A Season of Dreams Read online

  © 1996 by Gilbert Morris

  Published by Revell

  a division of Baker Publishing Group

  P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287

  www.revellbooks.com

  Ebook Edition created 2013

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  ISBN 978-1-4412-3997-6

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  Scripture is taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  To Ron and Linda Fritch

  May the Lord give mercy to the house of these two—for they oft refreshed me!

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  PART ONE The Ozarks

  1 Hard Times

  2 On the Road

  3 A Friend

  4 “I’m a Stuart!”

  5 Christmas in the Ozarks

  6 Dent Takes a Vacation

  PART TWO Hollywood

  7 An Old Flame

  8 Trouble with Adam

  9 In Defense of Winona Dance

  10 Bonnie Meets a Star

  11 A Narrow Escape

  12 The Gospel for Everyone

  PART THREE Wildcat Rig

  13 A Strange Afternoon

  14 Kingman Strikes Back

  15 “You’ve Got to Give Her Up!”

  16 Under Siege

  17 Mr. Kingman Gets a Surprise

  18 Dent Finds a Change

  PART FOUR Summer of Hope

  19 Last Chance

  20 No Exit

  21 The Stuart Line

  22 Kingman Meets His Match

  23 It’s Never Too Late

  24 The End and the Beginning

  Other Books by Author

  Back Cover

  HARD TIMES

  Violet Ballard took more pains with Cleopatra’s sharp hooves than she’d ever spent on the care of her own fingernails.

  Stepping back, she stared critically at the sleek, reddish-brown sow and nodded with satisfaction. “I reckon you look pretty enough to win a beauty contest, Cleo,” she murmured. She smiled as the huge animal moved forward and shoved against her legs, nearly upsetting her. “Stop that now—you hear me!” she said, slapping Cleo on the back firmly. This was interpreted by Cleo as simply a love pat. She nuzzled Violet roughly with her blunt pink snout, nearly knocking the young woman’s legs out from under her.

  “I told you to stop that!” Violet snapped. Quickly she stepped outside the barn and closed the door firmly. For a moment she listened. Cleopatra threw her weight against the door, squealing in an outraged series of piggish snorts. Violet spoke to the animal soothingly, for Cleo was capable of tearing the ramshackle structure apart. The barn was already leaning seven or eight degrees in a southwesterly direction, propped up on that side by a series of wooden poles. The whole structure shuddered precariously as the hog moved around trying various avenues of exit.

  “Now you just calm down, Cleo,” Violet said in a soothing tone. “You’ll be all right, but I don’t want you to get dirty again. You’re too dang much trouble to wash.” Turning, she walked away from the barn, her bare feet padding on the hard-packed path that led to the house. She’d risen early in the morning and had come to give Cleo a good cleaning. With nubbins of old corn, she lured the pig into the barn where she had gathered water and soap, and she laboriously washed the red clay from the stiff bristles. She had dried the pig with coarse feed sacks, then had carefully cleaned Cleo’s hooves, giving them a coat of lacquer, which had been left over in the bottom of a can.

  Stepping up on the porch, Violet entered the house just as light began breaking in the east. She loved to be up in the early, cobwebby hours of the morning savoring the quietness. Her movements were efficient as she poured water into a pan and washed her hands carefully. Strong lye soap bit into a cut on her left hand and she made a face but uttered no words.

  Violet was a capable young woman of sixteen, her body strong and healthy, her oval face bearing an early blooming beauty. Her hair was brown, and it gave off auburn tints almost like spun gold. Her dark blue eyes, large and almond-shaped, were her most attractive feature—unless it was her lips, perfectly shaped, full and mobile. She was one of those young women who bloomed early with a startling beauty, and already she had attracted the attention of the young men in the Ozark hills.

  Expertly she threw together a breakfast. Singing “I’m Just a Poor Wayfaring Stranger” under her breath in a pure voice, she formed biscuits made of homegrown graham, rolled them to the size of her palm, then popped them into the oven. She’d made the fire before she’d gone out, judging it exactly right. She set the table, and when the biscuits were nearly done, she walked to the hall and called out, “All right, everybody up for breakfast!”

  As she walked back to the kitchen, she heard bare feet hitting the floor and her stepfather snorting. He sounds like a hog snorting, Violet thought, and a smile turned up the corners of her wide mouth. By the time the family came to sit down at the circular oak table, she’d made thickening gravy created from middling meat. Six large fried eggs decorated a platter, and a jug of ribbon cane syrup sat next to a large mound of fresh yellow butter.

  “Well, I don’t guess we’ll starve with all this around us!” Logan Stuart, aged already at forty-six, was a thin, wiry man with auburn hair and very dark blue eyes. He was not tall, but there was strength in his lanky body and a great deal of inventive quality to his mind. He was what people in the Ozarks call country smart. He could read, of course, but he read people better than he did books. His sister Lylah had once said to their brother Amos: “Logan’s smarter than you are, Amos, with all your education. If he’d gone on to school, I think he would have been somebody.”

  Now, Logan looked around the table, his eyes falling on his wife, Anne. She was five years younger than her husband, a small, plain woman with faded blue eyes and hair an indiscriminate brownish color. Beside her sat Helen, age twenty-one, tall and rather thin. She had flaming red hair and the dark blue eyes of George Ballard, Anne’s first husband. There was a patient look about this young woman who was quiet and rarely said much. At twenty-one she was considered an old maid in the Ozark mountains. Most women, by the time they were seventeen or eighteen, were married and at Helen’s age had started a family. Helen, however, showed little interest in courtship or marriage. She was not pretty, but there was a wholesomeness about her.

  Across the table from Helen sat her brother Ray, age nineteen. He also had red hair and dark blue eyes. He had his father’s height, six feet, and there was an impression of strength about him. He was strongly built, his shoulders thick and his chest deep. He had discovered early that he could easily whip any of his peers in bare-knuckle fights, but he had not become a bully, as some young men would have.

  He looked across at Violet and grinned. “You been up getting Cleo ready, Violet?”

  “Yes, sure have. She looks prettier than Clara Bow.” Violet smiled back at him. There was a firm union between Violet and Ray. They had been close since childhood, and as they grew up, Violet had occasionally accompanied Ray on hunting and fishing trips.

  “I want to go to town with you, Ray!” Clinton, age eleven, had tow-colored hair and bright hazel eyes. Nobody could quite explain those eyes. Neither Anne nor Logan’s people had any eyes like Clinton’s.

  “You can’t go this time, Clint, but I’ll bring you somethin
g nice back from town.”

  “You’d better not be spending your money on foolishness,” Anne said. Lines of worry swept across her face, for the harsh pinch of the depression had worn her down. Logan had married her after her first husband had died of pneumonia. She had been a pretty woman at the time, with some trace of a light spirit, but when the banks failed in 1929 and times grew hard, Anne seemed to shrivel along with the country. She never grew accustomed to men out of work stopping to beg at the door, and she listened to the radio that Amos had given them—not for the programs that would cheer the heart—but for the bad news that the newscasters often gave: factories closing down, banks still failing, and record unemployment.

  There was a lighthearted spirit in Ray Ballard that would not be subdued. “Why, Ma—Cleopatra’s gonna bring a fine price! We’ve been feedin’ her good. She’s close to four hundred pounds, I’d guess.”

  “You sure have fed her good.” Logan grinned. He studied this tall stepson of his and thought how fortunate he was to have such fine children, even though Helen, Ray, and Violet were not his own by blood. “But the price of hogs is down.”

  “Not for Cleo,” Ray argued. He took a huge bite of egg, followed by a bite of biscuit. He swallowed and then nodded vigorously. “We fed Cleo so good that she’s gonna be the best eating hog there ever was.”

  At the mention of Cleo being eaten, Violet suddenly rose and went to the stove. There was no reason for doing so, and Logan glanced at her. She’s gotten attached to that pig, he thought to himself. She always was that way with an animal. I swear she’d be a vegetarian if there was any way! Aloud, he said, “Your first job’s gonna be gettin’ her into that wagon. That ain’t gonna be easy.”

  “Why, she’ll mind anything I say,” Ray boasted. “I’ve got it all figgered out.”

  After breakfast, they all went outside. It was August, 1931, and later on in the day, the merciless sun would beat down on the cotton fields making the earth hard. There had been no rain for some time and they were all worried about the crops.

  Violet went with Ray to hook up the mules, and when they were hitched to the spring wagon, he backed them up to the barn door.

  “How are we going to get her in the wagon, Ray?” Violet asked. “She can’t jump that high—and she’s too big to pick up.”

  “I’ll show you.”

  Ray had spent some time thinking of this. He had built up the sides of the wagon with old two-by-fours, forming a cagelike structure. Now he moved over beside the barn, where his father was standing, and said, “Pa, help me get these two-by-eights in place.”

  Logan glanced down at the old, warped lumber that had been left over from a shed they’d torn down. “Gonna make a runway, are you, Son?”

  “Sure—she’ll walk right in there.” The two men laid the lip of each two-by-eight over the end of the wagon, forming a runway of sorts. When they were done, Ray looked at it and nodded with approval. “There—that ought to do. Okay, Cleopatra.” He opened the door and said soothingly, “Come on now, Cleo, we’re gonna take a little trip.”

  The huge swine poked her head out into the morning sunlight. She was a smart animal, and the sight of the gawking family and the waiting wagon seemed to spook her. She disappeared back into the barn, backing up and snorting and grunting deep in her throat.

  “I don’t think she’s gonna do it,” Helen said doubtfully.

  “She’s got to do it,” Ray said, his lips lengthening into a line of determination. He went inside the barn and walked over to where Cleopatra stood, her feet planted, eyeing him with tiny intelligent eyes.

  “Come on now, Cleo,” Ray coaxed. “You can do it.”

  But Cleopatra didn’t want to do it. When the others had gathered in the doorway to watch, Ray finally walked around to push; however, pushing a four-hundred-pound hog is never an easy task. Cleopatra stood grunting in her throat while Ray lost his temper, shouting, “Get in there, you ornery pig!”

  Cleo, incensed at his tone of voice, turned around and ran against him, knocking his feet out from under him. He sprawled on the floor but came to his feet at once. Cleopatra retreated into the depths of the barn, wedging herself into the angle where two sides met.

  “That’s gonna be a job,” Logan observed. “She’s too big for all of us to pick her up—and strong, too. I don’t think it’s gonna work, Son.”

  Ray was angry. He stood still, gritting his teeth, trying to think of something. This was a big moment for him. He and Violet had carefully raised the pig for this time. They had fed her well, and now he had big plans for what he was going to do with the money. He was going to take a young woman named Amy McFarland to a dance. He’d boasted to Violet, “I’m gonna buy her flowers and put a spoke in Tyrone Seaton’s wheel!”

  He and Tyrone had been running themselves ragged chasing Amy, and this was to be the biggest dance of the year. Ray had timed the sale of the pig so he would have cash to put on a big show.

  Now, however, it looked like the dance and Amy were going to be Tyrone Seaton’s victory. A feeling of helplessness seized Ray, and he kicked at a clump of straw angrily. “Aw, shoot!” he said. “We’ve gotta get her in that wagon somehow.”

  “I can get her in. The rest of you go on outside.” They all looked with surprise at Violet, who was smiling at Ray. “She just needs to be sweet-talked. A girl likes that, you know.”

  This amused Logan hugely. “Who’s been sweet-talking you, Violet? It must have been that Buckman boy.”

  Accustomed to his teasing, Violet said, “You just go on out now and have the board ready to throw over the back.”

  The family retreated obediently. When they were outside and had concealed themselves, Ray shook his head, muttering darkly, “I don’t think that’ll work.”

  Logan grinned. “Bet it will. Violet does what she sets out to do. Never saw a more stubborn critter in my life!”

  Inside the darkened barn, Violet made no attempt to approach the pig. She stood in the middle of the floor and waited, humming to herself. Cleo watched suspiciously, snorting and grunting, but finally, when nothing happened, she exited the dark angle of the barn. She came forward, stopping in front of Violet with all four hooves planted. Violet reached out and began to tickle her under the chin, which the pig loved. Cleo lifted her head and the young woman began speaking to her softly and gently. “Now there—there’s a nice pig! You’re going to get into the wagon like a nice, well-behaved pig, aren’t you, Cleo?”

  Violet began taking steps backward and Cleo, anxious to have her neck scratched, began to follow. They got to the door and Violet, who had planned for this, reached into her pocket and pulled out a handful of corn. “Here’s your favorite food,” she said, holding it out. Cleo snorted and moved forward, gobbling the corn greedily.

  Soon Violet stepped out, backing through the door, and the pig followed. Violet had filled her pockets full of the grain, and when she felt her heels hit the incline, she merely backed up, saying, “Come on—I’ve got lots of it! Come on, Cleo.” She backed into the wagon, saying in the same tone of voice, “Be ready, Pa. I’m gonna dump this out, then I’ll step out while she’s eating it.”

  “All right, Daughter—we’re ready.”

  It worked perfectly. Violet dumped all the grain from her pockets on the floor and while Cleo was gobbling it down, Violet stepped outside. “Now, Pa! Quick—be quick!”

  Ray and Logan quickly slammed the two-by-sixes used for the back of the cage in place.

  Cleo whirled and immediately threw herself against the gate, but it held strong.

  Ray walked over and picked up Violet, putting his arms around her and swinging her around. “You’re some punkin’, Sis!” he said, his eyes sparkling with admiration. “I don’t think we would’ve ever done that. I’m gonna bring you some-thin’ pretty back from town—see if I don’t!” He leaped into the seat and said, “I’ll be back before dark.” He lashed the mules up, saying, “Giddyap, Blue! Come on, Caesar!” and the wagon rattled off, the
silence of the morning air punctuated by Cleopatra’s shrill, frantic grunting and the crashing she made against the two-by-fours.

  “Sure hope she don’t break out of that thing.” Logan scratched his neck, then looked at Violet and saw that she was deflated. Knowing that she was grieving over the loss of the pig, he walked over and put one arm around her and squeezed her. “You’ve got a big heart, Daughter. Never saw a bigger one.”

  The day passed slowly, as they all did. Violet worked hard on the new dress she was making to wear to the dance. Her mother had somehow come into some attractive blue cotton dress material, and Violet worked on it most of the day. Her mother spent some of the afternoon in bed, and Violet thought again, Ma’s not looking well. She needs to see the doctor.

  But in 1931 there was little money for doctors—not unless someone was dying.

  Violet, as she made the final stitches in the dress, thought of the last two years. She remembered the day that the stock market had crashed. She had been fourteen then and had not understood it at all. She remembered her stepfather looking grim and saying, “Well, that tears it. We’re gonna see hard times.”

  The times had always been hard for Violet, or so she had thought. But the depression that swept America in ’31 was something frightening. Money was almost nonexistent and there were no jobs to be had. The newspapers carried pictures of the breadlines that had appeared in the poor districts. Bleak settlements, ironically known as “Hoovervilles” after the unfortunate president, began to spring up on the outskirts of cities and on vacant lots. They were composed of makeshift shacks of all sorts of material—even cardboard—but mostly of scrap iron and packing boxes, anything that could be picked up free from the city dump. Sometimes whole families of men, women, and children evicted from their homes slept on automobile seats carried from junkyards. They warmed themselves before fires of rubbish and over grease drums. Sometimes Violet was frightened of the homeless people who came through—thumbers on the highway—and she had seen men clinging to freight cars when she had, on rare occasion, gone into Fort Smith. There were huge armies of drifters always on the move, searching aimlessly for any place that there might be a job.