Stealing Jake (20 page)

“Spindles for the back of a chair.” Jake scratched his head. “Maybe I should stick to carving.”

“Nah. We can fix this.” Sam rolled up his sleeves and set to work.

Jake watched as Sam made all his spindles the same length, then planed them down where they were all equal diameter. They worked on the chair for a few minutes in silence, Jake watching Sam’s every move.

“I didn’t know you could make furniture.” Jake handed him a saw.

Sam shrugged. “I can put together a decent chair and table, but nothing to compare with what Jacobson can do.”

He marked the places for holes in the seat and handed Jake the hand drill. “Here, this should make holes small enough. We can whittle them out a bit if we have to.”

They were sanding the pieces when Sam spoke up, his voice low and thoughtful. “Amazing how you knew what you wanted when you started this chair and yet each piece turned out so differently.”

Jake glanced at him, noticing the somber expression on the man’s face. Jake concentrated on a rough spot on a spindle, buffing it smooth. He ran his hand down the wood, pleased with the texture. “What’s on your mind, Sam?”

“Where’d I go wrong, Jake?”

“With Will?”

Sam hung his head. “His mother and I tried to teach him right from wrong, but he’s bound and determined to do everything we’ve ever told him not to do. I’m grateful to you for bringing him home the other day, but it hasn’t done any good. If anything, he’s worse than he was before.”

“I’m sorry, Sam. I don’t know what to tell you.”

Sam started fitting the chair together, sanding the legs down just enough that they’d fit tight into the seat. Soon, the chair took shape. Sam talked and Jake listened, knowing the man needed an understanding ear.

“He’s come in drunk a couple of nights this week, and he says he’s tired of working for me in the mercantile. He keeps threatening to go to work in the mines.” Sam gave a nervous laugh, sounding anything but amused. “He doesn’t realize how easy he’s got it.”

“None of us ever do.”

“I could take it if he just wanted to work in the mines, but this drinking and gambling is killing his mother.”

Jake handed Sam another piece of the chair. “I reckon raising kids is like making this chair. It didn’t turn out like I expected, but I didn’t give up on it either.” Jake clapped Sam on the shoulder. “Well, I might have if you hadn’t come along. Don’t give up on him. He’ll come around.”

Sam smiled. “I hope you’re right, Jake. We’ve done a sight of praying for him, and I don’t want to see him going down the wrong road.”

Jake thought back to his early years, when he’d been ready and willing to try everything that came his way. He hadn’t had any money to blow on whiskey or gambling, but he’d given his mother grief in more ways than one. Young Will faced so much more temptation these days. But he still deserved a chance.

Just like the street kids.

Jake stopped sanding. He swiped at the wood again. If the kids were stealing from the merchants, there wouldn’t be much he could do to help them, but maybe Livy was right. Didn’t they deserve the opportunity to prove themselves just like anyone else?

He turned to Sam. “I’ll keep an eye out for Will around town. Maybe the next time, I’ll throw him in jail and let him stay a couple of days. That ought to cool his heels a bit.”

“It might.”

“You’d better square it with the missus first. I don’t want Mrs. McIver breathing down my neck.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Sam sanded a couple of spindles and tapped them into place with a mallet. He lifted the chair and gave it a steady thump on the floor. “Well, looky there. Just what the doctor ordered.”

* * *

Luke waited until the miners left before knocking on Emma’s back door.

“Back again?” Emma smiled.

He stepped inside, skittish about revealing too much to the woman, but she never asked questions, just smiled and gave him the bread for his handful of pennies.

“I’ve got a pone of leftover corn bread. Will that do?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He handed her the coins, and she wrapped the corn bread in a piece of old newspaper. He noticed movement through a split in the curtain separating the kitchen from the dining area. Someone else was here. He sidled closer to the door, ready to take off at the least sign of trouble.

Emma glanced at him. “By the way, Miss O’Brien from the orphanage started working here yesterday. She was asking about you and the others. I think she’d be willing to help if you’d let her.”

His heart pounded, and his gaze darted toward the dining room.

“She’s here, if you’d like to meet her.”

“No, ma’am.” Luke shook his head and backed toward the door.

“Emma, did you say something?”

At the sound of the familiar voice, he turned and ran. When he’d put enough distance between himself and Emma’s, he slowed, glancing over his shoulder to make sure he hadn’t been followed.

Did she really want to help? He’d seen her with the deputy several times and that didn’t sit well. Even though she’d brought them food more than once, he still didn’t trust her. Anytime somebody went out of her way to befriend him, he grew suspicious.

He didn’t dare trust anybody, not until he found Mark.

And maybe not ever.

* * *

Things didn’t look good.

“It’s taking too long.” Livy hunkered down and eyed Ginger. Almond-shaped emerald eyes stared back at her, unblinking. Livy stood and paced the kitchen, her arms hugging her waist.

Mrs. Brooks sat at the table, calmly peeling potatoes. “Don’t worry, Livy. She’ll be fine.”

“Supper will be ready within the hour. What will we do then? We don’t want the children to see her giving birth, especially if something goes wrong.”

Mrs. Brooks pushed the bowl of potatoes toward Livy and handed her the knife. “Here. You take care of this.”

Mrs. Brooks took Ginger and her bedding to the storeroom and closed the door. She moved to the washbasin and washed her hands. “Now that’s taken care of. She can have her babies in privacy, and the children won’t have to watch. Does that make you feel better?”

“Yes.” Livy bit her lip, her gaze lingering on the storeroom. “But now I’ll worry about her all through supper.”

“We’ll check on her after we put the children to bed. There’ll be plenty of time for them to see the kittens tomorrow.”

Livy peeled potatoes, worrying about Ginger the whole time. She’d never thought she’d be so concerned about a cat having kittens, but it couldn’t be helped. She’d never seen newborn kittens before. She’d found a half-grown cat once in Chicago. Katie hadn’t wanted her to keep the cat, but Livy had cried until her sister gave in. After a while, even Katie had accepted the mouser, since he kept the rats at bay. Then one night, he disappeared and never came back. Livy cried for days, worrying herself sick.

“Mrs. Brooks?” Livy finished the potatoes and carried the bowl to the stove.

“Hmmm?”

“How many children have you taken in over the years?”

The older woman looked up, a thoughtful frown on her round face. “Oh, I don’t know. Dozens, I guess. Why do you ask?”

She dumped the potatoes in boiling water, thinking of the children she’d known on the streets of Chicago. After she’d recovered from her sickness, she’d gone back to her old stomping grounds, hoping to convince the younger children to come with her to Mrs. Brooks’s orphanage. But she couldn’t find a single one of her friends. They’d simply disappeared. Probably been hauled in and carted off to sweatshops throughout the city. Or worse.

She bit her lip and prayed the prayer that was never far from her heart and mind.
Lord, send someone to care for the children still on the streets in Chicago. Send food and clothes and a warm place to stay. Send someone like Mrs. Brooks.

“How do you stand knowing they’ll leave you someday and you’ll never see them again?”

Mrs. Brooks eyed her. “I don’t know. I guess the good Lord just put it in me to let them go. It’s not easy, mind you, but if a family comes along wanting to adopt a child, who am I to say no? There’s always another needy child to fill the vacancy.”

“I don’t think I could stand it for one of the children to be taken away.”

“Livy, if and when it happens, the Lord will help you get through it. I promise you that.”

All through supper, Livy thought about Mrs. Brooks’s words while worrying about Ginger. She hadn’t known the Lord when Katie died, and she hadn’t met Mrs. Brooks for almost a year after that fateful day. There’d been no one to depend on, no one to turn to except the other street kids, and all they knew was heartache and despair and living hand to mouth every day, barely surviving.

Her life since she’d met Mrs. Brooks had been so different from her life on the streets. Not just because she had food to eat every day and lived in a warm house but because of caring for others and their needs. Life these days revolved around the children, not herself. What made the difference? Because Jesus lived in her heart or because He lived in Mrs. Brooks’s heart?

Or maybe a little bit of both?

* * *

As soon as the children were all in bed, Livy slipped back into the kitchen to check on Ginger. She turned the lamp up and left it on the kitchen table before easing the storeroom door open. Ginger popped out, a multicolored kitten in her mouth.

“Oh, my.” Livy didn’t get much of a look at the tiny creature as Ginger shot past her. The new mother made a beeline for her spot by the stove, where she placed her baby and nuzzled it with her nose. The kitten looked none the worse for having been carried around by the scruff of its neck.

“Ginger,” she whispered, pointing to the storeroom, “you’re supposed to be in there.”

The cat didn’t pay her any attention.
What now?
Should she move the mama cat and the kitten back into the storeroom? Maybe that would be best. She tried to pick Ginger up, but the cat squirmed away like a greased pig, settling next to her baby on the floor.

Livy rocked back on her heels.
Okay. Think
. Maybe if she took the kitten back, Ginger would follow. She scooped up the bundle of wet fur, marveling at its tiny perfection. Ginger jumped to her feet and followed, meowing. Pleased with her progress, Livy hurried to the storeroom and found another kitten on the bed of old clothes and blankets Mrs. Brooks had left on the floor. Ginger sniffed at the kitten, grabbed it, and trotted back toward the stove.

Livy sighed.
So much for that.

She cradled the kitten, gazing into its pinched little face, the tiny pink nose with tufts of soft hair for ears. She fingered paws smaller than the tip of her pinkie. The kitten sneezed, and her heart turned over. Helpless didn’t begin to describe the tiny living thing.

Since Ginger seemed determined to make a home beside the stove, Livy took the kitten back to the kitchen. Then she put the blankets back where they’d been all along. Ginger nuzzled her babies, then stood and circled them. She stretched out on her side, and Livy watched her, pleased with the turn of events. The children would be so happy when they got up in the morning and found two kittens.

Ginger stood and made another circle. Livy frowned at the cat’s still-distended belly. Her heart started pounding. Ginger was
not
through having babies. She jumped up and turned away. What now? She closed her eyes.

Okay; do not panic. Ginger managed to have two babies just fine on her own. She’s capable of doing this.

She headed toward Mrs. Brooks’s room, then changed her mind. The elderly woman would be asleep already. It would be silly to wake her because Ginger might need help. She went back to the kitchen and peeked at the cat, relieved to find another kitten on the pallet. She pulled out a kitchen chair and cradled her head in her hands.

How long had Ginger been in labor? It had taken her almost four hours to have three tiny kittens. Were there more? Livy gently rubbed her hand over Ginger’s stomach. From the lumps and bumps, she felt sure there were. “How many babies you got in there, girl?”

An hour later, Ginger delivered another kitten. Livy had never dreamed it would take this long or that Ginger would have so
many
.

By one o’clock in the morning, five little bundles of fur nestled close to Ginger. Livy had all but worn a hole in the kitchen floor. She wasn’t sure, but she thought Ginger might be done having babies now.

Livy cradled the firstborn kitten against her cheek, marveling at the miracle of birth she’d witnessed. She’d had never been so proud, even if Ginger was only a cat.

* * *

Jake scowled at the paperwork on his desk. If there was one thing he hated about being a deputy, it was the mountain of wanted posters and letters asking if they’d seen so-and-so. He picked up a letter from a Mrs. Goldstein, looking for her son who’d fought with his father and declared he’d find a job in the mining towns in Illinois. Brown hair, brown eyes, medium height, no discernible scars.

He sighed. That description could fit a couple hundred miners in Chestnut alone. He tossed the letter aside, feeling sorry for the frantic mother but not knowing how he could help her.

The door opened, and Paul Stillman stepped inside, stomping snow off his boots. “Afternoon, Jake. Got a minute?”

“Yes, sir. What is it?” Jake’s stomach churned. The look on the banker’s face told him this wasn’t a social call.

Stillman pulled a chair close to the stove and settled his heavyset frame into it. He took his time cleaning his glasses before spearing Jake with a concerned look. “Don’t know how to tell you this, Jake, so I’ll just come right on out and say it. You’re Seamus O’Leary’s sole heir. Besides his personal effects, you own his shares of the Black Gold mine.”