Room for Hope Read online

  Gentry waved at him. “Go. Catch some sleep.” He snickered. “I just might do the same.”

  “Don’t let Sheriff Abling catch you snoozing.”

  Jesse ignored the man’s grunt and entered the first cell. Not even bothering to kick off his boots, he flopped across the cot and closed his eyes against the electric bulbs glaring from their twisted cords overhead. Sleep, Caudel. Six o’clock’ll be here before you know it.

  A steady drip, drip from a leaky faucet created an inharmonious lullaby. The mildewy scent clinging to the block walls mingled with the smell of dust and sweat on his clothes—a foul perfume. He’d slept in the cellblock dozens of times in his fifteen years of being a lawman and had always drifted right off despite the lumpy cot, intrusive sounds and smells, and always-glowing lights. But tonight, no matter how his tired body wished for rest, sleep evaded him.

  Something didn’t sit right about Shilling’s sister. If her name was Gaines, why had her son introduced himself as Shilling? Why hadn’t she told her son and daughter about their pa dying? She seemed like a caring mother, but a caring mother wouldn’t hide something that important from her kids, would she?

  When the cook hired by the city to feed the prisoners came in banging a wooden spoon against a pot at six that morning, Jesse was still awake with unanswered questions rolling in the back of his mind.

  Buffalo Creek, Kansas

  Arthur Randall

  Thursday morning Arthur buttoned his brown tweed vest, adjusted his silk tie, and shrugged into his suit jacket. Ordinarily he didn’t wear a jacket on weekdays. A tie and vest were dapper enough for Buffalo Creek. But when a man went to make a business deal, he needed to look his best. That included a jacket. He stepped in front of the tall oval mirror on Mabel’s dressing table and grimaced. He also needed neatly combed hair.

  He left the dressing room and crossed the wide hall to the bathroom. His comb still waited on the edge of the sink, and he applied it to his thick, dark hair, smoothing the strands straight back from his forehead. Threads of silver had begun to make themselves known at his temples in the past year, but he didn’t mind. He still looked years younger than his father had at the age of thirty-nine. By thirty-nine Pa was gray haired, stoop shouldered, and worn out. Another way Arthur was unlike Casper Randall.

  As he applied the trimming scissors to his mustache, his older son’s excited chatter from last night played through his mind. “Should’ve seen it all, Dad. Bedsteads and bureaus, a carved rocking chair, even a fainting couch. All of it topnotch! You figure the Shillings are going into the furniture business? Won’t do us much good to have competition right next-door.”

  Pride puffed Arthur’s chest. The boy had only just turned seventeen, but Leroy had made a keen observation—one his father wouldn’t ignore. Right now Randall’s Emporium was the only furniture provider in the entire Buffalo Creek township. That is, if one didn’t count ordering from the Montgomery Ward or Sears and Roebuck catalogs. He snorted. As if a person could make a sound decision by looking at black-and-white drawings on a catalog page. Seating oneself, fingering the embellishments, lifting the table leaves and exploring the joints—that was the way to choose furniture. He wanted to hold the corner on furniture sales in Mitchell County.

  He dropped the scissors in the little wooden box on the corner of the washstand, rubbed sandalwood-scented oil between his palms, then slicked his palms over his head until every strand of hair glistened. Then he returned to the dressing room and checked his reflection again. Ah, better. Hair lying in place, clean-shaven cheeks and neatly trimmed mustache, crisp white collar and perfectly centered mustard-colored tie. The suit was brand-new, so he didn’t inspect it for sweat stains or loose threads. He gave a satisfied nod. Nobody would ever guess he’d grown up in a shack near the coal mines in Pennsylvania.

  He strode up the hallway, giving the boys’ bedroom doors raps with his knuckles as he passed. “I’m heading across the alley to talk to the Shillings. Make sure you get yourselves to school on time.”

  From behind both doors, grunts sounded.

  Arthur paused with his hand on the carved newel cap. “And, Leon, I better not hear about you putting a snake in the teacher’s desk drawer again.”

  Muffled laughter carried from behind Leroy’s solid raised-panel oak door.

  Leon’s door popped open and his son peered out. “Don’t worry, you won’t hear a thing about snakes. Too hard to find ’em now that winter’s coming on.” He shot his father an impish grin before ducking back into his room.

  Arthur made his way to the kitchen by the enclosed back staircase. His housekeeper was already bustling around, preparing breakfast, and she pointed silently to the coffeepot, her way of letting him know the brew was ready. He gave a brusque shake of his head and strode through the screened porch to the back door. Frowning, he paused with his palm pressed to the freshly painted screen door frame.

  Leon’s teacher visited at least once a week carrying stories of his boy’s shenanigans. She’d pestered him the year she had Leroy, too. Sour-faced old maid. She didn’t appreciate him saying the boys were merely high spirited. He didn’t appreciate her telling him they were undisciplined. He and Miss Neff would never agree, just as he and the previous teacher hadn’t agreed, and the one before that. He shook his head, emitting a little huff of annoyance. Buffalo Creek was a nice town. Why couldn’t it attract teachers who had better things to do than complain about his boys? Maybe he’d run for the school board next term. Then he could fix things.

  He gave the screen door a whack that sent it flying open and descended the three wooden steps in a trot. The door slapped into its casing behind him. He’d think about joining the school board later. For now, he had something else to fix.

  He crossed the backyard, his polished shoes crushing leaves and picking up dust. The Kansas wind hadn’t started blowing yet—too early—but the billowing clouds in the east promised another windy day. Maybe he wouldn’t unfurl the canvas canopy. He liked the striped canvas. No other business on Buffalo Creek’s Main Street had such an up-to-date sunshade. But he wouldn’t risk having it ripped from its metal braces by the infernal wind.

  He came alongside the Shillings’ barn, and he couldn’t resist stopping to peer through the dusty four-pane window. The choice proved dissatisfying. With the slanting sun bouncing off the windows, all he could see was his own reflection. He snorted and took off again, his arms swinging and his chin thrust forward in determination. He’d see that furniture. He’d buy that furniture and bring an end to Shilling’s intention to start selling furniture.

  Arthur reached the back stoop and thumped the door a half-dozen times with his fist. Moments later the patter of footsteps reached him, and then the curtain on the door’s window was whisked aside. Mrs. Shilling herself peered out at him, her face reflecting surprise.

  He pasted on his most charming smile—the one he used to coax customers into looking at a more expensive piece of furniture. He mouthed, May I come in?

  A click-squeak indicated she’d turned the lock, and then the door opened. She stepped aside, inviting his entrance with the action. “Good morning, Mr. Randall. What can I do for you?”

  By the look on her face, she wasn’t thrilled to receive company at seven thirty on a Thursday morning, but she was too polite to say so. Polite and comely. That Shilling was a lucky man. Arthur pushed aside his jacket flaps and tucked his thumbs into the pockets of his vest. “I’d like to speak to your mister. Could you send him down?”

  The woman winced—a curious reaction. “He…isn’t here.”

  Had he mixed up the dates? He sent his thoughts backward. Shilling’s merchant wagon rolled out of town August thirty-first, so according to the schedule he’d kept for the past ten years, he should’ve rolled in yesterday. “Has he been delayed somehow?” Arthur frowned. The mercantile owner better not be bringing another load of furniture.

  She turned her gaze away from him. “If you don’t mind, I prefer not to talk about
the reason for Warren’s absence. It’s…personal.”

  Arthur pinched his brows together. This situation was mighty suspicious. What were they plotting? He snapped, “Personal? Or is it business? I don’t imagine you’d want to divulge any business-related secrets, would you?”

  She sighed and faced him again. “Mr. Randall, I—”

  “My boys tell me your barn is full of furniture. Quality furniture.” He leaned in, narrowing his gaze. “And your husband isn’t here even though he ought to be, seeing how it’s a new month and that man keeps to his schedule the same way a rotary watch keeps time. So where is he, Mrs. Shilling?”

  Something glinted in her hazel eyes. Anger? Frustration? Probably a little of both. But who inspired the emotions—him or her husband?

  He repeated, “Where is he?”

  The glint became a blaze. Her cheeks turned rosy, and she balled her slender hands into fists. “He’s in a grave.”

  Arthur drew back so abruptly his back popped.

  She nodded, her expression fierce. “That’s right. He won’t be coming home again.”

  She pointed at him, surprising him with her fervor. In the fifteen years he’d known her, he’d never seen her be anything but demure and kind. Even when he pestered her husband to sell out so he could expand his emporium—and he’d pestered Warren Shilling a lot—she never expressed a hint of indignation or impatience. But at that moment, sparks flew from her. Would she poke him in the chest with her finger? He took a shuffling step backward.

  “So now you know the truth. But, Mr. Randall, I expect you to keep that information private until I’ve had the opportunity to speak to Reverend Savage.” Her stiff frame wilted, and the spark in her eyes dimmed. Pleading replaced the ferocity of moments ago. “My children and I need a few days to accept Warren’s death before the entire town hears about it. Will you allow us time to mourn privately?”

  He’d lost Mabel more than six years ago, but he remembered his desire to hide from the world when he finally realized she was gone for good. Unexpectedly, sympathy twined through him. He offered a stiff nod.

  A sad smile tipped up the corners of her lips. “Thank you.” She gestured to the door. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to see to my children.” She hurried off.

  Arthur let himself out and crossed the yard slowly. So Shilling was dead. What a shock. How had he died? Maybe his wagon overturned. Or maybe someone robbed him. All kinds of shady characters roamed the roads these days, looking for ways to line their pockets. Any number of dangers could have befallen the man while he traveled.

  Alongside the barn he halted in his tracks. Giving his forehead a whack, he inwardly berated himself. He’d intended to ask to see the furniture, make an offer on it. But Mrs. Shilling’s proclamation of her husband’s demise distracted him.

  He started to go knock on the door again, but the remembered image of her stricken face changed his mind. He might be calculating when it came to business dealings, but he wasn’t hardhearted. A woman in the throes of mourning couldn’t make prudent decisions. Besides, if he asked now, the town might accuse him of taking advantage. He couldn’t tarnish his reputation as a fair businessman.

  Arthur set his feet in motion, a plan forming in the back of his mind. He’d give Mrs. Shilling a few days of privacy, just as she’d requested. He’d be supportive and sympathetic. Then, when a decent amount of time had passed—a week, maybe two—he’d make on offer on the furniture and the store. A woman couldn’t operate a business all on her own. She’d welcome his proposition, thank him for his generosity, and then step out of his way.

  Neva

  Belle was filling the sink with hot water when Neva entered the kitchen. She glanced at the worktable where the children had been eating when a knock on the door interrupted their breakfast. Warren’s three youngsters, attired in the nightshirts Neva had scrounged for them last night, were still in their seats where Neva had left them, but Bud’s chair stood empty. She crossed to the sink. “Where’s your brother?”

  Belle made a face. “He went to his room.” She held out a bowl. Hardened oatmeal formed a lumpy island in a sea of milk. “This is Bud’s. He didn’t eat. Not even a bite. Said he wasn’t hungry. Said not to pack him a lunch either.” Her forehead puckered. “I told him he’s gotta eat or he’ll get sick. He wouldn’t listen.”

  Neva pulled in a slow breath, inwardly praying for wisdom. She’d sent up a dozen similar prayers during her sleepless night. She hoped God delivered the needed discernment soon.

  She put her hand on Belle’s shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze. “Your brother is mourning. When the sadness eases, his appetite will return.”

  “When’ll the sadness ease, Momma?” Belle whispered the query, her voice raspy. Her gaze flicked toward the three quiet children at the table, then settled on Neva. Her eyes looked luminous, swimming with unshed tears. “Feels like I’ve got a boulder on my chest. Could hardly breathe last night. That’s sadness, isn’t it?”

  Neva placed a kiss on her daughter’s temple. “Yes, sweetheart, that’s sadness. I feel it, too.” Her chest held a pile of boulders—a mass of sorrow, regret, guilt, and anger. The sorrow might crumble easier than any of the other emotions. She spoke staunchly, as much to herself as Belle. “But God is faithful to comfort us in our time of need. Lean on Him, and He will sustain you.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Finish clearing the breakfast table, please. You and Bud can stay home from school today if you like.” If they stayed home, the teacher wouldn’t notice their melancholy bearings and ask questions Neva wasn’t ready to answer.

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Belle went on clearing the dishes, her motions slow, as if every cup and bowl were filled with concrete.

  Neva turned her attention to the children at the table. Their bowls were empty. Sorrow didn’t seem to be affecting their appetites. But maybe they were too young to fully comprehend their parents were never coming back. She forced a smile. “Did you get enough breakfast?”

  Charley nodded, but neither Cassie nor Adeline responded.

  Neva slipped into Bud’s chair. Since Charley was oldest, she addressed her questions to him. “How old are you children?”

  The boy gave his head a little jerk that sent his long bangs higher on his forehead—a tactic Bud often used when Neva let him go too long between haircuts. “I’m eight. Cassie’s six and a half. Adeline just turned three.”

  The anger-boulder in Neva’s chest grew heavier. So many years she’d been deceived by her husband. How could she have been such a fool? She pushed those thoughts aside. “So you must be in the third grade then, and Cassie is in the first?”

  He nodded, his hair flopping over his eyes again.

  Neva came close to pushing the heavy brown strands—as richly brown as Warren’s—away from the child’s face. She gripped her hands together. “Then you and Cassie will be in the same class at school. With Miss Franklin.” Bud and Belle had loved Miss Franklin.

  Charley peered at her through his thick fringe of bangs. “We goin’ to school?”

  Neva preferred not to send them. At least not yet. But she wasn’t sure what to do with them all day either. She had a store to run. If Bud and Belle were home, they could mind the children while Neva saw to the customers’ needs.

  She shook her head. “Not today. Maybe…on Monday.” She’d talk to the preacher Saturday evening, let him share the news of Warren’s passing with the congregation Sunday morning. Then she and the children could start their new routine on Monday. Yes, that would be best.

  “So we’re stayin’?”

  The question stated softly, almost emotionlessly, contrasted with the apprehension etched into the child’s features. Neva’s mother-heart stirred. “Yes, Charley. You’re staying.”

  “You sure?”

  She nodded.

  “ ’Cause that boy, Bud, said we was going to an orphans’ home.”

  Neva shot a questioning look at Belle.

  He
r daughter’s cheeks turned rosy. “Bud was just talking. Sort of…musing.”

  Neva closed her eyes for a moment. She’d speak with Bud, but first she needed to assure these children they’d found a home. Or had they? Yesterday evening she’d acted impulsively, driven by remembrances of her own orphaned state and lifelong desire to be part of a family. Now, in the light of day, after a night of tossing and turning, her fierce determination to honor Warren’s dying request and care for his children seemed much less sensible.

  She looked into Charley’s brown eyes. Then at Cassie and little Adeline, who sat silent and wary. She received glimpses of herself in their uncertain little faces. She sighed. “You don’t need to worry.” She wouldn’t take them to an orphanage. Never an orphanage.

  For long seconds Charley stared at her as if trying to read her soul. Then he nodded—one quick, emphatic bob of his head. He rose. “May we get dressed now? My feet are cold.”

  “Yes. Go ahead. Your clothes are in Belle’s room.” Bud had set Charley’s things outside his bedroom door last night, and Neva had been too weary to do battle.

  The trio trudged off together, the girls holding Charley’s hands and crowding so close they nearly stepped on his toes. But he didn’t push them aside. Not the way Bud sometimes elbowed Belle to give him space. When they reached the doorway leading to the dining room, Charley stopped and peered over his shoulder at her. “Ma’am?”

  Neva swallowed unexpected tears. Such a polite little boy. Warren and Violet had done well in raising him. “Yes, Charley?”

  “The man who brought us here said we were going to Aunt Neva. Is that you?”

  Neva nodded.

  “Then we should call you that—Aunt Neva?”

  She had no siblings and neither did Warren. She’d never hear any other child call her “Aunt Neva.” The title was better than anything else. “That would be fine.”