Chasing Charity (24 page)

Bertha lay in Magda’s big bed with the covers pulled up to her chin. Awake for hours, she’d heard the creak of every settling board and the hoot of every barn owl. She was also privy to the snores, snorts, and sleepy ramblings coming from her roommate. Not to mention that Magda’s every toss and turn wrought a symphony of rattles and groans from the makeshift bed in the corner.

Thankfully, Magda stirred at last and eased out of bed. Bertha knew she should be up, too, and already down in the kitchen with a good start on breakfast, but she couldn’t convince her body to move.

When Magda tiptoed past for the third time, Bertha rolled onto her side and cleared her throat. “I ain’t asleep, you know. You can stop all that creeping about and light the lamp.”

In the dim room, Magda leaned to look at her from behind the wardrobe door. “Did I wake you, sugar? I tried real hard to be quiet.”

Bertha propped up on one elbow. “I hate to hear that, because you made enough noise to wake Rebel clear out in the barn. You never could tread softly worth a hoot.”

Magda came over and sat on the bed beside her. “I know. That’s why I was leaving the room.” She reached to touch Bertha’s forehead. “Are you feeling all right? You never sleep this late.”

Bertha took Magda’s cool hand and held it to her cheek. “No, I ain’t feeling one bit all right.”

“Are you taking sick?”

She nodded. “Heartsick, I guess.”

Magda patted her face. “I know, sweetie.”

“Charity’s run out of time.”

“I know,” Magda cooed.

“I’m her mama. I should be able to save her, but I’m not smart enough. I don’t know how to help her out of this one.”

Magda squared around on the bed and faced her. “Maybe you’re not supposed to. Did you ever consider that? Maybe Daniel’s the man God intended for Charity all along. Remember, she wanted to marry him once and with your blessing. The thing that turned you against Daniel is his jilting her, which he’s trying to make amends for.”

Bertha sat up and shook her head. “I don’t know, Magda. There’s something about that boy that ain’t quite right. I always sensed it.”

Magda gave her a piercing look. “Is this one of those
feelings
you get?”

She crossed her arms. “Don’t you go discounting my feelings again. They’ve served me well over the years. I believe they’re from God.” She jabbed Magda in the arm with her finger. “Anyway, look who’s talking. It was you who said he weren’t good for nothing but telling lies and shaming young girls.”

Magda nodded. “He did those things and that’s a fact—but, honey, people make mistakes. I do things every day that I regret. If Daniel really loves Charity, don’t you think he deserves another chance?”

Bertha took Magda by the shoulders and stared into her eyes. “Let me ask you this: If Daniel really loves my girl, how could he hurt her by tossing her aside like trash in front of the whole town? If he respects her, why did he spread lies about her virtue?”

Magda shook her head.

“Thad never would’ve done that to me. Willem couldn’t have treated you so shamefully either, and you know it. On my wedding day, I had no doubt Thad loved me, even cherished me. I want the same for my little girl.”

Magda nodded. “I remember your wedding day like it happened yesterday. You were a beautiful bride. Thad was so proud.” She got a faraway look in her eyes. “Honey, the way that man looked at you—” Picking up Bertha’s hands, she squeezed them hard. “Oh, Bert, you’re right. If we let Charity marry Daniel, it could ruin her life. What’re we going to do?”

Bertha set her jaw. “I don’t know just yet. One thing’s for sure—we need to pray like we’ve never done before.”

Charity came awake with a gasp. Her wide eyes sought something to ground her, to still her pounding heart. Recognition came slowly, one familiar sight at a time. First, the broad water stain on the ceiling in the shape of a woman’s boot—or the country of Italy, depending on how you looked at it. Just below the boot were the tall spires of a four-poster bed with a backdrop of bright yellow wallpaper. Her eyes quickly swept the other furnishings, and she released her breath. She had awakened in the Danes’ guestroom, in a bed as familiar as her own. Mother Dane and Mama were just down the hall.

So why did she feel so lost?

She moved to sit up and realized Papa’s Bible lay open across her chest. It came to her then in a rush, as the rising sun flooded the room. Her gaze jerked to the window. It looked like a beautiful morning, hardly a fitting start for the darkest day of her life.

When that same sun rises tomorrow, I’ll be married to Daniel Clark.
Daniel. Not Buddy.

The thought of it crushed her, and she regretted waking. Rolling onto her side, she fought to return to unconscious oblivion, but sleep eluded her. The light was too bright, the truth too harsh to shut out. It didn’t help that her wedding dress hung on a peg near the window, mocking her.

The day before she had clutched the dress to her face and asked God for help. The words of her prayer came back, and she whispered them aloud. “I’ve never asked You for anything this important before. Can You? Will You?”

He could, of course. God could do anything. It would be a small matter for Him, a tiny miracle in the great scheme of things. The problem was, He hadn’t. For whatever reason, it appeared God wanted her to marry Daniel.

Disturbed by the thought, she picked up Papa’s Bible and sat upright in bed. Crossing her legs to cradle the worn book, she let it fall open in her lap. Then she closed her eyes and pressed her index finger to the page. Feeling foolish, yet afraid of what she might see, she opened her eyes and looked.

“Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.”

Her heart pounded. Was that the answer? Did God expect her to lay down her life, her future happiness, for her mama? Could she do it? Could she give up her dreams for love and contentment and never grow to resent it?

If God had truly called her to such an unselfish act, He would have to help her. It seemed beyond human strength, no task for mortal flesh. What sort of love was that anyway? And what was the source?

She remembered the passage in Corinthians from which Mama had taken her name. “Charity” in that text meant “love.” Mama always said love was the only fitting name for a child born to her and Papa.

Charity knew the verses by heart. She’d heard them often enough. Still, she thumbed her way to the scripture.

“Charity suffereth long...”

Well, that part rang true. She had suffered every day since Emmy fled the church with Daniel.

“And is kind...”

She had tried to be.

“Charity envieth not; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, doth not behave itself unseemly...”

These might require more diligence on her part.

“Seeketh not her own...”

That part felt like divine direction, but she didn’t like it much. She read on.

“Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things. Charity never faileth.”

The last part gave her pause. Love never fails. That’s what it really said.

She felt as if God had tossed her question back at her. “Can you? Will you?”

Charity closed the book, careful to tuck back all the mementos Mama kept inside. Scraps of paper, clippings and lists, pressed magnolia blossoms, and little notes from Papa, yellowed with age, were scattered throughout his Bible.

She wriggled one of the notes from between the delicate pages and smiled. Papa preferred lead to ink for writing and carried a pencil with him always. He once read that George Washington used a three-inch pencil when he surveyed the Ohio Territory in 1762 and that Thomas Edison kept one in his vest pocket to jot down notes. “Sugar,” he liked to say, “what’s good enough for George and Tom is plenty good for old Thad.”

She held the page closer to the window and strained to read the faded words, barely visible now. She could make out only, “Love always, Thad,” scratched at the end.

The words burned in her heart. Despite the fix they were in, despite evidence that Papa had caused it, she knew how much he had loved them. She knew he would sacrifice his happiness for Mama without a backward glance.

Charity fell against the bed and stared at the ceiling. The written words of both her earthly father and her heavenly Father conveyed the same message—a lesson on love—and she would do her best to listen.

Mother Dane and Mama were stirring down the hall.

Charity swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up. It was high time to get started, to quit stewing over things she couldn’t change. It was her wedding day.

The whistle blew, followed by a shout for all to board. Emmy’s body tensed, and she picked up the pace, ears strained for the chug of the engine or the screech of turning wheels. She couldn’t see the platform for the row of buildings yet to pass, but she knew they were out of time.

She whirled to check the progress of her companions. The three struggled along several yards back, poor white-faced Buddy Pierce held up between Nash and a panting Jerry Ritter.

“Do hurry,” she shouted. “The train is leaving.”

“We is hurrying, Miss Emmy. It ain’t easy toting a grown man, and this one is a mite overgrowed.”

Emmy found it hard to feel compassion while saddled with a burden of her own. Thankfully, Nash had stowed Buddy’s bag under his free arm, but the task of toting her own luggage and that of Mr. Ritter had fallen to her. Unaccustomed to carrying so much weight, she had to stop and shift the load a bit to ease her aching fingers. “Oh pooh. You could carry two more like him and you know it. Stop your bellyaching and come on.”

They rounded the corner of the last building together. Emmy sighted her mark, an open passenger car, and bore down on it just as the car began to move. The bespectacled conductor leaned halfway out of the door and watched her.

“Wait, sir!” she called to him. “Stop the train.”

The man shook his head. “Sorry, little lady. Can’t do that.”

“Oh please, you must!”

Emmy dropped the bags and ran. The man’s mouth was moving, but the churning wheels carried him away too quickly for her to hear. She gathered her skirts and ran faster. Nash shouted something, but she couldn’t make out his words either over the roar in her ears.

“Come on!” she screamed back at them. “Pick up your feet. We can still make it.”

Nash caught up with her then, lifting her away just as the last car rumbled by shaking the ground at their feet. He carried her some distance from the tracks and set her down hard on the platform.

“Miss Emmy, that was the most foolhardy thing I ever seen. Is you trying to get killed?”

Emmy turned toward Jerry, who stood pale as death staring her way, and Buddy, who sprawled in the dust where Nash had dropped him.

“I’m sorry, I...”

“You what?” Nash shouted. “A lunatic? Yes, you is. Now get over there away from these tracks.”

Without waiting to see if she complied, Nash headed for the scattered luggage. He retrieved the bags in short angry jerks, all the while rolling his eyes and muttering dark curses under his breath.

Emmy trudged to where Jerry stood and looked down at Buddy. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Pierce. Are you all right?”

Squinting against the rising sun, he peered up at her. “I reckon I will be. If I live.”

She glanced over her shoulder at the silver speck wending its way in the distance. “We missed it. Now what?”

Jerry pivoted toward the depot. “When’s the next one?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. They’re never on time.”

“Forget going by rail.” Weakness strained Buddy’s voice. Or maybe desperation. “The Rabbit is slower than cold honey. We’d never make Humble by noon.”

Jerry nodded. “Makes you wonder why folks gave it that name.”

Emmy laughed. “Certainly not because of its speed. The oldtimers claim she used to make unscheduled stops along the tracks so passengers could shoot jackrabbits. Most believe she earned the name by how she jerks and hops.”

Straightening his elbow, Buddy propped himself higher. “Thank you for the timely history lesson, Miss Dane.”

She curled her top lip at him.

“Either way the train’s out. I’m telling you, we need to hire some horses.”

“You can barely sit upright. How would you ride clear to Humble?”

“I’ll find a way, Jerry. I have to.”

Nash returned and handed the bags to Emmy, all of them this time, then helped Jerry lift Buddy off the ground. “Let’s get this poor ailing man a place to sit. After that we can figure what we gon’ do.”

They found a bench against the outer wall of the depot and lowered Buddy onto the paint-chipped slats. A more natural shade had replaced his alternating green and sickly white pallor.

Emmy hoped it was a good sign. “Mr. Ritter, I think a bite to eat would benefit your friend greatly. Why don’t you go see what you can find for him while we try to solve this problem?”

A grin eased the worried frown from Jerry’s face. He patted his stomach. “I could use a bite myself, ma’am. How about you?”

At the mention of food, Emmy realized she was famished. “I wouldn’t mind it a bit.” She nodded toward Nash. “Him, too. We took no time for breakfast.”

Jerry nodded. “I’ll fetch us all something, then.”

Seated between them on the bench, Buddy’s glare followed Jerry and then Emmy. “Hold up. Have you two forgotten why we’re here? Charity’s clock is ticking. We don’t have time for a family picnic.”

Emmy patted his shoulder. “Mr. Pierce, I’m anxious, too. But it won’t take long to eat, and we’ll gain strength for the journey.”

Buddy scowled. “A journey that needs to get started.” He yanked a small pouch from his vest pocket, pulled out money, and handed it to Jerry. “Get jerky and hardtack, and any other food we can eat on the road.” He pointed at something behind them. “When you get back, you can hustle over there and get me a horse.”

The livery stable perched directly across the tracks. The towering building with its wide facade looked different by morning light. The grounds teemed with animals and people, from the holding pens on each side of the slung-back doors to the trampled areas in front. By the look of it, the liveryman did all right by himself, and the railroad company wasn’t the only venture in town to profit from the boom.

A wagon rumbled over the tracks beside them, the driver sharply reining his two-horse team into the muddy yard.

Emmy gripped Buddy’s arm. “I have a better idea.”

Buddy waved Jerry away to buy the food while his gaze remained fixed on her face. “I’m listening.”

Emmy pointed at another passing rig. “What about one of those?”

“You want to buy a wagon?”

“Not buy. Hire. That way, you can rest in back until you’re feeling better.”

Nash rubbed his dark chin and nodded at Buddy. “That may not be a bad idea, Mistah Pierce.”

Buddy’s brow furrowed. “Good thinking. If they don’t have a rig for hire, we can book passage on one bound for Humble. I’ll pay the asking price to anyone who can get me there before noon.”

Emmy stared down the boardwalk in the direction Jerry had gone, shading her eyes to see better. “Then it’s settled. When Mr. Ritter comes back, he can make inquiries.”

Buddy shook his head. “I say the two of you go now. I get the feeling you’re just as capable, and there’s no time to waste.”

Emmy searched his earnest green eyes. “But you’ll be left on your own.”

“I’ll be fine. Besides, Jerry will be back soon.” He didn’t give her time to argue but shooed her and Nash with a backward wave of his hand. “Go on now, and hurry.”

Though reluctant to leave him alone, Emmy opened her parasol and motioned for Nash to lead the way. “You heard the man. Let’s find us a ride home.”

Nash led her past the depot and along the boardwalk to a well-traveled crossing. Her determination faded a bit as they approached the front of the livery. Up close, they found it even busier than it appeared from the station. Wagons of every size and description boiled out of the stables and onto the rutted road, some passing far too close to suit her.

It didn’t take long to learn there were no rigs left for hire. Together they walked the grounds, asking questions and checking wagons. The majority of travelers headed for Humble seemed more than willing to help, but their conveyances were too full to accommodate a traveling band sitting upright, much less a man the size of Buddy lying flat of his back.

Fighting the urge to wring her hands, she looked up at Nash. “What do we do now?”

Nash drew a deep breath that lifted and filled his broad chest. “We don’t give up, that’s what we do.” He cut his eyes down at her. “Don’t fret now. We’ll find something.”

“You saw for yourself. Not one of these people has room for us.” Emmy bit back tears and tried to still the tremor in her voice. “It can’t be God’s will for Charity to spend her life with someone like Daniel. Why are we having such a hard time trying to save her?”

Nash’s roaming gaze came to rest on her face. “Whoa, now.” His rumbling voice was a gentle rebuke. “Is that what we doing here? Saving Miss Charity? If so, you can count me out. I ain’t fit to save myself, much less Miss Charity. Child, that be God’s business.”

Something behind her caught and held his attention. A smile lit his eyes. “And the Almighty might jus’ have a little trick up His sleeve.”

She followed his pointing finger in time to see a stocky young man toss a faded satchel into the bed of an otherwise empty wagon. He walked to the rear and closed the tailgate, then hurried around to help a tall, gray-haired woman onto the seat.

Emmy let out her breath in a rush and clutched his shirt. “What if they’re not going to Humble?”

“Ain’t but one way to find out.”

“You’re right. Let’s go ask them.”

She started forward, but Nash caught hold of her arm. “Where you going?”

“To negotiate a ride, of course.”

“No, you ain’t. You staying over here. Them’s my people, Miss Emmy. We stand a much better chance if you let me do the talking.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“No, missy, it ain’t. You jus’ stay put this time. I’ll be back directly.”

In a casual, unhurried stride, Nash approached the wagon with his hat in his hands. The kind-faced woman smiled and nodded a greeting. The young man beamed and quickly extended his hand. Nash talked with low tones and quick gestures, lifting his chin toward the wagon and jabbing his finger back toward her. Emmy saw the man’s wide grin fade just before he cast a frown her way. Nash stayed a few seconds more then turned and hurried across the yard.

“What’d they say?” Eager to know, she called out the question while Nash was yet halfway back.

He waited to answer until he reached her side. “Them be good folks, Miss Emmy. They headed for Humble, all right, and the boy, he say we can ride. Don’t want no money for it neither. Only...”

Her excitement had soared higher with every word until the last. Something in the way he said it foretold bad news. “Only what? Speak up, Nash.”

He cleared his throat and looked away. “He say he ain’t about to put his old mama in the back of that wagon, not for you or nobody else. Not for no amount of money.”

Emmy looked across to where the two strangers huddled close together. It appeared the woman gently scolded. The boy answered with a firm shake of his head before he jumped from the seat and walked away.

Emmy blinked up at Nash. “Of course he won’t put her in back. Why, I don’t blame him. Tell him we accept his terms, only we will indeed pay them for their trouble. Mr. Pierce said so.”

“But, Miss Emmy...”

“Go ahead, tell them.”

“Well, but...”

“What now?”

He pointed behind him. “That there rig ain’t but a one-seater, which puts you riding in back.” He lifted both dark brows. “With all us men.”

Emmy saw his point. She had to swallow before she could answer but tried hard to sound nonchalant. “So?”

“So it won’t look proper. ’Sides that, it’s a long, bumpy ride, and that bed ain’t made for comfort. Yo’ mama gon’ skin me good if’n I haul you through Humble throwed off in the bottom of a wagon like a sack of potatoes.” He took a quick look over his shoulder and leaned closer. “Worse yet, whatever they been hauling in that thing be long past burying.”

Emmy tried not to pause, tried not to ask. “Are you saying there’s a bad smell?”

Nash shook his curly head. “You gon’ wish it jus’ bad. Truth is, that smell done took a turn toward evil.” His expression was guarded, watchful.

She made up her mind. “It doesn’t matter. What’s a little odor to contend with for Charity’s sake? You tell them yes. I’ll let Buddy and Jerry know we have our ride.”

Emmy turned to go. Nash reached to stay her, and she looked back at him with questioning eyes. The way he squinted down at her made her insides pitch. She glanced away. “What is it, Nash? Why are you peering a hole through me?”

“I’m wondering what done changed you, that’s all.”

She forced a laugh. “Don’t be silly. I’m no different.”

His hand on her elbow held her fast, but his voice was kind. “Yes’m, you different. Nothing I can point a finger to, but I see change all over you.”

“Don’t talk foolish.”

“Ain’t nothing foolish. Don’t forget I’ve known you quite a spell. I watched you learn to toddle. In all this time, I ain’t never seen you cross the road to help nobody, much less be willing to wallow in stink. Don’t tell me you ain’t different.”

She met his stare, trying to maintain a steady gaze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He laughed and wagged his head. “You can’t fool old Nash that easy. You know jus’ what I’m talking about. Them big blue eyes telling on you.”

Emmy flinched and could’ve pinched herself for it. She pulled free and stalked away. “I know this—we don’t have time to discuss it. Get on over there and tell those folks to wait for us. Inform them we’ll be back with two more passengers. Then hightail it back to the depot so you can help with Mr. Pierce.”

Five minutes later, Jerry Ritter, the young stranger, and Nash—mostly Nash—had Buddy loaded into the bed of the wagon. They propped him against the dilapidated tailgate of the old freighter, the wood so battered by time and pocked by beetles that Emmy feared he’d wind up riddled with splinters.

It seemed a fitting backdrop for a man so broken and battered himself. Too weak to sit up, Buddy sprawled over most of the rear, crowding Jerry into the far corner. Emmy perched at Buddy’s feet on a cushion of feed sacks Nash had gathered for her, and Nash sat by her side.

Buddy insisted he felt some better, yet his green pallor had returned. Emmy wondered if she ought not secure a bucket for him, but thought better of it when she considered their traveling companions. She hadn’t missed the look that passed between them when they learned Buddy was ill. In lieu of offering him a bucket in case his stomach resisted the jerky he had eaten, Emmy sent up a quick prayer that Buddy wouldn’t need it, then cringed and prayed harder when she remembered Nash had predicted a long, bumpy ride.