The docks were busy and cold. Everything was brown. April swept a warm hand over Hickory Corners but never touched the ground. Through her black boots, Samantha felt a chill stealing steadily upward. Her toes almost curled from the force of it.
Clara couldn’t manage to stand still. Her light-brown curls bobbed with excitement. Her Aunt Charlotte didn’t even reprimand her. For over ten years, Charlotte Warner had been more mother than aunt to Clara. Watching her ward leave couldn’t be easy. Noticing how eager she was to go surely made it harder.
Eager to go, that described Raymond as well, and Samantha worried that once he finished medical school, he’d not return. The worry had intensified after Jacob took over Doc’s practice.
He was with his brothers today, she figured. She’d seen him load up his wagon and head in that direction. And she was at the docks saying good-bye to Clara.
The Ohio River moved like a herd of schoolchildren late for school. The river men seemed filled with the same anticipation.
“I’ll take these, Ma’am.” Horace Bunk pretended not to recognize Clara as he reached for her valise.
“It’s me,” Clara exclaimed. “Clara Bucey.”
Horace winked at the girls. “Ah, all growed up and off to play in the big city. You know, folks often get a taste of the wanderjahr and never return to the place of their birth.”
Clara’s eyes brightened.
What was this? Never return? Samantha hadn’t realized Clara’s dreams were so vastly different. Had she? Truth? She had realized, just pretended not. Clara always had her nose in a geography book. She and Master Jarrod had played Spin the Globe many a school day morning. Clara had willingly written essays on the places her finger landed.
A time to pluck up that which is planted.
Too soon, Clara’s luggage was taken aboard. A too-quick good-bye, then Clara’s steps faltered a bit as she walked up the loading plank of the A. M. Phillips. Yet she didn’t look back.
No, wait! Samantha wanted to cry.
Horace must have noted Samantha’s distress. He stepped off the loading plank. “Don’t worry, Miss Samantha, we ain’t got no preachers or white horses aboard. It will be smooth sailing.”
“Thank you, Horace,” Samantha managed, resisting the urge to push him into the water. White horses, indeed!
A violin started playing from somewhere on deck. Ropes left their moorings, river men scurried to their posts, and the mighty steamship pulled away from the dock.
Samantha expected to cry—wanted to—but Elsa wept instead.
“I cry all the time,” she excused. “Last night, Shane remarked that his potatoes were cold, and I broke down right there. Poor man, when I fed him potato cakes this morning, he looked at them in fear.”
The bugle blew as the A. M. Phillips sailed out of sight.
“I’ll miss her,” Betsy said, bringing a black handkerchief to her nose.
“Me too,” Elsa echoed.
Samantha was the first to leave the group as they returned to town. As she entered the store to see Cecilia waiting on a customer, she had to admit her stepmother had been good lately about allowing her time away from the store and chores.
A few people lingered inside. Victoria Alexander fondled a French silk that had arrived just yesterday. Sheriff Abner had Pa off to one corner questioning him about the recent purchases of two Ottawa Indians who now resided in the town jail. Jacob Stahl leaned against the counter chatting with Cecilia.
Samantha took a breath. She hadn’t sassed, snapped, or even scoffed at her father’s wife for weeks. The Thomasohn home was a bit quieter since the effort sorely limited the words that popped out of Samantha’s mouth.
“‘A time to love, and a time to hate.’”
Samantha bit down until a coppery taste filled her mouth.
“Here she is, Jacob. I told you she’d be right back.” Cecilia positively glowed.
What had they been speaking about? Samantha felt it again! The flush that betrayed her emotions. Never had anyone looked at her so appreciatively, so admiringly. It nigh took her breath away.
“Go ahead. Show her,” Cecilia urged.
She hadn’t noticed his smile before, not really. It started at the corners of his mouth and spread until his whole face was a mass of approval.
He approved of her. She didn’t deserve it, not lately.
“I knew you’d be feeling down some,” he said, “what with Clara leaving. Elsa told me how much you liked her rocking chair, so I made you this.”
He’d made her a rocking chair? Oh, dear. Rocking chairs made her think of Elsa and babies. It was much too forward a gift, just like that wink in chur—
She’d seen ladders before, only not quite so short and squat. Cecilia pushed while Jacob tugged, and soon his creation sat in the center of the store.
“It’s so you can reach the top shelf. I’m going to lean it against the wall here. It’s really rather light. Just push it where you want, and you’ll be able to reach anything.”
“And in a ladylike stance, too,” Cecilia added.
“That’s quite a ladder, Jacob.” Victoria bent down and fingered the smooth sanding. “I’d like to order one for my shop.”
Samantha stared down at Jacob’s ladder. There were no elegant lines; this was made to be sturdy. He’d painted it brown, and, like Olivia Crabtree, the ladder didn’t cotton to elegance. Three steps up, a platform, and three steps down, the ladder looked a little like the giant wooden blocks her brothers had played with as a child.
Elsa got a rocking chair and a cradle. Samantha got chunks of wood stuck together.
For a moment, she felt disgruntled. Then, she remembered Martin whispering to her the verse, “Fathers, provoke not your children.” She looked around the mercantile, at the shelves of dry goods, at the barrels of beans on the floor. She thought back to helping Mama arrange the window display. Samantha knew that as much as upstairs was her home, this store held just as many cherished memories.
Jacob had made something that felt all wrong—the store not looking the way her mother arranged it—into something that felt almost right. How wise he was. What a wonderful father, husband, he would make.
“Thank you, Jacob. It’s the nicest gift anyone’s ever given me.”
And she kissed him on the cheek.
“Come on, you can do it.” Sheriff Abner sat in the old barber chair Doc had inherited from his father.
Jacob much preferred getting a haircut to giving one. Just what was up with the sheriff’s hair anyway? A man his age should be thinning some.
“You been using Professor Low’s hair tonic?” Jacob asked.
Abner laughed. “No, I figure chasing bad men must stimulate growth or something. Fact is, my wife gets plumb annoyed at this mop of mine.”
Jacob used the strop attached to the barber chair to sharpen the scissors.
“You sharpen those scissors much more, Son, and you won’t have nothing but a file.” Abner chuckled. “Don’t know as I want a young pup in love messing with my hair.”
“Keep talking, Sheriff, and I’ll tell your wife what Low puts in that medicinal elixir you prescribe to.”
Abner kept chuckling, and Jacob slowly circled the man. The sheriff wore his blond hair a bit longer than most of the Hickory Corners men. Dime novels, combined with pride, no doubt.
Trying to remember what Doc had done, Jacob gently gathered a hank of hair between his fingers. The scissors sliced through the strands as easily as his mother’s paring knife cut through husks of corn. But corn husks neither yelped if they didn’t like their shape nor carried handcuffs.
A beetle scurried across the floor and Jacob wished it needed a haircut so he could get the practice.
The door opened, and Silas Thomasohn entered. He headed for one of the three-legged chairs by the front door. Paying no attention to the dust lining its seat, Silas sat down.
The sheriff and Jacob both stared. The man didn’t have enough hair to cut. Surely he didn’t want a shave, Jacob hoped.
Pulling out a piece of ash wood, Silas took to whittling.
“Are you here for a haircut?” Abner asked, saving Jacob the words.
“Nope.”
Jacob finished Abner’s trim and grabbed the bar of soap still on the shelf. It took some doing, but finally he managed a lather and soaped the back of Abner’s neck. Doc kept three straight-edge razors. Jacob chose what looked like the sturdiest. He flicked it open and grabbed the strop again. After sharpening it, he scraped an inch of soap off the sheriff’s neck.
Now that Abner had shown faith in testing the new barber’s abilities, others would follow suit. At one time, the barbershop had garnished quite a gathering of men wanting to jaw the time away. It was good for Mr. Thomasohn to see a reliable business. Jacob guessed he’d have to check behind the back curtain where two tubs waited for filthy customers to bathe.
It was a part of Doc’s profession that Jacob hadn’t considered taking over. Yet, it would be an income. Doc had already hinted that he’d move out of the upstairs room if Jacob wanted to move Samantha in.
Eyeing Mr. Thomasohn, Jacob wondered why the man was here. This morning, Jacob had intended to pull Samantha’s father aside, ask permission to court, and lay out his intentions. Instead, Silas had been huddled in the corner with Abner, and Cecilia had beckoned to Jacob. Once she’d seen the little ladder he’d made for Samantha, any hope of talking with Silas disappeared.
A bit headstrong was the new Mrs. Thomasohn. Jacob could see why Samantha, who was fully capable of caring for a home, might feel stifled.
“Doc never took this long,” Abner complained.
Jacob stared at the back of the man’s neck. As smooth as a baby’s behind, there wasn’t a single nick. Jacob dropped the razor into the mug.
What next? A hot towel? Doc always cleaned the back of the customer’s neck with a clean, hot towel. Jacob looked down at the stove. Since the weather had warmed, he’d not even thought to fire it up. If he intended to make a side living at barbering, he’d need to keep the thing going during trade hours.
Even the towel was a bit dusty. Jacob whacked it against his knee a few times before applying it to the sheriff’s neck. “Sorry, Sheriff, you’re my first haircut, and you’re going to have to make due with a dry towel. I’ll do better next time.”
Abner stood and stared into the broken mirror. He ran a hand across the back of his neck, as if to assure himself that it was still there. “You did fine.”
A nickel richer, Jacob set the shaving mug on the table beside the barber chair. “A shave?” he questioned Silas.
“No, I can get that at home. I came by to ask about your intentions toward my Samantha.” Silas carefully put away his whittling. He brushed his hands as he stood.
Jacob was a tall man, but looking down at Samantha’s father, Jacob realized that height offered no advantage when dealing with a doting father.
“I intend to marry her, Sir. I came to your mercantile this morning to ask permission to court.”
Silas nodded, “I figured as much. I’m sorry, Jacob. You’re a good man, but I cannot give you my blessing. The answer is no.”