Where Willows Grow by Kim Vogel Sawyer Page A

‘‘Let’s get you to Sunday school.’’
    After the service ended, Jack followed Anna Mae, watching the sway of her slim-fitting skirt as she made walking on high-heeled shoes look graceful even when clumping across the hard-packed earth of the churchyard.
    Her hips were a little wider than they’d been in her teens—she’d always been such a willowy thing—but that was to be expected. After all, she’d borne two babies. The added curves did nothing to diminish her attractiveness, Jack acknowledged. If anything, it increased it. The woman Anna Mae had become was even more appealing than the girl she had been. And how he’d loved the girl.
    They had attended this little clapboard church for as long as he could remember. In their childhood days, their families had sat together on one of the wooden pews. Anna Mae had been nine years old when she made her trek to the front of the church at the end of service to shake the minister’s hand and announce her intention to be saved. Jack had waited two weeks to do the same thing—couldn’t let her think he was copying—and even after all these years he remembered how she’d beamed her approval when his name had been announced as a new entry in the Lamb’s Book of Life.
    Only eleven years old, but he’d decided in those moments that Anna Mae Elliot had to be his someday.
    Growing up on side-by-side farms with parents who were best friends had given him many opportunities to be with Anna Mae. And as they’d reached their teen years, it had been easy to see himself and Anna Mae as one. One farm, one home, one family. And then Harley had come along and disrupted everything.
    But Harley was gone now. Maybe even gone for good. It wasn’t unheard of in these troubling times for a man to abandon his family. Jack was back in the picture, and he liked the looks of things from this angle.
    Anna Mae stopped beside the Model T and shifted her weight to balance Marjorie on her hip. She stretched her hand toward the door, but Jack dashed around and popped the handle before her fingers could close on it. Her gaze flitted upward, her expression wary. Giving a nod and smile, he gestured toward the seat and quipped, ‘‘Your chariot awaits.’’
    ‘‘Thank you.’’
    The words were uttered in a clipped, tight tone that didn’t reflect gratitude, but Jack offered another grin and a warm, ‘‘You’re quite welcome, Miz Phipps.’’ He walked around to his side of the car, and Dorothy trailed behind him on bare feet, her shoes in her hand. She was a miniature version of her mama, and just looking at the golden-haired child opened another floodgate of memories. This child should have been his.
    He winked at the little girl. ‘‘Hey there, Miss Dorothy, didja have a good time in church?’’
    Dorothy yawned and scratched her head, making her bow slip a little closer to her left ear. ‘‘It makes my feet tired.’’
    ‘‘Your feet tired?’’ Jack could make no sense of that.
    ‘‘They have to hang.’’ The child’s blue eyes blinked twice. ‘‘ ’Cause the seats are too tall. And it makes them tired.’’
    Now Jack understood. ‘‘Well, just tuck them up underneath you. Then they won’t have to hang.’’
    Dorothy pursed her lips, clearly disgusted. ‘‘Mama won’t let me. Says it’s not ladylike.’’
    Jack laughed out loud. ‘‘Well, your mama’s a perfect lady, so I reckon she’d know. Better do what she says. Now climb on in there.’’
    He waited until Dorothy climbed into the backseat before kneeling beside the car and reaching beneath his seat to turn on the gas. Still on his knees, he leaned into the cab and turned the carburetor knob forward nearly a full turn, then reversed it slightly. He hid his smile at Anna Mae’s curious expression as he flipped the ignition switch to the left, then moved the spark lever to its highest position. He’d learned a long time ago he wanted the spark retarded unless he wanted a good kick from the hand