Beneath a Thousand Apple Trees (12 page)

By the time the sun had risen the next morning, Willa had put two miles behind her and the mule, with four yet to go before she reached town, and, hopefully, Sam. But, after five days and two long trips back and forth to town, she still hadn't gained any ground.

W
illa had no idea if she would fare any better in her third attempt at seeing Sam, but she had to try. There wasn't a choice. The trip to town was difficult in places. The road wasn't actually a road at all, but a well-worn narrow path. There were spots where only ten feet separated the steep mountainside and the deep ravine below, with the Bolsey River running through it. But if there was a chance that she could help Sam, then she'd come back again and again. So far, though, she'd only been able to talk with the deputy. She needed to talk with the sheriff, but he'd been out on other business both times she'd attempted it. So far she'd gotten nothing from her efforts but blisters on her buttocks and thighs from the ill-fitting saddle she used on Sam's mule. By far, she would have preferred to take the wagon, but the deputy had told her that both it and Sam's horse had been confiscated as “evidence.” Willa was willing to bet, however, that the “evidence” was providing someone with a more comfortable ride than the one she had with the mule and the over-sized saddle.

It had been frustrating not being able to talk with the sheriff. The deputy was a dangerous fool, and the chance of getting any help through him was nil. He'd told Willa that since it was an election year, the sheriff was mighty glad to have another solved “murder” case under his belt. And that since the books were closed on it, there was no reason for him to interview her. But when she'd tried to explain (quite firmly) that Sam had
not
committed murder, but had had to kill Malcolm in order to save her, he'd made some asinine remark about Willa being lucky to still be a free woman, and that perhaps they ought to lock her up as an accomplice. However, since they had a confession from Sam, she was off the hook, and she'd be smart to be on her way and get out of their way.

As Willa came around the bend and began her approach into the heart of town, she looked down the dusty main road. But just to the left of the sheriff's office and jailhouse some movement caught her eye: There, in a small grassy lot, four large men were busy fitting and hammering together heavy planks of wood to finish off the building of a gallows. Willa immediately understood that was the place where Samuel Harold's neck would be stretched until it snapped and death mercifully claimed him.

W
illa whipped the rump of the stubborn mule harder than she'd ever hit an animal before and the mule responded to the lashing with a surprised braying, followed by more speed. The hood of Sam's old cloak blew back off her head, and wisps of her thick black hair flew wildly about her face. Her eyes were as big as the mule's when she pulled the reins in hard in front of the gallows.

“Who're they hangin'?” she urgently asked, terrified of the coming answer.

“That feller that done kilt the senator's grandson. Sam . . . somethin'-or-other,” replied one of the largest men, looking back over his shoulder as he lifted another plank up to the waiting man who was finishing the gallows' railing. Willa began to tremble as she watched another man fastening one of the hinges on the trap door.

“When?” Willa cried, forcing her eyes back to the man who had answered her.

“Tomorrow mornin', after sun-up. Guess they's a-waitin' until thar's enough light so that everyone can see real good,” he drawled, looking over at the other workers and encouraging their amused laughter.

“Where's the sheriff?” Willa demanded.

“Just got back in his office. You gonna ask for a front row seat?” He grinned, showing many black spaces in his mouth where there used to be teeth. The others laughed again at his demented humor.

Willa did not bother to answer, but dug her heels into the sides of the mule instead, urging him over to one of the hitching posts that sporadically lined the street. After tying the animal to it, she hurriedly walked into the sheriff's office.

Sheriff Buchanan was sitting at his desk with a brown paper bag spread out before him, sucking on the bone of what had once been the leg of a chicken. Shattered white eggshell pieces lay haphazardly discarded on both the bag and his desk. As soon as the door opened and he saw that it was not his idiotic deputy, or anyone else he was familiar with, the sheriff hurriedly set the gnawed bone down, stood up and wiped his greasy mouth on the back of his shirt's dingy white sleeve.

“Can I help you?” he asked, rubbing his hands down the front of his black pants in a disgusting attempt to be rid of the grease that covered his hands, too. There was no smile accompanying his inquiry for he was clearly annoyed to have been interrupted.

“Sheriff, my name is Willa Holton, and my husband is . . .
was
Malcolm Holton. I just been told you're planning on executing Sam Harold tomorrow for the killin', but you'll be doing wrong when you do! I know
exactly
what took place, Sheriff, I was there. And had Mr. Harold not done what he done when he done it, then I wouldn't be telling you what I'm about to tell you 'cause I wouldn't have lived to stand here and tell it!” She sucked in a deep breath and then rushed on again with what exactly had taken place, all the while hoping to God that her version was a perfect match to Sam's.

After Willa had gotten started, and the sheriff realized there wasn't going to be any stopping her until she'd gotten out all that she had to, he breathed an exasperated sigh and sat back down. Leaning way back, he began rocking in his chair as though he was patiently listening to the nonsense of a small child while working an annoying piece of chicken loose with his little finger between two of his upper back teeth.

His condescension did not go unnoticed and Willa stopped in mid-sentence, took another deep breath and tried to slow her speech down enough so that she didn't sound like a hysterical woman.

“Sheriff, Sam saved me from bein' stabbed to death by my husband. Is that not self-defense? There's a law that allows a person to protect himself, isn't there?”

“Yes, ma'am, there most certainly is. The only problem, though, is that Mr. Harold wasn't bein' threatened, you was. So why didn't you do the shootin', ‘'stead of the defendant?”

“I had no gun, sheriff. Sam told Malcolm to get away from me. He had no intention of killing him! But when Malcolm tried to stab me, Sam did what he had to do. He saved my life, sheriff!

“Now, Miz Holton. I find it awfully hard to believe that your husband would forfeit his life in order to take yours. That's crazy talk! I ain't met a man yet that had the balls . . . ah, 'scuse me, Miz Holton . . . the nerve to argue with the barrel of a gun
.
But ya know, seein' as how things ended up for your husband, it kind of makes me wonder if your husband was just gettin' in the way of somethin' that maybe you and Mr. Harold had goin' on.” The smile accompanying his accusation was made all the more disgusting by food trapped between his front teeth.

“Sheriff, how
dare
you imply that there was anything goin' on between Sam and me that shouldn't have been! As God is my witness, we didn't do nothin' that our churches, families, and friends would have been ashamed of us for. And I resent your suggesting as much. And I'll tell you another thing, sir. When Sam is hanging from the gallows tomorrow, I'm gonna be praying to God in Heaven, and every angel He's got with Him, to let the fires of hell lick you good for the rest of eternity. I know why you're doin' what you're doin', and it has nothing to do with the innocence or guilt of anyone. It has to do with votes, and being called
Sheriff
for four more years. I saw the notice on the board outside. I know the election's comin' up and that it'll look real good to hang a ‘criminal as dangerous as Sam!'”

Willa was about to choke on a throat full of tears. There was nothing more to be said, anyway. She'd said all that she could, so she turned around and left the office, slamming the door so hard that the tintype of the sheriff's mother (which hung on the wall behind “her precious puddin's” bald head), fell to the floor with a resounding
crash
!

“
Mama
!” the sheriff cried, quickly retrieving the tintype. Wiping away some particles of dust and reassuring himself that no damage had been done, he kissed the woman's sour, wrinkled face and gently returned her picture to its rightful place on the wall above him.

A
fter Willa left the sheriff's office, she went to the town's jewelry store and sold her gold wedding band. Then she took a portion of the small amount she'd made from the sale and checked into the Pine Bridge Hotel. After freshening up from treating herself to a five-cent bath, she went into the hotel's dining room, found a small table in the back near the fireplace and ordered the day's special, which was leg of lamb with mint, roasted potatoes, buttered carrots, biscuits with butter, and blackberry pie for dessert. She'd paled when the waiter brought Sam's favorite dessert to her table and asked that he please wrap it so she could take it with her. Then a thought hit her and she quickly amended her request, asking that a second piece of pie be wrapped up as well, and to place both of them back in the kitchen for safekeeping until she returned. He'd graciously done as she asked, and she tipped him more than she should have, but his small kindness was so needed.

She'd felt a little stronger once she'd left the restaurant, even though she'd left much of the meal untouched. But she'd had to make herself eat something in order to keep her strength up, and the baby's strength, as well. The baby reassured Willa daily as to its health by its frequent strong kicking which beat at her insides like an internal drum. At this moment in time, though, she was keeping her strength up for Sam, most of all. He would need her tomorrow as he'd never needed anyone before. And she would be there. He would see her, feel her love and gratitude, and, perhaps, in the last fading moments of his life, know that his selfless actions to save her had not been in vain. She would stand there, proud and strong for him, in the knowledge that they knew the truth of what had taken place, and that it was a truth that neither one of them would deny or would run away from. On the contrary, they both would look others in the eye without guilt or shame. And she would be standing with Sam, sharing that conviction. Willa would not allow him to face his death alone.

She took a long walk along the river until she felt composed and as ready as she could be to do one of the hardest things she would ever have to do in her life. Then, after stopping back by the hotel's restaurant and retrieving the pieces of pie, Willa finally crossed the street to the sheriff's office to see if she might be allowed to spend a few minutes with Sam to say good-bye.

When Willa walked into the office, she found the deputy staring down at a report on the desk, one which he was fully engrossed in, it seemed, for he didn't even look up when she closed the door firmly behind her. But then she heard his snoring and realized that he was sound asleep with his chin resting comfortably on his flabby chest. “Good evening, deputy,” Willa called out, startling him awake. But in his effort to straighten up and look as though he was alert and busy, he nearly fell off the chair beneath him. Willa played the innocent and apologized for interrupting his work, then asked if she might spend just a few moments with Sam.

The deputy immediately began to deny her the opportunity but she lifted the bag that held the wedges of pie out in front of her, opened it and let the aroma of buttery crust and sweet filling fill the air around them. She quickly explained that she'd brought one for Sam, and knowing that the deputy was putting in long hours, had brought one for him, as well. Reminding herself that this was her only chance to see Sam, she forced out words of apology for the threat she'd made against him some days before, telling the deputy that she knew that he “surely understood the weak constitution of a woman,” and that she'd spoken out in a moment of near hysterics. Since then, however, she'd “resigned herself to Sam's sad, but unavoidable fate.”

“Well,” the deputy began while licking his thick lips. “I don't see nothin' wrong in lettin' our prisoner have a little sweet from his sweet before his neck is stretched too thin to allow him to swallow,” he said, laughing at his own sick wit. Then he held his fat hand out to her, waiting to receive his payment in pie for his Christian act of kindness. Pie or not, though, the deputy insisted that she remain outside of Sam's cell in the narrow, putrid-smelling hallway. And he insisted on staying within earshot during their visit.

Sam was watching a hawk outside his window as it swirled and glided on the air's current when the deputy and Willa arrived at his cell door. “I saw you walkin' up to the sheriff's office,” he said to her as he turned from the window and approached his cell door.

“No touchin', you two,” Deputy Burke instructed. “If'n I sees either one of yous a-reachin' through them cell bars, I'll kick the lady out of here faster'n you can say ‘neck snap!'” he laughed, showing the dark gaps in his mouth. But the look both Willa and Sam gave the deputy for his cruel humor was enough to cause him to duck his head slightly and waddle off to a chair at the end of the hallway.

“How are you, Sam?” Willa asked.

“I'm all right, Willa. Are you doin' okay?” he inquired, searching her face for the truth.

“Ever the one to worry about others, aren't you, Sam? Were you always this way?”

“I s'pose so,” he replied with a small smile.

“Have they hurt you at all?” she asked, glancing over at the deputy.

“Naw, I'm fine, Willa. Really, I am,” he assured her. But the fading purple bruises on the left side of his face were visible enough even in the low lighting in the cell. She realized he must have been badly beaten earlier in the week. “Don't get me wrong, gal, you're sure a sight for sore eyes, but you shouldn't have come. There's not a thing you can do for me, Willa, and it's not good for you or the wee one to be doin' all of this running back and forth to town on that durn mule.”

“That baby's as strong as the mule is, Sam.” She smiled, trying to reassure him. “Shoot, seems the more I do, the more the babe likes it. And it lets me know by pounding on my insides.”

“What're you gonna do after I'm . . . after tomorrow, Willa? Will you stay at the cabin like I told you to do in my note?”

“I'm still thinkin' on it, Sam. I'm going to miss you something terrible, and I think that staying there is only going to make the missin' worse,” she replied, praying that God would keep the tears gathering in her throat at bay.

“Willa, now listen to me. This is important,” he whispered, and reached his hand out to grab hers as he did so.

“Boy!” The deputy stood up immediately and called out to Sam in warning. “You try takin' her hand one more time, and she gives you hers, I'm gonna come over there and beat both of ‘em with this club ‘til there ain't nothin' left of your right and her left but bloody stubs. You get what I'm sayin' to ya?” he threatened.

“It won't happen again,” Sam assured him.

Willa watched the man regain his seat, then, without touching but leaning in closer, she asked, “What is it, Sam? What do you need to tell me?”

Sam glanced over at the deputy, who had turned his attention back to the last few bites of pie. “Willa,” Sam began, speaking more softly than before. “There's an old leather satchel back at the cabin. It belonged to my grandfather.” Then, lowering his voice so that the deputy couldn't hear him, he said, “Look under the board that's the third one out from the foot of the bed. Pry it up, it's loose. It's under there.”

“I can't
hearrr
youuu,” said the deputy in a singsong voice. “You speak up, boy, with whatever it is that needs sayin', you understand me?” the deputy ordered.

“Yes, sir,” Sam agreed, then turned back to Willa and in a loud voice continued. “In that satchel is my family's Bible. I want you to have it. And I've left a letter inside for you, too. I left it there when I wrote the other one for you. Just in case. Okay?”

“All right, Sam, I'll get it. Oh, Sam, I'm . . .” She couldn't hold it back any longer and began to cry. And cry hard. “I'm sorry, Sam. I wanted to be strong for you. And here I am . . . I'm so sorry.”

Willa hated how weak she was being. Sam needed her to be strong, to hold it together, to hold
them
together, but Sam seemed so calm in the face of death. She looked at him closely and saw resignation and acceptance in him. Through that letting go, he'd been given the gift of peace.

“I don't know what to do without you, Sam. I just don't know.”

“You will, Willa. It'll come to you. You'll know. Stay at the cabin, like I told you. The way will be made clear to you. Don't do nothin' but rest and take care of yourself and the baby until you know what to do and where to go, if you're thinkin' you have to go somewhere else. Promise me,” he urged.

“I promise, Sam. I'll stay for a little while anyway. Until I know . . .” Willa acquiesced.

“Good.” He seemed to exhale as he said it, as though he'd been holding his breath until she agreed to stay, and it was a great relief when she finally had. “And another thing, Willa, I don't want you to be here in the mornin'. You hear me! I want you gone tonight. Hurry up and leave now, and you'll get home not too long after dark. I don't want you here when they . . . I don't want you seein' me that a-way. Do you understand?” Finally, Sam seemed on the verge of tears.

“All right, Sam. I'll do whatever you want me to do. I want to be here for you, Sam, so you don't have to go through this alone. But if supporting you means not being here, then I'll do that, too.”

“Go now, darlin'. Head on home. And, Willa, girl, I love you. And I will into the next life.” Without thinking, he put his hand back through the cell bars, and Willa, not caring if the deputy beat her hand or not, reached back, taking the hand of the man she'd loved and lost so quickly. How unfair life was, she thought.

“I love you, too. Be there for me when I cross over some day, Sam. I'll be looking for you, before looking for God, Jesus, or anyone else! I love you, too,” she reaffirmed once more, before she began to cry again.

“Go on, now,” Sam said, releasing her hand and turning back toward the window where he'd been watching the freedom of the hawk's flight. “I want to watch the end of the day.” And that was the last Willa heard Sam say.

“Good bye, Sam,” she whimpered. Then, without giving the deputy the satisfaction of ushering her out, she fled down the stairs and out of the building.