Until the Harvest (21 page)

“Don’t mind if I do,” Henry said, plopping down in the chair.

Margaret stood and fetched him a glass of iced tea. His mother added a dish of pickles to the plate of sandwiches. Henry thought he could get used to being waited on like this. He tossed one of the little sandwiches into his mouth and chewed. He tried to speak, but the egg salad muffled his question.

“What was that?” Margaret asked as his mother said, “Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

The two women looked at each other and smiled. Henry felt left out. He swallowed and cleared his throat. “I said, ‘How’s Mayfair?’”

“She’s sleeping. I think that seizure or whatever it was really wore her out.” Margaret looked at the closed bedroom door. “But maybe I should check on her. She ate a bit earlier with her shot, but I’d love to see her eat something more.”

She walked over and eased the door open. She peered inside and then eased the door shut again.

“I hate to bother her,” she said. “She can eat in the morning.”

Henry released a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. What had he been thinking? That Clint might have spirited her away? The old man might be a crook, but he was no kidnapper. He relaxed and ate another sandwich. Maybe things would work out okay after all.

16

T
HE
NEXT
MORNING
the shrill ring of the phone wakened Henry. He sat up in bed and stretched. He’d probably slept too late anyhow. He heard Mom answer on the second ring. After a moment her voice changed, and she sounded upset. He slipped into yesterday’s clothes and padded out into the living room.

Mom stood with her hand over the receiver. “Mayfair’s missing,” she said. “We need to get over there. Margaret is beside herself.”

Henry felt his stomach flip. Swallowing hard, he tried to think of a plausible explanation. Anything but the idea that sprang to mind as soon as Mom spoke.

When they walked into the gray house, Margaret stood in the middle of the kitchen working her hands and shifting from foot to foot. Grandma was already there, looking more worried than he’d ever seen her. Mom moved to put an arm around Margaret and gave her a sympathetic squeeze.

“Any chance she went out with somebody?” Henry asked.

Margaret gave him a withering look.

“Yeah, stupid question. Do you think—”

“What? Do I think what?” Margaret’s voice held a tinge of hysteria.

Henry ran a hand through his hair. “Seems like word might be getting around that she’s a healer. You don’t think, well, that anyone would—”

“Would what? Take her? That’s stupid.” Margaret stomped her foot. “She isn’t a healer. She isn’t.”

“Stories are getting around about some of the things that have happened—my hand, the little girl with the bee sting.” He reached toward Margaret. “I’m not saying she is or isn’t, but I can see how people might get that idea. Might put ideas into folks’ heads.”

Margaret whirled and went into Mayfair’s room. “There has to be a clue,” she said. “Help me find a clue.”

Margaret dropped to her knees and crawled under the bed. “I see something. There’s a piece of paper.” She emerged with a sheet of lined notebook paper in her shaking hand. “It must have blown off the nightstand when I opened the door.”

She sat on the edge of the bed and fumbled at the paper. Mom took it and read it aloud. “Margaret, I need to help someone. I’ll be back soon. Love, Mayfair.”

Tears welled in Margaret’s eyes. She looked utterly defeated. “What do I do?”

Henry squared his shoulders. “You stay here with Mom. I have an idea about where to look.”

“You tell me right this minute, Henry Phillips. Is it that Clint person?” Margaret spoke sharply, but she didn’t move.

“Just give me until noon.”

“We should call the sheriff’s office,” Mom said.

“They won’t do anything. She left a note, and there’s no reason to think anything bad has happened. Hang tight.” He grasped Margaret by the shoulders and looked straight into those honey flecked eyes. “I’ll bring her home. Don’t you worry.” He grabbed his hat and coat and hurried out to the truck.

Margaret thought she might explode. How could Henry expect her to sit here and wait? How could she do nothing? What if Mayfair had another seizure? It was already past time for her insulin shot. Mayfair was essentially defenseless. It had always been Margaret’s job to care for her little sister. She wanted to cry, scream, and run around the yard in circles. She wanted to pursue Mayfair to the end of the world if need be. Margaret fell into a chair, laid her head in her arms on the tabletop, and cried, not caring that Perla and Emily stood watching her. What she wanted was someone to fix everything. Her sister, her situation, her future, and this stupid feeling she had that Henry Phillips was her last chance for a hero.

The rough dirt road leading to Clint’s place showed evidence of recent travel, but Henry couldn’t tell if a vehicle had come in, gone out, or both. He eased into the yard, parked, and got out of his truck, checking all around. It would do no good to burst in with accusations. Anyway, if his hunch was right, Mayfair had chosen to come here.

No one came out to greet Henry, which was unusual. It wasn’t that the Simmons family was friendly—more like in a hurry to run trespassers off. He stepped up on the crooked porch and pulled open the screen door, which let out a raspy groan.

He rapped on the paneled door and called out, “Hello, the house.”

Silence. He knocked again, and the door jerked open. Charlie stood there looking sullen.

“What you want, man?”

Henry fumbled his words. “Uh, just stopping by to see if, uh . . .” What? To see if a twelve-year-old girl had turned up?

“I expect you’re huntin’ that girl Pa thinks can heal Ma.”

Henry blinked. “Actually, I am.”

“Get on in here, then.” Charlie jerked his chin toward a door at the end of the front room and disappeared into the kitchen, scratching his nether regions as he went.

Henry heard a man’s voice rumble and a woman respond. It didn’t sound like Mayfair. Then there was a broken sob, a pause, and next thing Henry knew Clint Simmons jerked the door open and stood there glaring at Henry.

“What are you doing here?”

“I, uh, I stopped by for—” Henry caught a glimpse of the woman he assumed was Clint’s wife curled in the bed. She looked wrung out, but there was a peace about her. “Is she sick?”

Clint shoved Henry back toward the sofa. “Seems like I told you she ain’t well. Seems like you didn’t much care one way or the other. Seems like nobody in this godforsaken town gives two cents for anyone with the name of Simmons.”

Henry held up both hands and tried to keep his balance. “I didn’t mean anything. Just thought maybe I could help.”

Clint sneered. “What do you think you can do?”

Henry was at a loss. He didn’t suppose there was much of anything he could do. “Grandma would be glad to come see to her,” he blurted.

“Would she now? Might be she thought to help once before.” Clint pushed Henry toward the front door. “You ask her how it turned out that time.”

Henry held up his hand before Clint could bully him back outside. “All I wanted was to check on Mayfair. I had a notion she might have come here last night.”

Clint’s shoulders sagged, and he lost his swagger. “She did. Said she might could help.” He glanced back over his shoulder. “She’s in there now. Guess you’ll be taking her on home.”

“If she’s ready to go. Her sister’s awful worried about her.”

Clint’s eyes lit up a bit. “Run off without permission, did she? She’s quiet, but she’s got spirit.” He smiled. “And the purest heart I’ve ever seen. Haven’t known anyone as through and through good since . . . well, it’s been a long time.”

Henry saw the door Clint came through open wider, and Mayfair appeared, looking worn out.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey, there. Margaret is sure missing you this morning.”

Mayfair made a face. “I knew she wouldn’t let me go, so I came on my own.”

“It’s a far piece to walk,” Henry said.

“Mr. Simmons was out driving around. He brought me here.”

Clint chimed in. “It was the durndest thing. After I spoke to you, I walked around a little, thinking about days a long time back when I used to hunt your grandpa’s land. When I finally got in the truck to go home, I hadn’t hardly got to the main road afore I saw that young’un walking along. Picked her up, and she said she’d like to come see Beulah. So I brung her.”

Mayfair smiled at Clint, and Henry was stunned to see the crusty fellow look at her with soft eyes and something that could only be described as affection.

“I had a feeling he’d be along. I knew it was my best chance to come see Beulah.”

Her smile faded. “But I’m not sure I can help her, after all.”

Clint cleared his throat. “Darlin’, your visit has been the best medicine she’s had in a long time. And I thank you for it.” He turned to Henry. “Now get her on home. I know Beulah would take kindly to seeing her again sometime. If she wants to come.”

“Oh, I’ll come,” Mayfair said. “Probably in three days.”

Clint nodded once, glared at Henry, and disappeared back into Beulah’s room.

17

M
ARGARET
STILL
SAT
AT
THE
TABLE
, head resting on her arms, when Henry entered with Mayfair in tow. Emily and Perla hovered nearby, but they had finally given up trying to console her. Oddly enough, she found their quiet presence more comforting than anything they’d said. Margaret raised up when she heard the door open and cried out, leaping to her feet when she saw Mayfair.

“Where in the world have you been? Are you okay? You’re overdue for your insulin. Have you eaten?”

Mayfair smiled and slid into the chair Margaret vacated. “I wanted to help Beulah Simmons, but I don’t think I did.” She sighed. “And I am hungry.”

“Who’s Beulah Simmons?” Margaret asked as she readied Mayfair’s shot and administered it.

Emily jumped in before Henry or Mayfair could speak. “She’s the wife of Clint Simmons and a saint if there ever was one. Clint’s a bit of a character. Some folks say he keeps a moonshine still out there in the woods somewhere back of his house, but I wouldn’t know about that.” She gave Henry a look Margaret couldn’t decipher. “He hasn’t always lived on the right side of
the law, but he would never hurt a child, and like I said, Beulah’s practically an angel.”

Margaret fired up the gas stove and began laying strips of bacon in a pan. “Why did you go to see her? And why wouldn’t you just ask me to take you?”

“She’s sick,” Mayfair said. “And you wouldn’t take me to see a family that runs moonshine.”

Margaret froze. “No, I guess I wouldn’t. But you still should have told me.” She dropped bread in the toaster. “It could have been dangerous. Clint sounds shady. He could have hurt you.”

Emily took Margaret’s hand and led her to a chair before moving to the stove and taking over breakfast. “Oh, Clint has a heart buried under all those layers of ornery. When he was a young man, he turned his life around for Esther Holt.” Emily looked sad. “But then she passed, and I don’t think he’s over it yet.”

“Hey,” Henry said, just remembering something. “I told Clint you’d be glad to come see if you could help his wife, but he got mad and said I should ask you about helping once before. What was that about?”

Emily closed her eyes and pressed her hands together like a child praying. “I was there when Esther died.”

Everyone stilled and looked at Emily as bacon popped in the silence. She sighed and rubbed her eyes. “Esther was Charlie’s mother. She had it in mind to give birth right there at the house, so Clint called me when she went into labor.”

Emily blinked her eyes and looked up at the ceiling. “I’d helped with births a few times over the years, but I was no midwife, and I told them so. Still, Esther and I always doted on each other, and she said I was the closest thing she had to a mother since her own died when she was ten. And I was too foolish to consider how horribly wrong things could go with a home birth.”