Margaret Brownley - [Rocky Creek 02] (13 page)

“Oh, dear,” Ma said, hands to her mouth. She and Rhett looked at each other then crept up the stairs to take a look. Before they reached the landing, Jason laughed out loud.

“Do it again,” he yelled out. “Blow another bubble.”

Kip responded in song, and Ma breathed a sigh of relief. Since Kip had everything under control, Rhett and Ma walked downstairs again.

“God gave Mr. Barrel the greatest talent, but He forgot to give him the courage to use it,” she said. “He should be singing on stage.”

Rhett smiled. “It looks like God has other plans for Barrel’s talents.”

Ma nodded. “Like making a scared little boy laugh.” She shook her head. “I wish you could have met Jason’s mother. She was a beautiful person, inside and out. So kind and loving.”

Others had described Jason’s mother in much the same way. “What did she ever see in Maxwell?” he asked.

“Not the alcohol. The man never touched a drop until she died. It’s like a poison eating up everything good inside him, even his love for his wife.”

Rhett balled his hands into fists. “If he loved her so much, why doesn’t he take care of their children? That’s what she would have wanted.”

Ma heaved a sigh. “Grief can do awful things to people,” she said. “Guilty grief . . . now, that’s the worst kind.”

“What’s he got to feel guilty about?”

“He blames himself for his wife’s death. Said he should have called for the doctor the moment his wife went into labor. By the time the doctor arrived, it was too late for mother and child.”

“There’s no guarantee that medical intervention would have made a difference,” Rhett said.

“We all told him that.” She shrugged. “But there’s nothing logical about guilt.”

“It’s only natural to feel guilty under such circumstances,” he said, surprised to find himself defending the man. But why wouldn’t he? He knew all about guilt. It was a constant companion plaguing him day and night. Everything he did stemmed from guilt.

“There’s a big difference between guilt and godly sorrow,” she said. “Godly sorrow helps us to grow. Guilt is more likely to destroy us. There’s only one cure that I know of, and that’s God’s grace.”

He frowned but said nothing. Thunder boomed and Rhett’s stomach tightened. It sounded like cannon fire and he quickly forced away the memories that inevitably followed any thought of the war. Thoughts of Leonard.

Jason walked down the stairs looking like a different child. Behind him, Kip Barrel beamed like a proud father.

Jason’s wet hair was parted and combed to the side. The clothes Ma found in her trunk fit as though they’d been made special for him. He smelled of soap and a hint of cedar from the lining of Ma’s trunk.

Best of all, a broad smile curved across his freshly scrubbed face.

It was an encouraging sign and Rhett found himself smiling in response. It wasn’t too late to save Jason and maybe even Scooter. Maxwell, he wasn’t so sure about. All he knew was that he suddenly wanted to help him. His reasons weren’t entirely selfless. Maybe by helping Maxwell overcome his guilt, he could help himself.

Show me how, God. Show me how
.

Ten

Never engage in boisterous laughter. If you must show mirth,
a polite smile or titter will suffice.

— M
ISS
A
BIGAIL
J
ENKINS
, 1875

T
he storm had passed and stars twinkled between the fast-parting clouds. Puddles dotted Main Street like a merchant’s display of hand mirrors. Water dripped from the roofs of false-faced buildings.

Jenny hurried along the boardwalk, the earthy air tickling her nose. She ran into Marshal Armstrong halfway between the hotel and marshal’s office.

“I was just coming to see you,” he said.

“I was on my way to see you,” she said. An unwelcome surge of excitement left her feeling breathless.

“How’s your head?” he asked.

“A little sore, but otherwise I’m fine,” she replied. His concern wrapped around her like a warm blanket.

They stood gazing at each other in a circle of yellow gaslight. There was something different about him, but she couldn’t quite place her finger on what it was.

“You said you were on your way to see me,” he probed.

Her mind blank, she impatiently pulled her thoughts together. “Yes, I wanted to know about the boy . . . Scooter.”

“I haven’t been able to talk to him.” He told her about his encounter with Scooter’s brother and how the boy had been fed and given new clothes. He seemed pleased with the way things worked out with Jason.

“I just took him home, but his brother wasn’t there. His pa didn’t know where he was.”

“Poor child. He must be scared.” She shuddered to think of the boy all alone. Especially during that rainstorm. “Is Scooter his real name?” It seemed like such a strange name to call someone.

He shrugged. “I don’t know his real name. Supposedly, he never learned to crawl as an infant. All he could do was scoot along on his backside.”

She smiled at the vision his words evoked. Something made her want to get to know the boy. Maybe it was the horror on his face when he stared down on her and saw what he had done. Or maybe she simply identified with a young boy who stole food so that his younger brother might eat.

“I hope he’s okay,” she said softly.

“He’ll be back,” the marshal said.

The certainty in his voice surprised her. “How can you be so sure?”

“He won’t leave his brother. Not for long, anyway.”

It was a comforting thought. “I want to help. I don’t have a lot of money, but I can help with food and clothes.”

In the dim light, his eyes looked soft as satin. “Right now, the best thing you can do is pray.”

The simplicity of his answer both surprised and alarmed her. He had no idea what he was asking. Talking to God didn’t come easy. She never quite knew what to say to Him. How did you explain away a period so dark that you didn’t even dare mention God’s name? Still, praying for Scooter was the least she could do, and she intended to give it her best shot.

She bit her lip. “What I said earlier . . . I didn’t mean to criticize you.”

“Sure you did,” he said.

She opened her mouth to protest but then caught his shadow of a smile. “You’re right, I did,” she said lightly.

He shrugged. “I knew it.” He shifted his lean form. “So how’s the hunting going?”

Grateful that he harbored no ill feelings, she was nonetheless surprised by the sudden change of subject. “You make it sound like I’m trying to bag a deer.”

“Deer, husbands, same principle,” he said. “Sneak up on your prey, aim, and fire.”

She stared at him then burst out laughing. Eyes warm with humor, he grinned back at her. For some odd reason this only made her laugh harder.

“Jenny?”

Mary Lou’s voice startled her. Her laughter died as quickly as it came.

Her sisters stepped out of the shadows.

She groaned inwardly. After all her lectures on conducting themselves like ladies, here she was laughing her fool head off. In public, no less. In the company of a man.

“What are you two doing out?” she asked, her voice edged with irritation.

“We wanted to take a walk,” Brenda said. “We were tired of sitting in our room.”

“It’s after dark,” Jenny scolded. “Go back to the hotel.”

Mary Lou looked about to argue. Instead, she flounced past Jenny and headed for the hotel in a most unladylike manner. Brenda followed close behind with considerably more grace.

Jenny flashed Rhett a look of apology. “I best go. Let me know when you find Scooter.”

“Let me know when you find husbands.” His tone was teasing, but this time she didn’t even crack a smile.

She didn’t want to go back to the hotel. She wanted to stay with him, to laugh with him. She let out her breath. Who was she kidding? She didn’t want to socialize. She wanted him to hold her, to kiss her, to make the lonely, aching hole inside her go away. She wanted all the things she couldn’t have. Could never have.

“Good night,” she said, her voice choked.

“Good night, Jenny.”

It was the
Jenny
part that made her heart skip a beat as she hurried away.

Brenda couldn’t sleep. Even after the raucous laughter and querulous voices outside their window had faded away and Main Street was deserted, she lay staring in the dark.

She didn’t want to go out with Mr. Hampton. She couldn’t say what scared her most about the man: his fancy clothes or stern, humorless expression. He wasn’t at all like that nice Mr. Barrel who shared his pie and winked at her in church when he thought no one noticed. Now
that
was an interesting man.

Next to her, Jenny and Mary Lou slept. Earlier Jenny cried out as if having another one of her bad dreams. Brenda rubbed Jenny’s back, as she so often did in the middle of the night, until the nightmare passed. Questioning Jenny about the nightmares that kept her tossing and turning did no good. Either Jenny didn’t remember or didn’t want to talk about them.

Now Brenda turned on her side ever so slowly so as not to disturb the other two. It wasn’t only her troubled thoughts that kept her awake. The room was hot and stuffy. The temperature had dropped a few degrees, but the rain had made the air clammy. To make matters worse, she was hungry, famished. Her stomach churned like rocks tumbling inside her.

Under Jenny’s watchful eye, Brenda’s supper had consisted of a sliver of roast beef and a generous portion of stringed beans. No bread, no butter or pie. A bird would starve on such a pitiful diet.

Slipping out of bed, she reached beneath the mattress. Her fingers tightened around an empty sweet bag, her last hope. Defeated, she sat on the floor, her back against the bed, and held her head.

She hated this, hated this dependence on food—this obsession. No matter how hard she tried to curb her appetite, she couldn’t seem to help herself. Food was the only way she knew to fill the void inside. At times, the hole seemed so big, she imagined herself caving inward like a child’s cardboard Easter egg. Sometimes she feared disappearing altogether.

A sound made her look up. She held her breath. There it was again. A sharp tap on the windowpane. Rising to her feet, she ran barefoot across the room and looked out.

Much to her surprise, Mr. Barrel stood in the middle of the street holding a lantern.

The window had been closed earlier to block out the noise from the street below. Now the town looked deserted. She quietly opened the wooden sash and leaned on the sill.

“What are you doing?” she whispered as loud as she dared.

He motioned to her with his arm. “Come,” he said softly, though his motions were exaggerated, dramatic. He looked like he was playing the role of a desperate lover on stage. “Come.”

He then pretended like he was serenading her, though he made not a sound.

She placed a hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle.

She hesitated and stared back at the bed. If Jenny woke— Still, it was hard, if not altogether impossible, to resist his playful invitation. Heart pounding, she left the window open. Feeling her way in the dark, she found her cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders. Then she shoved her feet into her velvet slippers.

She listened, but as far as she could tell, Jenny and Mary Lou hadn’t stirred. Hand on the door handle, she was almost overcome by mingled guilt and excitement. What was she doing? Sneaking out in the middle of the night to be with a man! That was something Mary Lou would do, not Brenda, the good girl. The one who felt guilty if an unkind thought so much as crossed her mind.

She closed her eyes.
Dear God, forgive me
.

Quickly letting herself out of the room before she changed her mind, she ran through the dark hall, down the stairs, through the lobby, and into the street.

Barrel greeted her with the widest grin possible. He was the only person she’d met who could smile with his whole body. “I didn’t think you’d come,” he said, taking her hand in his.

She glanced up at the darkened window over her head. “What would you have done if Jenny or Mary Lou came to the window, instead of me?”

“I would have run for my life,” he replied.

She giggled softly. She doubted he could outrun Jenny, but it would be fun to see him try. The smile died on her face. She enjoyed his company but couldn’t help worrying.

“I shouldn’t be here.”

“What? Not be here in this magical place?”

Indeed, it did seem magical. The stars looked like diamonds tossed carelessly across a black velvet sky. The rain had washed away the laundry odors, and the air for once smelled fresh. The glow of his lantern turned paned windows into sparkling jewels.

Laughing, he led her down the street, singing softly in Italian.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“You’ll see,” he said with a mysterious air. He stopped in front of the barbershop. Outside stood a six-foot freestanding pillar painted with red-and-white stripes and blue stars. He let go of her hand and threw open the door with a flourish. Bending at the waist, he invited her inside with a gracious wave of his hand.

Oohing and aahing, she glanced around. It was like entering another world. Never had she seen so many candles lit at one time.

The flickering flames danced upon the porcelain shaving mugs lining the shelves on either side of a beveled glass mirror. Each custom-painted mug bore the name of its owner. An array of hair tonics, straight razors, and atomizers were lined up on the counter. The shop smelled of soap, Turkish tonic, and bay rum. But it was another, more tantalizing smell that tickled Brenda’s nose.

“I smell—” Surely she was imagining things. It was then that she noticed a small table with two place settings.

Barrel hung the lantern on a metal hook then turned to reach across the table to lift a pan lid.

“Fried chicken,” he said with the tone of a man introducing royalty.

Brenda gasped in delight. “My favorite.”

Barrel grinned. Like a child lifting the lids off penny-candy jars, he walked around the table picking up metal covers one by one to reveal an appetizing array of mashed potatoes, pan gravy, and butter beans. “And,” Mr. Barrel said, saving the best for last, “Ma’s famous berry pie.”