Texas Born (22 page)

'Maybe. But maybe they called Doc Fergueson
too late,' Zaccheus suggested softly.

Letitia shook her head. 'Theoderick don't
think so, and I don't neither. Nope, it's a waste o' good money,
that's what it is. An' money's tight. It don't grow on trees.'

Zaccheus looked at her steadily. The babbling
of the creek suddenly sounded like a loud rushing in his ears.
'Does this mean,' he asked huskily, 'that you don't want to help
send Ma to the clinic?'

'I wanna help Ma,' Letitia said carefully,
'but me and Theoderick, we ain't gonna help with Doc Fergueson's
bills. And we ain't helpin' with no fancy clinic either.'

And that was that.

Zaccheus took a deep breath. So . . . He had
no choice but to take matters into his own hands.

Phoebe Flatts had been waiting impatiently by
the window for two and a half days now, and she still hadn't seen
Zaccheus. A cold panic was beginning to grip her. Perhaps he
wouldn't show up at all. Maybe her charms hadn't worked. Maybe she
had scared him off. Maybe . . . Oh! There were a hundred . . . a
thousand possible maybes, and if she dwelled on them, she knew she
would go out of her mind.

Hearing the steady clip-clops of a mule and
the creaking of a wagon, she parted the lace curtains and peered
out for the thousandth time. Her heart soared. It was him!

She jumped to her feet, stopped in front of
the mirror to pat her hair, and hurried out onto the colonnaded
porch. She virtually glided down the wide steps, lifting her skirt
so that the scalloped lace hem wouldn't drag on the ground.

She was in front of him almost before he
hopped down from the wagon, her face flushed and glowing with
relief.

He studied her intensely, if only for a split
second. He hadn't seen her since she and the reverend had picked
him up at the railroad station, but it had been night, and the
lights had been dim, casting long, tricky shadows. Now, in full
daylight, he could see that the lighting at the railroad station
had, in fact, been unflattering. She was far more beautiful than he
had dared remember. Just looking at her brought a lump to his
throat.

She had, he thought, the most extraordinarily
beautiful face he had ever seen. It was startling in its fine-boned
delicacy. And it was this very delicacy which gave her such a
charming appearance: her beauty didn't threaten as it would have
had she been taller or larger or more imposing.

Her face was a perfect heart shape, with
extraordinarily high cheekbones and a refined nose which was
beautifully shaped and delicate.

Her lips were full and naturally pink. Her
spun-gold, whitish satin hair gleamed richly, pulled smoothly back
from her face and falling in a cluster of thick curls from the back
of her head down to the nape of her neck. She was wearing her
finest dress, a concoction of white lace which she had made over
the winter, with Arabella's help. Overall, the effect was so
virginally pure that Zaccheus was at a loss for words.

Around her neck she wore the sterling chain
with the pansy charm.

'Hello, Zaccheus.' Phoebe's voice was low and
husky, and it was at that moment that he knew he was going to marry
her.

'Hello, Miss Phoebe.' He took both her hands
in his and smiled down at her, for the first time aware of how
short she was.

'You mustn't call me Miss Phoebe,' she chided
carelessly. 'To you I'm plain Phoebe. You must call me that.' She
gazed at him challengingly, her eyes sparkling. 'Now, greet me all
over again.'

'Hello . . . Phoebe,' he said softly.

'There! Now, that wasn't so difficult, was
it?' She favored him with the whitest, pearliest, most radiant
smile he had ever encountered. It seemed to light up her entire
face.

He found himself blushing under her gaze. Now
that she had broken any existing formalities between them, there
were a hundred things he wanted to say to her . . .
needed
to say to her . . . but he was unable to put any of them into
words. At least not just yet. He had come here on a far more
important errand. 'Is . . . the reverend home?' he asked.

She shook her head. 'He's over at the
church.'

He nodded. 'I've got to see him right away.
Soon as I'm done, I'll come over and see you? Phoebe?'

She looked up into his face and smiled, her
eyes steady and unwavering. 'I'll put on some coffee. We'll have it
as soon as you're back.'

He smiled. 'Thanks. I won't be long.'

The clapboard church seemed smaller than he
had remembered, and the trees around it had grown fuller and
greener in his absence. Both double doors in the front yawned
wide.

Once inside, he stood at the back, hands on
his hips, and glanced around. The interior was aglow with the
familiar rainbow of colors from the stained-glass window above the
altar, and he could hear a steady scraping sound coming from near
the front of the sanctuary. He wrinkled his nose; the odor of fresh
varnish was sharp, acrid, and offensive. Reverend Flatts and a
young man were bent over: the youth sanding down a pew, and
Reverend Flatts brushing honey-colored varnish onto one which had
already been sanded smooth.

Reverend Flatts raised his head when he heard
Zaccheus approach. Carefully he laid the brush on top of the open
can of varnish, wiped his hands on a rag, and stepped out into the
aisle. 'Zaccheus!' he exclaimed pleasantly. 'My boy.' They shook
hands warmly and the reverend's florid face became concerned. 'And
your mother? Is she feeling any better?'

Zaccheus shook his head. 'No, I'm afraid
not.'

'I'm sorry to hear that. She's a fine
woman.'

'Yes, sir, she is,' Zaccheus replied. He
compressed his lips and shifted his weight nervously. For a moment
he studied his feet. 'Reverend Flatts? Could we go somewhere and
talk?'

Reverend Flatts glanced behind him at the
youth sanding the pew. 'Oh. Of course. Right back here.' He took
Zaccheus' arm and led him to the vestry. Once inside it, he closed
the door. 'Have a seat, son,' he said gently. He gestured to a
wooden spindle-backed chair.

Zaccheus sat down, hands clasped in front of
him. 'I know the Howe name doesn't mean much around here,' he said
quietly. He looked up at the reverend, his eyes steady, clear, and
blue. 'I was wondering if you might help me. I don't know who else
to turn to.'

'Yes, of course. Any way I can.' Reverend
Flatts slowly took a seat opposite him and looked into his face.
'Well?'

Zaccheus cleared his throat. 'I need to get a
loan at the bank.'

'And the purpose of this loan?'

'Doc Fergueson says there's a private
sanatorium in Asheville, North Carolina. He thinks it'll help my
ma.'

'But it's expensive,' Reverend Flatts
guessed.

'Yes, it's very expensive,' Zaccheus said
bitterly.

Reverend Flatts nodded and glanced at his
pocket watch. 'In that case,' he said, 'we'd better not waste any
time. Let's go see what we can accomplish before lunchtime.'

No more than ten minutes later they stood
outside the Farmer's Bank. Zaccheus halted momentarily to smooth
the front of his shirt, making certain it was tucked neatly into
his trousers, then lifted each foot in turn, wiping the dust off
his shoes on the back of his trouser legs. He looked at Reverend
Flatts.

'Are you ready?' the reverend asked in a
kindly voice.

Zaccheus took a deep breath and nodded.

Reverend Flatts clapped a hand on his back.
'Don't be nervous, son,' he advised. 'Mack Collins is a tough
businessman, but a scrupulously honest one.'

Zaccheus smiled gratefully, and together they
climbed the two steps up to the door. 'After you,' Reverend Flatts
said.

Zaccheus went inside, followed by the
reverend. He looked around curiously. In all the years he had lived
in Muddy Lake, he had never once set foot inside the bank, and it
held both awe and mystery for him. Awe, because this was where
people put their money for safekeeping, or borrowed it for whatever
purposes it was needed. Mystery, because he had always wondered
what this place looked like, and because having money to take to
the bank—however minuscule the amount—was something the Howes never
had.

He saw a polished mahogany counter with a
single teller's cage protected by thick brass bars. Behind the bars
stood a thin, myopic-looking man who wore very thick glasses and
resembled nothing so much as an undertaker. Behind the man Zaccheus
noticed a big iron safe cemented into the wall, much like the one
he had glimpsed in the rear room of the jewelry shop in St.
Louis.

And there was a big desk off to one side,
right under a small window. Like the teller's station, the window,
too, was barred.

Mack Collins, the man sitting behind the
desk, was the antithesis of a man bearing such a strong, tough-
sounding country name. He looked much like the teller, which wasn't
unusual, considering they were brothers, except that Mack Collins
was older and even more delicate-looking, leaving one with the
impression that he was part praying mantis. He was unearthly pale,
with translucent skin stretched tautly over sharp, angular
cheekbones. White eyebrows, stiff as wires, topped his eyes, and
thinning white hair swept back from his high forehead. His
insectlike appearance was emphasized by his long, bony
extremities.

Reverend Flatts took Zaccheus' arm, propelled
him toward the desk, and cleared his throat. ' 'Morning, Mack,' he
said cheerfully.

The banker looked up from the paperwork he
was shuffling, grumbled something under his breath, and got slowly
to his feet. His eyes were a peculiar light gray and suspicious, so
intense and startling they seemed to pierce straight through you.
'Reverend.' He held out a pale, palsied flipper of a hand.
'Parkinson 's disease,'' Reverend Flatts had told Zaccheus on
the walk over. ' 'It makes him tremble all over. Don't take any
notice of it.
'

'This is Zaccheus Howe, an associate of
mine,' Reverend Flatts said quickly in his clear, resonant voice.
'You've probably heard of him. He's the bright young man who wrote
the hymn for our church. He is currently studying at Center Hall
College in Tigerville, Virginia, to become a minister.'

Mack Collins slowly shifted his piercing gray
gaze in Zaccheus' direction. 'Pleased,' he said concisely. He
extended a trembling flipper and they shook hands.

Collins waved at the two red leather
captain's chairs facing his desk. All three men took a seat and
Collins came right to the point. 'Now, what can I do for you
gentlemen?'

'Zaccheus is an up-and-coming young man,'
Reverend Flatts sermonized carefully in his most sincere voice,
'one with a brilliant future, if I say so myself. He won a
scholarship to the college, which, I assure you, is no small feat.
To date he's never had the need of a bank.' He smiled pleasantly.
'But that's now suddenly changed.'

'That's mighty fine,' Mack Collins said with
such a lack of conviction that Zaccheus had the sinking, and
accurate, feeling that Collins' only interest lay in the contents
of a well-stuffed purse.

Collins eyed Zaccheus closely. 'Now that the
reverend's given you a well-intentioned buildup, why don't you tell
me in your own words what you think I can do for you, young
man.'

Zaccheus took a deep breath and glanced
sideways at Reverend Flatts, who smiled encouragingly. Zaccheus
turned back to Mack Collins. 'I need a loan,' he said simply.

'Oh-ho,' Collins leaned forward. 'And the
purpose for which you need this loan?'

Zaccheus told him and Collins listened
intently, his face expressionless. 'Mr. Howe. You have neither a
bank account nor, as I see it, any viable income in the foreseeable
future. Tell me. How do you intend to repay such a loan?''

'I am willing to stop my studies and work at
anything until it's repaid,' Zaccheus vowed quietly. 'You can trust
my word, Mr. Collins.'

Collins' face creased into a frown. 'A
successful banker never trusts anyone. Certainly not a young man
who has not proved himself.'

Zaccheus stared at him. 'What does that
mean?'

Collins unfolded his pale hands and ticked
several points off on his long, thin fingers. 'It means, quite
simply, that you have to be solvent in order to borrow money. You
must be able to prove that you can repay it. Or own property. Or
you must have satisfactorily repaid loans made to you in the past,
that is to say—'

'But . . . but I haven't had any need to
borrow money before!' Zaccheus sputtered.

Collins nodded. 'Quite true. But banking is a
peculiar industry, one with its own rules and regulations which
have been developed through trial and error. Without a trustworthy
credit history . . .'He held out his hands and shrugged
helplessly.

Zaccheus frowned. 'How do I get a credit
history, sir?'

'By getting a loan.'

'And if I've never had one?'

'Then it's very difficult. In that case, I
would require substantial collateral.'

Zaccheus frowned thoughtfully. 'You mean
you'd lend me the money if you held something valuable of mine
until it was repaid?'

'I would consider it,' Mack Collins said
carefully.

Zaccheus had a sudden idea. 'What if I got my
father to agree to put up our farm as collateral?'

Collins shook his head. 'I'm afraid that's no
good,' he said flatly.

'Why not?' Zaccheus blurted desperately. 'The
farm's worth some money!'

Collins shook his head again. 'Not as
collateral.' He paused. 'I suppose you haven't heard?'

'Heard? Heard what?'

The banker's businesslike voice became
gentler. 'Your father, Mr. Nathaniel Howe, is mortgaged to the
hilt,' he said quietly.

'I don't believe it!' A look of shock burned
its way across Zaccheus' face.