by Wes Brummer
Michael jerked to attention. “Was she here with anyone?”
Several men in overalls sat at a table nearby. Carrie snatched the menu from Jason. “The lady was alone. Listen, I’ve got customers.” She bustled off, pad in hand.
Michael leaned his head over the table. “I think we hit the jackpot.”
Jason pursed his lips. “Let’s hear what else she has to say first.”
“I pictured her being younger. Isn’t Carrie supposed to be a name for a younger girl?”
“Not what you expected?” Jason suppressed a grin. “Remember Carrie Nation? I’m not sure she was ever young.”
Michael thumped the table. “I’ve seen those pictures, an old maid with a hatchet in one hand, a Bible in the other, and a face that would turn a buzzard to stone. She could walk into a saloon and clear the place out by smiling.”
“You mean with nothing but a smile?”
Michael pointed a finger at Jason, biting his lip. “Now don’t get carried away.”
Jason laughed, nodding. “You got me there. That was a good one.”
Leaning back in his seat, Michael smirked. “You broke first, so you get to pay.”
“I paid last time. Next trip we’re going dutch. You eat like a horse.”
“Maybe so, but you’re the one whinnying.”
“And you listen to too much radio.”
Ten minutes later, Carrie brought their orders. “Your sister called a cab. I remember that because I told her cabs were slow on Sunday mornings.”
Jason nodded. “How did she seem to you?”
“She seemed…in a hurry. Anxious for the taxi to arrive.”
“What time was that?” Michael asked.
“You boys act like G-men. A little after nine, maybe.”
Michael leaned forward. “Did she mention where she was going?”
She put a hand on her hip. “No, but I can tell you what she ordered.”
Jason’s mouth quivered. “He thinks he’s Sam Spade.”
“Well, I’ve lost a no-good husband. Maybe you can find him.” She shooed away the comment. “My customers need tending to. I hope you find your sister.” She bustled to another table.
Jason sipped his coffee. Sara took a cab—going where? They needed to pin down her destination. Making the connection was vital. The cab company could provide the answer. He put down his cup. “Finish up, Michael. We need to get Pop’s car and then plan our next move.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Sara, Patrick, and Beatrice rolled their carts into Cyrus Evans’ room. “Good morning, sir. We have oatmeal this morning.” Sara sniffed the air, frowning. All the upstairs rooms had a tainted outhouse stink until they changed out the “white owl.” This odor was much stronger. Sara checked under the relief chair. The oval pot was clean.
The old man had messed his nest. He hadn’t done that yesterday. Why today?
“Mr. Evans? We need to clean you up and change your sheets before we can serve breakfast.”
Cyrus stirred under his covers. One eye and some wispy white hair poked out from between clenched fingers holding his blankets. “Stop calling me that. I’m your father. Do I have to get out of this bed and take a switch to you?”
Sara peered at him, frowning. He had been emphatic about being her father for the last two days. Always angry and belligerent, yet he cowered beneath his blanket like a small child. “If you like, we can come back at lunch and leave you in your messy bed. I’ll give your breakfast to the pigs.”
Evans stuck out his head, scowling. “You do that and I’ll take what’s down here and smear it over the walls. You and your little monkeys’ll be cleaning this room all day.”
Sara stepped back, mouth agape.
Evans hooted, slapping the bed. “You should see the look on your face.”
Bea held a basin of water while Patrick stood at the food cart. Sara turned to her helpers. “Both of you leave the room. I’ll call you back in a few minutes. Mr. Evans and I will be having a little talk.”
They left, and Sara closed the door.
“You have no audience now, Mr. Evans. It’s just us.” She opened a window for some fresh air. “There has to be a reason for soiling your bed. What is it?”
Cyrus was no longer scowling. He opened his mouth, but no words came. He stared at her; lowering his eyelids. The old man laid down, as if going back to sleep.
Sara stepped to his side, reaching for his arm.
Cyrus snapped awake, focusing on her like an old vulture sensing movement. “You called me a mean drunk and wished you never married me. You said both you and the brat were moving east. I couldn’t hurt either of you again. It would have been easy to stop you—but why bother? I got along fine without the harping and the whimpering.”
Sara rubbed her temple. Who was she supposed to be now? Five minutes ago, she was his daughter. Was she now his separated wife? “Mr. Evans, I’m a resident of this house, same as you. We’re not related.”
The old man snorted. “Don’t lie to me. Is the runt here too? I can’t believe you came back. There’s only one reason for it. To get even. Well, two can play at that game.” Evans closed his eyes.
Was he feigning sleep? Sara stepped back. Cyrus spoke again, this time his voice was calm and deliberate. “You look so much like her.”
Sara stepped closer, bending over him. “Like who, Mr. Evans?”
“Your mother. Same hair. Same uppity nature. So you’d better mind your tongue.”
“Relax, Mr. Evans. Your wife isn’t here. We’ll get you cleaned up so you can eat.” Sara crept to the bedroom door and opened it. “I think he’s calmer. Let’s give him a sponge bath, change his bedding and his nightshirt. His meal will be cold, but that can’t be helped.”
Bea raised an eyebrow, pointing at the still figure.
Sara blew out a breath. “He’s a befuddled old man, still looking for ways to get even with a woman he hasn’t seen in decades. And he thinks his daughter is out for vengeance. Don’t take anything he says to heart. His mind is dwindling away.”
Twenty minutes later, Cyrus sat in his rocker with clean bedclothes. Sara and Bea drew fresh sheets over his bed. The old codger shrugged off Patrick’s help and shuffled on his own back to bed. Bea cranked up the bed while Sara rolled the table in front of Cyrus. He shoveled oatmeal into his mouth. Some of it dribbled down his chin. Sara turned away, feeling her stomach churn, and she busied herself with the patient chart.
After breakfast, Evans snuggled in his clean bed and closed his eyes.
Patrick and Beatrice filed out. Sara was about to close the door when the old man pulled himself to a sitting position, shaking a finger. “You people need a bath. You all stink!”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Jason and Michael stood in Ziegler’s car lot gazing at the shiny Mercedes. Jason had to admit, it was a splendid looking car. So this was the contraption that was more important than Sara, at least in Pop’s eyes. Probably runs like a dream. The German-built automobile was a glossy red four-door cabriolet with a slender grill and two large headlamps mounted on a shiny steel bar. When Jason started the engine, it purred like a kitten.
Mr. Ziegler stroked the fender. “It’s a Mercedes-Benz W18. The W stands for ‘Works.’ This marvelous machine has a six-cylinder, 2867 cc side-valve engine, producing 59 horsepower at 3200 rpm. It has a four-speed transmission—”
“How do I put the roof down?” asked Jason.
The dealer showed him the mechanism that folded the roof into the trunk. “I’ve been instructed to tell you boys to drive this vehicle directly home.”
Jason studied the car’s dashboard. His fingers itched to feel the steering wheel. “We will, Mr. Ziegler.”
“Be sure to tell your father that he is probably the only driver in Kansas who owns a Model 290.”
“We’ll let him know he made a good choice.” Jason put the car in Drive and circled the car lot, heading for Douglas Avenue. The luxurious car accelerated smoothly in traffic.
Steering responded with just a touch of the wheel. How fast could this chariot go? He ached to know.
Michael turned a knob at the center of the polished wood-grained dashboard. “This car has a radio. Can you beat that?”
Jason touch the gas, savoring the response of the engines. “There’s probably no room for a cubbyhole.”
Michael shook his head. “Don’t see one. Are we headed home?”
Jason shrugged. “You got a better idea?”
“I just turned on the radio. It’ll take a minute for the tubes to warm. Let’s circle Riverside Park and hear how it sounds.”
Jason turned the car north. As they drove through curving streets lined with budding shade trees, the radio came to life. Michael tuned into a jazz station. They toured past a playground, a zoo, and a pagoda. People stopped what they were doing to gaze at the car as Michael waved back. On the radio, Mildred Bailey sang the newest thing called swing. Jason tooted the horn. He had to admit, driving the sleek machine was fun.
Driving on a spring day in the park and listening to catchy music—the mood was intoxicating. Families waved to them, and Jason honked and waved back. This was a blast! They circled the park two for times before Jason steered the car to Parker Street. He turned into the drive still blasting the horn. His mother came out the back door wiping her hands on a towel.
Jason stopped the engine, and Michael jumped out. “Mom! What do you think?” He ran up to her, pointing over his shoulder. “Isn’t she a beauty?”
Jason joined them, studying his mother.
She frowned at the vehicle. “It all depends on your idea of beauty.”
“It must have cost a pretty penny,” Michael said.
“I wouldn’t care if it was free,” Katherine said. “The price is still too high.” She turned back to the house. “You boys come in. I’ll make you something to drink.”
Jason gestured to the vehicle. “Pop wants us to wash the car. We’ll be in soon.”
“Cleaning it all day won’t make a bit of difference. It would still be dirty.” The screen door slammed behind her as she entered the house.
Michael glanced sideways at Jason. “What’s wrong with the car?”
The excitement of driving the beast ebbed like a receding wave. “Pop bought an expensive car within a week of kicking Sara out. Mom’s right. The Mercedes is tainted.” Jason sighed. “Come on. Help me get the top up. Let’s get this over with.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Sara drank from a dipper hanging off the hand pump in the big kitchen sink. Mrs. Robson washed pie tins from the infirmary. It was nearly three o’clock, two hours before supper. Peering out the back door window, she could see James Eisner, the overseer, leaving a tall, castle-like structure, some distance from the house. “I’m going outside to get some air.”
She slipped on a jacket hanging from a peg and exited the house. The sleeves went to her fingers. Still, it felt warm against the chill air. She stepped off the porch and closed the distance between her and Mr. Eisner. “Hello, I’m Sara McGuire. Thank you for helping me last Sunday.”
Eisner wore faded overalls, a brown shirt of heavy cotton, and a dusty wide-brimmed hat. He stopped when Sara approached. “You were in bad shape that day, young lady. Glad I could help.”
“I’m feeling much better now. This is the first time I’ve stepped out back. Could you show me around the farm, if you’re not too busy?”
The wind came up, and James grabbed his hat. “Not much to see. Are you up for a walk?
“If you don’t mind going a little slow.”
“I’m in no hurry. We’ve got all the basics—a good barn, a coop and a pigpen, an old smokehouse, a fair-sized garden, and lots of pasture. Where would you like to start?”
Sara gestured behind him. “I was curious about that stone tower.”
“The smokehouse? We can peek at it.”
They ambled toward the circular limestone building. Thin trails of smoke danced about a tall pipe jutting from the top. A gust of wind kicked up dirt and debris. The stiff breeze made walking over the uneven ground an effort. She jammed her hands in her pockets. “Is it always this windy?”
Eisner grunted. “It can gust a lot harder than this sometimes, but it’s the flying dirt that’s the real problem.”
“Wichita has had dust storms, but not like the ones I’ve heard about southwest.”
“It’s the drought. Four years and no end in sight. Dust storms aren’t common here, but blowing dust is.”
“What causes them—the dust storms, I mean?”
Mr. Eisner bent over, picking up a handful of dirt, letting it fall through his fingers. “A lifetime ago, this land was all wind and prairie grass, then farming came with the settlers. Growers plowed up the grass to make room for crops. With a reliable tractor, a farmer could plow more ground in a day than a horse-drawn plow could in a week. Farms got bigger, and that meant more plowed ground. When the rains stopped, the high winds still blew, and the dirt took to the sky.”
“Have you ever been in a dust storm? A bad one?”
“Once. Gloria and I were visiting family in Garden City. My brother runs a maintainer for Finney County clearing the roads of windblown dirt. I was riding with him when a ridge of gray clouds swept over the horizon. Tom shut down the machine, and we ran for cover. We found a shack with a cast iron triangle hanging out front. The duster was on top of us. We banged on the door, but no one answered. So I grabbed the rod to ring the triangle. A bolt of electricity knocked me clean off the porch. Tom told me later there’s a static charge in the dry air that worsens when a duster approaches. Touching metal will jolt a person, stop a car from running, or even kill plants. We ended up breaking into that shack because no one was home.”
The smokehouse was just ahead. Attached to the back of the tower was a cast iron box, hot to the touch. The smell of smoked pork lingered. “We’re curing a hog we slaughtered last fall.” Mr. Eisner produced a key, unfastened a padlock, and opened the door. “Don’t step inside. The floor is slick with grease.”
Sara looked in. A fat carcass hung from a hook chained to a rafter. Her mouth watered as she drew in the aroma of smoked meat. “When will it be ready?” Memories of Easter Sunday ham made her long for home.
“Soon. The longer the better when it comes to curing.”
Sara stepped back as the overseer locked the building.
“I’ll show you the barn,” he said. “Dutch is there. The youngsters from the house are by the pigpen. Our sow is about to have piglets.”
The barn was red, trimmed in white. They stopped outside the open double doors. “Excuse me. I need to check on my hog. Dutch is inside. He can show you around.” Mr. Eisner sauntered down the side of the barn, disappearing around the corner.
Sara peered inside the darkened interior. A shadowy figure shuffled about. She crept closer, letting her eyes get used to the gloom. Dutch was cleaning out an animal stall using a wide pitchfork with over a dozen tongs. A heavy, pungent smell hung in the air. The tramp waved to her but kept working. Behind him was a pile of straw and manure. A large animal stirred in the next stall. What was it? She tiptoed around Dutch’s work and peeked around the corner.
Before her was the massive rump of a Holstein blithely munching hay. The cow swung its ponderous head, peering at her from one side. A wet, organic flapping came from the cow’s backside, and a rich, malodorous cloud enveloped her. Sara jumped back, gasping. Stabbing pain from bruised ribs was one thing, but cow farts were an altogether new kind of unpleasantness.
The ripe, earthy smell of dung was even stronger. She glanced down. A wave of dizziness hit her. Oh, no. I’m in it! She stood in a mound of cow poop, her shoes heavy with the stuff. Tears rolled down her cheeks. How was she going to explain this to Mrs. Eisner?
Dutch leaned his manure fork against the cow pen, moseyed over, and held out a hand. “Take a big step toward me.”
Sara lunged, nearly falling into his arms. Clods of manure clung to her shoes.
Dutch led her to a bale of straw near the big doors. “You’ve just met Cloris. I think she likes you.”
“I can’t say the feeling is mutual.” Sara slumped down on the bale staring at her ruined shoes.
“She’s a gentle beast, unlike the sow.” Dutch knelt to take off her shoes. “I’ll clean these for you. Be back in a few minutes.” Dutch ambled out the barn door, passing James on his way in.
The overseer pointed to the back of the barn. “Dutch, check on the youngsters when you get a chance. I told them to stay clear of the hog pen. That sow will bite off a finger if given half a chance.” Eisner turned to Sara. “Would you like to join them and see some pigs being born?”
Sara shook her head. “Dutch took my shoes to clean. I didn’t watch where I stepped.”
Mr. Eisner glanced at her bare feet. “I’ll stay until he returns. You can sit with the youngsters later, if you wish.”
Sara smiled. “That’s kind of you.” James Eisner seemed more personable than Gloria. An unusual pair. What had brought them together? “Did you grow up around here?”
The overseer leaned back, blowing out a breath. “I grew up outside Abilene. Got my first paying job in the train yards, prodding cattle off the trains, getting them watered, and loading them back on the train for Kansas City.”
“Is Abilene where you met Mrs. Eisner?”
James Eisner rubbed the side of his head. “You could call it that.”
“What happened?”
“One of the other cowpokes dared me a day’s pay to hogtie a steer. I took that bet. Never steer-rassled before, but I was game to try. Just about had his legs lashed together when that sack of beef sent me to the new hospital with a cracked skull. The first thing I saw when I came to was this pretty little nurse cleaning me with a sponge.” His eyes brightened. “Well…let’s say I opened my mouth once too often, and she had me walking the halls morning and evening saying bed was the last place I needed to be. I was back working in a week. If I ever got hurt again, I wanted her by my side, so I wrote a letter asking for her hand.”