Neva
“Adeline, I know you’re sad, but you really must stop crying.” Neva lifted Adeline onto the edge of the counter and wiped the child’s eyes and nose with a soft handkerchief—the third one of the morning. The child had started crying when Belle left for school an hour ago. First pitiful hiccupping whimpers, then body-shuddering sobs, and finally shrill, angry wails. “You’ll make yourself sick if you don’t quit, and you don’t want to get sick, do you?”
“W-w-want B-B-Belle!” Fresh tears spilled down the little girl’s reddened cheeks.
Neva dabbed the moisture away and battled breaking down in tears herself. She understood Adeline’s angst, and sympathy for the little girl pinched her, but at the same time she wanted to lock Adeline in one of the upstairs rooms and let her cry it out on her own. Neva’s ears were ringing.
Or maybe the front bell was ringing. A shadowy form filled the doorway behind the pulled screen. A customer wanted in.
Neva set Adeline on the floor and said sharply, “Stay right there,” then hurried to the door and unlocked it. “I’m so sorry for the delay in opening this morning. I—” Her apology melted when she recognized the visitor. Arthur Randall never patronized her store. He made use of the larger grocery store on the other side of town—puzzling, given her close location to his house. He must have been bothered by Adeline’s tantrum. Surely half the town had heard her screeching.
The man stepped past Neva and stopped, his frown landing on Adeline, who continued sobbing around her fingers. He pointed. “What is this?”
Neva hurried across the floor and lifted the child into her arms. Adeline fought against her, and she set her on the counter again. “I think it’s fairly obvious that ‘this’ is an unhappy child.”
He drew back. “Why, Mrs. Shilling, you snapped at me.”
Yes, she had. Something she’d never done to a neighbor or a customer before. The morning had been harder on her than she’d realized. She closed her eyes for a moment and prayed for strength. “I apologize. It’s been a rather…harrowing start to the day.”
A grin of amusement grew on his lips. “Yes. I’ve heard.”
“I’m sorry if her crying bothered you.”
He tucked his thumbs into the little pockets on his striped vest. Arthur Randall dressed as impeccably as Warren always had. With his thumbs caught that way and his feet planted wide—a confident stance showcasing masculinity—he could have been Warren. His presence made her heart pine for her husband despite the hurt he’d caused her.
She turned her back on him and smoothed Adeline’s tear-damp hair from her face. She’d apologized for disturbing the businessman. Would he now go away?
Boot heels thumped on the floor, but to her dismay he approached her rather than exiting. He leaned against the counter and bobbed his head at the toddler. “I suppose I should have said, ‘Who is this?’ I haven’t seen this child before. Or the ones your daughter escorted to school this morning. Is there a new family in town?”
“Not exactly.” She continued fussing with the little girl’s fluffy blond pigtails, careful not to look Arthur in the face. The whole town would ask questions soon. She might as well practice giving answers. “Warren wanted the children. He arranged for them to come to me before he died.”
Her conscience panged, which was silly, because every word was truth. She straightened Adeline’s pinafore and quoted, “ ‘The LORD gave, and the LORD hath taken away…’ ” She couldn’t add, “Blessed be the name of the LORD.” That would be pure sacrilege.
His eyebrows rose the same way Reverend Savage’s had. The way Jesse Caudel’s had. The way she expected the entire population of Buffalo Creek would look at her when the news that she’d taken in three orphans spread. How many times would she have to see the evidence of shock before the reaction stopped irritating her?
She balled her hand on her hip. “Mr. Randall, do you need something?”
“As a matter of fact, yes, I do.” He glanced around the store, an unreadable expression on his mustached face. “I’d like to take a gander at the furniture my boys tell me is stored in your barn. The pieces could be a nice addition to the stock in my emporium. That is, unless you intend to put them up for sale in your mercantile.” A soft, amused humph left his lips. “You seem to have made room for larger items by clearing your shelves.”
Heat filled Neva’s face. She had her list ready, and she would visit the telegrapher’s office and send orders to companies in Kansas City today. Once she figured out how to get the goods from the train station in Beloit to Buffalo Creek, her shelves would be full again. She didn’t need Arthur Randall making sport of her. “I don’t intend to sell furniture in the mercantile, but neither do I intend to part with the items.”
At least, not yet, even though she had no use for another parlor set, dining room table and chairs, or anything else besides the children’s beds and bureaus, which were already in the apartment.
“You have some sort of special attachment to them, do you?”
“None whatsoever.” In all truth, just looking at the fine cherry and maple pieces made Neva’s heart ache. Apparently Warren had spoiled Violet as much as he’d spoiled her. Yet she couldn’t bear to let them go. She wouldn’t pretend to make sense of her feelings. And she wouldn’t attempt to explain them to Mr. Randall either.
He gazed at her silently for several seconds, not smiling but not frowning. Finally he angled his head and squinted at her. “Well, then, if you aren’t willing to sell the furniture, would you sell the mercantile?”
Hot anger flooded Neva’s frame. The frustration of dealing with Adeline’s lengthy tantrum, the uncertainty of the future, her tiredness from lying awake worrying instead of sleeping all rolled into a cannon ball that she needed to release. She took aim at the smug target standing before her and fired.
“How dare you ask such a thing? Didn’t my husband tell you again and again this store is not for sale? The answer still applies, Mr. Randall. Warren might be gone, but I am here, and I will never—I repeat, never—part with my livelihood and my home.”
He gawked at her, eyes wide in surprise.
Aiming an imperious finger toward the door, she barked, “Now take your pocketful of money where it might be appreciated and kindly do not darken my door again unless you are here to place an order.” She scooped Adeline from the counter and darted around the corner, willing the irritating man to find his way out without her assistance.
Bud
Bud took his time walking home. Only three blocks from the school to the mercantile. If he ran he could make it in two minutes. Most times he ran, eager to get home and put on his starched cobbler apron and give Ma—or Pop on the months he was home—a hand in the store. Bud had always loved the mercantile. Especially the way it smelled, like apples and leather and spice. The same way Pop always smelled.
But everything had changed. Pop would never be home again. They’d never get to put “Shilling & Son” on the sign. If Pop had lived, would he have put “Sons” up there since Charley was here now?
Bud kicked a rock and sent it skittering up the street. Even though it wasn’t nice, and even though he figured God would punish him for the thought, he wished he could kick Pop instead. How could he just up and die on them?
All day long, that’s all he’d heard. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Belle and Bud.” Miss Neff said it first, as soon as he and Belle settled in their desks. Then at recess and lunch, kids came up and said the same thing. Lots of the girls cried while they said it, and the boys looked down or off to the side and mumbled, embarrassed about being mushy. Even Leon Randall, who’d never said a kind word to Bud as far back as he could remember, had socked him on the arm and told him he was sorry to hear about his pop. Bud had come mighty close to socking Leon back—picking a fight so he’d have some way of getting rid of all the mad feelings floating around inside of him.
“Hey, Bud.” One of his pals, Martin Buckwelder, tromped up beside Bud and nudged him on
the shoulder. “Sure am sorry to hear about—”
Bud stopped in his tracks and glowered at Martin. “Yeah, yeah, I know.” Why couldn’t they all understand he didn’t want to think about Pop being dead? Every time somebody said “I’m sorry,” Bud’s chest got tighter and tighter until it hurt to breathe. He wished people would just leave him alone.
Martin scratched his head, making his red hair stand up. “You don’t gotta get sore. I was just trying to be nice. The way Miss Neff said we should.”
“When’d she say that?”
“When you and Belle were downstairs gettin’ those two new kids enrolled in school.”
Bud scowled and started walking again, dragging his heels so dirt sifted up and dusted the hem of his dungarees. “Well, you don’t have to.” No amount of nice would bring Pop back. It wouldn’t send Charley away. “I don’t even wanna think about it.”
Martin jammed his hands into the pockets of his overalls. Martin always wore overalls, two sizes too big—hand-me-downs from older brothers. Most kids wore hand-me-downs or homemade clothes these days, but Pop always brought Bud and Belle store-bought clothes from one of the bigger cities. He must have done some shopping for Charley and the little girls before he died, because their trunk was full of new clothes. Bud’s stomach writhed.
Martin sighed. “Guess I can’t blame you. I don’t get along all that great with my pa. He’s always after me about one thing or another. But if something happened to him, I’d sure miss him.”
Bud gritted his teeth.
“ ’Course, you oughta be used to not having your pa around since he was gone so much. You might not even notice much that he—”
Bud broke into a run.
“Bud! Hey, Bud!”
Bud kept running until he reached the mercantile. He slammed through the front door, startling his mother and two ladies from church, who jolted and gaped at him the way Belle stared at spiders.
“Hello, Son.” Ma could’ve scolded him for scaring everybody. But she held out her hand and beckoned Bud to come close. “Mrs. Hood and Mrs. Austin brought us some casseroles. Would you carry them up to the kitchen for me?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And then come right back down. I need you to mind the store while I run an errand.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Bud lifted the tin containers and headed for the stairs.
Behind him one of the women said, “I’m sure your Bud and Belle will be a great comfort to you. What a blessing that they’re nearly grown.”
“My goodness, yes,” the second woman said. “Why, if you’d become a widow when your children were small, you’d surely suffer much more than you are now.”
Bud didn’t see much comfort in their words. He hurried up the steps and into the apartment. Belle was on the sofa with Adeline in her lap, and Charley and Cassie had their schoolwork spread all over the floor. Bud stepped around their papers and entered the kitchen. But there wasn’t any place to set the casseroles. Filled plates, pans, and baskets covered the table, the counters, and even the top of the Frigidaire.
He stomped back into the parlor, still holding the pans. “What’s all that stuff in the kitchen?”
Belle gave him a wide-eyed look of amazement. “Food. Momma said people have been bringing things all day long. Isn’t it wonderful?”
Why did people bring food when somebody died? He hadn’t felt much like eating since he got the news of Pop’s passing. Bud would rather just have Pop. “What am I supposed to do with these?” He held out the pans.
She shrugged. “Leave them on the dining room table, I suppose. Momma said she’d put everything away after supper.”
Bud couldn’t imagine where. He plopped the pans on the table and headed back downstairs. Mrs. Hood and Mrs. Austin had gone, and now Martin’s mother was with Ma. But it didn’t look like Mrs. Buckwelder had brought food. Just as well. They had enough upstairs to feed half the town. She was doing a lot of talking, though.
“I vow and declare, Neva, I can’t imagine what Warren was thinking to take in extra children the way he did—and not even a word of warning to you ahead of time! Granted, the Good Book proclaims that children are an inheritance of the Lord, and of course my husband and I have our nine, but they came to us through, er, the usual means. Now you’re expected to take care of some…some foundlings without the help of a husband? I wouldn’t do it. No, indeed, I would not do it.”
From the look on Ma’s face, she wished Mrs. Buckwelder would’ve brought food instead of an opinion. Bud marched over. “Weren’t you needin’ to run that errand now, Ma?”
She turned a grateful smile on Bud. “Yes. Will you please excuse me, Naomi? I have to get to the telegrapher’s office before it closes.”
“Oh, sure, sure.” Mrs. Buckwelder waved her hands at Ma. “Go right on, Neva. Bud here can see to my needs. Or…maybe he can.” She scrunched her face the same way Miss Neff did when the kids were acting up in class. “You seem to be short on stock.”
“And that’s why I’m going to the telegrapher—to place orders.” Ma moved toward the door, removing her apron as she went. “I shouldn’t be long, Bud.” She hurried out the door.
Bud slipped his cobbler apron over his head, then donned his favorite hat—the one that smelled like Pop’s hair tonic. “What did you need, ma’am? We’re all out of sugar, but we’ve still got a good amount of flour and cornmeal.” Martin brought corn muffins in his lunch tin every day. He said their family ate them for every meal. Bud moved to the shelf where a short stack of cornmeal bags waited.
“I do need cornmeal. A ten-pound bag should do.”
Bud carried it over and laid it on the counter. “What else?”
“Well, now, let me think.” Mrs. Buckwelder pushed her fuzzy red bangs from her forehead.
Bud waited, tapping his fingertips on the counter. Martin’s ma always looked a little frazzled. Maybe having so many kids meant she didn’t have time to comb her hair or iron her dresses. Maybe Ma would start looking frazzled now that she had five kids to see to instead of just two. The thought didn’t sit so well.
He stopped tapping. “Mrs. Buckwelder, can I ask you a question?”
“You certainly may.”
“You told my ma you wouldn’t take care of kids that weren’t your own. Why is that?”
She puckered her face. “Oh, now, I didn’t intend for you to hear our conversation. But since you ask…” She leaned close. Close enough Bud could count the freckles on her round face. “Your own children come to you as infants. You raise them the way you want them to behave. You teach them and you protect them from, well, unsavory influences so you can be sure they behave the way the Good Book advises.”
Apparently she didn’t know that Martin sometimes smoked hand-rolled cigarettes behind the outhouse at school.
“But when you take in someone else’s children, you have no idea what habits they might bring with them, what kind of teaching they’ve received. I wouldn’t risk it. Not if I already had impressionable children in my house, like your mother has with you and your dear sister, Belle.”
“So you think Pop was wrong to want those kids?” Bud held his breath while he waited for her to answer.
“I think your father, because he was a bighearted man, meant well. But I don’t see how your poor mother will handle the added responsibility.” She straightened her spine and lifted her chin. “And that’s all I’m going to say about it.”
Jesse
Jesse paid the telegrapher, then watched the man tap out the message he’d penned to the Beloit courthouse. He hoped Sheriff Abling would accept a telegraph as an official notice of resignation. He’d never been good at putting words on paper. Write a full letter? He nearly shuddered. Just coming up with the sentence needed to let his former boss know he’d decided to take the position of sheriff in Buffalo Creek had taxed him. But now it was on its way.
“All done, Mr. Caudel.” The telegrapher, a slender man with a missing front tooth, turned from the m
achine and offered Jesse a wide smile. “Or should I say Sheriff Caudel?”
“I’m not sheriff until Dodds Schlacter vacates his office.”
“Way I heard him tell it, he’s ready at any minute. Now that you’re here, he’ll likely be out by sundown.”
Jesse laughed. No doubt Schlacter would clear out fast. The office was already almost empty, with a pair of fishing poles leaning in the corner as a silent proclamation of what the man really wanted to do with his time. But it would take longer than sundown for Jesse to gather his belongings, load them in the back of his trusty ’22 Oldsmobile flatbed, and transport them to Buffalo Creek.
He already had a place to put his few furnishings. Schlacter assured him he could take over the little shotgun-styled house behind the sheriff’s office and make it his home. It’d been sitting empty ever since the sheriff and his wife bought a house outside of town where he could practice his shooting without fear of wounding a Buffalo Creek resident. He’d also invited Jesse to come out and shoot with him whenever he took a mind to. Jesse intended to take the man up on it. A sheriff should always be ready to aim straight and true.
The telegrapher stuck out his ink-stained hand. “Welcome to Buffalo Creek, Sheriff.”
Jesse returned the handshake, then pulled in a deep breath and let it ease out. His first big breath as Sheriff Caudel. It felt good. He bid the man good-bye, slipped his Stetson in place, and stepped onto the sidewalk right in the path of Neva Shilling. “Excuse me, ma’am.”
“Excuse me,” she returned, her voice pleasant even though her face was set in a mask of worry. She reached for the latch on the screened door.
Jesse caught it first and held it open for her. She smiled a brief thanks and hurried in. Jesse let the door slap closed, but instead of leaving he loitered on the sidewalk. Using the tip of his pocketknife, he cleaned the bits of grime from beneath his fingernails and listened in.
Room for Hope Page 10