Room for Hope

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  He grabbed up his crate and headed out onto the sidewalk. Across the street the telegraph office lights were still on. Jesse broke into a trot. He’d bother one more Buffalo Creek business owner before returning to his house.

  Bud

  Bud moved up the hallway on bare feet toward the kitchen, drawn by the smell of bacon and eggs—Pop’s favorite breakfast, and his, too. Ma was at the stove, already dressed in her Sunday clothes. Except she didn’t have her hat on yet. And she wore a bibbed apron. She must’ve gotten up really early.

  He moved directly to the stove and stuck his nose close, drawing in a deep breath. “Mmm. Smells good.”

  Ma lifted a piece of meat from the sizzling pan with a fork and laid it on the plate already heaped with at least a dozen slices of crisp-looking bacon. Little grease bubbles bounced and popped on the wavy strip. She winked at him before pushing more shriveling lengths of bacon around in the pan. “I thought we deserved something special for breakfast after all the work we did yesterday.”

  Bud grinned. He liked it when Ma talked to him the way she would a grownup. “So all this is just for us? The others get gruel?” He waggled his eyebrows at her the way he’d seen Pop do.

  A grin curved Ma’s lips, but her eyes didn’t light the way they used to when Pop took to teasing her. “I think we’ll need to share. They worked, too. Just not in the mercantile.”

  Bud could have argued that walking around town shoving papers at people wasn’t the same as carrying full crates and cleaning. And Charley got a whole fifty cents for the job. Ma only gave him and Belle a quarter a week for their allowance, and they worked a heap sight harder than Charley had. The words rolled on his tongue, eager to escape, but he swallowed them. Ma looked tired even after a full night’s sleep, and she was fixing him a special breakfast. He’d repay her by not fussing. The decision gave him a good feeling inside.

  “Would you run down to the cellar and get me some apples? A half dozen of the firmest ones, please.”

  “What’cha gonna do with those?”

  This time when Ma smiled, it looked more real. “Fry them in butter with some brown sugar.”

  Saliva pooled under Bud’s tongue. He licked his lips. “This is gonna be the best breakfast ever!”

  Ma laughed. Propelled by her happiness, Bud darted to his room for his slippers and robe, then charged down the stairs. He reached for the back door lock, but a draft flowing up the hallway that led to the store stopped him short. He angled a frown toward the dark mercantile. Had he left the overhead fan on last night? He replayed his final actions in the store and recalled giving a little hop to catch the pull chain. He’d turned it off.

  He moved to the bottom riser and started to call for Ma, but then he clamped his mouth closed. Ma was busy. And wasn’t he the man of the house? He’d explore things by himself. Slowly, his heart thudding like a bass drum, he pushed the button for the hallway sconces. The sudden light made him wince, and he squinted as he moved in the direction of the shadowy mercantile.

  Clear at the front of the store, a strange pale glow formed a narrow path on the gray floor. Bud squinted harder, trying to make sense of it. And then understanding fell like the ceiling on his head. He stopped so quick his soles slid on the floor. He tried to yell for Ma, but his throat was too dry.

  “The sheriff…” He gasped the words. “We need the sheriff.” Without another thought Bud raced out the open front door and up the street.

  Neva

  How long did it take to fetch a half-dozen apples from the cellar? Neva glanced over her shoulder, frowning. She needed to core and slice the apples before she could fry them, and she wanted to get them in a pan before she woke Belle and the children.

  Using her apron as a heat shield, she transferred the platter of bacon and the bowl of scrambled eggs to the warming oven. She poured the bacon grease into a can and then used a rag to wipe the pan clean. For a moment she stood motionless with one ear turned toward the doorway, listening for Bud’s feet on the stairs. Nothing.

  She sighed and crossed to the Frigidaire for the butter. She spooned a blob into the pan but didn’t set it on a burner. No sense in scorching the butter. She returned the butter bowl to the refrigerator and then listened again for Bud. Still nothing.

  She shook her head, impatience teasing her. Where was that boy? Had he gone back to bed? She started for the hallway to peek in his room, but muffled noises from the lower level captured her attention. She changed course and moved to the stairway instead. As she descended, the whisper of voices—one excited, one low pitched and calm—crept around the corner. Her confusion mounting with every downward step, she sped her progress and broke into a clumsy trot when she reached the bottom of the stairs.

  The voices became more clear and recognizable as she moved up the hallway in a brisk stride. Apparently Bud had been distracted by an unexpected visitor. She burst into the room, located her son and their guest behind the counter, and then huffed out a little breath. “Mr. Caudel, what are you doing here this morning?”

  He and Bud wore matching expressions of dismay and remorse. Mr. Caudel started to speak, but Bud rushed at her and began blabbering. “Ma, I fetched the sheriff. Somebody broke into the mercantile last night. They took the money box.”

  Nausea attacked. Neva clapped her hand over her mouth and reached out for her son. He gripped her hand and held tight.

  Mr. Caudel approached and touched Bud’s shoulder. “Go up and pour your mother a cup of coffee, Bud. Add a splash of medicinal whiskey if you’ve got it.”

  “Pop kept a bottle behind a box of rags in the barn.”

  Warren? Whiskey? Would the surprises never cease? She shook her head. “No. No spirits.”

  Mr. Caudel gently shifted Bud toward the hallway. “It’ll help calm your nerves.”

  “No!”

  He grimaced. “Bud, get that coffee, huh?”

  Bud darted off.

  Mr. Caudel took hold of her elbow and guided her to the counter. “Catch hold there, ma’am, until you get your bearings. This isn’t the best way to start a day, is it?”

  His soothing demeanor did her more good than an entire bottle of whiskey could. She drew in several slow breaths and brought her racing pulse under control. She finally found the ability to answer his question. “No. No, it surely isn’t.”

  Only last night she’d fallen asleep thanking God for bringing so many customers to the mercantile, secure in the knowledge she would be able to care for her children as well as Warren had. Now her security had crumbled, and betrayal swept over her with as much force as a stout Kansas wind.

  Bud shuffled into the mercantile, cradling a cup between his palms. He held it out to Neva. “Here you go, Ma. No whiskey—just black coffee.”

  Neva would pour out that whiskey as soon as she had the strength to cross the yard. She took the cup and sipped the liquid. It didn’t help, but she offered Bud a wobbly smile anyway. “Thank you, Son. Now go get dressed. And wake the others, too.”

  He stood gazing at her with his brow furrowed, clearly unwilling to leave her.

  She forced a smile. “I’ll be all right. Go on, now. We don’t want to be late for church.”

  “We’re going?”

  “You’re going?”

  Bud and Mr. Caudel spoke at the same time, their voices expressing matching incredulity.

  Neva set the cup on the counter and bounced a firm look over both of them. “Of course we’re going.” She needed prayer and a reminder of God’s presence.

  Bud shrugged, but he headed around the corner. His feet thudded on the stairs, and soon the patter of footsteps overhead assured her all the children were awake and readying themselves for the day.

  Mr. Caudel wandered over to the door. He seemed to examine it closely. Neva remained next to the sturdy counter, uncertain her shaky legs would support her if she tried to walk. She wished she had a stool to sit on, but Warren had never wanted any chairs in the mercantile, claiming a place to relax would encourage
sloth.

  She shoved aside memories of Warren and focused on the new sheriff. “Did they break the lock?” Would the town locksmith be willing to replace it for her on a Sunday? If he did, he’d probably charge extra. Would she be able to afford it?

  “The lock’s not broken, ma’am.” Mr. Caudel crouched and peered one eyed at the locking mechanism. “It wasn’t jimmied either.” He rose and aimed a puzzled look at her. “No broken windows. The back door was still locked up. Since this door was standing wide open, I have to assume it’s how he came in and went out. And far as I can tell, that’s exactly what he did. He just…came in.”

  Neva frowned. “You mean the door wasn’t locked?”

  “That’s how it appears.”

  “That can’t be.”

  He clopped toward her, his boot heels as loud as her thundering pulse. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m afraid it is. Otherwise there’d be signs of breaking in. There aren’t any.”

  She desperately needed a chair. She worked her way to the opposite side of the counter and sank down on the edge of the slanting bean bins. Burying her face in her hands, she battled tears. How could she have been so careless?

  His scuffing footsteps approached, and then a hand touched her wrist. She opened her eyes to find him on one knee before her, an apology etched into his features.

  “It was my fault. I came in after you locked up. If it hadn’t been for me coming in after you’d closed, that door would’ve been secure.”

  “No, no.” She raised a hand in dismissal. “I know to check the locks before turning in. I was just so tired…” She was tired now, too. Tired of unpleasant surprises.

  “Do you have any idea how much was in the money box?”

  She swallowed a knot of anguish. “I’ll have to review my receipts from yesterday, but I know it was more than thirty dollars.” Thank goodness not everyone had paid cash. She could count on the charge customers bringing in money later in the month. But what would she do for now? She had bills to pay, and she needed money to place next month’s orders. The weight of responsibility bowed her forward.

  “Ma?”

  Bud’s voice jarred Neva into raising her head and pasting on a smile. “Yes, Son?”

  He held out his hands, showing her his clothing. “We’re all dressed. And the kids are hungry. Should Belle and me go ahead and feed them?”

  Belle and me. Never had Bud offered to help put a meal on the table. Nor had he offered to do anything kind for the younger children. Perhaps this robbery had one good result.

  Mr. Caudel stood and pulled Neva to her feet. “Lock this door behind me, then go up and feed your family. I’ll come back this afternoon, and we’ll write up an official report. Maybe we’ll get lucky and somebody will have seen something—strangers loitering on Main Street or…something.”

  Neva’s pulse gave a leap. “I wonder…”

  Bud crowded close. “What, Ma?”

  She put her arm around her son’s shoulders and addressed Mr. Caudel. “Earlier this week two men—hobos who’d jumped off the train—came to the backyard looking for food. They said they’d been watching me.” Recalling the statement, she involuntarily shuddered. “I gave them some bread, apples, and cheese, and Mr. Randall ordered them to catch the next passing train. Do you think they might have stuck around, hoping for something more?”

  “Randall…Arthur Randall from the emporium?”

  “That’s right.”

  “He saw them, too?”

  Warmth flooded her cheeks the way it had when her neighbor came charging over to rescue her. “Yes.”

  Mr. Caudel gave a decisive nod. “I’ll get a report from him, then, too. I can’t guarantee you’ll see that money again, Mrs. Shilling, but I’ll do my best to find whoever took it and recover as much as possible.” He headed for the door in his typical wide stride. “Lock this now. We don’t need to invite a second intruder.”

  Neva scurried after him and closed the door firmly. Then she turned the lock, checked the door to be certain it held, and finally turned around.

  Bud stared at the door. Horror widened his eyes. “Ma…I did it. I let them in, didn’t I?”

  Jesse

  Jesse, with Dodds Schlacter’s help, spent much of Monday and Tuesday talking with folks who lived near Main Street and searching for clues that might lead him to the mercantile’s thief. But even with their efforts combined, they discovered nothing helpful. By Wednesday Jesse had to conclude the money was gone, carried away in the pockets of the drifter who’d pilfered it. He stopped by the mercantile late that afternoon to give Mrs. Shilling the bad news.

  The mercantile was quiet except for the squeaky overhead fan turning a lazy circle and the soft thump-thump of cans being settled on a shelf somewhere out of sight—probably Bud doing some restocking. Although Mrs. Shilling would probably prefer a crowd of customers buying her wares, Jesse was grateful for the chance to talk to her privately.

  He crossed to the counter, where she was filling brown paper sacks with flour and weighing them. She paused in the task and watched his approach. No glimmer of hope showed in her hazel eyes. At least it seemed she wasn’t expecting good news. He grimaced. Did that make his visit better or worse?

  Leaning on the edge of the counter, he looked straight into Mrs. Shilling’s stalwart face. “I wish I had something better to tell you, ma’am, but Sheriff Schlacter and I agree that whoever stole the money is long gone, and he was wily enough not to leave a trail. We’re giving up trying to find him.”

  She bowed her head and nodded. “I understand.”

  Bud came flying from behind the tall shelves, his cheeks and neck mottled with red. “Whaddaya mean you’re giving up? Sheriffs don’t give up. I read about them all the time in the dime novels. Every lawman always says, ‘I will find that man.’ What kind of a sheriff are you?”

  Mrs. Shilling reached for him. “Bud…”

  He ducked away, his eyes still blazing. “You can’t quit. We need that money. How’re we supposed to keep this place going without it? You gotta keep trying, Mr. Caudel. You gotta.”

  The boy’s voice cracked, and Jesse thought his heart cracked at the hurt and betrayal creeping through Bud’s angry explosion. “I’m not giving up completely. I’ll keep listening for clues that will help me figure out who stole your ma’s money. But I’ve worn out my available resources. So I have to let it go for now.”

  Bud rammed his fingers through his hair, disheveling the wavy locks. “If they’d busted that door down instead of just walking through it, we’d have heard. We could’ve come downstairs and caught ’em in the act. We’d still have our money.” The boy’s chin wobbled, and he blinked hard and fast.

  “Whoa there, Bud.” Jesse clamped his hands on the boy’s shoulders and held tight even though he squirmed. “I’m grateful you and your ma didn’t come down here that night. A man desperate enough to march into someone’s place of business and steal is desperate enough to try to cover his deeds. You could’ve been hurt. Or even killed.”

  Bud stopped wriggling. His eyes widened. “Killed?”

  “It’s happened before.” Only yesterday Sheriff Abling had called in response to Jesse’s telegram and told him that a night watchman for Rich & Baker warehouse had been shot during the break-in almost six years ago when several pieces of furniture, including a dining room set identical to the one in his house right now, were taken. The thief had never been found, the furniture never recovered.

  Bud stared at Jesse with his mouth slightly agape for several seconds. Then he broke free of Jesse’s hold and scooted a few feet away. “Betcha I know who did it. Betcha it was Leon and Leroy. They were next door all day Saturday, so they knew how many people came in here to buy stuff. They’d know we had a box full of money. And they’d know Ma never takes the money box to the bank until Monday.”

  Mrs. Shilling took one step toward Bud. “Son, you can’t accuse our neighbors.”

  Bud snorted. “Some neighbors.”

 
The boy’s derision raised the fine hairs on the back of Jesse’s neck.

  The boy folded his arms tight. “They’ve never been nice to us the whole time we’ve lived here. Until Pop up and died. Then old man Randall comes over here, acting all chummy, and—”

  Mrs. Shilling caught Bud’s elbow and gave it a little shake. “Speak politely, young man.”

  Bud curled his lip into a belligerent smirk. “Don’t you remember what Pop always said about the Randalls? They’re moneygrubbers. They don’t care about anything except getting more and more greenbacks.” He turned to Jesse. “Bet you didn’t ask Mr. Randall about his boys, did ya? Bet you didn’t ask them to empty their pockets.” He narrowed his gaze. “And bet you won’t, ’cause nobody ever wants to get on their bad side. So they just do whatever they want to.” He whirled and ran from the store.

  Jesse blew out a breath. He angled a glance at the boy’s mother. “If you need to go after him, I’ll mind the store for you.”

  She shook her head. “If it was Belle, I’d go. With her, talking helps. But with Bud…” Deep regret pursed her face. “Before the theft he and I had turned a corner in our relationship. He was taking on more responsibility here, being more respectful and cooperative. At least with me. But now we’re back to the way we were, with him angry and resentful. I think it’s because he feels he’s to blame for leaving the door unlocked. I’ve told him again and again I’m the owner, so I should have checked it, but…” She held out her hands in futility.

  Jesse chewed the inside of his lip for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “You think there’s any truth to what he said about the Randall boys? Do you think they might have been the ones to take the money?”

  She laughed softly. “They already have more money than nearly anyone else in town. Why would they need to steal more?”

  Jesse shrugged. “Because that’s what moneygrubbers do?”

  “Warren was friendly to their faces, but he often spoke ill of the Randalls behind their backs. ‘Moneygrubbers’ was one of the mildest titles he gave them. I never thought it was very nice, and his attitude prevented me from becoming friends with Mabel Randall.” A sad smile graced her face. “I think sometimes he was jealous of their success. In many ways Warren was a moneygrubber, too.” Her cheeks bloomed pink. She ducked her head. “And I’ve said too much.”