Gabe resembled a dog with his tail between his legs after my outburst. I flung him a quick apology. ‘‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to yell.’’
‘‘That’s all right,’’ he said quietly. ‘‘I know what it’s like to be homeless, too.’’
My heart softened a bit. ‘‘Riding the rails, you mean?’’
‘‘Not only then.’’ He fumbled with the lid to the canteen, trying to screw it back on straight. ‘‘I really don’t have a place to call home. I lived in a boardinghouse in Chicago before I started my travels.’’
‘‘Don’t you have a family?’’
‘‘No.’’
My heart softened a bit more. I wanted to ask him what had become of his folks, but I knew that if he asked me the same question I wouldn’t answer it. Besides, if he was Matthew Wyatt I already knew the answer. Gabe stood and stretched his arms and shoulders, swiveling his head in a circle to get the kinks out of his neck.
‘‘I think I know just how achy you feel,’’ I said quietly.
He gave me a slow, gentle smile. ‘‘Yes. I’m quite sure you do.’’
We both looked away at the same time as if realizing that we’d given away too much of ourselves.
‘‘Well, I guess we’d better get back to work,’’ I said, looking at the row ahead of us.
‘‘What about all those piles of brush?’’ he asked, looking at the sections we had already finished.
‘‘I don’t know what to do with it all, but I know it can’t stay there. I remember Sam telling me that dead wood attracts insects. He always used to run the hay rake down the rows to collect the brush at one end.’’
‘‘Can’t we use some of the bigger pieces for kindling?’’
The way Gabe said wegave me a funny feeling. I wasn’t sure if it was a contented feeling or an irksome one. ‘‘Yes, once it’s dried out,’’ I said. ‘‘Even so, there’s way too much of it.’’
‘‘I was wondering...you know how the hobos sometimes camp down by the railroad tracks? I think some of them might be willing to gather up the wood for us and haul it away if we let them use it for their bonfires.’’
He’d said it again—we.
‘‘All right,’’ I said after a moment. ‘‘But make sure you tell them to camp on my property, on this side of the tracks. The other side belongs to Alvin Greer, and he’ll call the sheriff to run them off.’’
I let Gabe borrow the truck that evening. He filled the back of it with brush and drove the first load down to the railroad crossing for his friends to use. In the weeks that followed I would see people creeping through the orchard around dinnertime, gathering up armloads of branches—pitiful men and sometimes women, dressed in shapeless rags. One or two of them didn’t look much older than my Jimmy. They were homeless, hungry, cold.
As I sat down each night to the meals Aunt Batty cooked, I prayed that my kids and I wouldn’t end up like them.
CHAPTER TEN
There are only a few more acres of trees left to trim,’’ I told Gabe one morning as we loaded the truck. ‘‘Why don’t you get started on Aunt Batty’s roof today, and I’ll finish trimming them myself.’’ Gabe had already taken a good look at the damage and had given Aunt Batty a list of the supplies he would need from the lumberyard. I had no idea if she could afford them or how she would pay for them, but I had enough worries of my own as spring approached without taking on hers.
‘‘Well, let’s think about this a minute,’’ Gabe said slowly. I could hear the hesitation in his voice.
‘‘Is there something wrong with my idea?’’ I asked impatiently.
‘‘I don’t like you working all alone out there, so far away from the house. If something should happen—’’
‘‘Like what?’’
‘‘Well...you could fall off the ladder—’’
‘‘I haven’t fallen yet, have I? Besides, you could fall off the ladder down at Aunt Batty’s house, too. What’s the difference?’’ I dared him to imply that I was a helpless woman, but he had sense enough not to. He carefully examined a saw blade before tossing it in with the others.
‘‘How about if I keep working on the trees,’’ he finally said, ‘‘and you can drive Aunt Batty into town for the supplies.’’
‘‘I don’t know one piece of lumber from the next,’’ I said. ‘‘It would be easier if you drove her into town.’’
He wouldn’t meet my gaze. ‘‘I’d rather not.’’
‘‘Why?’’
‘‘It’s not my truck. It’s yours.’’ He turned away a little too quickly. I couldn’t see his face but I got the feeling there was another reason why he didn’t want to go. After all, he’d driven my truck once before down to the hobo camp. Besides, he could always hitch the horses to a wagon instead of taking the truck. As I watched him limp over to close the door to the tool shed, still leaning on Walter Gibson’s cane, I tried to work out what the real explanation might be. Far as I could tell, Gabe had no reason at all to avoid Deer Springs—unless he was afraid folks might recognize him as Matthew Wyatt. And if he wasMatthew, the joke was on him because heowned the truck, not me!
‘‘I wouldn’t mind a lift out to that last section of trees before you head into town,’’ he said when he’d hobbled back to the pickup.
I don’t know which annoyed me more—the fact that Gabe was hiding something, or the fact that he’d been making all the decisions lately. Two weeks ago he had moved back out to the workshop to sleep, telling Aunt Batty she could have the spare room downstairs. Then he’d started getting the cold frames ready for planting and sharpening the plow blades without being asked. Last night I found him tinkering with the tractor. You would have thought he could hear my father-in-law’s voice, plain as day, ordering him around like he used to order Sam: ‘‘Son, it’s time to do such-and-such...Son, you need to fix the thing-a-ma-jig.’’
In the end, I drove Aunt Batty to the lumberyard. I had extra eggs and milk to sell, and I wanted to stop by Mr. Wakefield’s office while I was in town and see if he’d had any luck tracking down Matthew. Judging by the sleepy, confused look on the old lawyer’s face, he might have been sound asleep at his desk since the last time I was there.
‘‘Sorry, Eliza. I haven’t heard a thing about Matthew. Sorry...Iwrote to Washington but these things take time. Sorry...’’
‘‘That’s all right, Mr. Wakefield.’’ He looked so pitiful I had the urge to pat him like a baby until he fell back to sleep.
Aunt Batty and Becky were sitting in the truck waiting for me by the time I walked back to the lumberyard. The wood, tar paper, and shingles were all loaded and ready to go. Lord knows how she paid for them.
For the next few weeks Gabe was everywhere at once, working like a house-a-fire. He would rise before dawn to do chores, then he’d work on Aunt Batty’s roof for a while, then he’d putter around the barn or the orchard, getting everything ready for springtime. I almost never had to nag the boys to do chores as long as Gabe worked alongside them. But the very thing I’d feared—that they would grow attached to Gabe—was slowly happening, and I didn’t know what to do about it. Try as I might, I couldn’t keep my kids from sneaking out to the barn and hanging around him every time I turned my back. Luke, especially, had taken a shine to him, and it amazed me to hear the boy actually talking to Gabe—although they both spoke so softly I could never understand anything either of them said. Whatever they were discussing, Gabe seemed very patient with Luke’s stuttering and all.
Gabe won Becky’s heart when he made her the swing like he’d promised. She danced in circles around Aunt Batty and me as we watched him hang it from a limb of the old oak tree in front of the house.
‘‘Lydia’s boys used to have a swing on this very same tree,’’ Aunt Batty said. ‘‘In fact, they might have hung it from that very same branch.’’
‘‘You’re right, they did,’’ Gabe said.
I looked up at him in surprise as he climbed out on the limb to tie the ropes. Had he just
given himself away?
‘‘How do you know where their swing was?’’ I asked him.
‘‘I found some remnants of the old rope still embedded in the bark up here.’’ He prodded at the wood with his finger, dusting us with bits of rotting hemp. ‘‘See? Twenty-year-old rope.’’
It was the same with everything he did—Gabe seemed so at home on my farm, it was as if he’d lived here his whole life. He plowed the field where we always had our vegetable garden and started slips in the cold frame. He fixed nesting boxes in the chicken coop so the hens would set and strung up new chicken wire so the hawks wouldn’t take the baby chicks. He oiled and sharpened and repaired all the tools and equipment as if they belonged to him. And he kept the inside of the barn as neat as a pin, just the way Frank always insisted it be kept.
‘‘You seem to know an awful lot about running a farm,’’ I told him one day at lunchtime. ‘‘Did you grow up on one?’’
‘‘I spent a couple of summers on my aunt and uncle’s farm.’’
He didn’t look up from his plate when he spoke. I could tell he hated answering my questions. If he had been a turtle he would have retreated inside his shell. I understood how he felt. I did the same thing whenever people started asking me about my past, but that didn’t stop me from questioning Gabe.
‘‘Where was their farm?’’
‘‘Out east.’’
‘‘Really? Which state?’’
‘‘New York.’’ He avoided my next question by turning to Aunt Batty. ‘‘If you don’t mind, I’ll need you to come down to the cottage tomorrow morning and tell me how you want a few things done.’’
‘‘All right. How’s my roof coming, by the way?’’ she asked.
‘‘The work is going pretty well. All this rain we’ve had has slowed me down, though.’’
‘‘I’m not in a hurry,’’ she said. ‘‘And the rain is good for the apple trees.’’
It occurred to me that I wasn’t in a hurry for Gabe to finish, either. Once he repaired the roof he would probably go home to Chicago. The thought of getting by without his help gave me a panicky feeling. I remembered Aunt Batty saying she’d been unprepared for the day Walter Gibson had left her, and I decided I’d better get used to the idea of Gabe leaving before it took me by surprise.
‘‘You know, Gabe,’’ I said as I refilled his coffee cup, ‘‘you’ve paid me back a dozen times over for doctoring your leg. You’re free to leave whenever you need to go.’’
He didn’t reply but I felt his eyes on me. When I finally looked at him he said, ‘‘A man’s life is a very big debt to repay.’’ He had dangerous eyes—mysterious and dark. I couldn’t look into them for very long without feeling like I was falling off the edge of the world. Their softness pulled me toward him, yet the pain I saw in them pushed me away at the same time.
‘‘What about your job with the newspaper?’’ I asked. ‘‘Shouldn’t you be getting back to work one of these days?’’
‘‘I’m not sure I still have a job. I gave my editor this address when I sent in my story. I’m still waiting to hear from him.’’
I knew how good Gabe’s hobo story was, and I wondered how much money the newspaper would pay him for it. Enough to settle Frank Wyatt’s loan at the bank? When I looked at the calendar this morning I realized that half of the ninety days Mr. Preston had given me had already passed. I’d saved every cent I’d earned from selling our extra eggs and milk in town, but I knew that it wasn’t going to be enough. Time was running out, and I still had no idea where the money would come from.
Alvin Greer must have realized the time had grown short, too, because he paid me a visit that very afternoon. I heard a car pull into my lane, and when I saw that it was Mr. Greer, I put on my coat and went out onto the back porch to talk to him. I knew it would be neighborly to invite him inside, but I didn’t want him in my parlor again, eyeing everything like he couldn’t wait to get his hands on all of it.
‘‘Good afternoon, Mrs. Wyatt,’’ he said, tipping his hat.
‘‘Good afternoon.’’ I folded my arms across my chest and waited. It didn’t take him long to get the hint and come to the point.
‘‘Are you aware that a gang of hobos has been camping on your property down by the tracks?’’
‘‘Yes, I know.’’
‘‘Would you like me to run them off for you?’’
‘‘No, I told them they may camp there. They have no place else to go.’’
He gave me a stern look. ‘‘Do you think that’s wise? I mean, you’re here all alone with three small children.’’
‘‘It’s the Christian thing to do, isn’t it, Mr. Greer? Doesn’t the Good Book say whatever we do for one of the least of our brethren we do for the Lord?’’
Mr. Greer was trying to hold back his temper as if he had an excited dog on a very short leash. ‘‘I didn’t come here to discuss the Good Book—’’
‘‘Why did you come here?’’
‘‘Well, I got a letter a few weeks back from Mr. Wakefield, your attorney, saying you couldn’t take me up on my offer to buy this place until he’d settled Frank Wyatt’s estate. Now I know these things take time, so I wondered if you could use some help in the meantime?’’
‘‘No, thank you, Mr. Greer. I already have help.’’
He blinked in disbelief. ‘‘You do?’’
It occurred to me that Alvin Greer might recognize Matthew Wyatt so I decided to introduce him to Gabe.
‘‘Yes, sir. My husband’s Aunt Betty has moved in with the children and me to help us out,’’ I explained. ‘‘And I took on a manager to handle the orchard. He’s working out in the barn if you’d like to meet him.’’ I turned and led the way without waiting for Mr. Greer to reply. Gabe stepped through the door just as we arrived. ‘‘There you are,’’ I said. ‘‘I’d like you to meet my neighbor to the north. This is Mr. Alvin Greer.’’ I purposely neglected to introduce Gabe by name, waiting to see how he would introduce himself. Gabe removed his glove and held his hand out to Greer.
‘‘Gabe Harper. How do you do?’’
I watched Greer’s face, waiting for the moment of recognition. It never came. The men exchanged a few pleasantries, but it was quite clear that Greer was suddenly in a big hurry to leave. He had called on me today expecting to find a damsel in distress, and he’d cast himself in the role of my knight in shining armor. The fact that I didn’t need his help, that he wasn’t going to get his hands on Wyatt Orchards, had lit the fuse on his temper and he needed to leave before it exploded.
‘‘What’s wrong with him?’’ Gabe asked as Greer’s car spun out of my driveway.
‘‘I told him you were my manager.’’
‘‘He has a problem with that?’’
‘‘He wants my orchard. He’s just licking his chops, waiting for me to fail so he can take over.’’
‘‘What right would he have to take over your orchard?’’ Gabe asked. He looked peeved as he watched Greer’s car drive away.
‘‘His wife used to be a Wyatt. He figures she’s entitled to it as a blood relation and I’m not.’’
The very next day Dan Foster, the county sheriff, came to pay me a visit. He was a formidable-looking man in his late fifties and as burly and barrel-chested as a prize fighter. He wore a crisp brown uniform with a shiny brass badge pinned on it, and a pistol strapped on his hip. I’d always pitied any criminal who crossed Sheriff Foster’s path. When I saw him climbing out of his car I thought maybe he’d brought news of Matthew, so I hurried outside to invite him in.
‘‘No, thank you, Mrs. Wyatt,’’ he said, tipping his hat. ‘‘It isn’t you I’ve come to see. Alvin Greer tells me you’ve hired a manager and I’d like a word with him, if I may.’’
I stared at him dumbly. Then I recalled Aunt Batty saying that Sheriff Foster’s wife was also a Wyatt and I knew they had ganged up on me.
‘‘Why? What’s this all about, Sheriff?’’
‘‘Alvin tell
s me the fellow’s a stranger and I—’’
‘‘What business is it of yours if I hire a stranger? Don’t you have anything better to do than run around to every farm in the county and check out their hired hands?’’ I thought he might get riled but he didn’t.
‘‘We’re your neighbors, Eliza. We all understand how hard it must be with your menfolk gone. But why not ask your neighbors for help, first?’’ He spoke kindly and I was a little sorry for being so suspicious of him, but I just couldn’t help it.
‘‘I know you think it’s your job to protect me from strangers, but I can take care of myself, Sheriff. It’s none of your business who I hire. Besides, for all you know, the man is kin to me.’’
‘‘Believe me, it would ease my mind a great deal if that were true.’’ He watched me closely, waiting for me to confirm it, his hand resting casually on his gun. I didn’t have the nerve to lie to him. He finally cleared his throat and said, ‘‘I’ve known Frank Wyatt all my life, and I can remember when your husband, Sam, stood only this high. It’s for their sakes that I’m stopping by. I’m very concerned for you and the kids, ma’am. And it is my job as county sheriff to protect law-abiding citizens from dangerous vagrants and con artists.’’
‘‘Thank you, but I can assure you that he’s neither one.’’
‘‘I’ll still need to talk to him, ma’am.’’ He reached inside his jacket and drew out an envelope. ‘‘This letter came from Chicago by registered mail for a Mr. Gabriel Harper, at this address. Bill White down at the post office asked me if I knew anything about it, and I said I’d deliver it to Mr. Harper myself since I’d planned on driving out anyway.’’
I don’t know why I felt so protective of Gabe, but I did. He had secrets in his past that he didn’t want me or anyone else to know about, but he couldn’t possibly be a dangerous fugitive or anything, could he? Gabe was so gentle and soft-spoken I honestly didn’t think he was capable of breaking the law. So why was I reluctant to hand Gabe over to him? Sheriff Foster might even recognize him as Matthew Wyatt—wasn’t that what I wanted? I felt very confused.