Outside the hospital, he stopped long enough to study the directions the doctor had written, then headed west. The Bundrant Farm was two or three miles from town. He considered trying to hitch a ride, but the walk would do him good. He’d keep warm enough if he kept to a quick pace.
A farm in Alaska. It likely didn’t warm up much this far north. Pity the poor livestock—and the man who had to work out in the bitter cold of winter. But people needed milk and meat. Had to be almost impossible to get those things shipped here.
Besides, John could handle farm work well, could even favor the cold. Gracious, he’d lived way up on the mountain in Colorado.
The possibilities of working on a dairy farm again brought memories from childhood to the surface. Up until he was twelve, he’d worked on the Roselli dairy farm back in Italy. His heart clenched a bit at the scenes of rolling green hills, of the large barn, and of jumping into piles of hay. A hazy memory of his mother laughing as she sat on the milking stool holding up a pail of milk brought it all back.
“Patatino, come help me.” Her term of endearment had always made him feel special, although why she called him her little potato was something he never quite understood. All he knew was how much he loved her, and how much she loved him.
How he missed her! And his papa. To have them both taken from him by measles . . . it had been almost more than he could bear. If not for Nonno, John didn’t know what he would have done.
They’d had a good life . . . as good as it could be without his parents. But then the time came when Nonno said they had to leave Italy and go to America. The troublesome changes in Italy, with the ruling politicians pressing their socialistic agenda and the devalued farms, left Nonno declaring, “If we’re going to have so many changes, we might as well go to America and change everything.”
And so they did. Fifteen years ago, they came to New York City and learned English. It didn’t take long for them to buy into the promises of getting rich quick in the goldfields of the West, like so many other Americans. And that was what they had become—Americans. As the days in America became years, John’s memories of Italy faded. Some days it felt like that life belonged to someone else.
Now, with Nonno gone, the memories of family made him feel more alone.
John pulled his mind back to the matter at hand. Crunching his way through the snow, he followed wagon tracks on a road that was filled with icy ruts. A fair amount of traffic must cross this area.
“Ho, there! Watch out!”
John turned and stepped aside as a dog team and sled approached. The driver guided the sled between existing tracks. The eight dogs ignored John, but the driver gave a brief salute, then turned his attention back to the dogs.
John thought to call out to the man and ask for a ride, but before he could, the team turned from the road and headed north across open land. Just as well. John needed time to think about what he would say to Mr. Bundrant. But as he practiced words over and over in his mind, his thoughts returned to the fact that he had no family left. No home to return to. No job or business. He . . . was all alone.
At twenty-seven years old, he should be settling down. His own grandfather had encouraged him to do that, but in a gold-mining town, there hadn’t been a lot of decent, unmarried women. On August the first, he would turn twenty-eight.
God, what do You have for me? I wasn’t expecting to have to start over—by myself—at this stage in life. I guess I don’t understand . . . why?
Why . . . the question that plagued him the most. His parents’ deaths. Moving to America. Nonno’s death. His last request. And now? For John, left with nothing . . . and this trip with all its ups and downs. No job. No money. In an unknown place that seemed on the edge of the world.
Best not to focus on the negatives and all his questions. Once he accomplished his task and earned enough money to start fresh, John knew what he wanted. To move forward with his life. Find a good church and a decent job. Maybe the good Lord would still bless him with a family.
He gave a sigh and squared his shoulders. The pack was getting heavy, just like the burden of wondering what the future might hold.
Stop. No good could come of trying to figure out the details of what he wanted. Best to focus on what God had for him. One day at a time.
The raw feeling in his stomach made him feel like his body was gnawing on itself as it let out another loud rumble. Picking up his pace, he decided he’d have to settle on one meal at a time—and pray Mr. Bundrant had a job for him.
Otherwise, he’d run out of options.
Three
Everything was falling into place. The more gold diggers that stayed in Nome, the more supplies they’d need, and the more indebted to him they would become. Eventually, they’d have to give him their claims.
The thought made Judas Reynolds chuckle. But a wise man didn’t put all his eggs in one basket. No. He’d planned for more than those foolish simpletons. For the most part, he had control of all the business owners. All except Norris—the man who owned the Roadhouse—who wanted to keep gambling and alcohol out of his establishment, and that all-too-quiet Bundrant. But they’d come around. In time. Everyone would owe him.
He tapped his fingers on his desk. Now why would a man who’d had a successful mine in Nome, and plenty of gold, just up and start a dairy? He’d investigated Bundrant. The man had been very successful with other mining operations over the last couple decades. There wasn’t any way the farm was more prosperous than the mine, plus it was grueling work. But as soon as the crowds had flocked to find gold, he’d watched Bundrant turn his land into a dairy and poultry farm.
It didn’t make sense.
But he intended to find out why. And with that, he’d learn the man’s weaknesses.
It wouldn’t take too long to be the benefactor of the entire town.
Then he could make even more money.
All he had to do was give it time.
The metronome ticked, and Havyn tapped her foot in the same rhythm.
“Let’s start again.” Whitney gave a nod to her and Madysen. “One, two, ready, play.”
Havyn kept her eye on the music as she moved the bow in rhythm. The sixteenth notes in this piece made it tricky for her to stay in tempo—especially since the piece was relatively new to Madysen and she had a hard time keeping up on the cello. If it were the two of them playing a duet, it would be one thing, but Whitney tended to try to pull them along like a steam engine, her head bobbing with the beat as her fingers flew across the ivories. Havyn wanted to ask her to slow it down a bit, but Madysen hadn’t asked for help, so perhaps they would make it.
Whit was very much the leader. It was her job to lead them and mother-hen them almost as much as Mama. From the time Havyn could remember, her elder sister had been dragging her along by the hand or making sure she understood what to do. But Whit was also a fierce protector and loyal friend. Havyn couldn’t have asked for a better older sister. Even if they got annoyed with one another, it never lasted.
The piece continued into a ritardando that led to the largo movement. Taking a deep breath, she lifted her bow for the rests in her music and closed her eyes as Madysen took over the lead part.
Their youngest sibling could make the cello sing. It gave Havyn chill bumps to listen to the haunting melody. It was almost time for her to come back in, so she opened her eyes and looked at her sisters. Whitney’s curly red hair was tied back in a braid with a ribbon. She never fussed much with it because she liked things simple and out of the way—her focus was on helping run the farm and on practicing their music, not on her appearance. Even so, Havyn didn’t think their elder sister knew how truly beautiful she was.
Madysen sat with her head slightly ducked as she played. Her frame was much more petite than either Whitney or Havyn, but her red hair was just as curly as Whit’s. She chose to wear it down most of the time, pulling it back with combs like their mother used.
Madysen glanced up as if she knew Havyn had been watching
and smiled.
Havyn blinked. It was her turn to play again. As she moved her eyes back to the music in front of her, a memory of Madysen’s birth took over her mind. Early, and oh, so tiny, the youngest Powell had captured all their hearts. Havyn had been three when her younger sister was born, but she had vivid memories of fighting with Whitney over who would get to hold the baby. And how the whole family had prayed daily for Madysen for many weeks.
The tempo picked back up in the last movement, and Havyn forced her mind back to the present. She loved her sisters, but she didn’t want to be on the receiving end of their ire if she flubbed her part because she was distracted.
A fight would only give Granddad another reason to tease them for their fiery tempers. Poor man. Living with four redheads had to be a challenge. But the truth was, Havyn didn’t want to incense either of her sisters. They’d done too much of that when they were younger and stretching their boundaries.
As the piece headed into the vivace section of the finale, their complete unity in the timing and harmonies gave her a little thrill. What was it about music that brought them together so beautifully?
The final notes rang out. Havyn watched for Whitney’s pedal to release before she lifted her bow.
In perfect unison, they stopped. Madysen set down her bow and clapped her hands. “Whew! I wasn’t sure I could keep up with you two there for a bit, but we made it.” The smile that filled her face made her almost glow.
“I’m so proud of both of you!” Whitney turned on the bench to face them. Her smile warmed Havyn to the core. “This will be a wonderful addition to our repertoire for the Roadhouse, don’t you think?”
“Oh, I do!” Havyn set her violin down and straightened the pages on her music stand. “It’s definitely a challenging piece, which will keep the audience on their toes, and it’s emotional enough to draw them in and pull at their heartstrings.”
“Exactly.” Whit turned back to the piano and glanced at her music. “I think perhaps we should practice a bit more around measure 128 through to the end of the movement before Mama gets back from town. Then we could play this for her after dinner.”
“Agreed.” Havyn glanced at the clock. “As long as we don’t take too long—I’ve got to check on the chickens and then get to preparations for dinner.”
Madysen leaned back in her chair. “Don’t forget Mama wanted to go through some new harmonies she wrote for us on that song for church, as well as the other music she wanted to work on once she got home.”
“Let’s get back to it, then, shall we?” Whitney set the metronome for the tempo of the first movement again.
Havyn lifted her violin under her chin and nodded.
They started the piece together again, and Madysen didn’t seem to struggle in keeping up at all.
Havyn let the music wash over her, filling all the cracks and crevices of her soul. There was nothing more perfect in the world to her. A true gift from God.
Applause from behind them made them all stop and turn. Mama beamed a smile at them. “What outstanding improvement you all have made! It’s simply beautiful.” She strode toward them across the great room they used for the family’s gatherings and stopped abruptly by the window. “Why don’t . . . you . . . start . . . back at the . . . beginning?”
Whitney came off the bench in an instant. “Mama, what’s wrong?”
Their mother held up a hand. “Just . . . having trouble . . . catching my . . . breath.” She sat in a wing chair. “I’ll . . . be fine. Go ahead.” The smile she aimed at them was weak.
Havyn looked to Whit for her cue. Should they continue? Or was something wrong?
Whitney glanced at her and then to Madysen. Even though Havyn wasn’t looking at their mother, she listened to each breath, pretty certain that her sisters were doing the same.
She rearranged her sheets of music.
Madysen applied rosin to her bow.
After a few moments, Whitney nodded.
Their mother’s breathing seemed slow and steady now. Maybe she had run in from the wagon when she’d heard them playing? Could that be why she’d been out of breath?
“Let’s—” Mama cleared her throat—“hear it.” The words from their mother brooked no argument.
They went back to the beginning and started again.
An hour later, Havyn took a clean apron from the hook in the hallway. Her skirt was a sight. When she’d gone out to check on the chickens, she’d found them having a squabble over the scraps she’d taken out after lunch. So she had to separate a few of the troublemakers until they calmed down. Which had made a mess out of her skirt and blouse. Not to mention the depth of the snow in the new pen where she’d placed some of her ornery girls. She’d had to dig out part of the corner by the fence. Oh, for the day the snow would melt. It was almost May, for goodness’ sake!
With no time to change, she’d cleaned up the best she could, washed her hands and face, pulled her hair back into a tidy bun, and headed to the kitchen.
Lifting the apron over her head, she put it in place and then tied it around her waist. She wanted to make her sweet cornbread to go along with the chowder tonight, but there wasn’t enough time for it to bake, so she’d have to make do with biscuits.
Between all their music practice, chores on the farm, and trading off fixing the meals, they kept quite busy. It didn’t bother Havyn. She loved it. But she also hated to get behind.
“At least I’m more flexible than Whit . . .” She shook her head. Her older sister couldn’t handle things not going according to her plans. When she got it in her mind to do something, everyone else better step out of the way.
Then there was Madysen. She was so compassionate and merciful. All that mattered to her was that everyone was happy—
Tones from the cello came from the living room, as if Havyn had commanded her little sister to play with thoughts of her. It made her giggle as she chopped vegetables for the chowder and placed them in a large cast-iron skillet with butter to sauté. She really shouldn’t be thinking of Madysen as little. Sure, she was tiny, but they were all adults. Madysen was already twenty years of age!
Where had the time gone?
Whitney appeared in the doorway, tying her apron around her waist. “Mama wanted to work on some cello specifics with Maddy, so I came to help you.” She grabbed a fish and slapped it on the counter. “I see Granddad’s been fishing through the ice again. I thought he normally did that on Saturdays.”
“He said he had a hankering to go fishing early this morning. Said the aurora was quite beautiful.”
Her older sister took a knife to the fish. “I’m worried about him. I don’t think he’s sleeping well—especially if he’s getting up that early to go fishing.” Whit’s brow was furrowed, her lips pursed.
While Havyn agreed, she couldn’t let on that anything was amiss. “Maybe we could ask him about it at dinner. I think he’s working way too hard.”
“Which is why he should let me take over more responsibilities. He knows I’m capable of running things, and the dogs don’t take near the work that all the cows do. I hate to keep reminding him, but he’s not getting any younger.”
The aroma from the buttery onions, carrots, and potatoes filled the room with a divine fragrance that made Havyn’s mouth water. “I’ll bring it up at dinner if you think that will help.”
“Would you?” Whitney finished cleaning the fish and wiped her hands on a towel.
“Of course. We’re all concerned about him. Mama mentioned it the other day, but then said that we all might think we’re stubborn because of our red hair when in all actuality it came from Granddad.” Havyn cleaned her work space so she could start the biscuit dough. “Don’t be surprised if it takes him a bit to warm up to the idea of having help. He’s been running this farm, and his mines before that, for a long time without much help from us.”
“You’re right. But that still doesn’t negate the fact that he’s aging. Slowing down. Maybe he needs the reminder th
at we’re fully capable of helping out. Even running things.” Her older sister cleaned up the fish guts and scales.
Havyn poured boiling water over the fish bones so she could make a stock for the base of their chowder. Even though Whitney was right, Havyn worried that Granddad wasn’t ready to hand things over to them just yet.
But if he didn’t do something about it soon . . .
It might be too late.
Four
The road stretched before him. After all the chaos of the morning, John had finally left the town of Nome behind. Good. There wasn’t much out here but snow on the ground, and from the look of the clouds, a threat of more to come. He picked up his pace.
While the town held its own perils, was it dangerous to be far from civilization in this territory? He didn’t have a weapon, other than a small knife. He scanned around him for wild animals. The wind picked up, and he pulled his coat close. A hundred thoughts ran through his mind as he trekked up the snowy road. He’d come a long way from anything he knew. What was he doing here?
Fulfilling a promise. But now that he’d come this far . . . it almost seemed ridiculous. He didn’t remember much about Chuck Bundrant. The last time he’d seen the older man, he’d been fourteen. A vague recollection of Nonno’s stories, and of a kindly face, came to mind. But little else.
He could almost hear his grandfather’s voice on the wind . . . “Do this one thing for me, John.”
He looked toward where the doctor assured him he’d find a dairy farm. There was no sign of one. Or really anything, for that matter. At least, not yet. Should he press on? What if the farm was farther out than the doctor thought? What if the weather turned ugly?
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