The Innocent (3 page)

He studied her bent head, and wished he could just go out the door and walk away. Let her continue her fantasy of her husband’s return. He’d seen too much sorrow in the war. But perhaps Whitlow was right and it was time for Carlyn Kearney to face the truth. Right or wrong, whether he wanted to or not, he was going to have to push that truth at her.

“The war has been over for some time, Mrs. Kearney.”

“I know that, Sheriff.” She didn’t look up at him.

Mitchell let the silence build in the room for a moment as he tried to come up with the least hurtful thing to say. He wouldn’t be like Whitlow and throw words at her. “When did you last hear from your husband, ma’am?”

Her hand paused in mid-stroke on the dog’s head. “It’s been awhile, but Ambrose was never good at writing letters.” She began stroking the dog again.

“I see.” He did see, but it was plain she wasn’t ready to face the truth that the husband wasn’t coming home. They could tiptoe around that fact all day, but it wouldn’t change a thing. Mitchell pulled in a breath and blew it out. Again silence built in the room.

Whitlow’s shout from outside broke it. “Hurry it up, Sheriff! I haven’t got all day.”

Mitchell didn’t look around as his hands tightened into fists. It was good the man wasn’t standing beside him or he’d be sprawled on the ground. Mitchell didn’t care how influential he was in the town.

The woman glanced out the door and then at Mitchell, who must not have been successful at hiding his irritation. She almost smiled as she said, “You can borrow my shotgun if you’d like, Sheriff.”

A smile did crawl out on Mitchell’s face as he uncurled his fists. “Sounds tempting. Or we could just turn your dog loose.” The dog had raised its head and was staring out the door, looking eager for just that command.

She did smile now. “That would make Asher happy.” She laid her hand atop the dog’s head.

“Is he a hound? Those gray flecks in his fur make me think of a Blue Tick hound my father used to have.”

“I don’t know what he is.” Her voice was easier now, talking about the dog instead of Whitlow and his demands. “He showed up a couple of months after Ambrose enlisted. Nothing but skin and bones and with a sore paw like maybe he’d been in a trap. Poor thing.”

The dog seemed to know she was talking about him as he raised his nose toward her face and whined.

“He looks fine now,” Mitchell said.

“He is fine.”

When Whitlow shouted again, Mitchell shut away the sound of his voice and concentrated on Carlyn Kearney. He wanted her to talk more about the dog and keep smiling. Instead, she stared out the door and her smile faded.

To distract her from Whitlow, Mitchell held his hand out toward the dog. “Think he’d let me pet him?” He liked dogs. Had made friends with several that showed up in the army camps from time to time.

The dog turned his head toward Mitchell, but he didn’t move to sniff his hand.

“Of course. He’s not really vicious. It’s only Curt he can’t abide.” Her smile came back when she looked down at the dog. “Asher, Sheriff Brodie is a friend.”

It was foolish the way he let her words lift his heart. But wasn’t that what he wanted all the people in his county to think? That he was their friend, ready to protect them. Then again, what kind of friend set people out of their houses? He kept his eyes on the dog and held his hand closer to its nose.

The dog looked from him to the woman. “Friend,” she repeated.

The dog stood then and sniffed Mitchell’s fingers. After a moment, Mitchell moved his hand to touch the dog’s head. The dog stepped closer to sniff Mitchell’s leg. If not for the animal’s tail sweeping back and forth, Mitchell might have thought he was checking out the softest place to bite.

“Nice dog,” he said.

“Do you have a dog, Sheriff?”

“Not since I was a boy.” Mitchell glanced over at her and paused in rubbing the dog’s ears. The dog bumped his nose against Mitchell’s hand to get him to start up again.

“You must like dogs though,” she said. “Ambrose doesn’t like dogs much, not just as pets. Says hunting dogs are okay, but a dog needs to earn its keep. I don’t know what he’ll say when he comes home and sees Asher.” Her words trailed off as though she knew that was a worry she’d probably never have to face.

Mitchell didn’t say anything, just kept stroking the dog. He wasn’t there to talk about her husband coming home or not. But he was going to have to tell her to leave her house. An uncomfortable silence replaced the easy talk about the dog. He pulled in a breath. He couldn’t put it off any longer. Whitlow was right. The day was wasting and he needed to stop pussyfooting around.

“Do you have family nearby, Mrs. Kearney?”

“Nobody but Asher.” At the sound of his name, the dog deserted Mitchell to go lean against her leg. “But I suppose a dog doesn’t count as family.”

“Somebody from your church then?”

This time she blew out a sigh and stood to face Mitchell. “It’s no concern of yours whether I have friends and family, Sheriff. You must do your job. How long does the law give me to vacate my house?”

He wanted to say a month. A year. But instead he said, “A week.”

“Very well.” She squared her shoulders and looked back at him. “But you tell Curt Whitlow until that legally given time is up, I am within my rights to shoot any trespassers on my porch.” Her eyes slid to the gun propped by the door.

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll tell him.”

Mitchell didn’t look back as he went out the door and down off the porch. He wanted to, but he didn’t.

3

Saturday dawned with enough chill in the air to warn of summer’s end. Carlyn stirred the fire awake in the stove to fry eggs for her and Asher. Asher didn’t care if his egg was cooked, but the skillet was hot. She did set his dish on the floor. She hadn’t gone quite so crazy that she expected the dog to sit at the table. Not quite.

“But if you could, it would be company,” she told Asher as she dumped half the eggs in his bowl. She put the other half on her plate on the table. She wasn’t sure why she bothered with a plate for herself instead of eating out of the skillet, but it seemed she should.

She looked longingly at the teakettle beginning to sing, but it sang for naught. She had no tea and had never cared for the sassafras root her mother used to steep when her tea ran out. She scooted the teakettle to the back of the stove to keep it from taunting her and sat down at the table to bow her head over the egg on her plate. No bread or meat accompanied it. She had hoped to trade apples from her
tree for some flour from her neighbor today. Now it hardly seemed worth the trek over to Mrs. Smith’s house.

It was best to be grateful for what she had instead of wishing for what she didn’t have. “Thank you, Lord, for the food you have supplied. Let it be used for the nourishment of my body and forgive me my sins. Amen.”

From the time Carlyn could remember, her mother had spoken a prayer like that over their meals, no matter how scant those meals were. Always asking forgiveness when Carlyn saw no need for that request. Her mother was ever working, ever shouldering her load without complaint, ever thanking the Lord for whatever came her way.

Carlyn didn’t feel thankful this morning. She looked out the back door left open to the morning air and resented the warmth the sun spread across the yard to offer a perfect workday. Carlyn had thought to drag fallen limbs in from the woods behind the house to add to her woodpile before the freezing winds began to blow. The late beans in the garden were ready to pick, and she needed to beat the varmints to the windfall under the apple tree. She wasn’t afraid of work. Since Ambrose went off to war, she had diligently used every gift of the land to keep the wolf from the door.

But now the sunshine mocked her just as the teakettle had. The wolf had knocked down her door and claimed her house. She took a couple bites of her egg and then dumped the rest in Asher’s dish. The dog looked at her for permission.

“Go ahead. I’m not hungry.”

He tilted his head, but didn’t put his nose to the bowl until she turned away. The bowl scooted on the floor as the dog emptied it with his tongue.

Carlyn wandered from the kitchen to the front room,
sliding her fingers across the wooden tables and chairs while memories assaulted her. Tears blurred her eyes as she touched the front door facing and heard the echo of Ambrose’s laugh on that first day here when he carried her across the threshold. She’d felt almost as if she were floating on his love as they shut the door to the world outside and began their life together. A life interrupted by war.

A life ended by the war.
Ambrose
Kearney is never coming home. He’s dead.
Curt Whitlow’s words slammed through her mind. Dead.

Curt had been telling her that for months, and while nobody else said it to her face, they thought it. The people at church. Mrs. Smith on the farm over the hill who was continually mentioning this or that unattached man. As if Carlyn could just declare Ambrose dead and pick a new man. Carlyn didn’t want a new man. She wanted Ambrose striding up the lane, home. She had clung to that hope through two long winters.

When she was a girl, her mother often cautioned her about being too ready to wish and dream. “You can’t dream up a fire in the cookstove or wish a pot on that stove full of beans. Men like your father can dream of paradise, but the women behind those men have to think more on the practical matters of empty stomachs to fill.”

Carlyn raised her head and looked out the door. The grass was still green, the trees full with leaves, and yet summer was dying. The cardinal singing in the tree sounded almost frantic, as if it knew the hard times were coming when seeds wouldn’t be plentiful. Carlyn stared out at the road. The empty road.

Never coming
home.

When Ambrose strode away from her across their yard that
long ago January day, she’d grabbed the porch post to keep from running after him. He had already told her goodbye. His lips on hers were soft.

“’Twill only be for a little while, my Carly.” He cupped her face in his broad hands and stared down into her eyes. “We’ll beat those Rebels back and make our country whole again. Then I’ll be running home to you.”

He had kissed her one last time. “Nothing short of death can keep me from coming home. You can depend on that. You’ll see me coming back across this yard, and when I see you in the door, I’ll be shouting hallelujahs to the Lord for giving me the likes of you for a wife.”

Nothing
short of death.

Carlyn blinked her eyes to clear them of tears and imagined Ambrose coming across the yard toward her. He’d be smiling. Maybe slimmer than when he left due to the privations of army life. She smiled, seeing him in her imagination, but then her smile disappeared as the image shimmered and faded. Instead, in six days, it would be the sheriff striding across her yard to put her out of the house. Tall and strong like Ambrose but with a very different purpose. Not that he wanted to put her out. She’d seen his compassion when he asked if she had family. And seen his pity.

Why did that poke her so sorely? Did not her father forever preach that pride would bring a person down low?

She shook her head to rid it of the thought of the sheriff’s pity and of her father’s preaching. Her father could hardly accuse her of pride. The whole last year, she’d practically lived on the charity of her neighbors. Nothing prideful about that.

But her father’s words wound through her mind from some long-ago sermon. Whether preached from a pulpit or
from the head of the supper table, she did not remember. “Not accepting the lot the Lord assigns to you is sinful pride. You cannot think you know more than God of what your life should hold. A man does well to bend his head and accept the yoke the Lord has for him.”

When her father was preaching, Carlyn always got shivers. Not holy ones that transported her into a glorious feeling the way her father said it should, but dreadful shivers that she would never be able to measure up to what a Christian should be. In her mind then, God was too much like her father. He took no excuses for failure and would be quick to dole out punishment.

The Lord chastises those he loves.
Another of her father’s oft-repeated verses. Her father was quick with punishment in the face of the smallest infraction. Carlyn had learned early to stay beyond his reach. To hide away from his sight. At times she wanted to do the same with God, even though she knew such was not possible.

But Ambrose had introduced her to a gentler faith. One where God was love. An ever-present help in trouble. She could embrace that vision of God when she was with Ambrose, but it leaked away without his strong presence beside her. If the Lord was a help in trouble, then why wasn’t he helping her now? Why hadn’t he let Ambrose come home?

Carlyn looked up at the sky, blue as Ambrose’s eyes when he told her goodbye. Blue as the dresses of those odd Shaker women in the village a few miles down the road. Those women who never married. Her father had railed against them as heathens who rebelled against the natural order of life and God’s instructions to go forth and be fruitful. Not only that, the Shakers danced in church.