Chapter 2 - Ten Empty Plates
Clara woke before daylight because someone was crying.
For one confused second she thought she was back in Boston.
Then cold air touched her face.
The bedroom ceiling sloped sharply above her, and wind whistled through a crack beside the window.
Kansas.
Jacob Bennett's farmhouse.
Ten children.
Seven days until the farm could be seized.
The crying came again.
Soft.
Desperate.
Clara pulled on her dress and followed the sound.
She found Ruth sitting on the floor beside a narrow bed where the baby twisted restlessly beneath a quilt.
“She won't stop,” Ruth whispered.
“How long?”
“Since midnight.”
Clara touched the baby's forehead.
Warm.
Not dangerously hot, but warm enough.
“What is her name?”
“Annie.”
Clara remembered Jacob mentioning the youngest.
Annie had been born only weeks before his wife died.
“How old?”
“Seventeen months.”
Clara examined her carefully.
The child was thin.
Too thin.
“What has she eaten?”
Ruth looked ashamed.
“Cornmeal water. Sometimes goat milk when Mrs. Harper brings some.”
Clara closed her eyes briefly.
She was not a physician, but Boston had taught her enough about hunger and fever to be afraid.
“We'll warm milk slowly.”
“I already tried.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
“Then we'll try again today.”
Ruth watched her.
“You really stayed.”
“For the moment.”
The girl's expression closed immediately.
Clara regretted the words.
She had meant honesty.
To a child who had lost two parents, honesty could sound like another departure.
Clara sat beside her.
“Ruth.”
The girl looked up.
“I don't know what will happen a week from now. I won't make you promises I can't keep.”
Ruth nodded.
“But I am here today.”
That seemed to matter.
They carried Annie to the kitchen.
By sunrise, Clara had discovered three things.
The first was that the stove smoked whenever the north wind blew.
The second was that six-year-old Caleb could not be trusted near a jar of molasses.
The third was that feeding ten children once did not solve hunger.
They needed food every morning.
Every afternoon.
Every night.
Clara stared at the supplies she had purchased.
Enough for perhaps four days.
Less if everyone ate what they truly needed.
She counted her remaining money.
Thirty-six dollars and forty cents.
Jacob's debt notice demanded $286.17.
She nearly laughed.
Instead she poured oats into a pot.
Eli entered carrying wood.
“You used too much last night.”
“Good morning to you too.”
“We only have enough chopped for maybe ten days.”
“Then someone will chop more.”
“Pa did that.”
Clara looked at him.
“Your father is dead, Eli.”
His face hardened.
The other children stopped moving.
Clara instantly wished she could pull the sentence back.
But grief could not be protected by pretending.
Eli put down the wood.
“I know.”
He walked outside.
Ruth stared at Clara.
“He doesn't like people saying it.”
“No.”
“Neither do I.”
Clara lowered her voice.
“Neither do I.”
After breakfast, she inspected the farm.
Jacob's description had been accurate and incomplete.
The barn housed one milk cow, two goats, six hens, and a horse old enough to resent being asked to move quickly.
Half the fence along the western field had collapsed.
The corncrib was nearly empty.
A wagon wheel leaned broken against the barn wall.
The north well—the one that had killed Jacob—had been covered with planks.
Clara stopped when she saw it.
Snow had been packed down nearby by dozens of boots.
Neighbors searching.
Men lifting Jacob from the earth.
Eli stood behind her.
“Don't go near it.”
“I wasn't planning to.”
“He kept saying something was wrong with the wall.”
“What wall?”
“The well wall.”
Clara turned.
“He told Mr. Voss somebody had loosened stones.”
That caught her attention.
“What did Voss say?”
“That Pa was imagining things.”
“Did your father believe the collapse was an accident?”
Eli looked uncomfortable.
“I don't know.”
Clara stared at the covered well.
That could wait.
Food could not.
Nor could the debt.
“Where does Harlan Voss live?”
Eli's expression sharpened.
“You're not going.”
“I asked where.”
“Mercy Ridge.”
“Then hitch the wagon.”
“No.”
Clara looked at him.
Eli was fourteen.
He was also Jacob's son.
That combination apparently produced extraordinary stubbornness.
“Why not?”
“Because Voss will know you're here.”
“He'll discover that eventually.”
“He might leave us alone if he thinks you're leaving.”
“And when he takes the farm?”
The boy said nothing.
“Eli, hiding from a debt does not make it disappear.”
“You don't know him.”
“Then introduce me.”
An hour later, Clara entered Mercy Ridge.
In daylight the town was little more than two muddy streets lined with wood-fronted businesses.
The general store.
A bank.
A blacksmith.
A church.
A schoolhouse.
And at the center, a two-story brick building with gold lettering:
VOSS LAND & MERCANTILE.
Clara stepped down from the wagon.
Eli stayed seated.
“You coming?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because he'll talk different if I'm there.”
Clara studied him.
That answer was too mature.
“What has that man said to you?”
“Nothing.”
“Eli.”
“I'll wait.”
Clara let it go.
For now.
Inside, Harlan Voss sat behind a polished desk.
He was perhaps fifty.
Silver hair.
Expensive coat.
Clean fingernails.
He stood when Clara entered.
“Mrs. Whitmore?”
“Miss Whitmore.”
His surprise was slight.
“So you came after all.”
“You know who I am.”
“Mercy Ridge is small.”
“And news travels quickly.”
“Faster than trains.”
He smiled.
Clara did not.
She placed the debt notice on his desk.
“I want to understand this.”
Voss glanced down.
“Straightforward.”
“Jacob Bennett owed you two hundred eighty-six dollars and seventeen cents?”
“He owed my company.”
“For?”
“Seed. Repairs. Medical expenses after his wife became ill. Property taxes I paid on his behalf.”
“May I see the records?”
Voss's smile changed.
“Why?”
“Because I asked.”
“You aren't his wife.”
“No.”
“His heir?”
“No.”
“His attorney?”
“No.”
“Then his financial affairs are none of your concern.”
Clara leaned forward.
“They became my concern when I found ten children eating cornmeal mixed with water.”
Something moved behind his eyes.
“Then perhaps those children should be placed with families capable of supporting them.”
Clara became very still.
“Families?”
“Good Christian homes.”
“Separated?”
“Most likely.”
“No.”
He studied her.
“Miss Whitmore, sentiment is admirable until it becomes expensive.”
“What happens if the debt is not paid?”
“Farm goes to auction.”
“And the children?”
“County judge decides.”
“When?”
“A week.”
Clara picked up the notice.
“I'll need the debt records.”
“You have no standing.”
“Then perhaps I'll ask Judge Hollis whether a creditor attempting to seize property from ten newly orphaned children should be required to show precisely what they owe.”
Voss's polite expression cooled.
“You've been in Kansas less than twenty-four hours.”
“Yes.”
“You should be careful assuming you understand people here.”
“I don't understand you yet.”
She slid on her gloves.
“But I intend to.”
Outside, Eli watched her approach.
“What happened?”
“I dislike him.”
“I told you.”
“That's not evidence of wrongdoing.”
“What did he say?”
“That if the farm is taken, you may all be separated.”
Eli's face emptied.
“You shouldn't have told me.”
“Why?”
“Because now I have to tell them.”
“No.”
Clara climbed into the wagon.
“I'll tell them.”
“No, you won't.”
“Eli—”
“They don't need to know yet.”
“They deserve—”
“They're kids!”
“So are you.”
The words silenced him.
His fists tightened.
“I'm not.”
Clara's voice softened.
“Yes, Eli. You are.”
His eyes filled instantly.
He looked away.
She understood then.
The boy had not cried because he believed someone had to replace Jacob.
“Your father did not leave you responsible for ten lives.”
“Nine.”
“What?”
“Nine. There are ten of us. I'm responsible for nine.”
Clara's heart hurt.
“No, you're not.”
“Who else is?”
She had no answer.
That afternoon, they returned to find a wagon outside the farm.
A broad-shouldered woman in a blue coat stood on the porch carrying baskets.
“Mrs. Harper!” May screamed.
The children rushed toward her.
Abigail Harper lived two miles south.
She brought potatoes, milk, eggs, and information.
“They're already talking in town,” she told Clara quietly.
“About me?”
“About the Bennetts.”
“And?”
“Voss wants the land.”
“Why?”
Mrs. Harper glanced toward the children.
Then lowered her voice.
“Railroad survey.”
Clara frowned.
“What railroad survey?”
“They're considering a freight spur north of Mercy Ridge.”
“Through Jacob's property?”
“Close enough that the acreage might triple in value.”
Clara stared toward the fields.
“Harlan Voss neglected to mention that.”
“I expect he did.”
“Did Jacob know?”
“Maybe.”
Mrs. Harper hesitated.
“There was an argument between them a week before Jacob died.”
“About the debt?”
“About the well.”
Clara's attention snapped back.
“What about it?”
“Jacob claimed someone had been on his land.”
“Who?”
“He never said.”
“Why didn't anyone tell the sheriff?”
“Jacob did.”
“And?”
“Nothing came of it.”
That evening, Clara fed the children potato soup.
Afterward, Eli repaired a chair while Ruth washed dishes.
The younger ones slept near the stove.
Clara took Jacob's debt notice to his bedroom.
His room had been left exactly as it was on the morning he went to the well.
Boots beside the bed.
A shaving cup.
A Bible.
Three of Clara's letters tied with string on the bedside table.
She touched them.
He had kept every one.
Then she noticed a drawer that would not open.
It was locked.
She searched the desk.
No key.
Eli appeared.
“Pa kept that locked.”
“Do you know why?”
“No.”
“Do you know where the key is?”
He shook his head.
Then stopped.
“What?”
“After they brought him home from the well, he asked for his coat.”
“What coat?”
“His work coat.”
Clara turned.
“Where is it?”
“In the barn.”
They crossed the yard carrying a lantern.
The coat hung from a nail.
Clara searched the pockets.
Nails.
A piece of twine.
A small folding knife.
Then something metal touched her fingers.
A key.
Back inside, it opened Jacob's drawer.
There was a ledger.
Several receipts.
A map.
And an envelope.
Clara lifted it.
Her name was written on the front.
CLARA WHITMORE.
Eli stopped breathing.
“You gonna open it?”
Clara stared at Jacob's handwriting.
“I think he intended me to.”
She broke the seal.
Inside was a single sheet.
Clara,
If you are reading this before our wedding, then something has gone wrong.
There is something I have not told you about the farm.
I kept quiet because I did not want fear to follow you all the way from Boston.
But if anything happens to me, do not trust—
Clara froze.
The sentence ended there.
The bottom half of the letter had been torn away.
Eli stared.
“Don't trust who?”
Clara slowly turned the paper over.
Nothing.
Then they heard a sound outside.
A horse.
Someone was riding away from the house.
Eli ran to the window.
Clara followed.
A dark figure disappeared beyond the fence.
And on the table between them lay Jacob's unfinished warning.
Someone had just come to the Bennett farm.
May you like
Someone who might already know Clara had found it.
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