Brides of Iowa (37 page)

“I’m sorry if I kept you awake.”

Everett shook his head. “You didn’t. I had so many things on my mind, it was hard to close my eyes.” He looked at Hubert. “It doesn’t seem that we’ve been able to resolve our differences, but perhaps it’s not as much your fault as I once thought.”

If Everett was willing to initiate further discussion on the matter, Hubert was ready to listen. “Did you come to any conclusions?”

His son rose and walked to the front window where Hubert had stood watching the sunrise a few minutes earlier. “I’m not sure.” Hubert heard him sigh. “But I wasn’t sure when I came to Willow Creek either. I thought I knew what my purpose in coming was, but now…”

Hubert checked the coffeepot and returned to sit at the table. “You know I want you to stay, but it’s your choice. Do you have plans?”

Everett blew out a breath and turned away from the window. He extracted an envelope from his inside coat pocket. “I received this letter from Grandfather’s attorney last week.” He stared at the envelope, a scowl marring his features. “I was unaware of the unpaid debts and liens against Grandfather’s business.”

Surprise at Everett’s statement raised Hubert’s eyebrows. Everett had told him he stood to inherit a great deal of money and planned to take over his grandfather’s business, but it sounded as though bad news from the attorney might change his son’s future.

Everett unfolded the missive and studied it silently. Judging from his son’s slumped shoulders, Hubert suspected he’d already read it several times.

Everett held the letter up, waving it slightly. “At first I didn’t plan to share this information with you. I didn’t want you to know.”

Hubert frowned, not in anger but in puzzlement.

Everett shuffled over and sat at the table again, laying the letter in front of him. “But there is something here you
should
know.”

Hubert cut his gaze to the letter. Several pages lay on the table, so whatever explanation it contained was lengthy.

“This lawyer, Mr. Goss, was originally my grandmother’s attorney. She hired him to handle some legal affairs involving my mother. After Grandmother died, Mr. Goss contacted my grandfather, who retained him at that point. He says that he was under obligation to my grandfather to keep this information confidential until now.” Everett stared at the letter with doleful eyes. “It seems we were wrong about not knowing where my mother went.”

Hubert blinked and raised his eyebrows. “But we
didn’t
know.”

“Grandmother did.” He looked across the table at his father. “And on more than one occasion, she wired money to my mother—large amounts of money.” He turned the pages over. “By the time we got word of Mother’s death, Grandmother had sent almost a hundred thousand dollars to her. Mr. Goss says the bank drafts were sent to various places and cashed at different banks, and he suspects the man with whom Mother ran away may have been blackmailing her.” His fingers curled up the corners of the pages and his eyes remained riveted to the paper.

Hubert tried to digest the staggering information. “You mean…”

“Mother’s leaving wasn’t entirely your fault.” Everett leaned his head back and blew out his breath through pursed lips. “I wanted to keep on blaming you. Grandmother always told me you weren’t a good man; you weren’t good enough for my mother.” He thumped his open palm down onto the letter. “But I blamed you based on her word, without knowing the facts.”

Hubert shook his head. “It sounds like none of us knew the facts.”

A grim line defined Everett’s lips. “Except Grandmother. After she died, Mr. Goss had to tell Grandfather about the missing money as well as several large bills my grandmother ran up without his knowledge. At some point, and the letter isn’t completely clear on this, Grandfather signed over 51 percent ownership of the business to Grandmother. She apparently used Grandfather’s business as collateral for loans, sending the money to my mother. Mr. Goss is in the process of sorting out the details of settling the estate, but the house and furnishings may have to be sold to pay off the creditors. Grandfather’s business is in receivership.”

Hubert stood to retrieve the coffeepot that had begun to boil. “Since you may not have a house to go back to, why don’t you stay here?”

Another sigh hung on the air as Everett refolded the letter and tucked it back into his coat pocket. “You’ve made a life for yourself in this place, but Iowa isn’t where I belong.”

“It could be.” Hubert poured two cups of coffee and set one before Everett. “I have a comfortable home and the mercantile. I know it’s not the life to which you are accustomed, but—”

Everett waved his hand and took a sip of coffee. “Mr. Goss indicates he will have some papers for me to sign and there should be a small inheritance after all the creditors are paid. I’m afraid it will be a fraction of what I was expecting, but at least it’s something. Once I return to Baltimore, I’ll weigh my options.”

“Couldn’t Willow Creek be one of your options?”

Everett hesitated before answering. “No, Father. I have no future here. I hope you can find happiness in Willow Creek, but I think it’s best if I leave.”

Since Everett needed the wagon to carry his trunk and his valise, Hubert had taken his time walking to the mercantile. The normal sounds of Willow Creek’s commerce that usually brought a smile to his lips failed to cheer him this morning. The sun hid behind gloomy gray clouds that matched Hubert’s melancholy mood. He puttered around the store, waited on a half dozen customers, and opened a crate of merchandise. When the clock on the shelf behind the counter chimed, Hubert pulled out his watch, thinking the clock must surely be running fast. But the hands of his watch confirmed it was nearly time to bid Everett good-bye.

He hung the C
LOSED
sign on the mercantile door and walked down the street to meet Everett at the depot before the stage arrived. As painful as it was, he’d not let his son leave without telling him one more time that he loved him and wanted him to stay.

Everett stood beside his valise and trunk on the boardwalk in front of the depot. There wasn’t much left to say, other than repeating what had already been spoken. Hubert opened his mouth to entreat his son one last time to stay in Willow Creek when he heard a shout from down the street. He’d hoped on this day the stage might arrive late, thus giving him extra time with Everett. But instead, the conveyance must be pulling into town early. They both looked in the direction of the noise.

Within moments, more people added their voices to the shouting, and Hubert realized it wasn’t the stage’s arrival. Some kind of commotion drew the attention of nearly everyone on the street. Several folks ran toward the clamor. Just as he turned to see what was happening, he saw billows of smoke rising above the trees, and one of the men yelled over his shoulder as he ran.

“The boardinghouse is on fire!”

Horror gripped Hubert by the throat. He forced his brain to function and his feet to move. Down the alley was a shorter route. With his heart pounding in his ears and his chest constricting, he ran toward Pearl’s place.

“God, let her get out of there. Please let her be safe.”

He was vaguely aware of footsteps hammering out a rhythm behind him in step with his own.

“Father!”

When he reached the yard of the boardinghouse, men were already manning the pump, working the handle up and down with ferocity. Others carried buckets and burlap sacks.

But where was Pearl? His eyes darted from one side of the yard to the other. “Pearl!”

He raced to the front of the house. No Pearl, but the curtains at the parlor window were already in flames. Yelling Pearl’s name at the top of his lungs, he elbowed past the lilac bushes. There was no answer. His frantic search brought him back where he’d started. Pearl was nowhere outside.

As he pushed past the men who had formed a line, slinging water buckets, the crackle of the fire reached his ears. Dense smoke nearly blotted out the location of the back door.

“Pearl!”

Without hesitation, Hubert lunged toward the door. Several hands grabbed at him, and a conglomeration of voices accosted his senses—urgent entreaties for him to not enter the burning house.

“Stay back! Don’t go in there!”

“Are you crazy, man? You won’t come out of there alive.”

He yanked his arms free of the restraining grips and pushed forward. Another voice pierced through the commotion.

“No, Father! Stop!”

But he couldn’t stop. His feet, propelled by a force he didn’t see, carried him past the porch steps. A degree of strength he’d never known before sent jolts of energy through him.

“Pearl!”

A roiling wall of black smoke met him when he flung the door open. He raised his arm, waving the deadly veil away, and covered his face in the crook of his elbow. “Pearl!…Pearl!”

He plunged into the kitchen. The smoke drove him to his knees. It unfurled against him from every side, and he couldn’t determine the direction from which the fire came. The thick vapor was denser near the ceiling, but lower down he could make out the forms of the kitchen table and chairs, the legs of the cast-iron stove, the bottom edge of the pantry door. He tried to scream out Pearl’s name again, but black fog that tasted like tar burned his throat. If he’d taken a moment to wet a cloth and tie it over the lower half of his face, he might be able to breathe easier, but the action would have taken several precious seconds, and he didn’t know how many seconds he had to find Pearl. He pulled his shirt up to cover his nose and mouth, and continued crawling through the kitchen, but Pearl wasn’t there.

“P–P…earl.” Spasms of coughing choked him. The sound of the crackling grew louder and something crashed behind him. “P–P—” Impenetrable smoke wrapped virulent fingers around his throat. He could no longer push Pearl’s name past his lips, but his heart continued to scream. Only God could hear him. Heat intensified moment by moment, but awareness of time began to slip away. Coughs tore at his windpipe and wracked his chest.

Pearl, my love, where are you? God, please show me where she is. Lead me to her.

His shoulder came in contact with something solid, and it fell over with a thud that joined with the growing cacophony of the fire. He crawled blindly, unable to open his eyes to the searing heat and smoke. Something scraped and toppled behind him. From the same direction he’d come? He couldn’t tell. Another thump and a knocking sound reached him. Somewhere a window shattered and an ominous cracking and splintering of wood meant the beams would soon collapse.

Please, Father, lead me to Pearl.

With his hand he groped to the right of him and encountered a wall, then an opening. A doorway. He stretched his arm and probed farther through the recess. His fingers floundered in the space and collided with warm softness lying on the floor just inside the door.

His lips formed the word
Pearl,
even though he couldn’t force out any sound. He’d found her, but darkness entombed him and his sense of where he was in the house began to slip away. Locking his hand around her limp arm, he tried to drag her. A sensation of lightness overpowered him and took possession of his ability to think. The urgency that drove him into the house faded as oppressive heat enveloped him. His last shred of strength withered and died. The demon smoke was swallowing them, and they were falling…falling…

H
ubert fought to breathe through a snarled labyrinth of cobwebs, seeking an escape from the burning in his throat. Muffled voices called his name and encouraged him to open his eyes. Part of him desired to push his way through the fog and another part simply wanted to sleep. Could he find the strength to open his mouth and tell whoever was repeating his name to go away? A searing pain knifed his throat when he swallowed. He turned his head to one side and met gentle fingers touching his cheek and blotting his face with something blessedly cool.

“Mr. Behr, can you hear me?”

The voice sounded familiar, but he couldn’t connect a name or face to it. If responding to the entreaty intensified the pounding in his head, perhaps lying perfectly still was his best option. His lips refused to cooperate when he tried to form the question
Where am I?

“Don’t try to talk. Just open your mouth and take a sip of water.”

Water.
The very word sounded heavenly. He parted his lips, and his bottom lip cracked painfully. He pulled his eyebrows in as a wince filled his whole being. But an instant later, cool water dripped into his mouth and quenched some of the pain. His tongue, thick and swollen, detached itself from the roof of his mouth and relished the wetness. Gradual awareness seeped into his brain. Whoever held the cup to his lips poured a tiny bit more water into his mouth, and Hubert let the precious moisture roll over his tongue. Since his first attempt to swallow was so painful, he wasn’t eager to repeat the experience. He mentally braced himself and allowed his swallow reflex to work. As expected, it felt like pouring kerosene on an open wound.

“I know your throat hurts, but the doctor said you must try to take some water.”