Regina Jennings

by Love in the Balance

  Her father’s chair groaned as he tilted the two front legs off the ground and crossed his arms. “Right on time, Bailey. I know you’re here on a different type of business, but we could use a good word from you, if you don’t mind. There are some in our midst who are disregarding the wisdom of the Lord. How about a little preaching before we crack open the accounts?”

  How could you tell someone was looking at you when you couldn’t see him? Molly didn’t know, but the sensation was physical. She kept her eyes toward the parlor, but she couldn’t control the heat creeping up her neck. Did Bailey wonder how he could’ve been so deceived? Did he chide himself for falling for a sinner like her? Would her skin stop tingling when he looked away?

  “You want a good word, from me?” Molly heard the ledger drop to the table. “‘And, ye fathers, provoke not your children to wrath: but bring them up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord.’ I believe that’s the verse. It’s the father who’s cautioned against riling up his offspring, not the other way around. We don’t want to misquote the Good Book.”

  Molly bit her lip. She knew Bailey well enough to guess how his pulse was racing. He didn’t correct his elders. He didn’t start fights, but he’d stepped right into this one. And why? He was practically siding with her.

  The floor thumped as the front legs of her father’s chair landed. Thomas Lovelace didn’t speak. He glowered at his wife as if she had something to do with Bailey’s remark. Molly could almost hear the sweat popping out of Bailey’s forehead. What was he doing? Didn’t he like his job?

  “Well,” Thomas drawled, then beamed a relieved smile toward the young man, “I suppose you are correct. ‘Bring them up in the admonition of the Lord.’ That’s the good word we need around here.”

  If an offering plate had been passed around the table at that moment, it would’ve come back full. God had worked a miracle. True, Thomas Lovelace had not admitted defeat, but neither had he insisted on the destruction of his challenger. Molly glanced at Bailey and nearly laughed at the shocked look on his face. If he’d expected the worst, why had he spoken up? It wasn’t like him to ruffle feathers.

  Her plate was full, her stomach empty, but Molly rose. “If you’ll excuse me—”

  “Wait.” Bailey stood. “You haven’t eaten. I’ll leave.”

  “But this is your supper. You shouldn’t go hungry,” Molly insisted.

  “I don’t mind.”

  She didn’t understand. Was he being kind or was he avoiding her?

  “Sit down, both of you. Supper is one of the perks of your job, Bailey. Don’t let her discomfort trouble you. She’s done her best to irritate all of us today.” Thomas ripped some chicken meat off a leg and continued to speak around the bulk. “Did you bring Russell’s latest balance?”

  Bailey’s vest flattened as he expelled a chest full of air and sat. “Yes, and it’s low.” He moved the salt cellar and opened the leather-bound ledger. “I’ve looked it over, but it’s no use. Everything’s accounted for.”

  “We are truly losing money?” Molly leaned toward her father. If only she could get a look at the page. “I thought Father’s pessimism was at work again.”

  Thomas harrumphed and flipped the page. “What do you know about it?”

  Enough to know the figure at the bottom of the column wouldn’t make more than a month’s worth of payroll. They’d be forced to liquidate some of their holdings at the bank to keep the company afloat. Courting Mr. Fenton hadn’t been a complete waste of her time. She had charmed all sorts of helpful information out of him before he’d married Prue.

  Bailey set his tea down. “Raw prices have remained steady. We haven’t had any unusual expenses—no expensive machinery repairs, mules have been healthy, shipping hasn’t gone up—and yet the balance is going down.”

  “Russell is robbing me blind. I knew it.” Thomas spit a piece of fat into his napkin. “After all these years of trust, he betrays me.”

  “I’m not accusing Russell,” Bailey said. “We need to know what is happening before we can know who is responsible.”

  Bailey met her eyes, although it seemed to pain him. “I’m no bean counter. Shouldn’t we have someone else take a look at the books? Someone who’s skilled with numbers?”

  “Give me some time and I’ll find it,” Thomas said. “This goes to show you, Molly, every dime of that settlement needs to be reserved for the mill. You can’t give away that money when I might need it soon.”

  The saws at the mill sat idle this time of night, moonlight reflecting on the teeth. The waterwheel continued its futile circling, never getting anywhere. Bailey jerked his fishing line through the dark water close to the waterwheel, and the roar of the water going over the dam drowned out the night sounds of crickets and cicadas.

  He still loved her. When she’d left him, the thought of her with another man almost drove him to lunacy. But despite his hurt they’d found a working friendship that remained within the boundaries of her vows and God’s law . . . until the trial had destroyed even that connection. Since then, Molly had clammed up tighter than an oyster, and he couldn’t blame her. Maybe it was for the best. If she encouraged him, he might up and throw away all the good he’d done with Reverend Stoker.

  But if he could be sure of her faithfulness, would it be worth it?

  He watched as the strong current from the crashing water carried his line to the middle of the dark river. Nothing was biting, but it didn’t matter. The fishing pole was his excuse to linger after hours. The walls of the night watchman’s quarters grew a tad tight if he went inside too early.

  Something rustled nearby. Bailey shifted the pole to his right hand and half rolled on the grass to look down the bank. It was Molly. Pulling her shawl tight around her shoulders, she took another step toward the river and hurled something small and heavy into it.

  Bailey caught sight of a glimmer of gold before it disappeared with a plunk.

  Wordlessly she stood at the bank, watching the cascading waves dance over the edge of the dam. Bailey turned away and studied the fishing line as if he expected to reel in Jonah’s whale at any moment.

  But she saw him anyway. To his eternal surprise and slight discomfort, he could see out of the corner of his eye her white gown coming closer.

  “Do you mind if I join you?” she asked.

  Stunned, he pushed his newspaper-wrapped worms out of the way to make room.

  Molly sat and pulled her knees to her chest. She slid her slippers off and tucked her gown around her feet. Was she getting ready to tear into him? Bailey’s line went slack. He deserved a chewing out. Might as well get it over with.

  “I don’t even know where to start,” he began. “I feel so bad about what happened at the courthouse. You have every right—”

  “Oh, hush! You said what you felt you had to say. Why don’t you be quiet and listen for once?”

  Silence she wanted, silence she’d get. He went back to watching his line, every nerve pulled as tight as the strings on his guitar. Her hair was down. Occasionally a blond curl floated over to brush against his bare forearm. She might not notice, but he did. Of all the spots up and down the river, why did she come and sit by him?

  To his surprise Molly flopped on her back, hands behind her head, and looked up at the stars.

  “There’s a lot I want to say, and there’s no one I can talk to. Maybe that’s my own fault. I’m trying to make friends, but it’s too soon to pour my heart out to Mrs. Weems or Mrs. Nimenko. They don’t know me—not like you do—and I’d like someone to listen while I sort this out.”

  “I don’t think I’m the right person. I haven’t been trustworthy—”

  “I declare, Bailey Garner, you can’t keep your trap shut for anything. Hush, now. I don’t want to talk about the hearing. I don’t want to talk about any of that. Believe me, Mother and Father have already done the topic justice.”

  One quick look at her, hair splashed across the grass, and Bailey knew he shouldn’t look again. Th
e desire to be near her, to find comfort together was overwhelming, but his desire had already destroyed her. He could listen without looking.

  “I have to have something to live for,” she said. “I won’t be satisfied hiding in the parsonage or in Mother’s parlor, arranging and rearranging knickknacks.”

  Her bare toes peeked out from under her gown as she let them stretch toward the churning water. He’d held her little foot and traced it at the cobbler’s. He’d sewn the boots and tacked on the sole. He’d done the work, and in the end, the man with the money was the one who gave the gift and took the gift.

  “I was reading yesterday,” she began, “Isaiah 61. So many phrases of promise—to give ‘beauty for ashes,’ ‘the oil of joy for mourning,’ ‘the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness’—I know God can do that. I already sent Nick a letter about possible employment, but until I hear back, God must have something for me to do here—not anything important like help at the church or join a ladies’ committee, but maybe I’m supposed to be a friend to people who need one. Even I could do that.”

  The water continued to roar and so did his love for her. People thought he was a saint, but Molly had shown him more grace than he would ever possess.

  Something nudged his line. Bubbles appeared in the smooth pool protected by a fallen tree. Probably a giant catfish trolling for a midnight snack. Bailey drew in the line to check the bait. He could feel Molly’s gaze on him as he pulled it up, hand over hand.

  “I’ve always been so concerned about my future that I never stopped to see how anyone else was managing. Now that I don’t have a future”—she swatted at a mosquito—“perhaps I could help someone I avoided before.”

  She rolled onto her side, propping her head up with bent arm. “You think they’d mind my getting involved?” She bit her lip. “Maybe I could use that settlement money for good. I could get Mrs. Weems started on the right foot, hire Mrs. Nimenko a farmhand so Ivan could go back to school. Small things like that?”

  She looked so hopeful. Ready for the next challenge. Ready to move forward. He tossed the weighted line back out.

  “Now I’m allowed to speak?”

  She nodded.

  “Then I’ll tell you, you rolled onto my worms.”

  “Oh!” She sprang up and pulled a sticky folded piece of newspaper off her side. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You told me to be quiet.” Women. No pleasing them.

  Molly scrubbed the wet spot on her dress with her shawl. “Revolting! They’re ground into the fabric. Little bits of . . .”

  She clutched her stomach as her eyes widened. Uh-oh. Bailey dropped his fishing rod.

  “Don’t get sick. Think about something else, Molly. Think about something else.”

  With a lurch his fishing pole parted the thick blades of grass and sped toward the river.

  “Catch it!” he called, but Molly was in no condition to lend a hand.

  Crashing through the brambles and into the river, Bailey chased his pole. Water filled his boots and splashed his chest, but he’d rather be in the river than next to a nauseous woman. He reached far and snagged the rod before it disappeared into the depths.

  “It’s a big one and feels like it’s hooked good.” He struggled against the pole, the water churning.

  “Don’t let it get in the branches. You’ll never get it out.” Molly’s cheers confirmed that the worms were forgotten. “Oh, I saw it. That fish is as long as my arm.”

  “And a sight thicker.” Bailey deliberately worked his way out from the bank, wading deeper and deeper. “I’m not going to be able to lift it with the pole. It’s too big. Should be a net hanging in the scale house.”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  ———

  Molly’s bare feet skimmed over the cool grass. Her arm brushed against the slick spot on her dress, reminding her of the disintegrated worms, but she kept moving, not wanting to ruin Bailey’s chances of success.

  It’d been the right thing to do, leaving the parsonage that night. She hadn’t known Bailey would be at the fishing hole, but when she saw him she couldn’t stay away. Not after he’d stared her father down at supper. Only that gave her the courage to approach him.

  Molly cut between the corncrib and the tack room, surprised to find herself out of breath, but when was the last time she’d actually run? When she’d worked at the courthouse, she’d rather incur Mr. Travis’s wrath for being late than rush down the streets of Lockhart. She rounded the side of the scale house and stopped. Through the shadows she could see that the door to the mule barn stood open.

  She paused at the scale house, squinting at the building across the gravel drive. Getting the net was her first priority. She could lock up the barn on her way to the parsonage.

  But then she saw movement. A large figure crossed in front of the doorway, headed to the stall.

  “Excuse me,” she called. “What are you doing?”

  He turned. It was Michael James. With a quick step to his left he disappeared into a dark corner of the barn.

  Molly’s heart lurched to her throat. That feeling—the feeling of being watched—descended on her again. He hadn’t run off. He was waiting in the shadow. No mistake. He had come there for a purpose, and Molly might be all that stood between him and his goal.

  Just like Saul Nimenko.

  “Bailey,” she called. “Bailey, come quick.”

  She could hear him, but his answer was unclear.

  At the sound of a masculine voice, Michael darted from the building and sprinted to the shelter of the trees upriver. The saplings lining the banks shook as he passed through them until the darkness hid his progress. It didn’t look like he’d carried anything away, but what if he wasn’t alone? Molly kept her eyes peeled on the door and yelled for Bailey again.

  She heard his boots sloshing across the yard. “What’s the matter?”

  “Michael James was in the mule barn. He ran over there.” She wrung her hands. “I think he was robbing us. Should I get a gun? You know he shot the last—”

  “Shh . . .” He pulled his knife out of the sheath and turned to look upriver. “I wouldn’t be able to catch him now. Let’s make sure there are no surprises in the barn. Run to the house if he returns.”

  He squeezed her arm and motioned to her to wait outside the door. Poking his head in, Bailey looked both ways and then eased one heel at a time onto the straw as he snuck inside.

  A mule snorted. She heard Bailey drop the pin into the latch. So the stall had been unfastened? Molly’s chin hardened and her elbows tensed. How dare someone take something that didn’t belong to him. How dare someone threaten the business she’d worked so hard to save.

  The whole county was looking for Michael James, and she’d let him run away. Before she knew it she’d marched into the barn in search of a weapon. She made a beeline to the haymow and bent to retrieve the pitchfork. It was heavier than she’d expected, and when she finally pulled it free, she lost her balance and stumbled backwards.

  Molly screamed as firm arms caught her from behind. A hand covered her mouth. She swung the pitchfork just as she realized who was holding her.

  “Keep quiet or you’ll wake the whole household,” Bailey whispered.

  He waited until she nodded before he uncovered her mouth, but his arms remained wrapped around her waist, her back pressed against his chest. She stilled, her anger forgotten. Did Bailey realize what he was doing? He was holding her, molding himself around her like they belonged together. She relaxed as the burdens she’d carried alone slid off her shoulders. With one hand Bailey took the pitchfork and tossed it aside before hugging her tight again.

  He knew. He knew how much she needed him. He had to know how much she wanted him despite the fact that they could never be together.

  His cheek pressed into her unbound hair. “Oh, Molly,” he said. And that was all. She felt his lips against her crown. Molly closed her eyes and covered his hands with her own. She didn’t
want the moment to end. Every breath he took, every beat of his heart moved her—as it should. She’d ruined her chances, but nothing could ruin her love for him.

  “I miss you,” she said. “I miss us. I haven’t been held like this since . . .” Was it the night of her father’s spell? Yes, that was the last time they’d been together.

  Bailey slid his arms apart. With a heavy sigh, he stepped away. She wondered why her reminiscing had upset him, and then it was clear. The last person to hold her hadn’t been him.

  “I think you’d better head to the parsonage before it gets any later.” Bailey’s shoulders slumped and he studied the dirt floor, looking like he wanted it to open and swallow him.

  The shuffling of the mules filled the silence between them. Molly’s arms dropped. He would never forget. No matter how much he cared for her, he couldn’t forget.

  The moment was ruined. When would she realize that Edward would always come between them? Her actions had put her forever out of Bailey’s consideration. She was unclean in his eyes.

  “I’ll lock up,” he said. “No sense worrying your pa till morning.”

  “Thank you.” She stepped outside. Although the parsonage wasn’t visible from the low riverbanks, she could find it while sleepwalking—as soon as she located her shoes. But she couldn’t leave without trying to restore the moment they’d shared. “And thanks for letting me talk. Maybe I can come tomorrow night.”

  Bailey chewed his lip. “Didn’t plan on coming out tomorrow. Maybe some other time.”

  She tightened her mouth briefly before forcing it into a smile. “Certainly. Some other time, then.” But now she knew there wouldn’t be one.

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