Mission of Hope. Allie Pleiter
fidgety gesture. “Really?” He stretched out the word in a most unsavory way. “You sure?”
“I am,” came a deep voice from behind Nora. She spun around to see Quinn Freeman step solidly between her and the leering man. He hoisted a large piece of steel in one hand with a defensive air. “I’m really sure, Ollie. Want to find out how sure I am?”
“Charity’s a virtue, Freeman.” Ollie grinned, but it was more of a sneer.
“Just make sure it’s virtue you got in mind. Miss Longstreet was just helping out, I imagine, and I’ll make sure she gets back to the mail wagon safe and sound, don’t you worry.” Quinn nodded at Nora, taking the scroll from her as if to personally see to its security.
“You do that.” Ollie kicked a stone in his path and started walking back down the alley. “You just go ahead and do that.”
With Ollie’s retreat, Nora felt the rest of the gathered crowd sink back to wherever they had come from. She let out the breath she had been holding. “It seems I owe you yet another debt, Mr. Freeman.”
He put down the piece of steel and handed her back Sam’s scroll. “I’m not so sure it was a smart idea for you to wander over here like that. Even to help Sam. Things can get a little…rough around here if you’re not careful.”
“My father would agree heartily. He’ll probably be rather sore at me for trying. I hadn’t realized…thank you again. First the locket, and now this. Surely there’s some way to thank you.”
He smiled the engaging grin he’d shown her back at the rally. His eyes were a light brown, an almost golden color that picked up the straw shades of his hair. He had a strong, square jaw that framed his easy grin—the sort of face at home with a frequent smile. “Like I said, Miss Longstreet, I was happy to see something find its way home.” The sadness in the edge of his voice—the sadness that caught the edge of so many voices all around her—undercut the cheer of his words. “But there is something I’d like to show you. Something you ought to see before you leave with Ollie’s version of how things are in here.”
“Do you live nearby?” She realized what a ludicrous question that was, as if he had a house just up the street instead of a shack somewhere in this makeshift camp.
He tucked his hands into his pockets and nodded over his left shoulder. “Two rows down. The charming cottage on the left.” When Nora blushed, feeling like an insensitive clod for asking such a useless question, he merely chuckled. “It’s okay, really. I’ve seen worse. My uncle Mike says we might get back into a house next month. Just come see this and I’ll walk you back across the street before your papa begins to worry.”
He led Nora through one more row of shacks to where a cluster of children gathered. The gaggle of tots surged toward Quinn when they saw him, parting the crowd to reveal a rough-hewn teeter-totter pieced together out of scrap and an old barrel. She knew, instantly, that the makeshift toy had been Quinn’s doing.
“Mister Kin, Mister Kin!” a chubby blond-haired girl greeted. Nora guessed it to be her approximation of Mr. Freeman’s given name. “It works!”
Quinn hunched down and tenderly touched the tot’s nose. “Told you it would.” Nora smiled. How long had it been since she had heard children’s laughter?
The girl giggled. “You’re smart.”
“Only just. Go ahead and take another turn, then. It’ll be time to get on back to your ma soon, anyway.”
Nora stood awed for a moment. Quinn Freeman had handed her the smallest patch of happiness, but it did the trick. “Thank you.” She looked up at him, for he was a good foot taller than she if only a few years older, and thought that he was indeed clever to recognize a slapped-together toy would do so much good. “I did need to see this—you were right.”
“Most people are afraid to really build anything here, thinking it’ll make it feel like we’ll be here forever, but even I know lads with nothing to do usually find something bad to fill their time.”
“You’ll be here another month?” Many families were talking of pulling up stakes and starting over somewhere else just as soon as circumstances would allow. Others refused to even think past their next meal.
“That’s my guess. Don’t pay much to peer too far into the future these days. God’s got His hands full in the present, I’d say.”
“He does.” And he talks about God. In a calm way. Many people—her own family pastor Reverend Mansfield included—were shouting about the awful judgment God had “sent down” upon the sinful city of San Francisco. It wasn’t so hard a thought to hold. With dust and destruction everywhere, it was easy to wonder if the Lord Almighty hadn’t indeed turned His head away.
By this time they’d reached the mail wagon, and Papa was standing with a sour and alarmed look on his face. “Thank heavens you’re all right. Just what do you think…?”
“I’ve seen her back safely, Mr. Longstreet, and told her not to venture over here like that again,” Quinn cut in.
“Papa, this is Mr. Freeman. The man who returned Annette’s locket. Now you can thank him in person.”
The announcement took the wind out of Papa’s scorn. Her father stepped down off the mail wagon and extended a hand to Quinn. “Seems I owe you.”
The two men shook hands. “You don’t owe me a thing. I was glad to help.”
Papa looked at Nora. “Don’t you go needing help again. I’ll not let you come back if you wander off like that again. It’s only by God’s grace that Mr. Freeman was here to keep you from any trouble.”
“Grace indeed,” Quinn said, shooting a sideways smile at Nora as he tipped his hat at Papa. “Don’t let it happen again, Miss Longstreet.” As he turned, he added quietly over Nora’s shoulder, “At least not until tomorrow around two.”
Nora climbed back on the wagon to join her father. Perhaps the mail would not be so perfunctory from now on.
Chapter Three
Ah, but she was a beauty.
Quinn stood mesmerized by the way she held her ground. Tall and proud, with defiant lines he wanted to catch from every angle.
Quinn was vaguely aware of an elbow to his ribs. “Nephew, ya look foolish just standing there like that.”
Rough hands grabbed his face on both sides and pulled his gaze to the dusty, whiskered sight of his uncle Michael. “There’s something wrong with you, man. It ain’t natural, the way you look at buildings.”
“Architecture. It’s called architecture. I’d give anything to study.”
Uncle Mike snorted. “You need a wife.”
Quinn shifted his sore feet as his mind catapulted back to the rows of tiny black buttons that ran up the sides of Nora Longstreet’s boots. He’d stared then, too, liking their lines as much if not more. “I need to learn,” he said impatiently to his uncle, who simply rolled his eyes at the speech he’d heard every day even before the earthquake. “Apprentice an architect. Only there’s no time to learn anymore. We need loads of builders, but we need them now.” Everything took so much time these days. Lord Jesus, You know I’m thankful to be alive, but this bread line feels two thousand miles long. I’m in no mood to learn no more patience, if You please. He felt he’d die if he wasn’t back at the camp edge by two. He had to see her again. Had to see that dented locket that he just knew would be polished up and hanging around her neck. He’d miss half a week’s worth of bread to make sure he caught that sight—even if it meant he’d catch a whole lot more from his ma for returning without bread.
By the time the sun was high in the sky and the police officer on the corner said it was one-fifteen, Quinn still was looking at forty or so people in line in front of him. Without so much as an explanation, Quinn nudged his uncle and said,