Rose nodded. “I’ll take it. Tell me the story.”
“Well, there isn’t really much to say. I chose it because of its name.”
“You decided to come here just because this town is called Jubilee?” She looked at him disbelievingly and then took her little notepad and pen out of her purse and scribbled furiously.
He couldn’t resist asking, “You know what that means, don’t you?”
Rose snapped the pad shut. “Why, yes, I do, as a matter of fact. And that, my friend, makes you that much more interesting.”
He watched as she marched back into the church. He’d probably done entirely the wrong thing by telling her, but maybe it was vague enough that she could use it in her story and leave his past alone.
It was true, though. A place named after the joyful forgiveness of sins and debt had to be the place for him.
How long this information would hold her was another issue. Once she started putting two and two together, this woman would come up with seven.
Chapter 4
A good day’s work is a noble thing. Not every day, however, is a good day to work.
The soul needs nurturing the same as the body. We must feed our souls as well as our bodies.
Rose quickly found one distinction between Chicago and Jubilee. In the big city, Sunday was simply another day of the week. Life roared on as it did on the other six days. For the most part, shops were open for business, and while Rose might have had to go a bit farther to find a store that was open on Sunday, it was possible.
In Jubilee, however, things were quite different. Apparently the residents took the matter of keeping the Sabbath quite seriously. Rose stared at the CLOSED sign on Clanahan’s Wagon and Livery.
“The only thing you’ll find open on Sunday is the church,” Matthew explained when she’d walked back to the Territorial Hotel.
“Everything else is closed?”
“Everything.” The young man nodded so vigorously that his glasses slid down his nose and he had to push them back into place.
“What do I do if I have to have a wagon today?” she persisted.
“You wait unless you can borrow one from someone.”
Rose leaned across the counter. “Do you have a wagon?”
Matthew laughed. “You go right to the point, don’t you, Miss Kelly? I’m sorry, but I don’t have a wagon or even a horse. I live here in town, and I walk wherever I need to go.”
“Do you know anyone who can lend me one?”
“At the risk of being impertinent,” Matthew said, “is this an emergency? Can’t this wait until tomorrow?”
Waiting until tomorrow was a concept to which Rose had never subscribed. Too many ideas slid into nothingness when they were forced to linger.
“I’d like to take a ride through the countryside and watch some farming in action. Remember, I’m a city girl. I know nothing about this.” She smiled in what she hoped was a winning fashion.
Matthew shook his head. “You’d have to travel quite a ways. You won’t find anyone in the fields today, not here in Jubilee, that is. This is a day of rest.”
She nodded. “I see.” She turned away from the desk and walked over the rose-patterned carpet to her room, where she sank onto her bed.
So Jubilee was closed on Sundays, was it? She liked that, even if it was inconvenient at the moment.
“ ‘Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy,’ ” she said aloud.
It was one of the Ten Commandments. She stood and crossed to the window. The midafternoon sun lit empty streets and shuttered stores. As far as she could see across the gloriously flat land, nothing moved—except a distant cluster of shapes. She squinted at the rebels. They were oddly shaped and seemed to be dressed in black and white.
What was this odd development in Jubilee? She stretched as far as she could and narrowed her eyes even more, until at last it all made sense.
Cows. They were cows.
She shook her head at her own silliness. She had a long, long way to go before she’d be at home here—if, in fact, that ever happened. Rose Kelly was part of the city, just as much as Eric Johansen was part of the prairie.
What was she to do with the remaining hours of her day? She reached for the leather-bound volume on top of the bureau. Maybe it was time to take another look at those commandments.
Monday morning broke bright and clear. Eric groaned as the first slivers of light stabbed his eyes. He hadn’t slept well at all, and when he had finally fallen asleep, his dreams had been restless.
After his morning devotions—he liked to start his day with something from Proverbs—he wandered into his kitchen and remembered the lefse he’d gotten the day before.
He rolled up a piece of lefse and stuffed it into his mouth. The women had made him a basket of food after the meal yesterday. It was almost as if they didn’t believe he could cook for himself. He glanced around his tiny kitchen and grimaced. They were right.
The Sunday dinners were a real boon to him. By the end of the week, though, he often found himself having to eat his own dry bread or his pitiful attempts at stew.
He splashed some water on his face and stomped out to the barn. There was never enough time to get even with farming, he thought as he mucked out the stable. His horse whinnied softly, and he rubbed its soft nose. “Yes, fellow, you’re going to have some lovely hay now.”
This was his favorite time of day, this time in the barn with his horse watching him with those liquid brown eyes. They’d stand beside each other, him working and the horse observing, until at last he’d turn the gray into the corral and let it graze.
“Your lazy days are about to end, my friend,” he said to the horse as he evened out the straw. “Soon enough we’ll be in the fields all day long, you and me. The wheat’s doing well.”
He led the gray out into the sunlight and paused. “Well,” he asked the horse, “what do you think of Miss Rose Kelly?”
The horse shook out its mane.
“That’s right. I agree. This whole thing can’t come to a good end. Why did I let myself get talked into this?” He sighed and headed toward the fence on the other side, which was leaning a bit.
The gray followed him, tossing its head a bit in the sunshine.
“This is the day which the Lord hath made. I suppose it’s up to me to rejoice and be glad in it, isn’t it?”
The horse didn’t answer but bent its elegant neck to nibble some early clover.
“Tch, tch,” Rose said encouragingly as she flapped the reins. The only horse Clanahan had available was Big Ole, a gigantic thing with hooves as large as dinner plates.
The wagon was as tiny as the horse was large, and as they rumbled down the road to Eric’s house, she had the unwelcome thought that she was at the mercy of the beast. If he wanted to go right, then they were going right. She didn’t seem to have much choice in the matter.
Eric’s house was going to be easy to find, Mr. Clanahan had assured her. She was supposed to watch for a small brown house in a grove of cottonwoods. He’d also laughingly told her not to worry, that Big Ole would turn in there on his own to get a drink at the stream that ran next to Eric’s house.
She looked at her surroundings as Big Ole led her along the road. Was the sky this blue over Chicago? Was it simply obscured by the black clouds that spewed forth from the smokestacks? And did the birds sing this powerfully in the city? All she could remember were the tiny sparrows and the pushy pigeons, not the songbird whose glorious melody washed over the prairie.
Her musings came to a sudden stop as Big Ole slowed his steadily clomping pace and turned in at what had to be Eric’s house.
She sat in the wagon, but nobody came out. He must be in the fields, she thought, but where?
Rose gathered her skirt and carefully climbed out of the wagon. She contemplated Big Ole—should she tie him up? She laughed at the thought. If Big Ole decided to leave, there wasn’t a tether in sight that could hold him.
She patted him te
ntatively on his haunch. “Good boy. Stay there.”
“He’s not a dog,” Eric called from the barn door. He was wiping his hands on a cloth as he came toward her. “I see Clanahan gave you Big Ole.” He ran his hand along the horse’s neck. “He’s a gentle giant, this one is. And reliable.”
He unhooked the wagon and began to lead the horse to the pasture. “The stream winds through the pasture. He likes that stream water better than the stuff Clanahan gives him from the tank in town.”
Rose had to run to keep up with his long strides. “Do you mind if we visit awhile?”
“I have work to do.” His answer was short.
“I understand that. I could help you,” she offered, trying to avoid the random tufts of grass that threatened her elegant little French heels.
The look he threw over his shoulder was icy. “Can you milk a cow?”
“No,” Rose said brightly. “But I can learn.”
He shook his head. “Perhaps another day. I have quite a bit to do, Miss Kelly, and although I’ve already agreed to be the subject of your articles, I still need to do my work.”
“I understand. I’ll be just as quiet as a mouse. You won’t even know I’m here.”
He let go of Big Ole’s bridle, and the horse thundered happily into the pasture toward the gray that was already there, kicking up a clod of moist dirt that landed directly on her white blouse. Rose tried not to think of the stain that the soil would leave on the silk.
She knew her smile wouldn’t fool him, but she tried anyway. “I’ve had worse things thrown on me.”
His reserve melted for just a moment. “What kinds of things would a society reporter have thrown at her? Chocolates? Cakes? Champagne?”
“Ah, the three C’s of fancy dinners. No, surprisingly, there have been times when people weren’t glad to see me.”
“That is a surprise,” he said dryly.
She ignored his comment. “And I don’t drink champagne. A reporter needs a clear head. Actually, I think I always need a clear head, so I stick with juice or water.” Rose grinned. “But I never had any problems with chocolates or cakes.”
The gray horse left Big Ole’s side and came to join them, nuzzling Eric’s pocket. “He wants a treat,” Eric said, taking an apple out of his pocket. “Usually I wouldn’t give him one so early in the day, but he’ll trail after us if I don’t. Right, fellow?”
“Is that his name? Fellow?”
Eric ducked his head. “He doesn’t have a name.”
She faced him, her hands on her hips. “Do you mean to tell me that you haven’t named this beautiful animal?”
“Well, uh, you see, I—” His words stumbled out.
“I think he deserves a name.” She stepped back and studied the horse. From the corner of her eye, though, she watched Eric. He hadn’t smiled at all since she arrived. She couldn’t stand that; she just couldn’t. “You should name him something suitable, something that will make him proud.”
She paused. “Something like Sir Gray Steed of the West.”
That did it. He smiled, and Rose’s heart soared.
“What kind of homesteader are you?” she asked.
He stopped and looked at her. “I do all right.”
She shook her head. “Very funny. No, I mean do you have animals? Do you grow things?”
“I had some sheep once,” he said, walking toward the barn, “but I didn’t care for that.”
“Why not?”
He led her into the darkness of the barn. It smelled of hay and horses—not an unpleasant smell at all. Eric pulled a pile of leather bindings from a shelf and handed them to her. “Here. Check these over for damage.”
“Damage?”
“Make sure they’re not coming apart.”
“What am I looking for?”
“Tiny teeth marks,” he answered. He picked up a burlap bag of something metal that clanked as he carried it to the barn door.
“Tiny teeth—oh. Mice. Nasty. Say, what’s in that bag?” She tried not to think about what the dirty leather straps were doing to her white blouse. The spot from the dirt clod might have come out, but this pile was spelling certain doom for the fine silken fabric.
“Pieces of this and parts of that. Say, pretty soon the barn will become an oven. Come on, let’s go outside to do this,” he said.
“Sounds good to me.” She staggered a bit under the load. It was heavier than it looked.
He moved two short stools from the side of the barn. “Have a seat.”
The wind felt good on her face. She began separating the bindings and checking them over for weaknesses in the leather. “So why didn’t you keep them?”
“Keep what?”
“The sheep.”
“Oh, them.” Eric rummaged through the burlap bag. “There should be a—oh, here it is. Well, sheep are good for two things: food and wool. Shearing sheep is quite a skill. If you don’t do it well, neither you nor the sheep will come through the experience unhurt.”
“Why not raise them as a food crop?”
He shook his head. “Nah. Not for me.”
“I couldn’t do that,” she said. “Once I named them, I couldn’t—”
“Named them?” For the second time that day, he laughed. “Named them? Rose, that’s priceless.”
She glared at him. “I don’t see what’s so funny about that.”
“Never mind. To move on with your question, I’ll tell you—this year I’m raising wheat. I tried barley once before, but it didn’t do very well, so I’m sticking with wheat. By the way, it’s spring wheat.”
“Spring wheat is…?” she asked, digging out her tiny notebook and pen from her bag, which she had attached to her waist.
“Planted in the spring. Winter wheat is planted in the winter.”
“How can you plant wheat in the winter?” Her pen tore across the paper as she wrote furiously.
“It’s actually planted in September, generally late in the month for better yield. I’ve heard winter wheat does better than spring wheat but that it’s riskier since it’s so cold up here during the winter, so I stick to planting spring wheat. Just about everybody up here does.”
“That makes sense,” Rose said, busily writing everything down in her tiny notepad. “When did you plant, by the way?”
“Well, this year I got in the fields a bit early. It was the end of April. Sometimes we don’t get out there until May. It all depends on the weather.” He gave a short laugh. “Everything up here depends on the weather.”
“And when will it be harvested?”
“August usually. Want to see the field?” He dropped the metal components back into the bag. “I’m about ready to go for a walk.”
“Sure!”
He led her to the field, and they walked along the peri-meter. “See?” he said, crouching down along the edge row. “It’s looking good. Strong, healthy plants, and barring any hailstorms or tornados or extended thunderstorms or plant disease, we should have a good crop this year.”
She knelt beside him, ignoring the mud that was sponging up on her skirt. The entire outfit was a disaster anyway.
“The rows are about half a foot apart at minimum, although we like to give them nine inches if we can,” he explained.
He stuck a finger in the dirt at the base of one of the plants and dug a small hole. “The root systems are sturdy, which helps.” He covered it back up and patted the soil into place.
“Do you plant with someone else?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
“You keep saying ‘we.’ ”
“I guess I mean God.” He stood up and brushed the dirt off his hands. “Farming isn’t something a man can do by himself. Each little seed is a miracle. Inside it is another plant. I can’t make a seed, and I certainly can’t duplicate the wondrous marvel of germination when the seed sprouts, and then when it pushes through the soil, climbing up to live under the sun.”
“Well,” Rose said, “you’ve chosen your partner wi
sely, then.”
A storm was moving in with the evening shadows, and Eric built a fire to protect against the chill that came with it. Once it was crackling heartily, he pulled his chair closer to the hearth and settled in with his Bible in hand.
He needed to get squared away with this business with Rose, and he knew no better way than to take his concerns to the Lord. First he turned to his favorite passage, Psalm 23. It reminded him of the land around Jubilee.
Since he’d come out here, he’d truly been restored, just as the psalm said. The comfort of this psalm had soothed his soul many times.
He leaned back in his chair and mulled over this sudden turn his life had taken. There was no denying that Rose was a beautiful woman. Did that have anything to do with his decision to go along with her harebrained plan? Surely he had better control of himself than that. He hated to think he was so shallow that he’d follow a woman’s path just because she was lovely.
Maybe it was the energy she generated. When she was near him, he felt as if he’d been placed in the middle of a tornado and swept up in its wildly churning winds.
“Speaking of winds,” he said to himself as a shutter rattled wildly. The storm was arriving.
He didn’t bother with a coat. The only shutter that couldn’t be closed from the inside was the one in front of the house, which would take mere moments to fasten securely.
Huge raindrops plopped heavily on his shoulders as he secured the shutter. The wind whipped at his face and tore at his shirt. He made his way to the barn, fighting the wind every step of the way, and made sure everything was protected.
One thing he really needed to do was finish that storm cellar, he thought as lightning tore across the sky and thunder rumbled loudly across the fields. It was still as rudimentary as when he’d first built it.
The night sky opened, and rain poured down, drenching him to the skin. Drops were falling faster than the ground could absorb them, and the water was pooling. He ran as fast as he could back to the house.
Inside, he was glad for the fire. He got out of his wet clothes and into some dry ones, and he returned to his seat in front of the hearth—and to the subject of his earlier musings.
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