I'll post the pre-order links afterward.
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Tom
might just as well have floated home on a cloud, fine as he was feeling. It did
bring him some way back down, just for a minute, when he went to bounce on his
toes and almost fell over, but he shook it off. That sort of thing happened often
enough, and an evening like this one surely didn’t.
And the stars were shining bright above, like they were celebrating along with
him.
Jenny had managed things so well that his
stump didn’t hurt more’n usual. And what pain he was used to didn’t seem to
matter tonight.
Only thing was, he could’ve turned right
around and laid with Jenny one more time and been that much the happier.
How soon could he manage another visit?
He’d a deal of thinking to do about what he was going to do with his wages from
now on. How often they’d go into Madam Mamie’s pocket rather’n Pa’s, and
whether he should be saving up for something, though he’d no clue for what.
Remembering and wanting kept him restless
overnight, but he still couldn’t help grinning now and again over his
breakfast. Ma and Pa kept sneaking looks at each other when they thought he
wasn’t watching. Pa, at least, must have known something was up when Tom didn’t
turn in his wages. He’d just as soon not know if Pa guessed why.
Walking to town went easier when he had
more to think of than his leg and his day of work to come. First he pictured
Jenny’s pretty face, and then her hair laying on her shoulders, and then her
round squeezable bosom and even rounder backside, and every minute he could
remember of what they’d done together. It seemed to take considerable shorter’n
usual before he made it to the door of the shop.
Finch, now, after everything that cowboy
had said, would be sure to figure things out if Tom came in all cheerful. He
could act extra glum, but then Finch might think he’d gone to Mamie’s and made
a mess of it. So he kept things businesslike, not chatting but not sulking
neither, and Finch didn’t make any show of drawing conclusions.
Speaking of drawing. That’s just what Tom
would’ve liked to do, draw a picture of Jenny, head and shoulders and just a
little of what came below. It’d been a while since he got a hankering to draw.
He used to do a lot of it, with a stick in the dirt or on his slate at school.
Got a licking one of those times, drawing when he was supposed to do
arithmetic. And then when he was maybe ten, he’d used his pocket knife to draw
on a bit of leather he didn’t think anyone cared about. Turned out he was
wrong, and he got a licking from Pa that time.
Wasn’t the lickings that stopped him, so
much as not having the time once he got big enough to do more farm work. And
since that plowshare took some of his leg and more of his use on the farm, he
hadn’t thought about it, or about much else that he might do just from wanting
to.
Today, though . . . when Finch finished
cutting out a pair of boots, Tom asked, as casual as he could, “You have any
use for what’s left of that piece? Because I might if you don’t.”
Finch looked at him kind of sideways, but
he shrugged and tossed it Tom’s way. Mrs. Finch came in not long after, and
that gave Tom his chance. Finch cared a deal about his dinner and never paid
attention to much else while he was eating it. As soon as Mrs. Finch left and
Finch dug in, Tom moved off to the farthest corner of the shop and laid the
scrap of leather on the edge of a table Finch used for storage of this and
that.
The biggest piece was about a foot by eight
inches. Tom trimmed away the rest and looked at his knife, considering. It was
just fine for cutting through leather, but not so good for just scraping away
one thin line at a time. What he needed for that was . . . Where was that tool
Finch had used for the cowboy’s initials on the saddle, the one Finch called a
swivel knife?
But Finch had gobbled his dinner already,
and Tom hadn’t taken but a bite or two. He quickly tore away at the chicken leg
and wiped his hands on his trousers.
He’d hardly be able to get at that tool
without Finch knowing, even if it were right to do it. He’d have to fess up.
“Mr. Finch, when you close up for the day,
could I borrow what you used to carve that cowboy’s initials? I’d treat it real
careful and have it back in the morning. And I wouldn’t touch nothing but
leather with it, the leather you let me have earlier.”
Finch wrinkled his forehead to make his
eyebrows stick out even more than they did by nature. “What’ve you got to be
carving? You wouldn’t be making one of them pictures that make fun of folks,
carry-whatsits, of me, would you?” Clearly, that’d be as much as Tom’s job was
worth.
“Oh, no, sir, I’ve no such intention. Just
— just a drawing I’ve been wanting to do, on something that won’t wash away or
rub out.”
Finch stroked his scraggly beard. “Well,
all right then. You take good care of it, and if you lose it, you’ll be working
to pay it back and not for whatever else you use your pay on. And you clean it
like I showed you.” He fetched the tool and handed it over.
Finch might be grumpy and suspicious, and
he watched his coin, but he wasn’t that bad. Not altogether. Or at least, not
always.
By the time Tom made the walk home, ate
supper, and did what chores he still could, it was full dark and he’d have been
about ready for bed, but for the scrap of leather calling to him. He filled a
lamp, lit it, and laid the leather out on the kitchen table. Pa, wandering out
in his nightshirt and cap, saw what Tom was doing and hoisted an eyebrow. “Hope
you came by that leather some way that won’t get you in trouble.”
“Mr. Finch gave it to me when I asked for
it.” What a memory Pa had! He’d hardly’ve thought being on the other end of
that strap would stick in the memory as well as Tom’s end of it. Was that part
of what being a father meant? He’d have to ponder that some time.
Seeing as he’d never used the swivel knife
before, he should’ve kept another scrap to practice on. Thinking ahead maybe
wasn’t his strong suit. With a sigh, he cut a long thin strip off his piece of
leather and started teaching himself. At first even his straight lines wouldn’t
stay straight, let alone an even thickness, but it didn’t take too long for him
to get that right. Next came curves — he’d need plenty of curvy lines for
Jenny! That thought got him remembering, which heated him up to where it got
distracting. He went out to the pump and splashed cool water on his face, then
got back to work.
When he’d used up most of the strip and
figured he was as good at this as he’d be getting, he smoothed out his main
piece of leather again. He maybe shouldn’t draw lower’n her shoulders after
all, seeing as her dress had showed more than a regular girl’s would. Or he
could draw the dress different, but that’d be a sort of lying.
He drew her face first, heart-shaped even
to the bit of a point to her chin, with the dimple he’d noticed every time she
smiled. He puzzled over how to show her nose with its tilted-up end, all too
aware that once he set tool to leather for it, there’d be no rubbing out any
wrong moves. But it was getting late, and him getting tired, so he finally made
a few thin lines suggesting it and moved on to her eyes. There was no chance of
drawing them pretty enough, but he showed them big and wide open, with the long
lashes that might get help from some sort of paint. He tried to use a light
touch on the eyebrows — better to have them a little thinner’n life than to
make them too thick and frowny.
Jenny’s smile was another tricky task.
Better to give her upper lip more of a Cupid’s bow than make it too flat. Then
shape the lower lip to match, kind of plump, like she was ready to kiss
someone.
He had the most fun drawing her hair, which
didn’t have to be exactly the way she wore it so long as it was long and full
and wavy. That left only her neck and the top line of her shoulders. And then,
finally, he was done and could fall into bed.
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If I've managed to intrigue you, or even get you hooked on this story, you can pre-order the Kindle edition here, or the paperback here (Amazon) or here (Barnes & Noble).
Next time: Jenny tries to write a letter to her family.
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