In Every Heartbeat (13 page)

When they reached the drugstore, he remembered his manners in time and opened the door for her. She nearly fell through the opening. Fanning herself with both hands, she sagged into the nearest booth and stared up him with her mouth slightly open.

“Gracious, Bennett, after that rigorous walk, I shall require a long rest.”

“Suits me.” Bennett pointed to the counter, where two businessmen and one young boy sat on stools. “So . . . one frankfurter or two?”

Wearily, she lifted one finger. “And a cherry phosphate, please.”

As he stepped up to the counter to order, the cowbell above the drugstore door clanged, and two young men sauntered into the store. Bennett recognized them from the campus. He gave a nod of greeting, which both returned, and then they plopped into the booth directly behind Alice-Marie. Bennett idly counted his money, waiting for the soda jerk to take his order, and the voices of the pair in the booth carried to Bennett’s ears.

“You think they’ll get another game going this coming Sunday? I wouldn’t mind playing this time.”

“Me neither, as long as I don’t have to hit against Roy or that other guy—you know, Peg leg Pete.”

The first man laughed. “Yeah, never saw a straighter pitch— and fast! Why, you hardly saw the ball go, it went so fast! I think he’s even better than Roy. . . .”

Not even here could Bennett escape having to listen to Pete’s amazing abilities extolled. Slapping the counter, he spun toward Alice-Marie. He grabbed her arm and pulled her from the booth. “Let’s go.”

“Bennett!” She jerked her arm loose, a scowl marring her face. “Kindly do not be so rough!” She rubbed her arm. “I thought you wanted a frankfurter.”

“Changed my mind is all. Why pay for dinner when we eat free at the dining hall?”

She huffed. “Isn’t that what I said before we came?”

The two young men in the booth leaned around the tall wooden back to grin at Bennett and Alice-Marie. One of them muttered, “Must be a lovers’ spat.”

Bennett started to reach for Alice-Marie’s arm again, but she flinched away. Remorse smacked him. He leaned close and whispered, “Did I really hurt you?”

Tears shimmered in her blue eyes. Her chin quivered.

“I’m sorry, Alice-Marie. I didn’t mean to—honest. I just . . .” But he couldn’t complete the sentence. He had no excuse for taking his frustration out on her. With a sigh, he repeated himself. “I’m really sorry. Let me walk you back to the dining hall. I’ll go slow this time.”

After a few moments of hesitation, she gave a slight nod. He placed his hand on the small of her back and guided her out of the drugstore. They walked in silence to the campus, and after he escorted her to the dining hall, he jogged to Franklin Hall and flopped onto his bed. He couldn’t ever recall deliberately skipping a meal, but he had no appetite tonight.

Who would’ve thought he’d be eager to return to Shay’s Ford? At least nobody there had seen that stupid baseball game. Tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTEEN

L
ook, Petey, Bennett!” Libby pointed out the window as the train chugged slowly toward the small depot on the outskirts of Shay’s Ford. “They’ve all come to meet us. There’s Maelle and Jackson, Matt and Lorna, Mr. and Mrs. Rowley and their children . . . even Cookie Ramona!” She squealed and clapped her hands. “Oh, what a wonderful surprise to have them all waiting!”

Petey pressed his face to the window and waved, but Bennett remained slouched in his seat, a surly expression on his face. Libby poked him on the shoulder. “Sit up, Bennett. Don’t you want to wave to our welcoming party?”

He grunted and turned his face away. “They aren’t out there to welcome me.” He mumbled something else, but Libby didn’t catch it.

She clicked her tongue on her teeth. “Bennett, you’ve been grouchier than a sleep-starved bear. Can’t you improve your attitude? We’re here for a wedding.”

Bennett didn’t even glance at her.

The train screeched to a stop, and Libby dashed for the platform, calling over her shoulder, “Would you be a dear and get my bag, Petey? Thank you!” Without waiting for a reply, she bounded off the platform and ran straight for Maelle. She threw herself into Maelle’s open arms, laughter trickling from her throat. “Oh, it’s so good to be home!”

After receiving a tight squeeze from Maelle, she hugged everyone by turn. By the time she returned to Maelle for a second hug, both Bennett and Petey were off the train with the luggage. Mr. and Mrs. Rowley flanked Petey, who held the Rowleys’ one-year-old son, Reggie, while their daughters, five-year-old Constance and eight-year-old Rebecca, circled his waist with their arms. Cookie Ramona held Bennett in her embrace. Libby giggled at the sight of the gray-haired cook rocking Bennett from side-to-side as a mother might rock her infant. Bennett, with his enjoyment of eating, had always been Cookie’s favorite.

“I can’t believe all of you came.” Libby’s gaze bounced down the line of smiling faces. “Who’s at home with the schoolchildren?”

Mr. Rowley chuckled, taking Reggie from Petey’s arms. “Clancy.” He referred to the grizzled ranch hand who oversaw the sheep on Jackson’s family’s ranch. “Who else could single-handedly corral twenty-two children?”

“He’s more than reliable. But even so,” Mrs. Rowley said, “we shouldn’t impose upon him indefinitely. Now that our college students are home”—pride beamed from her emerald eyes—“we should head back. Come along.” She took Rebecca by the hand and led the group toward the orphan school’s old familiar wagon, which waited in a slash of shade beside the depot.

How many times had Libby ridden in the bed of that wagon on a mound of prickly hay, heading to Saturday shopping excursions or Sunday church services? A feeling of security wrapped itself around her when she spotted the worn high-sided wagon, and her feet sped on their own volition the final yards. Turning backward, she braced her palms on the edge of the bed and prepared to heave herself into the back. However, Maelle caught her arm and stopped her.

“Jackson and I wondered if you’d like to spend the weekend with us.” Maelle flicked a smiling glance at her sister. “Isabelle has already given permission, but if you’d rather go out to the school, you won’t hurt our feelings. Either way, we’ll see you tomorrow for Mattie’s wedding and again Sunday in church.”

Libby crinkled her nose and considered what would be best. She had intended to help Mrs. Rowley set up for the wedding, but how could she refuse the opportunity to spend extra time with Maelle? She looked at Mrs. Rowley. “Are you sure you don’t mind? You won’t need my help this evening?”

Mrs. Rowley offered a smile. “There are plenty of hands at home, and now that Bennett and Pete are here, they can help, too. You go on with Maelle, if you’d like. I know you two enjoy your time together.”

“Thank you!” Libby took her bag from Petey, and Jackson immediately plucked it from her hand. She grinned at him and then turned to the others. “Bye, everyone! I’ll see you tomorrow for the wedding!” As a chorus of farewells came in reply, Libby linked arms with Maelle. “I’m all yours.”

As they walked across town to Maelle and Jackson’s pleasant home in the center of the town’s residential district, Maelle plied Libby with questions about school. Libby told her about her classes, about Alice-Marie and the other girls in the women’s dormitory, about the articles she’d written for the school’s newspapers, and even about Roy. But she didn’t mention the romance stories she’d written—and the second one she’d sold just that week—even though she longed to. The news was too special to blurt out in the midst of other things. When she and Maelle had a private moment, then she would share about her upcoming publishing credits.

When they reached the white-painted picket fence that surrounded Maelle and Jackson’s bungalow, Libby came to a halt at the gate. She rested her fingertips on the pointed tips of the pickets and let her gaze drift across the wraparound porch generously bedecked with white-and-green painted gingerbread. The front door with its oval leaded-glass window stood slightly ajar, as if inviting her to enter.

Although she’d never lived in the house, she’d spent many weekends there with Maelle prior to Jackson’s return from serving time in the Missouri legislature, and then, less frequently, with both Maelle and Jackson after their wedding. In her daydreams, she’d imagined coming home to this very house, with Maelle waiting on the porch, smiling the way mothers did when their children returned. She closed her eyes and allowed the childish daydream to briefly surface.

Turning to Maelle, she clasped her hands beneath her chin. “May we have lemonade and cookies out on the porch swing like we did for my eleventh birthday? Do you remember?”

Maelle chuckled. “How could I forget? You ended up with crumbs smeared across your face and lemonade splotches on the new apron Isabelle had sewn for you . . . and I took your photograph anyway. It’s still one of my favorites.”

Jackson swung the gate open. “I’ll put Libby’s bag in the guest room. There aren’t any cookies in the house, but we do have some lemons. I’ll mix up a pitcher of lemonade and bring it out to you. You ladies enjoy a few minutes of being lazy.”

“Thank you,” Libby and Maelle chorused.

They ambled arm in arm up the rock-paved sidewalk and perched on the hanging swing in the back corner of the porch. Libby wriggled into the seat, smiling when the chains squeaked, just as they always had. She released a sigh of contentment. She loved this porch and its white wicker swing. Shielded by massive spirea bushes, the corner was always shaded, so it was the perfect spot on a hot summer afternoon.

As a youngster, she’d pretended this part of the porch was a hideaway. In some ways, coming to this house had been her way of hiding from the reality of being orphaned. Countless times, she’d leaned over the porch railing as evening fell, watching the sky for the first glittering star. The moment one appeared, she’d throw out her dearest wish:
Let Maelle be my mother.

Maelle interrupted Libby’s reflections with a light pat on her knee. “I gather from everything you said on the walk over that you’re glad you decided to stay and be a college student.”

Libby nodded. “Yes. You and Jackson were right. I like it very much—more than I even imagined.” A light breeze whisked around the corner and tossed a few curls of hair over her shoulder. She ran her fingers through the tangled locks. “Sometimes I grow frustrated, though. I want to learn the craft of writing faster so I can do more and more. I’m already weary of being assigned to write silly articles about class schedule issues and whether or not the dining hall should provide three different meats at dinner instead of two.” She wrinkled her nose, recalling some of her least favorite topics from class. “It’s all so unimportant!”

“Not at all, Libby,” Maelle countered. “In everything of life, we have to start at the beginning. You wouldn’t put a newborn on his feet and tell him to run, would you?”

Libby laughed at the idea.

Maelle grinned. “Babies first roll over, then scoot, then crawl. Finally they take those first stumbling steps, and then—only when they’ve mastered walking—do they learn to run. But all of those preliminary movements, seemingly unimportant to the casual observer, serve a purpose in gaining strength and balance for the eventual running.”

She took hold of a strand of Libby’s hair and tickled her chin with it. “These ‘unimportant’ articles, as you put it, will teach you to create meaningful sentences and to communicate in powerful ways to your future readers. Consider these articles your means of rolling over or crawling. You’ll get to your feet in time, and you’ll be a much stronger, more able runner because you took the time to do the ‘unimportant’ things first.”

Libby considered the stories she’d sold to magazines. She’d written them as a way to prepare for serious journalism, yet she received payment for them. Would Maelle consider them “rolling over” or “running”? She opened her mouth to ask, but the slam of the screen door intruded.

Jackson came around the corner with a tray in his hand. “I wasn’t sure how much sugar to add. I hope it’ll be all right.” He handed each of them a glass and took the last one for himself. Setting the tray on the floor, he perched on the porch railing and took a cautious sip. “Hmm.” He smacked his lips then took a deeper draw. “Not bad for a first attempt. What do you think?”

Libby sipped. The lemonade was tart, and her lips quivered with the desire to pucker. But she managed to smile instead. “It’s fine, Jackson. But . . .” She smirked at Maelle. “I think this particular batch of lemonade would be considered a
crawl
.”

Maelle had just raised her glass to her lips, and at Libby’s comment she snorted, spewing lemonade down her chin. She mopped at herself with her hand, and both women snickered.

Jackson made a wry face. “I believe I’m safer not asking what that means.”

The snickers turned to outright laughter.

Jackson sent them a scowl so fierce Libby knew it was fabricated, which added to the gaiety. Soon Jackson was laughing right along with them, even though he couldn’t know what was funny.

As the laughter faded, Libby closed her eyes and—as she had so many times in the past—pretended they were a family.

Pete sat in the corner of the wagon and watched Aaron Rowley and Bennett each brace one hand on the wagon’s side and leap over the edge. Their feet hit the ground with a solid thud, and dust rose. Aaron swung his children to the ground one at a time, then held his hands out to his wife while Bennett sauntered to the back of the wagon and released the hatch. “There you go, folks,” Bennett said with a cocky grin. Cookie Ramona and her daughter, Lorna, climbed out. Then Bennett reached over the edge and snatched up his bag. Giving Pete a quick wave, he swaggered toward the orphans’ school, completely unaware of the envy tangled around Pete’s middle.

Pete painstakingly climbed out, using his good leg and his hands to scoot himself across the wagon’s bed. Like an old man would do. He wished he could jump over the side and land two-footed. The last time he’d done that he was a boy of seven, and it had been out of a trolley with his arms full of newspapers. He tapped his peg against the hard ground, willing away the persistent tingle that felt like a sleeping limb. But his foot wasn’t asleep. It was gone. Forever.

Matt peered down from the seat and grinned at Pete. “You gonna grab your bag outta there now, or do you want me to get it for you after I put the horses away?”

“I’ll get it.” Pete hadn’t meant to snarl, but the words came out on a harsh note that made Matt’s eyebrows rise. Pete apologized.

Matt shrugged. “No offense taken. I just figured you’re tired after your train ride, and I’d be glad to tote it in for you.”

“I can do it, but thanks.” Pete reached into the back for his bag, but his arm wasn’t long enough to reach. He tried to go up on tiptoe, but he lost his balance. Slapping the side of the wagon, he grunted in frustration.

“Pete, seems to me you got a bee in your bonnet.” Matt held loosely to the traces, his head angled to meet Pete’s eyes. “Wanna let it loose?”

Pete rubbed his finger under his nose and considered Matt’s offer to let him talk. Pete admired this man who’d been kind enough to bring him to Shay’s Ford almost a dozen years ago, saving him from squandering his childhood working for an uncaring employer. If he were to trust anyone with his resentment about his missing leg—and the people responsible for it—it would be Matt. Pete loved Aaron Rowley, who had raised him, but Aaron wouldn’t be able to understand how it felt to grow up parentless and unwanted. Matt had been orphaned at a young age and lived a hard life as a child. He’d know exactly how Pete felt.

Curling his hands over the edge of the wagon, Pete gave a nod. “I need to let it loose, Matt. And I know what’ll get it done. I’ve known for a long time. I’m just not sure how to go about it.”

Matt tipped sideways, the brim of his ever-present cowboy hat throwing a shadow across his face. “An’ what is it that needs doin’?”