“There’s always room for our Bertie, even if I have to give her my own bedroom,” Lilly said. “You boys just be sure to find out what happened to Joseph.”
Red didn’t plan to stop until he had the job complete.
Bertie pulled her best skirts and blouses from the tiny closet on her side of the bedroom. If only she had some idea about how long she’d be in Missouri—or if she was even coming back here. She was tempted to pack light, but then she reached beneath her narrow bed and pulled out a box of letters from Red. Just thumbing through them, she discovered many tiny, pressed blooms of some of her favorite flowers—picked by Red for her when they were dating just before he left for boot camp.
The memories suddenly cascaded over her, and her eyes blurred with tears. She pulled another letter from the pile.
Dear Bertie,
I won’t tell anyone you cried, if you won’t tell everyone I sleep with your picture in my pocket, close as I can get it to my heart.
Did I tell you that the guys here don’t believe in baths? Some kind of superstition, I guess. One soldier—didn’t get his name—said I washed too much. It erases the mud that gives me some camouflage. All I got to say about that is I’d rather be shot than stink like these folks do.
A fella doesn’t have to live like an animal over here, most of them just want to.
Another buddy of mine got a Dear John letter yesterday. I’ll send you his name and address, and maybe you have another pretty friend who could write to him, make him feel not so alone.
Don’t know what I’d do without these letters, Bertie. It’s so easy for a man to give up hope altogether, seeing the pain and death that stalks these fields.
When we both get back home to Hideaway, I don’t ever want to leave the state again. I just want to settle and stay. Give it some thought.
I kinda like you.
Your Red
She’d reread this one two or three times a week, and had pressed a lilac between its pages, because that was Red’s favorite flower, and this letter was the closest he’d ever come to proposing to her. He’d skirted all around the issue, making hints, letting her know he might be interested, but never committing.
To tease him, she’d ignored the subject altogether in her reply to him, hoping he might write something a little more romantic the next time.
The next time, there was nothing about settling. Months passed, and nothing even close to that subject came up again.
What was she expected to do, ask him for his hand in marriage? She smiled at that thought. Maybe she could ask Red’s mother for permission to ask him. What a laugh that would give Lilly.
On a whim, Bertie packed all the letters, placing them neatly in the bottom of her heavy old carryall. On top of them, she folded her work jeans and boots, and then her dressier clothes for the funeral, church, and entertaining company after the funeral.
In spite of all that had happened, she wanted to look her best when she saw Red for the first time in a year. Dad would have understood.
Chapter Eleven
Late Monday afternoon, Red felt the burn of the sun on the back of his neck, tellin’ him the summer heat had already begun to rule the season. Humidity was just as uncomfortable as the heat, settling back in after a short relief from the rain the area had gotten yesterday evening.
He didn’t look up when he heard the squeak of the back door, but continued to study the grass and packed mud along the back fence. Someone had been this way recently, taking care to stay on the grass for the most part—but not taking care enough.
He watched where he stepped, as well, not only to avoid possible tracks, but to keep his shoes free from goose and chicken poop. Ma hated when that got tracked into the house.
“I wouldn’t let nobody but Joseph Moennig out in the backyard since the brick shot through the window,” Lilly Meyer called across the half-acre yard she’d planted with roses and irises, along with cabbages, lettuce, okra, tomatoes, green beans, carrots and potatoes, and a half dozen other vegetables.
Red glanced at her over his shoulder. His mother had once been almost as good at tracking as his father. In fact, back in their younger days, she’d been better at following the coon dogs.
It hadn’t set well with Pa.
“You check for any prints before the rain?” Red asked.
She nodded. “Found a few. Looked to be a couple different people, but a couple of the prints matched shoes belonging to our boarders.” She pointed toward one set farther along the fence line. “See that gash in the heel of the left shoe?”
Red nodded.
“That one don’t belong to any boarder.”
Taking care not to step on the tracks he’d found, Red followed the line of the white picket fence, and soon discovered where someone had climbed the old hawthorn tree.
“See this?” he called to his mother. “The grass must’ve been pressed into the mud here where somebody stepped. It’s straightened since, but the mud dried on it.”
She pointed to the lowest limb of the tree. “Some of the mud got smeared onto the wood, here. Young hoodlums, maybe?”
“Could be.” He wasn’t convinced.
“Kids climb trees,” she said, obviously reading his mind.
“They’re not the only ones. I’ve seen soldiers on both sides of the war climb trees when they had to.”
“You think this has something to do with the war, then,” she said.
“I’m not saying that. Did he mention anything about someone causing him trouble?”
“Only the missing livestock. His neighbors lost some, too. But I’ll tell you one thing—if someone was causin’ Joseph grief, he’d have fought back.”
Red agreed. Joseph was never one to back down from a fight.
“Why don’t you ask Bertie when she gets here?” Lilly asked. “He might’ve said something to her about a problem.”
Red gave his mother a sharp look. “She call you back after lunch today?”
“Sure did. She’s on her way, if she can catch the train tomorrow. Should be here by Thursday, in plenty of time for the funeral on Friday.”
Red sighed, leaning against the tree limb. “Ma, you don’t need to be encouraging her about anything. We can’t stop her from coming, but she oughta get back on that train as soon as the funeral’s over and head on back to California.”
Lilly gave him a look that expressed her opinion of his advice. “You’re sure in a hurry to get rid of her.”
“I already said it ain’t safe here. Why won’t anybody listen to me?”
“Could be ’cause I happen to think she’s as safe here as she is anywhere in the world. She’s got friends and neighbors to protect her. There might be some villains in this town, but the good folks outnumber ’em.” Ma’s eyes narrowed. “I think there’s some other reason you want her gone from here.”
Red looked away. “I don’t know that you two oughta be getting so close.”
“Don’t you go tellin’ me who I can and can’t be friends with. Bertie and I have always been friends, long before the two of you started your romance. Why are you suddenly so worried about it?”
“Because you’ve got plans in mind that won’t ever come to pass now.”
“Why don’t you let me mind my own plans? I’ll be friends with Bertie no matter what happens between the two of you, though I’d for sure love to have her as my daughter-in-law.”
He sighed, a heavy sigh that he knew his mother would probably read well. “Ain’t gonna happen, Ma.” He turned and held her gaze.
Her thick red eyebrows lowered over large blue eyes. “You two have a fallin’ out besides the one on the phone today?”
He shook his head.
She nodded at his leg. “That got something to do with it?”
He didn’t answer, but returned his attention to the tracks again.
“You can’t let something like that change your life, Charles Frederick,” she said. “You can’t let it ruin what you got goin’ with Bertie. Th
at’s too special.”
He glanced at the garden. “I might not make such a good husband like this, but at least I can help you with the gardening.” It was once his job to keep the vegetables in good supply, keep the chickens fed, the cows milked, and till and harvest the plot of rich farmland between the house and the riverside.
Sure, with the war on, the boarders—especially those who knew Lilly Meyer’s circumstances—sometimes helped with household chores. Havin’ a little help now and then wasn’t anything like having her own healthy, strong son at home.
“You know anything about that G.I. bill they voted into law last year?” she asked.
“I might.”
“It means the people who served our country in the war can have their college schoolin’ paid for by their country.”
“Yep.”
She placed her hands on her broad hips. “So why don’t you tell me which college you plan to attend? I don’t need you here underfoot all the time when you could be gettin’ a good education, learnin’ a good trade that’ll keep you going through your whole life.”
“I don’t need to learn farmin’, Ma. Nor fishin’, nor huntin’. Don’t fix what ain’t broke.”
She sighed. “You can’t have it both ways. You don’t seem to think you can farm with that leg like it is, so you’d better start planning for something else. You’re smart, you can learn something new. Accounting, maybe, or teaching, or even doctoring.” She grinned, sighing theatrically. “My son, the doctor. Wouldn’t ol’ Drusilla Short turn green over that? What this town really needs is a good—”
“Think you could give me a day or two before you ship me off to school?” He kneaded his aching thigh.
She watched him in silence for a moment. “The doc say it was your muscle causing you the most trouble?”
“That’s what seems to be the problem now.”
“Bertie might be able to help you with that.”
“Think we could get off that subject for a while?” He didn’t want to keep being reminded about what he needed to give up. His own thoughts of Bertie were enough to keep him awake at night.
“Her ma taught her all she could about those medicinal herbs she used on folks who didn’t like to leave Hideaway to go to the doctor.”
Red sighed. As usual, his mother had ignored his request. Some things the war didn’t change. “Bertie’s got enough to worry about,” he said sharply.
His mother gave him a wise look. She let the silence fall between them, just as she always used to when he sassed her, giving him plenty of time to think about what he’d said.
“Don’t treat me like a little kid now, Ma.”
“You didn’t say anything to her about your leg when you called her.”
“How was I gonna do that? Tell her, ‘Sorry, Bertie, I found your father dead out in the cattle lot. Oh, by the way, I’ve got a war injury that’s changed everything?’”
“I’m not saying that, but you can’t let her come all the way here and see you without warning her first.”
“I don’t know what else I can do about it now.”
“You should’ve told her weeks ago,” Ma muttered. “I should’ve told her and gotten it over with.”
“She’ll know soon enough, I guess,” he snapped again, then leaned hard on his cane on the way back to the house.
“Still got some of your pa in you,” she said loudly enough for him to hear. “Stubborn old cuss had a little too much o’ that male pride. It wasn’t pretty on him, either.”
“Don’t talk ill of the dead, Ma. It’s bad luck,” he called over his shoulder.
“Yep, and it’s not respectful, but you’re not dead,” she called after him. “Leastways, you’re still up and movin’ around. Don’t give up on life until it gives up on you.”
He kept walking. He hadn’t given up on life, had he? Maybe life had given up on him. Or maybe God had.
Could be God had given up on the whole world, not just him? Everybody who’d seen the mass of war scars on Europe had reason to wonder. Now everybody was counting the loss of lives. They weren’t done counting yet, but it was many millions, that much they knew.
And still people trusted in God?
Lately, he’d been wondering a lot about whether God had turned His back on the whole lot of the earth. Maybe they had disgusted Him to the point that He had finally decided to leave them to their own orneriness. They would be allowed to destroy one another without His interference.
Judging by the death and killing Red had seen on the front lines, he couldn’t say he’d blame God.
Chapter Twelve
Late Thursday morning, Bertie slowly stood from her seat on the train, stretching her arms and rubbing achy back muscles. Worn to a bare nubbin from the constant movement of the railcar in which she and Edith had ridden for the past two days, she yawned as she reached for her carryall and turned to look at her friend.
Edith looked fresh and pretty and well rested. Bertie’s head ached, her legs were stiff, and no matter how much she stretched, she couldn’t work out the kinks.
“After sleeping on these hard, rocking beds for two nights, I have a feeling it’ll be a while before I can walk without wobbling,” she muttered.
Edith grinned at Bertie, her dark brown eyes filled with a little too much wide-awake cheer. “You’ll be fine in fifteen minutes.”
“Sure, you can say that. You slept last night.”
“I knew you were having trouble. That’s why I didn’t wake you first thing this morning. Didn’t you get any sleep at all?” Edith asked.
“Not until the wee morning hours.”
Edith frowned as she studied Bertie’s face. “You’ve been fretting more and more the closer you’ve gotten to home. I’d have thought you’d be relieved to get here.”
Bertie shrugged. What kind of welcome would they find here? Or would they even get a welcome? “Lilly promised she’d make sure we had a ride home from Hollister, but I can’t help wondering what’s going to happen when we get to Hideaway.”
“It’s going to be fine,” Edith assured her.
Bertie wasn’t so confident about that. She’d had two long days to think about Red’s words, to compare them to what the sheriff told her about the case when she called him from a stop in Albuquerque. According to Red, danger was afoot. According to Butch Coggins, the town was fine, nothing was wrong and Dad had been in a little farming accident. It happened.
She wanted to believe Butch so badly that, until about the middle of last night, she’d been reassured. But the more she thought about it, the less likely it seemed that Dad had been that careless. Joseph Moennig was one of the most careful men Bertie had ever known. To have the sheriff—who wasn’t even a citizen of Hideaway—say such a thing about her father had begun to gall her.
And then she’d begun to wonder if Red hadn’t reacted the same way. Red loved Dad almost as much as he’d loved his own father. Maybe he’d simply resented Butch’s casual dismissal of Dad’s death. Or maybe, being among men from all over the country, he knew something more about what was happening to German Americans in this country. Suspicions ran high at times like these.
Edith looped her arm through Bertie’s. “Care to tell me what’s working through that mind of yours?”
“I think I know what Red’s worried about.”
Edith raised her eyebrows as other passengers bustled past them to the exit. “Care to share?”
“You’ve heard about the internment camps, same as I have,” Bertie said.
“What does that have to do with you and me arriving in Hideaway?”
Bertie lowered her voice. “The Meyers and the Moennigs are German Americans. Red and I are both children of German immigrants. It isn’t just the Japanese who’ve been forced into those camps.”
“The Meyers and the Moennigs didn’t qualify for those camps any more than most other Americans of German descent,” Edith said. “Besides, the camps here in America are nothing like the concentration camps we�
��ve heard about in Germany, or even the detention camps in Japan.”
“I still don’t have a hankerin’ to go there.” Though Bertie knew Edith was probably right, it didn’t stop her from worrying. Folks did all manner of hideous things to one another during times of stress. Though the war could bring out the best in some, it could bring out the worst in others. Hideaway was no different than any other town in America.
Of course, her government had taken men—even whole families—to internment camps. That was a long way from stealing cattle and then killing the owners.
A very long way.
Bertie allowed the porter to help her down the steps of the passenger car, then moved aside for the rest of the passengers disembarking. The moist warmth of mid-June surrounded her as the brightness of the sunlight hurt her eyes. The faint smell of smoke from the train engines permeated the air.
She knew she probably looked as tired and gritty as she felt.
She glanced around the crowded station, saw no familiar faces, and slid her tiny hand mirror from her purse.
Ugh. Puffy eyes. Limp, stringy hair. A streak of black on the collar of her blouse—dirt? Grease? She didn’t know. All she knew was that she didn’t want Red to see her this way after being apart a year—and especially since the last time she’d spoken with him on the telephone, she’d hung up on him.
She’d felt badly about that ever since. Red was just worried about her, and here she’d lashed out at him as if he was the enemy.
By this time, she was so tired of travel that she shouldn’t care how she looked, as long as she didn’t have to climb back onto that train.
She tugged at the sleeve of her red-checked blouse, knowing it wouldn’t help with the wrinkles or the dirt, but glad she wasn’t wearing something in a solid color. Prints didn’t show stains or wrinkles as badly. She wished she’d thought to pack more than two dresses. Her denims were practical—and a lot more comfortable than the formfitting skirt she had on—but according to Lilly, there would be quite a few townsfolk wanting to see her as soon as she arrived in Hideaway.
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