Guide Me Home (3 page)

Lexington, Kentucky

Devlin Bale

“I won't beg.” Devlin slipped his hands into his trouser pockets and met his father's gaze without flinching. The university students said Father could wither a person with his steely glower, but Devlin knew that his father was more bark than bite. Even so, he'd carefully chosen the day and time to approach Father with his idea.

Saturday—no classes, no students knocking at his door, hardly any activity at all on the sprawling campus. Early morning, before Father had started grading papers or planning lessons for the coming week's studies in American history or political science. Consequently Father couldn't claim distractions or other duties. He had no choice but to listen. And, as Devlin anticipated, he had listened. Now Devlin waited for the answer.

“Don't stand there like a soldier on guard. Sit.”

Devlin swallowed a chuckle. So Father wanted a conversation. That meant he wouldn't give a blunt no in response. A positive sign. Devlin dragged a straight-backed chair across the thick carpet to Father's desk and dropped onto the sturdy seat. He placed his hands on his knees, forcing himself not to bounce his legs in impatience. “What do you think?”

“I think your mother will have a few choice words if I approve your taking off instead of spending your last summer under our roof.”

Devlin cleared his throat. “Not just the summer, Father. The remainder of this semester as well.” He'd already brought his trunks down from the attic and begun sorting through his clothes and belongings. The moment he received permission to go, he'd be ready to board the train.

Father's frown deepened. “Professor Scholes approved this harebrained plan of yours?”

“He didn't call it harebrained, Father.” Devlin took care to maintain an even tone although Father's derision stirred defensiveness. “The map of Mammoth Cave on record here at the university was drawn in 1845 by an uneducated slave. Many more tunnels have been discovered in the past six decades, but no American cartographer has taken the time to create a new map.”

Excitement quivered through him, bringing him to the edge of his seat. His left leg bounced despite the firm grip of his fingers over his kneecap. “Professor Scholes says it's a perfect senior project for my land surveyor degree. He even offered to talk to my other professors and obtain their approval for early dismissal so I can dedicate a full four months to it.”

Father grimaced. “Four months under the ground? Devlin, you've lost your mind.”

Devlin laughed. “I'd come up to eat and sleep.”

Father waved one hand, his familiar gesture of dismissing his son's words. “You know my meaning. Even if the cave is miles long, as purported by the owners, you wouldn't require a third of a year's time to survey and record it.”

Devlin's leg stilled. He slid on the seat until his spine met the chair's back. “Suppose I told you I had an…ulterior motive for surveying Mammoth Cave.”

Father sat back in his well-oiled chair and folded his arms over his chest. The gold chain looped across his vest front draped over his arm and glinted in the overhead electric light. “Such as?”

“I'm aware that you want to run for a seat in the Senate in the next election.”

Father's gaze narrowed, his thick brows pulling into a V.

“It will take something special to unseat either Blackburn or McCreary in our Democratic state, but money talks to both Republicans and Democrats.”

“Devlin, you sound like a politician, speaking in circles.”

He raised one hand. “Listen to me, Father. Right now Mammoth Cave is in the hands of a private owner. All the revenue from tourists flocking to the cave goes directly into his bank account, and rumor has it he's become a very wealthy man, thanks to the fascination people hold for the remarkable cave. The revenue will only increase now that people can reach it by steamboat.” He leaned forward slightly, unable to hold his stiff pose with so much adrenaline coursing through his veins. “What if the money flowed into the nation's coffers instead?”

Father continued to scowl, but a glint in his blue-gray eyes changed his expression from fierce to intrigued.

“While I'm surveying the cave, I could also survey the surrounding acres. Scope out a section of ground suitable for a national park. People will continue to visit Mammoth Cave, they'll continue to pay the fees to explore the tunnels, but the money will no longer benefit a single owner.” Devlin leaned closer to Father until his elbows met his knees. He gripped his hands together and gazed fervently into his father's stoic face. “The man responsible for generating such a change would be held in great esteem by our country's leaders. A seat in the Senate could become his, and he would have an opportunity to further influence Kentucky and the entire United States.”

Someone passed by in the hallway, the sound of footsteps on the hardwood floor creeping beneath the closed door. Father didn't even blink at the distraction. Devlin listened to the soft
tick-tick
of the arched clock centered on the fireplace mantel and allowed his father to consider the possible positive ramifications of his plans.

At the age of twenty-two years, most young men wouldn't ask permission for such an excursion. But Devlin held too much respect for his parents to go willingly against their wishes. If Father refused, Devlin would set aside his plan and seek a different senior project. A different means of supporting his father in the next Senate election. But he couldn't help hoping that Father would agree. It would do Devlin no harm to be known as a senator's son.

Father cleared his throat and sat up, lowering his arms so quickly the gold chain quivered against the brocade of his vest. “Although it's hard to fathom, considering she isn't allowed to register, your mother is a stauncher Republican than I am. Give her your argument at the dinner table this evening. If she has no qualms about you pursuing this project, I will grant my approval as well.”

If Devlin were still an excitable ten-year-old, he would leap into the air and whoop with glee. But he'd left those boyhood days behind. So he rose, offered a humble bow of his head, and said with perfect decorum, “Thank you, Father. I'll let you return to your work now.” He left his father's office, exited Barker Hall, and made his way across the greening expanse of grass to their family's horse and carriage.

The gelding stood with its head low, drowsing within the traces, but when Devlin climbed upon the driver's seat, it raised up and released a snort. Devlin picked up the reins, sent a quick look in every direction to be certain he had no witnesses, and finally let his elation explode. “Yee-haw!”

The exclamation pierced the peaceful morning. The gelding bolted forward in surprise. Devlin's feet left the foot bed and he nearly flipped over the back of the seat, but he only laughed. Who cared if his dignity got dented? Mother wouldn't stand in the way of Father's political ambitions. His trip to Mammoth Cave was as good as confirmed.

Rebekah

M
onday morning, after waving good-bye to Cissy, Della, Jessie, and Tabitha, who entered the schoolhouse with varying degrees of eagerness, Rebekah set off for the rambling hotel on the Mammoth Cave property. The mushrooms she'd gathered over the weekend filled Mama's largest basket. She expected a full fifty cents from the cook today. The weight of the plump white orbs made the wood handle cut into her wrist, so she cradled the basket against her ribs instead as she made her way up the road.

Excitement trembled in her belly. After she delivered the mushrooms, she would talk to the hotel's owner and ask about taking a job. Mama had fussed a bit, but Daddy took her aside and spoke to her in hushed tones. When he finished, she told Rebekah to do as she pleased—not with any joy, but Rebekah would accept resignation if it meant earning money for her brother's headstone. And after a fine marker stood at Andy's grave, she'd keep working. The money could pay for other things. New shoes for all of them, real glass windows for their cabin instead of shutters that locked away the sun along with the cold air, a pretty store-bought dress and hair ribbons for Cissy, books—books they could keep forever and read again and again—for all the little girls…

She imagined Christmas, the overflowing stockings, the smiles and laughter, all because Rebekah earned a wage. She gave a little skip to hurry her steps. The sooner she reached the hotel, the sooner she could claim a job, and the sooner she could start making restitution to her family for stealing Andy away from them.

The rattle of a wagon's wheels and the chatter of at least a dozen voices captured Rebekah's attention. She moved to the edge of the road, ducking a bit to keep drooping branches from grabbing her hair. One of the hotel's transport wagons, pulled by four cream-colored horses, rounded the bend. She recognized the driver, Tolly Sandford, by his top hat. He was a lanky, older black man who'd lived in one of the little cabins behind the cave's hotel for as long as Rebekah could remember. He grinned and tipped his hat as he guided the horses past her.

Rebekah couldn't wave in return with her hands holding the heavy basket, but she bobbed her head and smiled. Several of the people seated on the built-in benches in the back of the wagon called hellos and waved at her, too. Her heart filling, she smiled at all of them. Cissy had claimed the people who came to the cave would be snooty and look down their noses at the employees. She couldn't wait to tell Cissy how she'd been greeted. The enthusiastic waves and cheerful hellos rang in her memory as she set off once again.

Clouds gathered, covering the sun and throwing a shadow over the road. Rebekah glanced skyward, worrying her lip between her teeth. Would it rain today? Ordinarily she didn't mind getting wet—as Mama teasingly said, she wasn't made of sugar so she wouldn't melt. But out of respect for the hotel owner's position of importance, she'd fashioned her hair in an upswept twist instead of her everyday braid and donned her best dress, the one with some of Granny's fine hand-tatted lace at the collars and cuffs. The lace rolled up when it got wet and looked like a long, skinny caterpillar instead of delicate loops and swirls. She didn't want the hotel's owner to see her with bedraggled hair and a caterpillar circling her neck.

Hold back the rain until I'm all done at the estate, Lord, please?

Just in case God decided He'd rather let those clouds send down rain right away, she tucked the basket under one arm, lifted her skirt, and ran the remaining distance. The door to the kitchen stood open in invitation, and Rebekah stepped inside without bothering to knock. The smell of fresh-baked bread and simmering meat made her mouth water. If the food tasted as good as it smelled, the guests would have a fine meal for lunch today.

She located the cook behind a long, high table, using a butcher knife to chop potatoes into chunks. She crossed to him and set the basket at the end of the table. “Good morning, Mr. Cooper.”

He glanced at her without breaking the knife's rhythm. “Morning to you, Miss Hardin. More mushrooms to sell?”

“Yes, sir.” She lifted the toweling she'd used to cover the mushrooms and grinned. “A full basket today.”

He used the knife to slide the chopped potato pieces into a large kettle. “Lyle! Weigh Miss Hardin's mushrooms.” One of the kitchen workers bustled over, took the basket, and hurried away. Mr. Cooper grabbed another potato from a bowl, whacked it into slices, and began dicing again.

Rebekah rested her fingertips on the edge of the worktable, well away from Mr. Cooper's knife, and gathered her courage. “Mr. Cooper, where would I find Mr. Renshaw?”

“In the manager's office inside the main entrance if he's on the property.”

If? “Isn't he here every day?”

The cook paused and pinned Rebekah with a bemused look. “A live-in trustee runs the cave, Miss Hardin. No need for Renshaw to dally here all day.”

“Oh.” Rebekah's spirits sank. She chewed the inside of her lip. “Well, then, where would I find the trustee?”

Mr. Cooper set his knife to work. “Likely selling tour tickets or checking in guests.” He smacked the batch of diced potatoes into the kettle, clunked the kettle onto the massive stove, and then glowered at Rebekah. “You thinking you'll get more money for your mushrooms if you pester Mr. Renshaw or Mr. Janin? Because I can tell you I've got full rein over the kitchen. I do the buying of produce and such.”

She gaped at him, stunned by his gruffness. Heat flooded her face, and she held one hand to him. “I don't want to talk to somebody about my mushrooms. I need a job.”

The stern lines in the man's face relaxed. “A job?”

Rebekah nodded. “Yes, sir. I appreciate you buying the mushrooms. I—I hope to keep selling them to you.” If she hadn't insulted him so much he didn't want them anymore. “But I need a way to make more money than I can with the mushrooms. Do you know if they're hiring hotel maids or servers for the dining room?”

Lyle returned with Rebekah's basket, now empty. “Ten an' a half pounds, Mr. Cooper.”

The cook aimed a scowl at the young man. “With the basket or without?”

“Without.”

“That scale always weighs a little light. Let's call it eleven pounds. Get Miss Hardin fifty-five cents.”

“Yes, sir!” Lyle darted off again.

Rebekah's heart expanded. She must not have offended the cook after all. “Thank you.”

Mr. Cooper shrugged. He dumped several peeled carrots onto the work surface. “That's the least I can do, considering I have to tell you the only hiring Mr. Janin is doing right now is for a guide.”

“You mean for the tours?”

“What else would I mean?” He lined up the carrots and began turning the lengths into thin slices with smooth chops of the knife. “One of the longtime guides died a week ago, so they'll need to replace him. But I don't know of any other positions open here on the estate.”

She hugged herself. After losing her only brother to the cave, she had no desire to lead others into those dark, cool caverns. But if no other position was available, she didn't have any choice. “Do you know what the job pays?”

Mr. Cooper's hand stilled. He gawked at her for several seconds and then burst out laughing. “Miss Hardin, you can't apply to be a guide.”

“Why not?”

Lyle sidled up and plopped two twenty-five-cent pieces and a nickel on the table. He grinned, too. “Guides are men.” His brazen gaze traveled across Rebekah's skirt and upswept hair. “You're not a man, that's for sure.”

“Get back to work.” At the cook's brusque demand, Lyle trotted off. Mr. Cooper wiped his hand over his face, removing the glint of humor. “Lyle's right. Only men take folks on the tours.”

Rebekah frowned. She'd seen several women in the wagon heading for the cave. “But why?”

The cook folded his arms over his chest and leaned against the table. “ 'Cause it's the way it's always been, I guess.” He blew out a short breath and reached again for his knife. “I'm sorry, but there aren't any jobs open right now for a young lady. Chances are there won't be for a while. Mr. Janin's already hired for the spring and summer seasons, and he always has a list of women waiting to fill any position that opens unexpectedly.”

Rebekah blinked rapidly, fighting tears. “Oh.”

He bumped her chin with his fist. “But I'll tell him to add your name to the list, and I'll even let him know I think you'd be a good worker, all right?”

Rebekah forced a smile. “All right. Thank you, Mr. Cooper.”

He offered one more quick smile and then turned his attention back to chopping vegetables.

With a sigh, Rebekah pocketed the coins and left the kitchen. She stepped from the warm room into chilly, moist air. Those clouds would let loose any time now. She needed to hurry home. But somehow she couldn't convince her legs to move faster than a snail's pace.

She'd set her hopes high, so sure she'd find a job and would be able to buy the marker for Andy. She'd gotten Daddy's hopes up, too. How could she tell him she'd failed? Her chest felt tight and heavy, the way it had the day they laid Andy in his grave. Losing the chance to buy the headstone and all the other things she let herself dream about was like burying her brother all over again.

Fat raindrops began to fall from the sky as she reached the edge of her yard. She ran the last few feet and gave a lithe leap onto the porch just ahead of the real soaking rain. The slanting porch roof would hold back any water from entering the cabin, so she left the door open to let in light as she stepped over the threshold.

“Mama, I'm back. I—” She stopped and looked around in confusion. The cabin was empty. Where was everybody? A slip of paper waited in the middle of the table. She crossed the floor and picked up the sheet.

Dear Bek, Daddy and me tuk the leastuns to Susan Lindseys to trade a gallon of sorghum for black walnuts. Spring soup in the kettul. Back soon. Mama.

She dropped the note on the table and sighed. Mama's flavorful wild greens and ham soup, a treat this time of year, held no appeal. She wanted to talk to Daddy. “Back soon,” the note said, but with the rain coming down in buckets, she didn't expect Daddy to leave the Lindsey place until he could be sure the little girls wouldn't get soaked to the skin. Trudy had always been prone to colds. Spring colds could linger a long time, and they didn't have spare money for doctoring. She likely wouldn't see them for an hour or two.

She flicked a glance around the room, shivering. How could this cabin, her only home, seem so forbidding when everyone was gone? She opened the shutters on the front windows to let in as much light as possible. Then she hung Mama's basket on its hook, clanked the coins into the money can, and went to her bedroom and changed out of her good dress into one of her work dresses. As she exited her bedroom, a flash of lightning briefly lit the cabin's main room, and her gaze collided with the ladder hung high on the back wall.

Thunder boomed and her heart double-thudded. She hugged herself, uncertain whether the thunder or the ladder had caused the gallop in her chest. She slowly crossed the floor while rain pelted the roof and a cool breeze snaked in to chill her bare feet and arms. She stood up on tiptoe and slid her finger along one side rail. She wrinkled her nose. Sticky cobwebs collected between the rungs, proof of its long time going unused.

She remembered the day Daddy put it on the wall. The same day they'd buried Andy. He'd pounded in nails and hung it high so none of his gals could bring it down. Rebekah asked him why he didn't take it out to the shed, use it to climb up on the roof or to reach the fruit in one of the cherry trees growing in the woods nearby. She could still see the stunned look on Daddy's face, hear his pained reply.

“It's Andy's ladder.”

She sank back onto her heels, nodding in agreement with the memory. Andy had built the ladder himself to gain access to the small loft, his own little space away from his sisters. He'd go up there, pull the ladder in behind him, and then make faces at them from the opening. Daddy never used Andy's ladder. Mama never let anybody go into the loft. As far as Rebekah knew, Andy's trunk of clothes, his mattress, and the quilt Granny Hardin had sewn for him when he was no higher than Daddy's knees were all still up there, untouched, a silent testimony that at one time a boy had lived there.