He snorted. Fool woman. She’d probably break her ankle in a gopher hole or pass out from sunstroke or get bitten by a rabid skunk.
Or, he realized as he rose to his feet, those things would happen to him as he chased around after her, trying to save her. He’d be lucky to make it through these six months in one piece.
Enough complaining. He had some ducklings to pick up. Arvid had gotten to him, and in sympathy, he’d agreed to take a few ducklings. If he didn’t get moving, they’d be full-grown ducks by the time he got there.
There was never enough time in the day, not in June. But he wasn’t going to whimper and cry about that. He’d rather be busy. There was only so much time a man could spend with his thoughts.
The sun warmed the air, and he dropped his jacket back on the hook inside the door. He wouldn’t need it.
“This is the day that the Lord hath made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.”
The Good Book certainly had that right!
“Go down that road until you see the cottonwood with the bent trunk. Take a right. After a while, you’ll see a granite rock on the left. Go a mile or so past that. The road curves a bit, and then it’ll fork. Head left, and the first farm on the right is Arvid’s. You can’t miss it.”
Matthew pushed across the counter the scrap of paper on which he had sketched the way to Arvid Frederickson’s farm.
Rose took it and stared at it. It seemed simple enough. She’d been in Jubilee for two weeks, and she was finally feeling comfortable with the prairie town.
But after half an hour of driving the small wagon down country roads that all looked the same, she had to admit that she had no earthly idea where she was.
This land was so flat, she should have been able to see all the way to Omaha. But there were deceptive dips and curves in the earth, and no matter how she looked, or which road she went down, she didn’t see anything that looked remotely like a farm.
Finally, in desperation, she stopped the huge horse and climbed up on the seat of the wagon. Big Ole snorted and pawed at the ground, and the ramshackle wagon shimmied. She stood atop the wooden plank bench like a tottering sentinel on the prairie, scanning the horizon for a recognizable sign.
She saw something in the distance, a tiny squarish spot. Carefully she gathered her skirts and prepared to climb down when she realized the faraway spot was moving. It wasn’t a farm, but someone else with a wagon. Whoever it was didn’t seem to be far away. She’d just wait.
The little spot moved slowly toward her, inching across the landscape. She frowned at it. At this rate, it would be Independence Day before it got to her. Luckily she had her little bag with her. She could make use of this time and record her thoughts so far. Her first story was due in a few days, and she had the perfect angle for it. She took out the pad and pen and began to write. Within minutes her pen was racing across the paper, and she was engrossed in her story.
“Miss Kelly?” Eric’s voice spoke right beside her, and her pen scratched a wild line across the sheet.
“You shouldn’t sneak up on a body. You almost gave me heart failure!” She put her hand on her chest, and even through the thick cotton weave of her suit, she could feel the pounding.
“I’m sorry.” His apology was tinged with amusement, and she glared at him.
“You don’t sound sorry.”
Big Ole shifted uneasily, and Eric moved quickly to his side. “Shhh, boy,” he soothed. “Shhh.” He looked at Rose. “I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, his hand still protectively on Big Ole’s bridle. “But it’s not often people just pull over to the side of the road out here and scribble out a few words.”
Now that her heart had returned to its normal beating, she remembered her earlier mission. “I wasn’t scribbling, I was writing. And I’m out here because I’m lost.”
“How could you be—” he began, and then he stopped. “Oh, never mind. Where did you intend to go?”
“I was on my way to Arvid’s farm.”
“Arvid?” He shook his head in disbelief. “Why would you want to go out there?”
“I’m interviewing him.”
“I thought you were interviewing me.”
She put the notepad back in her purse. Then she tucked the tiny pen in there, too. With great deliberation, she closed the bag, then faced him. “I tried to, Eric. I really did. I got one thing. One thing.”
Eric’s extraordinary silence about his past was aggravating her irrationally. She could write the article—and, in fact, she just had—without that information, but not knowing was driving her out of her mind. He was so adamant about not telling her that she was determined he was going to do it.
“Can you direct me to Mr. Frederickson’s farm, please?” she asked primly. “I have a few questions for the gentleman.” She lifted her chin. “If you won’t talk to me, perhaps he will.”
Chapter 6
When the land is this vast, we try to tether ourselves in place by creating a web with others. It is not enough to do this and call it done. Our lives always need to be tended as if they were growing things, because they are, in fact, just that.
This wasn’t what Eric wanted to hear. He wanted to pick up his ducklings and be on his way back home. But if he led Rose to Arvid’s farm, it wouldn’t be that simple. They’d end up talking about the day’s weather, and then Arvid would take him out to the pond to look at the ducks, and after that they’d take a look at the fields and check on the seedlings, and the next thing he knew, they’d all be sitting around the kitchen table drinking Arvid’s Norwegian coffee and eating his cinnamon cookies.
All he wanted were his ducks.
But there was no way around it. He was going to Arvid’s, and so was she. The only consolation he could find in the matter was that they’d be in separate wagons on the way out.
He didn’t dare leave her alone with Arvid. Who knew what the man would tell Rose? Arvid wasn’t the kind of fellow to let a little lack of knowledge stand in his way. He’d have a story of some kind to tell Rose.
“Just follow me,” he said, trying not to sound as if he were begrudging her anything.
“I don’t want to take you out of your way,” she answered, but her relief was clear in her tone. “You could point me in the right direction and—”
He couldn’t resist smiling. “Seems to me you were already pointed in the right direction and it didn’t do you a bit of good.”
She grinned back ruefully. “You know, with a landscape as open as this, you wouldn’t think I’d miss something like a tree or a rock or another road.” She touched his arm, and his breath caught as he saw again how tiny her hand was. She was such a city woman, so delicate and fragile.
With an effort, he brought himself back to the conversation. “If it’s any comfort, you’re not far from his farm.”
Big Ole snorted impatiently and shook his mane, and Eric nodded at him. “We’d better go before Big Ole takes you back to Jubilee.”
Arvid was standing in his yard when they pulled up. “Well, well, well,” he said, coming to greet them both. “Two for the price of one, I guess.”
“As it turns out, we were both coming out here to see you.” Rose leaped out of the wagon before Eric could help her. “But I was lost.”
“Lost?” Arvid’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “Out here?”
“One of these days,” she said, “you’ll have signposts all along these roads. Mark my words.”
The farmer roared and shook his head. “One of these days a long time from now, maybe. You stay here long enough, it’ll be second nature to you, knowing when to turn on these roads.”
“I’ll just be here six months. And then it’s back to Chicago, land of street signs and lampposts.”
A knife twisted in Eric’s chest. Six months. He didn’t know if he wanted her to go—or stay. She was changing things in his life, and he didn’t like it. He had carefully built a life that was solitary. Jubilee had been the perfect place for him to do that, too. It
had allowed him to hide within the life he created for himself. And now in these short two weeks, she had begun to tear down those self-made barriers and force him to think about emotions he’d tucked away long ago.
“Can I pick up the ducklings?” he asked abruptly.
“Sure,” Arvid said. “Miss Kelly, you might like to see this.”
As they walked toward Arvid’s barn, he explained, “Some folks here are raising chickens, but I thought I’d give ducks a try. I’m not sure how it’s going to work out, but we’ll see. I’ve got some little fellows set aside for Eric.”
The barn still held the morning’s coolness, and sunlight filtered through the open door. Bits of dust and straw floated in the air like speckled gold.
Eric heard the ducklings before he saw them. “I’ve got a box for—” he began, but Rose interrupted him.
“These are the sweetest creatures on the earth,” she said, picking one up and cradling it in her hands. “Eric, they’ll be wonderful pets.”
Eric and Arvid exchanged glances, and Eric cleared his throat. “Uh, Rose, I don’t—”
“Just look at this face.” She held it close to his chest. “Look at it. What a beautiful little thing God has made. Can I name it? Just this one?”
“Rose—”
“Please?” she wheedled. “I have the perfect name for him. I want to call him Downy.”
“Downy the Duck.” Arvid’s voice sounded suspiciously like he was trying to choke back a laugh, and Eric groaned. He’d give this story half a day before it was all over Jubilee.
“Shhh!” he hissed to Arvid. “You’re not making this any easier.”
“Making what easier?” Rose’s face was soft with love as she kissed the duckling on the head. He’d have to avoid looking into those moss-green eyes if he were ever to have control over his emotions.
Eric sighed. “Nothing. Downy it is.”
Rose tapped her fingers on the desk in her room at the Territorial. In the distance, random bangs and snaps told her that boys were shooting off leftover firecrackers. Independence Day had been quite the celebration in Jubilee, complete with a program of music, drama, and oration. She and Linnea had feasted on freshly squeezed lemonade and sampled trays of cookies and cakes and dessert breads.
It was wonderful fodder for her articles. She’d left the big city to find the true America. George would love the angle. It was that ability to tap into the likes of the reading public that had made him such a good editor at the Tattler.
She needed to get moving on the articles about Eric, though. She’d go out to his farm bright and early the next day and ask him directly. And if she didn’t get good answers from him, she’d move into investigative reporting mode.
There was something she didn’t know about him, and it was eating at her not only because as a reporter she was trained to ferret out more information than she’d use in her writing, but also because she had to find out what had carved those two little lines over his nose. Some sorrow, some worry, perhaps even some sin had put those deep etchings there, and if she was going to invest her heart, she wanted to know why.
She rubbed her eyes and leaned back. She must need sleep to be thinking like that. He was the subject of her articles and no more.
As soon as the sun came up the next day, she’d confront him directly.
But opportunity changed her plans.
Matthew was at the desk of the Territorial the next morning, his eyes looking as tired as hers felt. “I came in early,” he explained, “since a skunk decided to nest under the steps of my house. It surprised me, and I surprised it, and I’m sure you can smell the result. I’ve done all I can to get the smell out, and I apologize if I haven’t—”
She held up her hand to stop the cascade of words. “Not a problem. You smell fine.” It wasn’t much of an untruth. He had doused himself with something flowery and strong that did a fairly good job of disguising the remnants of the run-in with the skunk.
“Are you going out, Miss Kelly?” Matthew rubbed his eyes and yawned.
“Soon. I’m going to Eric Johansen’s farm.”
Matthew smiled. “He’s a nice fellow. I’ll be looking forward to reading your stories about him.”
“Thank you.” She leaned in a bit closer, and the skunk odor grew stronger. “Say, I wonder if you can help me.”
“I’d be glad to, Miss Kelly. What can I do?”
“I didn’t get where Eric came here from. Do you know where he lived before he moved to Jubilee?”
“I’m sorry,” Matthew said, “but I don’t. Not exactly, that is. East, I suppose. Everybody came from the East, I think.”
“Do you have any idea what he did before he got here? Was he a teacher?”
Matthew shook his head. “A teacher? No, I don’t think so.”
She took a deep breath. “He’s a good man, isn’t he? I mean, he hasn’t been in prison?”
“Prison?” Matthew gaped at her. “What on earth would give you that idea? Prison? No. Not Mr. Johansen. There’s not a squarer man in Jubilee than him.”
Rose nodded. “I see. That’s what I thought. Thank you, Matthew. That’s just what I needed to know.”
Or not, she thought as she left. She’d come away with basically no more information than she’d started with.
“Miss Kelly!” Mrs. Jenkins waved at her from across the street and hurried to join Rose in front of the Territorial. “What are you doing out so early?” she asked breathlessly.
“I’m going to Eric Johansen’s farm.”
Mrs. Jenkins beamed at her. “How’s that progressing? You must be getting splendid material for your articles from him.”
“I am,” Rose began and then stopped. She could hear her editor’s voice as clearly as if he were speaking in her ear. Seize the moment, Kelly. Use what’s given you, and if it’s not given to you, go out and get it and take it. But keep it honest, and keep it clean. Well, this was honest—and fairly clean. “It’s quite interesting, but I’m having trouble getting background from him.” She winked conspiratorially at Mrs. Jenkins. “You know how men are. They just will not talk about themselves.”
“What do you need to know?”
“Where he lived before he moved to Jubilee. What he did for a living. That kind of thing.”
Mrs. Jenkins tilted her head thoughtfully, her white hair catching the early sunshine. “Now isn’t that odd? I don’t have a clue.”
“I’m sure it’s all perfectly legitimate,” Rose assured her, “but it does make me wonder a bit. After all, it’s not like he was a criminal, I’m sure.”
It was amazing how many people were out and about at this time of day. Within an hour, Rose had visited with almost everyone she’d met in Jubilee. After Mrs. Jenkins, she saw Arvid, then Linnea, who didn’t have much time to talk as she was on her way to the church to check on some new candlesticks, and even the Treases as they opened their store for the day. Each person had the same answer to her questions.
No one knew about Eric Johansen’s past.
She’d planted her own kind of seeds during her morning stroll, and if they didn’t bear fruit fairly soon—perhaps that was an answer in itself.
Eric walked through his wheat field, appraising the tiny clusters at the end of the stalks. This would be a good yield if the weather held. Of course, hail, rain, drought, even insects could change everything.
And to think this had all come from a bag of tiny seeds. What a miracle!
“How does it look?”
Her voice startled him, and he stood up so quickly that his head spun.
“Good so far. I’m hoping for a bountiful crop, but we still have a ways to go before we can count on the harvest.”
The hem of her skirt moved, and a tiny beak peeked out to nab an unsuspecting beetle. “You have company, I see,” he commented dryly.
“Company?” she asked blankly.
“The ducks.” He pointed at her feet, where one of the ducks was now pecking at her shoelace.
> “I must not have shut the gate,” she said as she knelt and gathered the ducklings in her arms. “I’ll take them back.”
There were more than she could hold, and as soon as she captured one, another would wriggle free. “You hold those two,” he told her, “and I’ll get the rest of them.”
“You won’t even know I’m there,” he thought to himself as one of the ducks veered off under the wheat and he had to leap the row to catch it. “I’ll be a quiet little shadow,” or whatever it was you said. Ha.
At last they had the ducks safely in their arms and then back in the pen. The creatures were usually all right when he was around, but he liked to keep them in their cage when he was out in the field.
“Downy’s quite the leader, isn’t he?” Rose asked proudly as Eric latched the ducklings’ pen.
“If he were human, he’d be running for governor, I’m sure.” Eric stood, and she followed suit. “Are you planning on spending the day out here?”
Rose frowned at him. “Well, that wasn’t exactly the most gracious invitation.”
He jammed his hands inside his pockets and felt his fingers clench into fists. This was going all wrong. Whenever he was around Rose, his social graces tumbled to rock bottom. He felt like a gawky teenager around the belle of the town.
He summoned all the poise he could muster. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so rude. What did you need from me today? Did you want to learn more about wheat? The operation of the farm? Perhaps a bit about the Homestead Act?”
“No,” she said simply. “I want to learn more about you.”
“Ah.”
“I want to know about your life before Jubilee, where you lived, what you did for a living. Who were your parents, and do you have brothers and sisters? Did you have a dog when you were a boy? What did you read? What were your dreams?”
He took a breath. “My parents are both deceased. I have no brothers or sisters, and I didn’t have a dog.”
“Tell me more, Eric. Let me know you.” She leaned closer, and his breath caught in his throat.
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