by Jan Watson
“Your family will stand by you. I might be gone a long time.”
“I suppose they would,” Darcy said. “I’ll stay home until the baby is born, but after that, wherever you are, that’s where we’ll be. I’m not sitting around on Troublesome Creek being gossip fodder for the rest of my life. I have a trade and I can support myself. Prisons have visiting days, I expect.”
“There’s no need to worry about how you’ll live. There will be enough money to last you.”
Darcy sighed. “Don’t you get it? Money and greed are what got us in this mess. Your money. Your greed.”
As if her words were poison-tipped arrows, he jerked, then slumped back against the bench.
Darcy’s eyes smarted. Her blood simmered with anger like a pot of beans on a back burner. Right now she didn’t understand herself or him. She should get off the bench and walk away, not even look back. Instead, she took a moment to compose herself. She thought of her grandmother and the troubles she’d faced in her lifetime. Mammaw had stayed stalwart and strong through it all. Darcy would claim that endurance as her heritage from Mammaw just like her button nose and her short stature.
“I could have given you the world,” Henry said in a choked voice.
“I never wanted the world. I only wanted you.” Darcy turned toward him. She wanted to see his eyes. It felt like her life rested on his answer. “Just tell me one thing. Why didn’t you run while you had the chance?”
“I couldn’t leave Ace’s wife to stand accused. I thought I could.” He tossed a bit of stale pretzel he found on the bench over the heads of the pigeons to a hopeful squirrel. “When I heard those men say the law was after Dance, I figured I was the luckiest man alive. I came back here to collect my stuff, figuring to head out west. But there was the Bible on my nightstand and old man Follett’s admonition—I’ll tell you about him another time. Anyway, I spent two days and nights on my knees with that Bible. The Lord wouldn’t give me any rest.”
She bit her lip. That was a good answer, but it wasn’t the answer she longed for. “I’m glad you found the Lord. You know He forgives you. Maybe everyone else will in time.”
“I know you don’t want me to touch you, but I can’t help myself.” Henry rubbed her lower lip with his thumb, then kissed her ever so gently. “I couldn’t leave you, either, little Darcy. I thought to, believe you me. I’ve cursed myself for bringing you into this. But I couldn’t resist you. You’re the best and brightest thing that ever happened to me. I never loved anyone until you.”
“Do one thing for me,” she said, handing him her gold band. “Put my ring back on.”
Henry was not surprised to find a welcoming committee outside Mrs. Oldham’s boardinghouse when he and Darcy Mae returned. He heard her gasp, and the hand she rested in the crook of his arm tightened.
“Something has happened to Mammaw,” she said while they were still out of earshot. “Dylan’s come to tell me.”
But Henry had seen the wink of sunlight off a badge on Dylan Foster’s chest. Big Boy Randall was a puzzle, though. The sheriff must be getting desperate. The street was busy this time of day, and they hadn’t been spotted. There was still time to make a run for it. Henry’s muscles coiled tight as a spring. Every ounce of his being begged self-preservation, but he kept his forward trek. It was put up or shut up now.
“Darcy Mae, be brave. They’ve come for me.” Oh, how he wished he could protect her from what was to come. “Open your purse.”
She didn’t question as he slid three bankbooks into her purse but received his gift and pulled the drawstrings tight. Right then he knew she stood with him, whatever befell. It was a powerful moment.
“That’s something for your eyes only, Darcy. I worked hard for each penny recorded in those books. There’s more than enough to take care of all your needs and Dance Shelton’s too. Spend it as you like.”
Just then he saw Foster elbow Randall, who was jawing with some ladies. Big Boy fumbled with the holster on his hip. Henry almost laughed. Some fine lawmen, he thought as he raised his arms in surrender.
CHAPTER 32
THE WHITT FAMILY CEMETERY was crowded with folk on the bleak November day Reverend Jasper laid Fairy Mae to rest. Women drew shawls tightly against the cold wind, and men held on to their hats. Trees skirting the graveyard lifted bare black branches as if in supplication to the cloud-whipped sky. Leaves piled ankle-deep squelched under booted feet. Leaf mold mixed with the scents of dry bark and mushroom spores. Cara stifled a sneeze and tucked Merky underneath her mantle.
This funeral was especially hard. Mammaw was well loved. To keep her mind off the gaping hole in the red, raw earth, Cara studied the folks gathered round. Dance was holding up surprisingly well considering how close she’d been to her grandmother. Ace’s mother was right at her elbow—just in case, Cara figured. Jay stood in front of his mother with one hand on Wilton’s shoulder. He was such a little man. Cara was glad Dance made it home in time to tell Fairy Mae good-bye. And glad Ace was well enough for her to leave him in the care of his father for a short time. They’d all be coming home next spring if Ace continued to improve.
Darcy. It pained Cara somewhat just to look at her across the yawning grave. She grieved for the loss of the sweet friend Darcy had once been to her. She was different since she came back. There was a far-off feel about her nowadays.
People change, Cara reckoned. She herself was not the same as she was before Dimmert went to prison. She was strong now like a seam mended with double thread. And truly, if anybody should understand Darcy’s pain, it was she. Henry Thomas’s trial had been swift but merciful. He got five years of hard labor. Most folks thought he should have hung. Cara was glad he didn’t—for the sake of Darcy and her baby, if for no other reason.
Even the sheriff had come to the service. Cara smiled to see Big Boy standing respectfully behind him. Big Boy’s badge shone on his chest. Talk about a change. These days Big Boy was tracking criminals instead of being just short of becoming one. Wilton tore around the grave to where Big Boy stood. Big Boy lifted the tad over his head and settled him on his broad shoulders. Jay stayed with his mother.
And there was Dylan. Bless his heart. It was no secret he once carried a torch for Darcy. He’d be all right though. He was young and about to leave for the big city, where he’d gotten a good-paying job in Lexington’s police department.
A commotion caught her eye. Henry’s dog Daisy pushed through the crowd to stand by her new owner. That hound was never far from Remy, and now her long tail beat a happy dance across the back of Remy’s knees. If she wasn’t careful, Remy might topple over. Cara shuddered. What if she fell into the grave? Who would fetch her out?
It had been a sight to see Big Boy and Dylan carrying Remy up the mountain to the boneyard in a sling made by their crossed arms. Remy had sat there upright as a queen on the throne, holding her crutch like a scepter.
Cara bet that dog slept in the house—not very cleanly by her standards, but then she’d once slept with a mule’s head in her window. Oh, that Pancake. Cara felt a smile twitching at the corner of her lips and clamped them shut. She should concentrate on the service, show some respect. Brother Jasper was talking about streets lined with gold. . . .
Merky dropped her dolly, and Cara set her down so she could retrieve it. She’d dragged it everywhere with her since she’d come to stay with Cara. On the morning the family had loaded up to head off to Maryland, Merky was the only one who cried to stay. The doll seemed a comfort to the little girl. Maybe Darcy would make it a new dress. Wouldn’t it be dear if she made one for Merky also? Matching dresses, a good idea.
Miz Copper looked good. Cara was glad to have her friend home from Philadelphia, glad everything had turned out okay for her and the babies. My, my. Twins. It was no wonder that the doc wouldn’t let her travel until they were born. There was to be a dinner for the mourners at the Pelfreys’ following the funeral. Maybe she’d get to hold the babies. Miz Copper bent down and whispered somethi
ng in Lilly Gray’s ear. The girl nodded solemnly and leaned back against her mother.
The wind picked up. Dead leaves swirled in a cone, hopping and skipping across the ground like a tiny tornado. Cara’s arms ached from the weight of Merky. She nuzzled the girl’s head with her chin. Merky was more like hers than Dance’s now, although Cara knew that wouldn’t last long. She couldn’t take the place of a mother.
When the Sheltons came back, she supposed they would move into Fairy Mae’s place. Jean told Cara that Darcy aimed to build onto the house so Dance would have plenty of room. Cara wouldn’t know. Darcy didn’t let her in on her plans anymore. Maybe Darcy blamed her for the sheriff finding Henry in Chicago before they had a chance to return on their own. If so, Cara couldn’t be sorry for it.
Six pallbearers stepped up to the coffin. She caught Darcy’s eye. Darcy lifted her chin. Be that way, Cara thought and then felt shame. It was Darcy’s beloved grandmother the men were lowering by ropes into the grave. Nobody could fault Darcy on her care for Fairy Mae, least of all Cara, who’d done little enough. What was that Bible verse about ignoring a beam in your own eye whilst you were exclaiming a mote in your brother’s? She’d have to ask Big Boy about that. And soon she needed to have a heart-to-heart with Darcy. There was fault enough on both sides.
Somebody started singing. Soon most of the folks joined in. Cara couldn’t, for she was choking on sobs. Funeral music always did her in.
“‘There’s a land that is fairer than day,’” rang out pure and simple across the mountain top. “‘And by faith we can see it afar; for the Father waits over the way . . .’”
When the first shovelful of clay dirt hit the coffin with a dull thud, Cara looked off into the distance in a bid to keep from breaking down. She chanced to see a flock of migrating wild canaries spread across the topmost branches of the bare trees. A ray of sun broke through the gray and gloomy cloud cover and lit the yellow birds from behind like handblown ornaments on a candlelit Christmas tree. Cara gasped and pointed before she remembered where she was. Everyone turned to look. Cara listened to the song’s sweet promise: “‘In the sweet by and by, we shall meet on that beautiful shore . . .’”
The bright birds soared high and swooped low over and over in perfect cadence to the melody.
Thank You, Jesus, Cara praised. Fairy Mae would love this.
After the service, the Pelfreys’ house was packed with folks sharing Fairy Mae stories. Cara loved listening to the older women talking, the ones who had known Mammaw since she was a girl. The women were in Miz Copper’s spacious kitchen, slicing ham and bread and adding a pinch of salt or a sprinkle of pepper to the dishes. Soon they were tittering at a story Fairy Mae had told on herself, how when she was a girl she broke half a dozen eggs into a hot skillet and then couldn’t turn them for love nor money. Nobody’d taught her about greasing the pan first. Fairy Mae was like that, everyone agreed, always laughing at her own self. Always humble.
“She’ll be sorely missed,” Jean said, blotting her cheeks with the corner of her apron.
One of the ladies asked Cara about Dimmert. “I heard he was coming home,” the lady said. “I heard he got a pardon.”
Cara wished she hadn’t asked. She’d never liked to be the center of attention, and now all the women strained her way, waiting for the answer. “It’s up to the governor,” she replied. “I heard from the warden at the prison that he had sent the paperwork. It’s waiting for governor’s signature. Of course he might say no.”
“Pshaw,” the lady said. “Dimmert should never have been sent away. It’s not like he killed somebody.”
There was a murmur of agreement among the other women.
From the corner of her eye, Cara saw Darcy take the water bucket and head outside. Cara followed. This might be the only chance she had to come to terms with her friend. The empty bucket Darcy carried bumped against her leg all the way to the well house.
Miz Copper’s well had a newfangled pump so you didn’t have to lower the bucket on a rope. Cara stood in the doorway and watched Darcy hang the bucket on the pump, then jerk the handle up and down until water gushed out the mouth.
“That’s amazing,” Cara said. “How’d you know to do that?”
“The place where I stayed in Chicago had one in the kitchen. You didn’t even have to go outdoors to fetch water.”
“I studied about that once,” Cara replied. “In ancient times a king watered his garden from the river with a series of pulleys and gears and whatnot. Kindly puts me in mind of Ace’s sweetwater run.”
Darcy’s face turned beet red. She pumped so hard, water overflowed the bucket and spread wastefully across the stone floor. “Did you come out here to remind me of what Henry did?”
Cara could have bit her tongue right off. How thoughtless could she be? “I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt your feelings. Here, let me help you tote that bucket.” Cara took hold of the handle, but Darcy jerked it away. Water cold as ice splashed out, soaking Cara to the skin. She stood in shock for a moment before she wrested the half-empty bucket away and dumped it over Darcy’s head.
Darcy sputtered and stammered, then dissolved in laughter. Holding her sides, she collapsed on the bench just inside the well house door. When she caught her breath, she grabbed Cara’s hand and pulled her down beside her.
“Gracious, Cara,” she finally got out, “I forgot how much I’ve missed you.”
Cara fanned her soaked skirts. “Good way to show it,” she said before she got the giggles her own self.
They sniggered like girls until they were rocking on the wooden bench. “I’ve laughed so hard I reckon we’d best visit the other little house,” Cara said. “I’ve heard it’s a two-seater with linoleum on the floor.”
“And lace curtains at the window.” Darcy howled and clutched her belly. “Oh, you’ve set the baby to kicking.”
Like spies scouting for Indians, they peeped out the door. Since no one was about, they scampered across the barren garden and down the long path to the outhouse, swinging their hands together.
Less than two weeks later, you would have thought spring was just around the corner instead of winter. Why, the day was almost balmy.
“Let’s do a wash,” Cara said to Merky. “Let’s wash all the bedclothes and hang them to dry in the sun.”
“My get Dolly’s blankie,” Merky said, jerking the cover from the doll bed. Her doll tumbled headfirst to the floor. She held the doll up to Cara. “Her’s got a boo-boo.”
Smiling, Cara kissed the wooden head. “Be gentle with your baby, Merky.”
“Her’s all better now,” Merky replied as she dragged the doll by one arm.
While water heated under the iron wash kettle, Cara hung two woolen blankets on the line and beat them soundly with a rug beater. She’d let them soak up the warmth of the sun until the wash was done. Rarely did she wash a wool blanket. It was a tedious chore and not one she relished, washing by hand in cold water and then stretching them on a curtain frame to keep shrinkage to a minimum.
By noon the clothesline sagged under bleached white sheets and colorful quilts. Cara surveyed the morning’s work. Nothing made a body feel better than a wash line full of laundry on a pretty day. Merky stood right beside her with her tiny fists seated at her waist, miming Cara.
Cara swung her up and kissed her rosy cheeks. “Are you hungry, little chickadee?”
Merky’s eyes drooped. “Sleepy.”
Back in the kitchen, Cara crumbled corn bread into a mug and then poured sweet milk over it. She spoon-fed Merky before wiping her face and tucking her in for a nap. She knew she was spoiling the girl, but she couldn’t help it. And Merky was so easy—such a sunny child. Cara watched as Merky drifted off. Each day with her was a blessing.
Leaving the child to sleep, Cara took her egg basket and headed to the henhouse. It would break her heart when Merky went home, but at the same time she couldn’t wait until the entire Shelton family was back within visiting distance, back wher
e they belonged. Eggs were plentiful today. Good, Merky liked scrambled eggs for supper.
A shadow crossed the doorway. The day was turning cloudy. She’d best see if the quilts were dry.
Then she heard a dear, familiar voice. “Cara. Cara-mine, I’m home.”
Her heart stood still as she turned toward the door. There Dimmert stood, big as life. She dropped the basket, eggs and all, on the ground. In two long strides he was across the packed-dirt floor and folding her into his strong arms. She leaned back and looked at his face, ran her fingers through his ginger-colored hair, straightened his collar.
“Is it really you?” she asked, resting her head on his broad chest.
He kissed her hard in answer to her question. She was weeping with joy, and he dashed tears of his own.
“Where’s old Pancake?” he asked.
Cara smiled and shook her head. No doubt about it—her Dimmert was home.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A retired registered nurse of twenty-five years, Jan Watson specialized in the care of newborns and their mothers. She attends Tates Creek Christian Church and lives in Lexington, Kentucky. Jan has three grown sons and a daughter-in-law.
Sweetwater Run follows Jan’s Troublesome Creek series, which includes Troublesome Creek, Willow Springs, and Torrent Falls. Her awards include the 2004 Christian Writers Guild First Novel contest and second place in the 2006 Inspirational Readers Choice Contest sponsored by the Faith, Hope, and Love Chapter of the RWA. Troublesome Creek was also a nominee for the Kentucky Literary Awards in 2006. Willow Springs was selected for Library Journal’s Best Genre Fiction category in 2007.
Jan’s hobbies are reading, antiquing, and taking long walks with her Jack Russell terrier, Maggie.
Jan invites you to visit her Web site at www.janwatson.net. You can contact her through e-mail at [email protected].