Now he was even more eager to get back to Anadarko before one of the Peterson men or some other yahoo stole Sarah’s heart.
A week later, Sarah handed a seed to Claire. “Put it in the crevice like you did the other ones.”
She bent over and dropped the pea seed in the indentation Sarah had made in the dirt. Claire looked up in expectation.
“Very good!” Sarah smiled and handed her another seed. Claire seemed to like things in order, which was good when it came to planting.
She studied her garden. Though it was late to be planting, she prayed that they’d have enough warm days so that she could harvest a few quick-growing crops. The onions, lettuce, chard, and beets were already planted. She only had the radish seeds and then the rhubarb and asparagus crowns to plant. If only there were more time, but for this winter, she’d have to lay in a good supply of smoked meat and canned goods to see her through. Next winter would be a different story, she hoped.
Claire tugged on Sarah’s skirt, and she looked down to see her hand outstretched. She handed her another seed. “You’re such a good helper.”
So far Claire hadn’t uttered a word. Sarah didn’t know if she couldn’t talk, or if the girl didn’t understand English, or if the trauma of losing her mother and being alone for so long had taken away her ability to talk.
She brushed a hand across Claire’s head. She was growing attached to the quiet child. How could she give up Claire if her father or other relatives ever showed up? They hadn’t heard a peep from the army, but it took time for someone to realize a person was missing and then to track down where they were last. It could be weeks, even months, before anyone located Claire and learned about her mother’s death.
Jack, with Cody’s help, drove the wagon back from the river where they’d gone to fetch water for the garden. Two barrels sat in the rear of the wagon, water sloshing over the rim whenever the wheel dipped into a rut. “We got water.” Cody waved and grinned. “I’m all wet.”
She glanced down to see Claire’s hand raised in greeting, the tiniest of smiles lifting her lips. The girl loved to tag along with Cody—the only person nearby who was close to her size.
“Let’s cover the seeds with dirt so the fellows can water them.” She bent down and brushed a layer of dirt over the tiny seeds. Claire patted the soil, not yet having gotten down the art of covering the seeds. Sarah smiled. In a way, Claire reminded her of herself. Sarah had worked hard to take care of her mother, and then later she’d worked at her father’s bordello, where she did most of the cleaning and assisted the cook. She’d been quiet, knowing that it helped her to go unnoticed, which in turn meant less trouble.
At least she was doing the opposite of her father. Pete Worley had used women for his own purpose and to line his pockets. Sarah longed to help others. Maybe that was why God allowed her to win land so close to town, and perhaps that was why He brought Claire to her. Most people would have sent the young Indian girl to a foundlings’ home, where she’d have been just one of many lonely children. Sarah could love her and give her a home—once it was complete.
Sarah stretched her back again and gazed heavenward. But what was God’s purpose for bringing her here—to this particular piece of property? She’d seen His hand in giving her this land and providing the money she needed for her house, but what was she to do next?
Jack stood in the back of the buckboard, dipped a bucket in a barrel, and then handed it down to his son. Cody lugged the two inches of water toward her, sloshing liquid onto his boots. “Where do you want it?”
“How about I pour and you fetch?” She could imagine him smashing down the dirt and packing it so hard the seeds couldn’t burst through.
“All right.” He set the bucket down at the side of the garden then spun around to get more water. Claire toddled after him.
As Sarah poured the water along the row she’d just planted, she listened to the satisfying hammering coming from her house. Soon she and Claire would be able to move in. Behind her, along the river’s edge, birds and locusts sang carefree tunes. The sun warmed her shoulders, filling her with peace. She emptied the bucket, checked to see that Claire was safe, and then blew out a sigh. “Why am I here, Lord? You allowed me to win this speck of land, but what am I to do with it? Reveal to me Your purpose for my life.”
“Someone’s coming.” Jack set down a bucket he’d filled, hopped off the wagon, and lifted Claire into his arms. “Stay close to me, Cody, until we see who they are.”
The boy was halfway to the garden, but he set down the bucket and trotted back to his pa. Jack handed Claire to his son then turned toward the men, keeping one hand on his gun. He might be a pastor—a peace-loving man—but he well knew the dangers that sometimes came with strangers.
Sarah pushed up the brim of her bonnet, staring at the two riders approaching. One was a soldier and the other a man in a suit. She sucked in a breath as her hands tightened on the bucket handle. Did they have news of Claire’s relatives? Or was the man her father? Had he come to take her away?
Chapter 14
Sarah dusted off her hands then stopped at the bucket of water Cody had set down and dipped her dirty hands into it. As she walked over to Jack, she dried her hands on her apron. She tried not to show her nervousness, but she feared if the nicely dressed man laid claim on Claire, she might burst into tears. In the two weeks the child had lived with her, she’d already come to love her.
Claire spied her and emitted a squeal, reaching out her hands. In spite of the girl’s small frame, Cody struggled to hang on to her. Sarah quickened her pace to his side and took her, desperately hoping this wouldn’t be the last day they were together.
As she held her, Claire quieted and patted Sarah’s back. She kissed the little girl’s cheek, but her gaze was on the strangers.
The soldier nodded at Jack. “Is this the Worley homestead?”
“It is.” Jack nodded but didn’t look at Sarah. She knew he was protecting her and would want to know the men’s business before revealing who she was.
The soldier turned his horse so that he was facing the well-dressed man. “Since it’s not far to town, can you find your way back?”
“Yes. Thank you for the escort.”
Tapping his heels to his horse’s side, the soldier reined it back toward Anadarko.
The other man removed his hat and focused his gaze on her. “I’m Richard P. Morgan, and I write for the Daily Oklahoman, a newspaper out of Oklahoma City. As you are one of the few women whose names were drawn in the lottery, I’d like to interview you for our paper—that is, if in fact you are Miss Sarah Worley.”
Her gaze shot to Jack’s. He shrugged one shoulder and looked at her as if asking what to do. He would chase off the man if that’s what she wanted, but she couldn’t see what harm an interview would cause. “I am Miss Worley. Why don’t you step down, Mr. Morgan, and let’s find some shade to sit in.”
He dismounted, and Jack walked over to him. “I’m Jack Jensen. Would you like me to see to your horse?”
Mr. Morgan gave him an odd look but nodded and handed Jack the reins. He walked toward Sarah.
Jack glanced over his shoulder. “Cody, come and help me, son.”
She led her guest away from the clatter at the house and walked past the garden to the copse of trees lining the river. “There are no chairs here, but it will be quieter.”
The man looked back at her house. “Nice place you’re building here.” He turned back, placing his hat on again, his lips twisted and a perplexed expression engulfed his face. “I have to admit that I’m confused.”
“Oh? How so?” Sarah patted Claire’s back. She was falling asleep, tired from their work in the garden. She caught a glimpse at the dirt under her fingernails and grimaced. Maybe Mr. Morgan wouldn’t notice.
“You’re not married?”
“No, sir. I’ve never been married.”
“Might I inquire who Mr. Jensen is and how he’s related to you?”
She
thought his question a bit rude but decided to answer. “He’s my brother. His family took me in when I was twelve.”
Mr. Morgan relaxed his stiff posture and smiled. “Ah, I see. I was hoping you weren’t going to say he was your husband.”
“And why would that matter?”
“In order to legally enter the lottery, a woman had to be unmarried—or at least no longer married.” He pulled a pad of paper and a pencil from his pocket. “So the children are his?”
She started to answer but hesitated. If she told him about Claire’s mother and how Sarah came to care for her, would he write about it? She gritted her teeth, knowing that if he did, Claire’s family would be more likely to find her. But was it fair of her to hold on to the child if she had a father or grandparents searching for her? She knew the answer. She had to be honest and trust God. “Cody, the boy, is Jack’s child, but not Claire.”
Mr. Morgan’s eyebrows shot up to his hat line.
Sarah held up one hand, palm out. “Hold on. She’s not mine either. The truth is, I found her.”
“Found her?” The man’s pencil hovered over his paper.
She explained about hearing the strange noise near the cornfield, finding Claire, and then how the men had found her deceased mother.
“That’s some story.”
“It’s not a story. It’s the truth. We reported the incident to the army.”
The man scribbled half a page of notes before looking up. “What do you plan on doing with the girl?”
“Keep her, of course, unless her family comes for her.”
He stared at her, but she couldn’t read his expression. “That’s quite a noble endeavor for an unmarried woman, don’t you think?”
She narrowed her eyes. “I fail to see how that’s any of your business. Did you want to interview me or simply discover if I’m married or not? Because if that’s your purpose, then I believe you got what you came for.”
He ducked his head and scratched behind one ear. “I apologize, Miss Worley. It’s the nature of a reporter to be curious.”
Nosy was more like it. Cody trotted toward her with Jack following. “Pa wants to know if you want us to take Claire so you can talk.”
“That would be nice. She’s fallen asleep.” And her arms were starting to ache. She handed the little girl to Jack. Claire wiggled a moment but relaxed against his chest. “You doin’ all right here?”
Sarah glanced at Mr. Morgan. “Yes, I believe we are.”
“Then I’ll take her to Zelma and be right back.”
Though Sarah was sure he said that for Mr. Morgan’s benefit, knowing he was so conscientious about her well-being warmed her heart. “So, Miss Worley, could you tell me how you came to sign up for the lottery? I know that some women did, but there weren’t all that many when compared to the number of men who did.”
“It was simple, really. I’d lived on a ranch near Guthrie with Jack’s sister, Lara Coulter, and her husband, Gabe, for eight years. I recently began to feel it was time for a change, so I spent a lot of time in prayer and came to believe that it was God’s will for me to register.”
“I see. And did you register at Lawton or El Reno?”
“El Reno.”
“Did you travel there alone?”
Again, she wondered what business that was of his but felt compelled to answer. “Jack escorted me. We took the train to El Reno, stayed several days at a hotel, registered, and then returned home.”
“What do you plan to do with your land? One hundred sixty acres is a lot for one woman to manage, especially now that you have a child.”
“You may have noticed that I have already planted a garden. Next year’s will be much larger. More than likely, I will rent out some of the land, but I haven’t decided for sure.” Maybe Jack would decide to stay and raise horses. She hadn’t minded being alone—at least she tried not to think about it—but things were different now that she had Claire. She wouldn’t be as free to come and go with a little one in tow. And how would she get a job? She thought of Mr. Barlow’s offer.
Mr. Morgan tapped his pad with his pencil, staring off in the distance. “Could you tell me a little about how you came to live with the Coulters?”
Her heart bucked. Her mind raced. What could she tell him? Certainly not what kind of business her father had been in when she’d lived with him.
“I … um … well, my mother died when I was young. I lived with my father for a short while, but that didn’t work out, so I went to live with the Coulters. And it’s the best thing that could have happened to me.” He didn’t need to know that she’d run away from her father, and she certainly didn’t want that put into the paper.
After a bit of encouragement from Mr. Morgan, she agreed to pose for a photograph. She stood quietly while the camera captured her image. A sudden thought made her heart jolt, and she worked hard to maintain her neutral expression. Her father lived outside of Oklahoma City. What if Mr. Morgan tracked him down and found out he used to own a bordello?
Carson retied the gauze on Mr. Gibbons’s burnt forearm. “That should hold you for a few more days. Remember, no cooking, and don’t get the bandage wet.”
The man nodded as he slid off the exam table. “Kind of hard for a cook not to work over a stove.”
Carson wadded up the old bandage and dropped it in his waste bucket. “You can do some of the preparation if your arm doesn’t hurt too much, but I’d prefer that you rest it so that it will heal. If you twist and turn it, breaking open the scabs, it will only take longer to heal over.”
“I been takin’ it easy, Doc. My daughter arrived from Tulsa and is helping Mrs. Gibbons in the café. I been catchin’ up on my readin’ and nappin’.” He chuckled. He pulled a folded paper from the rear pocket of his trousers. “Nellie brought me this copy of the Daily Oklahoman. Have ya read it?”
Carson dried his hands on a clean towel. “Can’t say as I have.”
Mr. Gibbons held it out. “Take it. I’ve done read through it twice. I think I’ll head over to one of the stores and see if they got some new books. I need me some new reading material.”
He took the paper and nodded. “Thank you. Come back in three days unless you have problems.”
“Will do.” Mr. Gibbons waved with his good arm and headed out the open door. Suddenly he paused and turned back. “Oh hey, there’s a story on page 4 about a woman from here that won a claim. You might like readin’ that.”
Carson set the newspaper on his desk and finished cleaning his examination area. He swept off the back porch then closed and locked the door. His stomach gurgled as he walked down the hall to the front of the office, reminding him that he should close up shop and find something to eat. At least he had something new to read.
He looked around, making sure everything was put away and the medical cabinets were locked, and then he snatched the paper off the desk and locked the office door. He headed over to the Gibbons Café. He liked both Frank and his wife Evelyn, but he’d yet to meet their daughter. As he crossed the street, he slowed and nodded to the Wheaten family. “How’s little Abe’s ankle?”
Mr. Wheaten shifted the four-year-old to his other arm. “Good. I’m havin’ a right hard time keepin’ him off of it.”
“It’s been—what—four days?”
Abigail Wheaten nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“If it doesn’t seem to hurt him, go ahead and let him walk, but no running or jumping until next week, all right?” He directed his question to Abe.
The boy smiled. “I can walk?”
“Yes, but no running.”
“Or jumpin’. I heard.” He wiggled and pushed against his father’s chest. “Put me down, Pa.”
“Wait until we get out of the middle of the road. Good to see you again, Dr. Worth.”
“You, too.” He continued the several blocks to the café, nodding or smiling whenever he encountered someone he’d met. It dawned on him that he was beginning to feel comfortable in this ever-changing town. H
e studied the landscape filled with tents, new buildings in various stages of creation, horses, wagons, and hundreds of people. Just a few weeks ago, all these people were somewhere else, but now they’d come together to create a new community—and he felt a part of it.
This place was home now. He still missed his father, but he had the satisfaction of knowing his father would be proud of what he’d accomplished and that he had his own medical practice. He might be disappointed that it wasn’t in Indian Territory, but Carson couldn’t go back there.
He turned into the café, sat down at an empty table, and stared out the window. His father had helped a woman with a difficult birth, but both she and the baby died. If the cord hadn’t been wrapped around the baby’s neck, perhaps Carson’s father would still be alive. But he wasn’t, because the distraught husband had killed him.
A woman he suspected was several years younger than him stopped beside the table. “What can I get for you, sir?”
He glanced at the menu written on a slate in chalk. “I’ll have the stewed chicken and noodles and coffee.”
She glanced at him with pretty hazel eyes. Her auburn hair was wrapped in a bun, with curly wisps framing her face. She looked more like her mother than Frank. “Would you like pie with that? All we have left is pecan.”
“Pecan is fine.”
He watched her bustle past the curtain separating the kitchen from the café and leaned back in his chair. He recognized the people at two of the five tables that were filled. Each day he met someone new. Maybe one day he’d make friends with someone his age who wasn’t married and they could share a meal now and then. He got tired of eating alone.
Sighing, he opened the newspaper and scanned the front page. Most of the information referred to things happening in Oklahoma City—the murder of a cobbler, a fire that burned down half a block of businesses, an article about an opera singer coming to town, and two advertisements for baking powder and one for horse liniment. He flipped the pages until his gaze landed on the article near the bottom of page 4 that Frank had told him about. He started reading about a woman named Sarah Worley and how she was one of the few women to win a claim in the lottery. Then it told about how Miss Worley had found a young girl and taken her in. Her brother and the men helping to build her house had searched for the child’s mother and found her dead. There was nothing to indicate the child’s name or to whom she belonged. Miss Worley told the reporter she intended to keep the toddler girl she named Claire.
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