Regina Jennings

by Love in the Balance

  Russell was late arriving. Through the office window Bailey watched him pause at the crest of the hill overlooking the riverbank. He removed his hat and wiped a shaking hand across his high forehead. That walk to the mill had probably never seemed so long before. Bailey set aside the stack of orders he was assigning to the crew and went to meet him.

  “Morning,” Bailey said.

  “Are you here to ask why I’m late, or do you know already?” Sweat glistened on Russell’s brow even though the morning was still cool.

  “I heard about the cattle. How are you and your wife doing?”

  Russell’s chin puckered. “We tried our best with that boy, but it’s easier for people to think they could’ve done better. It’s easier for them to figure that we’re all cut from the same cloth.”

  “People know you don’t condone what Michael did,” Bailey said. “You still have your reputation.”

  “Not according to Thomas Lovelace.” Russell removed his hat for a second swipe at his forehead as they entered the lumberyard. “I’ve worked for him all my adult life, never shorted him a penny nor cheated him a minute, and it’s no use. Nothing makes his day like hearing about Michael’s crimes. The more my son disappoints me, the more Thomas is delighted. He’ll never allow me to live this down. It wouldn’t be any worse if I’d stolen those cattle myself.”

  The looks coming from the men at the saw varied from curious to hostile. Bailey met every one, staring until they turned away.

  “Don’t let Mr. Lovelace get to you. He hasn’t been down here since his spell. Whatever he’s thinking, he’ll have to keep it to himself.”

  “Russell! Bailey!”

  Bailey turned to see Thomas descending the ridge, recklessly gathering speed on the gravel path.

  “So he finally did it, did he?” The man’s impatience prohibited him from catching his breath before throwing his barbs. “Cattle rustling? And I’m the fool who lets his father have access to my accounts.”

  No wood screeched through the saw. Everyone had stopped to hear the exchange.

  “Let’s go inside.” Bailey opened the door to the office to give Russell the benefit of privacy, but it was not to be found there. The customers in the waiting room leaned forward when they saw him walk in.

  “The brawling, the drunkenness—I was willing to overlook your son’s faults because you managed to stay sober at work, but having a thief in the family is another matter. Makes me wonder if that’s why we’ve been behind all year. Maybe Michael was practicing what he learned from his old man.”

  Didn’t Mr. Lovelace realize that Russell had nothing to lose? Why cross a man with an outlaw son on the lam? Sounded like a good way to wake up dead. But Russell didn’t respond. Instead of defending himself before his customers, he stood with feet spread broad and head bowed. Even Thomas seemed disappointed that the game had ended without a fight.

  “Does he still have a job here or not?” Bailey asked and wondered why he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

  “If it weren’t for Dr. Trench and his doomsday predictions, I’d send him packing, but—” Thomas frowned—“but I guess out of the goodness of my heart, I’ll give him another chance.”

  That Russell hadn’t done anything to jeopardize his first chance wouldn’t be debated. Giving the poor man an escape was the important thing.

  “Russell, can you take Mr. Berg to his wagon? I bet the boys have it loaded,” Bailey said.

  Russell allowed Mr. Berg to go through the door and then pulled it closed softly behind him.

  “Are they sure it was his son?” Mr. Kimball asked from his seat on the bench.

  A man released a stream of tobacco to ping in the spittoon. “Yep. Those cattle are from several different herds. He was even too lazy to disguise the brands, only burned over the top of them.”

  “Now they wonder if he killed that man out on the Tillerton place. Maybe James got caught liberating Mrs. Tillerton’s cattle,” Mr. Meneley added.

  “Maybe Mrs. Nimenko caught her husband liberating Mrs. Tillerton,” the spitter said.

  Bailey cleared his throat. “Sorry to keep you waiting. How can I help you gentlemen?”

  “Ah, industry.” Thomas inhaled long and hard. “I don’t know how I’ve survived without breathing sawdust. A rooster can’t spend all day in the henhouse.”

  Guffaws erupted from the men. Bailey smiled. You wouldn’t catch him sitting inside for days, either. Perhaps if Thomas could leave Russell alone, the visit would do the man some good.

  “Hey, Thomas. Saw your daughter in Lockhart yesterday. What’s that son-in-law of yours up to?” Mr. Meneley asked from the bench.

  Bailey wiped his palms on his trousers and picked up a pencil, feeling all eyes on him. He pretended to fill out a receipt as Thomas Lovelace answered.

  “Something significant, that’s for sure. We should’ve warned Molly that an important man doesn’t have time to coddle a new bride, but she’s a trooper. She’s playing house until he gets things ready for her. You know Molly. It better be fit for a queen.”

  Bailey’s pencil snapped. Without raising his eyes he grabbed the next closest one and tapped the lead against the blank page.

  Could hardly call Mrs. Truman’s boardinghouse a palace, and Molly was lucky she was allowed a room at all. But Mr. Lovelace forged ahead, letting his pride paint a victorious portrait of a spoiled wife and a doting husband.

  “Come on, Mr. Meneley. Let’s look the yard over. Maybe you could help me decide which building I should update next. My new partner, Mr. Pierrepont, is looking for a project to spend money on.”

  Bailey watched as the two men walked out the office door. There wasn’t any money coming from Pierrepont. Thomas surely had to suspect that by now. Poor Molly. The longer Bailey worked with her parents, the more he understood the pressures that drove her into Pierrepont’s arms. No longer could he despise her with a clear conscience, but he was finding it easier to hate himself.

  “I don’t believe a word of it,” Mr. Kimball said after they’d left the room.

  “Me neither.” The spitter fired again. “I heard that Pierrepont fellow left unpaid bills in Lockhart. Half the pretties he bought for the gal haven’t been paid for.”

  Bailey looked up. Truly? Had he left her with debts?

  “That’s what I heard, too. And yet Thomas pretends she’s married into money. Where is the man, anyway? Can’t imagine leaving your bride for this long,” Mr. Kimball added.

  Bailey had heard enough. “Mr. Kimball, looks like we owe you a refund on that last load. Do you want cash or a credit on your account?”

  “Don’t let us get under your skin, Bailey,” he said. “I know you were sweet on the girl, but you’re better off without her.”

  “My wife agrees,” the spitter chimed in. “She was saying how she was proud to see you working around the church, making visits and all. If you’d got messed up with Molly, you’d be sunk as low as she is.”

  “Fellas, don’t badmouth her on my account,” he said.

  “’Course, we know you don’t have a dog in the fight. You’re smarter than that. It’s a good thing you steered clear of that mistake. You set a good example for all the young men hereabouts,” the spitter said.

  “Jesus should be their example, not me,” Bailey said, but their approval grew.

  “That’s what we’re talking about. Such a humble spirit . . .”

  Misery, pure misery. And no relief in sight.

  He did his best to hide the rest of the day, there being no safe place to turn without hearing either Michael James’s or Molly’s name. Odd how opinion was formed. Odd how people thought they could sum up a person’s character by the news of the day.

  After delivering the ledger to Mr. Lovelace and enduring supper at his table, Bailey headed down the path to his home at the parsonage.

  Gravel crunched behind him. Bailey turned to see his Aunt Louise hobbling toward him.

  “Good evening, Aunt Louise. How’s life at the Br
adford house?”

  She wiped her forehead with her hankie. “I’m glad I caught you, Bailey. These new boots have me so aggravated I don’t want to go a step further than necessary.”

  “What do you need?”

  “You, of course. Reverend Stoker isn’t around and the Mohles could use a visit. Mrs. Mohle had another miscarriage this afternoon, bless her heart. I’m on my way home from there.”

  “Miscarriage? I didn’t know she was expecting.”

  “They don’t let on until they have to because it’s happened before. Don’t want to get their hopes up, you know.”

  His heart went out to them. Bailey had a soft spot for children. He remembered how protective he was of Susannah and Ida when they were born. He’d fight a bear armed with a spoon for his little sisters.

  “I’ll head straight over.” He took her thanks and a peck on the cheek and started to the Mohles’ home on the other side of the school.

  Perhaps he should prepare what he’d say to them, dredge his memory for appropriate Scriptures and sentiments, but instead he used the time to wade into their grief. What would he feel if he’d lost a child of his own? And to suffer this grief in silence? Mr. Mohle’s carpentry business meant he frequented the sawmill, yet he’d never breathed a word about his loss. Would he want to talk now?

  Mr. Mohle met him at the door, dry-eyed and solemn, all his usual bluster set aside. He ushered him into the dim bedroom where Mrs. Mohle sat propped up by pillows. A simple white handkerchief covered her head, and she was praying, mumbling words he couldn’t understand while rocking like she did while playing the piano on the Sabbath.

  Although both were several years older than Bailey, they were looking to him for something. But what? Wisdom? Comfort? All he had to offer was shared suffering. Mr. Mohle pulled up a chair and motioned for him to sit. He did. Closing his eyes, he discarded his own troubles in order to present the Mohles’ sufferings to his Lord. No words, just trusting that God understood his heart groanings of pain for these good people.

  Interceding was all he knew to do for them, yet he felt they expected something more. What would Reverend Stoker do? Bailey’s bag of tricks ran pretty light. He was more apt to say something to offend than to soothe, another reason he’d rather speak silently to God.

  Bailey opened his eyes. Mrs. Mohle wiped the tears from her face and smiled bravely at her husband.

  “I’m ready,” she said.

  Ready?

  Mrs. Mohle moved toward him. Bailey leaned forward on his elbows and reached to help her up, but instead she placed a tiny wrapped bundle in his hands.

  In a heartbeat, Bailey’s world became very small.

  His troubles at the mill vanished, his worries were wiped clean. Who he was, why he was there—forgotten. The only thing in the world that had any meaning was the soft weight in his palm.

  So perfect. So very tiny.

  The bundle wasn’t any bigger than his fist, but he cradled it carefully against his chest, wondering what the child would’ve done with ten years of life. With twenty. He was amazed to think that this fresh soul was already in Christ’s presence and already knew his Savior more intimately than he did, despite all the sermons he’d heard.

  With a sigh, Mr. Mohle rose and held out his hands. Bailey relinquished the bundle to the father and followed him into the kitchen, where a wooden jewelry box sat on the table.

  The carpenter faltered when he saw the box. “Every time I make one, I pray we won’t need it for this, but I keep one in the shop just in case.”

  He wound the ends of the blanket tightly together and placed it in the box. Covering the small bundle with his hand, his lips moved silently. Then he lowered the lid and fastened the latch.

  In a daze, Bailey followed him outside, where the comforting sounds of a spring evening filled the air. A shovel was leaning against the tree, already dirty from the day’s work.

  “When she started having pains today, I went ahead and got it ready. Been here too many times before to be surprised.”

  Along the dark fence line stood four azalea bushes—the closest being half the size of the others.

  “I had no idea,” Bailey said.

  “Not something people want to know.”

  “Is it something you want to talk about?”

  Mr. Mohle shrugged. “There’s no comfort in telling people what they don’t want to hear.”

  After the burial Bailey stayed to pray with the bereaved couple once more, but Mr. Mohle’s words would haunt him for the rest of the night.

  Lying in his bed, studying the undersides of the wooden shingles above him, Bailey had to wonder who else was troubled by stories that no one wanted to hear. Was he strong enough to bear their heavy knowledge, or would he become jaded? Had God called him to share the burdens of His people?

  20

  LOCKHART, TEXAS

  FEBRUARY 1880

  The first time Molly visited the jail, her curiosity had blinded her to the despair and hostility caged within. Every time since, she’d desperately wanted to flee. It took all her resolve to stay while Sheriff Colton unlocked the door to let her join the woman who’d been there since the deposition.

  Anne raised her head out of the curl she’d made in the corner of her bunk. “I don’t know why you keep coming back.”

  “Now that I’ve got the stenographer job, it’s easy to stop in after work to see how you’re doing.” Molly looked around the tiny space. “A silly question, I suppose. There’s not much good that can happen here.”

  “They let me out a couple times a day. That’s more than the men get.” Anne swung her feet to the ground. “I’ve done my best to avoid male attention, and here I am locked up with the worst of them.”

  “They don’t harass you, do they?”

  “Not if I stay clear of the bars.”

  Molly took a step toward the middle. “You’ll be pleased to know that they recovered your cattle. Sheriff Colton is going today to search your property again and look through your house. If they don’t find any evidence, they’ll have to release you. Judge Rice said they would’ve let you go sooner, but he was afraid you would’ve fled at the first opportunity.”

  “I would have. I should’ve left this place when Jay died. There’s nothing here for me.”

  “I wish you didn’t feel that way.”

  Anne removed her hat. The brown ringlets beneath it sprung up at the release. “Unfortunately, I don’t know anywhere that’s better, but I’ll have time to think it through while I sell off my property. At least I’ll have enough to get me set up somewhere new.”

  “Perhaps you’re right. I hate to say it, but once people form an opinion of you, it’s nearly impossible for them to change it.”

  What wouldn’t Molly give for a fresh start? It hurt too much to think about.

  The barred window opposite them provided a view of the street—children staring in open curiosity at the incarcerated, women scurrying by, refusing to look up. Socially, Molly had already sensed a change in the way people behaved around her. Errant whispers of speculation quieted when she entered a room. Sometimes she was avoided. Sometimes she was studied—much like the prisoners.

  Molly wasn’t a prisoner behind bars, but there were barriers nonetheless. Would she be released, or had she been given a life sentence?

  The day of Prue’s wedding arrived sooner than Molly had expected. She sipped punch from the Fentons’ crystal and watched as her friend made the rounds through the crowded ballroom of her new home on San Antonio Street.

  Prue was the perfect blushing bride—devoted, innocent, and eager to please her husband.

  Molly had been, too. She was a practical woman. She’d known what to expect as soon as she recovered from her illness. All part of the bargain. But now what? Edward hadn’t kept his end of the deal. Her parents were still in danger of losing everything. And what if he did come back? Could she give herself again to a man who could do without her?

  She downed the rest
of the punch and set the glass on the empty table at her side. Taking a seat would make it more obvious that no one chose to share her company. Molly sighed. Who would’ve thought that being a wife would be so lonely? Most women her age were married, but she didn’t feel welcome in their circle, as if they feared her conjugal woes were contagious. She scanned the room. There was Bailey. But he was worse than a stranger to her. With a stranger the potential existed that they might become friends. Bailey already knew everything about her and kept his distance. And she couldn’t blame him.

  That left Carrie.

  Lately Carrie had grown increasingly antagonistic toward Molly. Frequently she asked Molly how Edward was, if she’d heard from him, if there was any news, but with every negative answer Carrie grew more smug until her inquiries seemed less out of concern for her friend and more like Molly’s misfortune was somehow gratifying.

  Molly picked up her empty glass and headed to the punch bowl. She had no right to feel sorry for herself, not when she compared her plight to Anne’s or to some of the other women she saw at the courthouse. She wasn’t wanted for murder, and neither was her husband . . . as far as she knew. At least she had a veneer of respectability left.

  She lifted her chin as Carrie approached. Bailey’s words had been her refrain since returning to Lockhart. “Refuse to believe there’s a scandal. Hold your head high. Don’t act ashamed.” She was doing her best, but it was hard—especially alone.

  Carrie smiled and waved, but not at Molly. She was waving Bailey over. It was too late for Molly to escape. She tried not to notice how nice he looked in his Sunday best. She also didn’t want to see the disgust on his face when he realized he’d been lured into a grouping with her.