Free What Once Was Lost by Kim Vogel Sawyer Page A

dropped to his knees and slipped one hand beneath the seat. Withcurious fingers he explored the top and bottom of the seat’s intricate pattern. “Why’s it called caning?”
    “I’m not sure. Maybe people originally used strips from cane to make the seats.”
    Tommy nodded. The pattern intrigued him, the narrow strips going side to side and crosswise, over and under. Automatically, his eyes closed as his fingers traced up, back, up again. “I like the way it feels.”
    “You think you could do it?”
    Tommy jerked, settling his backside on his heels. “Wh-what?”
    “Could you do it? Weave strips together that way?”
    Tommy swung his head this way and that, trying to get his bearings. Was Mr. Jonnson making fun of him? He didn’t sound like he was teasing, but still … Pa’s voice taunted from the past: “What’samatter, boy? Can’t you do it? If you can’t even milk a cow without missin’ the bucket, what good are you?” Tommy’s mouth went dry.
    “C’mere.”
    Once more a hand grasped his elbow and guided him to another place in the mill. Mr. Jonnson took hold of his wrists and slid his hands onto something slender and hard. As tall as Tommy’s chest. With flat slats leading up and down. Another chair. With gentle pressure Mr. Jonnson pushed Tommy’s hands to where the seat should be, then let go. His hands plunged through an opening.
    “A mouse chewed the cane on this chair.” There was a long pause, almost as if the man was trying to decide whether to say anything more. Then his words rushed out. “Do you want to fix it?”
    Tommy ran his hand over the seat, feeling the edges of chewed cane. Prickly. Tattered. So different from the completed seat on the first chair, which had felt smooth and orderly. He wanted to fix it, but apprehension coiled his insides into knots. Sliding a few discarded curls together didn’t mean he could cane a chair. A lump of longing filled Tommy’s throat—a longing to be useful. The desire nearly choked him.
    “I’d like you to try.”
    He wanted to try, too. He swallowed and dared to share his worry. “I might mess it up.”
    That chuckle came again. Soft. Gentle. Soothing. “You can’t make it any worse than it is right now.”
    Tommy’s finger scraped the chewed-away edges of cane. He snickered.
    “So you gonna try?”
    Tommy drew in a breath and released it slowly, gathering courage. “Yes, sir. I’ll try.”

Chapter 9
    Brisk wind raced across the smoke-smudged limestone wall of the beautiful Victorian and sent a chill straight through Christina’s wool coat. She’d waited more than a week for the mission board to send representatives to examine the fire-damaged house, and during that time she’d anticipated their commitment to rebuild. How could they allow such a lovely place—a house with leaded-glass windows, a spindled and gingerbread-bedecked wraparound porch, and fish-scaled turrets—to languish? Even more significant than its proud appearance, the Brambleville Asylum for the Poor provided a needed ministry, one she and her father had committed themselves to filling. The men’s somber, negative reaction to her desire to reopen the house chilled her even more deeply than the relentless Kansas wind.
    “But I can’t just walk away. This is my home.” Christina hugged herself, battling tears.
    Wes, standing behind Christina’s shoulder, leaned in. “House itself ain’t ruined. Place just needs new walls an’ a new roof on the back where the kitchen used to be.”
    The older of the two men who’d been sent to examine the property cleared his throat and pushed his round-lensed spectacles higher on his bulbous nose. “Do you have experience in construction, young man?”
    Wes crunched his lips to the side. “You mean, have I done any buildin’?”
    “That’s precisely what I mean.”
    Wes’s broad shoulders hunched into a sheepish shrug. “Chicken coops an’ fences.”
    The two mission board men exchanged a look. The older one