Where Willows Grow (17 page)

Harley drove the shovel blade into the ground with such force the handle vibrated, stinging his palms. Sweat dribbled down his forehead, stinging his eyes. Images of Jack and Annie haunted his mind, stinging his heart.

He yanked at the shovel, trying to dislodge it from the dirt, but it refused to budge. With a loud oath, he slapped the handle and spun around. Yanking off his hat, he flung it on the ground, then turned his gaze to the sky.

The sun wavered against the backdrop of blue, appearing to grow larger as Harley stared, panting. The anger grew within his chest until it became a fury he wasn’t sure he could contain.

‘‘What’s a matter, Phipps? Finally wearin’ down?’’

Harley swiveled to meet Nelson’s sardonic expression. Here was a target for his temper—a means to dispel some of the frustration. Balling his fists, he took two steps in Nelson’s direction.

‘‘Phipps!’’

The authority in the tone stopped Harley in his tracks. He looked over his shoulder. Mr. Peterson strode toward him, a stern look on his lined face.

Harley released his fists and straightened his shoulders, willing himself to calm.

Mr. Peterson came to a stop not more than twelve inches from Harley. ‘‘What do you think you’re doing?’’ Although the man’s voice was low, intended only for Harley’s ears, Harley didn’t miss the admonition in the tone.

Harley clenched his jaw for a moment. He considered telling the truth—saying he intended to pummel Nelson into the ground—but in the end he barked out one word. ‘‘Nothin’.’’

‘‘It sure looked like something,’’ Mr. Peterson countered. His gaze bored into Harley’s, his expression communicating that he knew exactly what Harley had been planning. ‘‘You are aware that fighting is grounds for dismissal.’’

Harley gave a brusque nod. More sweat dribbled into his eyes, but he kept his arms at his sides, welcoming the distracting smart of pain. Took his mind off the ache in his heart.

Mr. Peterson stood, silent, looking hard into Harley’s eyes for another few moments. Harley waited, contributing nothing, his gaze pinned to his boss’s face yet keenly aware of Nelson standing a stone’s throw away. Finally the boss sighed and threw an arm around Harley’s shoulders, guiding him away from the pit.

‘‘Listen, Phipps, you’ve been going at it hard and strong this morning. Take off a little early for lunch—go sit in the shade, get a good drink,
cool off
.’’

Harley recognized the message beneath the words. He nodded again.

‘‘You’re a good worker. I don’t want to lose you on the project, and I certainly don’t want to see you lose the income. I suspect your family can use it.’’

Again, Harley understood the warning. He forced himself to answer calmly. ‘‘You’re right, sir. Thank you.’’

The boss headed back toward his shack, and Harley turned to scoop up his hat, careful not to look in Nelson’s direction. If the man so much as smirked, Harley knew he’d barrel into him whether it meant a lost job or not. Besides, he thought as he settled into the shade cast by the towering pile of shale, if he got fired, he could go home. He could find out what Jack had been up to. And if it was anything like his mind told him, what he planned for Nelson would seem like pat-a-cake compared to what he’d do to Jack.

‘‘Now, you’re going to have to stop that crying. It’s not helping anything.’’

The voice drifted through the blackness as if from a distance. Familiar, warm, bringing with it a rush of disjointed memories from earlier years. But Anna Mae didn’t understand the message. She wasn’t crying. Or was she? A second voice sobbed, ‘‘Mama, mama . . .’’ Was it her own voice? ‘‘Mamaaaa.’’ She wished her mama were here. Mama would be able to make sense of all this confusion.

Puckering her face, Anna Mae struggled to break through the dark cloud that held her captive. Her mother’s voice came softly, tenderly, whispering a soothing message:
‘‘And the light shineth
in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not.’’

What did it mean? Her eyelids felt weighted, but with great effort, she managed to force them open. Light hit her eyes, striking her with a wave of pain so intense she gasped. She felt her face contract with the abrupt slamming of her lids, but in the blackness she found blessed escape from the pain.

She chose to remain in the dark void.

Harley waited until the other two workers moved away from the boss’s shack. The shack reminded Harley of a roadside vegetable stand—the top half of each wall folded down to flop against the bottom half, creating large window openings. The roof overhead protected Mr. Peterson from the relentless sun, but the boss could see the entire work site thanks to the wide-open windows. The man now glanced up from the table that sat inside the shack and gestured for Harley to enter. Harley yanked off his hat as he ducked through the doorway.

‘‘Phipps. You cooled off now?’’

Funny how Peterson could ask something like that and make it almost teasing. If Nelson had asked the question, Harley would be tempted to take the man’s head off. But he heard no animosity in the boss’s tone, so he gave a nod in return and said what he’d been waiting to say. ‘‘Thanks for suggesting that break. Helped me get my . . . heat . . . under control.’’

The older man’s lips twitched. ‘‘Glad to hear it. I’d like to keep you on this project.’’

Harley nodded again, his head down.

Mr. Peterson rested his elbows on the table. ‘‘Listen, Harley, I know Nelson’s got a big mouth. Most of the men haven’t welcomed you and Farley with open arms. There’s a reason for that: you took two positions that might have been filled by local men.’’ When Harley would have spoken, Peterson held up his hands, staying his words. ‘‘I’m not defending them—you have just as much right to this job as any of them—I’m trying to help you understand the animosity.’’

Harley nodded. ‘‘I understand. I’m willing to look past it. But Farley . . .’’ He grimaced. ‘‘Farley’s pretty defenseless against it.’’

Peterson leaned back, his elbow draped over the ladder back of the chair. ‘‘I know Nelson ribs poor ol’ Dirk constantly. But I need Nelson on this project. He’s got a grasp of bedrock and bucking that exceeds anyone else on the team.’’

Harley wasn’t sure what the boss meant by bedrock and bucking, but he understood the underlying message: Nelson wasn’t going anywhere, so Harley might as well learn to get along with him. ‘‘Yes, sir.’’ Without meaning to, his gaze lit on the drawn plans stretched across the desktop, and he pointed. ‘‘That what the castle’ll look like when it’s done?’’

Peterson flicked his fingers at Harley, a silent invitation to come near. When Harley stood on the opposite side of the table, the man flipped the drawing around so Harley could look at it right side up.

‘‘A fascinating thing, a blueprint,’’ Mr. Peterson mused. ‘‘A map, really, of how to put materials together into a three-dimensional form. See here?’’ He pointed. ‘‘By reading these marks, a person can determine the height, width, and depth of the structure, as well as placement of windows and doors. If the building were wired for electricity or required pipes for plumbing, there would be separate plans to show where light sockets belong and plumbing lines run. The drawings work together to show how the whole building will be constructed.’’

Harley looked at the crisscrossing of lines, the tiny numbers indicating feet and inches, and he walked his fingers up the drawing of the enclosed stairway. ‘‘It’s somethin’, all right. How does a body learn to draw one of these things?’’

‘‘Where does anybody learn anything? School, Phipps.’’ The man tipped his head, his brows coming down into a thoughtful expression. ‘‘That interest you?’’

Harley chuckled, rubbing his finger under his nose. ‘‘Oh no, sir. I’m just a farmer. Couldn’t make it in school. Couldn’t afford it, either.’’

Peterson leaned back in his chair. ‘‘Well, I used to teach at the university in Kansas City—world history. There’s a lot to learn about architecture when studying the different cultures of the world, so I picked up things here and there. You’re right that it costs to go to school, but it’s worth it. Might be something to think about.’’

Harley shook his head. ‘‘I’m only a farmer,’’ he insisted.

‘‘Okay.’’ Peterson glanced at a pocket watch that lay on the table. ‘‘It’s nearly quitting time. Do you and Dirk want to join the missus and me for supper tonight?’’

Harley blinked twice, taking an awkward step backward. Although Mrs. Peterson had occasionally carried out a plate of food to the shed in the evening, never had Harley or Dirk been invited into the house. A gust of wind gave him a whiff of his own body, and that was enough to convince him he had no business sitting across a dinner table from Peterson and his missus.

‘‘Thank you for the invitation, sir, but I reckon Dirk and me will just grab us a bite at the café.’’

Peterson shrugged. ‘‘Suit yourself.’’

Harley turned toward the door, but just as he was ready to step through, Peterson called his name. He looked back over his shoulder.

‘‘If you change your mind about that blueprint reading, just say so. Learning new things can be good for a man.’’

Harley nodded, slapped his hat on his head, and clopped toward the shale pile where Dirk was finishing up.
‘‘Learning new
things can be good for a man.’’
The words replayed themselves in his head, and for a moment he fought the temptation to go back and tell Mr. Peterson he’d like to learn about blueprints. Just then, off to his right, a meadowlark burst from a clump of brown brush and shot into the sky. Harley watched it go, recollecting times he’d startled up a bird from the cornfields at home. The reminder of the cornfields was all it took to help him remember that he had a farm waiting for him in Spencer. A farm he’d promised to care for.

Harley wasn’t here to learn new things. He was here to save the farm. Better to keep focused on his original goal. And he’d best keep his temper under control, too.

‘‘Our goal at this point is to keep her still and comfortable. . . .’’

Doc Warren’s droning voice carried from the bedroom to the kitchen, where Jack and Pop sat on opposite sides of the table, each holding one of Anna Mae’s girls. Pop cradled Marjorie, who dozed against his shoulder, too young to be concerned about her mother. Jack held Dorothy in his lap as he listened to the doctor’s instructions to Mrs. Stevenson.

Dorothy had hardly left Jack’s side since she came panting into the yard earlier today, her frantic cry scaring Jack out of ten years of his life. And when he and Pop had come through the back door to see Anna Mae sprawled across the kitchen floor, white and silent, he’d lost another dozen years. These Phipps females would be the death of him yet.

Thank goodness Doc Warren had been in his office when Jack had called. He’d agreed to drive out immediately. The man hardly made house calls anymore, with his advancing years and the arthritis slowing him down, but he’d delivered Anna Mae, and it was obvious in the way he’d hovered over her bed that he took a real interest in keeping her healthy.

At first he’d said he wanted Anna Mae in the hospital, but then he’d asked where Harley was. Little Dorothy had piped up, ‘‘Daddy’s away building a castle.’’ The doctor had sent Jack a knowing look and instead instructed Jack to go back to town and fetch Mrs. Stevenson. She was a fair-to-middlin’ nurse, he’d said, and she could give Anna Mae care while keeping an eye on the little girls, too.

Mrs. Stevenson, a widow with a bulky frame and two chins, came at once when Jack explained the situation. Her only stipulation was that she must also bring her cat. To Jack’s knowledge, Anna Mae had never had an animal in the house, but given the circumstances, he wasn’t in a position to argue. Anna Mae needed help. The fuzzy black-and-white critter now curled in a ball next to the stove, its purr providing a background hum to Doc’s endless list of to-do’s.

Doc entered the kitchen and stopped at the table. His gaze on Dorothy, he said, ‘‘Let me peek at your face, young lady.’’

Dorothy shrank back against Jack, so the doctor leaned forward to examine the little girl’s injury. When he pressed his fingers to the large bruise on her forehead, she whimpered but didn’t pull away.

Finally Doc smiled. ‘‘You’ll be fine, Dorothy. That bump’ll give you a headache, but it’s nothing serious. In fact, it should be easily cured with a—’’ he dug in his bag and withdrew a pink-and-white-striped candy stick—‘‘peppermint stick.’’

‘‘Thank you!’’ Dorothy stuck the candy in her mouth at once.

‘‘And Anna Mae?’’ Jack asked, holding his breath.

Doc’s smile faded. ‘‘I’ll be back tomorrow morning first thing. Mrs. Stevenson knows what to do. I told her to have you call me if something should change.’’

Jack shifted Dorothy to the floor, gave her a pat and a whispered order to stay put, then walked the doctor out to his car. Outside of earshot of the girls, he asked, ‘‘Will she be okay?’’

Doc scratched his chin. ‘‘Anna Mae will survive, but I can’t say the same about her baby just yet.’’

Jack felt like someone had punched him in the gut. ‘‘You mean she could lose the baby?’’

Doc shrugged, tossing his bag into the seat. ‘‘That’s really not up to me at this point, Jack.’’

‘‘Then who?’’

Wordlessly, Doc Warren pointed skyward, lifting his brows. Then he climbed into his vehicle.

Jack watched him drive away. When the doc was out of sight, he lifted his gaze to the blue sky overhead. A chill went down his spine.

18

A
JUMBLE OF VOICES
—one deep, one high-pitched, one babbling—forced their way through Anna Mae’s subconscious. She frowned, slapping her hand at the sound.

Hush now, I want to sleep
.

Soft laughter, more talking.

If you’re going to talk, at least talk clear enough for me to understand
you. If you can’t do that, then hush!

Another burst of laughter followed by a fierce ‘‘Shhh!’’ from a new voice stirred Anna Mae to full awareness. Although she kept her eyes closed, sealing herself in a cocoon of comforting gray, her other senses were keenly aware. She recognized the firm softness of the mattress supporting her body, the cradle of a fluffy feather pillow beneath her head, a teasing breeze from an open window, the sweet trill of birdsong, the smells of morning—fresh dew and pungent barn and spicy bacon . . .