Where Willows Grow (10 page)

‘‘I . . . I’m fine.’’ She forced her voice past her tight throat. ‘‘You just go on now.’’ A single sob found its way from her chest. She coiled tighter as she fought for control.
Don’t cry! Don’t cry!

‘‘Listen, Anna Mae, you know that old saying—no sense in crying over spilled milk.’’

A hint of teasing underscored his tone. But it wasn’t enough to conjure anger—it only reminded her of the countless times he had cajoled her out of sour moods in her teenage years. Another sob burst out. ‘‘P-please, Jack. Just go on home, will you?’’

A hand descended on her shoulder and pulled, turning her around. ‘‘I’m not going until I know you’re okay.’’

‘‘I’m okay!’’ She pressed her chin to the side, her eyes squeezed tight. She couldn’t bear to look into his eyes right now. If any kindness lurked there at all, she would be completely undone.

‘‘You’re not okay.’’

Stubborn man! Why wouldn’t he leave her alone? ‘‘P-please, Jack. . . .’’

‘‘And I don’t think all this is about spilled milk, either. You never let things like that bother you. Talk to me, Anna Mae.’’

‘‘Talk to me, Anna Mae.’’
Those words transported her back in time nearly twenty years, when the telegram had come, informing her parents that their only son, Private Benjamin Harold Elliott, Jr., had been killed in action in France. Anna Mae had been only seven, but she knew what
killed
meant—she’d buried two cats and a three-legged dog. She had run from the house to the creek, thrown herself on the bank, and sobbed her heart out because her big, handsome hero of a brother was never coming home. Jack had found her, questioned her. Even then, she’d tried to hold the hurt to herself—afraid if she talked about it, it would make it real. But he’d kept at her—
‘‘Talk to
me, Anna Mae.’’
And, finally, she had.

But not today. That part of their lives was over. ‘‘There’s nothing to talk about. I’m—I . . . I’ve got to check on the girls.’’ She darted past him, her arms still crossed over her chest, and closed herself in the kitchen. Her breath came in spurts as she waited for his wagon to rumble out the gate. But only silence greeted her ears. She pulled back the edge of the gingham curtain and peeked out. She saw him disappear into the barn.

Probably checking the cow
. Holding her wet gown away from her body, she tiptoed through the kitchen and into the hallway. A glance into the girls’ room confirmed both still slept soundly. Breathing a sigh of relief, she scurried to the washroom and ran water in the tub. She whisked the nightgown over her head and gave herself a quick wash, her ears perked to hear Jack if he came up on the porch.

Clean again, she headed to the bedroom and dressed, finishing with white anklets and scuffed oxfords. After running a brush through her hair and using a ribbon to hold the strands at the nape of her neck, she walked out to the kitchen and cracked the door open to peek out. The yard was clearly visible through the wire mesh of the screened-in porch. The ’fraidy hole’s trapdoor gaped open, letting her know he’d carried out the milk and cream from the weekend’s milkings. A glance toward the barn confirmed the wagon was gone.

Heaving a sigh of relief, she started to close the door, but something caught her eye. A box—small, rectangular, with a lid—sat right inside the porch door. Tiptoeing, feeling like an intruder on her own porch, she crept forward and plucked the box from the floor. She lifted the lid and pressed her fingers against her lips to hold back her cry of surprise. Inside, nestled in white tissue paper, was a pair of black shiny Mary Janes.

New shoes for Dorothy.

Tears spurted into her eyes, but she couldn’t decide if they were tears of gratitude or shame. She dug deep inside herself for enough anger to wash away the tears. Who did he think he was, buying shoes for Harley’s daughter? Pride made her want to march across the pasture to Jack’s back door and fling those little T-strap shoes right through the window. But one thing held her back.

After standing before him in a sodden nightgown, she just couldn’t face Jack.

Harley wasn’t sure he was ready to face the boss of this project. And it wasn’t because of anything the man at the WPA office had said. It just suddenly felt . . . awkward. How long had it been since Harley had worked for anybody but himself? Not since Annie’s father died seven years ago. A man could build up a lot of pride in seven years. Would he be able to take orders from someone else?

Then again, he’d been answering to Annie for those same seven years. A man with a wife ought to have no trouble answering to a boss. Still, he felt his chest tighten as he introduced himself to the foreman of the castle project.

The man, who said to call him Mr. Peterson, looked Dirk up and down and seemed pleased to have the young giant on the crew. Harley understood that, but determination to prove himself as capable as the younger man straightened his shoulders. Peterson wrote their names in a black notebook, slapped it shut, and said, ‘‘Well, gentlemen, let’s get you acquainted with the project.’’

He walked the pair around the grounds. Harley scanned the area surrounding the castle site. As far as a person could see in any direction, there was a whole lot of nothing. Gently rolling hills, dry and brown with only a few brave yuccas providing sparse splashes of green, topped by an endlessly blue sky. A quiver of apprehension wiggled down Harley’s spine. Sure was a lonely place . . .

The boss was speaking. Harley pushed aside his trepidation to focus on the man’s words.

‘‘At the top of the hill there, you can see the start of the castle itself. Small, as castles go,’’ he admitted, stroking his chin, ‘‘but big enough to be seen from a distance. The base is constructed from blocks of shale, and we’ll use sandstone at the top.’’ He pointed to two huge piles of stone, where men swarmed like ants on a mound of bread crumbs. ‘‘The bigger stones are the shale, and the smaller ones the sandstone.’’

Dirk leaned forward to examine one large, roughly square-cut stone. He straightened and sent Harley a startled smile. ‘‘Hey, lookit here, Harley—there’s a clam shell caught in the rock!’’

Harley looked where Dirk pointed. Sure enough, a ridged half circle of dingy white was embedded in the rosy-tan stone.

Peterson chuckled. ‘‘There’s bound to be water fossils trapped in the layers of rock. If you look closely, you might be able to locate the spine of a fish. All these rocks were underwater at one time.’’

Dirk nodded, his hands caught in the bib of his overalls. ‘‘ ’Course it was underwater. Whole earth got flooded when God sent the rains in Noah’s time.’’

Peterson swiveled in Dirk’s direction, his brow creased. ‘‘Are you a preacher, boy?’’

‘‘No, sir. Just a Christian.’’

Peterson nodded. ‘‘You’ll have Sundays off. There are a variety of churches in Lindsborg. You’ll be welcome to go, if you’d like.’’

Dirk smiled broadly and nudged Harley’s shoulder with his beefy elbow. ‘‘Hear that? I was worried I’d have to do my own services.’’

Harley shrugged. It was nothing to him.

Peterson started moving again, and Harley and Dirk followed as he continued the tour. ‘‘The castle will have a square turret above the door, topping its second floor.’’ He paused, looking up at the hill where a three-foot-tall wall stood. ‘‘When it’s done, a person will be able to stand in that turret and see the whole Smoky River Valley. The view should be similar to the one seen by Coronado himself when he climbed to the top of that rise, hoping to catch a glimpse of the elusive city of gold.’’

Harley frowned. Elusive? This man was a puzzle. In charge of a work crew, dressed in dusty dungarees and a worn chambray shirt, a two-day growth of whiskers on his chin, yet using speech that reminded Harley of Annie. Although Peterson wore rough clothing like the other workers, he carried himself with a dignified bearing that seemed somehow out of place on this barren countryside. The man must have education. Why would he be out here, in the middle of nowhere, telling men where to pile rocks?

For long moments Peterson stood, as if transfixed by the sight of the hill. Then he whirled, bringing his attention to the men once more. He swiped his sleeve across his forehead and pointed. ‘‘Over there will be a picnic grounds. You can see where the rock wall has been started to define that area. We will build a fireplace for visitors to use, and there will also be a rock outhouse, large enough to accommodate both genders.’’

He took a great breath and plunged his hands into the pockets of his trousers. ‘‘So, gentlemen, the options for working are digging, hauling, or building. Can either of you read a blueprint?’’

Harley and Dirk exchanged a glance. Harley surmised by the blank expression on Dirk’s face that he couldn’t read a blueprint any better than Harley. Harley answered for both of them. ‘‘No, sir.’’

‘‘Well, then, that leaves out building.’’ Peterson slapped Dirk on the shoulder. ‘‘Farley, you join the men at the shale pile. Ask for Spence. He’ll tell you what to do.’’

Dirk nodded to the boss. ‘‘See ya later, Harley.’’ He trotted off toward the large rock pile.

Peterson turned to Harley. ‘‘And, Phipps, I assume you know which end of a shovel goes into the ground?’’

Harley bristled. Was the man making fun of him? ‘‘Of course I do.’’ The words carried a hint of resentment.

Peterson’s eyebrows raised, but the boss didn’t comment on Harley’s indignant reply. Instead, he slapped a hand across Harley’s shoulders and aimed him toward the area southwest of the picnic grounds. Harley spotted two men, leaning on shovels. ‘‘Well, then, I’m putting you to work on the pit for the outhouse. Let’s get going.’’

Deflated, Harley moved woodenly in the direction given. A pit for the outhouse. He kicked at a clump of brittle grass and watched the brown wisps skitter across the ground. His hope of having a part in building a castle—something of value that would last—blew away like those dead bits of grass. These days, a man shouldn’t even dream. Dreams were just as elusive as that city of gold Coronado never found.

11

‘‘M
AMA, HOW COME YOU
always hide when Mr. Berkley comes over?’’

Anna Mae sent Dorothy a startled look across the breakfast table. ‘‘What?’’ She forced her lips to form a quavery smile. ‘‘I don’t
hide
, honey.’’

Dorothy’s wide blue eyes blinked twice. ‘‘Uh-huh, you do. You run into the barn. Or you stay in the kitchen. He askded me how come.’’

Anna Mae felt her temper building. Oh, he did, did he? Well, Jack Berkley better leave Dorothy alone. He had no right to question the child about her mother. Her temper faded, however, as she remembered that awful morning three days ago when she’d stood before him in a milk-soaked gown. Shame took anger’s place. How would she ever be able to face Jack again after he’d seen . . . what he had seen?

Anna Mae rose from the table, carrying her half-full plate to the counter. She scraped the food into the slop pail as she said, ‘‘That’s not hiding, Dorothy. I just have no reason to talk to Mr. Berkley. He comes to get the milk, cream, and extra eggs. He doesn’t come for conversation.’’

Dorothy released a long sigh, her chin in her hand. ‘‘I like talking to him. He’s nice, Mama.’’

Anna Mae closed her eyes for a moment. Yes, she remembered when she thought Jack was nice. Oh, the fun they’d had growing up together. . . . But that was before he’d turned serious and scared her with his talk of how she had to be his or he’d never survive. Nobody should ever need somebody that much.

She opened her eyes and used her fork to give the plate one more whack before dropping the plate and fork into the dishpan. ‘‘Well, you enjoy talking to him, then, but you don’t need to talk about me.’’

Tears appeared in the corners of Dorothy’s eyes.

Anna Mae sighed. She hadn’t intended to be so harsh. Crossing back to the table, she gave the end of Dorothy’s nose a light tap with one finger. ‘‘Surely you can find more interesting things to talk about, can’t you? Like how fast does an inchworm crawl, or why do puppy dogs wag their tails?’’ Anna Mae deliberately chose questions Dorothy had asked in the past.

The little girl’s grin returned. ‘‘You think he might know?’’

Anna Mae shrugged. ‘‘You never know until you ask.’’

Dorothy bounced up from the table, her ponytail waving. ‘‘I’ll ask him when he comes today.’’

‘‘You do that.’’ Anna Mae used a rag to clean Marjorie’s hands as Dorothy headed toward the porch. ‘‘Before you scamper off to play, Dorothy, we need to water the garden. Get the bucket for Mama, please, and I’ll come fill it.’’

Dorothy’s shoulders drooped for a moment, but she didn’t argue.

Anna Mae met Dorothy at the water pump and pumped water into the bucket. Then, with Marjorie on one hip and the bucket in her free hand, she walked Dorothy to the garden, where Dorothy began her watering chores. Still hanging on to Marjorie, who attempted to eat dirt, Anna Mae knelt down and plucked weeds from between the shoots of green that she knew would one day bear vegetables.

Satisfaction filled Anna Mae’s chest as she looked across the neat garden. Despite the lack of rain, despite the lack of Harley’s assistance, the tiny plants flourished beneath the Kansas sun. In another couple weeks she’d drop the seeds for beans, peas, tomatoes, and corn into their waiting rows. Her mouth watered as she imagined the first taste of fresh green beans cooked with bacon and onion. At least her family wouldn’t go hungry.

Dorothy splashed a dipperful of water onto the nearest cabbage plant, spattering her mother’s knee. Anna Mae squealed and reached to tickle the child, and Dorothy scampered away, giggling.

Anna Mae shielded her eyes and watched Dorothy for a few minutes, sending up a silent thank-you for the little girl’s willingness to help. Marjorie clunked her mother on the side of the head, and Anna Mae grabbed the baby’s hand to give it a kiss. She glanced around the area where she’d been seated and said, ‘‘Well, baby girl, we’ve got the weeds pulled here. Let’s move on.’’

As she struggled to her feet, she heard the familiar
clip-clop
signaling Jack’s approach. Her stomach clenched, remembering Dorothy’s comment from breakfast. Although she had refuted it, she knew Dorothy was right—she had been hiding. The urge to race into the house was strong.