Janet Dean - An Inconvenient Match

Eyes bleak, back rigid, Joe closed the Bible then glared at the crutch propped in the corner. “I can’t sit idle while bills pile up.”

Lois patted her husband’s arm. “God will take care of us.”

“I know He will.”

Abigail wouldn’t wait on God to provide. She plopped her straw hat in place, then jabbed the crown with a hatpin.

Peter wrinkled his nose, lightly sprinkled with freckles from time in the sun. “A pile of bills is a bad thing.”

The boy had seen that early on.

“Don’t worry, son. God created us with an amazing ability to heal. Why, I’m better already. Won’t be long till I can race you down the stairs,” Joe said.

“I’ll beat you, Pa!”

A tingle of gratitude ran through Abigail. Thank You, God, for healing Joe’s broken bones.

Her breath caught. With that power to heal, how long before George Cummings would no longer need her assistance and she’d lose that income? Even if Joe could work, the Lessmans’ needs exceeded his potential earnings.

On the floor Sam and Gary mooed, clucked and baaed at the top of their lungs.

Lois raised a finger to her lips. “We can’t hear ourselves think.”

“Animals don’t know to be quiet, Ma,” Gary said.

“In that case, why don’t you take them outside?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Their smiles revealing missing teeth, the twins scooped up their flocks and herds and plopped them in the box.

“Play on the back steps,” Lois reminded them.

Donnie popped his thumb out of his mouth. “I wanna go. Can I, Mama? Can I go too?”

“Sweet lamb, you can’t go outside without an adult.”

Donnie let out a shriek of protest.

Joe waggled a finger at him. “That’s enough, Donald William.”

“I want my yard,” Donnie wailed, tears welling in his crystal-blue eyes.

With her free arm, Lois scooped her son close. “Shh, you’ll make Billy cry,” she said, though the baby continued to sleep peacefully. Lois’s eyes glistened. “We’ll get our yard back, Donnie. House too. In time.”

Abigail heard the wobble in her sister’s voice. Joe patted Lois’s arm. She looked pale, wrung out, no doubt exhausted and concerned about their future. The fire had left them all shaken.

She hoped nothing happened to tempt Joe to return to the poker tables.

God, I don’t understand why things have only gotten worse for Joe after turning away from gambling and claiming You Lord of his life.

“I’ve meant to ask, Ab.” Lois’s gaze met hers. “Why did Wade Cummings bid on your box lunch yesterday?”

Ethel whirled toward Abigail. “You shared a meal with a Cummings?”

“He won the bid, Ma. I had no choice.”

“Isn’t that just like that family, using their money to force others to bend to their will.”

Joe frowned. “Didn’t Leon bid?”

“He went as high as eleven dollars before he stopped.” Abigail cleared the table and carried dirty dishes to the sink. “He was probably afraid of losing his job at the bank.”

Face flushed, Ma scrubbed the oatmeal pot, sending suds flying. “I wouldn’t put it past a Cummings to fire someone for crossing them. Nothing that family does would surprise me.”

“Wade jumped the bid to twenty-five dollars,” Lois said. “No one else in this town has that kind of money.”

“Stay away from that man, Abigail. Like father, like son. Wade Cummings will bring you nothing but trouble. Most likely would enjoy it too.” Ma took the dishtowel from Abigail’s hands. “You’ll ruin your nice clothes.”

“Not sure God approves of this feud,” Joe said, voice low, almost as if he was talking to himself. Since Joe found God and turned his life around, his perspective on everything had changed.

Ethel’s wounded expression conveyed her displeasure. “I can’t believe you’d take a Cummings’s side, after what they did to Frank.”

Joe dropped his gaze. “You know whose side I’m on, Ma.”

Changing the subject, Abigail said, “Peter, don’t forget to practice your reading. You too, Gary and Sam.”

“I’ll see that they do.” Lois turned to Abigail. “I’ll pray you find a job, sis.”

Her conscience pinching like ill-fitting shoes, Abigail thanked her sister. “Ma, I may visit Rachel so don’t worry if I miss dinner.”

No point in telling her family about working for the Cummingses and getting them riled up, when most likely she’d be fired before the day ended.

A shiver slid through her. What had she let herself in for?

Wade rapped on the bedroom door, steeling himself for the confrontation sure to come once his father knew he’d hired a Wilson for his companion.

A cough, then “Who is it?”

“Wade.” He waited but heard nothing, then opened the door and entered the bedroom. Spotless, organized with nothing frivolous, nothing personal, not a picture, trinket or toiletry in sight. The decor was stark, shades of brown and black, dismal.

Like the man.

The one exception to the barren room—the ancient hound sprawled at the foot of his father’s bed. Lazy, sad-eyed, long ears drooping, attached to his father with a steadfast loyalty Wade admired. With a welcoming wag of his tail, Blue raised his head for the expected scratch behind his ears.

George Cummings, face etched with pain, sat propped up in bed, his white hair blending with the pillowcase, his bandaged hands resting palms up on the sheet.

Wade’s gaze settled on those motionless hands. Those hands normally darted and swooped, punctuating his father’s words.

“How was your night?”

His father shrugged.

“You know Doctor Simmons left a bottle of laudanum to help you sleep.”

“And end up addicted? No thanks.”

At forty-nine, his father was lean, muscular, a man with energy that came from vibrant health. That is until the fire left him with a cough and short of breath. Doc said in time his lungs would heal. How long?

Like every able-bodied man in town, Wade and his father had fought the fire. He hadn’t seen George enter a burning house. Not surprising with the thick smoke and the extent of the blaze. With herculean effort they’d been able to save the next block from destruction, not much comfort for those less fortunate.

“Before I leave for the bank, would you like to sit near the window?”

“I can manage.” His claim ended on a wheeze. “Question is—can you manage things at the bank?” his father said, his lack of confidence in Wade grating on every nerve.

“I’m taking care of things.”

“My son, the craftsman, happiest surrounded by wood shavings and sawdust.”

Wade didn’t answer, merely held his father’s gaze, refusing to rise to the bait. George delighted in starting an argument, as if only then did he feel alive. Yet the knowledge his father held him in disdain bored into Wade’s confidence like an oversize auger. He blurted, “A craftsman for a son must grate against the family image you take such pride in.”

“I couldn’t care less about impressing anyone. Enjoy your little hobby—as long as you have time to handle the Cummings holdings.”

Once his father’s body healed, Wade would reveal his plan to craft one-of-a-kind furnishings, to turn a pastime into a dream. George would despise the decision. Not that Wade needed approval.

He bit back a sigh. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, underneath he wanted his father’s support. Support he’d never give.

George glanced at the clock. “Shouldn’t you get going?”

Where was Abigail? “I’ve hired someone to keep you company. Fetch what you need. Prepare your meals.”

“A man would think his daughter could handle that job, but at the first excuse Regina skedaddled. Your sister is cut from the same cloth as her mother.”