Where Willows Grow (23 page)

Rolling to his side, he reached beneath his cot and picked up his tablet. He propped himself up on one elbow and flopped the tablet open. The first few pages held crude drawings: bird’s-eye views of his house, his barn and lean-to, the grounds. He was sure they weren’t accurate, but he wasn’t a bird and couldn’t fly over to see. Plus he didn’t have any tools to measure feet. Still, he didn’t think they looked too bad. He’d made a few from his imagination, too: a bigger house, with separate bedrooms for each of the girls and a bathroom that held more than a tub and sink. It had a real flush toilet, so there’d be no need for the outhouse.

Not that he figured he’d ever be able to afford such a place, and not because he was unhappy with the house he had. It just gave him something to do. And it was satisfying. Almost as satisfying as dropping seeds in the earth and looking forward to the day the stalks would shoot for the sky and grow thick with plump ears of corn. He squinted as he struggled to read the pencil lines in the dim light. What would that house look like all tall and proud with white-painted siding and green trim?

‘‘Gonna write to Annie again?’’

Harley gave a start. The pad slipped from his hand and hit the dirt floor with a soft
flump
. He picked it up, shook the dust free, and put it back on the cot. ‘‘Why you ask that?’’

Dirk pointed. ‘‘Got your writin’ pad out.’’

Harley swung his feet over the edge of the cot and sat up. Sweat trickled down the center of his back. He squirmed at the tickle. ‘‘Guess I could. Nothin’ else to do.’’

‘‘Heard from her yet?’’

‘‘You seen me get any mail?’’ Harley hadn’t intended to snarl, but it came out that way.

Dirk ducked his head. ‘‘No, I reckon I haven’t.’’

Harley blew out an aggravated breath. Apologizing was hard, and he couldn’t make himself do it even though he knew he should. Instead, he flipped to a clean sheet of paper, licked the end of his pencil, and held the pad to capture one of the stray beams of flickering sunlight.
Dear Annie . . .

And there he stopped. What could he say?
I’m holed up in a
shed waiting out a dust storm and decided to write to you
. Oh, she’d love that.
I miss you and the girls
. He’d written that already at least three times. Had it done him any good?
How’s the farm?
She’d interpret that as him caring more for the land than for her.
Bet the new baby’s making your stomach grow
.

He yanked out the paper, wadded it up, and threw it under the cot. There wasn’t anything he could say that was worth saying. Not until he heard from her. He needed something to respond to. He’d never been good at starting conversations, and it was worse on paper when there was no give-and-take at all.

Flopping back onto the cot, he unbuttoned his shirt and let it hang open. Dust blew in from the crack above his head and settled on his chest and belly, leaving black specks on his sweaty skin. He didn’t even bother to try to wipe it away. Just closed his eyes.
Please let me sleep. Let me . . . sleep
.

He didn’t consider that a prayer.

23

J
ACK POPPED OPEN
A
NNA
M
AE’S MAILBOX
and removed a single envelope—a long one like businesses used, boasting the Reno County Courthouse address in the upper left-hand corner. This was it. His heart pounded.

What would Anna Mae do when she opened the letter? Would she cry? If she cried, he’d hold her, let her get his whole shirt front wet if she needed to. Then, when she’d dispelled all that sorrow, he’d give her the good news—she was welcome to stay at his house in one of the upstairs bedrooms. She could stay as long as she liked, she and the girls. And with her under his roof, with more contact between the two of them, he’d finally be able to convince her that they were meant to be together.

He pulled himself back into the wagon and urged the horses forward, then brought the wagon to a stop at her back door. He hopped down, strode to the screen door, and walked right on in.

Anna Mae stood beside the kitchen table, running a soapy rag over the oilcloth table cover. When he stopped in the doorway, she looked up. She opened her mouth, but before any words came out he held up the envelope. He watched her gaze jump to the rectangle of paper. Her eyes grew wide, and the rag dropped from her hand. Wiping her hands on her apron, she approached slowly, her lower lip tucked between her teeth.

One hand extended to take the letter from him, and she stared a long time at the address. He waited for the tears to start, but her eyes remained dry. Finally, still without opening the envelope, she raised her eyes to meet his. The calm acceptance reflected in her gray-blue eyes took him by surprise.

‘‘I knew it would be coming, just didn’t expect it so soon. I guess they don’t waste any time.’’

Jack stuck his hands in his pockets. He guessed he wouldn’t need to wrap his arms around her. At least not yet. Remembering he was supposed to be ignorant about her unpaid tax bill, he formed a question. ‘‘That your tax receipt?’’

She cringed, and his hands convulsed in his pockets, ready to grab her in a hug the moment she needed it. Her head moved back and forth, and a sad smile tipped up the corners of her lips. ‘‘Not a receipt . . .’’

Turning her back, she lowered her head over the envelope. Her shoulders rose and fell, and then her fingers finally moved to peel back the flap. Jack shifted forward a few inches to peer over her shoulder as she read the official statement of delinquency.

Dear Mrs. Harley Phipps,
   
This letter is to inform you that, as of September 1,
1936, taxes on the property located in Reno County Township,
Section 24, which were due August 1 of same year,
remain unpaid. According to the laws of Reno County, a 30-
day grace period is allowed. As of September 1, the 30-day
grace period has ended and the property has been declared delinquent. Land and structural holdings, minus personal
effects belonging to the residents, will be made available for
public purchase.
   
Therefore, please allow this letter to serve as your notice
that the aforementioned property will be placed for auction on
October 1, 1936.

                                                                                          Sincerely,
                                                                                          Henry Jones Wright
                                                                                          Reno County Secretary

Jack knew when she reached the end, because another sigh raised her shoulders. He clamped his hands around her upper arms and squeezed. ‘‘You okay, Anna Mae?’’

She spun around, dislodging his hands. ‘‘This is wonderful news.’’

Jack scowled. ‘‘Wonderful? How do you figure that?’’

‘‘I thought this letter would tell me I had to get out immediately. But it’s thirty more days before it goes to auction. Surely that will give Harley time to get money to us, and I’ll be able to pay the taxes and stop the auction. Or I can buy the property myself.’’

Jack felt heat climb from his neck to his hairline. His hands balled into fists, and he gritted his teeth as he fought the urge to explode at her naïveté. When would she finally accept the fact that Harley was not the answer to her problems? The man was so stupid he couldn’t figure out to send money to a bank account instead of to a home address where anything could happen to it. She didn’t need Harley; she had Jack!

Anna Mae turned and headed to the hallway that led to the bedrooms. She disappeared from view, but he could hear a drawer squeak open, then click closed. When she came back into the kitchen, she wore a smile. ‘‘Three days ago I told God I wouldn’t give up. Today He’s given me a reason to keep hoping. Isn’t He good, Jack?’’

Jack swallowed his frustration, forced his lips into a grim smile, and gave the answer he knew she expected. ‘‘Yeah. Yeah, He’s real good, Anna Mae.’’

She scooped up the rag she’d left on the table, carried it to the sink, and then faced him again. ‘‘I didn’t even ask why you came by. Did you need something?’’

‘‘No.’’ He stepped closer to the table and clamped his fingers over the top rung of a chair’s back. ‘‘Just saw the mail wagon go by and decided to bring your mail in.’’

She smiled. ‘‘I could have done that. The walk to the mailbox isn’t long. You’ve kind of become my own personal mail deliverer.’’

Her teasing tone removed a tinge of Jack’s frustration. ‘‘Anything I can do to help.’’ He hoped his vocal inflection provided enough innuendo for her to catch on.

Leaning her hips against the counter, she tipped her head, her sweet smile sending a coil of warmth through Jack’s middle. ‘‘You’ve been very helpful, Jack. I don’t know how the girls and I would have kept things going after my accident if you hadn’t been willing to come by every day. And all the chores you’ve done for me, even helping with canning vegetables, which I know you didn’t enjoy. We’ve argued a lot, but—’’

‘‘You know I’d do anything for you, Anna Mae.’’ His voice turned husky as his fingers tightened on the chair. He wished he could reach out to her, draw her near.

‘‘You’ve done more than enough.’’ Pushing off from the counter, she said, ‘‘But if you’d like to do one more thing . . . ?’’

He released the chair and took a step toward her. ‘‘Sure.’’

‘‘If you don’t have anything pressing to do, could you just stay here for a half hour or so? Both girls are napping—neither have been sleeping well with the wind and heat—and I’d really like to take a walk. Just stretch my legs good. Would you mind?’’

A strand of hair slipped free of its tail and fell along her jaw. Jack pushed his hand into his pocket before it reached out and put that strand back in place. ‘‘I don’t mind at all. But I gotta tell you—’’ he grinned, cocking one eyebrow high—‘‘no walk’s gonna work off that belly of yours.’’

She blushed crimson, but she laughed, tucking her hands beneath the mound. The tug of fabric accentuated the roundness. ‘‘No, I suppose not. But it’ll still feel good to get out a bit.’’ She headed for the kitchen door, but when she reached his side she paused for a moment. ‘‘Thanks, Jack. You—you’ve become a good friend in the last few weeks.’’

She moved on then, before he could answer, but it wouldn’t have mattered. He wouldn’t have been able to find enough words to express what her statement meant. In his heart, the words reverberated, taking on a deep meaning.

Anna Mae will be mine
.

Harley slapped the block of shale and hollered, ‘‘Good to go, Ted!’’

The crane operator gave a nod, and the machine roared into action. Harley watched the chain go taut and the rock rise as the boom lifted. He stayed in the block’s shadow as he walked toward the wall, his gaze following the progress of the rock. It was sure good to be back on the job. Three more rows of blocks all the way around, completion of the turret, and the castle would be finished, and he would be on his way home. Harley’s chest expanded in eagerness.

Two men stood on the second-story floor, waiting to catch hold and guide the block into position. At the base of the wall in a wide patch of shade, Dirk chatted with Mr. Peterson, but their words were lost on Harley. He focused on the placement of the next piece of the wall. A shiver went down his spine, and he licked his lips in anticipation of the moment when the rock would become a part of the castle. It was like watching a huge puzzle piece slip into place.

From the west, Nelson charged up the hill, coming to a halt directly in front of the boss. ‘‘Peterson, I gotta talk to you about the doorways on the privy. Hendricks says—’’

The roar of the crane swallowed the rest of Nelson’s statement. That was fine with Harley; he didn’t much care to listen to Nelson talk. The rock dangled directly over the castle wall, ready for its descent. The men on top raised their arms, reaching toward the rock. But then—Harley couldn’t be sure why—the rock slipped sideways in its chain.

‘‘Look out!’’

The cry came from one of the men on the scaffolding. Both men dove backward, away from the boom’s chain. The boom jerked, and the rock fell free, hitting the wall of the castle with a crack that seemed to echo through Harley’s gut. To his horror, the wall shuddered, a section seeming to take a huge breath as it shifted forward.

Peterson bolted down the hill to safety, but Harley stood, watching, frozen by fear.

‘‘Harley, move!’’ Dirk’s voice, frantic. A pair of hands smacked Harley on the back, knocking him flat on his face. He rolled, shifting his gaze in time to see Dirk lunge toward Nelson, who stared stupidly upward, his jaw slack. Dirk tackled Nelson, shielding the man with his body.

Harley screamed Dirk’s name as a chunk of wall fell, hitting Dirk squarely in the back. Harley scrambled to his knees. But another block fell and caught him on the left leg, right below his hips. He screamed again—this time in pain—and collapsed, smacking his chin in the dirt. Nausea attacked, his whole body breaking out in a cold sweat. Though his eyes were open, darkness descended, leaving only a shallow tube through which he could see. The scene filled his throat with bile.

Dirk, sprawled on Nelson. Nelson, arms and legs flailing. But Dirk . . . no movement. No movement at all.

Dirk . . . Dirk, no . . . God, please no . . .

The tube narrowed, the light dimmed, and Harley was blanketed in darkness.

Anna Mae stooped down and plucked a cluster of goldenrod from its thick stem. She smiled, sliding her finger along the outer edges of the delicate petals on a dime-sized blossom. Raising her gaze to the sky, she said, ‘‘You’ve tried, old sun, to make everything shrivel. But look at this—wild flowers as fiery orange as your face at sunset, still managing to bloom.’’

She chuckled to herself as she began walking again. As a little girl, she’d often taken long walks and talked to whatever she encountered—the bane, she supposed, of spending so much time alone. In childhood, her desire to escape solitude had often sent her scampering across the property line to Jack’s place, to beg him to come out and play. Yet it was comforting somehow on this day to visit with the sun, to pick a wild flower, to amble across the empty fields with only herself for company.