27

Bekah hunched over Mom’s machine, guiding fabric beneath the rapidly undulating needle. A neat seam emerged, binding the skirt to the bodice. Amazing how much she could get done with no one around to bother her. She’d only cut out the pieces for her new dress last night, and already she was more than halfway finished sewing the pieces together. By the time Mom and the kids got back from Topeka, she might be ready to try it on so Mom could pin the hem.

She finished sewing the seam and snipped the threads with the scissors. Laying the pieces aside, she reached for a sleeve, and the telephone rang. She rolled her eyes. Probably Mom, checking in. As if Bekah was a baby who couldn’t take care of herself.

Bekah trotted to the telephone and lifted the receiver. “Hello?”

“Hi, honey. It’s Mom. How are you?”

Bekah fiddled with the phone’s cord, itching to return to her project. “Fine. I’ve been sewing.”

“What’s the weather like there?”

Bekah’d been inside all morning, just as Mom had instructed. How should she know what was going on outside? “Fine, I guess. I haven’t been out.”

The line crackled a little bit, but Mom’s voice came through. “The sky’s pretty dark in the north. Mrs. Gerber thinks a storm might be coming. Just to be safe, why don’t you go out and open the cellar doors so it’s ready for us in case we need it.”

Bekah’s heart started to pound. You didn’t go into the cellar just for a rainstorm. She clutched the telephone receiver two-handed. “She thinks there might be a tornado?” She looked out the window, noticing for the first time a murky gray tinged with an ugly shade of green in place of the usual blue sky. Her hands shook, and she gripped the phone tighter.

A light chuckle came through the line. “Well, honey, it would be a rare thing to have a tornado in July, but it doesn’t hurt to take precautions.” Mom’s sure, unruffled voice helped take the edge off Bekah’s fear. “So prop open the cellar doors and be ready, but don’t worry, all right?”

“All right.” Bekah hugged the phone to her cheek. “When will you be home?”

“We’ve finished at Farm Supply and the bookstore, but we still need to go to the grocery store. I would imagine we’ll be home within another two hours. Will you be all right that much longer?”

Bekah looked at the clock above the stove. Mom and the kids would be back around one thirty. “Yeah, I should be okay.”

“Remember, if you need anything, you can call the Mischlers or the Schells.”

“I know.”

“All right, then. We’ll see you soon, Bekah. I love you.”

“I love you, too. Good-bye.” Bekah placed the receiver in its cradle very carefully, then stood for a few moments, staring at the phone. She hadn’t felt lonely at all until she’d heard her mother’s voice. But now the house felt too empty and quiet. Except for the wind.

With a start, she realized she’d been so busy listening to the hum of the sewing machine, she hadn’t even noticed the wind was blowing harder than usual. She scurried to the kitchen sink and leaned against the cabinet to peek outside. Dust rolled across the ground, carrying bits of dried grass. She crossed to the back door, watching the soybean plants, which had grown to the size of small bushes, sway and dance in the gusting breeze, nearly flattening to the ground with especially strong blasts.

She gave a start. Where were the men? There was always somebody working out there, Monday through Saturday. Why weren’t they working now? Were they fearful of the weather, too? Even though it was hot, Bekah shivered.

Mom had told her to get the cellar doors open, so she retrieved the key for the padlock that secured the planked wooden doors and stepped outside. The wind whipped the screen door from her hand and slammed it against the house. Her skirt plastered to her legs in the back and sent it billowing out front as she walked the short distance to the storm shelter’s doors. She crouched down, pinching her skirt between her knees to hold it out of her way, and unlatched the padlock.

Slipping the heavy lock into her apron pocket with the key, she grabbed one door and flung it open. It landed against the sloped ground with a thud. She opened the second door, then stood for a moment with the wind strong on her back, the ribbons from her cap dancing wildly against her cheeks, and peered into the dank depth of the cellar. She hugged herself. She hated going into the cellar.

Whisking a quick look at the boiling sky, she offered a quick prayer. “God, please don’t make me go in that hole under the ground.” Especially not all alone.

Tim unloaded his truck, keeping an eye on the sky during trips back and forth from the house and his pickup. When he finished, he drove the truck into the barn. The opening was barely wide enough to accommodate the truck’s body, and he brushed the passenger’s side mirror on the warped frame. He’d have to be extra careful backing out again, but the truck would be safer inside in case those clouds let loose with hail.

He cringed, considering the damage hail would do to his trees. The urge to pray, to ask God to hold the storm at bay, tugged at him as strongly as the wind tugged his clothes and hair as he walked to the house. But he gritted his teeth together and held the petition inside.

In the house, he put away everything he’d purchased, taking note of the neatly organized shelves, the clean-swept floors, and scrubbed countertops. Thanks to Bekah’s efforts, the house was as clean as it had been when Julia lived there. Julia . . . His mind flooded with memories of his last moments with her. The kiss good-bye. The wave. The car disappearing over the rise in the road with Charlie in the backseat holding up his favorite tattered teddy in a gesture of farewell.

He clenched his fists to his temples, willing the persistent images away. He needed to replace them, but with what? Photographs—he’d look at photos. Snapshots of happier moments, together moments. Maybe imprinting those on his brain would send the final, heartrending remembrance far away so it would stop haunting him.

His feet clumsy in his eagerness, he stumbled to the hallway and threw open the closet. An empty space greeted him. For a moment he stared, stunned, certain his eyes deceived him. But then he recalled giving Bekah the task of clearing out the closet. At the height of his nightmares, he’d chosen to dispose of Julia’s and Charlie’s things, hoping the distressing dream would disappear with them. It hadn’t worked—the dream still awakened him at least once a night.

He snapped the closet door closed and aimed his steps for the back door, resolve setting his jaw in a firm line. So getting rid of the stuff hadn’t achieved the purpose. He’d just bring everything back in. He hadn’t lit the burn pile in more than two weeks. The boxes should still be out there, battered and dusty no doubt, but available. He swung the back door open. The wind tried to snatch it from his hand, but he held tight and latched it behind him. He glanced at the sky, noting the sickly grayish-green. His stomach churned. He’d better hurry.

Bending forward into the wind, Tim broke into a jog. He rounded the corner of the barn, heading to the cleared area where he burned his trash. But halfway across the grounds a sudden change in the atmosphere brought him to an abrupt halt. Chills broke out over his body, a prickling awareness of impending doom.

He turned a slow circle, tasting the air, which had fallen heavy and eerily still. His eyes scanned the horizon, from the clear blue in the south to almost lavender in the west and ending at the brackish ugliness that shrouded the north. He lifted his gaze from the wall of gray to the swirling green and black clouds above, and a strange movement caught his attention. A writhing tail, wide at the top, narrowing as it reached toward the earth, emerged from the angry gathering of clouds.

Fear exploded through Tim’s middle. A tornado. Miles away, but traveling in his direction. Panic spurred him to action. He took off at a run for his house to seek protection. But as he reached his back door he suddenly remembered that Mrs. Knackstedt, Parker, and Adri had been in the van, but he hadn’t seen Bekah. Which meant she must have stayed behind. She’d be terrified, there alone. Or maybe she didn’t even know the storm was coming. There’d be no television or radio to warn her.

Tim’s pulse raced so quickly his entire body quivered. Would Mrs. Knackstedt be home by now? There was no way of knowing. But he couldn’t risk leaving the girl to face a tornado alone. With another quick glance at the approaching storm, he changed direction and raced for the barn. Moments later, unmindful of the sideview mirror he’d stripped from the passenger door when backing out of the barn or the dust-laden wind stealing his visibility, he tore down the road toward the Knackstedt place.

Amy resisted tapping her toe in impatience as Margaret checked off the lengthy list of items in her hand. Both women and Parker pushed carts, all of which were well filled. Even if something else were listed, there wasn’t room for one more thing in any of the carts.

Adrianna leaned against Amy’s leg. “Aren’t we done yet, Momma?” The little girl yawned widely. “I’m tired. And hungry.”

“I know.” Amy gave Adrianna a one-armed hug, then lifted her into the basket. She was really too big for the child seat in the cart, but the hours of shopping had worn her out. “As soon as Mrs. Gerber finishes, we’ll go to a drive-through and get you something to eat, all right?”

It seemed silly to purchase fast food when they had full carts, but if they waited until they got home, lunch would be delayed at least another hour. Amy’s stomach growled, too. A hamburger would taste good right now.

“I guess that’s it,” Margaret said, triumph in her voice.

“Then we can go?” Parker grabbed the handle of his cart, his slumped shoulders squaring.

“We can go.” With a grunt, Margaret pushed her cart into motion.

Amy fell in behind Margaret with Parker huffing along behind her. They reached the checkout lines and passed the row of 20-Items-and-Under lanes. Amy had lost count, but she felt certain between the three carts, there were well over one hundred items. She found the shopping exhausting, but somehow Margaret seemed refreshed by the prospect of finding the best bargains so the fellowship’s food dollars stretched the farthest.

Margaret settled on a lane, and Amy moved forward to help her unload the contents of her cart onto the conveyor belt. As the cashier scanned items, the store’s announcement system clicked on. A male voice boomed over the speakers. “Hello, Food Warehouse shoppers. I have just received notice of the possibility of a tornado near Weaverly, Kansas, and moving toward Topeka.”

Amy grabbed for Margaret, who grabbed for Amy at the same time. The women clung, their gazes locked. Amy wondered if her own face was as white as Margaret’s.

“We’ve been advised to remain in the store until the threat passes. If necessary, we will take all customers to the storage room beneath the store. A buzzer will sound, like this—” A blaring bzzzzzzt sounded, and then the man’s voice returned. “If you hear the buzzer, please make your way in an orderly fashion to the northwest corner of the store, where employees will guide you to the storage room. Again, all customers are advised to remain in the store until the storm has passed.” A click signaled the end of the announcement.

A hum of voices—some concerned, others laughing—filled the air. Stuck in the cart’s seat, Adrianna wriggled, stretching her hands toward Amy. “Momma? Momma?”

Parker stumbled toward his mother. “Mom, I’m scared.”

Amy still held tight to Margaret’s hands. “I have to get home. They said the tornado was near Weaverly. Bekah . . .” Panic cut off her air, and she gasped for breath.

Pulling away from Margaret’s grip, Amy grabbed Adrianna under the arms and tried to lift her from the cart. But her shaking limbs didn’t possess enough strength. She let go, and Adrianna flopped back into the seat. She began to cry.

Parker grabbed hold of Amy’s arm, his cold fingers digging into her flesh. “Mom? Mom?”

Amy shook loose of Parker’s grasp and glared at Margaret. “Help me! We’ve got to get out of here!”

Margaret worked her way between the carts and the display rack of candy, her expression grim. She took hold of Amy’s shoulders and gave her a firm shake. “Stop this right now.” She spoke in a low, even tone. “You’re frightening your children.”

Amy flicked a glance into Adrianna’s and Parker’s faces. The terror reflected in their eyes raised a wave of protectiveness. Wrapping one arm around Adrianna and the other around Parker, she held them close and whispered assurances into their ears. Adrianna continued to cry softly, her face pressed to Amy’s neck. Parker sniffled against her shoulder. Amy wanted to cry, too, but she held her own worries at bay and comforted her children.

Between their carts, Margaret knelt on the floor and folded her hands. Her lips moved in silent prayer. Guilt flooded Amy’s frame. How could she have been so short-sighted? Margaret had a husband and several friends in Weaverly who were also in the tornado’s path. Amy wasn’t the only one fearing for a loved one.

Letting her eyes slip closed, she clung hard to her children and silently petitioned her heavenly Father. Protect them, Lord. Oh, please, please, keep Your hand of protection over Bekah and all of the residents of Weaverly.