A Thousand Little Blessings (7 page)

Henry moved his head slowly from side-to-side. Whether he had no appetite or simply declined to have his daughter spoon-feed him, Etta decided not to push the matter.

“I have more news for you,” she said as she ate from her bowl of soup. “Rosa's nephew, Benito, is coming every morning to clean the stalls and let the horses out. I went to the stable when I got home and everything looks very nice.”

“Hmph.”

“Do you remember Sara Benson's son?” Etta watched her father for a reaction, but his gaze was fixed to a spot on the wall over her head. “His name is Gabriel. He's volunteered to exercise the horses and to oversee their care.”

Her father's gaze didn't waver, but he slowly nodded his head.

“Now, the best news of all. I've hired a man to help you. His name is Charlie Simpson. Dr. Russell recommended him and so did his former commander. He was an Army medic, and according to Captain Ross, Charlie worked as a reconstruction aide.” Her father's wooden expression never changed. “I'd never heard that term, but Captain Ross told me it's a new field of medicine aimed at helping people with brain injuries. Reconstruction aides work with patients to help them regain mobility.” Etta laid her spoon on the tray and fingered the linen napkin in her lap.

If only her father could tell her what he needed. He'd always told her what to do, not the other way around.

“Charlie will be here tomorrow morning.”

Henry's gaze lowered to Etta's face, and she held her breath awaiting his response. His left eyebrow slanted down and his mouth twisted like a gasping fish. “Arg..doo…nee…” His left arm and leg flung out, overturning the small table and sending the dinner dishes crashing to the floor.

Etta sprang to her feet. “All right, Papa. All right.”

He collapsed onto the pillows, his chest heaving from the exertion.

Etta went to his side. “I'm sorry.” She wiped his brow with her handkerchief. “I'm sorry, Papa.”

Henry exhaled loudly and turned his head away from her.

Rosa's quick footsteps pounded up the stairs.
“Mija! ¿Qué pasó, mija?”

Etta squatted and began to pick up the dishes. “It's all right, Rosa. You can come in.”

As before, the housekeeper sidled into the room, her gaze averted. “What happened?” she asked as she bent to help Etta.

“Nothing. Just an accident.”

Rosa clucked her tongue and shook her head but kept her opinions to herself as she reloaded the tray and carried it out of the room.

Etta straightened, closed her eyes, and sent a prayer heavenward. What had she done to upset her father? Was it the bank, the horses, or her plan for helping him recover? “Lead me, Lord,” she whispered. “Show me the right thing to do.” She took a fortifying breath and turned to face her father.

His eyes were closed, and his chest moved with steady breaths. Perhaps sleep was the best thing for him now.

Etta lifted her father's leg and placed it on the bed. “If a convalescent home is the best place for Papa, Lord, please let me know. It's hard to see him suffer, but sending him away doesn't feel right.” She straightened her father's covers and turned out the bedside lamp.

If only her mother were here.

Her mother had always known the right thing to do.

 

****

 

The gray clouds blanketing the sky matched Etta's mood the next day. The nurse had departed before dawn, leaving Etta to coax her father into eating breakfast. But he'd refused her assistance, pushing her arm away and flinging oatmeal onto the bedroom wall. She'd been near tears when Charlie Simpson arrived, a battered suitcase in one hand and a brown herringbone cap in the other.

Charlie's smile had never faltered. “Looks like old Charlie's arrived just in time,” he said with a wink. “You go on now, Miss Davis. Your papa and me will figure things out.”

After introducing Charlie to her father, Etta had driven her father's car to town. She hadn't managed to pin down Uncle Carl yesterday, but discovering which accounts he was overseeing was on top of her list today.

The enticing aroma of fresh cinnamon rolls from nearby Hoffmann's Bakery greeted her as she exited the car. Perhaps Papa could be cajoled into eating if she brought his favorite treat. She hurried into the nearby store.

“Oh, Miss Henrietta,” Mr. Hoffmann greeted her. “So nice to see you back in town. I heard you returned to work yesterday. How is Mr. Davis? Better?”

“Yes, thank you for asking.” Over Mr. Hoffmann's shoulder, Etta saw Carl seated at a small metal table. A woman wearing an emerald green toque and matching dress sat with her back to Etta.

Mr. Hoffmann walked around the counter and patted Etta's shoulder. “Good, good. So glad to hear it. What can I get for you today? Have you had breakfast? We have lebkuchen. I know how partial you are to those.”

Etta glanced at the honey cakes she'd favored since her girlhood. “I'll take a few, Mr. Hoffmann, and six cinnamon rolls.”

“Your uncle's here having coffee with a lady friend. Shall I pour a cup for you?”

“No, thank you. I'll just say good morning to Carl and then take my pastries with me.”

“Fine, fine.” Mr. Hoffmann returned to the counter where he began putting the treats into a white box.

Etta approached the table. Who was the stylish woman with her uncle? “Good morning, Uncle Carl.”

Carl's cup rattled loudly as he dropped it into the saucer and jumped to his feet. “Oh, Etta. Sorry, didn't see you come in.” Her uncle wasn't dressed for work. Instead of his usual three-piece suit, he wore a lightweight linen jacket with matching knickerbockers.

“Sorry to interrupt you,” Etta said, “but I wanted to ask if we could meet sometime today.”

“Of course.” Carl patted his pomaded sandy-blonde hair. “Allow me to introduce my companion. Miss Florence Edwards, my niece Henrietta Davis.”

The pretty young blonde turned blue eyes toward Etta. “How do you do?”

Carl was at least fifteen years older than this girl. Was he meeting with her on bank business or was this a social occasion?

“It's nice to meet you,” Etta replied. “Have you recently moved to Burnet?”

“Goodness, no,” the young woman answered with wide eyes. “Carl and I are spending the day in the country. Isn't his new automobile simply a peach?”

Etta shifted her gaze to her uncle. “I didn't know you bought a new one.”

“A yellow Hudson Super Six,” Carl answered.

“Carl got it up to forty miles an hour on the way from Austin,” Florence gushed. “It was so exciting.” She smiled at Carl. “What a daring, brave man you are to drive so fearlessly.”

Carl glanced at Etta, cleared his throat, and then returned Florence's smile.

This definitely wasn't bank business. Etta was as out of place as a prohibitionist at a tavern. “I don't want to disturb the two of you any longer, so I'll be on my way. It was nice to meet you, Miss Edwards.”

“Likewise, I'm sure. Perhaps we'll see each other again.”

“I look forward to it,” Etta replied. “I'll see you later, Uncle Carl.”

“If not today, then definitely tomorrow,” Carl answered.

With a nod, Etta turned and headed toward the door. Carl was a bachelor, free to entertain whomever he chose, and it was not her place to judge his choice. Her mother had often spoken about Carl's natural charm and easy-going spirit, and if Florence didn't mind the age difference, who was Etta to object?

But she simply must resolve the banking question sooner rather than later. If she was going to be temporarily in charge, she had to know what each employee was doing.

 

****

 

Later that afternoon, dark clouds cast purple shadows on Etta's desk. Rain was always welcome in drought-prone Burnet County, but the heavy air only intensified her already low feelings. A bolt of lightning illuminated the room, followed quickly by a clap of thunder. Etta jumped in her chair, took a deep breath, and chided herself for being startled. The acting president of a bank couldn't be afraid of thunder. She had to embody confidence and strength, just as her father always had.

She leaned back in her chair and stared at his empty office. It would be a long time before Papa returned. Even if Charlie Simpson worked miracles, Papa had a long road of healing ahead of him.

Hard pellets of rain struck the glass. This was no gentle spring shower. Papa was probably anxious about the horses being caught in the storm and frustrated about his inability to do anything. Perhaps she should call Gabriel.

Etta reached for the candlestick telephone, but her hand stopped in mid-air. She had been grateful for Sara's offer, but now that she'd met Gabriel, she wished she hadn't accepted so quickly. Who knew Sara's son had grown into such a handsome man?

His dark brows framed light blue eyes that made her catch her breath every time she'd looked into them. His strong jaw was shadowed with dark stubble, and his full lips made her yearn for her first kiss. She'd tossed and turned throughout the night worrying about her father and thinking about Gabriel Benson.

Etta curled her fingers into her palm and rested her hand on the desk. The horses weren't brainless. They'd gather in the three-walled shelter her father had installed in the north end of the pasture if Gabriel didn't get them into the stable. Besides, he might think she was checking up on him.

“Miss Davis?”

Startled by the voice, Etta jerked to attention.

“Sorry to disturb you,” Arthur Lewis said with a contrite smile. “But I've come across something I need to show you.”

“Of course, Mr. Lewis.” Etta cleared her throat. “I'm afraid you caught me daydreaming.”

Arthur adjusted his wire-rim spectacles. “I understand. You've got a lot on your mind.”

Most of which she'd never share with Arthur Lewis. “What can I do for you?”

He slid a ledger book onto her desk. “I found a discrepancy a few days ago and it's taken me this long to figure it out.” Mr. Lewis's brows drew together. “Something's not right, Miss Davis.”

Arthur flipped the pages back and forth as he explained his discovery.

Etta's mind slipped away from the tallied columns and returned to the few times she'd seen Gabriel as a boy. He'd been a few years older than she and at least a foot taller, and he'd paid little attention to her. Even when she'd accompanied her mother to Sara's house, Gabriel had been helping his father or working on a neighbor's land. He'd probably thought of her as a bothersome little girl. What did he think of her now?

“So you see, Miss Davis, I'm certain someone has been falsifying the general ledger.”

Etta's heart skipped a beat. “What did you say, Mr. Lewis?”

“Over the last few weeks, farmers and ranchers have been coming in about late notices I sent. There's no record of their loan payments, but they had teller receipts. I had no choice but to apologize for the error and to credit their accounts. That made me wonder if any other accounts had similar problems.”

“Did you find discrepancies in any of the other loans?”

“Not yet. Normally I would have brought this to your father's attention, but since he's not well, I thought you would be the next logical person.”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” She steadied herself and reached for the key to her father's office. “My father keeps the general ledgers in his office. Let's compare them to your records.”

The desk lamp did little to dispel the gloom brought on by the storm. “Farm and ranch loans are here,” she said as she removed an account book from a walnut bookcase, “and here's a copy of the daily cash transactions.”

Arthur frowned over the books. “Who's been keeping these up-to-date since you and your father have been gone?”

“Carolina Swanson. She's been working with my father for almost twenty years.”

Arthur turned the pages of his ledger until he came to the right page. “Here's where I found the first discrepancy.”

Etta found the corresponding page in her father's book. “The entries match, but the handwriting is different. See here,” Etta pointed to a column of numbers, “where Carolina wrote her initials?” Arthur nodded. “That shows she's the one who entered the information. But here,” Etta tapped the page, “the handwriting is different and no one initialed the entry.”

“Someone other than Mrs. Swanson has been entering information.”

“And these numbers don't match your ledger.” Nausea roiled through Etta's stomach as she stepped away from her father's desk. She had to tell her father about this right away. He'd investigate this matter until the thief was caught. He'd —

Etta rubbed her forehead and sighed. She couldn't lay this at her father's feet. Every ounce of his energy was needed to recover from his stroke.

This was her fight. She straightened her spine and leveled her gaze at Mr. Lewis. “Have you told anyone else about this?”

“No, Miss Davis.”

“I'll need to call an independent auditor. It's imperative you tell no one else about your discovery until I've found out more.”

“I understand completely. I owe my job and my family's security to your father, and I'll do whatever I can to help. For now, I'll go on as if nothing's out of the ordinary.”

“Yes, that would be best. Thank you, Mr. Lewis.”

He retrieved his ledger, tucked it under his arm, and left. Etta sank into her father's chair and stared at the rain. Is this why Carl had been in her father's office? The Board of Directors was scheduled to meet in a few weeks. Would she have an answer by then, or would she be forced to admit that a thief had been steadily robbing the bank under her watch?

 

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