Dorothy Garlock - [Route 66]
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This book is a work of historical fiction. In order to give a sense of the times, some names of real people or places have been included in the book. However, the events depicted in this book are imaginary, and the names of nonhistorical persons or events are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance of such nonhistorical persons or events to actual ones is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2004 by Dorothy Garlock
All rights reserved.
Warner Books, Inc., Hachette Book Group, 237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017
Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroup.com.
First eBook Edition: January 2004
ISBN: 978-0-446-54911-0
The “Warner Books” name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
Cover design by Diane Luger and John Valk
Cover illustration by Wendell Minor
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
References
PRAISE FOR THE INCOMPARABLE DOROTHY GARLOCK AND HER PREVIOUS NOVEL MOTHER ROAD
“Entertaining … spiced with Depression-era detail.”
—Publishers Weekly
“This special story shows a love that will overcome all odds. Let your imagination roam as you follow along Route 66 for a heartwarming experience that just won’t quit.”
—Rendezvous
“A wonderful look at life during the Depression, and at a road that led to a new life for many. The characters are great and true to life. Mother Road is a book that should definitely be added to your ‘To Buy’ list.”
—TheRomanceReadersConnection.cmo
“Uplifting…. Dorothy Garlock writes about real people and real life.”
—Romantic Times
“A fascinating novel, with many twists and turns … you’ll have a hard time putting it down. I grew up alongside old Route 66, and any time the subject comes up, it gets my attention. … Take it from this old Okie, she got it right!”
—Lebanon Daily Record (MO)
BOOKS BY DOROTHY GARLOCK
After the Parade
Almost Eden
Annie Lash
Dream River
The Edge of Town
Forever Victoria
A Gentle Giving
Glorious Dawn
High on a Hill
Homeplace
Larkspur
The Listening Sky
Lonesome River
Love and Cherish
Midnight Blue
More than Memory
Mother Road
Nightrose
A Place Called Rainwater
Restless Wind
Ribbon in the Sky
River of Tomorrow
The Searching Hearts
Sins of Summer
Sweetwater
Tenderness
This Loving Land
Wayward Wind
Wild Sweet Wilderness
Wind of Promise
With Heart
With Hope
With Song
Yesteryear
Dedicated with love to
ALEX (Hemmy) LEMON,
professor, poet, eligible bachelor.
And if he doesn’t behave himself,
I’ll tell his students how he got his nickname.
Rusty’s song
What I See
I was alone on the Mother Road
Prospectin’ for love like the Mother Lode.
I did not know that was what I sought.
I just knew that I hurt a lot.
They are blind who will not see,
None so blind as a man like me.
You were there, watchin’ over me
With gentle touch and sweet sympathy,
With tender care like a gift so free,
You were there giving strength to me.
Now I know what you tried to share.
Now I see what was always there.
For my embrace you waited patiently
But I never saw what you meant to me.
They are blind who will not see,
None so blind as a man like me.
Come back, love, to my eager arms.
Come back, love, with your magic charms.
Give me love or I’ll change to stone,
Give me hope or I’ll die alone.
—F.S.I.
Prologue
1933
Hilton, Kansas
BRADY STEPPED UP ONTO THE PORCH just as the door was shoved open. His brother came from the house carrying his wife, Becky. Her head lolled against his shoulder; blood covered her upper body and ran down the arm that swung limply. She was naked.
“Good Lord! What happened?” Brady croaked. Although the brothers hadn’t seen each other for six months, Brian, in his dazed state, seemed not in the least surprised to see him.
“I can’t leave her in there with … him.” Brian kissed Becky’s forehead, cuddled her body close and stepped off the porch. Without another word he headed down the path to the barn. It was then that Brady saw the butt of a gun protruding from his brother’s pocket.
“What happened?” Brady managed to say again. He took a few running steps to follow his brother, then stopped. “Oh, Lord! Anna Marie—”
He dashed back up onto the porch and into the house. “Anna!” His voice was loud, as were the sounds of his boot heels on the bare floors as he hurriedly searched the rooms. He took the stairs two at a time to reach the bedrooms. The first one was empty, but the second one—
A man, naked except for his socks, lay sprawled on the blood-soaked bed. His male sex was still in its aroused state, his face destroyed. Brady paused only briefly in the doorway, then raced down the stairs. Satisfied that Anna Marie was not in the house, he ran toward the barn.
Brian sat weeping on a pile of hay in one of the stalls, Becky on his lap.
“I killed … my … Becky! Why did she do that in our bed? Why did she want to hurt me? What did I do wrong?”
“You didn’t do anything wrong. She … Maybe he was forcing her—” Brady said the words certain they were not true.
“I killed … the son of a bitch and … I killed my Becky—” Brian lifted his right hand, the one holding the revolver, and pressed the cold tip to his head.
“Brian! For God’s sake! Don’t! Think of your little girl.” Brady almost choked on his fear.
“She’ll be better off … with you.”
The cocking of the revolver split the silence in the barn. Brady caught his breath, then willed himself to start breathing again.
“Put down the gun, brother. Put it down and let’s talk about it.” Brady forced himself to speak calmly, though every nerve in his body was screaming.
“Tell Anna Marie I love her. Tell her I loved her mama … and that I’m sorry.” In a daze of pain and confusion, Brian hugged hi
s wife’s bloody body to him. “Go, Brady. I don’t want you to see this.”
Too frightened to think clearly, Brady struggled for words.
“Give me the gun, Brian! Please.”
Cautiously and with much trepidation Brady inched closer to his twin. His heart felt like a runaway train in his chest.
“I just went crazy.” Brian’s tear-filled eyes pleaded for understanding. “I loved her so much. It tore the heart right out of me to see her with him like that.” He rocked back and forth, cradling his wife. He was laboring just to breathe.
“We’ll go out to Colorado, Brian. We’ll leave here. Just you and I and Anna Marie,” Brady begged. “Put down the gun so we can talk.”
“The neighbors knew he was there. They tried to keep me from goin’ into the house. The sheriff will be here soon. I don’t deserve to live … don’t want to live. Take my little girl away from here … to where no one will know her daddy killed her … mama …” The words were hardly audible, scarcely more than a whisper.
“Oh, God, Brian, stop and think of what you’re doing to the child. Now, dammit to hell! Put down the gun!”
Brady had never felt so helpless in his life. O Lord, what can I do? He was afraid to make a sudden move while the barrel of the gun was pressed against his brother’s temple. He knew that there was a time when a human being has taken all that he can endure, a time when strength and logic were burned away. Was this the moment for his brother, his twin, who had been closer to him than his mother?
Snatches of scenes from their lives together flashed before Brady’s eyes.
The two of them, young boys of sixteen, standing beside the grave of their mother and then a year later beside that of their father, vowing always to take care of each other.
Working with a thrashing crew and later in the oil fields… always together.
Their first barn dance. How excited they had been! Brian had taken Becky. He had taken Lucy Waters.
Becky, her pink dress unbelted to hide her pregnancy, standing before the preacher, a proud and beaming Brian at her side.
The birth of little Anna Marie. Brian, smiling for days, blissfully unaware that Becky was not as happy with the child as he was.
Coming home from Colorado after receiving several letters from Brian and realizing that his brother was in a terrible state of depression. Arriving a day late.
Now, more terrified than he had ever been in his life, Brady moved closer to his brother, tears streaming unheeded down his cheeks. Dear God, help me do and say the right thing.
“What will I tell Anna Marie, Brian? Don’t do this to your little girl … to me.”
“You’d rather that she see me hang? I’ll not put her through that.” Brian’s eyes were those of a man who was lost, beyond hope and willing to do anything just to make the pain go away.
“You’ll not hang,” Brady argued. “You’ll still be alive in the pen and able to see Anna Marie.”
Brian seemed not to hear him, but he harkened to the sound of a motorcar. His eyes darted to the doorway.
“It’s the sheriff. Tell him to stay away! Go tell him!”
“I’ll tell him. Give me the gun first.”
“No! Do this for me, Brady. Go tell him.”
“I’ll tell him, but stay calm. Be careful with that gun. I’ll be right back.”
Brady ran to the front of the barn. The sheriff and his deputy were getting out of the car. And a small girl in a blue dress and white stockings was skipping down the street toward the house. Brady had just stepped out of the barn to tell the sheriff to head her off when he heard the cry.
“Becky! Becky!”
It was a sound Brady would remember until his dying day. It filled every crevice of the dimly lit barn and spilled over into the bright Kansas sunshine. It sent a shiver of terror all through him.
Boom!
Brady staggered. The sound of the gunshot brought physical pain so intense that it was scarcely to be borne.
“No!” he shouted, and ran back down the aisle toward his brother. “Oh, Brian, Brian—” The words burst from his throat as he gazed down at the body at his feet.
His beloved brother, his twin, was gone from him forever.
Brady turned and stumbled back to the barn door. He blinked in the brilliant sunlight as he saw his brother’s child walking toward the front porch of the house.
“Anna,” he shouted.
The little girl paused.
“Daddy! You’re home!” With a happy smile on her little face she ran to Brady. He grabbed her up in his arms. “Uncle Brady! I thought you were Daddy”—she giggled—“till I saw your boots.”
Holding her protectively close, Brady walked away from the house.
Chapter 1
1933
Route 66—Missouri
SHE WAS ON HER WAY TO CALIFORNIA.
Margie couldn’t help smiling. She would endure whatever came her way just to realize her dream of going to Hollywood, seeing the stars, and maybe, just maybe, getting a part in a movie. Not a big part. She’d never acted except in a high-school play, but everyone said she was so good she carried the performance.
Her father shifted the gears, the truck jerked and they moved down the dirt road to the highway designated as Route 66, the Mother Road, the highway that would take them all the way to California.
Margie said good-bye for the second time to Conway, Missouri, the town where she had been born and raised and where her dreams of being a movie star had made the long, lonely winter months tolerable.
She turned her thoughts to the events of the days following her father’s surprising visit to the café where she worked.
“I’m goin’ to California. You can come if you behave yourself,” he had announced.
Margie had continued to swipe at the counter with a damp cloth. She was shocked … then angry at him for implying that she was in the habit of misbehaving. He had not spoken to her since her return to Conway last fall. She hadn’t expected him to welcome her back with open arms or an offer of sympathy, but he could have come around to see if she was all right.
Now here he was inviting her to go with him to California, just weeks after his wife had run off and left him.
Irked by his remark, she couldn’t let it go. “What do you mean, behave myself?”
“I ain’t takin’ ya if you’re goin’ to run off with every Tom, Dick or Harry that comes along.”
“That wasn’t what I did, and you know it.” Margie kept her head down lest he see how much his words angered her. And how much they hurt.
“Well, are you comin’ or not?”
“When are you leaving?”
“Thursday.”
“That’s day after tomorrow. What part of California?”
“Bakersfield.” “Why Bakersfield?”
“Because I want to. Are you comin’ or not?” He inched toward the door, almost as if he couldn’t wait to get away from her.
“I’ll let you know tomorrow.”
“Goddammit! I want to know now. You were eager enough to run off with that fly-by-night last summer.”
“That’s why I’m being cautious. That fly-by-night stole my money and left me stranded down in Oklahoma.”
“I could of told you he was a no-good shyster. But you didn’t ask me. You just took the bit in your teeth like you always do. I’m surprised you had enough sense to find your way back.”
“You knew I was going with him. Everyone in town knew I was going. Why didn’t you come tell me Ernie Harding wasn’t dependable?”
“ ’Cause you’d not of paid me no mind. That’s why. You never did.” He went to the door of the café. “Sundown tonight. If you’re going, come out to the icehouse. If you’re not there, I’ll take Potter Jenkins or Mack Dertile.”
That morning Margie had watched her father get into his truck. She knew that he would not take one of the town drunks. He had nothing but contempt for them and wouldn’t give them an ice chip if they were dying of thirst.<
br />
Margie’s father, Elmer Kinnard, was a short man with broad shoulders and arms thickened by years of lifting heavy blocks of ice. His light hair was thinning on top. For all his bluster Margie knew he wanted her to go because he lacked the confidence to make the trip alone.
Was he going to see Robert’s family? He’d not cared anything for his son while he was growing up and hadn’t seen him in years. Some of Robert’s relatives on his mother’s side had reported that he had done pretty well for himself in California real estate but had died a year ago of a heart attack. Margie guessed Elmer might have heard that his own wife, Goldie, had headed out there. If she had, she would soon discover that being married to Elmer wouldn’t get her special treatment from his son’s family.
Elmer had married Goldie six months earlier, just weeks after she had come to town to visit a cousin. She had set her cap for him. He appeared to be a good catch. Brazen, with sweet smiles and soft touches, she had cooked for him and cleaned his house while the whole town of Conway watched and wondered if she was going to hook him. She had.
At first, Elmer had been generous with Goldie. She was pretty, though a little plump. He had been flattered by her attention. After they had settled into marriage, his true tight-fisted nature came to the fore. It was rumored that Goldie had become increasingly discontent with him and with their life in the small Missouri town. She left suddenly.
Elmer had never shown much interest in his only daughter. After her mother’s death, Margie had gone to live with her maternal grandmother on the other side of the small town divided right down the middle by Route 66. She had never received a Christmas or a birthday present from him in all the years that followed, nor had he come to see her act in the school play or graduate from high school. And he usually avoided the café where she worked.