Meadowlarks by Thomas Holladay (chapter books to read to 5 year olds TXT) 📕

My God. 

Olen’s pounding heart filled his ears and he wavered.

I shouldn’t have come.

He took a deep breath, shifted the box and started up the stair, too late to stop now.

He climbed onto a landing near the top where the stair turned to the right. After a few more steps, he entered a large, vaulted space with a solid stone floor, some cow, deer and bear hides scattered around.

Willis sat in the center of the room near an open fire pit. White smoke lazily drifted toward a high opening. The wall behind the open fire had blackened from use. Pots and pans hung overhead. High above, windows had been fitted between overlapping roof planes, flooding the large chamber with plenty of light.

Willis ignored Olen, working on top of a large wooden table made from a split cedar log, beautifully polished on top, all those shades of red and white. He set a silver and gold clock face onto a clock mechanism already mounted inside a highly polished slab of a burled redwood stump. Polished brass chains, probably for winding the mechanism, had been fed through natural holes in the gnarled stump. Their counterweights rested on the floor at Willis’s feet.

Stacks of catalogues sat on a shelf behind Willis with a very old, leather-bound Bible, well used from the look of it.

“You sure got some beautiful spot here, by golly. Hope you don’t mind.”

Willis motioned for Olen to sit opposite the low table and stretched out his hands, asking for the box. “It’ll take two trips to deliver this.”

Olen gave him the wooden box and sat on a lamb’s wool cushion, looking out different windows, viewing different parts of the valley far below. If he moved around a little bit he could see everything from here.

He leaned forward to watch Willis work. “That’s going to be a nice clock. For the boy?”

“For his woman.” Willis carefully turned a machine screw into a steel post, a mount for the brass clock mechanism. “For the house, really.” He threw Olen a quick smile. “Found this redwood stump about twenty years back. Looked perfect. Intended it for Mary Lou and Jethro. Then . . .” Willis shook his head and turned a second mounting screw into another steel post.

Bright red scars on Willis's arm looked recent.

My God, how can that be?

Don’t ask. Never ask that. Think of something . . .

“You were saying ‘bout this clock. You been keeping it all these years, that polished stump? Why you bring it out now?”

Willis looked tired, the way he looked at Olen. “Kidro could never appreciate it.”

So simple.

So honest. 

Willis reached into a wooden toolbox without looking and pulled out a flat pry bar, waving it absently toward Olen. “The boy’s a lot like J.J.” He picked up the smaller wooden box Olen had just delivered, slid the flat bar under the lid and pried.

Staples squeaked on their way out, prying it open, otherwise so quiet up here.

“You think he’s got an eye for art?” Olen had seen some framed pictures hanging in the entry, good for a little boy’s work.

Willis set the box lid aside and dug into the box. Popcorn foam dribbled across the table and onto the floor as he lifted out the gold framed beveled glass clock face fitted with heavy, elaborate silver hinges.

Elegant.

Willis carefully examined the glass face for flaws and glanced at Olen. “I figure he does. Least ways, he observes things, draws pretty good sketches. I framed about ten already. She’s got ‘em hung in her office and bedroom, some in the entry.”

“Ya, I saw those, by golly. Hung on the plastered wall by her office door. One looks just like that big black horse. The boy did those?” Olen already knew he had.

Willis nodded the affirmative, using both hands to lower the glass cover over the clock face, testing it for fit. He set the glass face back into the box, stood and stretched, looking satisfied. He motioned for Olen to follow and turned up three steps chiseled from solid rock onto another flat area.

Olen joined him near a higher door opening. A stack of hides to one side must be where Willis slept.

A new saddle had been stretched over a draw-down stand near the doorway. “This is for the boy. I ordered silver trimming and a nameplate, along with a buckle for a belt he’s making for the woman. That was the cardboard box that came up from Carson City.”

“That’s a nice saddle, by golly.” Olen walked closer to the rear opening where steam rose from a nearby hot spring. Beyond that, a slow moving stream ran down a naturally eroded gully and flowed into a pond above the waterfall.

Beautiful.

Olen sensed the time was right and turned back to face Willis. “Willis, ‘bout what I said the other day . . .”

“I understand, Olen.” Willis didn’t want to talk about it either, the torment in his eyes. “After all you’ve lost, who could blame you?” Willis stepped squarely in front of Olen, close, thinking of what to say, how to say it. “You think the Potter woman might buy materials for a new house? I mean, I’d like to do something for Gilpin’s wife and daughter. I’ll charge Sally a couple of steers, make her pay something.”

“By golly, that’s nice. I’d hate to see them leave.”

“Figure that pretty little girl might grow up here, be the right age for the boy. You know, when the time comes.” Willis turned and looked out past his hot spring, uncomfortable about this subject.

“I’d like to help. I’ll talk to Jake Pendleton and the others ‘bout this. Maybe we can all pitch in. She won’t need to do it all, the Potter woman, I mean. It'll be more a community thing, make us all feel good.”

Oh yeah!

“She’s already talked to me 'bout this. She’s working out an insurance thing with Whatling, make it look like Bruce actually provided for Sally and little Sissy.”

Willis spun back, his blue eyes bright.