The Welcome Committee of Butternut Creek Read online

  On the other hand, why not? Having Sam around added zing to her life. Captain Peterson’s interest and her response made her reluctance to become involved with him seem ridiculous. She liked men, especially this man.

  She wasn’t ready to consider kicking over the traces just yet, but she would be someday. As her grandmother Brubaker used to say, God willing and the creek don’t rise, she’d do exactly that. Just not this week.

  Wednesday afternoon, Sam headed down the hospital corridor toward the physical therapy department. She’d have to see him today. Willow could run away from his house, but she couldn’t run away from the physical therapy department.

  Maybe not quite true. His glance flew around the PT room. All the other staff members helped patients, but he couldn’t see Willow.

  “Come on over, Captain.” Mike stood at the parallel bars. “Willow’s seeing hospital patients this afternoon. She wanted me to work with you and to tell you the prosthetist will be here in September to fit you.”

  Sam handed a PT aide his cane and grabbed hold of the bars.

  “How is the one you’re wearing now?” Mike asked.

  “Okay. Slips a little. I’ll be glad to get the new one.”

  “Once you’re warmed up, let’s practice balance.”

  After twenty minutes, Mike glanced at the clock. “Thought Willow’d be back by now, but sometimes it takes longer depending on patients’ needs. When she gets back, I’ll tell her how much progress you’ve made. Good job.”

  Willow had gone to see some of the hospital patients. Made sense. All of them shared that duty, but why now? Why at the time of his appointment? Did it mean anything? Was she trying to avoid him?

  He didn’t know, but next week when they took the boys to school, she couldn’t pretend the kiss hadn’t happened. She couldn’t ignore or avoid him.

  Chapter Eleven

  Adam stood at the door of Sam Peterson’s house and knocked again. Inside, the television blasted. From the gunshots, he guessed it was a cop show. Outside, the breeze blew across the porch. “Captain, I’m Adam Jordan.” He spoke clearly and loudly enough to be heard over the sounds from inside, he hoped. “I’d like to visit with you for a minute.”

  Still no one came to the door.

  Pleasant out here, he thought as he turned to study the neighborhood. Small houses but all neat and tidy, well kept.

  The sun had begun to head west, huge and orange and brilliant. He’d been up since sunrise to pray with a member of the congregation having surgery and was tired. Surely the captain wouldn’t mind if he sat down on the ancient swing at the end of the porch to rest, if he swung for a couple of minutes to cool off. After Sam had ignored Adam several times when he called or came by, the minister felt fairly certain he wouldn’t answer the door now. If the marine ran out here and screamed at the preacher for sitting on his swing, Adam would still be ahead. He would have met the elusive man.

  Adam settled onto the swing and shoved with his feet to get it moving. After only seconds, the swing supports gave a screeching groan. He quickly and with a good amount of trepidation lifted his eyes to the ceiling of the porch. Well-warranted trepidation, he realized. As if in slow motion, the wood in the ceiling began to splinter around the hooks. Then time sped up. Before he could stand, the swing dropped onto the porch with a deafening crash and a crack that knocked his breath out. It felt like he’d broken every bone in his butt.

  The sound of the falling swing and shouts of pain had to drown out the television. Adam would probably get to meet the captain soon.

  As he sat groaning and gasping in the wreckage of the swing, his knees bumping against his ears, the front door opened. A man Adam guessed with fair certainty to be Captain Peterson launched himself out faster than the minister thought a guy on a cane could move.

  “What the hell?” the marine shouted. A normal response in the situation.

  Because the swing had broken into small pieces, Adam had nothing to hold on to that would help him get to his feet. To tell the truth, he didn’t want to stand and still could barely breathe. There was no way something like this could be handled with dignity. If he could have, Adam would have rolled off the porch and hidden in the scraggly shrubs surrounding it.

  But a minister couldn’t do that. A minister had to be made of sterner stuff, aware of his mission and ministry. In an effort to gain an iota of composure, Adam forced his aching legs to straighten and stand, stifled a moan as he realized how much his body hurt, smiled, and reached out his right hand.

  “Hello, Captain Peterson,” he said on a gasp for air. “I’m Adam Jordan, the minister of the Christian Church.”

  The captain watched him, his gaze moving from the broken swing to Adam’s feet, then slowly up the length of the minister’s body, pausing to glance at the outstretched hand, and up to Adam’s face before he burst out laughing. He leaned against the wall to stay upright.

  Again, a normal response. The preacher looked down to find his feet covered in the bits of the ruined swing. He looked up to see two holes the size of CDs with splintered wood around them. After several seconds and despite the pain, he broke into laughter as well.

  “So, you’re the minister who’s been bugging me,” Sam said between guffaws.

  Adam nodded.

  “Well, come inside before you break something else.”

  The house looked nearly spotless except for the coffee cups and empty glasses on the end table and the newspaper on the floor.

  “I have help,” Sam said following his gaze. “That’s why it doesn’t look like a bachelor lives here. Willow Thomas and her two sons go to your church. The two boys… well, it’s hard to explain, but they’ve been cleaning and picking up for me.”

  “I know them. Nice people.”

  “The kids broke the glass in my slider. Seems the only way I meet people is when they attempt to destroy my house.”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have,” Adam babbled. “The swing looked so inviting. We’ll fix it. I’ll get some of the men from church. We’ll get you a new one.”

  Sam waved the offer away as he fell into the sofa and dropped the cane on the floor. “My father’s coming in a few weeks. He’ll need something to keep him busy.”

  “Then I’ll pay…”

  “No need. Sit, please.” He watched as Adam took the chair across from him, then said, “You look young to be a preacher.”

  Adam nodded. “You look young to be a war hero.”

  An expression of utter despair covered Sam’s face, wiping away any trace of the laughter that had been there, reaching deep in his eyes. “I’m no kind of hero, Preacher.”

  “We have a vets’ group at church…”

  “Don’t try to fix me.”

  “I’d never do that. I just…” But Adam didn’t complete the thought. He probably had been. That’s what people like him did. “I won’t do that again.”

  After Sam nodded, the two men sat in silence. Getting inside should make Adam feel good but it didn’t. He’d immediately stuck his foot—big as it was—into his mouth.

  “So,” Adam tried again. “What do you like to do?”

  Sam shook his head. “You said you wouldn’t try to fix me again.”

  “Didn’t mean to. I was trying to start a conversation.”

  Sam leaned back and glared at the minister. “Preacher, I’m not fit for company, much less a chat.” Brackets around Sam’s mouth and between his eyes suggested he was in pain. “Why don’t you come back another day?” he said. “If you bring pizza, I promise I’ll let you in.”

  “Why don’t I order delivery now?” Once inside, even dirty and hurting all over, Adam refused to let go of this moment of contact. He didn’t wait for an answer before pulling his cell, punching it on, and asking, “Pepperoni okay?”

  Sam watched Adam for a few seconds, then, finally, smiled. “Okay, Pastor, you win. Anchovies, pineapple, and roasted”—he paused and looked toward the ceiling—“eggplant.” He lowered his eyes to scrut
inize the minister. “You’re going to order that?”

  Adam nodded. “I figure this is a test of some kind. You want to let me in on what it is?”

  “Are you really going to let the pitiable amputee guilt you into ordering a pizza with roasted eggplant?”

  Adam shrugged. “In the first place, I was going to have that stuff put only on your half. In the second, the pizza places in small towns like this don’t put roasted eggplant on pizzas. The ingredients at the Pizza Palacio are pretty basic.” He punched a button.

  “I like you,” he said. “I like a man who has a pizza place on speed dial.” He laughed, actually laughed. “Don’t ask for the pineapple or eggplant. Marines don’t eat pineapple on pizzas.”

  When Adam finished the order, Sam didn’t look as if he were in any hurry to begin a conversation so Adam jumped in again. “Your father’s coming soon?”

  Sam nodded again, the smile gone. This man presented a challenge—not in the same way as Miss Birdie but definitely a test of a minister’s pastoral skills. Not that Adam had developed many of those yet.

  “How did you happen to come down here by yourself? Why didn’t you wait until he came, too?” Adam realized as the words came out that they sounded as if he didn’t believe Sam could take care of himself. “I mean…”

  Before he could make another mistake, Sam said, “Because I wanted to be alone.” His glare reminded Adam he wasn’t alone, that the man who sat across from him had invaded his isolation.

  After another few minutes of silence—little by little Adam was realizing Sam didn’t plan to make this easy—he said, “You know, I did call you. Several times.”

  “People in this town are odd like that. You’d think if a person didn’t answer his phone or the door unless pushed to it by someone invading his porch and destroying his property…” He stopped and glared at Adam. “Where was I? Oh, yes, you’d think those people would leave you alone.”

  “If you had an answering machine,” the preacher suggested, “you wouldn’t have to talk to people but you’d know if there were any important calls.”

  “I don’t have an answering machine,” Sam explained as if talking to a slow child with only a tenuous grasp of the English language, “because I want to be left alone.”

  They spent a few more minutes staring at each other until Sam picked up the remote and turned on the news. Fifteen minutes of silence later, the doorbell rang. Adam leaped to his feet. A stab of pain in his hip reminded him of the earlier accident.

  “Get me a beer while you’re up,” Sam said obviously willing to take advantage of the preacher’s service while not wanting much to do with the preacher.

  But at least he was inside. A small success but a success. He couldn’t wait to tell Miss Birdie. Or maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he’d let her ask him about it.

  Birdie hated Fridays. Each waitress had one day she had to come in early and set up: Check the salt, pepper, and sugar, fill them if necessary. Make sure the napkin holders were full and that, overnight, nothing disgusting had entered the diner or plopped itself down on one of the tables. Start the coffee—although she’d always asked Roy, the manager, why they couldn’t buy timers for that and why the late-duty waitresses couldn’t check the tables. He ignored her first suggestion and told her the waitresses who worked until nine were too tired. If she didn’t need to keep her job, she would have pushed, but she did. She’d shut up. That’s why, still half-asleep, she stumbled past the tables until she reached the switch to turn on the lights.

  Outside the front window, it was still dark. One streetlight glowed half a block away. No one wandered along the street yet. Customers would show up at six, the same time the cook ran into the restaurant and turned on the grill.

  But someone stood out there, or something. Birdie couldn’t tell what. At the bottom of the window, just above the frame, the top of something white showed against the gloom. Maybe a large dog. Could be a cougar. Someone had said they’d seen one out by the lake the other day, but she doubted they’d come this far in, this close to people.

  She blinked. Her sight had become cloudy—probably needed cataract surgery—but when she opened her eyes and focused them, the blob was still there.

  Curious, she walked to the window and attempted to make out the form.

  Oh, my Lord, it was a child. What was a child doing out there at this hour? And alone? She hurried to the front door, unlocked it, and looked out at the child, then swept the street with a glance, expecting to see an adult nearby. No one out there but this little creature.

  Birdie took a step toward the child but it—or he or she—moved away and huddled in a small ball as if trying to disappear, to hide in a tiny, invulnerable package. The sight squeezed Birdie’s heart, an organ many thought she didn’t possess.

  “Are you hungry?” Birdie asked.

  The little girl didn’t move. If anything, she shrank even smaller. Then her stomach growled.

  “Let’s go inside and get you something to eat.” Birdie held out her hand.

  The child studied her, glancing first at her face, then dropping her eyes to study Birdie’s uniform before moving back up to her face. A quick peek through the window seemed to convince her that Birdie and this place were safe. She stood and followed Birdie.

  Once inside, Birdie locked the door and turned to speak. She stopped as she realized how dirty the child was. She leaned forward to scrutinize her, but when an odor reached Birdie, she leaped back. Soiled lace on the child’s socks confirmed that it was in fact a girl—and one who wasn’t just grubby but indecently so: snot-nosed, black-fingernailed, sooty-faced, torn-shirt, and muddy-trouser filthy. Far more dirt covered the little one than she could have picked up in a few hours or overnight.

  Tears ran down the girl’s face, leaving pink trails on grimy cheeks. She lifted her arm to wipe them away and left a trail of mucus across her face as well as the sleeve of her ragged shirt. How old was she? Four or five?

  “Let’s wash you up before you get breakfast.”

  The girl nodded.

  “I’m Birdie—Miss Birdie. What’s your name?”

  “Missy,” she said in a wavering voice.

  “Where’s your mother?”

  Tears filled Missy’s eyes again. “Don’t know. Lost.” Sobs shook the child’s entire body, and she buried her face in her hands.

  “Where’s your daddy?”

  “Gone,” the child whispered. Then her stomach started to growl again, not dainty grrs but reverberations so loud it sounded as if her insides contained a ravenous lion.

  Birdie glanced at the clock. If she worked really fast, she could give the child a quick cleanup and get her breakfast before people started to arrive. If the girl’s mother hadn’t showed up by the time the crowd thinned, she’d do something about it. She had no idea what.

  “How old are you, Missy?”

  She held up four fingers.

  “What’s your last name?”

  “Last name?” Missy thought for a moment before getting to her feet. “Mommy calls me ‘Missy’ or sometimes ‘sweetheart.’ Is sweetheart my last name?”

  If the mother didn’t show up, Missy’d given little information that would help find her. Birdie tried again.

  “One more question, Missy Sweetheart. Where did you sleep last night?”

  “Outside,” she whispered. Her voice shook.

  Birdie shut her mouth. The questions didn’t help any and drove the child to tears.

  “Okay, let’s go.” Birdie took the girl’s tiny, grubby hand and led her toward the restroom. She tried to wipe away whatever grime she could, including washing Missy’s face and hands with paper towels. All the task accomplished was to make the child look a bit less like a hobo and more like a girl. Birdie then took Missy back into the dining area and settled her at a booth facing the front window. Her mother could see Missy through the window if she was looking for her. Why wouldn’t she be?

  In the light, she could see Missy’s freckles acros
s pale skin and her dark eyes filled with sadness. “You look outside and tell me if your mother comes by.” Missy nodded.

  Birdie set a glass of milk and another of orange juice on the table before she went back to making sure they were ready for the morning crowd. Another waitress and the cashier arrived a few minutes before six. They each asked for an explanation of the waif at the front table as they prepared for their jobs. The cook arrived just as Birdie opened the front door and the early customers crowded in.

  When Birdie picked up Missy’s breakfast ten minutes later and took it to the booth, both glasses were empty but the child lay on the red plastic seat and slept. Birdie was a sucker for a sleeping child. She watched her for a few seconds before she took off her sweater and placed it over the girl. After that, she took a few steps and placed Missy’s breakfast in front of Howard Crampton.

  “Not what I ordered,” he objected.

  “That’s okay. You’ll like it. It’s hot.”

  By nine, the breakfast bunch had mostly left and Birdie had time to check on Missy again. The child was waking up.

  “Hungry?”

  When Missy nodded, Birdie put another order in. “More milk?” she asked.

  Missy used her fists to wipe the sleep from her eyes and nodded.

  What was she going to do with the child now? She didn’t want to turn her over to foster care, not when the girl looked so pitiful and small and sad and lonely. Why had Birdie allowed herself to get caught up in the situation when she already had plenty on her plate? She couldn’t take on the care of a four-year-old.

  Of course, the mother would probably show up soon, probably in a few minutes, explain what had happened, and everything would be fine. No problem. For that reason, Birdie went to the door and looked up and down the street again. All she saw was a normal morning in Butternut Creek: stores opening, people parking and walking toward the courthouse, a few men playing chess under the branches of the live oaks around the square. She recognized almost everyone, and those she didn’t know didn’t look a bit like a hysterical mom searching for her lost daughter.