Chapter 16
CHAPTER 16
F our days later, Hank, Torin with Jewel on his lap, and Brian sat on fallen logs around a campfire, drinking Brian’s home-brewed ale, their traditional ending to getting the harvest in. Jewel, of course, had her own small tankard of watered-down ginger-beer, also fermented by Brian.
Although their mood was good, they sat in exhausted silence. The harvest was always a strenuous stint, the physical effort only exceeded in the winter by the bone-cold labor of carving blocks of ice from the lake.
These quiet hours of companionship and relaxation, watching the flames, talking here and there, and feeling grateful they were now supplied for the winter was a peaceful closing to a harried time.
Hank set his tankard on a smooth spot on his log and stretched out his legs. “Going to take a day to make sure everything’s organized right and tight. Rest a bit. Then the next day, I’m heading out to help the Baileys and their neighbors with their harvest.”
Both Brian and Torin broke into teasing grins. But Torin was the first to speak. “Let me guess. You want us to take care of your livestock?” Without waiting for an answer, he looked down at his daughter. “What do you think, sweetling? Do you want to feed Hank’s horses and chickens and gather eggs?”
Jewel gave Hank her big smile, tongue a bit extended. “Eggs.”
“That’s right.”
“Swwanss, feed.”
“There’s a whole jar of old bread crusts, and I’ll add some peas.” Hank held up a finger. “Just don’t give those greedy swans all of them at once.”
Brian rubbed a hand over his bristly chin. “I’ll go with you.”
Hank glanced at him in surprise. Brian was a loner, and a curmudgeonly one, at that. Most times, only Jewel could bring a smile to his face. He went to town as seldom as he could get away with, which meant not at all this past summer. With Hank visiting Elsie so often, he’d brought back whatever his friend required. “Why would you want to do that?”
“Need some thinking time.”
“Need some thinking time,” Hank echoed, incredulous. “You can’t think here in our beautiful, peaceful surroundings?”
“Ain’t working.”
Now that’s interesting. Brian never said much about his past, and neither Hank nor Torin ever asked. But he could tell from the erudition of their conversations and the volumes of books they exchanged that besides being a writer, Brian was also an educated man. Ain’t wasn’t normally a part of his vocabulary.
Torin set down his tankard. “Still struggling with the next book?”
Brian gave a reluctant nod.
“Anything we can help with?” Hank ventured, bracing for Brian to bite back.
“Nah.”
Nah. Another word Brian didn’t usually use. Well, perhaps, more hard labor amidst a bunch of strangers would shake loose some inspiration.
“The Baileys are poor but proud,” Hank warned. “They’ll be hard-pressed to set me up with a pallet to sleep on and food to eat. I’m bringing my own bedding. Figured I could stop by the mercantile on the way and bring some supplies along. A ham, some flour, cornmeal, sugar. About all I can carry in my second saddlebag.”
“I’ll bring my own bedding.” Brian sipped his ale. “I’ll contribute, too. With two of us, we can carry more items.”
“Well, then.” Hank broke into a grin. “I think an extra pair of hands would be more than welcome.”
Torin playfully shook a finger at Brian. “Just don’t get in the way of Hank’s courtship of pretty Elsie Bailey.”
Brian barked out a laugh. “Believe me, I’m staying away from any whiff of courtship,” he said in a bitter tone. “I’ll run interference for you with the Baileys and their neighbors. I’ll herd them one direction, and you can lasso your gal for a bit of privacy.”
Torin laughed. “Don’t you sound like a cowpoke. You’d think we were living on a ranch.”
“Trying to get into character,” Brian deadpanned.
Hank raised his eyebrows. “Then maybe you should go work on a ranch.”
“If this stint with the Baileys doesn’t shake up some new ideas, I might just do that.”
Hank couldn’t help hoping that helping the Baileys bring in their harvest would, indeed, shake things up for them both—in a good way.
Three grueling days into the harvest and Elsie was so sore and weary that all she could do was lie in the straw of the buckboard between her siblings as they rumbled their way home in the twilight and wish for sleep. A summer of working at a sewing machine instead of farm chores had weakened her, making her have to push harder until her muscles trembled to get even close to accomplishing what she used to.
She could have slacked off a bit and probably should have. But Elsie was anxious her parents would notice, think she’d become slothful, and change their minds about her continuing to work with Miss Taylor. Laziness was almost or maybe more so as abhorrent to them as owing charity.
Not that Elsie really thought her parents would make her leave her employment. Between the extra money for supplies and the boots for her father, she knew her parents appreciated her contribution to the family. Yet, she couldn’t quite suppress the niggle of fear about losing her position.
To banish the doubt, as she’d done many times in these past few days, Elsie replayed the scene when she’d arrived home.
After putting away the supplies, Elsie went into her parents’ room to change out of her former best outfit and into her work attire. She comforted herself that at least she had a new apron that would cover most of the dress.
Like a puppy, Mary trailed in after her, seemingly reluctant to be parted so soon. She closed the door and limped over to the bed to sit.
Elsie frowned at her sister. “What’s wrong with your feet?”
Mary looked away. “I haven’t wanted to tell Ma and Pa my toes are cramped.” She leaned over to remove her shoes.
Unaccustomed anger burned in Elsie’s chest, and she pressed her lips together to avoid a disrespectful outburst. Wasn’t anyone’s fault that they lacked the money for shoes or clothing. But then she realized that a situation she’d accepted before—no, more than accepted, taken for granted—regarding her parents’ stance about charity was right and proper, now she viewed with new clarity.
She knew for a fact the elder Nortons had a store of clothing and shoes, most donated, but some bought new, to give to those in need. Some Sundays, including the last one the Baileys attended, one of the ministers announced the existence of the fund.
Having shoes that hurt and no money to buy another pair was definitely a need. Her parents preferred to keep their pride, rather than attend to their daughter’s basic comfort. But she didn’t say so to her sister. Having Elsie’s old shoes would solve Mary’s problem. So would bringing in a successful harvest. So would her continuing contribution to the family coffers.
Elsie folded the yellow dress and handed it to her sister. “This is yours now. Undergarments, too. And, when the harvest is over, my shoes.”
“Really?” Mary’s eyes lit up, and she clutched the dress to her chest.
“You’ll have to take in the bodice and raise the hem. Can you do that by yourself, or do you want my help?”
“Your help, of course.”
“Then, we’ll work on the alterations after supper. I brought pins with me to leave here, so from now on, there’ll be enough to pin a whole section.”
Staid Mary didn’t bounce on her toes like Elsie would have done when she was fourteen. Well, as she would have done up until a few weeks ago before finally curbing herself of the habit. But she wore a broad smile, and her brown eyes glowed.
Hearing the sound of her father’s and Ricky’s voices in the other room, Elsie took the muslin sack protecting the boots from her crazy-quilt bag. “I have a surprise for Pa.” She tilted her head toward the door in a silent signal for her sister to follow.
In the other room, her father turned from hanging his hat on a peg.
“This is for you, Pa.” She made herself speak normally instead of squeaking out her excitement and placed the muslin bag in his hands.
He looked down at her gift, and then gave her a puzzled look. But his hands seemed to know what he held before his mind caught up. Understanding made him raise his eyebrows and sit to undo the drawstring. He opened the bag, pulling out the boots, one after another, running his hands over the leather, and then holding each one up to the light from the window to admire them.
He ducked his head, but not before Elsie saw the sheen of moisture in his eyes, and the bobbing of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed down the tears.
Pride filled her, along with a humble sense of gratitude for providing him with such a useful gift. Elsie had to blink to clear the moisture blurring her vision. She glanced at her mother.
Ma stood, as if frozen, one hand covering her mouth, the other balled up in her apron. She, too, cried. She lifted the bottom corner of her apron and wiped her eyes, her countenance looking as soft as Elsie had ever seen.
Both Mary and Ricky sat on a bench, shoulders touching, leaning into each other as if needing to be propped up.
“I don’t know what to say, Daughter.” His voice sounded thick with emotion. Once again, he ran his hand over the supple leather. “This is too much. You bought an expensive pair.”
“I don’t owe the mercantile a cent.” Before he could judge her, Elsie rushed out the explanation. “I made my own money embroidering handkerchiefs and a dress for Mrs. Sanders, working in the evenings and on my time off. Miss Taylor said that since the money wasn’t part of my wages, of which I’d agreed to give you half, that I could use the funds for how I wanted. And I wanted you to have boots that would last for years.”
Ma walked over to give Elsie a tight hug before kissing her cheek and releasing her. “You have no idea how much I’ve fretted over your father’s need for boots and what we’d do when the leather wore completely through. He kept putting other needs before his. To have this off my mind — ” She sniffed back more tears.
Pa tapped his forehead. “Will give you plenty of space in there to fret about other things, my dear,” he said in a droll tone, his expression amused.
They all laughed and then watched eagerly as he removed his old boots and put on the new ones. Standing, he strode around the room, stamped a few times, and did a sashay side-step. With a grin, he bent to kiss Elsie’s forehead. “I thank you, Daughter. These will last me a lifetime. I’ll be buried in these boots.”
“I hope not, Pa.” Elsie laughed. “You’d better wear out plenty of other pairs before we bury you.”
He brushed the back of his hand across her cheek and smiled tenderly.
Elsie inhaled, breathing in the smell of straw. She clung to the image of her father’s face, so rarely seen in lighter moments. She’d given him the boots, yes. But she’d also given them all those moments of love and levity and, in so doing, made a memory that would live in her heart forever.
Hank felt grateful he only had to experience three days of work at the Smithson farm, before they could bring in the harvest and transfer their attention to the Baileys’ acreage. Even better would be, when they’d completely finished with the harvest and their neighbors could return home.
He didn’t like how the Smithsons treated the Baileys, as if the more well-to-do family were the squires of the prairie and the Baileys were their lowly tenants. Nothing overt. Perhaps nothing needed to be overt because the two families obviously had a long-established pattern.
On the first day Hank and Brian arrived, some probing questions from the matriarch led to Mrs. Smithson discovering Hank’s upper-class background and that Brian was a writer, even if he’d only written dime novels. The information elevated them to guests of honor status. Neither of them liked being fawned over, but the attentions of the Smithsons proved hard to escape.
Even worse, Hank constantly had to dodge the attentions of the youngest Smithson daughter, Henrietta, who was all of fifteen years old, lank-haired and plain. Yet she seemed determined to catch herself a husband and, unfortunately had set her sights on Hank. Her mother encouraged the girl’s intentions, several times finding excuses for Henrietta and Hank to be alone.
Luckily, each time, Hank had been able to loop someone else, usually one of the Baileys or Brian, into joining them to chaperone. From a few quietly pointed remarks, the Bailey family and his friend could tell what was happening and were just as eager to protect him from falling into Henrietta’s clutches as he was to escape them.
Brian mostly avoided the chit’s attentions, because his grumpiness tended to silence her, and even more so because her brothers were enamored of the idea of his friend’s written tales of derring-do. They pestered him for information about past stories as well as offered ideas for future books. None of the suggestions made Brian’s green eyes light up in the way that meant he was on the trail of a plot.
But with Brian also a quarry of Henrietta and her brothers meant that his friend couldn’t provide the diversion Hank needed to escape and spend some courting time with Elsie. He saw her at meals, but they were never alone.
Hank especially disliked the few times before and after a meal when he’d seen Mrs. Smithson dictate Elsie fetch and carry for her when her older daughters and daughters-in-law sat nearby watching over babies sleeping in cradles at their feet or working on their stitchery. None of them had also put in a hard day in the fields and helped prepare the meal and clean up.
He’d interceded for Elsie once, fetching a heavy bushel of potatoes from the cellar. But he wasn’t familiar with the layout of the large home and the possessions therein, so he wouldn’t know where to find a requested shawl or thimble or dish the woman demanded.
Even worse was how little time he spent in Elsie’s presence, even with others around. He was dispatched to scythe hay, and, in a separate field, she, her sister, and the younger Smithson’s, dug up root vegetables. When he did see her, she appeared dirt-smeared and looked weary to the bone. Yet, somehow, she always dredged up a bright smile for him—one that never failed to stir his heart.
On the last night of working at the Smithsons’, Hank and Brian came in before the other men, having finished raking up the dried hay in the nearest field. They washed up outside and entered the house for supper.
The smell of fried chicken made Hank’s stomach grumble.
Brian shot him a crooked smile. “At least they feed us well,” he said in a low voice.
The rest of the men drifted into the room.
Having apparently come to terms with Hank’s disinterest in her, Henrietta abandoned the women working in the kitchen to enter the main room. She set her sights on Brian, hastening over to him with what was surely meant to be a flirtatious smile, that didn’t look well on her round, childish face.
Brian backed away.
With a coquettish flutter, Henrietta pressed forward to cling to his arm. Her smile broadened, showing big teeth. She said something in her breathy voice, staring up at the man as if he was God Almighty.
Knowing she couldn’t do much damage with people in the room, Hank allowed himself to watch with amusement.
Brian sent Hank a wide-eyed look of appeal.
Although tempted to let the man dangle in the girl’s clutches for a few more minutes—after all, he’d put up with two days of her chasing him—Hank took pity on his friend. With a chuckle, he moseyed over, thinking of how he could best pry Brian away from the young harpy.
He swept her a small mock bow. “If you’ll excuse Mr. Bly, Miss Henrietta, I need him to come see to my horse. This morning, I felt some heat on Chipper’s leg.”
The girl pouted at them. “Fine!” She removed her hand and flounced off.
Brian shook his head. “I still don’t have a plot for a story. But I’m definitely putting that irritating girl into my next book.”