Chapter 3 - The Promise Jacob Left Behind
Eli reached the door before Clara could stop him.
“Eli!”
He grabbed Jacob's old rifle from above the mantel.
Clara stepped between him and the entrance.
“Put that down.”
“Someone was outside.”
“I am aware.”
“Move.”
“No.”
“They could be the one who—”
“You are fourteen years old.”
“So?”
“So you will not run into darkness chasing an unknown rider.”
He gripped the rifle tighter.
Clara held his gaze.
“If your father were standing here, would he allow it?”
Eli's anger cracked.
“No.”
“Then put it back.”
For several seconds, Clara thought he might refuse.
Finally, he returned the rifle to the mantel.
She locked the door.
They checked every window.
Nothing.
The younger children had remained asleep.
Ruth had not.
She stood in the hall clutching a blanket.
“What happened?”
“Nothing we can't handle,” Clara said.
Ruth looked at Eli.
“Someone came.”
Clara gave him a sharp look.
“What?”
Ruth's voice rose.
“Who?”
“We don't know.”
“Was it Mr. Voss?”
“No one said that.”
“But you think it.”
“I think we have incomplete information.”
Ruth frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“It means we're going to bed.”
No one slept much.
At sunrise, Clara made coffee strong enough to hold her upright.
Then she examined Jacob's ledger.
The figures confused her until Eli explained his father's shorthand.
Seed purchases.
Livestock.
Repairs.
Amounts borrowed from Voss.
Amounts repaid.
Clara recalculated everything twice.
Then a third time.
The number did not match the debt notice.
According to Jacob's ledger, he had borrowed $241.00 over three years.
He had repaid $173.50.
With reasonable interest, he should owe somewhere between seventy-five and ninety dollars.
Not $286.17.
Clara spread the documents across the table.
“Did your father ever mention refinancing?”
“No.”
“Another loan?”
“No.”
“Mortgage?”
“He hated borrowing.”
“He borrowed from Voss.”
“Only after Ma got sick.”
Clara looked at the medical receipts.
That matched.
The problem was that Voss's claim included charges Jacob had never recorded.
A new plow.
Forty dollars.
Fence timber.
Twenty-three dollars.
Seed.
Thirty-one.
Clara found no receipts.
“Was there a new plow?”
Eli laughed.
“Does anything here look new?”
“No.”
“Fence timber?”
Eli pointed through the window at the collapsed fence.
“Exactly.”
Clara sat back.
Either Jacob had stopped keeping accurate records...
Or Harlan Voss was lying.
She needed proof.
After breakfast, Abigail Harper arrived again, this time with her husband.
Samuel Harper was a quiet farmer in his forties with a beard already going gray.
He examined the ledger.
“Jacob kept good records.”
“Could these be incomplete?”
“Possible.”
“Likely?”
“No.”
Samuel looked at the debt notice.
“Voss has done this before.”
Abigail turned sharply.
“Sam.”
Clara caught it.
“Done what?”
Samuel sighed.
“Bought debt.”
“That's legal.”
“Usually.”
“What isn't?”
“Adding things people can't prove they never bought.”
Clara's jaw tightened.
“Why hasn't anyone challenged him?”
“Some have.”
“And?”
“Lost.”
“He owns the bank?”
“Not exactly.”
“But?”
“He owns the banker's mortgage.”
Clara almost smiled.
“That is effectively the same thing.”
Samuel nodded.
“He also contributes to the church roof, pays for the Independence Day picnic, lends money when crops fail, and knows exactly which men owe him favors.”
“Judge Hollis?”
“Doesn't owe him.”
“That sounded encouraging until the way you said it.”
“The judge likes evidence.”
“So do I.”
Samuel looked impressed.
“What did you do in Boston?”
“Seamstress.”
“Before that?”
“Schoolteacher.”
Eli looked at her.
“You didn't tell us.”
“You never asked.”
“You can teach?”
“Yes.”
“How to do accounts?”
“Yes.”
Eli slid Jacob's ledger toward her.
“Then teach me.”
Something shifted between them.
Not trust.
Not yet.
But the first board in a bridge.
For the next two hours, Clara showed him how to organize the figures.
Ruth joined.
Then the twins.
Soon half the children crowded around.
By lunch, Clara had names for everyone.
Eli, fourteen.
Ruth, twelve.
Samuel and Simon, ten-year-old twins.
Nora, eight.
Caleb, seven.
May, five.
Josie, four.
Tommy, three.
And Annie, seventeen months.
Ten children.
Ten separate personalities.
Ten ways of being afraid.
May asked questions constantly.
Nora answered questions no one asked.
Caleb hid food in his pockets.
Josie followed Ruth everywhere.
Tommy believed the family goat was his best friend.
The twins communicated almost entirely through looks.
Annie cried whenever anyone left a room.
And Eli watched doors.
Always.
By afternoon, Clara understood why.
Everyone kept leaving.
Their mother had died.
Their aunt had died.
Their father had died.
Neighbors came and went.
The county would come next.
Every opening door could mean disappearance.
So Clara began announcing where she was going.
“To the barn.”
“To the pump.”
“To Mrs. Harper's.”
“I'll be back before supper.”
The first time she did it, Eli looked at her strangely.
The second time, May smiled.
On the third morning, no one asked whether she was coming back.
Clara wished that did not feel like victory.
The problem remained money.
The children needed food.
The debt needed challenging.
And Clara's thirty-six dollars had already become twenty-seven.
She needed income.
Mercy Ridge had a schoolteacher.
A blacksmith.
A general store.
What it did not have was a seamstress.
Abigail Harper explained why.
“Most women mend their own things.”
“Wedding dresses?”
“People marry in Sunday clothes.”
“Men's shirts?”
“Maybe.”
“Coats?”
“That might work.”
Clara considered.
Boston had taught her something about human beings.
People who refused to spend money on beauty would sometimes spend it on pride.
“Who is the best-dressed man in Mercy Ridge?”
Abigail laughed.
“Harlan Voss.”
Clara stared.
“No.”
“The second-best?”
“Dr. Daniel Mercer.”
Clara's expression changed.
“There's a doctor?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't anyone tell me?”
“About what?”
“The baby has a fever.”
Within an hour, Dr. Daniel Mercer was at Bennett Farm.
He was thirty-five, tall, dark-haired, unmarried according to Abigail, and entirely too observant.
He examined Annie.
“Malnutrition. Chest cold. Nothing alarming yet.”
“Yet?”
“Keep her warm. Milk if she'll take it. Broth.”
“We have both.”
He looked around the kitchen.
“You've improved things.”
“I've fed them.”
“That qualifies as improvement.”
Clara disliked how easily he smiled.
It made her aware she had not been smiled at by an adult man in a very long time.
She focused on Annie.
“Will she recover?”
“With food and rest, likely.”
He closed his medical bag.
“You should also know the county officer arrives Monday.”
“For what?”
“To assess the children.”
Clara went still.
“Assess them how?”
“To determine whether Bennett's household is stable.”
“Jacob is dead.”
“That's precisely the problem.”
Clara lowered her voice.
“What happens if they decide it isn't?”
“Children under twelve could be placed with families. Older children might be apprenticed.”
“Separated.”
“Yes.”
Clara looked toward the doorway.
Eli stood there.
He had heard everything.
“How long do we have?” Clara asked.
“Monday.”
Five days.
After the doctor left, Eli went to the barn.
Clara waited an hour before following.
He was splitting wood furiously.
“You'll ruin the axe handle.”
“Go away.”
“No.”
“I said go away.”
“And I said no.”
He swung again.
“You can't stop them.”
“I don't know that.”
“You're not our mother.”
The words landed harder than they should have.
“No.”
“You weren't Pa's wife.”
“No.”
“You don't own the farm.”
“No.”
“You're nobody.”
Clara stood motionless.
Eli stopped.
Regret flickered across his face.
She nodded slowly.
“Legally, you are correct.”
He looked down.
“I didn't—”
“But being nobody means I have very little left to lose.”
He looked up.
“I crossed fifteen hundred miles because your father offered me a family. I arrived too late to marry him.”
Her voice shook.
“But I did not arrive too late to keep his children fed for one more day.”
Eli swallowed.
“And after Monday?”
“I don't know.”
“I hate when you say that.”
“So do I.”
She stepped closer.
“But I will tell you what I do know.”
“What?”
“No one is taking you quietly.”
His eyes filled.
This time he did not turn away fast enough.
Clara pretended not to notice.
That evening she went through Jacob's papers again.
At the back of the ledger, several pages had been cut out.
Not torn.
Cut cleanly.
She held it toward the lamp.
The remaining paper showed pressure marks.
Writing from a missing page.
She rubbed charcoal lightly across the sheet.
Letters slowly appeared.
ELI saw—
Clara stopped.
More marks.
NORTH WELL—
Another word.
VOSS.
Her blood chilled.
“Eli.”
He came to the table.
“What?”
She showed him.
The boy's face changed.
“What did you see?”
“Nothing.”
“Jacob wrote your name.”
“I don't know.”
“Eli.”
“I said I don't know.”
He backed away.
Clara followed.
“What happened at the north well?”
“Nothing.”
“Did you see someone there?”
“No.”
“Did your father ask you about it?”
“No!”
The younger children looked over.
Clara lowered her voice.
“Why are you afraid?”
“I'm not.”
“You are.”
Eli's breathing changed.
Then he said something Clara had not expected.
“Because the night before Pa got hurt, I saw a man by the well.”
Clara's heart stopped.
“Who?”
Eli looked toward the dark window.
“When he turned around, I recognized him.”
“Eli, who was it?”
He whispered the name.
And Clara finally understood why the boy had refused to enter Harlan Voss's office.
“Mr. Voss.”
Outside, somewhere beyond the barn, a board creaked.
May you like
Someone was listening again.
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