What Heals the Heart

by Karen A. Wyle

  Joshua gulped down the rest of his beer. “As you will, sir. Lead on.”

  Beth and Mother had used the interval to unpack and change out of their travel clothes. Joshua was relieved to see the room was one of the largest available. It eased his conscience, which had nagged at him that his family should be staying with him and Clara instead. But it would be difficult to invite them without inviting Mr. Brook, a prospect neither he nor Clara relished; and both of them much preferred to begin their married life in privacy.

  Beth ran up to them, stopping to peck their father on the cheek before giving Joshua another hug and then seizing his hands. “You’re looking splendid, Joshie! Small town life must agree with you, though I can’t understand why.”

  Joshua obliged with the expected wince at the childhood nickname. Mother stood up from the armchair where she had been resting and joined them. Looking him up and down, she said softly, “Beth is quite correct. I have had my doubts about whether you found whatever you hoped to find, when you left Philadelphia. Your letters did not give me much reassurance. But it has been many years since I have seen you look so well.”

  How, in Joshua’s letters, had she managed to read his emotional state? He could only ascribe it to some mysterious maternal intuition. He smiled at both women. “Small town life has greatly improved of late, for the obvious reason.”

  Beth peered up at him. He had forgotten that his oldest sister was now so much shorter than he. “I wonder, then, if my new sister is responsible for your new happiness, whether you might consider bringing her back east.”

  He should have anticipated the suggestion, and prepared an answer. But he found only the words wanting, not the essence. Squeezing Beth’s hands, he said with all the tenderness he could muster, “I have missed you, all of you, and hope to see you much more often in future. But I have made a life here, a life with Clara. It is one I would not willingly abandon, even to be closer to the family I love.”

  The small sound his mother made might have been a sob. Joshua could not force himself to look at her and confirm the possibility. He waited, instead, for her to compose herself if necessary, and then released Beth’s hands and pulled Mother into an embrace.

  * * * * *

  Clara’s lilac dress, trimmed with green ribbon, set off her coloring perfectly. Joshua had one suit of clothes he considered suitable; Freida conceded they would pass inspection.

  The church was full to bursting with townspeople, farmers, and friends from Rushing, and decorated with flowers blooming in and around town. Clara’s hand on his arm, the firmness of her grip, reminded him for a disorienting moment of that day she had supported him at the Barlow farm, when the memories of his Army days had threatened to unman him. He thrust the memory aside, then called it back again. The courage and strength she had shown then were now to be his mainstay, and he would honor and cherish them and her.

  Freida and Jedidiah were in the front row of spectators, but as soon as Joshua and Clara had said their vows and the preacher had announced them as man and wife, Jedidiah excused himself to those around him and left the church. A bit startled, Joshua glanced toward Freida, but she beamed at him, untroubled by her escort’s disappearance. When he and Clara had made their way back down the aisle and emerged from the church, he found the explanation for Jedidiah’s odd behavior. The medicine show had pulled up next to the church, Major circling the wagon and barking enthusiastically. The pitchman stood on the wagon seat, gesturing toward the married couple. “Three cheers, good people, for Doctor and Mrs. Gibbs! And when you’ve cheered their happiness, the Professor Kennedy Traveling Medicine Show will give its farewell and finest performance to celebrate the joyous occasion.”

  An idea popped into Joshua’s mind — frivolous, possibly unwise, oddly compelling. He whispered in Clara’s ear; she grinned and gave him a little shove toward the wagon. Heartened, he approached it and called up to Jedidiah, “Might the show be in need of a guest magician to perform a few tricks, on this occasion only?”

  Jedidiah beamed. “The perfect addition! Ladies and gentlemen, may I present your doctor the groom!”

  When Joshua’s few, kindly received magic tricks, and then the dancing with veils and feats of cowboy roping, were over, the crowd began migrating toward the boardinghouse where Rebecca Wheeler would host the reception. Freida and Jedidiah came up to Joshua and Clara, hand in hand. Jedidiah shook hands with them both and then climbed back up on the wagon. Joshua stared at him and asked Freida, “You’re leaving? Now?”

  “We thought, why should we draw it out, have you thinking all night about saying goodbye, you have better things to think about!” She actually winked at them; Clara laughed aloud before Joshua had time to feel embarrassed. “This way, we’re all sad for a little while, then you go and be happy, and we get on our way, better all around.”

  Joshua gazed at Freida for the last time in who knew how long. “You’re a wise woman, Freida Blum, and I’ll sorely miss that wisdom as I follow my own new path.”

  She scoffed. “Wise, what do I know, I didn’t even find this wonderful woman for you! Not that you did any better, so it’s a good thing we’re both more lucky than smart.”

  Joshua put his arm around his wife. “Very, very lucky.” She leaned in close to him, her warm side against his.

  Joshua let go of Clara long enough to help Freida into the wagon. He stopped just short of it. “You have plenty of Jedidiah’s medicine available? And you’ll be careful about exerting yourself?”

  Freida let out a hearty shout of laughter. “Listen to you with all the questions, you sound like me! Yes, yes, I’ll do everything I should, I wouldn’t want you worrying. Here, let me give you a hug, I never did so now’s the time, isn’t it?”

  Joshua embraced her, holding her tight against his wedding coat, feeling the beating of her heart and willing it to beat for many years to come. He let her go, eyes stinging, and handed her up to her fiancé. Then he stepped back and held Clara close to him again as the wagon drove away.

  He saw that Clara too had tears in her eyes. She smiled through them. “It’ll be strange to go back to that house without Freida there. I never knew anyone like her.”

  “There’s no one like her. And no one like you.” He whistled for Major; the dog trotted up, wagging his tail, jumping to lick Joshua’s free hand. Joshua had already moved Major’s dog bed and toys into Freida’s — into their house. He gave Clara’s waist another squeeze and then took her hand. “Come, we’ll put in our necessary appearance at the reception. And then, let us go home.”

  THE END

  Dedication

  To – who else? – my husband of thirty years, Paul Hager.

  * * * * *

  Keep reading for a look at the second book in the Cowbird Creek series,

  What Frees the Heart!

  WHAT FREES

  THE HEART

  Karen A. Wyle

  All rights reserved

  Published 2020 in the United States of America

  Oblique Angles Press

  Cover design by Kelly A. Martin of KAM Design

  Author photo by Holy Smoke Photography

  Chapter 1

  Tom Barlow leaned against the fence for support and tossed the last sack of fall potatoes into the wagon. He could still load a wagon, at least. Not the first time he tried, or the second — and the way he fell the second time, landing on his arm, had made him even more useless for the next week. But he’d got the hang of it now.

  Pa came out of the house, putting on his hat as he walked to the wagon. “Coming with me, son?”

  That was a puzzle with no good answer. Tom could use the rail of the fence and a handy stump to climb into the wagon without Pa’s help, but getting back down was more of a trick. He could try it, and maybe fall down for folks to laugh about, or stay perched up on the wagon like a cigar store Indian for passersby to stare at.

  “I’ll come.” At least, whatever happened, he’d get to see something different for a change,
if only the little bit of difference between the farm and town. It was bad enough being stuck around here before, when he could at least sneak off with one of the horses between chores and ride around a bit.

  Sometimes, he could hardly believe he couldn’t just hop onto a horse — or a wagon — the way he used to. Other days, he could hardly believe he’d ever done it at all.

  After they dropped off the sacks at the train station, Pa drove to the square and parked in a shady spot near the dry goods store, within reach of the water trough. “Keep an eye on the horse and wagon for me, will you, while I go in?” Pa had been thinking along the same lines as Tom, seemingly. And maybe he didn’t much fancy having the people in town see his son stumbling around like a barely-born colt.

  Tom gave Pa a short nod just a hair shy of rude. Pa paused, his eyebrows going lower like he was thinking of fetching a strap, before he shook his head a little and headed toward the general store.

  Now Tom had nothing to do but feel conspicuous and look around him. The first thing he noticed was a cardinal, landing in the nearest tree with a twig in its beak, bright red against the bare branches. That bird could fly most anywhere, but here it was in Cowbird Creek. It must feel a whole lot different than he did these days.

  Tom saw himself working into an even worse mood, and tried to steer another way. It was sunny, at least, and sunshine always boosted his spirits some. And that tree with the cardinal might be bare still, but right under it was a forsythia bush well along in its blooming, the first of many to come.

  Then something moving caught his eye from down the street. He turned to see a girl walking up — no, walking didn’t do justice to it. She sort of bounced along, stepping out strong and lively, her yellow hair bouncing too, bright in the sun under a little nothing of a hat. There was plenty of her, all put together just right, and a pretty face to finish off with — not what you’d call refined, but a straight-ahead honest sort of good-looking.

  Why hadn’t he seen her before, at a dance or a church social? Or had she been some little stick of a kid and just lately blossomed out?

  He’d already got a nice long look at the front of her, and now she headed into the store and let him enjoy the view from behind. He sighed to see her pass through the door and out of sight.

  Coming into town did beat sitting at home watching cows, at that.

  Another woman came walking past, older, with a little boy skipping alongside her. Skipping, like any child did, like Tom had often enough. He closed his eyes and waited for the pain to ease. But before he got to opening them, he heard the boy’s voice. “Why’s that man got a wooden leg? Was he a soldier, like Uncle Jake?”

  Tom ground his teeth, cussing in his head. What with the way he was growing out of his trousers, and sitting high up on the wagon, anyone could see the wood between his trouser leg and his boot.

  Meanwhile, the woman was saying, “No, Johnny. He’s too young. He’d have been maybe your age when the war ended.”

  “Then what happened to him, Ma?”

  The woman glanced up at Tom, looking embarrassed and sorry, as she grabbed her son’s hand and pulled him along, saying something Tom couldn’t hear. But right behind came two men, the barber and some other fellow, who acted like they’d heard it. Because the barber said to the other man, not troubling to be quiet, as if Tom was deaf along with crippled: “Poor lad. At least a soldier who lost his leg gets a pension, and knows he’s a hero. And an old man with a game leg was a young man with two good legs once.”

  And all Tom could do was sit there on the wagon like a log, thinking how the barber was right. No honorable war wound for him, no life full of memories. One clumsy moment, and his life was more or less over before he’d done much of anything with it.

  And there, finally, came Pa carrying a big sack of provisions, smiling like someone just told him a joke, taking big steps. But when he reached the wagon and got a look at Tom’s face, he all of a sudden seemed to shrink shorter.

  They didn’t talk on the ride home.

  * * * * *

  Tom remembered the first time Pa said he was big enough to groom the horses. He’d been so proud! and then mortified when that big horse went and kicked him into the straw.

  Years later, now, and the horse Tom had named and raised from a colt wouldn’t dream of kicking him, and here he was, sprawled in the straw again.

  He crawled over to the side of the stall and pulled himself upright, Cochise nickering at him all the while. The big gelding hadn’t meant it. He’d just been nuzzling. He couldn’t know how easy Tom lost his balance these days.

  Tom took the brush down from its hook and set to grooming. Cochise leaned into it, but Tom had seen that coming and braced himself against the wall.

  “You like that, don’t you? Enjoy it, then. Got to take your pleasures where you can get ‘em. You and me both. You like me brushing you, and I like your company.”

  Cochise, not to be left out, decided it was time to groom Tom right back, licking at his hair. Tom laughed for the first time all day. “Won’t Ma think I look pretty, once you’re done with me!”

  But Cochise was getting restless, shifting his weight around from hoof to hoof. “Easy, now. Almost done.”

  Maybe Cochise would have liked a different sort of life. Rounding up cattle, say, with a cowboy on his back. “I thought of going for a cowboy, did you know? Sounded mighty fine to me, chasing cattle across the prairie. How’d you like that kind of life? But I’m afraid you aren’t the right kind of horse for it, not hardly.”

  Tom’s chest was tightening up again, like it did when he thought too much about things. “No, not the right kind of horse at all. No more’n I’m the right kind of man, any more. You’ll keep on pulling plows and wagons, and I — well, I’ll find something I’m fit for, if I can.” There had to be something.

  Which was why he’d be heading to town to talk to Finch.

  Not the easiest fellow to talk to. But Doc Gibbs had said Finch might have work for him, work he could do sitting down, mostly. And Tom had stalled as long as he could stand to, telling himself it’d be too tricky to walk into town on days the road had snow or ice, or that he needed to work up to walking that far every day. Now he’d out-stalled winter, and he was more perishing sick of the farm than fretted about dealing with Finch. And today, it wasn’t even raining. So off he’d go.

  But first, he’d better comb his hair.

  It was a pretty morning for a walk, and warm enough for early spring. And his leg held up better’n he’d feared. Still, he was limping pretty good by the time he passed the Gibbs place, where the widow Blum used to live before she hared off with that medicine show fellow. Mrs. Gibbs, Clara Brook that was, hailed him from the window. “A good morning to you, Tom! Care for some coffee?”

  She might be offering so’s he had a reason to rest his leg, but he had managed to work up a thirst. “Thank you kindly, ma’am. I’d like that fine.” He made his way to her front step and eased himself down. She came to sit next to him with two mugs and handed him one.

  “Would your errand today be with Mr. Finch?”

  He hadn’t slept specially well last night, and coffee would help him gather his wits. He gulped a third of it down before he answered her. “That’s right, ma’am. He said he’d come out to the farm if I . . . if more convenient. Which was good of him, busy as he keeps. But I could hardly work for him if I couldn’t get myself to his shop, so I may as well start out as I’ll need to keep on.”

  She nodded and drank her coffee, leaning on one arm, head back to soak in the sun. He snuck a look at her. She’d always been on the skinny side, but she was fattening up some now that she was married. Must be eating plenty of her own cooking.

  But then she put her hand on her belly, gentle-like, the way he remembered Ma doing before he’d known he had a sib coming.

  She caught him looking at her and flushed a little. “Yes, I’m in the family way. Old for it, but at least I’ve got a doctor handy.”

  S
he’d always had that way of just coming out with things other folks wouldn’t say, or would say roundabout. He found himself blurting out, “Do you think I can work for Finch? Satisfy him? He don’t seem easy to please.”

  She sat up straighter and turned toward him, studying on what to say, Tom on tenterhooks. He drank some more coffee, waiting. Finally, she nodded and said, “I think you can. He’s not one to put people down just to make himself feel bigger. And I know you’ll work hard for him, harder than someone with less to prove.”

  There she went again, throwing truth at him. But that meant he could trust she meant what she said. Something wound tight inside him eased up. “I surely will.”

  He finished the coffee and put down the mug. She watched him haul himself upright, not offering to help. He bowed in the careful way he’d learned to do, and got back on the road.

  Finch was taking his ease, leaning against the wall out in front of his shop, when Tom showed up. That wasn’t the best sign — it might mean he wasn’t busy enough to need help after all. But as soon as the cordwainer spotted Tom, he straightened up and called, “Come along in, youngster! I’ve got a job I haven’t been hankering to do, and if you sound like you’ll suit, you can get started on it.”

  Finch headed back inside and Tom stumped along after. The smell of leather hit him as soon as he went through the door, a good thick smell that lifted his mood right away. Then a breeze from somewhere shifted, carrying a less agreeable stink — the horse piss the hides was soaking in to soften them and make it easier to get the hair out. No matter. You didn’t grow up on a farm and stay prissy about smells.