Two
The Next Day
A good airstrip. Maybe better than good.
Perfect, even.
She walked slowly beside the stakes, hands in the pockets of her jacket, and envisioned what the landing strip would look like when it was finished, after the grader had come through, which should happen soon.
The grass lay flatter than most of the prairie, the land sprawling clean and open.
The sky stretched wide, making her feel small like it always did.
Beautiful country, here. The Sandhills in Nebraska.
It’d been so long since she’d had a place of her own.
Her time as a WASP, flying from state to state, base to base, assignment after assignment, had kept her from settling down.
But now she was done. She’d moved on to a new direction in her life.
After making it official just a few days ago, her signature had given her a home, land, and soon… her own aviation company.
It’d been a stroke of fortune a pilot friend had sent her the ad from the Omaha World-Herald about the property. Ten acres with a rickety barn and a weather-beaten house that had sat empty until the Kincaid estate sale last month found itself a buyer, all at a price she could afford.
She smiled. The bank’s loan officer had mentioned how many folks wondered who’d be moving in. Most assumed a local. No one expected an outsider.
And a female pilot to boot.
Halting beside the final marker, she pivoted back toward the house.
From this angle, the whole strip made sense—the approach from the west, the wind usually running steady across the bluffs, plenty of room for a Piper Cub to settle in.
That old barn would make a fine hangar. Might even give her a small office, too.
None of it was much to look at yet.
But she could already see it.
The smooth hum of a car’s engine shifted her thoughts from dreamy to curious. A sleek sedan pulled into her yard, and her steps quickened to greet whoever had arrived, surprising her. The driver’s door swung open, and Tom Caldwell stepped out.
The banker from Thedford?
He brushed dust from his trousers, then both sleeves of his suit jacket, before he spotted her.
“Miss Sinclair,” he said with a professional smile.
“Call me Jackie, remember?” She halted in front of him, keenly aware she wasn’t dressed nearly as nicely as he was. “Long drive just for copies of paperwork.” She tucked strands of hair behind her ear from wind that always blew. “I thought you were going to mail them to me.”
“That was the plan,” he said. “Though I’m afraid the paperwork part has changed.”
“Oh?”
Tom glanced past her shoulder to the line of stakes stretching across the grass. “So this is the airstrip everyone in town is talking about.”
Odd how he was so quick to change the subject, but Jackie followed his lead. Small-town gossip was something she’d have to get used to in a hurry.
“Word travels fast,” she commented.
“Usually beats the mail, I’m afraid.” He gave the field an appraising look. “I’m trying to picture a landing strip with your little plane coming and going.”
He was stalling, she could tell, and why would he?
“I have no trouble picturing it at all.” She smiled and shrugged.
“Well,” he said lightly, “I suppose if a fire starts again, we’ll all be glad you’re here.”
“That’s the whole idea, isn’t it?”
Tom shifted his leather briefcase from one hand to the other.
“Jackie.” He cleared his throat. “There’s something I came out to discuss before you get too far along with this.”
Unease settled over her. She debated inviting him into the house, to sit at the kitchen table, but the place was a bit of a mess yet, and the porch would be easier.
She led him toward the house and sat on the top step. “Have a seat, Tom. It’s the best I can offer you until I’m unpacked, I’m afraid.”
He followed her over, taking a moment to brush away the dirt before he sat. He held his briefcase with both hands—hands that, Jackie guessed, hadn’t seen a lick of hard work. Ever.
“The bank has finalized your purchase,” he said finally. “But when I was filing the transfer, I ran across an older record tied to the property.”
“Older?”
“Than what you signed, yes.” He opened the briefcase and removed a folded document that looked considerably… older. He handed it to her. “County archive. Dated 1912.”
Jackie glanced down at the yellowed paper. She didn’t bother to read it. “What does it say?”
Tom took a moment. “It records an agreement between the original tenant on this land—Roy Kincaid—and a man named Wade Archer, who owned it.”
Tenant. Owner. Two separate things. Her brain locked in on the words, their meanings. Unease curled in her stomach, vague but there.
“I know of Mr. Kincaid, of course, but who’s the other man? The one named Wade?” she asked.
“The grandfather of the Archer & Sons Ranch family north of here. Deceased in 1951. But he homesteaded the place in the early 1900s. According to the record, Roy Kincaid was granted use of this portion of land for the duration of his life.”
She didn’t move. “And after that?”
“The land was to pass to the oldest Archer grandson.”
Understanding failed her, though she fought to try. “Mr. Kincaid died last year. Why hasn’t this… grandson come forward to claim his land?”
“The record is old and not entirely clear. It merely states the arrangement between Roy Kincaid and Wade Archer, but Archer never formally transferred the title, no doubt thinking the land was technically his and why bother. So it isn’t indexed like a deed.
More like a memorandum.” He shook his head, as if annoyed by the rationality.
“Nor is the land description precise. Back then, they didn’t use specific survey sections like we do today. ”
The prairie fell quiet. Not even the wind blew, at least not much. Only the squeal of the windmill blades in the nearby field reached Jackie’s consciousness. She let out a slow breath.
“Well,” she said evenly. “This is inconvenient.”
Tom frowned. Clearly, she had his sympathy. “I agree.”
“Are they going to evict me?”
After returning the document to an inside pocket of his briefcase, Tom snapped the clasp shut and stood.
“I have no way of knowing what the Archers will do. I’m a loan officer, and my responsibilities lie with you and the bank.
Not the landowner.” Tom hesitated a moment longer.
“You’ll probably want to talk to them, though. ”
She stood, too. “I’m not leaving until they serve me notice.”
He nodded, as if he approved of her defiance.
“I’ve always known the Archers to be fair.
The family is highly respected around these parts, but land is land, and I’ve never known a rancher not to fight for it.
” Somber, he adjusted his hat in deference to the wind.
“Obviously, the bank and I value you as our customer. I can recommend an attorney if you choose to use one.” His gaze lingered over her.
“Of course, if you need to discuss this further, I would be happy to.” A small smile appeared on his professional-looking mouth. “Perhaps over dinner.”
The suggestion rolled through her without taking root. She ignored it. “There’s an important detail you didn’t tell me, Tom.”
“Oh?”
“The grandson’s name. The oldest one.”
“Ah. Forgive me.” He seemed almost amused from his oversight. “Beckett Archer.”
The earth shifted beneath her. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“Beckett,” he said again. “Beckett… Archer.”
She didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Not until she knew for sure….
He stepped toward his sedan. “Good day, Jackie.”
She didn’t wish him the same.
She waited until the sedan’s engine purred to life and Tom put the machine into gear. She waited until the big car moved out of her yard and into the road, until it shrunk in size within a cloud of dust.
Only then did her need to see again the words imprinted on metal propel her into a run across her porch, to fling open the screen door and let it slam shut behind her.
She tossed the yellowed document Tom had given her onto the kitchen table and entered her bedroom at a full run.
She yanked open the top dresser drawer and pulled out a small chest made of polished cedar.
Inside, the dog tag on the ball chain lay on a bed of thin-green velvet, where it’d been since she’d eventually quit wearing it on her skin, against her heart. She’d given its twin to the Army after the ambush in Korea. Protocol for their records. For notification of family.
But this one, she’d kept for herself.
She couldn’t forget that day. What she’d done. How she’d failed the three men in the eastern valley that horrific day.
Like so many times before, she slid the pad of her thumb over the smooth metal, imprinted with the words she’d read so often, they would never leave her mind.
Archer, Beckett J.
It wasn’t the same person that took precedence with her land, was it? Someone with an identical name. What were the chances?
The man whose voice she’d heard through her radio had been captured by the enemy. She’d seen it, had never once doubted it. He’d been listed as missing by the Army, disappeared, and was assumed dead by so many, including herself.
Afterward, she’d left Korea and lost touch with the military. Since then, she’d been denied the information she craved. The truth.
From Korea to the Sandhills of Nebraska?
How could it be possible?
Archer was a common name. There had to be thousands in the country with that surname, she told herself. The coincidence was too crazy to be true.
Just too crazy.
She inhaled, exhaled the memories away. Gently, reverently, she laid the dog tag and chain on the velvet and lowered the lid. She had a new life now, much different than the one she’d had in Korea. Still a pilot, but now in a new part of the world, with new plans. New dreams. Even her own plane.
She’d overreacted from Tom’s information, that’s all.
Calmer, she returned the chest to its place and pushed the drawer closed. Turning, she strode out of her bedroom, leaving the yellowed document where it lay, and headed out the front door.