Ozark Sweetheart Page 3

  She snorted. “The men have their hands full with the mill and farm. Mom has the house, and Clem does as little as...” She clamped her mouth shut, as if embarrassed at airing so much of her personal circumstances.

  “I’ll help you.” The impulsive offer shocked him, but he realized he meant it.

  * * *

  Callie’s mouth dropped. “You’ll what?”

  “I’ll help you,” he repeated, taking a rag from the pile by the door. He went to work wiping down a wall.

  “You don’t have to do that.” Even as she protested, Callie couldn’t help but register his handsome features, long lashes and full lips that made women envious. Why did she always have to react to him like a starry-eyed kid? He only saw her as someone who needed help.

  “I know I don’t. Let’s get this done so you can take a break and move on to whatever other chores you have waiting for you.” He worked as he spoke.

  “You can’t do that.”

  He turned and studied the grim line of her mouth. “I’m able-bodied. Why can’t I?”

  Her hands went to her hips. “Listen, I may have drifted away from God and church attendance while I lived in Saint Louis, but I never expected others to do my work. And you’re not dressed for this kind of work. You’ll ruin that white shirt.” She wet her rag again and tackled the roosting bars with a vengeance. The thumping of her heart drowned out the roar of the sawmill.

  He turned, his arms moving a little slower as his gaze seemed to swallow her. “Speaking of jobs, did something happen to yours in the city?”

  She stiffened, but kept scrubbing. “No, why?”

  “I figured if you’ve been helping your folks financially, the fact that you’re home might mean you no longer need to do that.”

  Callie shifted around, but didn’t quite meet his eyes. “I needed to come home. That’s all. Don’t concern yourself about us. We’re not charity cases.” She spoke more sharply than she intended.

  He raised his palms. “I didn’t mean to get too personal or offend you, Callie. I only wish I could do more to help you. You work too hard.”

  “We’ll be fine. Work is part of life,” she pointed out. “I expect to work. So do my folks.”

  He stared at her another moment. Then he leaned over and brushed dirt from his pants.

  “You better go home and change,” she said in a milder tone. “You don’t want to go back to work dirty and smelling like chicken....”

  “Good point.” He straightened, a hint of humor glinting from his eyes. He turned to leave, but paused. “Have you figured out why someone would want to harm your brothers?”

  “That’s the marshal’s job.” Not yours.

  He backed away. “I’ll leave you to finish.”

  If foolish dreams of him didn’t finish her.

  Chapter 3

  As Trace drove back to town, Callie’s image traveled with him. He hadn’t realized she was so prickly, and he certainly hadn’t meant to stick his foot in his mouth and offend her. He understood her pride, though. She felt self-conscious about her poor circumstances, and he had made her even more aware of them, however unintentionally. He felt bad about that.

  The next morning, seated behind his desk in the rear of the showroom, he watched his brother stride across the display room toward him. When Leon neared the desk, he tossed a newspaper down onto it. “What do you know about this swap thing at the school on Saturday?”

  Trace shrugged and picked up the paper. The weekly rag hit the streets each Thursday, and Trace hadn’t yet seen today’s copy. “Nothing.”

  Leon pointed at the article at the bottom of the front page and sat in the chair next to him. “That says Jolene Delaney and Callie Blake are setting up a community food swap.”

  He scanned the article quickly. “Sounds like they’re trying to provide some variety in diets, and maybe help some needy people at the same time. What about it?”

  “Nothing, I guess. It just surprised me.”

  “I saw Callie yesterday, and she didn’t mention it.”

  “Oh, you did, huh?” Thankfully, Leon didn’t pursue it.

  “Do you have any idea why they’re doing it? We already have organizations working in the area to help people.”

  Trace considered. The Farm Bureau had introduced the newest farming techniques, and the Missouri Farmers Association was providing an outlet for farmers to buy farm goods and sell produce. “I suspect these gals might want to help people on a personal level, like funneling food and supplies to some of Miss Delaney’s students. And Miss Blake knows enough about poverty to want to help others.”

  Leon nodded, seeming satisfied with his reasoning. “I’m afraid Miss Blake’s brothers have gotten into more trouble than they can handle. What I’m not sure about is whether they’re working for the neighbors, or if the whole family is involved.”

  Trace still couldn’t wrap his brain around that. “Dad wondered if the family has a still of their own, but I can’t believe that. I think only the boys are involved.”

  Leon shrugged. “I’ll find out. But those gals seem pretty levelheaded, and they obviously care about others.”

  Trace put the paper down. “You’re right. Maybe we should get some stuff from the store and add it to whatever garden produce they get. They’ll know what to do with it. As Dad would say, the gesture can’t hurt business.” He could charge it to the company and write it off as a charitable donation.

  Leon got to his feet and hitched the waist of his pants up a notch. “Always business these days. Are you going to let your experience with Beulah ruin your life, or will you look around and see that there are girls around here who aren’t like her?”

  Trace sighed. “I don’t know. Don’t rush me. I might date again, but I don’t see much chance of finding another...” He couldn’t speak Joanna’s name.

  “No, you’ll never find another Joanna,” Leon said gently. “But you could find someone who would truly love you, rather than use you and betray you. You’ve experienced the best and the worst. In my estimation, that should make you a better judge of character. Either of those two gals would be worth consideration.” He jabbed a thumb toward the newspaper article, turned and walked out of the dealership.

  Trace stared through the plate-glass window at his brother striding down the street, his stomach aching from stress. He got up and drank a glass of soda water. Then he went to the office in the back and stuck his head inside the doorway.

  “Hey, Dad. I have some errands to run. It’s almost closing time and we’re not busy, so I’m going to take off early.”

  He went out the back door and got into his truck. Then he drove around onto Main Street and pulled up in front of Dunnigan’s Grocery. Inside, he examined the neat rows of shelved goods and selected a variety of staples—flour, sugar, cornmeal, rice, crackers, coffee, baking powder, vanilla—anything that struck him as useful to a family who survived on what they could grow or hunt. When he had enough to fill a dozen sacks he toted it to the truck and loaded it in the back, questioning his motives as he worked.

  For some reason he didn’t quite understand, he had changed his mind about charging this to the business. It would cost him plenty, but he could cover it without hurting his savings. He felt compelled to do it.

  He covered everything with the tarp he kept in the back of the truck and headed home—or rather, his parents’ home. His dad had persuaded him to give up his rented house on Maple Street and move back in with them after his mother fell off the back step and broke her ankle. Since her ankle healed, he had started to move out more than once, but one parent or the other always found a reason to persuade him to stay.

  Saturday morning he left the house right after breakfast, still not analyzing his motives too closely. He knew the Bible taught that people should open their hearts and hands if
there were poor among them. But hovering around behind that holy mandate was a desire to help some specific people.

  Deer Creek School sat back from the gravel road a couple hundred yards, centered in a two-acre plot of patchy lawn. Oak trees lined the west side of the fenced lot, and several more stood in the open front yard. Hay fields surrounded the building on three sides. To the rear of the building was a water pump, with a tin cup hanging from a pole beside it. Outhouses occupied opposite rear corners of the lot. A frame shed stood between them.

  Three large steps led to the front door of the simple wooden frame school that accommodated a yearly student body of twenty to thirty children. It had been larger before families began to leave their farms to find work in the cities.

  Trace sat for a moment, reluctant to take the groceries inside when he had no intention of swapping for anything. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself. But the stuff wasn’t going to walk inside alone.

  He glanced around the yard again—and spotted a girl and boy coming around the corner of the school. They stopped behind a car to talk to someone. A closer look confirmed that they were Delmer Blake and the youngest sister, Clem.

  He got out of the truck and leaned against it to wait for them to finish their conversation. When they rounded the car moments later, he pushed away from the door and locked his gaze on them, willing them to look up. When they did, he beckoned with a finger.

  They approached, wary looks on their faces. Delmer was a scrawny redhead. The girl was cute enough—dark hair, big eyes and a boyish figure. She struck him as a rather sullen kid.

  “Whatcha need?” Delmer wore a skeptical expression.

  Trace pointed to the rear of his truck. “There’s stuff back there. Could you two take it inside for me?”

  The girl snorted. “It don’t look to me like your back’s broke. Haul your own junk inside.”

  Delmer’s hawk eyes measured him. Then he swatted his sister’s arm. “Hush, Clem. There’s nothing wrong with him. He just don’t want nobody knowing where the stuff came from.”

  “Thanks,” Trace said.

  Delmer shrugged. “No sweat.” He climbed into the back of the truck and lifted the tarp. Then he whistled. “Looks like quite a haul, sis. Let’s get busy.”

  The girl hesitated, but then she took the box he handed down to her.

  * * *

  Callie looked up from arranging a basket of potatoes on one of the “tables” she and Jolene had formed by dragging two student desks together. Delmer and Clem entered the room, both of them carrying a grocery sack in each arm.

  “Where you want this stuff?” Delmer called as they came toward Callie.

  “What have you got there?”

  “It’s store-bought stuff,” Delmer answered. He peeked inside one of the bags. “I see sugar and flour in this one.” He looked in the other. “This one’s rice and cornmeal.”

  Callie frowned, knowing they could not have provided it. “Where did it come from?”

  “It was—”

  “Someone asked for help toting it in.” Delmer cut Clem off with a glare.

  Apparently they had an anonymous donor. Good. They would take all the help they could get. Callie looked over at Jolene. “Let’s set it out.”

  Delmer dumped his sacks on the table next to Jolene. “There’s more out there.”

  Clem put hers down next to them and followed him back out the door. Callie and Jolene each had a bag about half-empty, the goods displayed, when they returned with another load.

  “A few more trips should do it,” Delmer said as he plunked down the second load.

  As Clem put hers next to it, people began to gather around and select goods in trade.

  Delmer and Clem continued to return with more bags of food to refill the spaces as they cleared. “You two take a sack and fill it with whatever looks more appetizing to you than the tomatoes and corn we brought,” she said when they finished.

  Clem’s face lost some of its poutiness. “Anything we want?”

  Callie nodded and extended the bag she had just emptied. “Right. When you have what you want, take it home to Mom.”

  The upturn of Clem’s mouth flattened, but only for a moment. She turned with a swish of her skirt that fell just below her knees. Callie couldn’t be too critical of Clem’s bobbed hair, because she had cut her own almost as short when she...

  She broke off the thought, determined to concentrate on the present. She watched Delmer and Clem select what they wanted, and then leave to take it home.

  Several minutes later Callie looked up and saw Trace Gentry enter the school and glance around. Her heart did a strange little thump as she watched him amble to a table and inspect it. Which was stupid. The man was an impossible dream—not that she was dreaming.

  Jolene sidled up next to her. “What’s he doing here? He sure isn’t looking for food.”

  “More like bringing food,” Callie whispered, turning slightly to face away from him.

  Jolene glanced sideways at the table. “You think he sent this stuff?”

  “I have a sneaking suspicion it was him.”

  Callie knew Trace had a soft heart, so she had no trouble believing he would do such a thing. She may have been only seven years old when her oldest brother had been mortally injured, but that horrible day was forever etched in her memory. She had crept into a corner of the car dealership to cry while Trace’s dad and her parents loaded Everett into a car from the showroom and set out for the hospital in Rolla. Eleven-year-old Trace had sat down beside her and held her hand. When he asked if she was hungry, she had nodded that she was. He had left and returned minutes later with a sandwich and a candy bar, an unheard-of treat for her.

  That kind act accounted for the strange twinges that had bothered her stomach every time she heard his name over the years. But what was causing her to turn giddy and goose-bumpy now?

  As if summoned, Trace turned and came toward them through the growing number of people milling about the room.

  “How can we help you?” Jolene asked as he approached.

  “I don’t need anything,” he said easily. “I’m just interested in the community work you two are doing here and wanted to see how it’s going.” His eyes passed over Jolene’s beautiful coil of wheat-colored hair, to her soft gray skirt and white blouse tucked into the waist of it, all neat and pristine.

  Then he turned his gaze on to Callie. The dowdiness she always felt next to her dear friend intensified. She knew her own plain cotton dress, worn thin in places, and heavy work shoes paled in comparison.

  “I’m pleased with the turnout.” Jolene glanced around at the mingling crowd that consisted mostly of women.

  “It appears successful to me,” Trace said. “Do you plan to do this again?”

  Jolene shrugged. “That decision depends on today’s response.” She looked at Callie. “What’s your feeling at this point?”

  Callie had been perfectly content to let Jolene carry the conversation. She cleared her throat. “I think it’s successful enough to continue.”

  Jolene smiled at Trace. “There’s your answer. I’ll get a notice to the paper Monday.”

  Trace focused on Callie. “How about if I put a poster in the window of the dealership advertising it?”

  An automatic beam crossed her face. Their gazes caught, and Callie found herself being drawn into the depths of his deep blue eyes. She forced herself to look away. “That would be great. You’re in a location where people walk past you all the time.”

  “Good luck.” Trace spoke over his shoulder as he walked away. Callie had to force her attention back to business.

  Jolene practically bubbled as she made sure certain people got supplies she knew they needed. “This is going so well, why don’t we go ahead and expand?” she suggested after
sending a couple of women away with a bag of staples.

  Callie eyed her friend. “That sounds good. What kind of things do you want to include?”

  Jolene considered for a moment. “I’m not sure what people want to exchange, possibly tools, or even furniture. If we announce that other things are welcome, it might be interesting to see what people bring.”

  Callie agreed. “Put it in the newspaper that way, and we’ll see what happens.” She licked her dry lips. “I’m thirsty. How about you?”

  Jolene nodded. “I could use a drink.”

  “I’ll go draw some water and bring you a cup.”

  “I’ll stay in here and keep an eye on things.”

  As she rounded the building, she spotted Clem and Delmer at the edge of the schoolyard. They had made good time going home and back. She stopped to watch them circle a couple of cars and approach a neighbor. They spoke for a minute. Then Delmer pulled a piece of paper and pencil from his pocket and wrote something down.

  They moved on across the yard to another neighbor and did the same. As they circulated, Callie’s stomach knotted. She had suspected the boys of involvement in bootlegging, but she had thought—hoped—that Riley’s being shot would scare them into quitting. Instead, it looked like Clem had taken Riley’s place. Whether Delmer had recruited her, or she had pressured him into it, Callie had no idea.

  Lord, please stop them. Please show me what to do.

  Movement farther over caught her eye. Trace Gentry had his sights trained on her younger siblings. He must know—or at least suspect—what they were doing.

  A black car drove slowly up the road. As it passed the school, fear shot through Callie. She stared at the driver, whose face wasn’t clearly visible. But he reminded her of the shooter. When the car went on past, she exhaled a long slow breath and decided she must be growing paranoid, seeing danger in everything. She started toward the front steps.

  When she saw the car coming back, she came to an abrupt stop and watched it pull into the schoolyard and stop next to the fence. The driver got out and walked along the perimeter of the yard. He wore black pants and shirt, with a black hat pulled down over his eyes. As he walked, he glanced around.