Where Wildflowers Bloom: A Novel Page 8

  The man looked like he’d swallowed mustard paste. Red-faced, he mumbled, “I don’t have a couple extry hours. Guess you could show me them handles. Becca, you let that gal git your thread. We got work waitin’ to home.”

  After they left, Rosemary turned to Faith. “Thank you. You’d think I’d be used to reactions like that, but they still make me angry.”

  “Want to throw something?” Faith offered her a dessert plate.

  Rosemary chuckled. “Later, perhaps.”

  On Sunday morning, Faith settled next to Rosemary in a pew near the center of the church, with Grandpa and Curt on Rosemary’s left. Within moments the two men were involved in a whispered discussion of classic chess moves.

  Faith rejoiced that Curt’s comments drew Grandpa out of the melancholy he’d displayed since meeting Royal. She didn’t know whether to hope Royal remembered where he’d seen her father and brother, or to pray he had nothing to tell them. Either way, his words would leave her grandfather disturbed.

  As the congregation rose for the opening hymn, Royal ducked into the pew next to her.

  “I thought I’d find you here.” His voice was meant for her ears alone.

  She stared at him, surprised to see him in church. “You were looking for me?”

  Instead of answering, Royal clasped his side of her open hymnal and drew it toward him. His deep bass voice boomed out the words to “On Christ the Solid Rock I Stand,” while he nodded and winked at her.

  Curt leaned forward with a questioning expression on his face. When he noticed Royal, his eyes narrowed.

  Faith turned her head toward the front and tried to ignore both of them. It wasn’t easy, with Royal’s warmth on her right and Curt’s scowl scorching her from the left. During Reverend French’s sermon, she dared a glance at Grandpa and saw him staring at Royal. She balled her hands into fists until her nails bit into the palms, wishing Royal had waited a few more days.

  They left the church as a group, Curt in the lead. At the entrance, the pastor drew him aside. “Would tomorrow evening be satisfactory?” Faith heard him ask as she passed by and descended the stone steps.

  Royal took her arm. “May I escort you and your grandfather home?”

  “Thank you, but no. We’re with—” Before she could introduce Rosemary and her brother, Grandpa interrupted.

  “Course you can. I want to hear what you remember about my son and grandson.”

  Curt joined them in time to hear Grandpa’s response. Faith looked at him, hoping he could see the apology in her eyes. “It appears we will travel home with Mr. Baxter.”

  “You should be comfortable. He rented our finest carriage.” He tipped his hat and strode away.

  “That fellow needs to learn his place,” Royal said. “Rude for a stableman, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Curt and his sister are family friends.” Faith raised an eyebrow. “We don’t speak ill of our friends.”

  Royal’s jaw tightened. She watched a brief fight for control cross his face before anger gave way to a thin smile. “In that case, my apologies. Now, shall we leave?”

  “Tell me what you’ve remembered about my son,” Grandpa said as soon as they were seated in the carriage.

  Faith closed her eyes. Please, Lord, protect Grandpa from pain.

  “To my best recollection, we crossed paths in Jeff City. General Price was trying to break our defenses. I was there with the militia. Your son and grandson were part of the Federal Army, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes.” Grandpa’s knuckles whitened around his cane. “How did they seem?”

  “Like the rest of us. Tired. Looking for the war to end. Your son had his left arm bandaged below the shoulder.”

  Grandpa sat straighter. “No one told me that. He was hurt? He should’ve been in a hospital. Maybe then he wouldn’t . . .” He shuffled his feet. Swallowed.

  Faith tucked her arm around his. “It doesn’t do any good to think about what might have been. We have each other.”

  Tears streaked his cheeks. “I had so much more.”

  “They were both courageous men,” Royal said. “You can be proud.”

  “Proud.” Grandpa spat the word. “Pride’s not much company on lonely evenings.” He pressed Faith’s hand. “Glad we have Curt.”

  Royal slapped the reins over the horse’s back, his lips drawn into a thin line.

  On Monday evening, Curt perched on the edge of a hard wooden chair in Reverend French’s book-lined study. Every inch of the small room was in perfect order. The older man’s polished desktop contained one sheet of paper and a Bible sprouting numerous bookmarks. He sat behind the desk, hands clasped across his midriff.

  “Tell me how you’ve been handling your episodes, as you call them, since we talked.”

  “Only had one last week. I forced myself away.” Sweat stung his forehead.

  “Good.”

  Curt sprang to his feet and paced. “I’m tired of fighting. Thought I’d be done with it when I came home. Now I battle memories. When will I be able to sleep through the night? Go somewhere and not look over my shoulder? Court a woman?”

  Reverend French cocked an eyebrow. “Court a woman? You haven’t mentioned that before. Who’s the girl?”

  “Blast my mouth. I didn’t mean anything. Just thinking out loud.”

  “Maybe it’s time. Nothing like a good woman to settle a man.”

  Curt thought of Faith leaving the church with Royal Baxter. Women were attracted to unscarred men—men who had good-paying jobs. She’d accepted his friendship. That would have to be enough.

  He placed his hand on the latch. “Thank you for your time.”

  “Don’t be in such a hurry. Last time you were here we talked about turning to prayer when you’re tormented by the past. Did you try that last week?”

  Curt resumed his seat, remembering the feeling of peace that had accompanied the vanquishing of his ghosts. He felt himself relaxing. “Yes. It felt good. Like handing off a heavy load.”

  “That’s exactly what happened. I believe if you continue, you’ll find that your episodes will gradually cease.”

  “How long is ‘gradual’?”

  “Only God knows.” Reverend French ran his fingers through his graying hair and cleared his throat. “Have you given any more thought to your former profession? We could use a man with your abilities here in Noble Springs.”

  “Same thoughts as courting a woman. I don’t dare.”

  Faith stepped into the parlor where Grandpa sat in his green-upholstered wing chair staring out the front window. Leaves on the maple tree spun in the morning breeze. “Are you ready? It’s half past eight.”

  “You go ahead. I’m staying home today.”

  Disquiet buzzed through her. “It’s Tuesday. We have to open the store.”

  He frowned. “I know it’s Tuesday. Do you think I’m a simpleton?”

  Faith blinked at his sharp words. “Then why aren’t you coming with me?”

  “Don’t feel like it.” He rested his head against the antimacassar draped over the chair back. His age-spotted hands lay quiet in his lap.

  She placed her fingers against his stubbled cheek. Grandpa always shaved. The buzzing inside grew louder. “Are you ill?”

  “Sick at heart. Just let me be for a while.”

  “Shall I bring your manuscript home at dinnertime?” She kept her voice bright.

  “No. I sat down there all day yesterday with nothing to say. Makes no sense to pretend to be busy.” He pointed at the clock. “Run along. I’ll be fine.”

  Faith kissed the top of his head. Controlling her trembling lips, she said, “See you at noon.”

  “Fine.”

  Once out the door, she fought tears, wondering how she’d keep an eye on Grandpa if he wasn’t working in the shed. Drat Royal and his recollections. At the moment she wished she’d never laid eyes on him.

  “Faith, would you come out here, please?” Rosemary called.

  She brushed dust and c
obwebs from her apron. Casting a last look at her project, she hurried through the burlap curtain dividing the storeroom from the front of the mercantile. A young couple stood holding hands under the “Necessities for the Trip to Oregon” poster. He sported a trim beard and moustache and she wore a sunny yellow calico dress. From the glow on their faces, Faith guessed they were newlyweds.

  Rosemary stepped forward. “Mr. and Mrs. Potter are outfitting a wagon for the Oregon trail. I thought you could best assist them, since you’re planning the trip yourself.”

  Mrs. Potter turned to her, eyes alight. “Are you and your husband joining our company?”

  “I’m not married. My grandfather and I are going together.” She bit her lip against the tiny lie. After today, he’d have to admit a fresh start was what they both needed.

  “You’d best sign on with a good wagon master,” Mr. Potter said. “That trail shows no mercy to stragglers.”

  “I do know that, Mr. Potter. May I have the name of the captain of your party?”

  “Alonzo McGuire. He’s made the journey several times.”

  Faith scribbled the name on a scrap of paper on top of a display case. “Does he live in Noble Springs?”

  “He’s currently residing at the hotel by the train depot. He’ll be there until we’re ready to leave—probably by the end of May.”

  The hotel. Friday night’s dance seemed long ago, rather than only four days. From what her customer said, she had less than a month to sell the business and prepare a wagon for the journey if she planned to leave with McGuire’s outfit. And she did plan to leave.

  Mrs. Potter dropped her husband’s hand. “We’ve read over your list.” She pointed at the wall. “Do we have to have everything? After paying what Mr. McGuire charges, we must guard our cash.”

  Faith scanned the placard. She’d read Randolph Marcy’s book so often she had most of the contents memorized. “The journey will take at least a hundred and ten days. You’ll need a minimum of what I have listed. For instance, twenty-five pounds of bacon is a ration for one person. Same thing with the flour, coffee, sugar, and salt. Be sure to take a great plenty. West & Riley’s has the groceries. We have all the clothing and camp equipment.”

  Mr. Potter rubbed his fist across his beard. “Let’s get started then.” He looked at his wife. “You select our clothes and medicines while Miss Lindberg shows me the supplies I need for the oxen.”

  They left an hour later, their spring wagon loaded up the sides with necessities. Faith grinned at Rosemary. “Finally. I was afraid I’d never have a big sale.”

  “If this wagon train is just forming, you’ll soon have many more customers.” Rosemary’s eyes moistened. “I’m happy for you, but I must admit to hoping you’ll never leave.”

  “If you’d seen Grandpa this morning, you’d change your mind. He’s gone into his shell, just like after we got word about my papa and Maxwell. If I could, I’d take him away from here today.”

  Rosemary tilted her head, an expression of pity on her face. “What if he doesn’t want to go?”

  “Of course Grandpa will go. He keeps saying we have to sell the mercantile first. Now that business is on the increase, I’m sure we’ll find a buyer.”

  But when Faith returned to the storeroom, Rosemary’s question echoed in her thoughts. The wooden crate she’d dragged to the far corner beckoned. She hefted a cast iron kettle over the edge, settling it on top of four blankets and a painted canvas cloth. Their supplies would be ready the moment they sold the mercantile.

  Before going home at noon, Faith stopped at the newspaper office. “I have two advertisements for next week’s paper,” she said to Mr. Simpkins. She gave him the pages.

  He fished his glasses from his coat pocket and read aloud, “Free piece of tea-leaf china with each purchase totaling fifty cents. Your choice. First come, first served.” He grinned. “So, if I spend two dollars, do I get four pieces?”

  Faith nodded. “Spend ten dollars and I’ll give you the entire lot.”

  Mr. Simpkins impaled the sheet on a spindle and read the second one. His eyes grew round. “You’re selling the mercantile? ‘Interested buyers call between the hours of nine to five.’ Does your grandpappy know about this?”

  “We’ve discussed selling, yes.” Her heart fluttered at the half-truth.

  “Well, I’ll be. Can’t imagine the town without Lindberg’s Mercantile. You folks made it through the war. Why sell now when things are looking up?”

  “We’re going to Oregon.”

  With exaggerated movements, he took several steps backward and flopped on his chair. “Judge Lindberg leaving. This is a front-page story.”

  Faith gasped. “No. Not yet.” Grandpa had stopped reading the Observer after Papa and Maxwell were killed. Heaven help her if someone mentioned the advertisement before he’d given his approval. She forced a bland smile. “Wait until we have a buyer for the mercantile. Then you’ll have a bigger story for your paper.”

  “I’m surprised you’d want to leave. I hear Royal Baxter finally made it back. You were right, no news was good news as far as those casualty lists were concerned.”

  “We can’t make our plans around Major Baxter, or anyone else for that matter.”

  He peered at her over the top of his glasses, chuckling. “You wouldn’t be the first gal to adjust her sights to suit a fellow.”

  “I need to be on my way, Mr. Simpkins. Please let me know the cost of our advertisements at your first convenience.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He snapped a mock salute.

  During the walk home, the truth of what he’d said broke through. Grandpa leaving Noble Springs was front-page news. She quailed at the idea that she might be wrong, then shook her head. She had to do something to help him. Oregon was the best idea.

  Faith stepped into the entry hall. “Grandpa?”

  “In here.” His voice came from the parlor.

  She hurried to his side. “I brought your manuscript home. Thought you might change your mind about writing.”

  He took the papers and dropped them on the floor beside his chair. “Thank you. I’ll put it away later.”

  “Well, then, dinner will be on soon.” She swallowed a lump in her throat. “Potato omelet. You like that, don’t you? And jam tarts for dessert. I stayed up last night to bake them.”

  “Anything you cook is fine. I’m not too hungry.” He stood, straightening his waistcoat over his collarless shirt. “I’ll be upstairs. Call me when the food’s ready.”

  While the stove heated, Faith left the kitchen and walked to the stone springhouse to retrieve the ingredients for their meal. Inside, icy water bubbling from the ground poured over rocks before flowing out into the woods behind their home. She paused for a moment and pressed her forehead against one of the cool stone walls.

  “Show me what to do,” she whispered. “I’m frightened.”

  She stopped at Ripley’s Livery before she returned to the store. Curt had his back to her, currying a horse in the first stall. Faith lifted her skirt and crossed the straw-littered floor.

  “Curt?”

  He started, then dropped the currycomb into an empty feed bin. A pleased grin spread over his face. “Afternoon. Where’s your granddad?”

  “Grandpa’s the reason I stopped by. He stayed home today.” She pressed her hands together. “I’m concerned about him. He spent all morning just sitting in the parlor, and hardly ate a bite of dinner.”

  Curt stepped out of the stall. “Want me to stop by this afternoon?”

  “Would you? I’d be so grateful.” Up close, he smelled like horses and fresh hay. She warmed at the pleasant reminder of her childhood with Maxwell. Their horses were another thing Grandpa sold when he learned of his son’s death.

  “Be happy to. I like your granddad.”

  “Thank you. You’re a blessing.”

  He took a step away, tugging at his shirt collar. “Best get back to work. See you this evening.”

  Curt certainly
wasn’t one for long good-byes. She turned her steps toward town.

  Faith closed the double doors of the mercantile and pulled the shades down. As soon as she tallied the day’s receipts and swept the floor, she’d be ready to leave. She ran her finger down the ledger entries, adding as she went. The sale to the Potters raised the total higher than it had been since she began operating the business for Grandpa.

  She emptied the cash drawer and counted the coins. Potters had paid with bank notes. She’d have to take the paper currency to Noble Springs National Bank first thing tomorrow for deposit. One never knew these days. After dropping the money into a canvas bag, she closed the empty drawer and tucked the bag into her carryall. Grandpa would be pleased to know they’d had such a profitable day.

  When she left the mercantile, she noticed two men sitting on one of the benches along the covered boardwalk.

  Faith strode past the courthouse, walking faster than normal. A buggy rattled by and she jumped, then laughed at herself. People sat on those benches all the time. She didn’t need to be afraid.

  When she turned onto High Street and saw Curt walking toward her, she relaxed. She’d be safe in his company. “How is Grandpa?” she called as he drew near.

  “He didn’t answer the door. I thought he’d gone to be with you.”

  12

  Faith’s breath caught in her throat. “I haven’t seen Grandpa all afternoon.” She lifted her skirt above her shoe tops and broke into a run toward their house.

  Curt pounded past her. “I’ll let myself in,” he called over his shoulder.

  “Thank you,” she said, knowing he was already too far ahead to hear.

  The front door stood open when she panted up the steps. She heard Curt’s voice upstairs, calling Grandpa’s name. She dashed toward the rear of the house and peered into the kitchen, then into the small bedroom at the end of the hallway.