Seeds of Summer (5 page)

J
ARED TOOK THE YOUNG WOMAN AWKWARDLY IN HIS ARMS, UNABLE TO
resist consoling her tears. “I know it's hard, but I can tell you're a strong person. You'll get through this. God can help you.”

She cried into his shoulder. Most people, he'd learned from seminary, kept their grief bound until it burst from inside, usually at the least expected moment. His heart ached for this girl and her family, and he timidly patted her back.

“Sometimes it's easier to speak to a stranger than it is to confide in someone you know.”

Her sobs eased, and she pulled away, her embarrassment palpable. “It's been so hard.” Her words came out choked, and Jared strained to hear.

“I'm listening.” He closed his eyes and had to concentrate to absorb her words and not the light flowery scent of her hair.

“He died so unexpectedly. Trapped beneath a tractor. A horrid death—but I can't tell Dillon that. The kids and I weren't here when it happened, but still the images come to me in my sleep. They won't go away.” Another sob escaped her lips.

Jared nodded and gazed at her, the porch light illuminating her
face in the dark night. “I know it doesn't seem like it now, but once you're over the shock, the nightmares will fade.”

“I planned to graduate from college next fall, but that's not going to happen now.” She wiped her cheeks and sniffed. “Not with the ranch, the kids, the summer hay crop and cattle…So much for my queen scholarships. They'll all be for nothing.”

Jared straightened, wondering if he'd heard correctly. “Queen scholarships?” He conjured a picture of her in one of those long sequined gowns. Somehow, the image didn't fit her personality.

“Go ahead, laugh. Everyone does.” She leaned against the side of the car, and her teary eyes glistened beneath the stars. “You're looking at the former Miss Rodeo Kansas, first runner up in the Miss Rodeo America pageant held last December.”

Jared tried not to gawk. Not only was this woman beautiful, she was accomplished—and exposed. “Obviously, the judges didn't know what they were doing when they gave the prize to someone else,” he said under his breath. “Forgive my ignorance, but what does a rodeo queen do besides look pretty?”

She shook her head as though she'd been asked that question before. “Why do people always assume it's all about being pretty?”

“Probably because the participants are gorgeous.” He grinned, present company included. “Okay, you've piqued my interest. What does it take to be a rodeo queen?”

Natalie sniffed and wiped the remaining tears from her eyes. “I like to think of the pageant as a scholarship program—based on appearance, personality, and horsemanship. It's so much more than a beauty pageant—at least it is for me.”

Jared imagined Natalie on a galloping horse with a white hat and western garb. It suited her better than a sequined gown on a lighted runway. “A beauty pageant on a horse,” he said, unable to keep the teasing note from his voice.

“It's harder than you think.” Her eyes narrowed. “We're expected to know everything about the sport of rodeo and its profession, from
who won last year's world championships to horse-related injuries or diseases. And that's just the interview portion.”

“Yet, it probably seems easy compared to what you're up against today.” Jared shifted to see her better and considered her trials. Raising a family was hard enough when circumstances were good, but having to raise two siblings, run a ranch, and deal with her father's death might prove too much for a young woman to bear. He knew then that God had called him to help this family. “I want you to know that if you need anything, you can call me. Even if it's to help around the ranch or to spend time with Dillon.”

Natalie stared at her boots. “Why would you do that? You hardly know us.”

“I know your circumstances.” When the moment turned too quiet, he nudged her elbow. “Come on, let me see your smile…that competition smile you save for judges.”

Her mouth angled into a slight grin and soon widened into a dazzling smile he'd seen once before when they'd first met. Though he figured she'd trained for such moments, his heart thumped against his chest just as it had done at the river. If he'd been one of the judges in December, he'd have given her the title—no question.

N
ATALIE DASHED TO THE BATHROOM AND SPLASHED HER PUFFY EYES WITH
cold water. She pressed a wet washcloth to her hot cheeks. What was she thinking? To confide in their dinner guest, a man she hardly knew, and to lose control so thoroughly? Her father would be ashamed of her weakness. She turned off the faucet and heard the grandfather clock ticking in the next room joined by the muffled bass from Chelsey's stereo upstairs. At least the kids hadn't witnessed the breakdown.

In no mood to deal with her father's unorganized finances, Natalie ignored the office as she passed by and spotted instead her mother's buffet cabinet where family pictures and other items were
stored. Feeling nostalgic, she opened one of the pine doors and a stack of boxes greeted her, friends from her childhood. She pulled out one of the puzzles with a picture of galloping horses against a stormy sky. Captivated, she was about to lift the lid when a knock sounded from the kitchen screen. Natalie looked up to see Willard's head peek in through the door.

“I saw your light on. Thought you might like some company.”

The familiar voice comforted her. “Like old times?” She set the puzzle aside.

Willard joined her in the dining room, his tall frame beginning to slump at the neck and shoulders. His gaze wandered to the open door of the buffet cabinet. “Going through your dad's things?”

Natalie shrugged. “Not if I can talk you into a game of checkers.”

He flashed a smile, his white dentures gleaming. “If I'm not mistaken, I think your dad kept a set in the top drawer over there.” A long crooked finger pointed to the coffee table in the living room.

“It's been a while since you and I played checkers.” Natalie followed him to the table and noticed his limp, which had grown worse this past year. “I was never very good, but Dad loved the game.”

The man chuckled. “He probably got that from his daddy. He and I used to play in Nam. That's how we knew each other so well. Your grandpa insisted we play every evening after chow. Said it reminded him of home. Even though I was his sergeant, I enjoyed listening to his tales, like the night he and his friends roped a young cow in the middle of a pasture, only his mount spooked and dragged the pesky heifer a couple miles before they shut the horse down.” His eyes glistened at the memory as he eased himself onto the worn couch.

Natalie didn't remember much about her grandpa, but she always enjoyed Willard's narratives about the past. His calm, soothing voice comforted her soul, especially now. “Dad told that story a hundred times while I was growing up.” She knelt beside the coffee table and
began lining up the black pieces on the checkerboard. “Want some popcorn or something to drink?”

Willard leaned against the sofa and rested his hands on his stomach. “I don't suppose you have any soda pop in your refrigerator?”

“Orange Crush, right?” At his nod, Natalie held back her amusement and eased herself from the floor. As she walked past, she patted his spongy gray hair, glad for his company. “I'll see what I can find.”

Minutes later, she returned with two bottles of root beer. “Sorry, we didn't have any orange soda, but hopefully, this will do.” She handed Willard the cold drink, deciding to broach the discussion she'd had with her father's attorney. “Did Dad ever mention his dislike for banks?”

Willard latched onto the bottle and scooted to the edge of his seat. “I remember him cussing when a bank teller charged him for a box of checks. He was right mad about that. Guess you could say he had a genuine dislike for them.”

“What about his money? He never gambled, did he?” Natalie practically choked out the words.

His bushy eyebrows arched. “What kind of nonsense are you talking, girl?”

Natalie forced a smile. How much could she reveal without casting an unpleasant light on their situation? She'd rather eat dirt than confess they barely had enough money to make it through the summer. “I visited with Dad's lawyer the other day. He told me there were no savings accounts in Dad's records.”

“Your dad never lacked for money. He inherited this ranch debt-free when your grandfather died.”

“Mr. Thompson suggested Dad might have gambled the money or given it away—like to a charity. I'd hoped he might have mentioned something to you.”

Willard ducked his chin and frowned. “You know your dad. He
wasn't one to throw away money. I can't imagine him doing such a fool thing.”

Natalie couldn't imagine it either. But then she hadn't been aware of his dabbling in poetry. “Did you know he wrote poems for Chelsey and Dillon?”

“Is that so?”

“According to Mr. Thompson, he wrote one for each of them,” she said, hiding the resentment that he'd given them such a personal gift of love. Natalie had set the poems aside, thinking it best to show the kids after they'd had time to accept their father's death. Then again, maybe it was more a matter of putting them out of sight, out of mind.

Willard scratched his bristly chin. “He once gave me a poem called ‘Boots.' I thought it odd at the time, but you know my fondness for verse.”

Natalie's stomach twisted. It seemed her dad had written poetry for everyone but her. Had he been mad or upset with her? Or had he sensed the same disconnection she'd felt since Las Vegas? “Do you still have it?”

“I don't even know.” He twisted the bottle cap, and a puff of mist sprayed out the neck. His gaze bore into her as though reading one of his favorite books. “You ready to play checkers or is there something else on your mind?”

Natalie rolled her bottle of root beer between her hands, the condensation cool and moist against her palms. “Actually, there was something I wanted to ask you.” She pressed her lips together, willing her mouth to form the words.

“The other day when we were unloading cattle, you said Dad made you promise to take care of us. That you were with him when he died. You'll probably think I'm crazy…” She stared up at the yellow water ring that stained the ceiling and took a deep breath. “Was he in a lot of pain? Was he scared—to die?”

Willard set his soda on the coffee table and reached for her hand.
“The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. As far as I could tell, your daddy was ready.”

Natalie clung to his warm fingers, her own as cold as a December day. She searched Willard's eyes and tried to see what he'd seen the day he'd found her father trapped beneath the fallen tractor. His straw hat lying beside him, his wrinkled forehead drenched with a clammy sweat. A tear trickled down her cheek.

“Did he say anything else?” She hated to ask. It seemed like such a selfish question, but she didn't think she could stand another day not knowing. “About me, I mean?”

Willard nodded and his gaze reached deep into her own. “Your daddy's exact words to me were…‘Take care of my little girl. Take care of my Natalie.'”

T
HE FOLLOWING
W
EDNESDAY
, J
ARED CLUTCHED THE THICK HYMNAL AND
waited for a response from the three elders in his office. Carl Ellis sat with his arms bolted across his chest, his back plastered to the chair. Bob Douglas rested his elbows on his knees, massaging his temple as though he had a headache.

“Come on, fellas, all I ask is that you take a look at this hymnal and see what you think. The publisher went to great lengths to mix the traditional songs with the new. I think you'll be pleasantly surprised at the result.”

George Hobart, a tall gruff man, leaned against the wall and rubbed his chin. “I don't know. Too much change stirs up folks and makes 'em mad.”

“I've already talked to our organist, and she loves it.” Jared wished the others would share Mrs. Sanders' enthusiasm. If he could win the elders' approval, he'd take it to the women's study group this afternoon and get their reaction.

Bob stopped rubbing his temple and looked up, his eyes glazed. “You're already asking for a men's Bible study breakfast. Maybe we should see how that goes before we add anything else.”

“If you want my vote, I say no,” Carl grumbled. “There's nothing
wrong with the hymnal we have. No reason to spend money on things we don't need.”

Jared laid the new hymnal on his desk, knowing better than to push the case further. At least they'd approved his Bible study, albeit grudgingly. Maybe he'd try again another day. “All right, so we'll schedule our first men's breakfast next Friday. Shall we meet here or at Clara's Café? She has a room in the back we can use if we want.”

Carl's frown deepened.

“Most of us are at Clara's every morning, anyways,” George said. “Sitting at a Bible study is a far cry better than listening to the local scuttlebutt.”

“That's the spirit.” Jared smiled, careful to avoid Carl's face. “Are we in agreement to meet at Clara's then?”

George and Bob nodded. They turned to Carl.

The seconds ticked by.

“Don't let me stand in your way.” Carl finally gave in. “I'll have to check with my wife and see if we have anything going on that morning.”

George snorted. “We all know Ina Mae ain't got nothing to say about you being at the café. You'll be there, and you know it.”

Jared checked his watch and considered the matter closed. With just enough time to prepare for the women's luncheon, he stood and opened his office door. “Gentlemen, thanks for coming in. I appreciate your help.” He shook hands with each as they passed by, then twenty minutes later he greeted the women as they filed in through the hallway with covered dishes. One meeting down, two to go.

N
ATALIE SMOOTHED HER HAND OVER HER DAD'S LEATHER SADDLE
, recalling their many trips to the pasture to check cattle and fence. Worn to a shine, the saddle reflected her father's diligent work ethic, which he'd handed down to her. Given a choice between mucking a stall or going to a movie, Natalie would reach for a pitchfork every
time, which accounted for her entire afternoon spent in the barn. She'd rather clean stalls and tack than sort through her father's paperwork in the house.

A good portion of the leather needed to be cleaned, so she searched the tack room for a tub of saddle soap and spotted some on her father's workbench. When she removed the container from its cubbyhole, she noticed a thick envelope crushed behind. Curious, she pulled it out and examined the crinkled paper, yellowed with age.

Unmarked but sealed, the bulky envelope practically begged to be opened.

Wondering what might be enclosed, she lifted the seal with the tip of her fingernail and stared at the contents, too stunned to let out a gasp.

She reached inside and pulled out a wad of twenty-dollar bills bound by a thick rubber band. Her fingers shuffled through them.

One hundred bills to be exact.

Shaking with excitement, Natalie counted them again, the sweet scent of cash and good fortune floating to her nose.

“Five-hundred, six-hundred, seven-hundred…”

Natalie heard the school bus shift gears and roar into their driveway. Unable to keep from grinning, she stepped into the light of the barn entrance and called to Dillon after the bus pulled away. “Take your books to the house, then come here. I have something to show you.”

She returned to the stack of twenties, feeling as though she'd won the lottery. Could Mr. Thompson's offhand remark about finding money in a shoe be correct? A giggle escaped her mouth as she considered whether her father might have stashed more money on the ranch.

Natalie had actually read newspaper accounts where family members found money from their deceased tucked between the pages of a book, stuffed under a mattress, or stashed in a flowerpot in the basement. The possibilities were endless. And this scenario
went right along with the attorney's statement about her father not trusting banks.

Dillon shuffled through the barn door, munching on a cookie. “How come Chelsey didn't ride the bus tonight?”

Her fingers paused their counting. “She's going to a youth meeting with Sarah.”

“I thought you grounded her?”

“Not entirely.” Natalie tore her gaze from the aged bills. “Don't worry, Sarah's a good kid.”

“Whatever you say.” Her brother finished the rest of his chocolate-chip cookie. “What did you want to show me?”

“This.” Natalie clasped the bills and fanned them in front of her. “Have you ever seen so much money?”

His eyes widened. “Where did you get that?”

She sank onto a nearby stool. When he came to her side, she brushed back his long bangs, only to have him comb them forward with his fingers. “Did Dad ever mention hiding money on the ranch?”

A shadow creased Dillon's face, and she realized before he answered that he knew nothing. “Why?”

“Mr. Thompson suggested that he might have.” She showed her brother the empty envelope. “I found this hidden in the cubby over there, so I guess it's a possibility. Do you know what that means?”

Dillon shrugged. “That we're rich?”

“Not quite.” She chuckled. “But there might be more. I think we should go on a treasure hunt. We can each take a portion of the ranch—we'll dig through everything. Starting with this room.”

Dillon's eyes transformed into animated twinkles. “This is cool—just like those reality shows on television.” He rushed over to the workbench and began shoveling through their father's tools.

Natalie walked up behind her brother and turned him to face her. “It's okay to have fun. Make it a game if you want. But it's important
that you don't tell anyone what we're doing. Not even Tom, do you understand?”

Dillon's chin bobbed up and down. “How come we can't tell anyone?”

Natalie took a moment before responding. “Let's just say we wouldn't want anyone to get any ideas.”

Her brother's eyes lit with understanding. “Don't worry. I won't tell a soul.”

“Good. Trust no one.”