The Right Kind of Fool Page 22

  Loyal perched on the edge of the trough. Of course, if he could get Sam to take him out into the woods to look for ginseng, maybe he could get away. His captor seemed fit and fast, but Loyal was smaller. He might be able to run into a rhododendron patch and wiggle through where Sam couldn’t.

  He was still trying to come up with a plan when he noticed the door ease open, letting in a spill of light only slightly brighter than the darkened interior of the springhouse. Loyal scooted to the far corner, as if he could hide from Sam. Shoot, if he opened the door wide enough, Loyal might be able to push past him and into the yard before Sam’s “puny” eyes adjusted. He shifted to the hinge side of the door, hoping he wasn’t making any noise.

  Sam was sure taking his time coming in. He eased the door open like it was a contest to do it extra slow. Loyal saw his bulk there in the opening that was still just inches wide. He’d never get his chance at this rate. Maybe he should just grab the door, then try to shoot past Sam. He took two steps forward, trying to guess the right moment for his escape. Then Sam fished in his pocket, pulled out a match, and struck it.

  Loyal figured it was now or never. He grabbed the door and jerked it, moving to run past the larger man, when an arm shot out and grabbed him, pulling him in tight. He grunted and twisted, then froze. What was that smell? It was familiar and comforting. The match had fallen to the ground in the struggle, but Loyal’s eyes, adjusted to the dark, could make out the clean-shaven face of . . .

  No. Not completely clean-shaven. It was Father’s mustache and his warm tobacco smell that filled Loyal’s senses.

  Father grinned and stepped inside, hugging Loyal hard against his chest. They thumped each other on the back, and Loyal felt a couple of tears escape, making him grateful for the dim light.

  Father held a finger to his lips and pointed outside. He looked around the edge of the door and peered all around the yard. Turning back to Loyal, he motioned for him to follow. They eased out and immediately pressed themselves to the side of the building facing away from the barn, but all too obvious to anyone looking out from the back of the house.

  Loyal looked uphill into the trees and saw the shape of another man there where some rocks made a break in the brush. He jabbed Father and pointed, stabbing the air, his eyes wide. Father held up a hand to spell V-i-r . . . then stopped and frowned. Loyal nodded with relief, then finished for him g-i-l. Father motioned for Loyal to move ahead of him, toward the sheriff who was crouched low, beckoning them forward in a come on gesture.

  Loyal began working his way through the saplings and underbrush covering the steep hillside. It was rough going in the darkness, with vines and briars working together to slow him down. He sensed Father close behind him and turned to see that he was following. He was. Seconds later, Loyal stepped on a fallen branch that rolled under his foot and made him fall. He was pretty sure he made a noise and clapped a hand over his mouth. He could taste blood where he’d bitten his tongue, and his elbow stung. Father put out a hand to help him to his feet. As he stood, he saw movement near the barn. A man, his long arm stretched out to point at them. He punched Father in the shoulder and motioned behind them.

  Before Father could turn, there was a burst of light and suddenly they were both falling. Then came another flash of light—maybe from where the sheriff was waiting. Confused and shaken, Loyal scrambled to his feet and tried to run up the hill, but his ankle throbbed and gave way beneath him. He glanced back toward the yard just as Father crashed into him, blocking yet another flash from below. The wind knocked from his lungs, Loyal froze trying to catch his breath. Air finally rushed back with a mighty whoosh and then all was still. He panted and waited to see what would happen next.

  The sheriff appeared in his line of vision and began feeling his arms and legs. Loyal sat up and signed that he was all right, though the sheriff didn’t know what he meant. Still, he seemed satisfied. Loyal climbed to his feet, limping only a little on the sore ankle. He saw that there were several people down below now, and light shone into the yard from the house and barn. But where was Father? He looked at the sheriff, who was waving his arms and likely yelling at someone below. Loyal could just make out what he was saying.

  “Clyde, can you promise me no one’s going to shoot?” He must have gotten a satisfactory answer because he nodded and pointed Loyal back down the hill. Which was when he saw Father, lying on the ground below them, eyes closed, face pale, and much, much too still.

  thirty

  There was so much blood. Loyal sat, wide-eyed, wishing he could do something to help. They were inside Clyde Hacker’s house now. Bernie wiped more blood on her apron and moved a lamp closer to Father’s still form. Her head bent forward, making it hard to see what she was saying, but he didn’t really need to know. He could see more than he wanted to.

  Father was curled on his side on top of the kitchen table, stripped to his waist. His eyes remained closed, his mustache a dark slash against his pale face. Bernie had boiled a kitchen knife that she was using to cut into Father’s back where Sam shot him. Loyal wanted to look away with everything in him but couldn’t tear his eyes from the woman’s sure movements. Virgil stood nearby, his face serious.

  Finally Bernie raised her head, a grim smile on her face, and held up a bloody bit of metal. The sheriff held out a handkerchief, and she dropped the bullet into it. She then reached for a needle and thread that she’d also boiled and began sewing up Father’s wound. Loyal swallowed the sick feeling rising in his throat and squeezed his eyes shut. A wave of dizziness washed over him, and he must have swayed because Virgil was suddenly there, a hand on his shoulder. He wanted to ask if Father would be all right. The question must have shown in his eyes.

  “He’s lost some blood, but I think he’ll be okay,” the sheriff said. “We’ll get him home to Delphy just as soon as he’s stitched up.”

  Bernie filled a basin with clean water and began wiping away all traces of blood.

  Clyde stepped into the room and approached Virgil. “Glen followed a blood trail a ways. Lost it in the dark.” He shook his head. “Sam’s always wanted more. Wanted what everybody else has. I don’t think he meant to kill anybody.”

  The sheriff frowned. “Whether he meant to or not, he’s in some pretty deep trouble. What was he doing with Loyal out there in that springhouse?”

  “Glen said he was after Creed’s sang patches. Thought the boy could show him where they are.”

  Virgil shot Loyal a look. “Is that right? Was Sam after your dad’s ginseng?”

  Loyal nodded. He wanted to tell the sheriff that Sam was also the one who’d shot Eddie Minks, but he was too exhausted, too wrung out to figure out how to tell him. And maybe he shouldn’t do it in front of Sam’s father anyway. He just wanted to go home. Tears rose up behind his eyes, but he fought them back. He wasn’t going to look like a baby in front of the sheriff or Clyde Hacker. He went to Father, laying a hand on his chest to feel his heart beating and the rise and fall of his breathing.

  A hand settled on his shoulder and it felt so like Father’s that he had to squeeze his eyes shut again to keep the feelings bottled up inside. When he opened his eyes, Virgil said, “Let’s get you two home.”

  Loyal nodded and held the door open for the sheriff and Mr. Hacker as they carried Father out to Mr. Hacker’s wagon for the slow, painful ride into town.

  Creed could smell lavender. And he could hear someone singing a hymn, low and sweet. He started to open his eyes, then waited. Strong yet gentle fingers stroked his face, the shadow of his beard. It was so tender he felt tears prick his eyes. So he opened them.

  And there she was. Delphy gazed down at him with a look of gladness that made his heart sing. “Hey,” he said.

  She pressed a fist to her mouth, tears filling her eyes. “Hey,” she whispered back.

  He lifted a hand to catch a tear as it reached the tip of her chin. “Don’t cry.”

  “I’m not,” she said, more tears wetting his fingers.

 
He tried to laugh, but pain stole his breath.

  “Don’t move. You’ve been shot.” She pressed gently against his shoulder as if he was going to try to sit up. Which he wasn’t.

  “By cupid’s arrow you mean,” he said, managing a grin.

  She choked on a laugh. “You’re terrible. Nearly killed and still flirting with me.”

  He caught her hand in his. “I’ll always flirt with you.” He tugged her closer. Made her lean over him so that he could feel her breath against his cheek. “Kiss me, Delphy.” She pressed her lips to his forehead. “That’s not what I mean.” He curled her hand against his bare chest and drew her closer until he could taste the sweetness of her lips. She let him, then drew away, flushed and a little breathless.

  “Some invalid you are.”

  “Some nurse you are—I think I’m healed.”

  She laughed and turned as someone else entered the room. Virgil came into view, worry etching his brow. The wrinkles smoothed when he saw Creed with his eyes open and maybe a little color in his cheeks.

  “Thought we might lose you,” he said. “I’ve wanted to get shut of you a time or two, but not like this.”

  Creed grimaced as he pushed himself higher on the pillows in . . . glory be, he was in Delphy’s bed. The bed that was his before . . . well, before he’d turned into such a fool. “I’m not that easy to get rid of.”

  “Don’t I know it.” Virgil laughed as he pulled a chair over to sit beside the bed. “Guess you’re planning to live through this, then?”

  Creed glanced at his wife, who now stood in the doorway. “I can think of a few reasons why I might want to live a long time yet. Guess I’ll stick around.” Delphy smiled and left the room, promising him she’d be back soon.

  Virgil nodded. “Bud and a few others are tracking Sam Hacker this morning. Soon as it got light, they set out to follow last night’s blood trail.”

  “Who shot him?” Creed asked.

  “I did. Should’ve aimed to kill. My daddy always said if you’re willing to shoot a man, you’d better be willing to kill him.” He shook his head. “It’s harder than it sounds.”

  Creed nodded, then groaned without meaning to. He felt like someone had tried to cut him in half with a rusty saw blade. “If Sam hurts as bad as I do, he might be wishing you’d done him that favor about now.”

  Virgil sat with his head down, hands clasped loosely between his knees. “I expect you saved Loyal’s life.” He paused. “I don’t know who Sam was aiming at, but he sure enough would’ve struck down that boy if you hadn’t jumped in the way.” He lifted his head, and his eyes bore into Creed’s. “I thought you were a fool to go down there on the off chance Loyal was in that springhouse. But I guess you were the right kind of fool.” He shook his head. “I’m just glad you didn’t let me stop you.”

  “So am I,” Creed said. “About time being a fool worked out for me.”

  Mother wouldn’t leave him alone. Loyal was used to her hovering and doting on him, but this was too much. Every time she drew near, she reached out to touch him—his hair, his shoulder—and he wanted to duck away but made himself tolerate the extra attention. Of course, when she wasn’t hovering over him, she was tending to Father.

  She hadn’t let him venture up the stairs yet. He’d wrenched his ankle when he rolled his foot on that tree branch and it was swollen up now. He’d walked on it fine the night before, but by morning it looked like a plum had been tucked under the taut skin. Mother bathed it in witch hazel and wrapped strips of cloth snug around it. She made him sit on the sofa with the foot propped up on a pillow. He crossed his arms over his chest and glared at nothing in particular.

  Rebecca slipped into the room. She smiled and handed him a book. It was The Missing Chums, a Hardy Boys mystery that had come out that spring. Loyal had already read the first three books in the series and had been hoping to get this one for Christmas. He smiled and made the sign for thank you. Rebecca lit up and signed you’re welcome.

  Loyal wanted to ask where she got the book, but it seemed like too complicated a question in sign language. While Rebecca had been quick to pick up what he’d shown her, they hadn’t gotten that far. So instead he waved her into a chair near the sofa, where Mother had told him in no uncertain terms that he was to stay. You okay? he signed.

  Rebecca’s smile lit the room. “It’s so neat that I know what you’re saying. Yes, I’m okay. I’m sorry you got hurt, though.” Her smile faded, her expression turning serious. “It was very brave of you to try to find out the truth.” She made the sign for brave without seeming to realize she’d done it. Loyal smiled and ran a hand over the cover of his new book. She really was turning out to be a wonderful friend.

  He signed Where’s Michael? She nodded, looking pleased that she understood. “He’s doing your chores, I think. He said he wanted to help, so your mother sent him out to weed the garden.” She grinned. “I gathered the eggs and fed the chickens. I help with that at home sometimes.” She twisted her hands in the fabric of her skirt. “I like your mother. She’s really nice.”

  Loyal smiled, chewed his lip deep in thought, and signed Michael not kill. The sign for kill was a sort of stabbing motion. He hadn’t taught it to Rebecca, but he thought she might understand it anyway.

  Rebecca cocked her head and considered his motion. “You’re saying Michael . . . Oh!” She brightened. “Does that mean to kill someone?” Loyal nodded. “Michael didn’t kill that man.” She frowned. “But we knew that already.”

  Loyal looked around as if someone might be watching him in his own house, then signed I know who.

  Rebecca leaned forward. “You do? Who is it?”

  Loyal couldn’t keep the grin from spreading across his face. Rebecca understood him so easily. He’d never met a hearing person who learned to communicate with him this fast. He sobered again. This was serious business. He spelled S-a-m.

  Rebecca gasped. “Have you told the sheriff?” Loyal made the sign for no. “Are you going to?”

  Movement drew Loyal’s attention, and he saw the sheriff filling the doorway. He swallowed hard and read the words Virgil spoke. “Are you going to tell me what?”

  thirty-one

  The sheriff sat in a kitchen chair pulled up close to the sofa. He leaned his elbows on his knees, hands clasped. Rebecca moved to the end of the sofa where she was careful not to touch Loyal’s foot. He liked having her there. He was worried that the sheriff might not believe him—or worse, that he’d somehow messed up the evidence.

  Fishing in his pocket, Loyal pulled out one of Sam’s chewed-up sassafras sticks and handed it over. Sheriff White looked confused, then his expression cleared. “You’re thinking Sam is the killer,” he said. Loyal blinked in surprise, then nodded. The sheriff leaned closer as though he might be overheard. “I’m thinking the same thing.”

  Loyal felt relief and disappointment wash through him in equal parts. He was glad he didn’t have to make himself understood, but at the same time it seemed like he’d gone to a lot of trouble—caused a lot of trouble—for something that wasn’t coming as a surprise to the sheriff.

  Sheriff White leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. “Between you, me, and the fence post, I’m expecting some hard evidence that’ll finally wrap all of this business up.” He looked at Rebecca. “And your family can get back to normal.” He stood and nodded at Loyal. “Take care of that ankle.”

  Loyal watched him carry his chair back into the kitchen. The feeling of disappointment was definitely outweighing the relief he’d felt earlier. Had the sheriff already known what he’d set out to learn? Had he wasted his time and been responsible for Father getting shot? Now he wished Rebecca would just leave. He didn’t want her to know what an idiot he’d been. He looked at her and saw that she was looking back at him intently.

  “Normal,” she repeated. “I’m not sure what that is. If it’s what we were like before all of this happened, I’m not sure I want it.”

  Loyal frowned and sign
ed Why not?

  “Because normal meant we didn’t talk to each other or do things together. Michael usually ignored me, and Daddy was always busy.” Her chest rose and fell with a sigh. “At least I haven’t been lonely the last few weeks.” She smiled. “I like being here with your family. Your mom is nice, and she lets me help her in the kitchen. Mrs. Tompkins won’t let me near the kitchen.” She cocked her head to one side. “You sure are lucky.” She turned her head as if she’d heard something, then flashed him a smile and left.

  Loyal wiggled deeper into the sofa. His ankle throbbed with each beat of his heart, and he was pretty sure he’d made more of a mess instead of fixing anything. And yet . . . Rebecca thought he was lucky. She thought the deaf boy who’d managed to get himself kidnapped was lucky. He closed his eyes, still tired from the previous night’s trouble. In Sunday school, his teacher liked to talk about the importance of counting blessings. Maybe he’d try counting a few right now.

  Delphy hadn’t felt this emotional since she’d been afraid Loyal’s fever would do worse than leave him deaf. One moment she was mad that her son and husband had taken such risks, the next just thankful they were both on the mend. She went from thinking life had at least been simpler when she was estranged from her husband to wishing he’d hurry up and heal so they could . . . well. She was a mess. Which didn’t help matters when she heard someone creeping down the stairs and saw that Creed had decided to get out of bed against the doctor’s orders.

  She never should have told him that Virgil was planning to come by. She’d assumed the sheriff would just talk to Creed while he was propped in their bed, but apparently her husband had a different idea. He’d even managed to dress himself. As he slipped into the kitchen, she gave him a look that he clearly understood.