Beyond All Measure (31 page)

“Well, looks like the mourners are arriving.” The undertaker pointed to a buckboard rounding the bend. “I’ll be on my way.”

He climbed into his wagon. Mariah and Sage drove into the yard, their horse snorting and stamping in the cold. Robbie, looking sober and grownup in a dark blue suit, sat behind his mother. No sooner had Ada greeted them than the Spencers arrived, followed by Carrie Daly and her brother, Henry Bell. Patsy Greer and Norah Dudley arrived together in Patsy’s rig. Soon the parlor overflowed with mourners who greeted Wyatt warmly, murmuring words of comfort and regret.

Ada, standing quietly to the side, looked up when Bea Goldston appeared in the doorway, looking more severe than ever in her black dress and bonnet. She pushed through the crowd toward Wyatt and burst into tears. “Oh, you dear man!” She clung to him and sobbed. “And poor Lillian. This is a situation not to be borne!”

“That’s the truth,” Mariah muttered, coming to stand beside Ada. “What a spectacle! Bea should be ashamed of herself.”

Wyatt peeled her off him and managed a tired smile. “Thank you, Bea. But you mustn’t be so distraught. Death is always with us. And Aunt Lil was quite prepared to meet her maker.”

“But I never got a chance to say good . . . good-bye.”

“That’s why we have wakes, isn’t it?” Mariah took Bea firmly by the arm and drew her toward the kitchen. “Help me serve tea. It’ll make you feel better if you have something constructive to do.”

“Of course I want to be helpful, but I don’t want to leave Wyatt.” She sniffed. “He’s all alone now.”

Mariah caught Ada’s eye and suppressed a smile. “I’m sure he can bear up. Come along, now; we’ve lots of people to serve.”

Ada passed among the mourners serving tea and platters of food, feeling that somehow she’d been marked for sorrow. It had been less than a year since she’d buried her father and Aunt Kate, and now she was saying good-bye again. She glanced at the closed coffin beneath the window, and her tears threatened once more. She’d grown comfortable in Lillian’s company—well, as comfortable as one could hope for with Lillian—and she had come to rely upon the older woman’s counsel. Who would advise her now?

Pastor Dennis arrived on a blast of frigid air, his face red with cold. He sought out Wyatt and shook his hand. “So sorry to be late. I had to stop by the church to pick up the songbooks, and it took longer than I planned.” He gathered the mourners and handed out the hymnals.

After the singing and the readings from Psalms, Pastor Dennis opened his Bible and read from Paul’s first letter to the believers at Corinth: “And now abideth faith, hope, and charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.” He spoke briefly about Lillian’s life and then said gently, “Let us pray.”

Ada bowed her head. Next to her, Wyatt clasped her hand and wept silently. The sight of his tears broke her heart. Silent sobs wracked her body as the prayer went on. Mariah squeezed Ada’s shoulder. “We can’t be sad for her,” she murmured. “Only for ourselves at having to say good-bye.”

And then at last it was over. One by one, the mourners said their farewells and departed.

“Now, Wyatt, dear, if you need anything, anything at all, you let me know.” Bea donned her black lace gloves and picked up her cloak. “I’ll come right over.”

“I’m sure she will,” Mariah murmured to Ada. “My lands, I never saw such an obvious ploy for attention. It’s unseemly at any time, but especially now.”

“I appreciate the offer, Bea,” Wyatt said, “but Ada will be staying on here for a while, looking after things for me.” He smiled at Ada. “Between the two of us, we’ll manage.”

“Oh, that’s right! How silly of me.” Bea spun away and glared at Ada. “I forgot that Saint Ada is taking care of everything in Hickory Ridge—Wyatt, Lillian, the mulatto orphan girl, the quilting circle, our millinery needs. It seems we need not want for anything so long as she’s around.”

She yanked the door open, nearly dislodging the mourning wreath, and stomped onto the porch.

Ada clenched her fists. She had had enough. She followed Bea outside.

“What do you want?” Bea spat.

“Ever since I got here, I’ve put up with your insinuations and your outspoken disapproval, but enough is enough.” Ada felt her anger rising, hanging like a dagger between them. “I don’t expect that you and I will ever be friends, but I do expect you to keep a civil tongue in your head.”

“Or what?” Bea lifted her chin. “You’ll tell Wyatt on me?”

“This has nothing to do with Wyatt.”

Bea laughed. “You little fool. This has everything to do with Wyatt. Things were just fine between us until you arrived. Now he won’t give me the time of day.”

“I’m sure that isn’t true.”

“It is true! And it isn’t just Wyatt. Half the town is mooning over the wonderful, perfect Ada Wentworth. My lands, even Jasper Pruitt is singing your praises!”

“What would you have me do?”

“Go back to Boston. Go anywhere you wish. Only stop interfering with me and my town.”

Bea strode to her rig and drove away, slapping the reins much more than was warranted.

Ada turned to go inside just as the undertaker returned, stopping his wagon beneath the bare winter trees. Wyatt and the Whitings came out onto the porch. Sage clasped his boss’s shoulder. “How about you wait here and let me give the undertaker a hand with the coffin.”

Wyatt closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m worn out. I’d appreciate it.” He and Ada waited with Mariah and Robbie while Lillian’s coffin was loaded onto the wagon and secured and the coffin stand was stowed.

“We’ll come with you to the graveyard if you like,” Sage offered.

Wyatt nodded. “Thank you, I’d appreciate it.”

Sage handed Mariah into their rig, uncertainty showing on his drawn face. “Wyatt . . . I hate to ask at a time like this, but the men were wondering whether to show up for work tomorrow, being that it’s Saturday.”

“A half day won’t make a big difference this time of year. If you and Henry could take a couple of men up the Palmer trail and get that load of logs down to the mill, that’d save us some time come Monday.”

“I’ll take care of it.” Sage touched the brim of his hat. “I’m real sorry about Miz Lillian.”

“Me too.” Robbie reached out to give Wyatt’s shoulder an awkward pat. “I liked her a whole lot.”

Wyatt nodded. “Thank you, Robbie. That means a great deal to me, coming from you.”

Mariah leaned forward in the rig. “Ada, I’ll see you at the cemetery, and we’ll talk more next week at the quilting circle, all right?”

“I don’t know.” How could they go on without Lillian to keep them on track and to keep Bea in line? “It seems much too soon to go on as if nothing has happened.”

Mariah tucked a woolen blanket around her knees. “I feel that way too. But Lillian was the practical sort.”

“She’s right,” Wyatt said. “Aunt Lil would be furious if she thought we were using her passing as an excuse for not getting on with things. I’ll come for you on Wednesday and drive you to the church if you like.”

Ada touched his sleeve. “I don’t want to trouble you. You’ll be busy catching up at the mill. I’ll hitch Smoky and drive myself.”

Wyatt stepped off his porch and headed along the path to the mill, where the saws had been whining since sunup. The sound comforted him. He’d been behind schedule since Lillian’s funeral last Friday, but now they were finally catching up. The weather helped. It had been cold but dry, good for making up lost time.

He scanned the busy mill yard. In the clearing near the lumber sheds, Henry Bell was directing the unloading of the last of the logs harvested along the Palmer trail. At the opposite end, three wagons were hitched and loaded. Charlie Blevins was standing near the steam generator, talking to the very person Wyatt wanted to see.

“Powell!” Wyatt motioned to Jasper Pruitt’s former clerk and watched as the boy shuffled across the yard, his expression sullen, his lank hair falling into his eyes.

Wyatt led him into the office and shut the door. “Where were you last week?”

“I was here!”

Wyatt crossed his arms and waited.

“I was going to come in, but I just couldn’t make it.”

“That’s the third time in less than a month. Don’t you want this job, son?”

The boy looked up. “You’re not my pa.”

“And it’s a good thing for you that I’m not.” Wyatt plopped down in his chair and spun around to face the boy. “When I acted like you are, my pa came after me with an ironweed switch. Straightened me up right quick. Now, you’ve either got a good excuse for not showing up, or you haven’t. Which is it?”

The boy sat sullenly for a minute, then burst out, “I hate this job! At least at Mr. Pruitt’s I got to stay inside when it was cold, and I didn’t get splinters in my hands. Lumbering is hard. It’s no fun at all.”

Wyatt grinned despite himself. “That’s why they call it work.”

“I wish I could go back to the mercantile, but Mr. Pruitt won’t give me another chance.”

Wyatt shook his head. “Once you betray a person’s trust, it’s awful hard to get it back. Maybe if you stick it out here, pay him back, show him you can own up to your mistakes, he’ll take you back later on.”

Powell shrugged and gnawed on a cuticle. “No, he won’t. He hates me for trying to help the coloreds.” He looked up. “I’m just not a lumberman, that’s all.”

“You asked for my help,” Wyatt reminded him. “And here’s the problem. When you agree to work for me, and then don’t show up, it puts a hardship on my other men.”

He glanced up and saw the sheriff riding into the yard. A sense of foreboding seized him; he couldn’t remember the last time McCracken had ridden out here. He stood and placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “The next time you decide to take a day off without notice, don’t bother coming back at all. You understand?”

“I guess.”

“Then go on out and help Blevins finish splitting out those logs.” Wyatt picked up an extra pair of heavy gloves and tossed them to the boy. “Use these. They’ll cut down on splinters.”

Powell made a beeline for the door and almost knocked McCracken off his feet.

The sheriff watched him cross the yard. “Holy hash, Wyatt, what did you to say to that boy?”

“Shape up or ship out.” Wyatt studied the sheriff’s craggy face for clues as to what had prompted this visit.

McCracken peeled off his overcoat and drew up a chair. “Got any coffee? It’s colder than a banker’s heart out there this morning.”

Wyatt poured two cups from the black enamel pot and handed one to the sheriff. “What brings you out this way?”

McCracken sipped his coffee. “Wanted to extend my condolences. And I need to talk to Charlie Blevins.”

“What’s he done?” Wyatt dropped into his chair and pushed aside a stack of papers.

“I’ve been looking into that fire out at the Spencers’.”

“You think he’s behind it?”

“Could be.” McCracken took another sip of coffee. “I heard he got hurt awhile back.”

Wyatt nodded. “He cut his arm splitting kindling. His ax slipped. At least that’s what he told me when he showed up after three days.” He looked out the window, seeking Blevins, but neither the sawyer nor the Powell boy were in sight.

“You happen to recall exactly when that was?”

Wyatt drained his cup and grimaced. The coffee had turned bitter. He set his cup aside. “Not exactly. Sometime back in the fall.”

“When Blevins came back to work, did you ever see his wound?”

“No, he kept his arm bandaged for a long time. And he wears long-sleeved shirts. We all do.”

“Is he around?”

“Let’s go find him.” Wyatt led the way out of his office, his heart pumping hard in his chest. If Blevins was behind the recent troubles in the area—especially the attempts to scare Ada—Wyatt meant to see he was brought to justice. He heard a shout as Henry motioned to the teamsters, and three loads of milled timber headed for the railway station. Behind them, the steam generator hissed and thrummed. Sawdust hung like powder in the air.

They found Blevins working in the planing shed, a pile of fresh shavings curling about his feet.

“Charlie?” Wyatt motioned him over and saw a flicker of fear in the sawyer’s eyes before he set down his plane and pulled off his glove. “H’lo, Sheriff.” Blevins nodded to Eli.

“Charlie.” Eli towered over the sawyer. “I want to talk to you.”

“Wha-what about?”

“Let’s go back to the office.” The sheriff motioned to Blevins, and the three of them went back inside. Blevins leaned against the door and crossed his arms.

“I’ve been investigating that Klan fire out at the Spencers’ last fall,” McCracken began.

Wyatt watched the color drain from Charlie’s face. “I don’t know nothing about that,” Charlie said.

“Would you mind showin’ me that cut on your arm?” Eli moved toward the sawyer. “I understand the wound was pretty deep.”

“Yeah, but it’s healed up real good. Ain’t nothing to see.”

“Just the same.” With surprising quickness, McCracken grabbed Charlie’s arm and pulled his sleeve up to his elbow. Wyatt stared at the underside of Charlie’s left arm. The skin was bright pink, stretched tight, and ropy with scars.

“That’s no ax wound,” the sheriff said. “You’ve burned yourself. And badly.”