The Amber Photograph

by Penelope J. Stokes

  "Help. Please!"

  Amber could tell he was trying not to cry. "Hold on!" she yelled again. "Hold on!"

  She dashed to the ladder and started up, but her hands were slippery with wet clay, and twice she almost fell. Don't look down, she told herself over and over. Don't look down. Just keep climbing. At last she reached the top and swung off the ladder into the loft. Her knees were trembling violently and every muscle in her body felt like Jell-O, but she kept moving. "Sam, I'm coming. I see you!"

  The truth was, Amber didn't see him. She only saw the yawning open square where the trapdoor had been. For a moment her nerve failed her. "God, no," she muttered under her breath. The wooden floor was slick with hay—she could slip and fall as easily as he had. She got down on all fours and crawled toward the opening.

  The flap of the trapdoor hung like a broken wing into the open space below the hayloft floor. And clinging to the hinged side of the door, his little fingers wedged into the tiniest of spaces, Sam Houston was still hanging on.

  Amber slid on her stomach toward the hole. She was at an awkward angle, reaching down to try to grab him, but the trapdoor opening was too wide for her to reach him from the other side. There was no other way to get to him.

  "Sam, look up," she commanded. "I'm right here. Can you see my hand?" She couldn't see much of him, but she could feel his rigid fingers under her touch.

  "Yes," he choked out.

  "All right. I want you to let go with one hand and grab on."

  "I'm scared."

  "I know you are, Sam. I am, too. But that's not going to stop us. On three, now: one, two, three!"

  His hand shot out into thin air, and Amber grasped at it for all she was worth. She gripped him around the wrist, but as small as he was, he was solidly packed and heavier than she had counted on. His weight pulled her farther out over the opening. She could see his face now, taut and white with fear, his eyes wide. He let go with the other hand and gripped her right arm with both fists.

  She slid a little farther.

  "I'm slipping!" he screamed. "Don't let go!"

  Amber's free hand found an angled rafter, and she held on for dear life. She could see beyond him, down, down, down into the barn below. Her head started to reel.

  "Don't. . . let. . . go!" Sam yelled.

  The words came from very far away, an echo on a distant wind. Everything around her lurched, as if she had been spinning in circles for hours.

  "Don't. . . let. . . go!"

  "I won't!" Amber shouted. "I won't let go!"

  She felt a tightening around her waist, as if an arm had gone around her, pulling her back, steadying her. She took in one deep breath and abandoned the rafter, her only anchor, to lunge for the child. Her free hand touched flesh—his thin little arm—and she fell backward into the strength that held her, hauling Sam Houston with her.

  He was in her arms, burrowing into her, crying, shaking.

  "It's all right," Amber gasped, holding him close and stroking his hair with a trembling hand. "I've got you."

  "You didn't let go," he sobbed. "I was afraid you'd let go."

  Amber's own tears mixed with his. "Never," she said fiercely. "I would have died myself before I'd let you go again."

  She heard shouting and running and the clattering of feet on the ladder. Completely drained, she turned to see Twojoe vaulting into the loft. He fell to his knees and put his arms around both of them. "I heard yelling. I came as fast as I could. Thank God you're all right."

  Amber stared at him dazed. Wasn't he there, just a moment ago? Holding her, helping her, pulling her back from the edge?

  It didn't matter. He was here now.

  Still clutching Sam in a tight embrace, she sagged against Twojoe's comforting warmth and wept with exhaustion and relief.

  22

  The Colonel

  A cold rain had set in, and after dinner, Twojoe had built a fire in the big stone fireplace and made popcorn over the open flames. The bowl sat untouched on the coffee table. Meg slouched in the overstuffed chair with a book on her lap; she hadn't turned a single page in the past hour. Amber lay on the couch, staring vacantly into the flickering light. A gray tabby kitten, whom Sam had claimed and named Pocahontas, was curled into a tight ball on the arm of the sofa behind Amber's head, sound asleep. The only one among them who seemed at peace tonight.

  Strange, he thought, how quickly the weather could change. Most of the month of April had been unseasonably mild and clear—warm sunny days and moonlit nights fresh as chilled white grapes. But in a heartbeat the wind had shifted and the spring storms had come again.

  The pounding monotony of rain on the roof suited Twojoe's mood. For a while after the ordeal with Sam in the hayloft, everyone had walked around in a kind of adrenaline-induced euphoria. But now the elation of triumph had dissipated, and the dismal drizzle of everyday life had reasserted itself. Nobody felt like talking, so they all sat together in the quiet room, insulated by their private thoughts.

  Twojoe's mind inevitably came around, once again, to his dilemma about the farm. He wouldn't let go of the place, that much was certain, not even for the enormous amount Mr. William Shivers's "people" had offered. He supposed he could sell most of the llamas and find an accounting job in the city. There had to be some opportunities for a CPA, and at least it would pay the bills . . .

  A knot formed in his stomach when he envisioned himself in that role. A three-piece suit, a cell phone, a reliable mid-sized car, an office cubicle in some high-rise. Between driving to Bainbridge and taking the ferry, a total of two hours or more every day in the commuting maze with all the other rats. Leaving before dawn and coming home after dark. It would kill his spirit by degrees. He could feel the light in his soul dimming just from thinking about it.

  The old Seth Thomas on the mantel—his Grandma Simi's pride and joy—ticked loudly in the silence. Finding a job might take weeks. Creditors were already breathing down his neck; the farm could be history before he ever got around to punching a time clock.

  Twojoe closed his eyes. The light from the fire penetrated his eyelids, creating red-hued patterns across the network of veins in the thin skin—an ever-changing road map with no signs to point him in the right direction. Trust, Meg had told him a hundred times or more. We're not going to lose this place.

  Joe believed it—at least theoretically. He had felt so strongly that coming home to Kitsap County was the right thing to do, had even said that God had led him in the decision. The physical labor exhilarated him; the natural beauty nurtured and sustained his soul. Giving up a lucrative career hadn't seemed like much of a sacrifice at the time. God cared about the inner self, not the outward trappings of success. It didn't matter how anyone else would assess his choices—Twojoe Elkhorn had found his place in the center of God's will.

  He had been obedient. He had said yes when God called. Why, then, had heaven slammed shut like a steel door, unresponsive to his cries for help, his need for affirmation? Why wasn't God answering him? Was the Almighty not so almighty, after all? Twojoe believed in a God of grace and mercy, a God who loved people and intervened on their behalf. But if God truly knew about his troubles and shared his worries, why had his prayers been met with silence?

  Twojoe could only think of two reasons, neither of which was very satisfying: either God didn't care, or God cared but was incapable of intervening. An indifferent Deity or an impotent one, take your pick. Neither one was the kind of God that inspired Twojoe Elkhorn to love and worship.

  Maybe in the whole scheme of things, Twojoe's prayers just weren't that important. No one was dying of some slow and painful disease, after all; the world wasn't coming to an end. All that was at stake was an old log farmhouse, forty acres of land, a few llamas. He could take Shivers's cash tomorrow, walk away, and live off the interest the rest of his days.

  Poor old Judas only got thirty pieces of silver in exchange for a life—and a very special life, at that. Twojoe had a much bigger offer on the table. But
was it enough? Could it ever be enough?

  What was the current market value, he wondered, on three ordinary souls?

  Amber jerked awake and tried to sit up. Somewhere, someone was running a jackhammer—or maybe it was just the pounding in her skull. She couldn't move. Her legs were paralyzed. But no, they couldn't be—she could feel needles of pain going up and down her calves.

  She propped up on her elbows and looked toward the end of the sofa. Pocahontas, the kitten Sam had claimed as his own, was stretched across her feet, and her legs had gone to sleep. That boy better talk his grandparents into letting Pokie come to live with them soon, or—

  The sound registered in her brain. Someone was knocking on the front door. She nudged the cat, who arose leisurely and gave her an irritated look, digging her tiny, needle-sharp claws into Amber's shins before stalking away. By the time Amber got her feet to the floor, Twojoe had already gotten up to open the door.

  Sam came running into the room and flung himself on her, squeezing the breath out of her with an enormous hug, then flopped down beside her on the couch and picked up the kitten. His jacket was soaking wet; Pocahontas squirmed away from him, went to the hearth, and sat down to groom.

  Amber felt in need of a grooming herself. She felt dazed and stuporous from sleeping at the wrong time, and her mouth tasted fuzzy and disgusting. What time was it? She squinted at the clock on the mantel—eight forty five. At night, she assumed astutely, since it was dark outside. But what was Sam Houston doing here at this hour?

  She didn't have to wait long to find out. Twojoe was standing over her, and behind him hovered a towering tree of a man. Beneath the rim of what must have been a twenty-gallon hat, she could see a wild mane of snow-white hair and a complexion like tanned cowhide.

  "So this is the little lady who saved my grandson!" the man thundered.

  Amber struggled to her feet while Twojoe made the introductions. "Amber, this is Colonel Houston, Sam's grandfather."

  "Vernon," the man corrected. "Or just plain old Vern."

  Plain old Vern, Amber noted as he pumped her hand enthusiastically, was neither plain nor particularly old. He might have been anywhere between fifty and sixty, with a handsome weathered face and a broad grin—a robust western type who still fit quite neatly into a pair of low-slung jeans. Amber was not a small woman—not petite like Susan or Meg, anyway—but Vernon Houston dwarfed her. She estimated his height at six foot five, at least, and his hand enveloped hers like a massive bear's paw.

  "Sorry to come so late, and on such a foul night, but Sam insisted. The missus is down with a cold; she sends her apologies and says she'll be over in a day or two."

  Meg was on her feet, ready to play hostess at a moment's notice. "Sit down, please, Colonel Houston. Let me take your coats. And how about if I brew up a pot of coffee?"

  "Make mine black," little Sam piped up.

  Meg leveled a gaze on him and pointed a finger. "You'll get milk, young man. Now, how about if you come and help me? I've got some of that chocolate cake you love."

  Sam jumped up to follow her, and the two of them left the room amid Meg's admonitions for him to wash his hands after playing with the kitten.

  "My grandson has really taken to y'all," Vernon was saying. "I want you to know how much I appreciate it; it's helped him a lot, dealing with losing his sister like he has."

  "We admire him a great deal." Twojoe smiled. "He's quite a boy."

  "Well, he sure loves them llamas," Vernon chuckled. "He's after me to start raising 'em on my ranch back in Texas."

  "They're wonderful animals. I'd sell you a great packing stud."

  "Lloser?" the Colonel burst out laughing. "I bet you would, wouldn't you now?" He clapped Twojoe on the shoulder. "My grandson's already told me all about Lloser, so don't you go trying to pawn him off on an old man like me. I may not know llamas, but I been around the back forty a few times, and you can't pull the wool over my eyes." He winked at Amber. "No pun intended."

  By the time the coffee was ready, Colonel Vernon Houston had made himself comfortably at home. Amber had to keep reminding herself that he was a multimillionaire, that he was king among the Texas oil barons, that his Fortune 500 company could buy and sell half of Kitsap County before breakfast on any given morning. He was so real, so relaxed . . . so ordinary.

  "Great place you've got here, son," he said to Twojoe as they adjourned to the kitchen for coffee and cake. He motioned to the ancient post-and-beam construction of the living room. "The little woman wanted a fancy place on the water, so I built it for her. But tell the truth, I'd be a whole lot more at home in a log cabin like this one."

  "This place has been in our family for a hundred years," Twojoe explained. "Our ancestors were Norwegian loggers."

  Vern pulled out a chair and sat down heavily. "Norwegian?" He laughed again, a great booming sound that reminded Amber of thunder or kettle drums. "Somehow I'd a never guessed Norwegian, not in a million years." He grinned and inclined his massive head in Meg's direction. "Now her, I'd guess as Norwegian."

  "We're half Suquamish," Meg said. "Twojoe got the dark genes; I got the blonde ones."

  Vernon polished off two huge wedges of chocolate layer cake before he leaned back in his chair and fixed his attention on Amber.

  "Sam told me what happened in the barn. That was a mighty brave thing you did, little lady, and I'll always be indebted to you." He took Amber's hand in his and planted a kiss on her knuckles, then unsnapped the breast pocket of his shirt and drew out a folded piece of paper. "There's no way to thank you properly, but maybe this'll serve as a little token of my appreciation for taking such good care of my grandson."

  She could see it was a check. He laid it on the table and pushed it in her direction.

  "Colonel Houston, no—," she began.

  "We can't take it," Twojoe stated flatly. "Absolutely not."

  "Was I talkin' to you?" He fixed Twojoe with a glare that would melt rubber.

  "He's right," Amber said softly. "It's a very nice gesture, Colonel, but you don't take money for something you did for love."

  Vern scratched his head and blinked. His eyes watered, crinkling at the corners, bright with unshed tears. "I already lost my granddaughter. It ain't right, outliving your kids or grandkids. I couldn't have stood it to lose my grandson, too."

  "I understand that," Amber whispered. "But I don't need a reward." She glanced over at Sam, who sat gazing at her with wide eyes, a little smudge of chocolate icing on his freckled nose. "Your grandson has given us much more than we could ever ask for, just by being here, by being himself. We love him. I think he loves us. I didn't do anything particularly brave in that barn, Colonel Houston. Maybe I even saved him out of cowardice and selfishness, because I was afraid to lose him. Whatever the case, he's saved me just as much as I've saved him."

  A tear spilled over onto his leathery cheek, and the Colonel reached up to wipe it away. "I don't reckon I understand quite what you mean, little lady, but I'll take your word for it. Sam's right—y'all are special people. Just the kind of folks I'd want my grandson to know."

  He got up and motioned to Sam. "We'd better get on home, son, before your grandma sends the Cavalry out lookin' for us. Thanks for your hospitality. If you don't mind, we'll go out the back door. Real friends don't use the front, and I'm hopin' after tonight you'll count me as a friend."

  He shrugged into the jacket Meg held out for him and clamped the Stetson down on his head. "Oh, and by the way, Emmaline—that's my wife—will give you a call tomorrow or the next day. She said she'd like to have you all over for a real Texas-style barbecue."

  Amber pushed back her chair and retrieved the check from the table. "We'd love to come. And don't forget this—" She extended the check in his direction.

  He frowned, but took it, shaking his head. "Get that kitten, Sam—your grandma finally gave in and said it was OK."

  Sam went over to the hearth, scooped up Pocahontas, and tucked her inside his shirt. "I'll take g
ood care of her," he promised.

  Amber smiled. "I know you will, Sam. Bring her back to visit her brothers and sisters anytime. We'll come and see her, too."

  "Tell you what," the Colonel said, fingering the check and then slipping it into his shirt pocket. "I ain't in the habit of treading on other folks' pride, so I won't fight with you about this business of the money. But if you ever need anything—anything at all—you come to me first. You promise?"

  Amber nodded. "Promise." She squeezed his callused hand. "Come back soon."

  Then he was gone, herding Sam and Pokie out the door and into the rain-soaked night.

  Amber sat down at the kitchen table and put her head in her hands.

  "You did the right thing," Twojoe said. "Not taking the reward, I mean."

  "I wonder. That money would have solved a lot of our problems."

  Twojoe laughed. "It would take a lot more than a little reward money to get us out of this hole, and—" He stopped suddenly when he saw the look on Amber's face. "You saw how much the check was, didn't you?"

  Amber nodded. "Five zeros," she whispered. "Five. That check was made out for one hundred thousand dollars."

  23

  Plan B

  Amber had spent three days second-guessing her rejection of Vernon Houston's generous reward. Twojoe and Meg both concurred that she had made the right decision; no Elkhorn had ever taken charity, not once in all the lean and difficult years. They had always "stood proud in their own moccasins," as Grandpa Joe often reminded them when they were children, had always managed to get through whatever hard times came their way.

  Well, family honor was all well and good, but what use would it be if they lost the land and were forced to move? Amber hadn't said so, but privately she thought it had been stupid and shortsighted of Grandpa Joe to forbid taking a mortgage on the farm. Still, he had been an old man, accustomed to the old ways. He couldn't have foreseen what was happening to them now. And Twojoe was probably right: even if they could take a mortgage and pay off the taxes and their other bills, what about the next tax bill, and the one after that? Mortgage companies didn't care what happened to a small-time llama farmer and his forty acres of land.