Chapter Three

      It had been months since Lilah had been able to visit the Randalls. The cabin was in worse condition than ever, both the tiny front porch and the roof sagging badly. The yard had been raked clean except for a few toys, although the honeysuckle vines had been allowed to ramble freely, adding a softening touch. In spite of what had happened to her husband, Martha Randall had obviously not given up.

      The family had lost so much that Lilah was determined to see they didn’t lose their home, regardless of her father’s orders. Burke Jackson had taken it for granted that the Randalls had been turned out immediately after Ed Randall had gone to jail. Without discussing the matter, Shem had simply never gotten around to asking them to leave.

      Dismounting, Lilah looped the reins around a catalpa tree and began unpacking her bulging saddlebags. Then the door burst open and a child shouted, “It’s Miss Lilah! Mama, Miss Lilah’s here!”

      The yard was suddenly alive with children.

      By the time the last bundle had been carried reverently inside Lilah’s eyes had taken on a soft, damp glow. Her hair was tumbling; there were dusty smudges on her dark skirt and small, grimy handprints on her shirt from all the eager hugs she’d received, but she felt enormously full of…love?

      Well, yes. Love. And it felt damned good, too.

      Laughing and listening to the childish confidences, she followed the five young Randalls inside to where a thin, faded woman was putting away beans, sugar, tea and dried apples. Lilah herself carried the slab of bacon through the shotgun-style house to the coolhouse on the back stoop.

      “Aren’t you home early?” Martha Randall queried.

      “Yes, and this time I’m home to stay.” Lilah broke into a smile, her eyes twinkling. “Papa’s still grumbling, but I told him it would take blasting powder to pry me loose again.”

      Martha cocked an eyebrow. She was a handsome woman, tall, calm and patient. Lilah had always liked her, although the older woman had not encouraged a closer relationship.

      The children, though, were another matter. Soon, the sleeves of her shirtwaist turned back, Lilah was seated at the table surrounded by Randall children, from four-year-old Betty to nine-year-old Brantley, who took seriously his role as acting man of the house. Barbara, the eldest, was helping her mother put away food. “You just missed Willy,” Martha said, filling the kettle for tea. “He brought me a mess of fresh-caught fish.”

      Willy was not a Randall. In fact, no one knew his last name. As for his age, it could be anywhere from twelve to twenty, although Lilah thought he must be about fifteen. Even Willy didn’t know how old he was, not that it seemed to matter. He had simply turned up at the cookshack one day a few years ago, looking for food. Streak and Shem had taken him in. With his freckled face, his overlarge ears and his guileless smile, he’d come in for more than his share of teasing from the hired hands until Shem had let it be known that teasing Willy was a firing offence. He slept in the wide-open loft or in an empty stall, depending on the season. He ate at the cookshack, ran errands and fed the buttermilks—the motherless calves. Between tasks, he played with the Randall children.

      While eleven-year-old Barbara carefully measured out tea, four cotton-white heads leaned over the large picture book. Three pairs of blue eyes and one set of brown peered eagerly at the pictures as Lilah carefully spelled out the words beneath each one.

      After almost an hour passed, the time filled with questions and earnest confidences about teeth lost, minnows caught in the creek, and how high Brantley could jump, Lilah handed around sheets of paper and pencils. “First, I want you to copy the picture of the boy on the raft. Then I want you to copy the words underneath. I have prizes for whoever remembers what the words spell, and for whoever draws the best picture, and—and for—”

      Lilah tried to think of another category so that each child would receive a prize and, more important, so that each child would have bragging rights. She would think of something. She always did. She’d been coming to see the Randall family whenever she was home ever since Edward Randall, once her father’s blacksmith, had been convicted of stealing a box of shotgun shells from the hardware store in Hillsborough. He’d admitted the theft and gone to prison for eight years, leaving his family totally without support.

      Lilah knew Martha did sewing and took in washing for Streak and Shem, but that would hardly provide much in the way of security.

      Since then, in unspoken conspiracy, Willy brought fish while Streak hunted rabbits, which he skinned out and took to the Randalls. Lilah, when she was home from school, watched for an opportunity to help herself from Pearly May’s pantry. Burke Jackson would have turned them all out without a second thought, Lilah knew to her sorrow. If the man had ever harbored a single generous impulse, his daughter was not aware of it.

      “Have you heard anything from Edward?” Lilah could remember watching the farrier as a child, fascinated by the glowing coals and the way the brawny man could shape metal by turning it fiery red.

      “Not a word. He’s shamed, I know he is.”

      What could she say? Of course he was ashamed. Edgar Randall was a decent man, but even decent men sometimes made mistakes.

      “It’s not the stealing that shames him—well, I reckon it is, but what shames him worse is being shut up in that place and not being able to take care of his family. I should never have had so many babies,” she said, her voice low so as not to be overheard.