The Steep and Thorny Way(37)

He puffed a frustrated breath out of the corner of his mouth.

I turned toward the path to my house. “I know you said you would need to take your own life directly afterward if you were the one who killed him—”

“I would.”

My skin chilled at his lack of hesitancy.

“Hanalee”—he stepped closer—“look at me.”

I swallowed and did as he asked.

He stopped two feet in front of me and peered straight at me with eyes as brown as the earth beneath our feet. His peppermint-scented nearness made me remember the kiss, and I didn’t know if I should look at his face or the backs of my hands.

“No one else is ever going to bring justice to your father,” he said, leaning forward on his right foot. “No one else is going to give a damn about us. Those words you just heard those Witten bastards say about people like you and me? That’s how most people around here think.”

“I don’t know. I . . .” I scooted backward an inch. “There’s got to be a better way. A legal way.”

“A legal way?” He breathed a short laugh. “Oregon’s laws are written to work against us. Eugenics passed as a law. If they can pass legislation controlling who can and can’t have children—”

“If I’m going back home”—I raised my chin—“and getting smacked around or paddled because of running off into the night with you, then you can take the time to come up with a better plan. A solid plan. One that involves justice and the two of us leaving Oregon in one piece. You and me and my mother and Fleur. All of us need to get away safely.”

Joe swallowed and glanced over his shoulder, toward the path to my house.

“Promise me, Joe. Swear we’ll both make it out of this ordeal alive and free. Let’s find out if there’s someplace out there that would treat us better.”

His shoulders tightened, but he nodded. “All right. I’ll give the plan some more thought.”

“Good. See that you do.” I took off the coat he had lent me. “Stay safe out here.”

He nodded again.

I set his blanket and the coat on the basket and moved to pass him, but he took hold of my elbow.

“You stay safe with Clyde Koning,” he said, his voice low.

My chin trembled. “I’ll try.”

“Don’t let him scare you or intimidate you. Put the entire blame for last night on me.”

“All right.”

He bent down to pick up the basket.

“Joe?” I said.

He looked up.

I played with the emerald ring on my finger. “Do you want to be an architect?”

He stood up tall and rolled back his shoulders. “Why do you ask that?”

“You built all those card structures in the shed. I just wondered . . . did you do that out of boredom, or do you like to build things in general? Is that your calling?”

He backed away with his bag and the basket and lantern bumping against his sides. “I used to think my calling was to play baseball like Babe Ruth. I planned to sign to the Major Leagues by the age of nineteen, just like he did.”

“Oh . . .” I lifted my eyebrows. “Well . . .”

Joe shrugged and kept trekking backward. “Yeah . . . ‘Oh, well’ just about sums it up.”

“That’s not what I meant.” I swallowed down a tight spot in my throat. “Just so you know . . .”

He slowed his pace a little.

I shoved my hands into my skirt pockets. “I didn’t knock that card house down on purpose yesterday. I was just looking at it too closely. Admiring it. It reminded me of a honeycomb.”

His lips quirked into a small smile.

“That’s all I wanted to say,” I said. “I like honeycombs.”

He chuckled and swung himself around in the opposite direction, and I turned and cringed over those last words.

I like honeycombs.

After all we’d endured together over the past twelve hours. I like blasted honeycombs.

His footsteps trailed off into the distance behind me. I shuddered at the absence of his company but told myself it was simply a chill from the shadows.





CHAPTER 13





THE PRIMROSE PATH


ON THE DIRT DRIVE IN FRONT OF our house stood two empty black automobiles with glass windows and wheels with wooden spokes. They resembled two watchmen, parked at severe angles, facing me, staring me down with unblinking headlights for eyes. I staggered across the yard toward the house, my gaze fixed upon the vehicles. One was a Washington County patrol car; the other, the Adders’ Ford Model T—the same car that Joe had crashed into my father on Christmas Eve 1921. The Adders had fixed the dent in the hood and replaced the left headlight even before the county put Joe on trial. I remembered seeing it parked in front of the county courthouse, mended and freshly repainted.

My stomach groaned. If I had eaten any breakfast that morning, I’d probably have thrown it up in the lavender bushes sweetening the air below our back kitchen steps. I tripped on those steps on my climb up them, and I clung to the rail with clammy hands.

Once inside the house, I heard a cacophony of adult voices crashing together in the front living room, including the squeaky tones of Sheriff Rink, who said something about checking the local ponds and lakes.