Joe patted Lois’s arm. She looked pale, wrung out, no doubt exhausted and concerned about their future. The fire had left them all shaken.
She hoped nothing happened to tempt Joe to return to the poker tables.
God, I don’t understand why things have only gotten worse for Joe after turning away from gambling and claiming You Lord of his life.
“I’ve meant to ask, Ab.” Lois’s gaze met hers. “Why did Wade Cummings bid on your box lunch yesterday?”
Ethel whirled toward Abigail. “You shared a meal with a Cummings?”
“He won the bid, Ma. I had no choice.”
“Isn’t that just like that family, using their money to force others to bend to their will.”
Joe frowned. “Didn’t Leon bid?”
“He went as high as eleven dollars before he stopped.” Abigail cleared the table and carried dirty dishes to the sink. “He was probably afraid of losing his job at the bank.”
Face flushed, Ma scrubbed the oatmeal pot, sending suds flying. “I wouldn’t put it past a Cummings to fire someone for crossing them. Nothing that family does would surprise me.”
“Wade jumped the bid to twenty-five dollars,” Lois said. “No one else in this town has that kind of money.”
“Stay away from that man, Abigail. Like father, like son. Wade Cummings will bring you nothing but trouble. Most likely would enjoy it too.” Ma took the dishtowel from Abigail’s hands. “You’ll ruin your nice clothes.”
“Not sure God approves of this feud,” Joe said, voice low, almost as if he was talking to himself. Since Joe found God and turned his life around, his perspective on everything had changed.
Ethel’s wounded expression conveyed her displeasure. “I can’t believe you’d take a Cummings’s side, after what they did to Frank.”
Joe dropped his gaze. “You know whose side I’m on, Ma.”
Changing the subject, Abigail said, “Peter, don’t forget to practice your reading. You too, Gary and Sam.”
“I’ll see that they do.” Lois turned to Abigail. “I’ll pray you find a job, sis.”
Her conscience pinching like ill-fitting shoes, Abigail thanked her sister. “Ma, I may visit Rachel so don’t worry if I miss dinner.”
No point in telling her family about working for the Cummingses and getting them riled up, when most likely she’d be fired before the day ended.
A shiver slid through her. What had she let herself in for?
Wade rapped on the bedroom door, steeling himself for the confrontation sure to come once his father knew he’d hired a Wilson for his companion.
A cough, then “Who is it?”
“Wade.” He waited but heard nothing, then opened the door and entered the bedroom. Spotless, organized with nothing frivolous, nothing personal, not a picture, trinket or toiletry in sight. The decor was stark, shades of brown and black, dismal.
Like the man.
The one exception to the barren room—the ancient hound sprawled at the foot of his father’s bed. Lazy, sad-eyed, long ears drooping, attached to his father with a steadfast loyalty Wade admired. With a welcoming wag of his tail, Blue raised his head for the expected scratch behind his ears.
George Cummings, face etched with pain, sat propped up in bed, his white hair blending with the pillowcase, his bandaged hands resting palms up on the sheet.
Wade’s gaze settled on those motionless hands. Those hands normally darted and swooped, punctuating his father’s words.
“How was your night?”
His father shrugged.
“You know Doctor Simmons left a bottle of laudanum to help you sleep.”
“And end up addicted? No thanks.”
At forty-nine, his father was lean, muscular, a man with energy that came from vibrant health. That is until the fire left him with a cough and short of breath. Doc said in time his lungs would heal. How long?
Like every able-bodied man in town, Wade and his father had fought the fire. He hadn’t seen George enter a burning house. Not surprising with the thick smoke and the extent of the blaze. With herculean effort they’d been able to save the next block from destruction, not much comfort for those less fortunate.
“Before I leave for the bank, would you like to sit near the window?”
“I can manage.” His claim ended on a wheeze. “Question is—can you manage things at the bank?” his father said, his lack of confidence in Wade grating on every nerve.
“I’m taking care of things.”
“My son, the craftsman, happiest surrounded by wood shavings and sawdust.”
Wade didn’t answer, merely held his father’s gaze, refusing to rise to the bait. George delighted in starting an argument, as if only then did he feel alive. Yet the knowledge his father held him in disdain bored into Wade’s confidence like an oversize auger. He blurted, “A craftsman for a son must grate against the family image you take such pride in.”
“I couldn’t care less about impressing anyone. Enjoy your little hobby—as long as you have time to handle the Cummings holdings.”
Once his father’s body healed, Wade would reveal his plan to craft one-of-a-kind furnishings, to turn a pastime into a dream. George would despise the decision. Not that Wade needed approval.
He bit back a sigh. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, underneath he wanted his father’s support. Support he’d never give.
George glanced at the clock. “Shouldn’t you get going?”
Where was Abigail? “I’ve hired someone to keep you company. Fetch what you need. Prepare your meals.”
“A man would think his daughter could handle that job, but at the first excuse Regina skedaddled. Your sister is cut from the same cloth as her mother.”
Wade’s stomach twisted. What did it say about a man that his daughter fled his sickroom in tears and refused to return?
What did it say about a man that his wife left him for the stage years before?
His heart stuttered in his chest. What did it say about a woman that she hadn’t taken her children with her?
“Please tell me you didn’t hire one of the Moore brothers.”
“What?” Wade forced his thoughts back to the present as his father’s words penetrated his mind. “I didn’t.”
“Thank you for sparing me that.” His father rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “Nothing could be worse
