Katie's Dream

© 2004 by Leisha Kelly

Published by Revell
a division of Baker Publishing Group
P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287
www.revellbooks.com

Ebook edition created 2011

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owners. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

ISBN 978-1-5855-8621-9

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.

Scripture is taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

To my own tenderhearted, gentle,
hardworking husband. With love.
And to Debi and the other wonderful church friends
who have helped my family so that I could find time
to write this book.

To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn and a time to dance; a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together.

Ecclesiastes 3:1–5

Prologue

Samuel and Julia Wortham and their two children had managed seven difficult months since losing their dear friend Emma Graham. On the same night as Emma's passing, the ten neighboring children had lost Wilametta Hammond, their mother. Worthams and Hammonds had endured together. Independence Day in the small town of Dearing, Illinois, afforded them the perfect opportunity for a special day of rest. They didn't know to expect the unexpected.

Bouncing on the seat of a 1920 Ford, Katie finally managed to drift off to sleep just as they were crossing a winding creek. She didn't hear the chug of the engine anymore, or the drone of the driver talking to himself once again. All she heard now was the sweet, gentle voice of someone new. A different kind of mother, perhaps, who would sit alongside a bed and sing a tender song only for her.

ONE

Julia

J
ULY
4, 1932

Samuel lay stretched out asleep on the blanket in front of me, missing every bit of the fireworks he'd gotten us all here to see.

“Shouldn't we wake him, Mommy?” six-year-old Sarah begged. “He's missing the show.”

“I don't know, honey. Seems like if he can sleep through all this, maybe he needs to.”

We were surrounded by all of the Hammond children, and the littlest ones had been anything but quiet. Not to mention the noise of Oliver Porter's firecrackers, bought by that one well-to-do family in the hopes of lifting the spirits of a depressed community.

Kirk Hammond shook his head at Sarah. “Pa says never to wake a grown man when he's sleepin'. Unless his house is afire.”

“There are other times,” his sixteen-year-old sister Lizbeth maintained. “Like, say, if his pigs are out.” She kept on rocking gently back and forth, soothing her baby sister to sleep.

It seemed like far longer than seven months since these kids had lost their mother, and nearly their father too. George Hammond wasn't with us today. He'd offered to stay home and see to the milking, theirs and ours, in exchange for us getting his entire brood into town to witness an extravagance that was rare for Dearing, even before Depression days. Real fireworks. And earlier that day, a tractor demonstration and cattle show. And an automobile race right through the middle of town. The big boys, including our eleven-year-old Robert, had urged Samuel to enter the race, hoping for the three-dollar prize. But Samuel wouldn't enter, because the truck we were using was borrowed.

“They had bigger shows in Pennsylvania,” Robert remarked, slapping away at a mosquito.

“I'm sure there are bigger ones in some parts of Illinois,” I told him. “But this is a little town, and it's nice for them to do something like this at all.”

I looked around us at the square where most of the activities had been held. Glowing lanterns sat at the four corners and at other important spots like the lemonade stand. Some people had brought their own lanterns, so there were shining spots of light among the crowd. It made for a pretty scene, and I smiled.

But Willy Hammond frowned. “It weren't so nice, Beula Pratt and Gussy Welty singin' at the top of their lungs. I coulda done without that.” Willy was the same age as our Robert, and they'd both been rather pessimistic lately.

“I liked their singin',” Sarah told him. “‘The Star Spangled Banner' is my most favoritest song. An' the rest was good too.”

“They were patriotic,” Lizbeth agreed. “We're supposed to be patriotic today.”

Thirteen-year-old Kirk shook his head. “Well, I didn't unnerstand Mr. Porter's recitation, 'least not all of it. It was too blame long.”

“The whole Declaration of Independence,” nine-year-old Franky said proudly. “The most important words in our whole country.”

“What do you know?” Willy asked. “You're the dumbest kid in the whole county.”

Franky didn't reply. He almost never did to such words, which he heard far too often.

“He's not dumb, and you know it,” Lizbeth said, defending their brother. “He does fine. You don't have to read to unnerstand stuff, and he unnerstands a lot more than you do. So shut up.”

I kept quiet because Lizbeth had spoken out. But usually I defended Franky, though he'd told me more than once I didn't have to bother. I knew he was special, despite his struggle to learn letters. Lizbeth was right about him. He understood most everything he heard and remembered it too. There were times when he didn't seem nine at all, though he was scarcely bigger than Sarah.

Berty Hammond, the four-year-old, on the other hand, was growing by leaps and bounds but tried to act like a baby as often as not, just to get my attention. He scooted his way into my lap and laid his little head on my shoulder, sucking away at his thumb.

“Getting tired, Berty?”

He shook his head, but I knew he was. They all were. It was past dark, and we had quite a ways to go to get home.

The oldest boy, Sam, must have been thinking that too. “We'll have to go purty quick. An' maybe I oughta drive, Mrs. Wortham. Mr. Wortham's dog tired.”

“Maybe you should,” I told him, knowing he'd welcome the chance. At seventeen, Sam was pretty responsible.

“Can we stay at your house?” Rorey asked, hugging at the doll I'd made for her.

“Not all of you. Your father said that was too much.”

“Can I?”

“We'll see.” Berty squeezed my neck, and I heard myself sigh. George should have told them who could and who couldn't this time, instead of leaving it for us to decide. It would have been so much easier. George did a lot, but he still left a lot on us and his older children. Especially Lizbeth.

There was a flurry of crackles from the bandstand, where most of the fireworks were being lit. Then one last long burst of light and sound. I put my hand on Samuel's shoulder, knowing the show was almost over. Time to be picking up blankets and getting all these kids home to bed.

He rolled over and stared at me in the darkness. For a moment I thought I saw that look in his eye that he used to have so long ago, when we first got married and he was still having bad dreams. He'd never talk about them then, and he didn't say a word now. He just sat up, and then he stood, ready to get back to the business of life.

Oliver Porter bid everybody a good night in his great booming voice, and all the kids started rising to their feet. Five-year-old Harry tried sneaking away, toward the Humkeys, who had given him a lollipop earlier, but Joey grabbed him by the collar and kept him with us.

Samuel picked up our blanket and folded it neatly. Franky lifted theirs from the ground and wadded it under his arm. Berty didn't want to let go of me, so I held him, thinking maybe he'd go to sleep that much faster.

“I need to stay with Robert,” Willy told us. “So we can get an early start fishin' tomorrow.”

“Fine,” I agreed. “But remember your father said you could only fish till noon. Then you've got to work field.”

“Fishin' is work too,” Willy protested. “We might bring home dinner.”

“That would be wonderful. I hope you do. But you can't fish all day, no matter how good they're biting. You're going to obey your father.”

Samuel stood looking out over the park in Dearing's town square, at the stir of the crowd and the swaying cottonwood trees beyond them. I wished I knew what he was thinking. We had so little time to talk anymore. Just managing to get through our days was taking about all the energy we had—working the farm Emma had so lovingly given us, trying to put food on the table and make a decent life for all these kids. It seemed like we were parents to all of them now, not just our own two. And George Hammond let it be that way. He was a decent father. He was trying. But he never seemed to be able to manage without us, even for a couple of days.

“I wish I had some firecrackers,” Harry said, trying to squirm away from Joe.

“Thank heaven you don't,” I told him. “Hard to say what would happen if something like that were in your hands.” More than the other children, Harry was a trial to look after. He'd try anything. Several times. He was absolutely fearless, more than a little reckless, and ornery as the dickens.

“I'd only just blast 'em,” he told me. “I'd make a lot of noise and see if I could make your doggy bark.”

Whiskers, our dog, barked plenty, at groundhogs and coons. But not at people he knew, especially kids, though Harry tried to get him to.

“You better leave that dog alone,” Robert warned him. “One of these days he'll get real sick a' you and haul off and bite.”

“Not Whiskers,” Sarah said. “Whiskers is a sweetie.”

“Come on,” Samuel said suddenly. “Let's head for the truck.” He took Berty from my arms, swooped him onto his shoulders, and led the way across the square to where he'd parked Barrett Post's truck amidst the other vehicles,
most of them years old and held together by a combination of baling wire and ingenuity.

With Sarah holding one of my hands and Rorey the other, I followed him, suddenly feeling bone weary and ready for a bed myself.

As we walked to the truck, young Thelma Pratt made her way through the crowd just to say hello to Sam Hammond and ask him if she'd see him at church on Sunday.

“Uh, yeah. Far as I know,” he said, embarrassed by her attention.

I couldn't help but smile. “Have a good night, Thelma,” I told her. “Say hello to your mother and tell your sister she did a fine job with her singing.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Wortham, I will.” She glanced at young Sam one more time and disappeared in the direction of the bandstand.

Kirk jabbed at Sam with his elbow, but the skinny teen shoved his brother away and went walking ahead of us. He'd told me about two weeks ago that he liked the Pratt girl, but he wasn't especially thrilled to have everybody else knowing it.

Close to the stand where they'd been passing out lemonade, I saw Ben Porter and took the time to tell him to thank his aunt and uncle for sponsoring the festivities. Lizbeth thanked him special for not charging us a dime for the popcorn and the ice-cold lemonade. We'd have gone without otherwise.

“I wanna do this kinda thing when I get older,” Franky remarked as we went walking on. “I wanna have plenty a' money so I can put it to use every whipstitch doin' stuff for people. It'd be fun, seein' 'em enjoy themselves 'stead a' sittin' and frettin' over tomorrow.”

I wasn't surprised, hearing something like this from him, but Willy and Kirk were shaking their heads.

“You ain't gonna have no money,” Willy said. “Nobody's gonna pay you for nothin'.”