Guide Me Home (4 page)

Another slice of lightning flashed through the open windows, and a rattling crash of thunder chased it. The sound jolted Rebekah forward. She rose on tiptoes again, pushing the heels of her hands against the ladder's rail. The ladder flipped from the nails and clattered to the floor. Quickly, before she could change her mind, she snagged the end and propped it against the opening carved in the ceiling to give access to the loft. Then, her heart pounding harder than the raindrops that pelted the roof, she gripped her skirt in one hand and climbed upward on trembling legs.

Her head and shoulders entered the dark, airless space. She paused, shivering, waiting for her eyes to adjust enough to find what she wanted. If Daddy or Mama were here, they'd screech at her in protest. But they weren't here. She could enter Andy's private space, open his trunk, gather up some of his clothes, use them to— Her thoughts froze, her pulse pounding. Could she really wear her dead brother's clothes?

Wind shrieked. Lightning crashed. Thunder boomed. Nature itself seemed to scream at her to make up her mind. Lyle's comment—
“Guides are men”
—swooped through her mind, followed by Mr. Cooper's apologetic reply:
“There aren't any jobs open right now for a young lady.”
She had no choice. If she wanted the job, she'd have to be a man. Or, at the very least, make them think she was a man.

She scrambled into the loft and eased her way across the rafters on her hands and knees to the trunk tucked beneath the eaves. She squeaked it out far enough to lift the lid. Tears flooded her eyes when she reached inside and encountered Andy's shirts, britches, boots. With a vicious swipe of her hand, she removed the tears and then rolled the clothes around the boots. Then, cradling the wad against her aching chest with one arm, she inched her way backward and crawled down the ladder.

Her feet met the floor. Her entire body shook—from fear, from excitement, or from guilt? Maybe all three. She scampered to the bedroom and shoved the clothes under the mattress on her side of the bed. They created a lump, but hopefully Cissy wouldn't notice if the shutters were closed and the room stayed dark.

As she left the bedroom, something brought her to a halt. She tipped her head, pondering what was different. Oh, yes. It was quiet. The storm had blown over. Daddy, Mama, and the littlest girls would come home now. She pulled the ladder from the opening and, after three tries, secured it on the nails again. She winced, realizing how many of the cobwebs she'd knocked loose. She hoped nobody noticed.

A fresh scent flooded the cabin. She turned, and her bare toes met a band of sunlight that flowed across the floor from the open door. A smile—a genuine, thankful smile—pulled at her lips. It was as if God Almighty Himself brought the rainstorm to keep her folks away long enough for her to retrieve those things from Andy's room. The sun felt like His approval.

She stepped to the edge of the porch, aimed her smile at the sky, and whispered, “Thank You.”

Cissy

T
he family gathered around the table for supper. Mama came last, carrying a platter of cornbread. Cissy sighed. Cornbread. Again. They should have cornstalks growing out of their ears with all the cornbread they planted in their bellies.

“Let's pray,” Daddy said, and he bowed his head.

Cissy folded her hands and rolled her gaze to the ceiling, holding back a sigh, while Daddy thanked the Lord for the refreshing rain and for the fine supper Mama had prepared. Fine supper? Cissy wrinkled her nose. The pot in the middle of the table was full of black-eyed peas. Black-eyed peas smelled bad—like old tar—and they tasted like dirt. If her stomach hadn't been growling for the past two hours, she'd skip supper and go pore over the photographs in the
Vogue
magazine her friend Pansy let her borrow.

“Amen.”

Cissy snagged a square of cornbread and grabbed the pitcher of sorghum syrup. She drowned the mealy wedge with the thick honey-colored sweetnin'.

“Not so much.” Daddy reached for the pitcher. “Leave some for your sisters.”

Cissy pursed her lips. What would it be like to be the only child, like Pansy, who never had to share anything with a whole herd of pesky little sisters?

Daddy drizzled his cornbread and then turned to Rebekah. “How'd things go at the cave estate this mornin'?”

Rebekah spooned black-eyed peas onto Little Nellie's plate. “I didn't get to talk to the owner because he wasn't there. So…” She shrugged, flicking a smile that looked strained. “I guess I'll have to go back again tomorrow.”

Cissy frowned. “Why're you talkin' to the owner? I thought the cook bought the mushrooms.”

Daddy squeezed Cissy's wrist. “Your sister's tryin' to take a job over there, earn a little extra money.”

Cissy yanked her hand free. “How come she gets to take a job at the cave?”

“ 'Cause she's done with school.” Daddy spoke calm and kind, like he always did, but a hint of warning glittered in his eyes.

Cissy decided to ignore the warning. “Who's gonna do her chores here at home when she's off at the Mammoth Cave estate?”

“I reckon you an' the other gals'll hafta fill in. You'd be doin' that anyways if your sister found herself a beau.”

Cissy thumped her fist on the table. “That ain't fair. Bek gets to do everything.”

Mama scowled. “Cissy, settle yourself down.”

“Yeah.” Della aimed a sour look at Cissy. “You're bumpin' me with your bony elbow.”

Cissy jabbed Della in the ribs. Hard. Her sister yelped.

“Cissy!” Mama and Daddy said at the same time.

Cissy didn't care. She snorted. “She asked for it. Della's such a baby.”

“I am not!”

“ 'Nough talkin' now.” Daddy pointed at their plates. “You girls eat. When you're done, you'll do the dishes for your mama.”

Cissy gawked at her father. “It's Jessie's turn to wash the supper dishes.”

Daddy's eyebrows rose. “You'll be takin' her turn. It'll make up for your tomfoolery.”

Della frowned, but she bent over her plate and forked a bite of peas.

Cissy fisted her fork and battled the temptation to stab it into the tabletop. “But I got cipherin' to finish after supper.” And a magazine to examine before the sunlight all faded away. She'd promised to bring it back to Pansy tomorrow.

“Then you'd better set to eatin' so you'll have time to get to it when the dishes're done.”

Cissy stifled a growl. Her appetite was gone, but she knew she'd be half starved by morning if she didn't clean her plate. She seethed in silence while her family chattered about the rain and Bek's fifty-five cents and other things she didn't care about even one smidgen. She forced down every bit of the sodden cornbread and dirt-tasting peas, and then she flounced to the dry sink and clanked her tin plate and cup into the washbasin.

She glanced at the table. Might be a while before everybody finished up. She could sneak a peek or two at that copy of
Vogue.
She started for the bedroom.

“Cissy?”

She stopped and looked at Daddy. Would he relent and tell her to do her cipherin'?

“Since you're done, take the bucket to the creek. Might as well get the wash water to heatin'.”

With a huff of aggravation, Cissy pranced out the back door. She snatched the bucket from its hook and stomped across the yard, muttering as she went. “Cissy, get the wash water. Cissy, don't pester your sisters. Cissy, straighten up. Cissy, mind your manners.” She swung the bucket by its rope handle, whacking bushes and drooping pine limbs as she went. By the time she reached the creek, she'd spent most of her fury. She dropped to her knees and started to plunge the bucket into the clear, sun-speckled water. But she caught a glimpse of her reflection and sat still as a mouse, staring at the tight-lipped face peering back at her.

The water gently flowed, making the image waver, but she examined her hair, long and straight and woven into a pair of thick red-brown braids. Her wide eyes, blue green with thick black lashes. Her face, full cheeked with a tiny cleft in her chin. Pansy called Cissy pretty, and gazing at herself, Cissy had to agree. She didn't look much like her sisters, though, who all had wavy hair as dark brown as a pine cone's center, eyes the color of maple syrup, and heart-shaped faces.

“Maybe I was a foundling,” she told her image. “Took in by Mama an' Daddy 'stead o' bein' born to 'em like all the others. Maybe that's why I always feel so restless inside, always wantin' to escape.”

She didn't know where the thought came from, but once it entered her head it stuck. If she was a foundling, it would explain why she didn't look like her sisters. And why she didn't act like her sisters. Her sisters were all content to wear homespun dresses and mind Daddy and be good girls. She stirred the surface of the water with her fingertips. Her reflection chopped into pieces like a puzzle dumped on the table. “And that's just about how I feel…all chopped up an' befuddled. I surely ain't a real Hardin down deep. I must be a—”

“Cissy!” Mama's fretful voice echoed through the trees.

She lurched upright. “Comin'!” She swooped the bucket through the creek and then trotted up the pathway, the rope biting into her palm and water sloshing over the bucket's rim to splash her foot. As she passed along the sun-and-shade-striped pathway, she thought about Rebekah getting to take a job at the cave estate because she'd finished her schooling. Well, Bek wasn't the only one who was done with school.

The teacher would close the schoolhouse doors in less than a month so youngsters could help their folks with the spring planting. She'd turned fifteen last January, so she was old enough to leave school if she wanted. And she wanted. So that meant she'd be footloose and free from studies in just a few more weeks.

She aimed a smug grin at a squirrel scolding from the tip of a tree branch. “I ain't gonna spend my break pokin' seeds in the ground or choppin' out weeds with a rusty hoe. I'm gonna get me a job at the cave estates an' make money like Bek. While I'm workin', I'll meet up with boys from rich families, an' I'll tease an' flirt an' make 'em all fall in love with me. Then one of 'em will take me away from Good Spring to a big city where I can live like a queen an' never have to do chores again.”

The plan strong in her mind, she hurried her feet toward home.

Rebekah

Rebekah hugged the rolled bundle of clothes to her ribs and slowly made her way across the deeply shadowed ground toward the old tobacco barn. Only a sliver of moon hung in a sky so black she couldn't make out the shape of tree branches against the dark backdrop. Even the stars were only pinpricks of light, too dim to provide guidance. She hoped she wouldn't walk directly into the barn wall. Painted black, it hid well in the thick nighttime shadows.

A hoot owl released a throaty call. Its wings pounded seemingly right over her head. She instinctively gasped, ducked, and then froze in place. Chills broke out all over her body followed by a wave of heat. She gripped Andy's clothes so tightly the heels of his boots dug into her stomach. Had she awakened anyone? She stood still as a scarecrow, hunched over, holding her breath, listening, hoping.

Daddy didn't appear at the back door, shotgun in hand.

No little sister called her name.

She let her breath release in a slow exhale as she straightened her spine. She was safe.

Squinting, straining to make out the shape of the barn, she eased forward on bare feet. The cold, soggy ground sent shivers all the way up her frame to the top of her head. Cool wind, damp from the day's rain, tossed a strand of hair across her cheek, and she pushed it behind her ear with an impatient thrust. Then she stopped again, her hand beside her cheek. Her hair! She swallowed a groan. She'd never fool anybody into thinking she was a boy with hair hanging almost to her waist. Why hadn't she thought about her hair before now?

Closing her eyes, she hung her head.
Lord, my family needs the money I can make. There's no job open except for a guide. You gave me the chance to get some of Andy's clothes and put the whole plan in my head. Why didn't You remind me about my hair?
But it wasn't God's fault. She'd have to think of something.

If she went back inside and climbed into her bed, she'd surely wake Cissy. And her feet were muddy and wet—no sense soiling the sheets. She'd sleep in the tobacco barn, the way she'd intended. Maybe by morning she'd have some idea of what to do with her hair.

“Here, chick-chick-chick. Here, chick-chick-chick.”

Rebekah sat up. Bits of hay and dried tobacco leaves flew in an arc beside her. A muscle in her neck cramped, and she winced. She rubbed the spot, her mind scrambling to understand why she was in the tobacco barn.

“Here, chick-chick. C'mon now, I don't got all day to stand here feedin' you.” Mama's voice carried across the yard and crept through the cracks in the barn's wall. Rebekah moved on hands and knees to the wall and peered through a knothole.