Read At Every Turn for Free Online

across the back of the seat. “What’d it register?”
    “Over seventy. I had to look quick.”
    He whistled. “Felt like it. Turn here.” He pointed to a small trail on the right.
    I eased the auto onto another bumpy road. Little more than wagon tracks, really. The trees thinned, opening into a small clearing on the bank of a brook. I killed the engine, tore off my goggles, and unbuttoned my duster as the roar in my ears gave way to the soothing sound of water gurgling over rocks. As soon as my limbs quit trembling, I intended to make good use of the liquid on my dirty face and parched throat.
    As if reading my mind, Webster climbed from the car and knelt at the edge of the stream. With a cupped hand, he drank from the clear water before splashing it over his face and hair and neck and shaking himself dry like a common mongrel. He slapped his cap against one leg. Dust flew up in a cloud before he settled himself at the base of a tree and leaned against the wide trunk. “You never did answer my question, you know.”
    “Your question?” My muscles tensed. I stood at the edge of the creek and removed my duster. Relief flowed over me as a breeze cooled my skin and rustled the leaves that shaded me from the sun. I drank the clean air into my lungs and then leaned down to scoop cold water into my mouth.
    “About the money.” A handkerchief dangled in front of my face.
    I reached for it, but it fluttered away. Then it appeared again—along with Webster’s laugh. My fingers caught the edge, gave it a playful tug. He yanked back, but I held firm, both of us grinning. I rocked back on my heels, ready to push to my feet. His smile disappeared. He let go of the handkerchief and returned to his place on the ground.
    Confusion twisted my face as I soaked the cloth and swiped it over my grimy skin. Had I done something wrong? I rinsed the cloth and wiped my face a second time, less to make myself presentable than to give me time to think, to compose myself, before facing my friend again.
    A fish wiggled by, hurrying downstream, making me think of God and His creations. Above all that He had fashioned, He loved mankind most. White and black. American and African. I wrung water from the handkerchief, concentrated on the droplets returning to their source. Would Webster censure my impetuous donation as Mr. Trotter, Grandmother, and Father had?
    I folded the saturated fabric and stood, staring down at the rushing current. “The money’s for a missionary.”
    “A missionary? How much did he get you for?”
    I whipped around, fury pursing my lips and filling my chest. “He didn’t ‘get me’ for anything. I offered it.”
    Silent laughter danced behind his eyes. He seemed to be enjoying my discomfort. Thoroughly.
    My frustration melted. Dropping down on a patch of grass near him, I pulled at a blade that stood higher than the rest. “You should have seen the pictures, Webster. Men and women and children—especially the children—looking at the camera with such sad eyes. You could see their need so clearly. Need for food, for clothing. But mostly their need of Jesus.” I bit my lip and looked up at him, wondering if my shattered heart showed plainly in my eyes.
    His gaze held mine for only a moment. Then he looked away, cleared his throat, scratched the hard ground with a stick. “So how much?”
    My hands fidgeted in my lap. His head rose and tipped to the left.
    “Three thousand dollars.” I leapt up and headed for the automobile. Webster had probably never held together more than a few hundred dollars in his life. Maybe not that much. If he had, wouldn’t he have an automobile of his own by now?
    He snorted. I glared in his direction.
    “And your father wouldn’t give it to you?”
    I shook my head.
    “So that’s why you needed to drive.”
    A long breath streamed out through my mouth as my chest grew tight. I nodded. He knew me well.
    “Just tell them you made a mistake. The money wasn’t yours to