Yesteryear, p.5
Yesteryear, page 5
Something inside of Jack clicked with realization.
This was it.
This was the reason for her being here. For her surliness. For that tough facade that she’d managed to create over. . . whatever it was.
Gripping her handful of papers until her knuckles turned white, she wrenched open the door and purposefully walked out of the office, leaving the door agape behind her.
And leaving Jack to wonder all the more. What was that pain behind her clouded eyes?
Without a moment’s hesitation, he scanned the file once more and found it. Phone number. He sat down at Bob’s desk and lifted the receiver from the cradle.
❧
Carillon took her time walking from the office back through Liberty Town. Indeed, it seemed as if her feet were on auto-pilot. They had to have been because her mind was certainly nowhere on her surroundings.
He knew about Evie. But how much? And how many others knew?
No wonder they wanted her out of every place he tried to place her. . . . She was a danger—out and out.
She’d already passed by the majority of the places on Main Street when she began to round the corner around Mitchell House. Her thoughts temporarily withdrawn from the past, she noticed several of the maids trying not to peer too obviously in her direction. They were doing a lousy job at it. The only one who seemed to be paying her absolutely no mind at all was the cook—she busily kept digging around in the fenced garden, her head never lifting once.
Carillon was secretly grateful.
Once she’d passed the perimeter of the yard, she gathered herself together enough to glance at the papers Jack had given her. There was supposed to be a map marking the spot of the school in relation to Liberty Town.
Jack.
If her mind had not been in such an upheaval, she might have laughed at the thought of him. Of her. Here she’d gone and pinned her hopes of escape on that young man. How far had that gotten her? Walking from Liberty Town to a remote schoolhouse—that’s where.
Training her mind away from the disturbing mention of her sister, she tried to formulate a new plan. A new plan for getting out of here. Maybe this new posting was her unencumbered escape in hiding.
No people around.
Plenty of time to scout out the surrounding area—so she’d not be caught in the woods like the last time.
No, this could well be it. All she had to do was be patient. Be patient—and think. Think hard. She could—no, she would get herself out of this. Once and for all.
❧
Jack didn’t hear him enter.
He still sat at the desk. His head in his hands. The folder in front of him. His thoughts in an unusual mess.
“Jack?”
Bob’s low voice startled him back to reality. He jerked up his head and dropped his hands onto the papers before him.
“Everything all right?” The older man’s whiskered face registered immediate concern as he hung up his hat and sat in the remaining small chair.
Jack jumped up, pushing the papers quickly together. “Ssssssorry. Here’s. . .your. . .ch–ch–chair.”
Bob waved it off, but the worry didn’t leave his eyes. “What’s up?”
Jack finished collecting the file and tapped it smartly against the metal desk. “I–I–I’m not. . .sure.”
His boss remained pensive. “Does it have something to do with Miss DeVries?”
A nod.
“She didn’t take the news well?”
He shrugged. “About. . .h–h–h–how I. . .g–guessed. . .she would.”
“But?”
Jack frowned and bit on his lower lip for a moment, trying to form some sort of response. One that might make sense. . . even when none of it did to him yet. “Th–th–there’s ssssomething. . .else. Why. . .she’s. . .here.” He let out a long breath. “I. . .almost. . .c–c–called her. . .p–p–parents. To. . . ffff–find out . . .ssssome. . .things.”
“Almost?”
He shook his head. “Couldn’t. Ssssomething. . .told me. . . n–not to.”
“Something?” Bob cocked his head in curiosity. “Or Someone?”
Jack gave him a half-hearted grin. “Rrrr–right.”
The older man eased up from the chair and rounded the desk, clapping a huge supportive hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Well, then, Jack, I’d say you’re on the right track. You usually have a pretty keen sense about these things.”
He shot him a doubtful look.
“Well. . .you with some help from the Lord then.”
This time he nodded.
As Bob took his seat, Jack headed for the door, beginning again to try to sort out the whole situation.
“Jack?”
He turned back, brows raised in question.
Bob’s large round fingers kneaded his glistening forehead for a second or two. “There is some concern—among the other staff members.”
Jack turned fully around.
“They’re questioning the wisdom of placing Miss DeVries in such a remote spot.”
“W–w–well. . .they. . .d–didn’t want. . .her w–w–w–with others.”
“True, true. But they’re worrying more about another escape attempt. Or her trying to stash more things she might have taken.”
Unaccountably, Jack bristled. “Sh–sh–she d–didn’t. . .take. . . those.”
The man’s eyebrows rose a fraction. “Are you sure?”
Shuffling his feet, Jack swallowed hard. “No. . .proof. B–but I. . .j–j–just know.”
“I see.” He folded his hands together patiently. “Any idea where those things disappeared to then?”
Jack shook his head miserably.
“What about the other concern? Her possible future attempts to run off? Do you have any ‘feelings’ along that line?”
Again, he had to indicate that he didn’t know.
“Jack,” Bob began—he was using that professional voice he got when he was overly concerned about something. “I’m going to give this about a week. If she can prove that she can stick to this and doesn’t cause any more problems, I’ll let her stay. Otherwise, you know what our choices are.”
This time Jack nodded. He knew. He’d seen it done. Not often, but done nonetheless.
He just hated to think of Carillon as being that kind of troublemaker. There was a definite reason she was supposed to be here. He knew it. He could feel it. If only he could help her find it.
“That’s it.” Bob said quietly.
Shaking himself out of his reverie, Jack shifted the file in his arms and nodded.
He turned and left. His heart. . .heavy.
❧
Her legs were already tired, and the mosquitoes were starting to get downright vicious. Carillon kept trudging through the knee-high grasses, the path to wherever she was going long since lost in the disuse of the place.
Several minutes later, she saw it.
A small clearing amid a stand of trees. Two small, white buildings looking lonely and forlorn. Brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes, she looked on in chagrin. Then she turned and looked behind her. Liberty Town was out of sight, the path disappearing around the stand of woods curving off to her right.
With a long sigh, she faced the bleak looking picture before her. The schoolhouse was obviously the bigger of the two. . .a large set of double doors fronting the entrance. The other, smaller, square construction sat fifty feet or so from the school. And this was. . .?
Carillon glanced through the papers Jack had given her once more. Where was that map? The directions? Nearly losing her grip as she simultaneously sorted papers and swatted at persistent mosquitoes, she at last found the page.
Sure enough. Two buildings were indicated.
One schoolhouse.
One teacherage.
Teacherage?
What on earth was a teacherage. . .?
A sudden yip and howl from somewhere entirely too close echoed in her ear, sending a blood-chilling shiver down her spine.
Tripping over her own feet in clumsy fear, Carillon ran to the smaller of the two outposts.
Another yip, from somewhere slightly farther off, answered the first.
By the time she reached the small door, she was completely out of breath and her heart was racing so fast it hurt. Knowing no greater relief than when the knob turned under her hand, she slipped into the little house and slammed the door behind her.
The next few eternal seconds were spent trying to catch her breath, slow down her racing pulse, and carefully listening for any more unfamiliar and unwelcome sounds from outside.
None seemed to come.
Allowing herself a slight breath of respite, she took a moment to take in the decor of the one-room building.
It was obviously a living quarters.
And it had obviously been visited recently. Funny she hadn’t noticed any tracks through that long grass. . . .
Even so, the small bed was crisply made with a rustic quilt and fresh white sheets. On one side of the bed stood an old ladder-back chair. Above it were several hooks hanging at different intervals on the rough planked wall—apparently her closet.
She turned and assessed the remainder of the small room. Two windows flanked the east and west walls. In the opposite corner stood an old wood stove, a fresh pile of fire wood stacked neatly by its side. A small sideboard that must have done double duty as a cupboard and a sink with the graniteware tub on top of it. Closer to her, a rather rickety looking table, recently laden with fresh bread, cheese, and a pitcher of water, and two more ladder-back chairs completed the furnishings. In their entirety.
No bathroom.
She’d kind of expected that. But to have to trek to an outhouse when she was way out—
The high-pitched yipping ricocheted about her again.
Suddenly overcome with fear and complete misery, Carillon sat on the edge of the bed, her nails digging into the thin mattress. She’d never felt so alone. . . In a split second her tortured thoughts flew to Evie. Was this how she had felt? Had she been this afraid? Felt this alone?
Unbidden, the tears began to trail down her cheeks, the first in a long, long time. “Oh, Evie,” she whispered to the silence. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you. . .when I should have been.” The sobs caught in her throat, making it ache in a way it never had before.
All Carillon could do was to lie down on the wind-dried quilt and let the consuming tears keep flowing. There was no stopping them. No stopping the pain.
All she knew was that she wanted to die.
seven
Sutter’s Lake was really more of a glorified pond. But it was cold, and wet, and welcome on humid summer days like this one. Jack helped unload the last of the canoes, setting them along the sandy edge of the brownish water. The June day was shaping up into a hot one already, and he was finally beginning to have hope that the crops might be all right.
In between all those thoughts and his own chores at the farmstead where he stayed, his mind kept racing back to Carillon DeVries. On the guise of readying the schoolhouse for the next week’s visitors, he trekked over to her area almost daily. In truth there was a lot that needed doing on the old building.
But in all his trips and work around it, he’d yet to see her.
Well, up close anyway.
On a few occasions he’d get the distinct feeling that he was being watched. He’d nonchalantly step back down the ladder to retrieve more nails for his pouch or something and casually slide a glance toward the teacherage. A flicker of movement at the window was all he’d glimpse. She never came out. Never spoke to him. Nothing.
But she’d also not caused any more problems. . .that he’d heard about. Bob seemed to have forgotten about the threatening prospect of sending her away. Inwardly Jack was relieved—he still sensed that urgency from within. She needed to be here. But mingled with that relief was trepidation—a feeling his flesh knew too well by now. That part of him still ached at the bitterness and resentment she seemed to harbor toward him. And he was at a loss as to why. . .or what to do about it.
In the end, he did all he knew to do. He gave it to God and prayed that even if he never uncovered the reason, she’d know His peace. Somehow. Sometime.
“Jack!” a voice carried across the small body of water.
He glanced up from straightening the last canoe and waved at Carla, the Mitchell House maid.
“Save me a ride, okay?”
He grinned and sent her an informal salute. It had become a yearly tradition since Carla had started working at Yester-year. They’d trek out in the water one last time before the boats were all loaded up. He wasn’t sure how it started or why. . .but they always had a nice time. Sometimes chatting amiably, other times just sitting in companionable silence.
Of all the young women at Yesteryear, Carla was the only one with whom Jack felt somewhat comfortable. Maybe it was because she’d looked past his stutter from the first moment they’d met, whereas with the others, they took on that familiar discomfort until they’d gotten to know him well.
She was also, as a fellow farm kid, one of the few people who understood his frustrations that seemed to resurface regularly—especially in the springtime. It never failed. As soon as the spring sunshine would hit the black earth, sending the lingering aroma wafting around on the light breezes, it would come. That old desire.
To turn over the earth and plant a new seed. To begin anew.
To see it grow, green and proud.
To harvest it at its fruition.
To take the bounty from God’s creation and make it a living.
Even now he sighed at the memory. In spite of the fact that it had been nearly ten years since he’d actively farmed, he could remember every nuance, every chore, every sensation related to each aspect of the life.
It wasn’t a place he usually dwelt on long though. For with those fond memories came also the not so fond. The pain. The loneliness. The despair. The sheer disappointment. . .in himself and in his family.
“Hey, Jack!” Paul was headed in his direction.
Jack looked up, grateful for the mental intrusion, and smiled at his friend. He fought another pang of temporary envy as he watched the towering, muscular form of the blacksmith striding toward him, clad only in his swim trunks.
He had no reason to harbor grudging feelings toward the man. Paul had never lorded his size over Jack or anyone else. It was just one more issue that seemed to creep up when Jack’s memories were centered on his past.
He tried not to think about his feelings as he straightened his T-shirt over his own slim frame and clasped Paul’s hand in a friendly grip. “Rrrr–ready. . .for a. . .sssswim I. . .see.”
“You got it! Where’s everybody else?”
Jack shrugged. “Ssssstill b–b–bringing the. . .food. . .I guess.”
“Awesome! I’m starved.” Paul grinned and immediately began slipping off his tennis shoes. Two seconds later, the tall blond was cavorting in the water, yelling for some of the others approaching to join him.
It wasn’t long before the entire assembly of Yesteryear’s workers and employees joined each other around the quietly lapping shores of Sutter’s Lake. The gathering marked the beginning of their summer season—one filled with hard work, new beginnings, new friendships, and a lot of growth for many of those in attendance.
Jack couldn’t help but smile as he watched several of the newcomers laughing around the smattering of picnic tables. Already healing had begun. It was the primary purpose of Yesteryear, one in which he couldn’t deny his pride. If it could help only a few. . .just to keep those hurts from sprouting into long-term hardships. And ending in a tragic situation like that of his older brother, Jon.
The mere thought of his brother brought back a host of different visions, none of which were too appealing. He shook his head. If only there’d been a place like Yesteryear for Jon. And his father.
❧
Carillon had gotten brave enough over the past few days to actually leave the front door of her little house open. The stifling air swarming around its small interior was too overwhelming without some fresh breeze. But there was no question as to when it got shut. As soon as dusk threatened on the western horizon, the wood-paneled door would be latched securely—heat and humidity or not. No wolves were going to get her.
She’d already lost count of the days while being in this isolated spot. The only things that seemed to divide her awareness of the times were Jack’s regular, daily visits to the schoolhouse. To her surprise, he never approached her new little home, instead keeping himself busy hammering, nailing, repairing, and cleaning up in general around the little school.
An unaccountable shyness had prevented her from saying anything to him either. She couldn’t quite place her finger on it. At first, she thought it was merely the anger and frustration she’d felt toward all the people who seemed determined to get her.
But if she were to be totally honest with herself, she somehow knew she couldn’t blame him for any of that. He’d just been doing his job when he’d reassigned her here.
Then there was the issue of those eyes. Those golden brown pools of emotion that held the uncanny ability to look straight through her. Too scary.
She knew her plan to figure out the layout of this place and all its surrounding land needed to be dealt with soon—before she lost her nerve. But realizing that in Jack Tate lay the only accessible resource for doing so, she found herself putting it off. She needed to steel herself.
So while she waited for that to happen, she took some opportunities to poke around in the schoolhouse when he’d left after his few hours work. The wood floor, swept clean, supported a handful of simple wooden benches and crude desks. An oversized map of the state of Wisconsin hung on the otherwise sparsely occupied wall. A meager blackboard flanked it on one side, her own small teacher’s desk on the other.
The outstanding feature in the one-room school was the huge wood-burning stove, its long black pipe snaking upward and then across the length of the rectangular room. Carillon, more than once, was incredibly grateful that it wasn’t the season where she needed to feed the thing. She’d already discovered that nuisance in her own dwelling. After countless burned fingers and nearly smoking herself out of the place, she decided she could live on sandwich makings alone. Hot food, at the moment, was overrated.
