Her words were cheery. Ivy had been in Leaning Tree long enough to realize what the woman’s mood meant. Winifred Pettigrass wanted something from her brother, Ivy’s stepfather. How different the two siblings were! Winifred had married a wealthy man who worked for the railroad and originally had come to town as a surveyor, where he’d met Winifred. The spry woman appreciated the finer things in life, as did Ivy, while Ivy’s new stepfather was content to live like a mole and toil the earth to produce wheat and corn.
Winifred’s mother came through the open door. “Good day to you, Ivy,” she said. “You be certain and tell that son of mine I said to come. Three weeks now, I see nothing of him.”
“I’ll tell him,” Ivy called back and continued down the road. Gavin’s mother was the initial reason her stepfather had gone to Boston this past spring. Weak from the voyage to America years ago, Bronwyn Morgan stayed with a relative while Gavin settled his claim and built his home in Nebraska.
How unfortunate for Ivy that Gavin chose this past year to collect his mother—and that Ivy’s mother had been the one strolling down the sidewalk when Gavin approached asking for directions. Two weeks later they married—scandalous to Ivy and her grandmother’s way of thinking, but necessary since Gavin had to return to his homestead and needed a wife and a mother for his two daughters. Eloise Leander had been only too happy to comply, dragging along her only daughter with her.
When Ivy begged to remain in Boston with her grandmother, her mother flatly refused, stressing they were a family and would remain one. And so, one minute Ivy was dancing at a ball with the cream of Boston society. The next she was whisked away and picking up cow patties for fuel with the same gloves she’d worn to the ball.
Ivy sighed at the memory of those chaotic first few months in learning a new way of life. She focused on the road before her. A sea of undulating grass higher than her head flanked both sides of the muddy lane. Skirting the holes filled with rainwater, Ivy was glad she’d given in to common sense last week and had bought the clunky but serviceable footwear at the general store. Her soft kid boots never would have withstood this! At least, underneath her long skirts, the ugly new shoes couldn’t be seen.
Hearing a child softly crying, Ivy lifted her gaze off the puddles and spotted Amy Bradford kneeling at the edge of the road. A bunch of cracked eggs littered the ground in front of the fair-haired girl. Yellow yolks mixed with the clear pool of liquid, which seeped near Amy’s threadbare dress.
“Oh, Ma’s gonna be so mad at me!” The nine-year-old lifted pale green eyes to Ivy and wiped the backs of her fingers over wet cheeks. “I walked all the way from home and was so careful. But this puddle was deeper than I thought, and I twisted my foot.”
Ivy decided not to ask why the child would deliberately step into a puddle. “Are you hurt?” She bent down, careful not to ruin her dress.
“No, but the eggs are. What am I gonna tell Ma? She’s already mad at me for stayin’ so long at the smithy’s two days ago and comin’ home late. She needed to stay with the twins—they’s awful fractious with the teething—and she told me to take the eggs to Mrs. Llewynn this morning. Ma wants to get Clarence a warm coat before the snows come. And Wesley needs shoes. They ain’t got none that’ll fit, and Ma’s been takin’ eggs every morning so’s she can save enough money to buy some.”
Ivy knew that, with fourteen children to raise, the Bradfords barely had enough to get by. Their sod house was even smaller than the one Ivy was forced to live in with her mother, stepfather, and two stepsisters, and Amy’s home contained only one window with a cracked pane.
“How many eggs did you have with you?” Ivy asked.
“Fifteen. One’s okay, though.” Amy reached in the basket beside her and held up a brown oval that had somehow missed destruction.
Ivy held out her hand for the lone egg and inspected the shell. It bore a faint, hairline crack. She reached inside her reticule and withdrew a coin. “There you are.”
Amy stared at the shiny dime in Ivy’s hand as though puzzled. “What’s that for?”
“Your egg. I’m buying it.”
“But”—Amy’s light brows sailed up—“that’s more’n Mrs. Llewynn pays for the whole basket!”
“That’s all right. I’m fond of eggs.”
“A whole dime for one egg?” Amy sounded as if she still couldn’t believe it. Ivy shrugged. “If you’d rather not sell it …”
“Oh no.” Amy grabbed the dime with dirt-stained fingers. “I wouldn’t want ta deprive you of your egg, Miss Leander.” She used a version of the saying Ivy had often heard Mr. Bradford use.
Ivy carefully set the egg at the bottom of her reticule. “Good. Then it appears we’ve struck a bargain.”
The child seemed to consider before a sly smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “Anytime you want more, you let me know, and I’ll be sure and save you some.”
Ivy laughed, the sound trilling through the air. “I’ll do that, Amy.” The grin was still on her face as she watched the girl gather her empty basket and head for home. Suddenly Ivy noticed a wagon coming her way. As the rider neared, her heart plummeted, then lifted, almost soaring above the clouds like an eagle. She pressed her hand to her bosom in a futile effort to quell the rapid beating and averted her gaze past the wagon.
“Mornin’, Boston,” Craig said, pulling his horse to a stop beside her.
Despite her desire not to pay him any heed, she darted a glance his way. He tipped his battered brown hat, giving her that lazy smile.
She offered a brief nod in an effort to be polite.
“Can I give you a ride home?”
“We’re going in opposite directions.”
“It won’t be any trouble for me to turn my horse around. And your father’s claim is close to town.”
“Stepfather, you mean. He’s not my real father.”
Craig didn’t reply. Feeling flustered and wishing she hadn’t blurted out what she had, Ivy looked back down the road. “Thanks for the offer, but I’d rather walk.”
“You sure?” His voice was gentle.
“Yes. As you pointed out, it’s not far, and I enjoy the exercise.”
“Okay. If you’re sure.” His warm brown eyes never left her face, and she felt the blush rise to her cheeks. His look reminded her that she was an unmarried woman and he was an unmarried man. A rather attractive unmarried man, even with that slight bend in his nose and his untamed hair, which grew a little long over the ears.
“I–I have to go now,” she said quickly, moving away as she spoke. She set off at a walking-run for the first several feet, then slowed to a more moderate pace. However, her heart didn’t slow one bit.
What was she thinking? She could never be interested in anyone from this godforsaken little town tucked away in the middle of nowhere! Even if the man wasn’t a farmer and did hold what her mother had informed Ivy was one of the most respected trades in the township, Craig Watson still lived like a pauper in one cramped room adjoining his shop. He didn’t even own a decent home—not that she could think of the soddies that most people from these parts lived in as decent. Yet they were houses with windows and doors.
With each step she took, Ivy’s resolve strengthened. She would keep as far away as she could from the town blacksmith.
Chapter 3
The wind howled outside the soddy as Ivy concentrated on helping her mother hang the wash over the clothesline extending from one end of the dirt-brick wall to the other. Cold weather had hit with a vengeance, and this week’s washing needed to be done inside the crowded front room. The family’s faithful guard dog, Old Rufus, snoozed at his usual place near the cookstove, and Ivy had to step over the old hound more than once as she went about her task.
“‘Under a spreading chestnut tree, the village smithy stands,’ “ Gwen suddenly quoted as she scrubbed a shirt on the washboard. “‘The smith, a mighty man is he, with large and sinewy hands; and the muscles of his brawny arms are strong as iron bands …’ “<
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“Must you recite that now?” Ivy asked her stepsister, perturbed when an image of Craig Watson breezed past the shuttered door of her mind. It had been difficult to bar invasive thoughts of the man ever since she’d last seen him, when he offered her a ride home in his wagon. Now the poem brought vivid pictures to mind.
The eleven-year-old turned solemn blue eyes Ivy’s way. “I’m supposed to know Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s poem by tomorrow, when Mr. Rayborne will make me stand up in front of class to recite it. I have to practice.” She began scrubbing again. “‘His hair is crisp, and black, and long, his face is like the tan; His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate’er he can …’ “
“I’m going outside to get some air,” Ivy muttered, grabbing her woolen cloak.
Her mother’s gentle gaze met hers from across the room, where she stirred lye-water in a kettle heating over the fire. “While you’re out, please gather more fuel, Ivy.”
“Yes, Mama.” Ivy grimaced in distaste but wrapped a scarf around her head, pulled on her discolored ball gloves, and reached for a nearby basket. She despised this chore above all others, but the fire was getting low, and she was the only one available to do it.
A bitter, cold wind chapped her face and bit into her, almost sweeping her the rest of the way outside. She struggled with the door to close it. Searching the frozen ground for the brown lumps, she walked a short distance until she found some. Scarcity of trees in the area made this type of fuel a necessity. Wrinkling her nose in distaste, she picked up the hardened cow patty with gloved fingers and quickly dropped it into the basket. She’d kept her old ball gloves for just this purpose. She wouldn’t dream of touching the disgusting things with her bare hands as her stepsisters did!
Soon her basket was filled, and Ivy straightened. Her lower back had cramped from bending over so much, but she wasn’t about to rub the ache out with the glove she’d just used. As she trudged against the wind and back to the sod house built of “Nebraska marble,” as the locals were fond of calling the earthen bricks, she critically appraised it. Even prettying the name didn’t change its appearance, making Ivy certain that the man who had coined the phrase did so out of a warped sense of humor. Their home was dirt with dead, brown grass growing on its roof. And the fuel for their fire was dried cow manure. If her grandmother could see the depths to which her only granddaughter had fallen, she would likely have a fit of apoplexy.
“Well, I think she’s horrid!” Gwen’s voice coming from around the other side of the soddy brought Ivy up short. She hesitated at the rear of her stepfather’s home, wondering if she should make her presence known or keep quiet.
“I hate her,” Gwen added, her words emphatic. “She thinks she owns the world and everyone’s supposed to wait on her.”
“She does do her part of the chores,” Crystin reminded. “And Dada says it’s not right to hate.”
“Maybe. But just by looking at her face, you can tell that she clearly thinks all work is beneath her. And she doesn’t do half of what she should. Miss Ivy, queen of Boston society.” Her voice took on an affected tone. “You, girl, iron my gloves and darn my stockings. I’m going to the ball!”
Crystin giggled. “You can’t iron gloves, Gwen.”
“I know. But if she had her way, she’d probably give the order to have it done. She’s so mean and bossy. The way she yelled at you when her stupid old brooch went missing is proof.”
“But I did take it to look at it.” Crystin sounded both repentant and puzzled.
“Yes, but she has so many fancy things. She could share instead of flaunting them in our faces like she’s better than us. Not everyone has a mother or grandmother who has pretty things to give.”
“You mean us?” Crystin’s voice was solemn. “Was our mama poor when our dada met her?”
“She had the riches that counted. Inside beauty is what Dada called it. Sweetness of spirit.”
“Do you remember her?”
“Some. Not a lot.”
“Me, either.” There was a short pause. “Gwen, do you like our new mama, even if she is from Boston where the rich people live?”
“She’s a lot nicer than Ivy. Yeah, I like her.”
It was a moment before Crystin spoke again. “Is our dada poor?”
“No, leastways not poor like we were in Wales when we lived in the mining camp. But you were too young to remember those days. Now then, cheer up, Crystin. Who needs Miss Uppity’s old Boston things anyway?”
The girls’ voices grew stronger, and Ivy ducked around the opposite corner before they came into view. From her hiding place, she saw that between them they held a large pail and were headed in the direction of a nearby stream. Probably to get more rinse water.
“I think she’s sad,” Crystin said. “Because she don’t fit in. That’s what Maryanne says.”
“She could fit in if she wanted to,” Gwen shot back. “She just doesn’t want to.”
Although the words were accurate, they cut Ivy to the quick. She never entertained any doubts that her new stepsisters held anything but dislike for her, though the little one seemed to like her a bit. She’d taken up for her, anyway. Yet why should Ivy care?
She stiffened her back and walked to the front of the soddy, against the wind, letting it dry the few unexplainable tears that teased the corners of her eyes. The girls were right. She did not belong. So maybe it was time to go back to where she did.
Craig worked the lever of the huge bellows, fanning air over the fire to get it hot enough to repair a plow. His mind went to thoughts of Ivy. Weeks ago when he’d seen her on the road, after delivering an order to an old farmer who didn’t get around as well as he used to, Craig had been touched to watch the encounter between her and Amy. It didn’t take a lot of figuring to realize what must have happened. Craig had perfect vision and hadn’t been so far away that he couldn’t spot the cracked eggs and overturned basket at the side of the road. He had watched Ivy take an egg from Amy’s outstretched hand, then give her something in return.
The girl’s jubilant face afterward as she turned in his direction and ran for home—like a shining sunbeam parting the gray sky—made it obvious that Ivy had paid a handsome price for the hen offering. Ivy did have a good heart underneath all those ribbons and furbelows. He’d known it all along. And hearing her laughter caress the chill air, Craig’s own heart had soared within his chest. Her laugh reminded him of small tinkling bells and produced a smile on his face, a smile that stretched his lips even now.
Seeing by the white color of the fire that he’d made it too hot, Craig stopped fanning the flames and grabbed his washer. He immersed the bundle of tied-together twigs in water, then flicked the drops over the blaze to bring it down to a steady yellow glow. Thinking about Ivy was breaking his concentration, and that could prove dangerous. Besides, he had another busy day ahead.
Craig had finished up five of his orders when young Wesley ran into the smithy. “Mr. Owen said to tell you something came for you today by freight wagon,” he blurted, out of breath. “I have to get home now, or Pa’ll tan my hide.”
Before Craig could respond, Wesley was gone. Craig eyed the sawhorse table along one wall, holding the orders still needing to be filled, then looked at what he’d accomplished that afternoon. Deciding it wouldn’t hurt to take a short break, he put his tools away, exchanged his leather apron for his coat, and settled his hat firmly on his head.
Once outside, he moved against the cold wind toward the opposite edge of town that held the school and post office. The sky was blue and clear, and the sun gleamed off the windows of the modest-sized building. Inside and to the right, a colorful blanket hung from the ceiling. Through the gap, empty benches revealed that school was out, though the young teacher still sat behind her desk. To Craig’s left, a customer stood in front of Mr. Owen’s counter, and Craig’s stomach did a little rollover when he saw who it was.
“Miss Leander,” Mr. Owen patiently stated, “you should cut some wo
rds from that telegram to make it shorter. I charge by the word, you know.”
“Yes, I know. However, every word is essential to the message.”
“I understand that, ma’am, but, well, for example, this part: ‘It is imperative that I hear from you before the snows begin to fall and travel becomes difficult. I am most eager to return to Boston within the next two weeks.’ Well, now, ma’am. That’s repeating something you said in the first sentence.”
Craig’s heart dropped to his boot tips. Ivy was leaving?
He shuffled his foot, unintentionally gaining her attention. She looked over her shoulder. Her eyes widened when she saw him, and her face paled. “Hello, Boston,” Craig said quietly.
“How much of that did you hear?” Her blue eyes were anxious.
“Enough to know that you plan on breaking your poor ma’s heart.”
Her mouth thinning, Ivy faced Mr. Owen. “I want the entire message telegraphed. I can pay for it.”
The bearded man shook his head but didn’t pursue his arguments. “There’s a package over there for you, Craig. For some reason, it got dropped off here instead of at Mrs. Llewynn’s.”
Craig nodded his thanks and went to retrieve what he saw was a crate. His new caldron must have arrived. Seeing it was too big to carry, he decided to come back for it with a wagon later. He’d already settled all accounts with Mrs. Llewynn, so the caldron was his. After giving a solemn nod to Mr. Owen along with a brief explanation that he’d be back soon, then a nod to Ivy, who hesitantly turned to glance at him, Craig exited the building.
Ivy concluded her business with the postal clerk. Taking a deep breath, she stepped outside. She’d half-expected Craig to be waiting for her, so she wasn’t at all surprised to see him leaning against a hitching post, his arms crossed. What did surprise her was his somber appearance, so much different from the usual one with the expression lines ready to stretch out in amusement. She moved down the road, intending to ignore him.
Tracie Peterson, Tracey V. Bateman, Pamela Griffin, JoAnn A. Grote Page 9