by Anne Mateer
When he turned his face to me again, a moist sheen covered his eyes. He blinked it away as he laid aside the brush, so quickly I almost wondered if I’d imagined the tears. In the next moment, he captured Dan from behind, threw him into the air, and caught him again.
Dan cackled. “Again, Daddy. Again!”
James jumped at his daddy’s arm. “Me next. Do me!”
Frank’s deep laughter filled the barn, but it blanketed his sorrow as inadequately as a thin layer of snow over brown grass. His world had been turned topsy-turvy, like mine. I think both of us wondered what would happen next. Turmoil bubbled inside me, twisting my heart first one way and then the other. But the emotion didn’t feel like it’d felt earlier in the day. This time it felt like compassion.
I found Frank in the parlor that evening, feet propped on a small stool, head resting on the chair back, eyes closed. The wind whistled through the treetops outside, and I shuddered at the thought of its icy fingers poking through the cracks in the barn walls. Frank probably wanted me to leave—if only so he could have his house back.
His head lifted and his eyes opened. Both the judgment and the grief seemed to have abated. He set his feet flat on the floor and straightened in his chair.
“I guess the barn wasn’t as comfortable as you made it out to be.” I settled on the sofa, my hands linked in my lap.
“It’s not a problem.”
The fire crackled and popped. The wind rattled the glass in the windows. And still we sat silent.
“I scolded Ollie for not helping with the dishes tonight.”
I shrugged. “She’s a little girl who has lost her mama and is very glad to see her daddy.”
“Yes.” He poked at the fire, rearranging the logs until the flame blazed higher.
“When I arrived, she was taking care of everything all by herself, so I think I can manage awhile without her help.” Awhile. What exactly did I mean by that? I flapped a magazine to cool my face.
He nodded but kept studying the fire.
I drew in a deep breath. “When do you want me to leave, Frank?”
His head whipped around. “Leave?” He seemed panicked. And yet today he’d been . . . Well, he’d been confusing.
“I just thought . . .”
He clasped his hands behind his back. “Of course. You need to go. I understand. We can manage.” He crisscrossed the room, stopped to finger the clock on the mantel. “But the children seem to have taken to you. I’d hate for them to have another loss right now.”
I hopped up from my place, suddenly eager to make him understand. “It’s fine if I stay for a while. It really is. I . . .” The words died in my throat. I couldn’t explain.
Relief seemed to flood his face, calming the flutters in my chest. I’d told God I’d wait right here until He showed me what to do next. And I intended to do just that—if Frank would let me.
“I don’t want to impose. I know you’ve been here three months already.” His face mirrored James’s again as he ran a hand through his dark hair and blew out a long breath. “I’m not sure I can manage it all on my own. Not yet. But if you can stay for a while longer, maybe until after spring planting, I’d be mighty grateful.”
I tried to keep my smile prim, not jump at the offer too quickly. So I let him know with a nod. And I prayed the Lord could convince my heart to care for the sheriff before Frank sent me on my way.
On Monday, the sheriff stopped by for a moment to deliver the mail, saying Mr. Culpepper was down in his back. On Tuesday, Sheriff Jeffries found me in Mr. Crenshaw’s store as I shopped for supplies with the money Frank had brought home. And then on Wednesday, the sheriff’s car chugged up the lane with no other aim but my company. Or so he said.
I wouldn’t again make the mistake of assuming more than was said. For now, I’d spend time with the sheriff and trust the Lord to guide me. Like watching plums turn purple in summer, waiting until that perfect moment of squishy-sweet to pluck them from the tree and pop them in my mouth. And Mama would approve, I felt certain.
Ollie finished the dishes as I changed into my Sunday best. When I walked into the kitchen, Sheriff Jeffries’s hat danced in his hands as a strained smile played at his lips.
Frank, on the other hand, stared at me as if I were no more than a scarecrow in a cornfield. No matter. I buttoned my coat and gave the sheriff my full attention. “Shall we drive, Mr. Jeffries?”
He returned his hat to his head and held out his arm to escort me.
“You needn’t wait up,” I called back. “I can see myself in.”
I didn’t wait for an answer.
We bumped over rutted roads, down paths meant for cows, seeing little as the gray evening slipped on its inky cloak. The sheriff talked of Prater’s Junction, of the Texas Rangers, of his dreams for a home and a family. My stomach churned as he talked, wanting him to offer to take me with him into adventure yet wishing he wouldn’t declare his intentions just yet.
“You know, Rebekah, from the first moment—”
“Do you think you could teach me to drive?”
His foot hit the brake. We jerked to a stop. He stared at me, his face illuminated by the rising moon and the backwash of the headlamps. “What?”
“Drive a car. Do you think you could teach me?”
He scratched the back of his head, tipping his hat over his eyes. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea for a girl—”
“I’m not a girl, Sheriff. I’m a woman. And women drive, too. At least some do. I’ve seen it in magazines.”
“Still . . .” He shook his head.
I leaned closer. “Please?”
He frowned as he pushed his hat back into its rightful place. “All right. But just this once.”
With a squeal, I changed places with him, setting my hands on the steering wheel, listening closely to his instructions. With the car in gear I eased off the brake and opened the throttle. We inched forward. I laughed, eyes on the strip of light showing the road ahead. The braver I got, the faster we went, bumping along in the dirt, sometimes on the worn track, sometimes into the unmarked grass.
For the first time in my life, I felt free. I held the wheel. I decided our course. I wanted to go on and on and never stop. Filled with glee, I glanced at the sheriff. He remained thin-lipped, but he’d get used to this, I felt sure. He planned to be a Texas Ranger, after all. He could understand my desire for adventure.
But before I knew it, Frank Gresham’s house loomed in the dark. And I knew that pursuing adventure with the sheriff meant leaving the Greshams behind. The thought pinched my heart like shoes too tight. How could I survive without James’s sweet face and Dan’s rambunctious four-year-old antics, Ollie’s shy smile, and Janie’s teeth emerging into her joyful grin?
We motored toward the fence, my mind still lost in anguished thoughts.
“Slow down.” Sheriff Jeffries put a hand on the steering wheel.
“I can do it.” I yanked in the opposite direction. White pickets glowing beneath the full moon appeared closer and larger. My foot missed the brake. Wood splintered. A headlamp went dark. The engine died without a sputter.
Sheriff Jeffries practically sat in the same seat with me now, his foot hard on the brake.
I looked up. A shadowy figure rose from a chair on the porch and walked toward us.
Frank.
I pushed open my door and stood on shaky legs, straightening my hat. The sheriff inspected his car. Frank kept his eyes on me. I refused to turn from his reproachful gaze.
“I’m so sorry, Sheriff. I hope I didn’t hurt anything.”
“Only my fence,” Frank grumbled.
I gave him my most coquettish smile. “Nothing that can’t be repaired, right?”
The sheriff cleared his throat. I turned to him. “I do thank you for the ride.” When did I start sounding so much like Mama?
“My . . . pleasure. I’ll see you on Sunday?”
I looked to Frank, then back to the sheriff. “Of course. And I am s
orry about your car.”
“No harm done. At least, not much.” He cranked the engine and backed out of the yard. Down the road it rattled. I winced. I didn’t remember that sound from before. Thankfully, the noise faded, leaving only the serenade of night—and Frank’s huffing.
“What were you doing?” Frank asked into the darkness.
“Driving a car. What did it look like?”
“Mayhem. I’ll thank you not to drive near my fences again.” He stalked toward the house, then stopped, turned back. “But I’m glad you’re not hurt.”
I kicked at a tuft of dead grass smashed into the dirt, the corner of my mouth drifting downward of its own accord. Of course he was glad. He needed a nursemaid for his children for a little while longer.
At church that Sunday, I sat between the boys, an arm around each of them. Ollie and Janie flanked their daddy, pink flushing their cheeks at his attention. Worshippers slipped in around us. I craned my neck toward the back, searching for the sheriff. Irene started the opening bars of the hymn on the small organ. Only then did he slip into a back seat and lay his hat in his lap. I turned my attention to the service, satisfied.
After the closing hymn, I buttoned James and Dan into their coats. Frank did the same with the girls. Irene caught my hand, her cheeks glowing red as coals in a stove, her eyes shiny as a clean windowpane.
“I’d like y’all to come for dinner today,” she said.
I remembered the smallness of her house and imagined the meagerness of her cupboard. “There’s no need—”
“We’d love to—” Frank glared at me as our words overlapped each other.
My back stiffened. How could he be so selfish? They didn’t have room for us there. And I’d cooked a chicken potpie for us, its golden dome only wanting to be reheated.
Frank juggled Janie and his big Bible, one in each arm. “Like I said, we’d love to partake of a meal with you and your family.”
I glanced toward the back of the room. The sheriff spoke with the Crenshaw family.
“I’ve invited the sheriff, too,” Irene said.
I pressed my lips into a smile as Irene’s gaze moved from Frank to me to Frank again.
“Come on directly. I have a ham all ready.” Irene gathered her hymnal and Bible and pocketbook.
I sighed and shooed the boys out the door. It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate the invitation. Or the inclusion of the sheriff. Truth be told, I had no idea why her words stirred my dissatisfaction—other than the fact that my heart refused to follow what my head deemed the most prudent course.
Climbing into the buggy, settling Janie on my lap, I thought of Mama again, of her constant requests that I return home. I imagined Mama would encourage me to stay if she knew of the sheriff and his attentions. But did I want her to know yet?
Frank’s deep voice rumbled in answer to one of the boys’ questions.
No, I couldn’t tell her about any of it. Not yet.
I lowered my head until my cheek pressed against Janie’s. I prayed again that the Lord would show me His way. Not Mama’s. Not mine. Not Irene’s. His.
A terrifying thought. And yet one that stirred the same feeling of freedom I’d felt when I’d steered the sheriff’s car behind the line of light piercing the darkness.
Irene’s house proved as cramped as I’d imagined it would be, but she didn’t seem daunted. She directed her girls to set the table while she finished cooking. “We’ll serve the children their dinner on the porch,” she told me.
“I’ll make sure they get their coats on, then.” But that task didn’t prove as simple as it sounded.
“I don’t want my coat.” Dan crossed his arms.
“But it’s cold outside.”
“I’m not cold.” He stamped his foot as if to punctuate his sentence.
I took a deep breath. “You will wear your coat or you won’t eat.” I crossed my arms, too.
Frank sauntered in from the porch. “Is there a problem?”
I held out Dan’s coat. “He has to put this on to go outside and eat dinner.”
“Why?”
Now I wanted to stamp my foot. “Because it’s cold out there.”
Frank’s shoulder raised and lowered. “If he gets cold, he’ll come put his coat on.” Frank took the coat from my hand and swatted his son gently on the behind. “Go on, now, Dan.”
The boy scampered away, but not before I spied the mocking grin on his face. My fists clenched at my side. “How dare you!” I hissed.
“What?” Frank truly looked confused.
I pulled my shoulders back a bit. Perhaps I didn’t know much about the care of small children, but I knew I didn’t want to care for a passel of sick ones. “I don’t want them to catch cold.”
He grinned as if I’d told a joke instead of put forth my serious opinion on the subject. “They’ll be fine, Rebekah.”
“And I suppose you’ll take care of them if they aren’t?” From the corner of my eye, I spied Sheriff Jeffries and Brother Latham walk through the door. The sheriff’s eyebrows lowered.
“They’ll be fine. They aren’t frail like—” His face crumpled and he turned away.
Like Clara, he’d almost said. Her children. And his. Part of me wanted to wrap my arms around him. But the other part—
With great effort, I lowered my voice, kept it calm and even. “The children have been my responsibility, and I think I have some say in what happens to them.” I spun around to leave the room, my anger boiling like a kettle left too long on the fire.
“. . . only a child herself.” Frank’s mumbled words sent me flying back.
“We were doing just fine before you came home.”
His eyebrows shot up and his mouth dropped open. I didn’t wait to measure his response beyond shock. My skirt swirled around my legs as I turned away.
His tone softened, and his words stopped my flight. “I think you need to trust me in this, Rebekah. I wouldn’t suggest anything that would harm my children.”
I knew that. I really did. I pressed my lips together, determined to keep tears from falling. Only then did I notice Ollie in the corner, her bottom lip trembling. She bit it still.
My heart seemed to sink into my toes. Why did caring so much seem to bring out the worst in me?
Sheriff Jeffries slapped his hat on his head and put his hand on my elbow. “Why don’t we take a quick walk before dinner?”
I nodded and let him lead me away. Ollie’s lips puckered and her face flushed as I passed by, stinging me like a slap of wet rain on a cold day. Sheriff Jeffries urged me forward. I stumbled. He righted me. Again. Like on the train platform the day I arrived. Always right where I needed him. So why couldn’t my heart leap in his direction?
We walked all the way to the shallow creek, without our coats. Frank had been right. The afternoon had warmed more than I’d thought. This time I talked. And Sheriff Jeffries listened. But instead of recounting my dreams of adventure, I found myself rattling on about the children.
He didn’t seem to mind. The very antithesis of Arthur. In fact, if Frank had wanted to find a new wife and leave his children with me, I was pretty sure the sheriff wouldn’t object. So I smiled up at him as we walked, trying to make myself feel the wild ecstasy I’d always felt in Arthur’s presence. But my heart didn’t pound harder, and my chest didn’t ache with longing for his touch.
As we neared the house again, I noticed his gun belt peeking out from beneath his suit coat. “Do you always wear your guns?” I asked.
“Mostly. You never know what will happen.”
“You might have to run down a bank robber or cattle rustler?”
He grinned. “Something like that.”
I’d read a story once about Pearl Hart, the famous lady stagecoach robber. How would it feel to wear the heavy pistols slung low on the hips?
“May I try it on?”
“My gun belt?”
I nodded, Christmas morning excitement bursting through me.
�
��Well, I guess it’d be all right.” He unbuckled his belt and handed it to me. “Be careful, though.”
More weight than I expected filled my hands, but not more than I could handle. A lifetime of wielding cast-iron pots and pans made a girl’s arms strong. I strapped the belt around my waist, undecided as to whether I imagined myself a bandit or a law enforcer.
“I see you’ve found your way back.” Frank’s clipped words.
I ducked my head to hide my smirk, wondering why annoying this man brought such delight. Was it because he seemed to think he had some kind of authority over me? Maybe I wanted him to know I didn’t need another mother.
“Dinner’s on,” Irene called from the porch.
I unbuckled the holster that crushed against the pleats in my dress. Sheriff Jeffries took it from my hands and strapped it on his waist, his cheeks pink as a summer sunset as we made our way inside.
Seated around the dining table, the sheriff to my right, Frank across from us, I relaxed as Nola Jean asked unending questions about Oklahoma.
“You mean there’s no cotton?”
“Yes, there’s cotton. But we don’t grow any. Daddy grows mostly corn.”
She looked sideways at her mother. “Corn’s easier to harvest than cotton.”
“I expect so,” I said, “although I’ve never picked cotton myself. I can see y’all grow a lot of it around here.”
Nola Jean snorted, then apologized. “Too much, if you ask me.”
“Be thankful for cotton crops, Nola Jean.” Irene slid her knife into the butter and slathered it on a square of cornbread. “They clothe and shelter you.”
Nola Jean sighed. “If only it wasn’t so much work.”
Frank ducked his head to hide a smile.
“Maybe you won’t always live on a cotton farm, Nola Jean.” I stared at Frank as I said it. I didn’t know why. Maybe because I couldn’t look at the sheriff, since he sat beside me. Maybe because I wanted Frank to know I didn’t intend to stay here forever. Maybe I just wanted to say it out loud, to remind myself. “You could marry a man who will take you somewhere else. Somewhere new and exciting.”