfectly capable of fixing herself a plate—but he found himself unwilling to go so far as to voice the “take care of yourself, too” he was thinking.
The message got through, anyway, for she managed to open her hand and take the roll. With a half a smile, she took a reluctantly obedient bite, straightened her shoulders one last time, and turned toward the schoolhouse.
Mason was still pondering the image of that half smile when he fell asleep at his desk in the sheriff’s office three hours later.
Chapter Four
It took longer than Holly guessed for her and Charlotte Miller to get things in order. The simple task of gathering up bedding and getting the nine pallets laid out on the schoolroom floor felt endless. Still, she reminded herself all of Evans Grove was pitching in to help. Pauline Evans and Beatrice Ward had consented to partner up to get Mr. Brooks settled at the Creekside Hotel, although Holly wasn’t sure Mr. Brooks would survive that team. His importance surely ensured a warm welcome and attentive hosting, but none of that would change the wounds of the day. Even friendly, attentive strangers were still strangers.
“Goodness, I think that’s the last of them,” said Charlotte as she folded the facecloth of the last washed child. “Why don’t you take Miss Sterling across the yard to your house to wash up,” Charlotte suggested, making Holly think she and Rebecca now looked as bedraggled as she felt. “I’ll mind the little ones until you get back.” A few years older than Holly but with just as much energy, Charlotte rubbed her neck but smiled at the row of clean faces peeking out from under blankets and afghans. “The ones who aren’t asleep already won’t stay awake for long.”
When Rebecca hesitated, Holly took her by the arm. “I’m sure Charlotte will send for us if any of the children need you. You need rest, and tomorrow’s tasks will come soon enough.” She was sorry to have mentioned tomorrow’s sad tasks, for she saw Rebecca’s eyes well up. The poor woman had been holding back tears all day. Holly felt like crying herself, still feeling the pull of nerves wound tight.
Rebecca looked back at the schoolhouse twice during the walk across the yard, but allowed Holly to bring her into the tidy frame teacherage that sat across the school yard from the classroom. Home had never felt more wonderful. Holly loved her home, took comfort in the familiarity of her things. She’d always felt the house’s contents gave her a measure of strength and stability after venturing out into the prairie to help meet the need for frontier teachers. The teapot and the pretty china cups that had been her grandmother’s, the rows of precious books, all these things seemed to offer a welcome embrace as she pulled the door shut. The house was warm and cozy, for she had remembered to duck in and start the stove—not to mention start some water warming—just after supper on the square. “I think some tea and a wash up will do wonders, don’t you?”
Rebecca gave a silent nod. She clutched a handkerchief in a white-knuckled fist, rosy lips set thin and tight. Hanging on by the thinnest of threads, she was. Holly c
ouldn’t blame her one bit—out here in the middle of nowhere, alone to face such a daunting task. Holly’s big trip to Newfield had felt so large and important yesterday; now it felt small and inconsequential. She laid her hand over the woman’s delicate fist. “It will be all right.”
“How?” It was more a hopeless groan than a question. Rebecca’s eyes overflowed, and tears slid silently down each of her flawless cheeks. Holly felt the lump in her own throat grow larger and thought about how the horrible gray morning after the flood had seemed to snatch away every good thing in Evans Grove. She’d stood that morning and watched the sun fail to rise over Fourth Street, fail to part the gray that cloaked the battered homes. Houses of folks she knew and loved looked like piles of strewn kindling. Soaked and bone tired, Holly had asked the same question of Reverend Turner.
Holly now gave Rebecca the same answer the Reverend had given her. “That’s not ours to know tonight. Let’s hand it over to the Almighty for a while so we can sleep.”
Rebecca shook her head. “Lord only knows what will happen to those children.” She dabbed her eyes. “I’ve lain awake praying that God would find them homes even before Newfield. Nothing’s come of it. These children have been passed over stop after stop. I’ve been delighted to see so many of the children we set out with find spots in good homes, but I never expected these last ones to pull on my heart so much. The whole point of the Orphan Salvation Society is to take these boys and girls out of the grime of the city and give them a hopeful future. I know a foster family isn’t the same as an adoption, but it’s close. Only we haven’t come close for these children at all. Greenville is our last stop. If they’re not placed, I’ll have to take them back to New York unplaced...” She clenched her jaw to stop a sob. The desperation in her voice told Holly that whatever waited in New York wasn’t good.
“Shush now. All of that can wait for daylight.” Holly pulled up one of her mama’s favorite sayings from memory. “God hasn’t closed his eyes, but you ought to.” She checked the kettle. “Evans Grove is full of good people who’ll help you get over this rough patch, you wait and see.” Her mind cast back to the ragtag handful of children. They were neither strong nor pretty; surely not the kind to be caught up by families at first sight. Still, the teacher in her could already see bits of character and personality that made them special—even if they didn’t know it themselves. All God’s children were worthwhile, were deserving of love and security. “God’s watched over them today, hasn’t He?”
Family Lessons Page 4