Chapter Twenty-Seven
“God never did make a more calm, quiet, innocent recreation than angling.”
~Izaak Walton, author of The Complete Angler, published in 1653
TUESDAY, JULY 30
“I want my daddy.” Blood smeared the girl’s skinned arms and legs as Annamae attempted to clean the scrapes.
I do too, echoed in the chambers of Annamae’s heart. Over the past week, a loneliness had settled in her bones like she’d never experienced before.
After her father’s funeral, seclusion had become her constant companion. Spite, her motivation to succeed. She’d kept a respectable distance from everyone in every capacity in her life to keep from feeling the agony of loss again.
Until Monty.
Foolishly, she’d let him in. And now she was hurting.
“You’re being very brave, Katie Lynn.” Annamae had seen the girl more than once since she’d tripped over a pipe the day of the three-legged race. It seemed as if the rough-and-tumble child was always getting hurt. Thankfully, a local couple had chosen to adopt her, and she’d have someone to offer comfort and look after her.
Annamae squirted iodine on a cotton round and dabbed it on Katie Lynn’s kneecap. She’d already flushed the dirt and gravel from it, which made the girl howl as loudly as the Cambria Iron Works’ noon whistle. “After we’re finished, I’ll give you a peppermint stick for being such a good patient.”
The sobs stuttered. “Really?”
Annamae smiled. “Really.”
Katie Lynn hiccupped and squirmed but didn’t issue any more protests.
Finished, Annamae replaced the cork on the iodine bottle and helped the girl sit up. “While that’s drying, I’m going to wash my hands and then fetch your peppermint stick. Stay here, please.”
Katie Lynn nodded, wiping the clean tracks her tears had made on her dirty cheeks.
Her older brother had brought her in, claiming she’d fallen from the top of a giant pile of stones collected from all over town while clearing debris. Annamae had reminded the girl that the stone piles were there for folks needing them during the reconstruction or for areas that had been washed away and needed reinforcement. Not for entertaining children.
That had earned her a scowl and the beginning of a long wave of tears.
Annamae returned with a peppermint stick wrapped in a strip of brown paper. Katie Lynn held her filthy hand out. Annamae handed her a cake of soap. “First, you must wash all that grime from your hands and fingernails. It will help keep germs out of your body and keep your candy from tasting like dirt.”
Katie Lynn hopped down from the bed, inspecting her palms. “My new pa says dirt never killed nobody.”
“If that dirt contains a harmful germ, it could.”
“I don’t see nothing that looks harmful.” Her little hands fell to her sides, and she lifted her chin. “I’ll take that candy now.”
Annamae held it farther away. She would win this battle, even if she couldn’t win any others in her life. “That’s because germs are invisible to the naked eye. Now, wash.”
Wiping her hand against her dripping nose, Katie Lynn went to the washbasin and obeyed. “Whatcha mean about eyes being naked?”
Holding in a chuckle, Annamae explained how scientists had recently used microscopes to discover germs swimming in water droplets and uncooked foods. Those types of germs could make a person very sick and even prove fatal. She also explained that the term “naked eye” meant what a person could see using normal vision. That got Katie Lynn’s attention, and she scrubbed her hands and fingernails until Annamae feared she’d claw her skin open.
“You’ve done a sufficient job killing the germs.” Annamae instructed the girl to pat her hands dry on the towel, and then she passed over the candy. Katie Lynn swiped it and ran out of the tent faster than a scared deer when startled.
Annamae looked after the girl, shaking her head and smiling.
A light touch brushed her elbow. Hetty’s eyes, a blend of brown and gold, blinked at Annamae behind thick spectacles. “I didn’t want to disturb you until you’d finished with your patient, but there’s a man been waiting to see you.”
Annamae’s heart buoyed. Monty had kept distant over the past week. When they had seen each other in passing, their conversations consisted only of paltry things that wouldn’t start any arguments. Had he finally come to see that her actions were justified? Maybe his affection for her was growing stronger than his judgment.
“Thanks, Hetty. I’m going to step out for a bit, but I’ll be back by two o’clock.”
“No need to rush.” Hetty clasped her hands, a dreamy grin on her face. “If a man that handsome was waiting for me, I’d take all day.”
Annamae giggled, removed her apron, and left, excited to see Monty. As she approached Red Cross headquarters, her disappointment cut deep when she saw that the man sitting in the chair waiting wasn’t the one she’d expected.
“Miss Worthington. Thank you for agreeing to see me.” Mr. Colt rose. His tall frame dwarfed her.
He was the man Hetty found handsome. True, Mr. Colt could be described as such, but he paled in comparison to Monty.
The initial pleasantries in Mr. Colt’s features turned grim. He handed her the folded newspaper she hadn’t noticed him holding. “I’m truly sorry, Miss Worthington. We gave it valiant effort.”
Confusion fogged Annamae’s brain. She opened the newspaper, and the headline shifted the ground beneath her feet. JURIES DECLARE AN ACT OF GOD. Her vision grew fuzzy at the edges. Blinking, she skimmed the article, fury building in her veins so fierce she expected it to flow from her fingertips and singe the page.
The entire article could be summed up in one sentence—the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club wouldn’t be held responsible for the destruction of Johnstown.
“I think we were too late.” The sympathy vibrating from his voice made her want to weep. “Maybe if we’d printed the information sooner …”
They wouldn’t have been too late if she’d handled the matter on her own from the start instead of letting Monty handle it his own way. Not only would there have been a greater chance for justice, but she and Monty wouldn’t be at odds with one another now.
She swallowed every response rising to her lips and instead said, “Thank you for trying.”
His forehead creased with regret and disappointment. He started to say more but stopped and gave her arm a gentle squeeze. “If I can do anything else for you, Miss Worthington, you need only ask.”
Through blurry vision, she watched him take several large strides toward the newspaper office before disappearing into her tears completely.
Clutching the paper in her fist, she plunked down in the chair he had vacated. The summer heat made the rage in her body hotter. They’d gotten away with murder.
Again.
“I’m sorry, Daddy,” she whispered.
“Miss Worthington, are you alright?” Doctor Hubbell knelt beside her, assessing her face.
“I’m fine. I just …” She let the sentence taper and fanned herself with the crinkled, folded paper.
Her cap blocked air from circulating around her face. She untied the strings and placed it on the chair beside her.
“Are you dizzy?” he asked.
“I need to take a walk.” She stood but wavered.
Doctor Hubbell steadied her. “I don’t think that’s wise. You may be overheated.”
She was already walking away and didn’t listen to what else he had to say. She was never rude to people, especially those with whom she worked, but if she didn’t walk and think and burn some of the agonizing energy surging through her veins, she might collapse and become their next patient.
Without thinking about where she was going, she walked in a daze until she lost track of time. When her legs grew tired and sore, she focused on her surroundings and discovered she was just outside of Monty’s church.
It made sense that she would come here. She wanted to fall into his arms and weep and rail against injustice. She also wanted to throttle him for convincing her to wait on God’s timing and for making her feel as if her desire to see the club members held accountable was wrong. Fighting for the lives of others was never wrong.
The church door opened easily, and she stepped inside. The scent of freshly planed wood and dusting polish filled her senses. Light spilled from the stained-glass window and reflected its colors on the wooden cross behind the massive pulpit. The new pews were lined in perfect order along both sides of the sanctuary, leaving a path straight down the middle.
The sanctuary was empty. She felt a pull to the center aisle, a beckoning to the altar where she could unleash her troubles to the Lord, but He already knew what plagued her and had let them win, so she returned to the summer heat. Monty’s new house was only half a block’s length from the church. If he wasn’t there, she didn’t know where she’d go next.
Ten steps led to his open front door. She barged in to find Mr. Breslin and Mr. McDonough moving furniture. “I’m looking for Mon—uh, Pastor Childs.”
Mr. McDonough lowered the end of the settee he’d been holding. Sweat rolled down his ruddy face and threatened to drip onto the brushed upholstery. “He’s in the back rooms, Miss Worthington, setting in his new furniture. Let me get him for ya.”
“Thank you, but I know the way.” She wanted to slap herself for relaying that. “I mean, it’s a one-level home with limited rooms, so I’m capable of finding him myself without interrupting your day.”
Mr. Breslin, still holding on to his end of the settee, had difficulty hiding his amusement. Job rose from his curled position on the hearth to greet her.
“Annamae?” Monty traveled the length of the hallway and into the room where they stood. “I thought I heard your voice. What’s wrong?”
She had the newspaper clutched in her fist so tightly her fingers hurt. Her breath came fast, and she couldn’t answer his question.
“Guys, could you give us a few minutes, please?” Monty ushered them out. On the porch, he mumbled something to the men then closed the door, blocking what little breeze stirred the room.
He came and stood before her, hands buried in his pockets, and waited for her to speak.
That was when her sobs broke loose.
“What is it, sweetheart?” He stepped toward her, but instead of letting him console her, she held out the newspaper.
Warily, he took it and opened the folds. She knew when he spotted the headline, because he blew out a loud breath.
“They got away with it.” Her chest heaved faster than her lungs could keep up. The air became thinner.
“Calm down.” Monty hugged her close and rubbed circles on her back. “Shh. It’s going to be okay.”
She shook her head against his chest, soaking his shirt, her tears melding with the sweat already dampening the fabric.
“Shh,” he repeated, rocking her until her sobs quieted.
She lifted her head, and he wiped her tears with his thumbs. “Why does God keep allowing them to get away with murder?”
He winced. “None of our sin goes unpunished. There are always consequences, whether they happen right away or later in life. Either way, those sins can be forgiven if the person asks. We must remember that Jesus died for their sins too.”
Annamae pulled away and paced the new rug covering the floor. That thought didn’t sit parallel with her feelings toward them. “What if those men don’t want forgiveness? Then what?”
“Then the Lord will deal with them on Judgment Day.”
“I know that. I mean … You keep telling me to forgive them for what they did to my father, but they’ve never asked me for forgiveness. How do I forgive someone who doesn’t believe what they did was wrong and doesn’t even care about being forgiven?”
Monty tested the new love seat, calculating the precise measurement of each thought, she could tell. He patted the spot beside him, and she perched on the edge, suddenly exhausted from her emotional rush. She folded her arms around her middle and waited for the wisdom she hoped would set her free.
“Everyone’s sins nailed Jesus to the cross. He wrote each of our names in His wounds. Even the ones of those He knew would never ask for forgiveness. That way, everyone would have a fair chance at Heaven if they chose to accept Him. He forgave out of love.”
His words pricked her heart. “I’m not Jesus,” she whispered, more tears spilling down her cheeks. “I don’t love those men like He does.”
Monty reached for her hand, holding it tenderly between his. “None of us loves like Jesus. But it’s something we should constantly strive for.”
A groan escaped her throat, followed by more sobs. His words might be true and wise, but they did not set her free.
Face shielded by her hands, she cried for her father. She cried for the memories gained and lost. She cried for all the grieving she’d wanted to do in the past but couldn’t because she’d been too busy surviving.
Alone.
She cried for Johnstown and the surrounding communities and the lives lost unnecessarily. She wept for the survivors whose lives, like hers, would never be the same. She wept because, at the moment, that was all she was capable of doing.