Part 13 (1/2)
”Owen. Owen Goldsmith.” The boy sat up, giving his head a slow shake as he did so. When he saw the long, ragged tear in the knee of his left pant leg, he groaned. ”Ma's not going to like seein' that. These are my Sunday best.”
Morgan leaned for ward. ”Your knee's bleeding too.” He parted the torn fabric to look at the sc.r.a.ped knee. The wound had dirt and gravel imbedded in the bleeding flesh. ”Think you can walk on it?”
”'Course I can.” Owen gave him a disgusted look, one that said the question was dumb.
Subduing a grin, Morgan stood and waited while the boy got to his feet. Owen took one step - and grimaced, his face gone pale. Even if the bike could be ridden - not likely from the look of the front wheel - he couldn't have managed it with that knee.
”Where do you live?” Morgan asked.
”On Shenandoah, the other side of Wallula.”
”That's a long way, limping and pus.h.i.+ng a bike with a twisted wheel. Come with me to my place and I'll drive you home in my automobile.”
Owen's eyes got as big as saucers. ”Really? I can ride in your car?”
”Sure can.” Morgan pointed. ”My house is just around the corner there. Let's go.” He stepped over to the bicycle, lifted it by the cross bar, and started up the hillside, checking his stride so as not to outdistance the boy.
When they reached Morgan's suit coat where he'd dropped it in the road, Owen picked it up. ”I'll carry this for you.”
”Thanks.”
They walked in silence until they reached the top of the hill and turned onto Skyview. That's when it struck Morgan where he'd seen the kid before - leaving Gwen's home. ”You take piano lessons from Miss Arlington, don't you?”
”Yeah.” There was an implied What of it? What of it? in his tone. in his tone.
Morgan wondered if some of Owen's friends gave him a hard time about playing the piano. ”She's my teacher too.”
The kid shot him a look of disbelief. ”Aren't you kinda old old to be takin' lessons?” to be takin' lessons?”
”Never too old to learn something new.”
Owen grunted.
”And Miss Arlington's a good teacher. Don't you think? I know I've enjoyed her thus far.”
”Yeah, I suppose she's good.” The kid squinted his eyes. ”You sweet on her or somethin'?”
Fortunately for Morgan, they'd reached his home. He ignored Owen's question and pointed toward the garage. ”My motorcar's in there. Want to try to clean up that knee before I take you home?”
”No. It can wait.” It was clear he wanted to get into the Ford touring car as soon as possible.
Within minutes, the damaged bicycle and its owner were in the automobile and Morgan was driving down the hillside on Shenandoah, headed toward the Goldsmith home. As he pa.s.sed through the intersection with Wallula, he couldn't help glancing toward Gwen's home and wis.h.i.+ng he hadn't upset her the way he had.
Because Owen was right. Morgan was was sweet on Miss Arlington. sweet on Miss Arlington.
SEVENTEEN.
Gwen was standing in the kitchen, the door to the back porch open to catch the breeze, when she heard the put-putter-put put-putter-put of an automobile. Her heart leapt at the sound. Was it Morgan's car? Was he coming here? But no. The sound didn't stop. It continued on, fading as the automobile continued down the street. of an automobile. Her heart leapt at the sound. Was it Morgan's car? Was he coming here? But no. The sound didn't stop. It continued on, fading as the automobile continued down the street.
She opened the oven door and removed the pan holding the pot roast and vegetables.
She didn't care, of course, that it might have been Morgan's automobile. It could as easily have been Harrison Carter's or one of the two or three other local men who owned motorcars.
But it had sounded like Morgan's to her.
A groan of frustration slipped from her lips. This was silly, the way she thought of him so often. Silly and totally unlike her.
I was rude to him this morning.
It was true. She'd walked away while he talked to Reverend Rawlings. She hadn't spoken a word of good-bye. He had seemed appreciative that she'd allowed him to sit beside her, and she had responded with irritation and rudeness.
”I wanted to see you at wors.h.i.+p. One can learn a lot about a person that way.”
What had he meant by that? Had he been sincere? And why did it matter to her anyway? If it weren't for the election, they might never have met, and even if they had, they would have had nothing more than a pa.s.sing acquaintance.
She recalled that moment, up at the resort site, when she'd felt herself sway toward him, when she'd thought he might kiss her, when she'd thought she might welcome his kiss, when - ”Gwennie,” Cleo said, ”the table is set. Can I help with anything in here?”
”What?” Gwen turned to face her sister, who stood in the kitchen doorway. ”I'm sorry. I was woolgathering.” Not for anything in the world would she tell Cleo where her thoughts had been - or upon whom.
”Just wondered if I can help you with anything.”
”No. Dinner's ready. Tell Dad to come inside. I'll have everything on the table in a moment.”
Morgan followed Owen up to the boy's house, carrying the damaged bicycle. Before they reached the front porch, the door opened and a woman - presumably Owen's mother - stepped outside. Her brown hair was streaked with gray, and her face was lined with worry.
”Owen? What happened?”
”Nothin', Ma. I fell off my bike, that's all.”
The woman's eyes s.h.i.+fted to Morgan.
”I saw him take the spill, Mrs. Goldsmith.” He set the bike on the ground, leaning it against the porch. ”When I saw the bike was damaged, I offered to bring Owen home. His knee's banged up.”
The woman knelt on the porch to examine Owen's injury, saying not a word about the torn trouser leg.
From the look of things, Morgan guessed the Goldsmith family was none too prosperous. The house could use a coat of paint, and the porch sagged at one end. He wondered if they would have the funds to fix that bicycle wheel. Probably not. The kid's spill would mean no bike riding for a while.
Mrs. Goldsmith stood and looked at him. ”I'm afraid I don't know your name so I can thank you properly.”
”I'm sorry.” He removed his hat. ”I'm Morgan McKinley.”
”Oh, you're the other candidate for mayor.”
”Yes, I am.”
”I'll be voting for Miss Arlington. I've known her for a number of years, and she is a fine young woman.”