What Frees the Heart

  WHAT FREES

  THE HEART

  Karen A. Wyle

  All rights reserved

  Published 2020 in the United States of America

  Oblique Angles Press

  Cover design by Kelly A. Martin of KAM Design

  Author photo by Holy Smoke Photography

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Connect with the Author

  Chapter 1

  Tom Barlow leaned against the fence for support and tossed the last sack of fall potatoes into the wagon. He could still load a wagon, at least. Not the first time he tried, or the second — and the way he fell the second time, landing on his arm, had made him even more useless for the next week. But he’d got the hang of it now.

  Pa came out of the house, putting on his hat as he walked to the wagon. “Coming with me, son?”

  That was a puzzle with no good answer. Tom could use the rail of the fence and a handy stump to climb into the wagon without Pa’s help, but getting back down was more of a trick. He could try it, and maybe fall down for folks to laugh about, or stay perched up on the wagon like a cigar store Indian for passersby to stare at.

  “I’ll come.” At least, whatever happened, he’d get to see something different for a change, if only the little bit of difference between the farm and town. It was bad enough being stuck around here before, when he could at least sneak off with one of the horses between chores and ride around a bit.

  Sometimes, he could hardly believe he couldn’t just hop onto a horse — or a wagon — the way he used to. Other days, he could hardly believe he’d ever done it at all.

  After they dropped off the sacks at the train station, Pa drove to the square and parked in a shady spot near the dry goods store, within reach of the water trough. “Keep an eye on the horse and wagon for me, will you, while I go in?” Pa had been thinking along the same lines as Tom, seemingly. And maybe he didn’t much fancy having the people in town see his son stumbling around like a barely-born colt.

  Tom gave Pa a short nod just a hair shy of rude. Pa paused, his eyebrows going lower like he was thinking of fetching a strap, before he shook his head a little and headed toward the general store.

  Now Tom had nothing to do but feel conspicuous and look around him. The first thing he noticed was a cardinal, landing in the nearest tree with a twig in its beak, bright red against the bare branches. That bird could fly most anywhere, but here it was in Cowbird Creek. It must feel a whole lot different than he did these days.

  Tom saw himself working into an even worse mood, and tried to steer another way. It was sunny, at least, and sunshine always boosted his spirits some. And that tree with the cardinal might be bare still, but right under it was a forsythia bush well along in its blooming, the first of many to come.

  Then something moving caught his eye from down the street. He turned to see a girl walking up — no, walking didn’t do justice to it. She sort of bounced along, stepping out strong and lively, her yellow hair bouncing too, bright in the sun under a little nothing of a hat. There was plenty of her, all put together just right, and a pretty face to finish off with — not what you’d call refined, but a straight-ahead honest sort of good-looking.

  Why hadn’t he seen her before, at a dance or a church social? Or had she been some little stick of a kid and just lately blossomed out?

  He’d already got a nice long look at the front of her, and now she headed into the store and let him enjoy the view from behind. He sighed to see her pass through the door and out of sight.

  Coming into town did beat sitting at home watching cows, at that.

  Another woman came walking past, older, with a little boy skipping alongside her. Skipping, like any child did, like Tom had often enough. He closed his eyes and waited for the pain to ease. But before he got to opening them, he heard the boy’s voice. “Why’s that man got a wooden leg? Was he a soldier, like Uncle Jake?”

  Tom ground his teeth, cussing in his head. What with the way he was growing out of his trousers, and sitting high up on the wagon, anyone could see the wood between his trouser leg and his boot.

  Meanwhile, the woman was saying, “No, Johnny. He’s too young. He’d have been maybe your age when the war ended.”

  “Then what happened to him, Ma?”

  The woman glanced up at Tom, looking embarrassed and sorry, as she grabbed her son’s hand and pulled him along, saying something Tom couldn’t hear. But right behind came two men, the barber and some other fellow, who acted like they’d heard it. Because the barber said to the other man, not troubling to be quiet, as if Tom was deaf along with crippled: “Poor lad. At least a soldier who lost his leg gets a pension, and knows he’s a hero. And an old man with a game leg was a young man with two good legs once.”

  And all Tom could do was sit there on the wagon like a log, thinking how the barber was right. No honorable war wound for him, no life full of memories. One clumsy moment, and his life was more or less over before he’d done much of anything with it.

  And there, finally, came Pa carrying a big sack of provisions, smiling like someone just told him a joke, taking big steps. But when he reached the wagon and got a look at Tom’s face, he all of a sudden seemed to shrink shorter.

  They didn’t talk on the ride home.

  * * * * *

  Tom remembered the first time Pa said he was big enough to groom the horses. He’d been so proud! and then mortified when that big horse went and kicked him into the straw.

  Years later, now, and the horse Tom had named and raised from a colt wouldn’t dream of kicking him, and here he was, sprawled in the straw again.

  He crawled over to the side of the stall and pulled himself upright, Cochise nickering at him all the while. The big gelding hadn’t meant it. He’d just been nuzzling. He couldn’t know how easy Tom lost his balance these days.

  Tom took the brush down from its hook and set to grooming. Cochise leaned into it, but Tom had seen that coming and braced himself against the wall.

  “You like that, don’t you? Enjoy it, then. Got to take your pleasures where you can get ‘em. You and me both. You like me brushing you, and I like your company.”

  Cochise, not to be left out, decided it was time to groom Tom right back, licking at his hair. Tom laughed for the first time all day. “Won’t Ma think I look pretty, once you’re done with me!”

  But Cochise was getting restless, shifting his weight around from hoof to hoof. “Easy, now. Almost done.”

  Maybe Cochise would have liked a different sort of life. Rounding up cattle, say, with a cowboy on his back. “I thought of going for a cowboy, did you know? Sounded mighty fine to me, chasing cattle across the prairie. How’d you like that kind of life? But I’m afraid you aren’t the right kind of horse for it, not hardly.”

  Tom’s chest was tightening up again, like it did when he thought too much about things. “No, not th
e right kind of horse at all. No more’n I’m the right kind of man, any more. You’ll keep on pulling plows and wagons, and I — well, I’ll find something I’m fit for, if I can.” There had to be something.

  Which was why he’d be heading to town to talk to Finch.

  Not the easiest fellow to talk to. But Doc Gibbs had said Finch might have work for him, work he could do sitting down, mostly. And Tom had stalled as long as he could stand to, telling himself it’d be too tricky to walk into town on days the road had snow or ice, or that he needed to work up to walking that far every day. Now he’d out-stalled winter, and he was more perishing sick of the farm than fretted about dealing with Finch. And today, it wasn’t even raining. So off he’d go.

  But first, he’d better comb his hair.

  It was a pretty morning for a walk, and warm enough for early spring. And his leg held up better’n he’d feared. Still, he was limping pretty good by the time he passed the Gibbs place, where the widow Blum used to live before she hared off with that medicine show fellow. Mrs. Gibbs, Clara Brook that was, hailed him from the window. “A good morning to you, Tom! Care for some coffee?”

  She might be offering so’s he had a reason to rest his leg, but he had managed to work up a thirst. “Thank you kindly, ma’am. I’d like that fine.” He made his way to her front step and eased himself down. She came to sit next to him with two mugs and handed him one.

  “Would your errand today be with Mr. Finch?”

  He hadn’t slept specially well last night, and coffee would help him gather his wits. He gulped a third of it down before he answered her. “That’s right, ma’am. He said he’d come out to the farm if I . . . if more convenient. Which was good of him, busy as he keeps. But I could hardly work for him if I couldn’t get myself to his shop, so I may as well start out as I’ll need to keep on.”

  She nodded and drank her coffee, leaning on one arm, head back to soak in the sun. He snuck a look at her. She’d always been on the skinny side, but she was fattening up some now that she was married. Must be eating plenty of her own cooking.

  But then she put her hand on her belly, gentle-like, the way he remembered Ma doing before he’d known he had a sib coming.

  She caught him looking at her and flushed a little. “Yes, I’m in the family way. Old for it, but at least I’ve got a doctor handy.”

  She’d always had that way of just coming out with things other folks wouldn’t say, or would say roundabout. He found himself blurting out, “Do you think I can work for Finch? Satisfy him? He don’t seem easy to please.”

  She sat up straighter and turned toward him, studying on what to say, Tom on tenterhooks. He drank some more coffee, waiting. Finally, she nodded and said, “I think you can. He’s not one to put people down just to make himself feel bigger. And I know you’ll work hard for him, harder than someone with less to prove.”

  There she went again, throwing truth at him. But that meant he could trust she meant what she said. Something wound tight inside him eased up. “I surely will.”

  He finished the coffee and put down the mug. She watched him haul himself upright, not offering to help. He bowed in the careful way he’d learned to do, and got back on the road.

  Finch was taking his ease, leaning against the wall out in front of his shop, when Tom showed up. That wasn’t the best sign — it might mean he wasn’t busy enough to need help after all. But as soon as the cordwainer spotted Tom, he straightened up and called, “Come along in, youngster! I’ve got a job I haven’t been hankering to do, and if you sound like you’ll suit, you can get started on it.”

  Finch headed back inside and Tom stumped along after. The smell of leather hit him as soon as he went through the door, a good thick smell that lifted his mood right away. Then a breeze from somewhere shifted, carrying a less agreeable stink — the horse piss the hides were soaking in to soften them and make it easier to get the hair out. No matter. You didn’t grow up on a farm and stay prissy about smells.

  Finch walked over to a barrel where the piss smell came from. “This hide’s been soaking long enough. Next step is to scrape it. You could use that table to lay it out, and set yourself on the stool, but you’d have to stand up to reach some of it.” He looked Tom up and down. “Seeing as you’re here, and I don’t see a wagon that could’ve brung you, I guess you can manage it.

  “I’ll pay you eighty-five cents a day, Sundays off. Deal?”

  Eighty-five cents was better than nothing. And it wasn’t as if Tom was all that much help on the farm. But there were times Pa and Billy could use a hand. “When things get busy on the farm, I’d want to take another day now and again. Deal?”

  Finch chuckled. “All right, deal for now. If you need more time than I can spare, we’ll see if we can go on with each other somehow, or no. Anyone expecting you at home real soon?”

  If they were, they’d know where to come look. “No, sir. I can get to work. You want I should get that hide out?”

  Finch took down two aprons from a hook in the wall and tossed one to Tom. The toss could’ve been aimed better, but Tom managed to catch it. “I’ll show you how to lay it out and what tool to use. Then it’s all yours.”

  Smell and all.

  Chapter 2

  Jenny climbed the stairs trying to look carefree, in case any of the other girls was watching. Not much point to it — they all knew. It was never good news if Madam Mamie called you up to her office. If she was pleased with you, she’d come and find you and give you a kind word or a side-hug or maybe a cash bonus. The office was for scolding a girl, or even warning her that she’d come to her last chance and might be out on her ear soon.

  Jenny had a pretty good idea what the trouble was. It wore a fancy frock coat, smoked cigars too smelly for what they cost, and had looked down his nose at her when he left that afternoon.

  Mamie’s door was open, but as soon as Jenny showed up, Mamie waved her in, stood up, and closed it. Jenny’s belly went cold. Would Mamie kick her out, just because one client didn’t find her as much to his taste as he’d reckoned? Where could she go? The sheriff would never let her walk the street for customers, even if she could stand to do it.

  Mamie grabbed Jenny’s shoulder and steered her into the chair close to Mamie’s desk. “Sit down, girl. And don’t look so petrified. You’re not in that much trouble. You just need reminding of some things.” Mamie sat back down at the desk, thumped her elbows on it, and leaned forward. “In fact, I bet you can tell me what those things are.”

  Jenny knew she must have a sour-looking pout on her face as she recited, “Make the gentleman feel welcome. Follow his lead, unless he don’t know what he’s doing. Make him feel special. Laugh at his jokes —”

  “Which is not the same as telling jokes of your own, now, is it? It is especially important to avoid coarse humor. Our patrons do not consider themselves to be coarse individuals. And you should have learned better than to use slang expressions to our more refined gentlemen.”

  Jenny stuck out her lip. “Why’d he pick me if I’m so common, then?”

  Mamie got her I shouldn’t have to explain this look. “Probably because he knew that all my girls are supposed to have some class. You didn’t just leave a customer dissatisfied —”

  Jenny tossed her hair. “Oh, he sounded satisfied enough to me. He bellowed like a hog!”

  Mamie stood up behind her desk, leaned over it, picked up the nearest bit of Jenny’s hair, and gave it a sharp tug. “You know that’s not what I’m saying. You didn’t just leave a customer dissatisfied with the quality of our service, you damaged my reputation by doing it.” She did a double take, looking at the hair. “Right here, this is part of the problem. That color looks cheap. You’d have done better leaving it brown.” She turned the strands of hair this way and that. “On the other hand, now that it’s lighter, you could . . . how’d you like to go red? Plenty of men consider red hair exotic, and even believe red-haired women are more passionate by nature.”

  Jenny
tried to remember what she’d heard about turning hair red. “Do you mean henna? Won’t it rub off or nothing?”

  Mamie let go of Jenny’s hair, sat back down, and tapped her long fancy fingernail on the desk. “No henna for my girls. We’d use the latest dye, that I ordered a while back from a factory in Massachusetts.” Prob’ly like what Mamie used herself. Jenny had to admit Mamie’s hair was a prettier blonde than Jenny had managed. “I figured I’d be wanting a redhead sooner or later, if one didn’t wander in. Of course, dye like that is expensive. You’d have to share the cost.”

  That would mean a smaller payment for every customer until she paid off however much Mamie wanted out of her. But what choice did she have? After she’d gone and ticked off that stuffy old coot, she had better do whatever would make sure Mamie gave her another chance. “All right. I’d like that fine.”

  Mamie finally smiled. “And fine is just how you’ll look. Meanwhile, you need to spend more time with some of our best-mannered girls. Listen to them, try to talk more like them, watch how they handle men. Girls like Lucette and Penny, they could almost skip bedding the customers and still send them out happy.”

  I’d sure like to skip bedding some of them as come in here. She knew not to say anything of the kind. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Have them teach you some songs. You’ve a pretty voice, if you learn what to do with it.”

  Jenny winced before she could catch herself. Her brother would laugh himself sick. He’d had plenty of names for her singing. Squealing like a slaughtered hog again? Honkin’ louder’n the goose, you are! But she’d give it a try, and then Mamie would see.

  “Back to work, now. And no more telling jokes, not until you learn some better ones and when to tell ‘em. Stick to smiling and flattering. And of course, act like they’re the best lover you’ve had all year.”

  Were any of the customers fool enough to believe it when a whore said that? Well, she should know by now how big a man’s ego could get.