She jerked off her apron and threw it onto a chair. Maybe she’d try to find Sammie herself. The girl had a sassy streak that tied Matilda’s tail in a knot, but Sammie could cook and clean better’n most women she knew. That dead mama of hers must a’been a good teacher, she’d give her that.
Footsteps sounded on the porch and she turned around, recognizing the tread. “Wallace. Where you been?”
Wallace slouched through the door, his eyes bleary and tinged with red. A flush coated his cheeks. “Jist out to the privy.” He tugged at the top button of his flannel shirt and popped it open, heaving a sigh. “Got me a bit of a scratchy throat and a cough. I just took a couple swigs of that stuff I got off that medicine man who came through with his wagon last week. Remember, he said it would cure anything that ailed you?”
Her irritation with him faded as she realized what he’d said. “You feelin’ poorly? Sure hope it’s not serious. I heard some folks in the next county got hit hard with whooping cough. Maybe we’d best get Doc Samson out to take a look at you, just in case.”
He put the back of his hand over his mouth and coughed, then shuffled over the threshold and into the house. “Don’t think it’s nothing. I’ll be better tomorrow, but I wouldn’t mind resting for a bit, if you don’t mind? Maybe have me a cup of tea if you got the pot boiling?”
She gripped his arm and led him over to the sofa. “Just sit yourself down, and I’ll see to it.” A couple of tugs at his shoes and she’d removed them from his feet and tossed them into a corner. “Yer shiverin’. You cold?”
“Naw, I’m a mite warm, but the house ain’t cooled off much yet. Sure am glad August is almost over. I hate this heat.” He lifted his head and allowed his mother to push a pillow underneath, then burrowed in with a sigh. “Thanks, Ma.”
Matilda straightened and thought back to her time in the kitchen, struggling to remember what she’d been irritated at before Wallace had come home. She’d finished washing the supper dishes and tossed her apron on the chair. Oh, yes. Sammie. She dropped into a chair close by the sofa and grunted. “I decided I’d go lookin’ for those brats myself come mornin’.”
She shook her head and fingered a small tear in her cotton skirt. Another thing she disliked—the mending. How had she gotten along without that girl all these weeks? If she didn’t turn up soon, she’d have to see about getting another girl from the orphanage, much as she hated the thought of breaking in a new one. Sammie knew what she liked and how to do it, and she’d rather have Sammie back than anyone else.
Wallace pushed himself up on his elbow and started to cough, then sank back onto his pillow without covering his mouth. “You go ahead. I’ll be fine here whilst you’re gone.”
Matilda jumped from her seat, all thought of Sammie pushed from her thoughts. “I’ll get that tea. Don’t you worry, we’ll fix you up.” She bustled from the room, worry gnawing at her heart. Wallace had his faults and oftentimes made her mad, but he was her own blood kin, and all she had left in the world. She’d be lonely without him around. If the cough didn’t die down by morning, she’d get Doc Samson out here, even if it took all of her egg money to pay him.
Chapter Thirty-five
Sheriff Bryant stooped down to Sammie’s level and smiled, but Sammie couldn’t tell if the smile was real, or if he was trying to make her feel better just so she’d talk to him. Lots of adults did that. She’d seen it plenty of times. Mrs. Stedman didn’t smile often, but when she did, you could be sure it wasn’t for a good reason. Miss Margaret, Mr. Art, and Mr. Andrew had helped her get past some of her fear and distrust of adults, but this sheriff gave her goose bumps all the way down to the tips of her fingers. No sir, she wouldn’t trust anyone wearing a badge who could send her and Joel back to that mean woman, even if his smile did light up his eyes.
“Sammie, I’d like to talk to you and your brother, if it’s all right with you?”
Sammie squinted her eyes and frowned, then shook her head. “Don’t want to talk to you and don’t want Joel to, either.”
Miss Margaret stooped over and placed a gentle arm around Sammie’s shoulders. “Honey, the sheriff just wants to ask you some questions about the note you left in Mr. Jenkins’ house, that’s all.” She dropped her voice and spoke close to Sammie’s ear. “You know, when you went in his kitchen to get some food.” A squeeze of her shoulders and Margaret dropped her arm to her side and took a step back.
Sammie looked at her brother sitting on the floor of the cabin talking to Buck. The dog licked the boy’s hands and panted, obviously enjoying the ongoing attention. If only Joel could have his own dog. If only they could both have their own home. Better yet, that Mama and Papa were still alive and she and Joel had never been sent to that awful orphanage and then to Mrs. Stedman’s house in the first place.
Not that she wasn’t grateful to Miss Margaret, and to God, for bringing them here and keeping them safe—she was. But sometimes she got so lonely for a family of their own, where they could really belong.
Mr. Art had come back with Buck after he’d had something to eat, and now he and Andrew stood near the door talking together, while that other man—Mr. Cooper—hung around Miss Margaret. She scowled and bit her bottom lip. How come Miss Margaret let him come around her house so much? Of course, he was a lot nicer than Wallace Stedman, and he’d never done anything mean to her, but she could tell he didn’t like her or Joel overly much.
Miss Margaret touched her arm again. “Sammie? Will you talk to the sheriff?”
Sammie walked over to Joel and sat on the floor next to him. “I guess, as long as he’s polite to Joel.”
Sheriff Bryant placed his hat carefully on a nearby sideboard and squatted down on his haunches nearby. Buck immediately took a stand between the man and the boy and emitted a low growl.
Mr. Art swung around from his place near the door. “Buck. That’s enough. Lay down now.” He pointed to the floor and waited until the dog sank down on his belly and put his head down on his paws, but his eyes never left the sheriff.
Miss Margaret took a seat on the sofa a couple of yards from where Sammie and Joel sat, and Mr. Cooper sat down on the other end.
Sheriff Bryant cleared his throat. “This won’t take long. Is it all right if I call you Sammie, or would you prefer Samantha?”
She lifted her head in wonder. No one had ever asked her that, and she wasn’t sure how to respond. A shrug would have to suffice for now, but she’d need to ponder that for a while. Mama and Joel mostly called her Sammie, but Papa called her Samantha. He loved that name, and it used to belong to his mama. She’d never minded being called Sammie, but the older she got, the more she thought it might be nice to become Samantha for good. But she wasn’t going to spill her guts out to this stranger, and for sure not with Mr. Cooper looking and listening. Maybe she’d tell Miss Margaret after the rest left—of course, Mr. Art and Mr. Andrew could know as well, and she’d let Joel call her Sammie for as long as he pleased.
“Well then, young lady, I think I’ll call you Samantha. It’s a very pretty name for a nearly grown-up girl.”
Sammie gritted her teeth. If this man was a mind reader she’d best be careful of her thoughts.
But a small part of her heart experienced a shaft of pleasure at the words. A nearly grown-up girl—what a fine thought. Sometimes she longed to be a little girl again, with no cares beyond what was for dinner or which rag doll to play with that day. But those days were gone forever, so best to move ahead and become a grown-up quick. “Thank you.” She whispered the words but lifted her head and met his eyes. “I’m beholden to you for the kind words.”
He nodded, and another smile lit his eyes. “I have a note here that I’d like you to look at, if you don’t mind?” He fished in the breast pocket of his light brown flannel shirt and plucked out a folded paper. “Can you tell me if this is something you wrote?” He held out his hand with the note extended and waited for her to take it.
She tried to keep her hand from shaking as s
he unfolded the paper and stared at the familiar words—the same ones she’d left at nearly every house, assuring the owners they’d do their best to pay them back for the food they’d taken. She stared at the paper for several long moments. “Yes. I wrote it.”
“Ah-huh. Thank you.” He reached into his other front pocket and withdrew another paper and handed it over. “Do you recognize this one, as well?”
The words printed so carefully on the scrap in front of her blurred as her eyes lingered over them. She’d taught Joel his letters and tried to help him sound out words and put short ones to paper. It wasn’t easy for him, but if he concentrated, he could write short sentences that were readable, and this was clearly one of his. Sheer terror raced through her mind, and she tried to take in the meaning of the words. What book had he taken, and why hadn’t she seen it? She couldn’t let the sheriff know, but she hated to lie. Somehow she had to believe the Lord would understand and forgive her if she chose to protect Joel over telling the truth. She met the man’s eyes. “No.”
He rocked back on his heels and cocked his head to one side. “No?” His eyes seemed to shoot an arrow right into her soul. “Are you sure that you don’t know anything about someone taking a book, Samantha?”
She didn’t answer and, instead, reached down to pat the now quiet dog. Joel had been listening to the exchange of words with a puzzled look on his face. “I took the book and a nice pen to write with. The man wasn’t using it. He was sleeping on the floor.”
Sammie gasped in horror, then covered her face with her hands. Now they were in for it. They’d take her brother and lock him up, and maybe her as well. She dropped her hands and straightened her back. If they took him, they’d better take her as well. No way would she let Joel go to jail alone.
Chapter Thirty-six
Nathaniel gaped at the words that seemed to fall so easily from the big boy’s lips. He’d taken a book and pen and seen Jenkins “sleeping” on the floor? Had the boy hit him when Jenkins tried to stop him from stealing from him, and Joel thought he was sleeping? Was the boy really as simple as he appeared, or was he simply sly and hiding behind a mask to keep from being caught? What did Margaret, or any of them for that matter, know about these two, other than what they’d chosen to share? He didn’t like it one bit, and the sooner he convinced Margaret to get them out of her house, the happier he’d be.
He’d felt Margaret stiffen beside him and heard the sharp intake of breath from Andrew Browning. Both of them must surely see now how wrong they’d been to encourage these children to stay here.
Sheriff Bryant stood and walked over to Joel, then knelt down beside the boy, who still had his hand resting on the dog’s head. Buck’s eyes followed the man’s every move, but no more growls emanated from his throat. “Joel, can you tell me more about the book and the pen? Was Mr. Jenkins sleeping when you got there, and did you try to wake him up?”
The boy raised wide eyes and shook his head. “No, sir. He was sleeping when I came in the room. Sammie telled me not to bother nothin’, and I didn’t figure I oughta bother someone who’s sleeping. Wallace Stedman, he used to holler and smack me if I woke him when he was sleeping on his ma’s sofa.”
Sammie whirled on Joel. “You never told me he smacked you, Joel. Why didn’t you tell me?”
The boy shrugged. “Don’t know. He never hurted me bad, Sammie, don’t worry.”
He smiled at the sheriff. “Want to see the pen?”
Sheriff Bryant raised his brows. “Yes, I would, young man. And the book, too, if you’ve still got it.”
Joel lumbered to his feet and walked to the corner where they’d stowed their things in a box. He dug through the small stack and found the jacket with the short sleeves that he’d been wearing when they’d first arrived. Slipping his hand into a pocket, he took out an ornate fountain pen and walked back to the sheriff. “See? Ain’t it pretty? I was just borrowing it. I told the man in the note I’d pay him for the book, but I needed somethin’ to write with and didn’t think he’d care if I borrowed the pen.”
The sheriff accepted the proffered pen. “Thank you, it’s very pretty, and I’m glad you took good care of it.” He let it rest on his open palm and smiled up at the boy. “Do you have the book, Joel?”
The boy shook his head and lowered his brows. “Nope.”
Nathaniel leaned back and crossed his arms, irritated at the answer. He’d bet the boy remembered where he’d hid it and didn’t want to tell.
Sammie leaned over and touched his arm. “Joel, why didn’t you tell me about the pen and the book?”
“Forgot to. I was gonna have you read it to me. The words weren’t like the ones in the storybooks you read, they were all squiggly. I tried, but I couldn’t make out none of ’em, and it didn’t have no pictures at all. Figured it weren’t worth much, and I don’t remember what happened to it.”
Sheriff Bryant turned to the small group hovering on and near the sofa. “Some of the ladies in town got rid of the worthless items in the cabin and packed up the rest. They were sent by train to Mr. Jenkins’ daughter, Jenny, who sent me a letter. She said her father had always kept a journal and was surprised it wasn’t in any of the boxes. She asked if I could check with the people who’d cleaned the cabin, as she’d like to have it. I did, and none of them remember seeing it. One of the men mentioned a pen that Mr. Jenkins was quite proud of—it had been a gift from his daughter—and wondered at its absence, as well.”
Nathaniel was unable to keep quiet much longer. “Sheriff, what do you plan on doing about this? Are you taking this young man back to Troutdale with you, or holding him here in town?”
There was a stunned silence, then Andrew said angrily to Nathaniel, “What are you thinking, man? That boy wouldn’t kill a spider, much less hurt a person. He’s about as gentle and sweet as God made anyone, and he’d have no reason to hurt Jenkins.” He turned toward the sheriff and raised his brows. “Sheriff? What’s your opinion?”
The sheriff picked up his hat and dusted off the rim, then swung it around on his finger. “Don’t rightly know yet. Got me some thinking to do, and it seems to me we might want to find that journal. No telling what the man wrote before he died. It might shed some light on the situation. ’Course, if it was just a hobo or someone up to mischief and things went awry, there probably won’t be nothing at all, but it’s worth knowing.” He turned toward Margaret. “I know it would cause some serious upset if we try to separate these two. You got any suggestions?”
Andrew stepped forward. “I do, Sheriff.”
“Spill it, then. Time’s a’wastin’.”
“I’ll bring my bedroll and sleep on the front porch. If there are any problems, Miss Margaret will have a man close by, and Sammie won’t be separated from her brother. That is”—he leveled a hard look at the sheriff—“unless you’re seriously considering following Cooper’s advice and taking them with you to Troutdale?”
“No, sir. I think that’s a bit premature, and besides, I like your suggestion—that is, if Miss Garvey is willing to allow you to sleep outside on her porch.”
Nathaniel cut in before Margaret had a chance to speak. “Over my dead body. Browning will not be sleeping on Miss Garvey’s porch if I have anything to say about it.”
Margaret stared in shocked disbelief at Nathaniel. Over his dead body? Who did he think he was, making decisions for her? Just because she’d decided to forgive him and see if they might still have a chance at a relationship didn’t give him the right to dictate who could, or couldn’t, sleep on her porch. She turned to Andrew and mustered the sweetest smile possible, given the circumstances. “Thank you, Andrew, I’d appreciate that.”
She glared at Nathaniel, thoughts racing through her mind faster than she could comprehend them. This would give her a chance to speak to Andrew about the request her father had made and let Nathaniel know he couldn’t boss her around. This nonsense needed to end, and she planned on seeing that it did—sooner rather than later.
Nathaniel stifled a retort and swung on his heel, stalking from the house. Margaret stared after him as he leapt down the three steps to the hard-packed ground and hit the path at a quick pace. Fine. Let him go if that’s the kind of attitude he wanted to take.
Nathaniel strode up the path leading away from Margaret’s cabin, his lips pressed in a tight line to keep the cuss words from spilling over into the air. They weren’t words he often used, but right now it would feel mighty fine to let loose with a few, even though his granny would be grieved if she’d lived to hear him. He kicked a fircone lying in his path, but that did nothing to relieve the stress building inside.
The amazement on Margaret’s face had turned to swift irritation only moments after the words had left his mouth. Then he’d known he’d stepped into a kettle of hot oil. But why hadn’t Margaret told Browning he couldn’t stay, and why had the sheriff pushed the idea? He struck his hand against his fist and kept moving up the path toward his home, intent on getting away from the cozy group at the cabin. He’d asked Margaret to give him another chance, but since then, there’d been nothing but friction between them.
Deepening frustration pressed on his chest when he thought about that girl and her brother. It would’ve been better for Margaret if they’d not been found. Did she plan on keeping them forever and raising them as her own? He shook his head. Surely not. But Margaret had always loved children, no matter the age, and she wasn’t one to go with normal conventions.
If she did, how would that affect any relationship he might have with her? Did he want to help raise two nearly grown siblings, especially with one that might never leave home?
Love Finds You in Bridal Veil, Oregon Page 22