Tender Vow (39 page)

She swallowed a sigh, hefted up the coffeepot when it finished percolating, and started the refills with Coot Hermanson.

***

Will Taylor ground out his last cigarette with his worn sole as he leaned against the wall of the train car, his head pounding with every jar of the tracks, the whir and buzz of metal touching metal ripping through him. He stared down at his empty pack of Luckies and turned up his mouth in the corner, giving a little huff of self-disgust. He didn’t really smoke—at least, not anymore—but when he’d left Welfare Island State Penitentiary in New York City in the wee hours of the morning, one of the guards had handed him a fresh pack, along with what few belongings he had to his name, and he’d smoked the entire thing to help pass the time.

Sharing the mostly empty freight car with him were a dozen or so men, the majority of whom wore unkempt beards, ragged clothing, and long faces. They also stank to the heavens. He figured he fit right in with the lot of them. Frankly, they all looked like a bunch of bums—and probably were, for that matter. Why else would they have jumped aboard the freight car at various stations while the yardmen had their backs turned? Will had intended to pay his fare and had even found himself standing in line at the ticket booth, but when he’d counted his meager stash of cash, he’d fallen back out. Thankfully, the dense morning fog had made his train-jumping maneuver a cinch. If only it had had the same effect on his conscience. He’d just been released from prison. Could he not get through his first day of freedom without breaking the law?

“Where you headed, mister?” the man closest to him asked.

He could count on one hand the number of minutes anybody on that dark, dingy car had engaged in conversation in the hours they’d been riding, and he didn’t much feel like talking now, but he turned to the fellow, anyway. “Wabash, Indiana,” he answered. “Heard it’s a nice place.”

Actually, he knew nothing about it, save for the state song, “On the Banks of the Wabash, Far Away,” which spoke about the river running through it. He’d only just determined his destination that morning while poring over a map in the train station, thinking that any other place in the country would beat where he’d spent the last ten years. Overhearing someone mention Wabash, he’d found it on the map and, being that it had its own song, set his mind to going there.

He didn’t know a soul in Wabash, which made the place that much more appealing. Best to start fresh where nobody knew him. Of course, he had no idea what he’d do to make a living, and it might be that he’d have to move on to the next town if jobs there were scarce. But he’d cross that bridge when he came to it.

His stomach growled, so he unwrapped his knapsack and took out an apple, just one of the few items he’d lifted from the jail kitchen the previous night—with the approval of Harry Wilkinson, the kitchen supervisor. The friends he’d made at Welfare Island were few—couldn’t trust most folks any farther than he could pitch them—but he did consider Harry a friend, having worked alongside him for the past four years. Harry had told him about the love of God and convinced him not six months ago to give his heart over to Him, saying he’d need a good friend when he left the Island and could do no better than the Creator of the universe. Will had agreed, of course, but he sure was green in the faith department, even though he’d taken to reading the Bible Harry had given him—his first and only—almost every night before laying his head on his flat, frayed pillow.

“Wabash, eh?” the man said, breaking into his musings. “I heard of it. Ain’t that the first electrically lighted city in the world? I do believe that’s their claim to fame.”

“That right? I wouldn’t know.”

“What takes you to Wabash?” he persisted, pulling on his straggly beard.

Will pulled on his own thick beard, mostly brown with some flecks of blond, briefly wondering if he ought to shave it off before he went in search of a job. He’d seen his reflection in a mirror that morning for the first time in a week and had nearly fallen over. In fact, he had to do some mental figuring to determine that he was actually thirty-four years and not fifty-four. Prison had not been good to his appearance—there were lines around his eyes from slaving under a hot summer sun digging trenches and hoeing the prison garden. The winters had been spent hauling coal and chopping logs, and while the work had put him in excellent shape physically, the sun and wind had wreaked havoc on his skin, freckling his nose and arms and wrinkling his forehead. When he hadn’t been outside, he’d worked in a scorching-hot kitchen stirring kettles of soup, peeling potatoes, onions, and carrots, cutting slabs of beef, filleting fish, and plucking chickens’ feathers.

“It seemed as good a place as any,” he replied after some thought, determined to keep his answers short and vague.

The fellow peered at him with arched eyebrows. “Where you come from, anyway?”

“Around.”

A chuckle floated through the air but quickly drowned in the train’s blaring whistle. The man dug into his side pocket and brought out a cigar, stuck it in his mouth, and lit the end, then took a deep drag before blowing out a long stream of smoke. He gave a slow, thoughtful nod and gazed off. “Yeah, I know. Me, too.” Across the dark space, the others shifted or slept, legs crossed at the ankles, heads bobbing, not seeming to care about the conversation, if they even heard it.

He might have inquired after his traveling companion, but his years behind bars had taught him plenty—most important, not to trust his fellow man, and certainly never to divulge his personal history. And he’d only invite inquiries of himself if he posed them to others.

After chomping down his final bite of apple, he tossed the chiseled core onto the floor, figuring a rodent would appreciate it later. He wiped his hands on his pant legs and pulled out his trusty harmonica from his hip pocket. Moistening his lips, he brought the instrument to his mouth and started breathing into it, cupping it like he might a beautiful woman’s face. Music had always soothed whatever ailed him, and he’d often whiled away the hours playing this humble instrument, having picked up the skill as a youngster under his grandfather’s expert tutelage.

He must have played a good half dozen songs—“Oh, Dem Golden Slippers,” “Oh My Darling, Clementine,” “Over There,” “Amazing Grace,” “The Sidewalks of New York,” and even “On the Banks of the Wabash, Far Away”—before he learned they’d entered the town of Wabash. The shrill train whistle announced their arrival, and another stowaway pulled the big door open a crack to gaze out and establish their whereabouts.

Quickly, Will stuffed his mouth organ back into his pocket and stretched his back, the taut muscles tingling from being stationary for so long. At least his pounding headache had relented, replaced now by a mess of tangled nerves. Or, perhaps “reserved excitement” better described his emotions.

“Nice playin’,” said a man whose face was hidden by the shadow of his low-lying hat. He tipped the brim at Will and gave a slow nod. “You’ve got a way with that thing. Almost put me in a lonesome-type mood.”

“Thanks. I mean, for the compliment. Sorry ’bout your gloomy mood. Didn’t mean to bring that on.”

“Ain’t nothin’. I been jumpin’ trains f’r as long as I can remember. Gettin’ the lonelies every now and again is somethin’ to be ’spected, I s’pose.”

“That’s for sure,” mumbled another man sitting in a corner with his legs stretched out. Will glanced at the sole of his boot and noticed his sock pushing through a gaping hole. Something like a rock turned over in his gut. These guys made a habit of hopping on trains, living off handouts, and roaming the countryside. Vagabonds, they were. He hoped never to see the inside of another freight car, and by gum, he’d see to it he didn’t—with the Lord’s help, that is. He had about enough money to last a couple of weeks, so long as he holed up someplace dirt-cheap and watched what he spent on food. He prayed he’d land a job—any job—in that time. He wouldn’t be choosy in the beginning; he couldn’t afford to be. If he had to haul garbage, well, so be it. He couldn’t expect much more than that, not with a criminal record. His hope was that no one would inquire. After all, who else but somebody downright desperate would hire an ex-con? Not that he planned to offer that little tidbit of information, but he supposed anybody could go digging if they really wanted to know.

He hadn’t changed his name to protect his identity, even though Harry had advised him to. “I’m not going to run for the rest of my life, Harry,” he’d argued. “Heck, I served my time. It’s not that I plan to broadcast it, mind you, but I’m not going to carry the weight of it forever, either. I wasn’t the only one involved in that stupid burglary.” Harry had nodded in silence, then reached up to lay a bony hand on Will’s hulking shoulder. Few people ever laid a hand on him and got away with it, so, naturally, he’d started to pull away, but Harry had held firm, forcing Will to loosen up. “You got a good point there, Will. You’re a good man, you know that?” He hadn’t known that, and he’d appreciated Harry’s vote of confidence. “You just got to go out there and be yourself. Folks will believe in you if you take the first step, start seeing your own self-worth. The Lord sees it, and you need to look at yourself through His eyes. Before you know it, your past will no longer matter—not to you or to anyone else.”

The train brakes screeched for all of a minute, with smoke rising up from the tracks and seeping through the cracks of the dirty car. Will choked back the burning residue and stood, gazing down at his strange companions, feeling a certain kinship with them he’d never expected to experience. “You men be safe, now,” he said, passing his gaze over each one. Several acknowledged him with a nod, but most of them just gave him a vacant stare. The fellow at the back of the car who’d spent the entire day sleeping in the shadows finally lifted his face a notch. Assessing eyes drilled into him, but Will shook off any uneasiness.

The one who’d first struck up a conversation with Will, short-lived as it was, raised his bearded chin and made eye contact with him. “You watch yourself out there, fella. You got to move fast once your feet hit that dirt. Anybody sees you jumpin’ off is sure to report you, and if it’s one of the yardmen, well, you may as well kiss your hiney good-bye. They got weapons on them, and they don’t look kindly on us spongers.”

“Thanks. I’ll be on guard.” Little did they know how adept he was at handling himself. His years served in the state pen had taught him survival skills he hoped never to have to use in the outside world. When the train finally stopped, he reached inside his front shirt pocket and snagged his watch, which was missing its chain. Ten minutes after seven. Dropping it back inside his pocket, he pulled the sliding door open just enough to fit his bulky body through, then poked his head out and looked around. Finding the coast clear, thanks to a long freight train parked on neighboring tracks, he gave the fellows one last nod, leaped from the car, and slinked off into the gathering dusk, his sack of meager possessions slung over his shoulder.

First thing on his short agenda: look for a restaurant where he could silence his grumbling stomach.

Born and raised in western Michigan, Sharlene MacLaren attended Spring Arbor University. Upon graduating with an education degree, she traveled internationally for a year with a small singing ensemble, then came home and married one of her childhood friends. Together they raised two lovely daughters. Now happily retired after teaching elementary school for thirty-one years, “Shar” enjoys reading, writing, singing in the church choir and worship teams, traveling, and spending time with her husband, children, and precious grandchildren.

A Christian for over forty years and a lover of the English language, Shar has always enjoyed dabbling in writing—poetry, fiction, various essays, and freelancing for periodicals and newspapers. Her favored genre, however, has always been romance. She remembers well the short stories she wrote in high school and watching them circulate from girl to girl during government and civics classes.“Psst,” someone would whisper from two rows over, always when the teacher’s back was to the class, “pass me the next page.”

Shar is an occasional speaker for her local MOPS organization; is involved in KIDS’ HOPE USA, a mentoring program for at-risk children; counsels young women in the Apples of Gold program; and is active in two weekly Bible studies. She and her husband, Cecil, live in Spring Lake, Michigan, with Mocha, their lazy, fat cat.

The acclaimed
Through Every Storm
was Shar’s first novel to be published by Whitaker House, and in 2007, the American Christian Fiction Writers (ACFW) named it a finalist for Book of the Year.
Long Journey Home
is a contemporary tale of healing hearts, rekindled faith, and finding love in life’s tragedies. The beloved Little Hickman Creek series consists of
Loving Liza Jane
;
Sarah, My Beloved
; and
Courting Emma
. Faith, Hope, and Love, the Inspirational Outreach Chapter of Romance Writers of America, announced
Sarah, My Beloved
as a finalist in its 2008 Inspirational Reader’s Choice Contest in the category of long historical fiction. In 2009, she received the same honor for
Courting Emma
.

Hannah Grace
,
Maggie Rose
, and
Abbie Ann
compose Shar’s latest historical trilogy, The Daughters of Jacob Kane, and in 2010, Shar received yet another nomination from the IRCC for
Hannah Grace
.

In the fall of 2011, Shar’s newest series, River of Hope, will release its first installment.