by Janet Dean
Still, he could try to forge a friendship. “Would you attend the Fourth of July picnic with my father and me?”
She looked him straight in the eye. “That would give the wrong impression.”
To whom? To Carder? To the town?
A knot twisted in his throat. She was speaking about giving the wrong impression to him.
He’d concentrate on making those beds, immerse himself in getting his business underway and handle his job at the bank.
Keep so busy he’d put Miss Abigail Wilson out of his mind.
Abigail should’ve taken George Cummings’s cold stare as a warning.
“Where have you been? I don’t pay you to gad about town,” he groused, sounding like a cranky toddler in need of a nap.
“I was at the bank with your son.”
“Doing what?”
“Not taking out a loan.” She bit back her sarcasm, determined not to argue. “We’re overseeing the disbursement of the money you contributed to the relief fund.”
With a wave of his hand, he dismissed the recognition.
If praise didn’t warm him up, maybe exercise would. “Are you up to taking Blue for a short walk?”
With a wag of his tail the hound rose from the sunny spot on the carpet and ambled toward them.
The knot between George’s brows vanished. “About time you earned your wages.”
They left the porch and ambled down the street, greeting passersby. Blue trailed behind, sniffing the grass, circling bushes, his ears all but dragging on the ground.
Abigail glanced at George. “Your donation was generous.”
“Foolish was what it was. Stupid smoke muddled my brain.”
That smoke hadn’t damaged his brain, but had harmed his lungs. Why had George risked his life to save another? That action didn’t fit her image of him.
At the corner Abigail insisted they turn back, unwilling to risk taxing his strength or lungs. As they walked toward the house, Abigail realized what she’d once considered ostentatious she now saw as merely a lovely home.
Inside the parlor George dropped into a chair at the bay window. Yawning, Blue plopped down at his feet with a grunt. Abigail lowered herself into the chair opposite from his.
Across the way the grand piano stood. Keys forever silent, a memorial to the woman who’d played it. Much had happened in this house. Much about the owner, someone she’d seen as self-seeking, puzzled her.
Abigail pressed her palms into her lap, gathering courage. “Why did you go into that burning house?”
George shrugged, staring out the window at the robins fluttering their wings in the fountain.
“Some would call what you did risky.”
“Getting out of bed’s a risk.”
“True, but to go inside took courage. Why did you?”
“I heard something. Didn’t see anyone else around to do it.”
“Your donations and risking your life to search a burning house—none of it fits my image of George Cummings.”
“You’ve got me pegged. Don’t let all that bamboozle you.” He wagged his finger. “And don’t expect I’d do that twice.”
“Why? Because I might think you’re nice?”
His gaze slid to the grand piano. “No one thinks I’m nice.”
A twinge of guilt nipped Abigail’s conscience. She headed the list of George Cummings’s critics. “A lot of folks will, once they benefit from your generosity.”
Shrewd eyes laced with curiosity turned toward her. “What are you and Wade wasting that money on?”
His crotchety tone contradicted the interest lighting his eyes. Not as indifferent as he pretended. She explained how his donation would be spent and the home visits they planned.
“You’re organized,” he said with the tiniest hint of respect. “Efficient. A hard worker.”
“I try to be.”
“Nothing like your dad.”
“I can’t believe you’d disparage my father!”
“I meant what I said as a compliment.”
She huffed. Why had she tried to understand the man? He was cold, mean. “After what you did to my father—”
“If you’re yapping about that loan, forget it.”
“I’d expect you to avoid the issue, but now that we’re being honest with one another, I want answers.”
His dark brows lowered. “Are you sure about that?”
Fingering the chain around her neck, she glanced at Blue asleep in a patch of sunshine. No questions disturbed his peace. “Yes, I’m sure.”
“What’s to know? Transactions at the bank are aboveboard.”
“Ha! You took our farm.”
“I called the loan. The economy was shaky. Railroads overextended. Banks were failing. The times demanded drastic measures. I—” A coughing spell stopped his litany.
Or lies. “Don’t you mean your greed demanded drastic measures? You made a fortune selling the partial of our land to the railroad.”
“You exaggerate.” He exhaled. “I didn’t know of the railroads’ interest before I called the loan.”
“So you say.”
“You’re yapping at me for making savvy business decisions.”
“This isn’t about business. Calling that loan, losing our farm, killed my father.”
Ears and neck red as fresh blood, George shook his index finger. “Frank’s greed and guilt killed him, not me.”
“Greed?” She leaned toward him, every muscle rigid. She wanted to shake some sense into him, make him take back the hateful things he’d spouted. “Lots of people borrow money.”
“He borrowed to invest in a get-rich-quick venture. I warned him the deal was risky. But no, he wouldn’t listen.”
Abigail leaped to her feet. “How dare you smear my father’s good name when he can’t defend himself?”
George scowled. “You asked for this conversation, young lady. Plant people on a pedestal and you soon discover they’re nothing but flesh and bone. If you can’t handle the truth, then don’t go looking for it.”
“You call that truth? You’re lying!”
As Abigail fled the room, Blue reared his head and bayed. The last sound she heard as she plunged out the front door.
She’d talk to Ma. Ma would set her straight. Destroy the destructive seeds George Cummings tried to plant in her mind.
The lullaby Ma sang to Billy trailed off. “What’s wrong?” she said, shifting the sleeping baby in her arms. “Did that scoundrel fire you?”
“Worse. He claims Pa took out the loan to invest in a get-rich-quick gamble, that greed drove him to risk the farm.” She stood over her mother, searching her uplifted gaze. “Tell me that’s not true.”
The rocker slowed. Ethel fidgeted with the thin blanket framing Billy’s tiny face. She sighed. “It might be.”
“Ma. How can you say that?”
“I… Well, I saw signs of greed in Frank. He raved about some business opportunity, getting in on the ground floor. ‘This is our chance,’ he said. ‘We’ll see the world.’”
Abigail wilted onto the worn sofa. Greed had motivated her father to risk the farm? George had spoken the truth?
In his sleep, Billy jerked. Ethel resumed her rocking. “We never left the state, but we had this dream to travel.”
Ma hadn’t deserved any of this. If only she could give her mother that dream. When Lois, Joe and the kids were settled in their house, she’d take Ma to St. Louis. See the Mississippi River.
“Well, no point in looking back,” Ma said.
“How could he take out a loan on the farm without your consent?”
“We were married. The farm was as much his as mine. I’ll admit I was unsure about the investment, but I went along.”
Abigail’s insides churned, yet Ma looked serene as if she’d long ago made peace with the loss. “How could Pa risk all you had?”
Ma stopped the rocker and shot Abigail a pointed look. “Don’t be critical of your father. He made a poor decision but Ge
orge Cummings took advantage of it, made money off it too.”
Abigail cradled a sofa pillow to her chest. “Does it bother you that Pa shirked his responsibility after we moved to town, leaving you to carry the load?”
A flicker of dismay traveled Ma’s face. “When Frank took sick, I got a job. Why shouldn’t I? He’d toiled all those years for us.”
“You said Pa took sick. What was wrong with him?”
“A broken spirit, I reckon. He never got over losing the farm.”
“But he could’ve worked? Could’ve gotten a job?”
Ma’s eyes glistened. “Oh, sweetie, what’s the point in laying blame?”
Wasn’t the feud all about laying blame?
Yet the conversation had left her mother pale and shaken. Abigail wouldn’t push. She rose and gave her mother a kiss on the cheek. “I love you. Thanks for taking care of Lois and me.”
Ethel laid a calloused palm on Abigail’s cheek. “Love you, too. Together, with God’s help, this family is strong.”
Yet her father hadn’t been. Ma had persevered for the sake of her family. Why hadn’t Pa?
“Better get back to work.” Abigail was breadwinner for her family. She wouldn’t let them down.
George Cummings had been right. She wasn’t like her father.
“Don’t go thinking George Cummings is guiltless,” Ma said as if she’d read Abigail’s mind. “You’ll never convince me that he didn’t know the Illinois Central’s interest in our land before he called the loan. That’s greed.” She huffed. “He’s got no right to criticize your pa.”
Abigail nodded. George had tried to take the scrutiny off him by turning it onto her father. She’d almost fallen for the tactic. “Where is everyone?”
“Out for a walk. Joe’s practicing with that crutch. Lois was pushing the boys in the wheelchair when they left. I sure hope those younguns get out of that contraption and run off some of that energy.”
“I checked their house yesterday. They’re plastering. It won’t be long before it’s finished.” She picked at a piece of lint on her sleeve. “I’m thinking about getting a second job this fall, maybe working evenings at the café.”
“You’ll work yourself into the ground.”
“We need the money.”
Ma frowned. “Stop fretting about money. We’re getting by.”
“I want to help Joe pay off his gambling debts.”
“Give Joe and the Good Lord a chance to handle that.”
“Joe came to God eleven months ago.”
“Are you putting God on the clock, like you believe you’re the boss of God and this old world?”
Abigail dropped her head. “No, ma’am.”
“Trust the Good Lord. We’ll get through this. We always have.”
She hugged her mother, a woman who’d held her family together with hard work and a strong will, and kissed Billy on the forehead, then retraced her steps, heading to the Cummingses’ house and the man who’d ruined her family.
Perhaps George’s claim that her father’s greed brought about his downfall contained an element of truth, but as her mother said, the Cummingses profited from the Wilsons’ misfortune. Power and money bred more of the same.
If George knew for certain her father’s investment was such a risk, why did he make the loan? Clearly he’d seen a way to gain a foothold on their land.
If she wanted to keep the job, she had to let the accusations go. Like Ma, she’d do what needed doing.
As she passed Cummings State Bank, Wade strode out the entrance. Handsome in suit, vest and tie, the consummate professional, a role he despised but took for his father’s sake.
Wade frowned. “Why aren’t you with my dad?” His eyes roamed her face. “Has he done something to upset you?”
How did she explain how George had hurt her without smearing her own father’s good name? “We got into an argument about the farm loan. I’d quit if I could.”
“I’m sorry I roped you into the job,” he said, his deep blue eyes kind, gentle. “He’s not an easy man.”
“He accused my father of greed,” she said, voice shaky, barely audible. “Yet greed motivated everything he did—making the loan, calling the loan, selling off our land, all of it benefited him.”
Wade reached a hand toward her then dropped it at his side, as if suspecting she couldn’t abide his touch. “I’m sorry my father dredged up such painful memories.”
“This isn’t about memories! If George hadn’t called the loan, our family would’ve gotten the railroad money. Enough money to pay off the loan and keep our farm. My father would be alive today.”
“Abby, my dad said the railroad deal came after he’d called the loan. I’ve never caught him in a lie.”
Her stomach clenched. She’d been ranting against Wade’s father. To him. As if he could change the past. She’d vowed to try to heal Wade and George’s relationship, yet everything she did seemed to widen, not lessen, the chasm between them.
“I’m sorry. You caught me at a bad time. I shouldn’t have spewed all that on you.”
“Should we postpone tonight’s home visit?”
“I don’t want to delay disbursing funds.” She heaved a sigh. “Starting with Lois and Joe might be easier.”
“Will seven o’clock work for you?”
“That’s fine.”
He cupped her jaw with his palm. “Only a few weeks until the job will end.” His eyes dimmed. “I’m glad for your sake, but…I’ll miss you.”
At his gentle touch, a surge of longing swept through her and banged against her heart.
Giving her a tender smile, he strode off, leaving a disturbing emptiness inside her.
Wade’s concern for her meant more than she wanted to admit. Still, she wouldn’t get pulled into the family that had harmed hers. She’d guard her heart tonight.
Chapter Thirteen
Tonight Wade would ascertain the Lessman family needs, but more importantly, he hoped to ease the pain his father had given Abby that afternoon.
As he entered the cheerless entrance to the Wilson apartment overhead, the outside door squeaked on rusty hinges. In the dim enclosure he climbed the steep flight of stairs, appalled his father could rent such dowdy housing.
He’d once called Abby his princess. She didn’t belong in this dismal place. Since graduating from college, he’d socked every cent he’d earned into savings, start-up money for his shop. Yet renovating this dingy rental couldn’t wait. He’d talk to his father, set things in motion. Something practical he could do to ease the tension between the Cummingses and Wilsons.
So far he’d made no headway in healing the rift. If anything, since talking to Pastor Ted, the situation had deteriorated.
At the top landing, he knocked.
Abigail opened the door, head high, posture regal, her expression void of the anger he’d seen earlier. She wore a high-necked blouse adorned with a man’s tie clinging to her feminine curves. At the sight of her, his chest squeezed, trapping the oxygen in his lungs.
She stepped aside to let him in, tendrils of her hair dancing above her collar. He couldn’t take his eyes off that perky profile. “You’re…you’re beautiful,” he stammered.
“Thank you.” Her brisk tone dismissed his compliment. If he hoped to mend the feud, he had his work cut out for him.
Skirts rustling, she led him inside. He followed her slender form, aware of the faint fragrance of roses, that tiny waist, the gentle sway of her hips.
He swallowed hard and forced his gaze away from Abby to the cheerful but rudimentary kitchen they entered. Preparing meals here wouldn’t be easy. Yet the lingering scent of meat loaf mingled with the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee. His stomach growled—a reminder he’d missed dinner.
In the small parlor the adults sat on a threadbare sofa with Peter reading a book beside his dad and Donnie curled up on his grandmother’s lap. The twins sprawled on the floor, leaving chairs on opposite sides of the room for him and Abby.
/> Engrossed in scribbling with crayons on paper, the twins didn’t look up. Drawings of stick figures wearing huge smiles cluttered a table—small boys’ images of family. “Nice pictures.”
Gary rolled onto his side to look at Wade then scrambled to his feet. “Donnie drew these.”
Donnie popped his thumb out of his mouth. “Me.”
“I like your family, Donnie.” Especially his aunt but he wouldn’t say that, not with Ethel watching every word and move.
“Aunt Abby bringed me a red lollipop,” Donnie said.
“Me too,” came from three other small mouths.
Abigail grinned. “All the lollipops were red. Prevents bickering.”
“My sister thought girls should choose first,” Wade said.
“We don’t have any girls,” Sam said, stretching like a contented cat on the bare floor.
Lois cocked her head. “What are Grandma, Aunt Abby and I then?”
Sam wrinkled his nose. “You’re not girls, you’re ladies,” he said, eliciting chuckles from the adults.
Gary slipped a paper out from under him and held it out to Wade. This family had torsos, noses, clothes, as well as wide smiles. Wade identified each one, earning a nod of approval from the artist.
Sam waved a picture of a farm. “I’m gonna be a farmer.”
Wade caught Abby’s frown. Did she find a small boy’s goal disturbing?
“You can have this.” Gary handed Wade his drawing.
“Why, thank you. I’ll hang it in my workshop where I can see it every day.”
Grinning sheepishly, Gary toed the floor. “Welcome.”
Even with their tragedies—the fire, Joe’s gambling, losing their farm—this family appeared happy, content, filling Wade with longing for what they had, a loving home. Yet with Abby standing apart from him, he’d never felt more an outsider.
Ethel motioned to the youngsters. “Let’s give the grown-ups time to talk. Come into my bedroom and I’ll read another chapter of Black Beauty. Keep your voices down so you don’t wake Billy.”