Brides of Iowa (45 page)

Father walked silently beside him as they headed toward a stand of poplars. He’d have to break the news eventually. Might as well be now when there was nobody else around to overhear.

“The money that was left is a small fraction of what I’d expected.” He adjusted his lapels and the silk cravat at his throat. “I’d hoped to start an import business back in Baltimore, but I won’t have enough capital.”

“Son, I have some money saved. I can—”

“No!” Everett immediately softened his expression. “I mean, no thank you, Father. I know you mean well, but I have to stand on my own two feet. Whatever business venture I invest in, it will be with my own assets.”

His father stopped in the shade of the poplars and rubbed his gray whiskers. “I don’t want to pry, son, but if you don’t mind me asking, how much money was left after the estate was liquidated?”

Everett hesitated and examined his feelings. He no longer resented his father, nor blamed him for the estrangement between them for so many years. In fact, he found that he truly wanted his father’s advice—a discovery that filled him with warmth.

“A little over two thousand. Certainly not the figure I thought I would inherit.” He reached up and plucked a leaf from a poplar tree, twirling the stem between his thumb and forefinger.

Father slipped his hands behind his back and clasped them together. “Well, I agree with you that an import business would require more capital than two thousand.” He pursed his lips and frowned, and Everett could see the thoughts turning over in his father’s head. Finally, the older man spoke again.

“Willow Creek has been in need of a freighting company for quite a while. Every time I place an order for merchandise, I have to wait until one of the freighters from Dubuque or Manchester can schedule a run north. Sometimes my goods sit in their freight office for two or three weeks before they can get them here.” He stared in the direction of town and rubbed his mustache with one finger. “Old Cully at the livery has complained about how long it takes to get harness parts, and Jake Peabody had to shut down the mill last year for more than two months because he was waiting for a new gear to be delivered.”

His father turned a thoughtful gaze upon Everett and tipped his head. “Son, you have a business background already, so establishing such a venture shouldn’t be too difficult for you.”

Everett wasn’t sure what running a freight operation entailed, but if his father’s assessment was an indication, the town definitely had a need for the enterprise. “This is interesting, but I don’t want to leap into a business about which I know nothing. Would you have time later to talk this out and help me put some plans on paper?”

Father grinned. “Of course. We can talk about it now if you like. I have the rest of the afternoon and evening.”

His emotions were already dueling where Tillie was concerned, and he didn’t wish to discuss his financial future in her presence. He glanced toward the house through the low-hanging branches of the poplar trees. Pearl stood on the porch, and Tillie walked away from the house in the direction of town, pausing to turn and wave back at Pearl. He and his father could discuss the business possibility in private after all, but a twinge of guilt assailed him at the thought of Tillie walking home alone. Perhaps he should have offered…No, he shouldn’t.

T
illie peeked in Everett’s direction from the corner of her eye but couldn’t find him without turning her head. Her father, seated beside her in the pew, raised one eyebrow at her. She could almost hear his unspoken admonition and returned her attention to the man in the pulpit at the front of the room.

Pastor Witherspoon closed his Bible and made some closing comments, exhorting the worshippers to take the morning’s message with them and apply it in their lives.
“Bear ye one another’s burdens.
” How might she go about helping Everett carry the burden of disfigurement? Her Da never seemed to be bothered by the scars
he
bore, and likewise she and her mother and siblings were so accustomed to Da’s appearance, they barely took notice of the gash that trailed across his cheek and the bridge of his nose. Were Everett’s scars still too fresh? Or perhaps they ran deeper than one could see on the outside.

Tillie heard the church door creak, and a slice of sunlight fell across the floorboards next to her. She risked a surreptitious glance and caught a glimpse of Everett just as he slipped out. If she waited for the preacher’s closing prayer, she might miss him. She caught her bottom lip in her teeth and chafed, her feet itching to follow Everett. Finally, the pastor raised his hands for the benediction. Tillie tip-toed to the door and prayed Pastor Witherspoon’s voice would cover the squeaky hinge. She stepped out and quickly scanned the churchyard. She located Everett closing the distance to the parked wagons and buggies with his long strides. The low-hanging branches of the cedars and the few white pines appeared to be his destination.

As soon as her feet hit the dirt at the bottom of the steps, she broke into a trot, but she didn’t call out Everett’s name until she was well away from the church.

“Everett, wait.”

He slowed his forward progress and cast a brief glance over his shoulder, annoyance outlining his posture. He took a few more steps, as if he pretended not to hear her. For a moment she wondered if he would ignore her altogether. When he reached the deepest shadows of the trees, he stopped. His shoulders heaved with a great sigh.

“Everett.” Tillie panted with exertion. Everett’s reclusive tendencies frustrated her, but Da’s repeated admonitions for compassion echoed in her memory. She stopped a few feet from where Everett stood cloaked in shadows. “I’m sorry to hold you up. I’ve wanted to tell you something for a while, but—” She planted one hand on her hip. “You’re a hard person to nail down.”

Everett turned, presenting his left side to her. It was nearly impossible to see his facial expression as he stood in the shadows and she in the bright sunlight.

“What was it you needed to tell me?” Impatience threaded his tone.

A sudden burst of unaccustomed shyness overtook her tongue, and she fidgeted with her hands. “I’ve pondered for months how to say this.” She hooked her fingers together to stop their nervous twitching and raised her eyes to the silhouette of his profile. Her heart performed a curious flutter, and the words she wanted to say tangled in her throat. She covered her mouth and coughed.

Everett turned and cast a glance toward the church, where the door remained closed, the congregation still inside. His chest rose and fell, as if he was trying to fend off anxiousness. She only had a moment to say what was on her mind and heart because she knew folks would come spilling out into the churchyard any moment. She drew in a breath.

“Everett, it takes an extraordinary man to put aside his own safety and demonstrate the kind of compassion you showed last year. Had it not been for your bravery and mercy, Miss Pearl and your father would surely have died in that fire. I just wanted you to know that I think you are a man of great courage and character.” She glanced over her shoulder at the church, where the pastor had stepped out and stood by the door to greet the worshippers as they departed.

“Thank you,” Everett mumbled. “If you’ll excuse me…”

“Everett, wait.”

He halted but a stiff sigh blew past his lips.

She took a step closer, and the patchwork of sunlight and shadows played across her eyes. “My da is an amazing man. He has such a tender, giving heart. I’ve never known another man who expressed his love for his family in the way he sees to their needs like Da. Your act of self-sacrifice reminds me of him.”

Apparently forgetting to hide his scars, Everett widened his eyes and turned to fully face her. She waited for him to respond, but no reply was forthcoming.

Tillie dropped her gaze and stared at her clasped fingers. “Well, that’s all I wanted to say. I—I guess I should let you go now.”

Everett didn’t seize the opportunity to escape the way he normally did. She glanced up in time to see him toss a glance at the parishioners who were gathering in the churchyard, and then he turned his attention back to Tillie.

“That’s a very kind thing for you to say.” He cleared his throat, and his hand trailed up to his face, even though the shadows concealed the scars he tried to hide. “I can see you are very close to your father, so for you to make such a comparison is very generous. Thank you, Tillie.”

A smile unfurled from deep within her and found its way to her face. For a brief moment, she basked in the pure pleasure Everett’s reply birthed in her heart. But the glow was short-lived. As quickly as Everett’s guard had fallen away, he snatched it back into place. He tugged the brim of his hat down.

“Please excuse me.” He turned abruptly and strode beyond the shade of the thick trees and down the boardwalk, disappearing around a corner into an alley.

Frustration niggled at her. Every time Everett raised his hand to hide his face, she longed to grasp that hand and pull it away. She wished she could make him understand his scars made no difference to her. She pondered the thought. Was that really true? Maybe his scars did make a difference, but not in the way he thought. She found his scars noble, even virtuous. They stood for something that proved the character of the man. If only she could help him see his scars the way she saw them.

Pastor Witherspoon’s message about listening to God’s voice and heeding His nudges to help carry the burdens of others echoed in her mind and heart. But what if God seemed to be nudging her in the direction of a stone wall?

Everett looked out the dusty window of the empty building. Roland Sewell, the bank’s rotund president, stood outside on the boardwalk, fanning himself with his hat and mopping his forehead with a handkerchief. Everett suspected the portly gentleman with thinning gray hair felt uncomfortable in his presence. Why else would the man elect to remain outside in the hot sun while Everett looked over the building he was considering leasing?

The location at the edge of town, directly across the street from the livery, was perfect for a freight operation. There was a good view of the main street and plenty of room for wagons to pull up and unload. Everett looked through the door that separated the larger front portion of the building from a small, private area in the rear and scrutinized the space. The back room would suffice as an office, while the front could serve as an adequate work and storage area.

Everett tugged his cravat a bit higher around his neck and stepped to the open doorway. “Mr. Sewell, the building has possibilities, but since there is no corral or other accommodation for livestock, I’ll have to check with Mr. Cully at the livery to see if arrangements can be made to house the horses I’m planning on purchasing.”

The man’s gaze flitted over Everett. A wince of pity and revulsion flickered across his expression, neither of which Everett could abide. He turned away from the banker with the pretense of studying the framing around the door. “If the terms of the lease are still what we discussed earlier, I’d like to proceed.”

“Very well, Mr. Behr. I can have the lease ready for your signature in a few days.” Sewell slapped his hat back on his head and stepped off the boardwalk. “Good day.”

“Good day,” Everett mumbled, certain the retreating man couldn’t hear him. He pushed back encroaching resentment and sighed. Roland Sewell was one person. Willow Creek was full of people who surely viewed Everett with repugnance. He might as well accept it. He pulled his hat lower to shade his face more fully and headed across the street to talk to the owner of the livery.

Poking his head in the stable door, he didn’t see anyone about. “Mr. Cully?”

A thumping sound drew his attention to the rear stalls, where a grizzled, bent man stomped his feet on the packed dirt floor, apparently trying to dislodge a foreign substance from his boots.

“Mr. Cully?”

“Hold your britches on. I’m comin’.” The livery owner sounded like he’d been chewing on gravel.

“Might I have a few minutes of your time, sir?”

The liveryman snorted. “Sir? Just who do you think you’re talkin’ to, sonny?”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Cully.”

“Ain’t no need to be beggin’, and my name ain’t
mister.
It’s just plain Cully. I don’t answer to nothin’ else.” He dusted his grimy hands on his equally grimy pants. “A man who lives, eats, and cleans up after horses don’t need no mister in front of his name.” He plopped his hands on his hips. “Well? Speak your piece. I ain’t got all day.”

Everett cleared his throat. “I’ve come to discuss a business proposition, that is, if you have the time.”

“Got more time than money, young fella. What’s on your mind?” He clomped over to a large bin, apparently expecting Everett to follow him, and scooped grain into two wood buckets.

The dimly lit interior of the stable lent a shroud of comfortable darkness. “Well, mister…I mean, Cully, I’m Everett Behr, and—”

“I know who you are. You’re Hubert’s boy.” He set the buckets down and mopped his brow.

Everett blinked in surprise. “Yes, Hubert Behr is my father.” He couldn’t decide if he should be put off or amused by Cully’s manners, so he decided to come right to the point. “I’m planning on renting the building across the street—”