Through the Deep Waters (12 page)

He gave himself a shake. Hadn’t he learned woolgathering would lead him to harm? His bum leg proved it—as Pa had often grumbled, if he’d been paying better attention way back then, he might have been able to jump out of the way of the wagon’s wheel. So what was he doing, playing with a rock and thinking of a girl when the chickens needed water?

Tucking the rock into the pocket of his overalls, he hurried to the well. He drew up a bucket of cool water, filled the chickens’ pan, and shook his finger at the rooster. “Don’t dump it this time.” The arrogant bird ruffled its feathers and pranced off.

Amos returned the bucket to the well and headed for the house to rest, as the good Lord advised. Inside, instead of settling into his chair, he removed the rock from his pocket and turned it this way and that. Almost without thought, his lips drew upward into a smile. With great care, he placed the rock on his fireplace mantel next to the oil lamp and adjusted it to best display the band of amber. He backed up slowly, admiring it.

A snippet of a hymn rose from his memory—
“He hideth my soul in the cleft of the rock …”
—and he remembered the girl asking what had broken him. He eased into his chair, recalling how he’d wondered what created her skittishness. Concern rolled through him. Why did he worry so much about a girl he didn’t know? Didn’t he have enough to concern him without adding a stranger’s unknown plight to the list? She’d been in church. That should mean she knew to go to the cleft of the Rock when in need of comfort and peace.

He closed his eyes, but behind his closed lids the image of the rock played back and forth with the image of the girl that morning—wispy strands of soft brown hair falling alongside her heart-shaped face and blue eyes lighting with pleasure when they fell on him. And he never did rest.

Amos

The brooding hens eyed Amos as he crossed the hard-packed barn floor Monday morning. A couple raised their heads and clucked, as if warning him to keep his distance, but he ignored them and limped straight to the wagon, which waited in the deepest shadowy corner of the barn. He frowned when he spotted his egg-gathering basket on the ground instead of upside down over the hay, the way he’d left it.

He sent a frown at the hens. “Which of you has been climbing up here and trying to roost? You stay on your eggs over there. These are for selling, not hatching.”

One brassy hen clucked a reply, and he chuckled. He took hold of the handle and set off for town. His chuckle faded as he considered the fewer eggs he transported than he had in previous weeks. Many of his customers would be displeased today.

He cringed, the crunch of the little wagon’s wheels on the dirt road seeming to grind out a complaint. But then, maybe it was good he wouldn’t be able to provide eggs to everyone who’d come to depend on him. Because when his flock was big enough to meet the needs of the hotel’s kitchen, he wouldn’t be selling to individuals at all.

The faces of those he’d come to know in the past months paraded through his memory, and it stung to think of disappointing them. But he had to sell to a big company instead of to individuals if he ever intended to build his farm enough to support a family. Unless … He chewed the inside of his cheek, daring to let his dream expand even bigger. If he had sons—or daughters, too, he supposed—they could help on the farm. He’d be able to take care of a much
larger flock. He could sell eggs and chickens to the hotel, to individuals, and maybe even to places far away. The railroad could transport his eggs just about anywhere.

His chest went tight, thinking of becoming such a successful businessman. After his accident Amos had listened to his pa bemoan how Amos would be a burden on the family, unable to pull his own weight. When he made his chicken farm a success, he would invite his whole family to visit. Wouldn’t it please him to see the surprise on Pa’s face?

Eagerness to see his plans through sped his feet, and he pushed his aching hip to cover the distance in record time. When he’d emptied his wagon of all but three lone eggs—in only eight stops—he visited the grocer and gathered staples to carry him through another week.

As Mr. Root tallied up Amos’s purchases, he commented, “No eggs to trade today?”

Amos grimaced. “No. Unless you want only three.” He must have miscounted when he put the eggs in the wagon. He thought he should have more than a half dozen left. “Five cents’ worth doesn’t seem worth the trade.”

The man laughed. “You’re right there. You must’ve had good sales today to run out of eggs so soon.”

“I sold all but these, true, but I didn’t have enough to go around today.” Amos shared the changes he was making out at his chicken farm. Mr. Root listened as if deeply interested, pausing with his pencil caught between his thumb and finger above the page. Amos finished, “So it might be a while before I have eggs to bring to you. I hope it doesn’t trouble you too much to be without my eggs.”

“Doesn’t trouble me nearly as much as it might some of my customers.” The owner set the pencil to work again, scratching out numbers while he spoke. “You’re setting your sights mighty high, especially for someone with—”

Amos sucked in a breath.

“—so few years on him.”

Amos’s breath eased out, relieved the man hadn’t mentioned his gimpy leg.
“I’m not so young.” He’d felt older than his age ever since the wagon ran over him.

“No? Well, I reckon when you get as gray headed as me, most everybody under the age of thirty looks like a youngster.” Mr. Root wrote the total on the bottom of the pad and turned it around so Amos could check his figures.

Amos trusted the man. He dug in his pocket and counted out the amount needed. He slid the coins across the counter. “I hope to get my farm where I want it before my hair turns gray.” He tried to speak lightly, as if he were making a joke, but his voice came out tight and strained instead.

The grocer clanked the coins into his cash register drawer. “Now, don’t defeat yourself even before you get started. As I said, you’re young. You’ve got time.” He gave the drawer a push, and the massive register echoed with the solid slam. “I’d have to say you’re in a better spot than most of the young men here in Florence. Lots of them work at the quarry outside of town. Good work—honorable, with a decent wage. But I can’t help but wonder what they’ll all do when the rock runs out. It’s bound to happen by and by.” He shot Amos a smile. “But you aren’t likely to run clear out of eggs, and folks will always need what you’re peddling. So hang on to your plans, young man. See ’em through.”

The man’s advice, given in such a fatherly manner, warmed Amos. And encouraged him. He smiled his thanks. “I will, sir. Good-bye now.”

Out on the boardwalk beneath the sun, Amos glanced at the three remaining eggs nestled in the straw. He could take them home and eat them—a treat he rarely allowed himself. Or should he give those eggs to the hotel cook as a gift? He could ask him to tell the manager he was working on expanding his flock, as he’d been told to do.
“Hang on to your plans … See ’em through.”
Mr. Root’s advice propelled him in the direction of the hotel. It wouldn’t hurt to let the manager know he’d taken his words to heart and was working to win his business.

Ruthie

Ruthie swung the rug beater like a baseball bat and gave the rug hanging over the clothesline another good whack. Dust swirled from the thickly woven yarns. A gust of hot wind tossed the dust in her face. She turned aside and coughed. From her spot farther down the line, Dinah coughed, too. Of all the tasks assigned to the chambermaids, rug beating was Ruthie’s least favorite. Thankfully they only had to do it once every two months.

Raising the beater again, Ruthie took aim. But before she swung, a shadow creeping up alongside her caught her by surprise. She lowered the beater and turned to find one of Papa’s parishioners, Amos Ackerman, standing nearby. Immediately, her pulse increased its tempo. She’d never been tongue-tied around anyone, but the first time she’d seen Mr. Ackerman’s square, handsome face and broad shoulders nearly a year ago, she’d found herself smitten. Having him so near turned her legs to rubber. Her lips quivered into a shy grin.

He spoke first. “Good morning, Miss Mead.”

Up ahead, Dinah was pounding her rug with steady whumps. Between the noise and the dust flying through the air, conversation would be a challenge. But Ruthie could overcome challenges. “Good morning, Mr. Ackerman.” Her voice emerged as wobbly as her knees felt. She swallowed a nervous titter.

“You girls are working hard.” His gaze drifted to Dinah. Admiration seemed to shine in his eyes.

Ruthie liked his eyes—the color of sapphire with darker blue rims around the irises. He had incredibly thick and long eyelashes for a man, and most of the time he averted his gaze so his eyes hid behind the lashes. She preferred it when he held his head high, the way he was doing now. But she wished he’d look at her instead of at Dinah.

She cleared her throat—partly to rid it of the dusty feeling, but mostly to gain his attention. It worked on the latter. She beamed. “Yes, we are. With all the feet coming and going through the hotel, the rugs needed a good beating.
Dinah and I are only too happy to rid them of the travel dust. Aren’t we, Dinah?”

Dinah paused in her pounding and flicked a brief glance over her shoulder. Her gaze bounced from Ruthie to Mr. Ackerman, and color climbed her cheeks. She nodded, then returned to swatting the backside of the rug with even greater gusto than before. If she didn’t slow down, her arms would fall off before they finished all the rugs. Ruthie started to issue a warning, but Mr. Ackerman spoke again.

“I came to see the hotel manager, but I wasn’t sure if he’d be too busy right now to talk to me. Do you know his morning schedule? I don’t want to intrude.”

His voice, deep and slow as if every word was too important to rush, reminded her of Papa’s when he was reading aloud from the Bible. The warm feeling in Ruthie’s chest expanded. “He’s likely overseeing the baking. Monday is bread-making day. I think he spends lots of time in the kitchen since he was a head chef at a big-city hotel before he came to Florence. But there are lots of kitchen helpers, so he’d probably have a few minutes to speak with you.” She paused, gathering up her nerve. Papa would frown if she behaved flirtatiously—even though she was nearly nineteen and definitely of a marriageable age—while speaking with one of his unmarried male parishioners. “Would you like me to take you in and ask him to speak with you?”

If she wasn’t mistaken, Dinah suddenly decreased the strength of her swing. The thuds from her beater seemed less intense. Mr. Ackerman must have noticed, too, because he sent a questioning look in Dinah’s direction.

Ruthie said, “I’d be glad to do it.”

Mr. Ackerman continued to watch Dinah. She delivered another three, weaker whacks, and then her arms drooped to her sides. The curved wire tip of the beater hid in the grass. In the silence that fell, Ruthie’s voice boomed out shrilly.

“Dinah could come, too. She’s never beaten rugs before, so I’m sure she’s tired.” Had she really intended to disparage Dinah? Not deliberately, but she
realized her words sounded spiteful. She hurriedly added, “And we both need a drink after swallowing so much dust.” She offered Dinah an apologetic look. “So we’ll all go, yes?”

But Dinah shook her head. She lifted the beater and returned to work, although her swings showed her weariness.

Ruthie turned to Mr. Ackerman, who gazed at Dinah with sympathy in his expression. Ruthie’s heart rolled over. He was such a nice man. She dropped her beater at her feet and took a step toward the open doorway leading directly into the kitchen from the backyard. “Come along, Mr. Ackerman. The kitchen is this way.”

He hesitated for a moment. Then he released the handle on the child’s wagon he’d been pulling and plucked three eggs from the bed of straw filling the wooden box. Ruthie thought he would follow her, but instead he moved across the yard toward Dinah with the eggs cradled in one of his wide hands. His gait was clumsy, his left leg refusing to travel as far as the right one. But he closed the distance fairly quickly, considering his limp.