When Sparrows Fall (20 page)

He retaliated with his own. “Back off, troops. Somebody turn on the coffee, please. Somebody else, hand me my duffel bag. What’s the weather today?”

“Cold an’ clear.” Michael raced for the coffee maker. “Can I try some coffee?”

“If your mother says you can,” Jack said with a tight smile. “She is, after all, your authority figure.”

Gabriel scrambled behind the couch. “Which bag?”

“Blue one.”

Gabriel retrieved it and shoved it at Jack. “Get dressed.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Jack sauntered toward the bathroom with the duffel bag, the flannel pants hanging crookedly from his hips.

The bare back of a fit man was one of the world’s most gorgeous sights, right up there with the long legs of a thoroughbred or the curve of a gull’s wings. He was beautiful.

No. She couldn’t entertain admiring thoughts about a man who drugged a woman’s food and criticized the way she raised her children.

“We’re not done talking, Jack,” she called after him.

“Not even close, m’lady.” The bathroom door closed with a firm click like a reprimand.

Michael stood before her, pressing his hands together in supplication. “Mother? Can I try some coffee?”

“May I,” she corrected automatically. “And say ‘please.’ ”

“Please, may I have some coffee?”

“No, Michael. I’m sorry. Caffeine isn’t good for growing children.”

Martha tugged Miranda’s skirt. “Will Uncle Jack go to church with us?”

“We’re not going.” Even if Miranda had wanted to go, she couldn’t risk
Jack and Mason tangling with each other. But her absence—again—might trigger a visit from Mason.

“Are we going to have the Lord’s Supper at home?”

“I don’t know, Martha.”

Gabriel giggled. “It’s morning, so it’s the Lord’s breakfast.”

“Hush. Don’t be irreverent.”

This was Jack’s doing. The irreverence, the mockery.

And the laughter. Sunshine in the storm. Miranda’s heart ached sometimes, craving more.

Behind the bathroom door, the water came on. Jack burst into song, muffled somewhat by walls and water, with a customized version of “Oh! Susanna.”

“Oh! Miranda, don’t you cry for me,”
he bellowed.
“For I’ve come from Chattanooga with my laptop on my knee.…”

The children laughed but Miranda couldn’t.

The lyrics and melody stuck with her as she headed for the kitchen. She knew all the words—the correct words—because she’d learned them as a child in school, but her children only knew Scripture songs. Carl had said those silly folk songs were pure foolishness, and he didn’t intend to raise his children to be fools.

I had a dream the other night, when everything was still
.

I thought I saw Susanna a-comin’ ’cross the hill
.

A buckwheat cake was in her mouth, a tear was in her eye
.

Says I, “I’m comin’ from the South. Susanna, don’t you cry.”

Except for Martha’s little tunes and Jonah’s humming, Miranda couldn’t remember the last time anyone in the family had broken into spontaneous song. Not a single time.

So what? So Jack liked to sing. His influence wasn’t all bad, but it wasn’t all good either.

After a few minutes, he came out of the bathroom, wearing jeans and a flannel shirt worn unbuttoned over a white T-shirt. He carried his blue bag to the couch, moving out of Miranda’s line of vision. Then, trailed by five children, he came into the kitchen.

His hair was curlier when it was wet. He hadn’t shaved, and he resembled a scruffy student more than a fortyish professor.

With the children crowding him, he took a mug from the cupboard and poured coffee. “Young ’uns, your mother and I need to chat in private. Vacate the kitchen, please. Scram.”

They obeyed. Cheerfully, immediately, and without questioning him.

He lifted the mug to his lips and let out a sigh that might have been in enjoyment of his coffee or might have been exasperation. “So, if Martha wears that pretty pink dress, it’s just the beginning of our troubles. The girls slide down that slippery slope. Wearing mascara. Shooting up heroin. There’s a link somewhere. I’m sure of it.”

Words exploded in Miranda’s mind like corn in a popper, but they refused to line up in the right order. “You—you—I never said—don’t you put words in my mouth, Jack Hanford, because I do have a temper.”

“So do I. Why did you tell Martha the pink Cinderella dress is wicked?”

“I never said the dress is wicked. I said covetousness is wicked.”

Jack blinked. “Oh. Oops. I must have lost something in the translation.”

“You certainly did.”

“I’m sorry.” He took a sip of his coffee and studied her. “You’re right to be wary of covetousness, but would you agree that there’s nothing inherently wrong with a lacy pink dress?”

“Of course.”

“Good. In my opinion, Martha’s mama would be quite lovely in pink lace.” He winked.

Miranda felt herself blushing, and it only made her angrier. “You can keep your opinions to yourself.”

“What’s going on here, Mrs. H.? In theory, you see nothing wrong with
wearing a beautiful dress, but in practice, you wear rather … utilitarian clothing. Because of Mason’s rules?”

“Is it any of your business?”

“No, but I’ve noticed that you don’t seem very fond of the man, so why do you kowtow to his teachings?”

If she let Jack open that can of slimy worms, he’d ask more and more questions. Dangerous questions. Desperate to change the subject, she shot up a prayer for help.

The solution presented itself immediately. And every word would be true.

She straightened her shoulders. “I do have some issues about stylish clothes. I associate them with stealing. Years ago, my … I had a … a very close association with someone who had a habit of shoplifting.”

“Ah. A friend of yours was a thief?”

“Well … yes. You could call her a friend.”

His expression softened. “And has this … friend … ever been caught?” he asked gently.

It took her a moment to comprehend his mistake. “Yes,” she said, keeping a straight face. “She was caught a number of times.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that.”

“So was she.”

“Well, I would never hold these youthful indiscretions against your friend.”

She tried to look properly grateful and repentant. “That’s very gracious of you.”

The children flooded back into the room—everyone but Timothy—all talking at once. Jack smiled at the children eddying around him as if he were thankful for the interruption.

“I’d like to tackle the yard work,” he said. “Could somebody tell me where I’ll find gardening implements and such?” He glanced at Miranda. “Unless house rules say that nobody works on Sunday.”

“Do as you please.”

“The rakes and stuff are in the shed,” Michael said. “The key’s in the brown crock on the mantel.”

“Thanks, Mike.” Jack topped off his coffee mug and raised it high. “Cheers, y’all.”

He was out of the kitchen in a flash, whistling, with the children trailing him. The key clinked as he tipped it out of the crock. The front door closed behind him, and the children let out a collective sigh of disappointment.

“Jeremiah and the valley of slaughter,” Timothy called from the living room.

Miranda’s arms prickled with goose bumps. “Excuse me?”

He came into the kitchen, holding his father’s Bible. “A reading for home church. I did the ol’ stab-a-page routine and landed in Jeremiah, the sixth chapter.” He smiled crookedly.

At least he had a sensible explanation for what he’d said. “The Bible isn’t something we play like a game of chance, Timothy. It’s to be treated with reverence.”

“Jack’s irreverent, and he gets away with it.” Timothy turned and walked away, as jaunty as Jack.

Weary of arguments, Miranda sank into a chair and fingered the drab fabric of her dress.
Utilitarian
, Jack had called it. He’d meant
ugly
. And now he thought she was a thief.

By sunset, Jack’s back ached. A day of manual labor had punished his muscles harder than a gym workout ever could. The rewards were significant though.

On a patch of bare ground behind the house, he’d gathered some of the yard debris in a pile of manageable size for burning. He pulled matches from his pocket, kicked the dry brush into a more compact shape, and lit it in several places. Within minutes, the fire was crackling and blazing as orange as the sunset.

He sat on one of the logs he’d dragged over to serve as seating and pulled off the bulky suede gloves that he’d found in Carl’s shed. Stained and worn, they must have held traces of his DNA. The half brothers shared Roger Hanford’s genes but had little else in common.

Carl must have been a stickler for organization. He’d kept a scrupulously neat collection of tools, hardware, gadgets, and ropes in his shed. One wall held plastic bins for nails and hardware, neatly labeled. Tools hung from a pegboard on another wall. Two years past his death, everything remained tidy.

Jack rotated his aching shoulders. It had been a long day.

Although Miranda had told him to do as he pleased, apparently it was her habit to confine the family to the house on Sundays. Several times, he’d stolen inside to grab a drink of water or a bite to eat or just to see if she needed anything. Each time, the kids paused in their quiet pursuits—board games and the like—and watched with long faces as he walked out again.

The last time he’d ventured inside, the boys were nowhere to be found but Rebekah was quilting like a little granny and Martha was pouring imaginary tea for imaginary friends. Miranda looked up from her Bible but didn’t speak until he did. He suspected she was simultaneously appreciating him as slave labor and condemning him as a Sabbath breaker.

But quilting was work. If he’d broken Miranda’s Sabbath rules, so had Rebekah. Not that Sunday was the biblical Sabbath anyway, but most legalists didn’t bother to get their facts straight.

As the sun winked out of sight behind the mountains, Gabriel raced around the corner of the house, beating a line directly for the fire. Michael charged after him. The girls followed at a more sedate pace. They stopped a few feet from the fire and stared into the flames while the boys found sticks to poke with.

There was a reason people told tales around campfires. The flames hypnotized. Knocked down barriers. Loosened tongues. Far from Miranda’s hearing, even Timothy might have revealed a chink in his armor. Except he hadn’t shown up.

“Is your mom strict about not playing or working on Sundays?” Jack asked.

“No,” Michael said. “It’s just that there’s six of us and only one of her, and sometimes she wants a break from worrying about where everybody’s run off to. So she makes us stay inside on Sundays, but then we have to do quiet stuff all day so we won’t drive her crazy.”

Only one adult to supervise six children amid the multiple hazards of a place in the country. That was indeed a problem, but Miranda’s solution made Jack smile. It was so … Miranda.

“Smart woman.” He stretched his legs toward the heat. “Maybe she can join us next time, if she’s up to it. And we’ll roast marshmallows.”

Martha wrinkled up her nose. “What’s that? It sounds bad.”

“You’ve never heard of marshmallows? Roasted marshmallows are the food of the gods, sweetie. They’re as good as Frosted Flakes.”

“Nothing’s as good as Frosted Flakes.” She smiled at the fire and began to hum softly.

“Timothy’s not joining us?”

Michael snorted. “No, and I’m glad. He’s grouchy and bossy and weird.”

Jack waited, hoping somebody would stick up for Timothy. Nobody did, and if he was already a tad off the track, becoming an outcast in his own family wouldn’t help.

“Y’all need to cut him some slack.” Jack wondered how plainly he could say it without implying that Timothy was an oddball. “Sometimes, maybe he feels as if he doesn’t quite fit in, even with his own siblings.”

“What’s that?” Martha asked. “Siblins.”

“Siblings? That means brothers and sisters. Anyway, everybody needs to be a little more understanding, all right? Be kind.”

Martha massaged her lower lip with her teeth. “Even when he’s not nice?”

“Especially when he’s not nice, because that means he’s having a hard time.”

Nobody else commented.

Jack poked the fire with a stick, making sparks fly. “Have y’all ever gone camping?”

All four kids shook their heads.

“Ever slept in a tent?”

Four blond heads shook again.

“Ever gone fishing?”

“Father took me once,” Michael said, “but I don’t exactly remember it.”

“I like to fish,” Jack said. “Y’all want to go with me sometime?”

Gabriel and Michael erupted in eager agreement. They wanted to do it all. Camping, fishing, sleeping in tents.

“Bear hunting?” Jack asked, and the boys whooped until he confessed he was teasing. “We’ll try to do the rest though,” he said, ashamed of himself for raising false hopes about bears. “Sometime soon.”

Rebekah rose. “I’d better put Jonah to bed. Mother still shouldn’t do the stairs.”

“You barely got here,” Jack said. “Once Jonah’s down, come on back. The fire won’t go out for a long time.”