56. Jacob
Jacob
Iwrestled thirty copies of the Sunday Chicago Star onto the check-in desk in the entryway at the Harmony Lake Inn. Hard to believe my words were in there somewhere. The scent of fresh bread and roast beef drifted out from the kitchen.
A wiry woman in a starched apron stepped over from the dining area. “You selling something, Jacob?”
“Morning, Ruthie. Thought it was going to be one or two copies, but they sent me a whole stack of the Sunday paper.”
She raised a brow. “It’s Tuesday.”
“Well, it’s the Chicago paper, so it took a couple of days to arrive.”
Ruthie stared at me with her hands on her hips.
I said, “Best I show you.” I pulled a paper from the top of the stack and flipped through the pages until I found the one I was looking for.
There it was—my name in print. I folded the paper open and handed it to Ruthie.
She wiped her hands on her apron, took the paper, and stared at me instead of reading. I tapped a finger on my byline.
Ruthie skimmed my column while I shifted from foot to foot. Her face broke into a wide grin. She said, “My heavens. This is wonderful. Our Jacob, a big-city newspaper writer.”
My cheeks flushed at her praise. Her son, Timothy, had been a childhood friend, and Ruthie’s opinion mattered more than most. “Thanks. Is Timothy coming home for a visit anytime soon?”
“Maybe over the holidays. There’s a girl… But his photography training is going well.”
“Pass along my hellos, would you?”
Ruthie nodded as she eyed the stack of papers balanced on the desk. “What about those?”
“Thought you might give them away to anyone who’s interested.” I grabbed two copies to take home.
Jo burst in. “You’ll never guess… Someone bought the Lund farm.”
My stomach dropped. I was too late. “Who?”
“Ginny said her father made the deal on Mr. Lund’s behalf. She said it was a buyer from out East.”
Ruthie said, “We had a businessman staying here. He left yesterday. Must have been him.” She hurried back to her customers in the dining area before I had a chance to ask for details.
Jo said, “I wonder what sort of neighbors they’ll be. Word is they plan to rebuild the house before moving here.”
I said, “If so, we won’t meet them for a long while.
August is probably too late in the year to start work on a house.
” I sighed. It was time to stop daydreaming about expanding our farm.
The rich soil of the eastern fields would’ve been perfect for winter wheat.
I had pictured the crop rippling above the lake.
Jo reached out her hand. “Well, let’s see it.”
I handed her one copy of the paper and opened the other, inhaling the scent of ink—the scent of my words. My heart soared when I again found my name.
Tales from the Rails by Jacob Jensen
Yellowstone has many wonders, but few expect their laundry to be one of them.
Ride along with me on an adventure into the American West. Today, we travel to our first national park with Melvin, a Company M cavalry soldier.
Melvin arrived in Yellowstone on Hector, his trusty horse, in late August 1887.
Sulfurous steam drifted across the valley, over what appeared to be snow drifts in August. But it was only calcium deposited over the rocks by Mammoth Hot Springs.
True year-round snow lingered only on the shady sides of Yellowstone’s highest peaks.
During his first week, Melvin was asked if he had been to the laundry.
When he admitted he had not, he soon found himself carried along by an enthusiastic crowd.
They led him to a mysterious two-foot-wide hole in the ground.
Curious, Melvin laid his clothing over the opening as instructed, stepped back, and waited.
With a sudden roar, boiling water fountained up, carrying his clothing sky-high.
Old Faithful, one of Yellowstone’s famed geysers, had washed his laundry.
Unfortunately, his favorite woolen socks had gone in by mistake.
Melvin held up the socks—now fit for a child—and the crowd roared. He considered taking up knitting.
Life in Yellowstone wasn’t all laundry. Melvin patrolled around and within a great basin thought to be a volcanic crater, more than fifty miles across. He rotated between patrol cabins, chasing off poachers and guarding the park’s natural wonders.
When the winter became too much for Hector, Melvin strapped on skis, braved subzero temperatures, and wished for his shrunken socks. The lonely, long, cold season brought deep drifts and the quiet company of bison plowing through the snow with their massive shaggy heads.
On a particularly snowy afternoon, Melvin almost skied down atop a group of the snow-covered beasts huddled at the bottom of a hill.
But even with frost collecting on his lashes, Melvin was an observant man.
He noticed the white puffs of their steamy breath, changed course, and avoided calamity.
Here’s to Melvin—soldier, skier, and reluctant owner of the smallest socks in Company M.
Back on the farm, the whole family carried on about my first column and complimented me until my face heated and I held up my hands.
Truth be told, I was proud of how it turned out.
By evening, the excitement had settled into a background hum.
I sat at the table and polished my third column.
Freedom and adventure waited for me on the horizon, closer than they’d ever been.
I’d send George the column before the end of the week.
Then I’d be all nervous anticipation. At least bringing in the harvest would distract me while I waited to hear the verdict, waited to hear if my column would become a permanent feature.
If only the harvest could distract me from Viola.
Had Viola liked my column? Did she realize I’d been thinking of her while writing it? I could picture her, bent over the paper, tucking that curl behind her ear. I slipped away into the dream of her.
I just needed to figure out if her kisses were contradictions, possibilities, or promises.
“Think happy thoughts!” I grinned at my family, all of them crowding close as I tore open the letter in our farmyard. Everyone had huddled around the moment the mail arrived from town. It had been carried out by the inn’s stable boy, who received an extra coin for delivering it so quickly.
I scanned the letter, my smile stretching wider. “It’s official. My column will be a permanent feature. George and Victor send their congratulations.” Victor had scrawled a short note at the bottom of George’s letter, and I was surprised by how much his praise mattered to me.
My family erupted with hoots of congratulations.
The stable boy called over his well wishes from where he watered his horse. No doubt the overheard good news would soon spread all through town.
“You’re not done opening yet.” Jo herded me like a lost lamb to sit before the unopened package on the porch step, addressed to me in Viola’s hand. I easily recognized the loops and swirls of her calligraphy even from a distance.
Beth pressed it into my hands and looked as though she might tear the wrapping off herself.
The package contained a detailed map of the rail system and a caramel-colored leather-bound book.
The cover was embossed with Tales from the Rails—by Jacob Jensen in gold lettering.
It matched the writing journal Viola had sent earlier.
Warmth spread through me. When I opened the book, I found my first two columns neatly pasted in and a note folded and tucked inside the front cover.
My chest tightened at the sight of my name written in her hand.
I discreetly tucked the note into my pocket and showed the book around.
Pa leaned on his fox-head walking stick and on Erik’s arm. “You did it, my boy. Held to your dreams. Tenacity. Look what has come of it. More rewards on the hor-i-zon, I think.”
Erik clapped my shoulder.
Beth’s words overflowed. “You’re gonna get to go on the train again. Go out and see everything you want. Now you’re famous. Probably get to meet lots of other famous people. I wish I could go, too.”
“Oh, what a lovely idea, a keepsake book for all your columns,” Ma said.
“Viola is so thoughtful.” Her gaze rested briefly on my pocket before she sent everyone back to their interrupted tasks.
“Enough dawdling.” Ma clapped her hands.
“There is still work to be done before dinner. Off with you, now.” She waved her hands, and the family split apart, laughing.
I bounded into the house, took the stairs three at a time, and shut myself in my room.
I placed the map and keepsake book on the high shelf above my bed, beside my journal.
I sank onto the bed, drew the square of paper from my pocket, and smoothed it across my thigh with careful fingers.
With a deep breath, I leaned back onto the pillow and raised the paper into the light from the window.
My dear Jacob,
Heartfelt congratulations on the early success of your column.
When I read your words, I hear your voice, see your amused smile, and picture the sparkle in your eyes.
I noticed it the first time you told me a story.
It was the one about the apoplectic singer you shared during my first breakfast with your family.
Back when I hardly knew you. Now here I am, smiling at the newspaper like a complete featherhead. I am your biggest fan, remember?
I hope you like the memory book I started for you as a safe place to collect your columns. I imagine you, older, turning the pages with pride as you read your stories to nieces, nephews, and perhaps your children, all of them hanging on your every word and requesting their favorites.
By now, you know me well enough to realize I am a planner. I suspect you may be one as well, and I hope the map proves helpful to you during your travels. I am delighted that your responsibilities at home will no longer prevent you from pursuing your dreams.
How is everyone in Harmony Lake? I am sure it is a busy time for you on the farm, bringing in the harvest and preparing for the change of the season.
It has been a busy time for me as well. I have been working toward a dream of my own.
I have news I do not want to share with you in a letter—a big surprise.
Ha! I expect this statement has sparked your curiosity, and it would be cruel not to give you a little hint.
But what can I say without giving away the entire surprise?
I will simply assure you that the surprise will force you to see me more often.
Hopefully, that is something you will welcome. I certainly am looking forward to it.
With warmest regards,
Viola
I reread the letter three times, then tucked it away in my journal before I could give in to a fourth.
A big surprise? What surprise? And a dream of her own?
I told myself to be cautious. I’d misread things before, embarrassingly.
I told myself not to make wild leaps. But her words circled in my mind.
I couldn’t quiet the rebellious corner of my mind, which imagined every possible way she might step back into my days. I tried to be sensible. Steady.
I rolled toward the wall, toward the room where she used to sleep, empty now. I pressed my hand to the smooth wall.
She was looking forward to seeing me more often.
How was I supposed to think of anything else?