Heart Appearances (Truly Yours Digital Editions Book 560) (10 page)

“He meant to do it, Mr. Thomas.”

Joel crossed his arms, apparently forgetting he still held a wet paintbrush. “You can’t prove it,” he said, a smirk on his face. “It was an accident, pure and simple.”

Darcy wondered why a little more whitewash should matter to Herbert, who was already spattered with white, but she kept silent.

“It weren’t no accident!” Herbert’s eyes narrowed. “It was about as much an accident as you stopping up the stovepipe with—”

“Shut up!” Joel growled and uncrossed his arms, all indifference gone.

Herbert’s expression was smug. “That’s why the stove didn’t work right last winter, Mr. Thomas. ’Cause Joel took some old rags and climbed the roof—”

With a ferocious yell, Joel barreled into Herbert, tackling him to the ground. “You squealer! I’ll show you not to double-cross me. You’re just as much to blame for holding the ladder.”

Joel straddled Herbert and lifted the hand holding the paintbrush high. Before Brent could intervene, Joel gave the boy’s face a few quick swipes with the brush, covering Herbert’s red skin with white until he resembled a ghost. “There, have some more!”

“Aggghhh!” Herbert’s hands went to his face. “He got it in my eyes! I can’t see!”

“Mercy! What’s going on now?” Irma screeched as she ran from the kitchen door, raising her skirts high. “Joel, you stop that this minute!”

Brent now had both arms around Joel, who still swung the paintbrush like a weapon, and pulled him back. Herbert lay on the ground, howling, hands over his eyes. Michael, his great size making him awkward, ran from overseeing the boys at the end of the row. He lifted the injured boy off the ground and jogged to the house.

“Irma, call Doc Sanderson,” Brent ordered through clenched teeth as he restrained a struggling Joel. “Miss Evans, wash Herbert’s eyes out.” He looked at the other boys, and Darcy noticed his glasses were missing. “The contest is canceled.”

Ignoring the cries of disappointment, Darcy ran after Michael, her heart beating with misgiving. Once inside the house, she pumped water into a basin. In the hallway, Irma cranked the telephone, trying to get the operator. She spoke into the mouthpiece on the wooden box attached to the wall. “Hello, Miranda? Miranda, can you hear me? Get Doc to the Refuge as soon as possible. One of the boys is hurt.”

Darcy stared into the filled basin.
Lord, help me. Don’t let this poor boy go blind. Show me what to do.
She positioned the crying Herbert, placing his upper body over the table and turning his head sideways. Dipping a cup in the water, she saw she would need another pair of hands and glanced at Michael. “I could use assistance.” Her voice wavered with the doubt she felt.

“Of course, Lass.” His expression grave, Michael took hold of Herbert’s small wrists, forcing the boy’s curled fingers from his face, and held them in one massive hand. With his other hand, Michael held the boy’s head steady.

Using her thumb and forefinger, Darcy opened his tightly clenched eyelid and trickled water into the corner of his eye. Herbert howled in pain, but she didn’t stop. Instead, she repeated the process several times with both eyes. Her heart wrenched at his pitiful sobs.

When the sound of horses’ hooves and the jangle of harness finally came, Darcy felt a sudden relief, knowing someone more qualified would soon be taking over. Portly Doc Sanderson bustled into the kitchen. He quickly surveyed the scene, his full lips thinning. “Take the boy into the parlor, Michael. Put him on the sofa. I’ll examine him there.”

Michael carried Herbert into the next room, and Doc followed. Darcy collapsed onto the vacated chair and propped her elbows on the wet table. She dropped her forehead onto her palms. “Help him, Lord. Take care of his eyes.”

“Amen,” Irma murmured. “I’ll make coffee.” The clang of metal hitting metal rang through the air while she went about her task.

Darcy eyed the water that had run off the edge of the table to form a puddle on the planks. “I’ll take care of this mess.”

As she put away the mop, the back door opened and Brent walked inside. His suit jacket was covered with white smears and speckles, his hair was disheveled, and his glasses were missing. Never had Darcy seen the proper schoolmaster in such a state. She propped the mop against the wall. “What happened to your spectacles?”

Without a word, he fished them from his coat pocket. A wire earpiece had broken off, and a crack zigzagged over one lens.

Darcy peered up at him sheepishly. “Er, sorry, Guv’ner. Why don’t you sit down and rest a spell? Irma’s makin’ coffee.”

His sober countenance melted into one of relief. “Coffee sounds superb.” He took a seat opposite Darcy. “How is the boy?”

“Doc’s with him in the parlor.”

Brent nodded, his gaze pensive as he studied his hands clasped on the table. Irma set down two steaming cups of coffee and followed it with two plates, each containing a thick slice of blackberry pie. “No sense letting it go to waste,” she muttered.

Darcy stared at the dessert she’d made only this morning. The purplish black berries and sauce oozed from beneath a thin, flaky crust. A prize for the winner. What a farce that had turned out to be!

Darcy pushed away her plate, unable to enjoy the treat. Brent, apparently, had no such compunction; and Darcy watched as he lifted a forkful of the fragrant pie to his mouth.

“Ah, Miss Evans, you’ve outdone yourself,” he said after he chewed and swallowed the first bite. He drank the rest of his coffee. “Irma, may I have another cup?”

Irma let Darcy know from the start that she preferred to be known simply as “Irma,” and Darcy assumed that was why Brent called the cook by her Christian name.

“It’s a crying shame about your suit.” Irma tsk-tsked. “Not sure I can get whitewash out, being how it’s got lime and whiting in it, but I can give it a try.”

“Thank you. I appreciate the offer. However, I think such an attempt would prove futile.” Brent gave Irma a faded smile and held out a sleeve. “The paint appears to have absorbed into the wool and dried. I’ve needed to acquire a new suit for some time, and I suppose now is the time to do so.”

“You can have what’s left of my eight dollars,” Darcy blurted. “I still have a little over four dollars left.”

Brent’s eyes widened. “I can’t take your money, Miss Evans.”

“Whyever not?”

The question seemed to baffle him. “Because it’s yours.”

“Well, now, I know that. I’m offering it. All, or as much as you need.” She lowered her gaze to her untouched pie. “I’m feelin’ a mite guilty—bein’ as how the contest was my idea. And you’ll need new glasses.” Uncomfortable, she took a sip of the bitter black brew, trying not to scowl and hurt Irma’s feelings. She really didn’t like coffee.

“I appreciate your generous offer.” Brent’s voice came more quietly. “But I do have adequate funds to obtain a suit. I keep a spare pair of eyeglasses in my bureau drawer, as well.”

Darcy gave a swift nod but didn’t look up. She took another sip of coffee.

“Well, I need to be seeing what Charleigh wants for her lunch,” Irma said, bustling from the room.

Brent picked up his cup. “Don’t feel too badly, Miss Evans. Everyone is entitled to a substandard idea once in a lifetime. It’s part of being human.”

Her gaze shot upward. “Substandard?”

“A bad idea.” When she shook her head in confusion, he added, “The contest.”

“Oh, but I don’t think my idea a bad one.”

His sympathetic expression changed to one of incredulity. “Surely you must be jesting.”

“No, Guv’ner.” Her voice came steady, and she carefully set her cup on the saucer. “Herbert and Joel are always bickering. Why should all the lads be punished for the mischief of two boys?”

His cup hit the saucer with a harsh clink. “Miss Evans—”

“Hear me out, Guv’ner. What happened today isn’t so unusual, though ’tis a pity the scuffle ended with Herbert injured.” Concern washed over her again as she turned her gaze toward the closed door that led to the parlor. “But Herbert is always gettin’ hurt, and Joel is always fighting—usually Herbert. You can hardly blame the contest for what happened today.”

He released a weary sigh. “Granted, you may be right. Yet what do you propose we do to prevent this problem from resurfacing in the future?”

She shrugged one shoulder. “Simple. Because of their behavior, Joel and Herbert are excluded from the next contest. Tomorrow is Saturday. We’ll try again then.”

Exasperation filled Brent’s eyes. “Miss Evans, did anyone ever tell you that you are one obdurate woman?”

“Obdurate?”

“Stubborn.”

Darcy smiled. “And did anyone ever tell you, Guv’ner, that you have the nicest blue eyes? Bright as robins’ eggs they are, clear and shiny. You really should go without your glasses more often. It would be nice to see your eyes without them spectacles always in the way.”

A flush of red swept up his neck to his face. Darcy thought it a good thing that his mouth wasn’t full of dessert. She studied his face and form, thinking him to be quite attractive all the way around.
If only. . .

“Eat your pie, Guv’ner. Things are quite simpler than you’re makin’ ’em out to be. You’ll see. One day, hopefully, you’ll see everything that’s sittin’ in front of your face—with or without the aid of your spectacles.”

Brent recovered enough to blot his mouth with a napkin. “And just what is that convoluted piece of logic supposed to mean?”

“Just this. Pigeons might not be as beautiful as peacocks, or as graceful as swans, or sing as pretty as larks—but they have their place in this world too.” She stood, braced her hands on the table, and leaned toward him. “And you know what, Guv’ner? Some people prefer spendin’ time with the likes o’ them than with the other high falutin birds.”

Darcy flounced from the room, leaving Brent gaping after her in bewilderment.

Seven

After filling out quarterly progress reports, Brent decided it was time for a break. He stood, stretched the kinks out from between his shoulder blades, and glanced out the window overlooking the front yard. His brows rose in surprise.

Golden sunlight dappled bright circles through the sparsely leafed branches and onto Joel’s white blond hair. He sat under an oak, his arms wrapped around his legs, his face on his knees. A trickle of red and gold fell around him as several leaves in the branches above surrendered their posts and wearily drifted to the ground.

Brent puzzled a moment and then headed for the door. Once outside, he made his way to where the boy sat, his crunching footsteps announcing his approach. Joel lifted his face, his tear-smudged cheeks evidence he’d been crying. His bright eyes were defiant. “What do you want?” His voice came out harsh.

Brent decided now was not the time to reprimand the boy for disrespect. Without being asked, he awkwardly sank to the leafy ground beside him and looped his arms around his bent knees, matching Joel’s stance. Brent’s everyday suit coat had been ruined from the whitewashing experience, so there was no need to protect it. He would replace it the next time he went into town.

He stared at the silvery blue horizon beyond the pasture, where two cows and four horses grazed on what was left of the grass. “Days like this often cause me to ponder former episodes of my life,” Brent said quietly. From the corner of his eye, he could tell he’d won Joel’s attention.

“Yeah. So?” Suspicion laced the boy’s voice.

“Autumn is a season of change,” Brent replied, still not looking at the lad. “A time when some things must die, so that they may be reborn.”

“That’s silly.” Joel swiped a hand underneath his nose. “Why should something have to die so’s it can be reborn? Why can’t it just go on living forever?”

“Well, I believe that was the original plan, Joel.” He plucked up a withered brown leaf. “Observe this leaf. Once it was green and soft and shiny. Now look at it.” Brent crushed it in his hand. It crackled into small particles, showering like dust to the ground. “People can be like that. They can allow hatred and bitterness to make them hard and dry and brittle and age them before their time.”

The boy said nothing, only stared at the brown fragments.

“What happens when spring comes, Joel?”

Indignant blue eyes snapped upward. “Any moron can tell you that, Mr. Thomas—and I ain’t no moron.”

Brent nodded. “Actually you’re quite smart when you put your mind to it. Yet suppose you enlighten me in any case.”

Joel rolled his eyes. “The trees get new leaves on ’em.”

“Exactly! Brand-new leaves—shiny and green. But first the leaves start as tiny buds.”

“So?” Joel shrugged, clearly bored.

“So, that’s what happens when a person asks Jesus to be his Savior.” Brent scooped up the brown fragments. “We’re like this before having Jesus. Old, dry, dead in our sins. When we ask God to come inside our hearts, He gives us new life—and a new start. Like a bud in springtime. As we grow with Him, we bloom until we reach our full potential, though as long as we’re on this earth, He constantly will be perfecting us.”

Joel eyed the crisp foliage. “So what did these ole leaves do to deserve to die? Did they sin?”

Brent let out an exasperated breath. “You’re missing the point, Joel. These are merely leaves. They don’t have spirits like you and I do. Every person needs Jesus to be reborn. I was using the leaves to illustrate that.”