The Seeds of Change

by Lauraine Snelling

  “When do you want to start the barn?” Del picked up Mikael, who was opening his eyes and kicking on the blanket.

  “Soon as we get the hay cut. We’ll cut sod near the property line so we can plow the dirt underneath it for planting, then use the cut blocks to build the barn.”

  “I can h-help with that too,” Jesse said.

  “Indeed you can. Sod houses, sod barns.” Forsythia shook her head. “I never realized the ground could yield so much building material.”

  “With how the grass roots hold it together, it’s much like Pharaoh’s mud bricks mixed with straw.” Lark handed her cup back to Lilac and adjusted her hat. “Well, back we go.”

  Forsythia took Mikael from Del, and the other four shouldered their scythes and headed back into the field.

  “How are you, then, little one?” She bounced the baby in her arms and leaned him back so she could see his face. “You’re getting to be such a big boy, aren’t you?” He was nearly a month old. Mikael blinked at her, then dimpled in a sudden smile. Forsythia smiled back, her heart easing. She pressed a kiss to the baby’s silken cheek, then sat to cuddle him and watch Robbie and Sofie play with their carved animals on the shady blanket. Thank you, Lord, for children. What a comfort from you they are.

  Jesse stayed for supper that night, all of them weary but glad at the work accomplished. After supper had revived them some, Forsythia brought out her guitar, and with her sisters on the fiddle and harmonica, music sounded around the campfire not far from the sod walls of their new home.

  “Savior, Like a Shepherd Lead Us.” “How Firm a Foundation.” “Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing.” The familiar tunes rose with the lamplight, knitting hearts and voices close once more. They closed with Ma’s favorite, “Abide with Me.”

  Jesse said good night and strode back toward town in the summer moonlight. The children settled on pallets, the sisters slid under their covers—two of them with the baby on the rope bed and the other two spreading their bedrolls under the wagon.

  Forsythia laid her head on her pillow with a heart lightened by the music, but still feeling the underlying ache. Lord, I hate this silent rift between Adam and me. I don’t know what to do, or what your will is, but please, let us be able to talk soon.

  23

  So much to do.

  Larkspur lay awake long after her sisters and the children slumbered, staring up into the darkness of the wagon bed overhead. Tomorrow they’d continue cutting grass for hay, and then they needed to get started on an addition to the house—all seven of them crammed into the twelve-by-twelve-foot space wouldn’t work much longer. So much for her plans for the barn. Or rather, some type of shelter for the animals. She was beginning to realize they couldn’t manage a full barn yet, not on their own, or even with Jesse’s help. They needed to sell or trade the ox that had belonged to the Durhams so they wouldn’t have to feed it through the winter. Four oxen, one horse, and a milk cow would need a lot of hay.

  Her mind jumped to the building situation. To cut the sod and plow the earth beneath, they’d need a breaking plow. She’d heard some of the men on the wagon train discussing their use of the new land. On the prairies, sod buildings were the least expensive way to go. Lark rolled over. She’d head to the store tomorrow, see what the Jorgensens had or could order. The plow might be expensive, but maybe they could trade an ox or two for it. They had more than they needed now.

  Then there was the garden. They had to get seeds in the ground before it was too late, or they wouldn’t have any vegetables for winter. First, they needed to spade the plot that had been the garden before. The Skinners had planted a good-sized garden not far from the house last year, at least. The wife had died too early to have planted this year, though, or even prepared the plot.

  Stop worrying. Sleep. She squeezed her eyes tight. Lord, I know you’ve gotten us this far. But I feel so responsible. Show us how to get it all done.

  The next morning, they all hauled their bedding out of the house, and Lilac and Forsythia set to swabbing the floor with a manure wash again, as Lark had learned in town. The Skinners had started the process, but it took time and repeated applications to get the floor to a hard sheen.

  “Laundry time again,” Del said, shaking out a coverlet. “I’ll get a fire going and heat some water.” A wail from Mikael made her pause. “As soon as I feed the baby.”

  “All right.” Lark rolled her lips. So it would be just her and Jesse for haying today. It was too much for two people, really. But the other tasks were important too. Lord, help us.

  Jesse walked up. “S-sorry to be late.”

  Lark pulled on her gloves. “I know it’s a bit of a walk from town. Has your uncle given any thought to getting a horse?”

  “He’s t-talking about it.”

  “Need some breakfast? There’s leftovers on the table outside the soddy.”

  Jesse dipped his head in thanks and stepped over to scarf down some ham and biscuits. By the time Lark had tied on her straw hat—she refused to wear a sunbonnet because it hampered her vision—and sharpened her scythe, he stood ready to work.

  They cut the waist-high prairie grass all morning, until the sun beat hot on their backs and sweat mingled with the dust sifting into Lark’s bodice and sleeves. She paused to wipe her forehead when Lilac brought them water.

  “How’s it going with the soddy floor?” Lark drank, grateful. “Thank you.”

  “Almost finished for this round. I’ll be out here to help soon.”

  They paused for a dinner of ham sandwiches, and then Lilac joined in the haying for the afternoon. By the time the sun lowered toward suppertime, they’d finished nearly half of the field. The drying hay lay in wide stripes across the land, the unevenness of the first rows showing their inexperience.

  Lark rolled her sore shoulders. They were getting there. But it had taken days to get this far—would they manage to cut all the hay before another rain ruined it? Should they stop to rake and stack what had been cut already so the livestock would have at least some for the winter? Or just press on with the cutting? So many questions and not enough answers.

  Every muscle aching, she trudged back to the house. Jesse and Lilac trailed behind.

  “How is it going?” Forsythia met them with Mikael in her arms and a pitcher of switchel.

  Lark downed her cup in one swig. “Going. But awfully slow.”

  “You need more help. Del and I can trade off with the children and the haying tomorrow. Maybe it’s just as well I haven’t heard from the Jorgensens yet about working at the store.”

  “I c-could ask my uncle to help.”

  They both turned to look at Jesse.

  He shrugged. “I could ask.”

  “Sure, thanks.” Lark smiled at him. But would Dr. Brownsville come? He’d let Jesse, true, but he had his own practice to get running. And they’d barely seen him or heard a word since the tiff over her masquerading as a man. Lark rubbed her tired forehead. Should she try to talk to the doctor herself? It wasn’t fair for Forsythia’s hopes to be dashed over something Larkspur had done. But then, it wasn’t fair for Dr. Brownsville to blame Forsythia either. They’d all just done what they had to do.

  At least she thought so. Lark dragged herself to the washbasin set outside the soddy and splashed cool water on her sweat-grimed face. Having to come west in the first place had been because of her rash actions, and now she’d caused more trouble. If she couldn’t get this homestead up and running sustainably, that would be on her shoulders too.

  No wonder she carried a yoke heavier than the oxen’s lately.

  The next day, they cut grass all morning, making progress with Forsythia helping as well as Lilac and Jesse. After the midday meal, Lark left the others still working, Del spelling Forsythia now, and headed to town.

  She took the wagon and hitched two of the oxen to it—Sam and Soda. Walking alongside with the whip brought back memories of the trail. Had that life really been only weeks ago? It felt strange to drive t
he oxen wearing a skirt instead of pants.

  Lark stopped the oxen outside the store and climbed the wooden steps. The bell jangled a welcome on the door, and she blinked in the dim interior after the sunshine outside.

  “Afternoon, Miss Nielsen.” Mr. Jorgensen looked up with a cheery smile. “What can I do for you?”

  Good, he was easier to work with than his taciturn wife. Lark stepped up to the counter.

  “I’m looking to get a breaking plow. Do you carry those, or would I need to order one?”

  “Sure, we carry them, though mostly in planting season. I might have one in the back, if you’ve a mind to wait a moment.”

  “Of course.” Lark scanned the shelves behind the counter while he was gone. Bolts of colorful calico and flannel, bottles of liniment, cans of kerosene. Horse harnesses hung from the rafters overhead.

  “Yes, we have one, if you’ll bring your wagon around.”

  She led the oxen behind the building, and Mr. Jorgensen lugged the heavy piece of equipment from the back storage room. The steel blade glinted, ready to bite into the tough prairie sod.

  “How much is it? I was wondering if I could trade in a couple of our oxen.”

  The storekeeper chuckled and shook his head. “Fifteen dollars, but a span of working oxen is worth nearly ten times that. You’d do better to sell them to some homesteader.”

  “Ah.” Clearly she was out of touch with prices around here. Or farming in general. “I’ll have to come back, then. I didn’t bring enough cash. Would you hold it for me?”

  “To be sure. Not much call for new plows this time of year, as I said. If you don’t have the cash right now, we can start a tab.”

  “Thank you,” she answered with a nod. They’d had plenty of tabs run at their store at home, too, especially in the winter. “Do you know of anyone who might be interested in the oxen?”

  “Not offhand.” The shopkeeper shrugged. “You might ask Henry Caldwell, though. He tends to have his finger on the pulse of what’s what. Knows who’s coming and going, who needs this or that.”

  It made sense, with how the attorney had arranged the purchase of their land.

  “Thank you.” Lark reached to tip her hat out of habit, then flinched when her fingers touched her sunbonnet, which she’d conceded to for visiting town. So much to get used to.

  Leaving the loaded wagon in the shade of the store, she crossed the street to the attorney’s office and rapped on the door. It would be good to see him again.

  “Ah, Miss Nielsen.” Mr. Caldwell opened the door with a smile. “What a pleasure to see you.” He stepped back and gestured for her to enter. “I was just chatting with a friend of yours.”

  Lark stepped inside. Dr. Brownsville rose from the chair in front of Mr. Caldwell’s desk.

  She stopped short, stiffening. “Forgive me.” This wasn’t a good place for their first encounter after the last conversation. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “Not at all.” Mr. Caldwell waved a hand. “We were just visiting. Dr. Brownsville is looking for a horse, and I know someone who might be willing to swap a horse and buggy for his oxen and wagon. You know him, actually—Mr. Young, the banker who handled your homestead purchase.”

  Really? She wouldn’t have pegged him as a farmer. But then, most of the folks in town probably held dual lives if they’d come out to settle the territory in the first place.

  The doctor stood silently, polite but unsmiling. Mr. Caldwell glanced between them, his brow creased.

  “I have a similar question, as it happens.” Lark focused her attention on the attorney. “I’m looking to sell a span of our oxen as well—or at least the one that belonged to the family of the little boy we took in. Mr. Jorgensen said you might know of someone who’d be interested.”

  Mr. Caldwell rubbed his chin. “I’ll ask around. I believe I heard of a settler looking to try oxen instead of mules on his homestead. May I let you know?”

  “Of course. Thank you.”

  “By the way, my wife has been wanting to have your family to supper one of these days.” Mr. Caldwell leaned on his cane. “Would Sunday evening be convenient? She’s eager to chat with more womenfolk. She says this territory is overrun with men.”

  Lark smiled and nodded. “I see no problem with that.” Her sisters would be delighted with a social invitation, that was certain. “Please give her our thanks.”

  “We’ll look forward to it.”

  Silence hung.

  “I won’t keep you gentlemen any longer. Good day to you, Mr. Caldwell. Dr. Brownsville.” Lark turned to go, the doctor’s chill in the room outdoing the heat through the sunny window.

  “Miss Nielsen.” His voice halted her steps.

  “Yes, Doctor?”

  “My nephew informed me you could use some assistance with the haying. Tell your sisters I’ll be out first thing tomorrow.”

  Shock nearly dropped her jaw. “Th-thank you.” By sisters, did he mean Forsythia? Lark searched his somber brown gaze but found no indication. She nodded to both gentlemen again and headed into the welcome sunshine once more.

  Well, Lord, at least he’s speaking to us again. But by the look of things, he’s not ready to forgive, much less forget.

  “What was that about?” Henry Caldwell’s steady gaze bored into Adam.

  “What do you mean?” Adam sat back down, though he couldn’t quite meet his friend’s eyes.

  “With Miss Nielsen, man. You turned into a veritable icicle. Don’t tell me you have feelings for her.”

  “For her? Certainly not.” Adam’s neck heated.

  “Aha. For someone else, then.” Henry eased back into his chair and poised his cane like a schoolmaster’s rule.

  “This has nothing to do with—no.” Adam shifted his weight, the anger rising in his chest again, however he tried to rid himself of it. “I simply—I found that I had been deceived by the Nielsen family after we traveled together for some weeks. Or rather, that they had been deceiving me all along.”

  “Ah.” The attorney nodded. “Miss Larkspur and her guise as a man.”

  “Yes.”

  “I see.” Henry steepled his fingers. “But you do understand why she did it?”

  “I do. But not why they kept up the deception so long to a friend.”

  “And to one of the sisters, you wish to be more than a friend, is that it?” The attorney tipped his head. “Might that be why the seeming betrayal runs deeper?”

  Adam couldn’t think what to say. He could see how his friend might nonplus defendants in the courtroom.

  “Forgive me,” Henry said. “I won’t press you on this. But let me just say that bitterness, whether in a friendship or something more, is not something to let take root. I speak from experience.”

  They sat a moment in silence. Adam, feeling somehow a chastened son even if the other man barely had ten years on him, nodded, gazing at the attorney’s Bible sitting on his desk. Have I even talked to you about this, Lord?

  “Well.” Henry tapped his cane on the floor and stood. “Enough sermonizing from me. Let’s go take a look at that horse.”

  Half an hour later, Adam stood stroking the nose of a dark bay gelding, the animal’s form and teeth showing he had many good years left in him. The horse nuzzled Adam’s palm with soft whiskers.

  “Sorry, boy. I don’t have any sugar for you.” Something warmed in his chest, and he laid his palm on the horse’s broad cheek and looked into its eyes. It had been some time since he’d had a special bond with a mount of his own.

  “I’ll take him.” He nodded to Hiram Young, the banker. “And the buggy too.”

  “Fine by me. My son-in-law’ll be mighty happy with the oxen and wagon for a wedding present.” Mr. Young hooked his thumbs in his vest. “They’re sharing our homestead now that our Becky got married, doing the farming for us.”

  Well, that explained it. Adam couldn’t quite picture the portly older man driving oxen.

  They finalized the exchange, and
Adam hitched the gelding to the buggy and climbed in, testing the feel of the reins in his hands.

  “Now you look like a proper doctor.” Mr. Young grinned around his cigar.

  “If only I could get some proper patients.”

  “Eh, folks’ll come around.” The banker shrugged. “That last feller left a bad taste in people’s mouths. Just give ’em time. When they need you bad enough, they’ll come.”

  Adam was trying. But how much time was enough before he took further measures, whatever those might be?

  Adam drove his new horse and rig back to the office and let the gelding out in the fenced field with the Jorgensens’ horses, his mind turning. He didn’t want people to go sick or injured without treatment because of fear. Should he consider calling a town meeting, perhaps with Caldwell and Young’s endorsement? Surely having the backing of two of the few professional men in town could make a difference.

  What to do, Lord? He rubbed the gelding’s nose. He needed a name for this fellow.

  And what to do about Forsythia? He’d be out at the Nielsens’ tomorrow. This issue was going to hit him head on, ready or not.

  24

  What could Forsythia possibly say to Adam?

  She attacked the clumped soil in the garden plot with her spade. Since garden work was easier than haying, she’d been assigned here after a morning in the fields fairly wore her out yesterday. The plot had been plowed and planted the year before, and Lark and Lilac had cleared the worst of the weeds, but the soil needed to be broken up again.

  It was good thinking work. And good for releasing frustration over how soon the doctor and Jesse might arrive for the haying.

  “Miss Sythia, look!”

  At Robbie’s call, Forsythia leaned on her spade and smiled at the children following her in the soft dirt. Robbie held up a wriggling earthworm, his grin creasing his face in half.

  “I see! Very nice. Put it back, though, Robbie boy. Earthworms are good for the garden.”