A Bride at Last (12 page)

Silas entered the sweltering back stairwell and trudged upstairs. Pushing the door open across the uneven pine flooring, he let out a breath. Nothing seemed disturbed. The crates for Myrtle still lay where he’d left them. Kate’s things were still neatly arranged in the corner.

Silas crossed to the table, looking for an envelope or a slip of
paper. He’d leave Kate’s things for her to look through. Where else might Anthony have left something for Kate?

The cot was stripped bare. The trunk at the end of the bed was empty. He couldn’t help himself and peeked inside Kate’s things. No notes anywhere unless they were buried in Kate’s clothing—hopefully she’d find something there when she returned.

Silas slumped onto the bed and rubbed his hand against Lucy’s fraying quilt.

After a week of taking in Anthony’s features—his dark, hurting eyes, the thick hair that failed to play nice with his two cowlicks, the one subtle dimple Myrtle had pointed out—how could he go home and live life, knowing Anthony could be out there hurting or taken advantage of? Despite trying not to, he’d dreamt about Anthony coming home with him—having a son.

Several large bottles of tonic sat untouched on the end table. He moved closer, reading the labels. Horn’s Cough Syrup, Colonel Muggin’s Bitter Elixir, Holcomb’s Nerve Tonic, Mr. Miracle’s Elixir . . . He knew that last one. His shaky hand closed around the blue bottle . . . heavy. Barely used.

He swallowed against the dryness taking over his throat.

The elixir would keep his thoughts from wandering to their inevitable conclusion—God never intended for him to have a family. God didn’t . . . love him. Didn’t love Anthony.

He clinked the bottle back down, closed his eyes, and forced himself not to pick up the smooth glass container he could still feel in his hand again. He shouldn’t have touched it in the first place.

One day at a time. Just one more day to get through without swishing the contents of the bottle, one more day without pop
ping the cork with his thumb, one more day without pouring it in a glass with a flourish—

He left Anthony’s room, chased by the images of his old routine, the memory of liquor’s burn calling him.

He fled down the stairs and straight for the kitchen, where Myrtle gave him a side glance before going back to slopping what looked like beef stew into bowls littering the counter beside the stove.

Without bothering to ask, he took the pot of coffee sitting on a burner and poured himself a drink. It was weaker than he preferred, but it was something to keep his tongue busy.

“Are you all right, Mr. Jonesey?” She stopped to look at him as he sputtered.

“No.” He trudged out toward the dining hall and sat at the table closest to the door. A few men were already sitting at the tables, laughing loudly.

He held the warm mug in his hands, attempting to anchor himself to the table with the weak brew, even though a whole line of spirits on Lucy’s bedside table called to him. He’d not move until Kate and Richard returned. Hopefully Richard had Anthony in tow. He could at least say good-bye, tell him he’d be praying for him.

The smell of roses grew stronger as Kate pulled out the chair beside him. “Richard hasn’t returned?”

“No, I’m praying it’s because he has Anthony, because he’s usually the first one in here.” He took a sip of his coffee. “You should go up to the room and check through your things, maybe he left—”

“I just did.” She sat quietly beside him as the room filled with more men and Myrtle carted in food.

She leaned toward him. “If Richard hasn’t found him . . .” She lowered her voice. “What if we find him first?”

“What does it matter who finds him? Just as long as he’s found.”

“You and I both know Richard doesn’t love him. He only wants him in case he needs his pockets replenished.”

He had to hope the man wanted him for something more than that. “Maybe his wife wants a child to care for. Lucy’s journal mentioned his wife was barren and that’s why he favored Lucy. Anthony proved his virility wasn’t in question.”

“But Lucy had no other children.”

He rubbed his hand down the back of his neck. “Even if that does sound like pretty good proof I’m the father, he’s got a ruling.”

“You can contest it.”

“What good does it do if we can’t find Anthony? And even if we did find him, Richard isn’t about to wait for another trial before taking off with the boy.”

“Then go to Hartfield to contest it.”

He rubbed at the dull ache at his temples. “When do you know God is saying ‘no’?”

She leaned back against her chair as if she were trying to get as far away from him as possible. “You’re not going to fight this?”

“I want to, but I have my farm to think about, and—”

“If we find him first”—she leaned forward again—“you should just take him.”

“We also have the law to obey.” Wasn’t she the one who told Anthony he should never pickpocket again?

“Challenge the court.”

“I’m not sure it would do any good.”

She leaned closer, her voice just above a whisper. “Then what if I took off with him and brought him to you later, after Richard tires of looking for him?”

“Oh, Kate. I know this seems unfair—and I would say it
is—but I can’t go against what God seems to be orchestrating, no matter how much I dislike the outcome. How could I live with myself? Would I be any better than Richard as a parent if I refuse to follow the law?”

“But—”

“Here you go, sir.” Myrtle placed a bowl in front of Silas and looked between them.

Richard stomped into the dining hall.

“Is Anthony not eating?” Myrtle widened her eyes. “I hope he’s not ill. I could take him something.”

“He’s not here. He’s run away.” Richard plopped into his chair. “If you see him, bring him straight to me.”

She glanced at Silas, so he nodded. What else should she do? “Keep your eyes open for him if you would. Mr. Fitzgerald needs to take him home.”

“Yes, sirs.” Myrtle moved off.

“Where’d you two look?” Richard grumbled.

“I searched his old neighborhood, visited some of his school friends, and then checked at the Logans’.”

“About the same area she did.” Silas shrugged and kept his eyes off Kate to avoid the glare he expected if she realized he’d kept watch over her. “Figured the creek could wait since he’d be looking for shelter this late in the day.”

“Well, he’s not been seen at the railroad. The manager let me look through the yard and outbuildings in case he was waiting there to jump the next train. I started walking Locust Street, too, but came back here before I got too far.”

Myrtle set bowls in front of both Kate and Richard.

“When that boy comes back, I’m going to thrash him.” Richard stabbed something floating in his stew with a fork.

Kate widened her eyes at Silas as if she expected he’d take Richard to task over such a proclamation. But hadn’t the orphanage directors given him plenty of lickings for much less?

He kept his gaze on Kate’s. “We can pray.” That was indeed the best thing they could do. Even if they never saw him again, maybe God would hear and guide Anthony to someone who’d treat him better than Richard.

But if that’s what God was doing, why hadn’t He given the boy to him?

Chapter 8

Kate wiped her chalky hands on a wet rag and gave the blackboard a good scrubbing.

The end of the week had come—a week without any clue to where Anthony went. It’d been tough to teach every day, knowing she could only search for a few hours before night fell. Even if she weren’t tied to this job, what more could she do? There wasn’t an inch of Breton she hadn’t walked or a person who knew Anthony that she hadn’t questioned.

Silas knocked on the door to her classroom despite it being open and him having no reason to believe he wasn’t welcome. He’d come by every day to escort her around town.

Of course, she’d met Silas at the front door the last several days, impatiently tapping her toes. They could’ve covered more ground separately, but he’d insisted he couldn’t live with himself if anything bad happened to her.

“Do you need help?”

She dipped her rag into the pail and wrung the murky water out. “Unfortunately, the school board won’t let me leave without doing my weekend chores since they don’t think an extra fifteen minutes of searching is important. . . .” But after a week, was
every second as important as it once was? She sloshed her wet rag against the stubborn marks the wool eraser hadn’t eradicated. “You could sweep if you’re willing.”

“Of course.” He grabbed the broom from the corner and swept without even a groan. Had her brother-in-law ever cleaned anything besides his plate?

Making quick work of the room, Silas tossed the dirt out the window. “Where do you plan to look today?”

A sad smile wriggled her lips. How many times had this man asked for her opinion as if he truly believed she could make good decisions as well as he?

Oh, why couldn’t she have seen what a nice man he was the day Lucinda died and shoved him and Anthony onto a Kansas-bound train before the funeral? “Do we have time to go to Burrow?”

“The town north of here?” At her nod, he stroked his beard, which had grown thicker every day.

She’d never found beards attractive before, but on him . . . Or maybe she was starting to find everything about Silas attractive.

“I think we could, but we’d only have enough time to go to the sheriff. Maybe one or two other places before we had to return.”

She shrugged and looked out the window to where someone was passing through the alleyway. For some reason, she couldn’t keep from hoping every slight flicker at her window was Anthony come to tell her he’d been hiding somewhere and feeling guilty for not letting her know where he went. “I suppose our time would be better spent around here today. Maybe we can go tomorrow.”

Silas went back to the window and leaned to see the person who’d walked by.

Knowing the moment they found him, Silas intended to hand
him over to Richard, trusting God to know what was best was endearing . . . and annoying at the same time.

Was the man the judge awarded a son doing anything nearly as worthwhile as this one? “Where’s Richard looking?”

Silas’s face grew dark, but he rubbed his hands over his forehead as if he were trying to erase the answer he was about to give. “I think he spent most of today at Lucky’s.”

“What?” She hefted her water bucket. If Richard had been anywhere nearby, he’d have found himself drenched. “Is he waiting for us to find Anthony for him?”

“He says it’s the law’s job, but of course . . .” Silas strangled the broom handle. “If we find him, we’re to drag him directly to his poker table.”

“Well then, he doesn’t deserve him.” Kate sloshed water on her way across the hall to the Widow Larson’s room.

“We don’t get to decide, unfortunately.” He rushed past her to open the door.

“Why not? If we find him, I still say we run with him.”

“We?”

She cleared her throat while wringing the water from her rag. “I mean
you
, of course.” Unless he wanted it to be
we
 . . .

“I can’t run with him.”

“Why not?” She kept her face turned toward the board, afraid he might notice how distracted she was by trying not to think how the
we
possibility might play out. Of course, he’d only think she was frustrated by Richard’s lack of concern over Anthony’s well-being—and she certainly was that.

“Lucy.”

She stopped washing the board and turned. “What about her?” What had she asked him again?

“She ran from me.”

“Why does that matter?” She scrubbed with a vengeance. Silas hadn’t deserved being shackled to the bitter Lucinda she’d
known, but at the same time, he hadn’t deserved being abandoned for ten years without knowing what had happened to his wife either. That first day she’d seen him, that grieving she’d flippantly assumed was acting, had likely been real. Had he truly mourned for ten years over a woman who couldn’t be satisfied?

She winced at her unkind thought.
Lord, forgive me for thinking ill of the dead.

“Lucy was the only family I had, and she ran away. Though Richard has a wife, he believes Anthony’s his son, and if I had a son, the devastation of not knowing where he was, if I’d ever see him again . . . I’m too well acquainted with that kind of heartache.”

He’d mourn Anthony far longer than Richard would.

How could you have made the judge give Anthony to this man? Even if he truly is Richard’s son. . . .

No, Silas was right. Who was she to judge who got to keep their children and who didn’t? She sighed. Maybe they should stop looking for Anthony. Maybe if they quit, Richard would go home and Anthony would find out and return.

She marched to the other room to clean the blackboard, trying not to let her brain talk her out of hoping that Anthony was simply hiding. Otherwise she’d have to admit nothing they did could save him.

Oh, God, what can we do?

“Are you all right?”

She hadn’t meant to let that hiccup of a sob escape. She dumped her rag into the bucket and marched back to her room. Dirty corners be hanged. “Let’s talk to the sheriff. If he’s heard from any of the towns he contacted, maybe we might need to go somewhere else tomorrow instead of Burrow.” She gathered the primers she needed to take home, and Silas opened the door for her.

“Sounds good.” He walked out in front of her, opening every
door and then, at his hired buggy, took her books and held out his free hand.

She knew it was only to help her up onto the seat, but for a second, she wanted to hold on to his hand just because it was there . . . because it belonged to him. Because he might pull her closer and let her cry.

Stupid desire. She needed to get ahold of herself before she fell for a man who was going to leave as sure as chalk breaks.

Of course, lecturing herself right now would probably do little good.

Her heart already ached at the thought of him leaving, maybe not as much as it ached the day Anthony had disappeared, but it was certainly a portion of the pain constricting her rib cage whenever she let herself dwell on the past two weeks—and the future she didn’t want to think about.