Page 132 of The River We Remember

“But they’re just boys, Wendell.”

“It’s always boys who go to war, Angie.”

“Find them, Brody. Find them before something terrible happens.”

“I will,” Brody said, and hoped he sounded convincing.

INSIDE, ANGIE RELAYED what Brody had told her to the other women. Ramona Creasy slumped where she sat and began to cry. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.”

“It’s no one’s fault,” Angie said.

Ramona lifted her face, tear-streaked and battered. “Tyler wasn’t always like this. There was sweetness to him once. It’s just… it’s been like watching him sink into quicksand. He just goes deeper and deeper, and he can’t seem to pull himself out.”

“Then you need to save yourself and your son,” Ida told her.

“I know. Christ, I know. It’s not too late, is it, Angie? Our boys will be okay, won’t they?”

“Brody will find them,” Angie assured her. “Ida, let’s fix tea for us all. You relax, Ramona. We’ll be right back.”

In the kitchen, Angie ran water into a kettle and, under the sound of it, confided, “I’m scared to death, Ida.”

The older woman sagged against the counter, as if her strength had deserted her. “This is what it was like in the war, worrying about Christian. Do you remember, Angie? Oh God, I hoped we’d never have to feel this way again.”

“He’ll be all right,” Angie said, as much for herself as for Ida.

But she recalled only too well that they’d all said the same thing to one another when Christian Madison had gone away to war.

The kettle began to whistle. Angie made tea, and the two women put on brave faces and went to comfort Del Wolfe’s mother.

CHAPTER FIFTY

WHEN CHARLIE PULLED into the Quinns’ farmyard, she could smell the evening meal on the air, the good aromas of baking biscuits and something fried drifting out through the kitchen windows, being carried on the currents of the breeze. She spotted J.P. exiting the huge barn and coming down the slope to the house. He would never be a big man physically, and there was none of Jimmy Quinn’s swagger in his step or Jimmy Quinn’s all-consuming selfishness in his eyes. He would grow up to be a good man, she thought, despite his father. She knew this was because of his mother. Fiona had been right. Marta was a strong woman, and neither her illness nor Jimmy Quinn’s bullying had been able to break her.

“Evening, Miss Bauer,” J.P. called out. He held a pair of well-worn work gloves in his hand and slapped them gently against his thigh as he came. His boots were caked in what looked and smelled like cow manure. “Me and Able, we were just mucking out the cow pen. With everything that’s gone on, it’s been a while.”

“I’d like to talk to your mother again, if I could.”

At the front door, he removed his dirtied work boots and entered the house sock-footed, ahead of Charlie. “If you’ll wait, I’ll get Mom.”

“Thank you.”

He climbed the stairs. Almost simultaneously, Colleen came from the kitchen, wiping her hands on the apron she wore. “Hi, Miss Bauer. Did you come for supper?”

“That wasn’t my intent.”

“Oh stay, please. There’s plenty, and we’d love to have you.”

“It does smell wonderful.”

Little Bridget stepped in behind her sister, and she, too, gave Charlie a lovely smile. “Miss Bauer!”

They all turned at the creak of the stairs and watched J.P. help his mother descend. When she saw Charlie, Marta’s face, like those of her children, warmed in welcome. Charlie felt a great weight on her heart, knowing what she had to do there. She didn’t relish this duty, but it had to be done.

“Hello, Charlotte.” Marta took Charlie’s hand in both of hers, which were cold despite the summer heat. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“I was passing by, Marta, and hoped I might have a word with you.”

She looked into Charlie’s eyes and seemed to understand that what was going to be said was for her ears alone. “Shall we sit on the porch swing?” she suggested. “It’s such a lovely day.”