Promise of Tomorrow by S. Dionne Moore Page B

promise for their future. Yet every time he mentioned the project, it seemed to build a wall between them.
    When Jack reached the spot where he’d last seen Sam, he stopped and squinted into the tall grass. The boy sat far away from his original location, feet dangling just above the shorter grass under the fallen log upon which he had perched.
    â€œSam? It’s time to go. We’ve got to head back to town.”
    Sam didn’t raise his face, though a curt nod of his head acknowledged he’d heard. He slipped off the log, feet dragging with every step.
    When he got within reach, Jack pulled the boy close. He pressed the back of Sam’s head against his side and swallowed hard over the knot of emotion swelling in his own throat. Under his hand, he felt the first shudder of the boy’s narrow shoulders. He knelt in the tall grass to get eye level with Sam. “You’re afraid for your father?”
    A small, quiet sob shook the boy’s chest. “Will he—” Sam sucked in a shuddering breath. “Will he go away like Momma?”
    How much Jack wished he could give the boy solid reassurance, but he understood the extent of Frank’s injuries and knew the days ahead would play heavily on whether or not Sam’s father would recover. Yet Sam wanted someone to tell him no. To drive away the merciless bats of fear beating their wings against his fragile peace of mind.
    Jack dragged in a deep breath and grasped the boy’s heaving shoulders. “I don’t know, Sam. I do know that your father is badly hurt but that he’s strong and wants to live so he can take care of you and Missy.”
    â€œHe said Momma dying was for the best. Does God think taking him will be for the best, too?”
    Jack’s eyes squeezed shut at the rawness of that question. He pulled Sam into his embrace and spread his hand on the boy’s small back, while the memory of himself as a young boy being embraced by his father after a fall washed over him. Jack swallowed hard and, for the first time, let himself grieve for that part of his father that he’d loved and trusted.
    Sam tugged on his sleeve. “Are you sad about Papa?”
    Jack ran the back of his hand across the wetness on his cheeks. “Yes. Very. He is my friend, Sam. A very good friend.”

Sixteen
    May 29, 1889
    â€œWell, Jack-o, guess you’ll have to get used to calling me ‘sir’ now.” Robert Whitfield’s triumphant expression came into sharp focus.
    Jack’s spine stiffened. Rage began a slow boil.
    The promotion.
    After all the grunt work he’d done for Fulton. . .all his plans and hopes dashed.
    â€œNo worries, though.” Robert bared his teeth. “I’ll be a good shift manager. The boss has a lot of confidence in me. More than in others.”
    Jack saw the bait dangled before him. Robert clamped a hand on Jack’s shoulder, outwardly looking like a friendly gesture, but Jack felt the unnecessary pressure and schooled his features not to show any pain.
    â€œI’ll look forward to working as your boss. But I warn you now. . .I don’t tolerate those who don’t do their jobs.”
    Jack clenched his fists, hoping his glare would stab a hole in Robert’s cockiness. His thoughts splintered. How could he tell Alaina the news? He would never be able to afford marriage now. He would be forced to break their engagement. But how could he do that?
    Robert took a step back. “Since I get off before you, I’ll deliver the good news to Alaina. She’ll want to know, right?”
    Jack forced himself not to react as Robert gave his shoulder a pat and sauntered off. He had no doubt the man would be on Alaina’s doorstep within an hour, gloating, and he could do nothing about it.
    He worked fast and hard during his shift. Images of Robert arriving on Alaina’s doorstep haunted him. He picked up his pace and shoveled harder.