“Too bad,” Pengler said. “I need a fella to ride Ace-in-the-Hole for the one-miler next month. Got a lot of money on another win this year. You sure?”
“Your horse has to cross the line with its rider, right?”
“That’s the idea.”
Next month’s horse races on Rainy Lake were famous for bringing out onlookers and gamblers alike—and not only folks from around town, but some who came by train from Duluth, Minneapolis, St. Paul, and Chicago. There were races of horse-drawn sleighs, too. But the one-miler was the big draw, and Pengler’s horse, Ace-in-the-Hole, always won.
Pengler continued. “I’m in a real bind. If you know anybody who can hang on for the ride of his life . . .”
“Wait, I know someone.” Owen hadn’t seen Jerry for a whole year, until he turned up last week at his father’s funeral. Owen was surprised and pleased to see him home from the East Coast. Jerry had followed a girl out there and, no surprise, returned without her. All Owen knew was that Jerry had come back to do who-knows-what. He said to Pengler, “My friend, Jerry Melnyk.”
“Melnyk? Really? I had no idea! Ha! And he’s already on my payroll. I’ll ask him myself then.”
Owen wondered what kind of work Jerry was doing for Pengler, but he decided not to ask.
“In fact, you’ll be working with him tomorrow night,” Pengler added. “I’m counting on you boys.”
Owen nodded, pushed open the door, and stepped out under the White Turtle’s awning into the blinding sunlight. He’d agreed to help unload sacks of sugar. Over a hundred heavy bags. Working with Jerry made it all the better.
Owen strode across Main Street to the Ranier bank. He opened a business account, deposited the check, and used the bank phone to place an order with Studebaker Company for twelve cars. Once he had the total, he made out a check, signed it with extra flourish—Mr. Owen Jensen—and asked for a bank envelope. Then he dropped it off at the post office, destined for the next train’s mailbag.
Filling his nostrils with a sharp breath of morning air, Owen set off across the tracks. Making money was like drawing water. A guy couldn’t get anywhere until he poured a little water in the spigot. Primed the pump. Then, when you work the handle, water rises up from the well, filling buckets to overflowing.
The sun warmed his neck. He felt lighter than he’d felt in days, and he let his mind drift like a boat on water. He remembered two years back, visiting Sadie at Trinity’s cabin on Baird’s Island. Those memories could carry him a lifetime. In darkness, he’d cut the motor, paddled his boat to the island’s shore, and hid his boat under a low-hanging cedar. Water lapped, pine scent wafted, loons called back and forth on the water, their songs heartaching and haunting. He and Sadie talked for hours until they fell asleep in each other’s arms. First crack of light, he slipped away, went back to the creamery, and made deliveries by boat across Rainy Lake. Those two weeks, he completely fell for her. She eventually returned home to the Worthingtons, but everything in his world had changed. There wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do to make her proud of him, to make her happy. Someday, he hoped to offer her a life together. A stable life. Where wasn’t nearly as important as how to make it happen.
“Owen, did you hear the news?” Mom called as Owen entered the back room of the creamery.
He pulled his thoughts back to the present and hung up his jacket in his locker.
In the chilly air of the back room, Mom worked at a prep table with an apron over her plaid wool jacket, a scarf knotted beneath her chin. Her hands fluttered as she wrapped, sealed, and labeled small blocks of butter for sale.
“What news?”
“It’s there in the paper.” She motioned with a tilt of her head to the newspaper on the spindle-back chair. “Two bootleggers came across in a fishing boat—you know, where the water is open and the current is strong—and when they reached shore Sheriff Vandyke and his deputy were waiting for them. Shot one dead.”
Owen’s heart slid to his gut, then dropped another level to his knees. Pengler said Jerry was on his payroll. Had Jerry gone off on some bootlegging business last night for Pengler? “Who got shot?”
“Didn’t give a name.”
What Owen had heard was that this new sheriff, Vandyke, was law abiding. Unlike the former sheriff, who was convicted of corruption and taking bribes, Vandyke was fighting bootlegging with a crusader’s zeal.
Owen needed to phone the Melnyks’ house. Make sure. He grabbed the newspaper and headed through the swinging doors to the service counter.
“Owen,” Mom said, stopping him. He turned and met her eyes, which looked bigger than usual. Her pale skin sharply contrasted with strands of auburn hair; her cheekbones seemed more pronounced since Dad died. “Owen, I don’t want to pry or ask questions. But things are getting dangerous. Better warn Pengler and anyone else you know . . . anyone who might be bootlegging. It’s time to get out before things get worse.”
“Mom, I’m not bootlegging, if that’s what you’re trying to say.”
She nodded, then bowed her head and returned to packaging.
BOOTLEGGER FOUND FLOATING IN RIVER! SHERIFF CLAIMS SHOOTING AN ACCIDENT
Early Thursday morning, on his way to work at the paper mill, Mr. Adam Renschal reportedly spotted a body floating near the International Falls dam. He immediately alerted local law enforcement.
Shortly after, Sheriff Hugh Vandyke filed a report that he and Deputy Edgar Kranlin were aware of bootlegging activities between the U.S. and Canadian shores of Rainy River. “Last evening, in an attempt to enforce the Volstead Act,” Sheriff Vandyke claimed, “our vigilance was rewarded when we spotted two men rowing from Canada to the American side. When they reached shore with crates of whiskey, we arrested one of the men, but the other managed to get back in his rowboat and flee toward Canada.”
When asked about the bullet in the back of the discovered victim, Sheriff Vandyke responded that he would never shoot someone in the back. “I fired a warning shot across the water and it must have ricocheted against the water and struck the man in the back.”
Mayor Danielson states that this incident “demonstrates how things are getting out of hand over alcohol in Koochiching County.”
5
WHEN OWEN RETURNED THE NEXT MORNING FROM HIS rounds at nearby farms, he parked the truck and then lugged milk cans into the creamery’s back room.
At the counter, Mom chatted with Mrs. Brumbraaten, who was hidden somewhere under an ankle-length coat, scarves, and hat. She was a regular customer and big on lengthy one-sided conversations. “Well, after that cat drank the whole saucer of cream,” Mrs. Brumbraaten said, “it went up the nearest tree and howled all night long . . . poor thing. And this morning, wouldn’t you know it, he—”
“Excuse me,” Mom said, raising her hand like a stop sign. From her apron pocket she produced a white envelope and held it out to Owen.
“Here, this came for you.”
He immediately recognized the return address of Gustavus Adolphus College, St. Peter, Minnesota. His heart leapt. Three strides and a long reach, and the envelope was in his fingers. Each day since Dad had passed, Owen had intended to write Sadie and tell her the news. But each time he tried, he found it impossible to write it down. When he used the telephone on the wall behind the creamery counter, he hadn’t been able to get through. Between the ever-busy party line, and only one telephone in the women’s dormitory, he kept striking out. He’d wanted to be the one to tell her about his father. Owen walked through the swinging doors, met by the chilly air, the hum of refrigerators, and the icy cement floor in need of mopping.
He sat down on an empty milk crate and removed his gloves, eager to read her words, to feel her hand on his heart. Though unable to speak for so many years as a child, Sadie Rose now always seemed to know what to say to bring out the best in him. He slid a finger under the letter’s flap and gently eased it open. Her stationery was a soft lilac paper that smelled faintly of perfume, and he pressed it to his nose. Then he
held it out in front of him, admiring the page filled with her slanted and curved handwriting.
My dear, sweet Owen, he read, and smiled.
You cannot imagine the silliness that surrounds me sometimes here in Johnson Hall! At this very moment, there is a pillow fight erupting. You’ve never heard such giggling and screeching from these Gustavus girls, or “Gusties” as everyone calls us, and I’m not sure you would want to. I’ve locked my door to avoid being drawn into the battle, as I have a bit of a headache this evening, and I must study up before my Latin test tomorrow morning. Also, I’ve seen down pillows turn into clouds of feathers, as if a fox had invaded a hen house! I, however, would like to keep my pillow intact for its intended purpose: sleeping. But how does one sleep—or study for that matter—when at the other end of the hall, someone is practicing her operatic voice? Granted, she is a fine soprano, but these walls are thin.
Owen looked up from the letter. Nothing about his father. She didn’t know. She hadn’t heard the news. Not only was she moving through her life knowing nothing about the hollow ache in his chest, the way he felt a foot underwater since he’d pulled back the sheet and looked at Dad’s ashen face, but she knew nothing of his loan, his plans for his future—their future. In the space of a mere paragraph, the distance between them grew. With an exhale, he read on:
There’s a Sweetheart Ball later this month. The 25th, to be exact. I rather dread telling you my news, because I don’t want you to worry.
Worry? Of course he was going to worry.
. . . You know that at college a girl becomes friends with many students, both guys and gals. One of my friends, also a Music major, has taken pity on me knowing that my boyfriend is way up North. He plays the clarinet and his name is Samuel, but most everyone, except me, calls him Sam. Anyway, out of pity, he offered to escort me to the ball so I don’t have to stay in the dorm all alone. That’s thoughtful, isn’t it?
Owen tightened his jaw against this oh-so-thoughtful clarinet-playing Sam.
. . . And so, I hope you don’t mind and you don’t get the wrong idea about any of this. It’s nothing, really. Just a little dancing and music. A needed diversion from my studies!
Right. Just a little dancing and music. He knew how Sadie loved music, how in no time, she’d lose her shoes and dance in stocking feet—or barefoot. She inhaled music as if it were the very thing that kept her heart pumping and her blood moving through her veins. But in a way it made perfect sense. At five years old she was found in a snowbank and taken in by the Worthingtons. She’d suffered from acute ear infections and didn’t speak for eleven years—until two summers ago. Over time, it was as if music had become her first language—voice her second. She played piano as effortlessly as breathing. And though she wasn’t one to smile easily, once music started, she couldn’t help herself.
A needed diversion from her studies. Of course she’d have a swell time! Irritated by the miles between them, Owen tapped his boot toe on the floor and continued reading.
. . . Spring seems so very far away right now. My advisor told me that since the need for teachers is great, I may be able to accelerate earning my degree. Though I would hope to solely teach Music, I realize that I may need to teach most every subject when I return North. In fact, I have learned of a possible tutoring position there this summer with a family. Before you know it, I’ll be riding the train back to Ranier.
Love,
Sadie Rose
Owen tilted his head back. He stared at the ceiling, at the frosty line of condensation that formed along the crack. There was something missing in the letter. Before you know it, she’d written, I’ll be riding the train back to Ranier. She didn’t say: to you. And Samuel? Why was she the only one to call this “friend” by that formal name when everyone else called him “Sam”? Did she think this fellow music student was too refined for as simple a name as “Sam”? And what kind of diversion from studies did this Samuel have in mind? This guy—no matter what name he went by—tipped him off center.
He felt himself free-falling from a great height, his stomach lurching up and out of his pounding chest. Like the time he’d jumped off the forty-foot granite cliffs at Anderson Bay. Flying in midair, he wished he could leap back to the safety of solid ground. He’d screamed every foot of falling, hit the surface feetfirst, and descended down, down, down into dark and frigid layers of water, until he pushed his arms against his sides and kicked hard toward the light. When he surfaced, Sadie Rose met him with applause and a smile.
It terrified him how much he suddenly needed her.
Here.
Beside him.
Living and breathing and in his arms.
He needed her warmth, her soft fragrance, her reassuring kisses. She’d know what to say to calm him right now. But she was some four hundred miles away. He had a mind to get on the next train, ride down there, and take her to the damn Sweetheart Ball himself.
He took off his cap. If he wanted to keep her, he was going to have to hold his own against better-educated guys.
He rubbed the back of his hand against his eyes, clenched his teeth, and noticed his unlaced boots. Mechanically, he drew the leather laces tighter and tighter, pulling his feet back where they needed to be. Underneath him and in motion. But one of the leather strips snapped in two.
“For cripes sake!”
He jumped to his feet and kicked out the bottom crate from a towering stack. The empty crates leaned, then tumbled over, clattering across the concrete floor, leaving numerous splinters and broken wooden slats behind.
He swore again, then kicked over a milk can, spilling a white stream as the metal can clanged to a stop on the concrete floor.
“Owen!” Mom pushed the door open. “Are you okay back here?”
“An accident, Mom. I’ll clean it up.” He waved her off and she left.
Owen looked around at the mess he’d created. Then he opened his locker and put the letter on the top shelf, along with his cap. He took off his jacket and hung it up. Heck with customers out front. He was going to try her again on the telephone.
He left the back room, stepped behind the service counter, and ignored Mrs. Brumbraaten’s banter.
He picked up the receiver and dialed 0.
“Operator,” came the young woman’s voice on the other end. Finally, he had a clear line. He gave her the number. On the other end, the phone rang twice, and then a groggy voice answered. “Hello? Johnson Hall.”
Owen cleared his voice. “Hello. I’d like to speak to Sadie Rose.”
“Most everyone’s in class. I’m only here because I’m sick today.” A pause, a deep hacking cough. “But I’ll check her room.” When she returned to the line, he knew what she was going to say. “No, sorry. She’s not here. Bye.”
Before he had a chance to leave a message, the phone went dead. When he lifted the receiver again, another caller was on the party line.
The creamery door opened, and the familiar customer—a small, scrawny man who had been coming by the past few months—removed his rabbit fur hat and held it against his jacket.
“Mr. Boshelink,” Mom said, greeting him as if he were a regular paying customer. But this man was always short on funds, with a wife who was apparently anemic after their firstborn. Owen wasn’t sure, but he had the feeling Dad always swept the man’s debt under the table.
Dealing with Boshelink was the last thing Owen wanted to do. If it were up to him, he’d escort him to the door and tell him that this was no longer a charity. Dad was dead. Going forward, things had to be different. They had bills to pay, too.
The man smiled at Owen, then at Mom. He slicked his hand over strands of oily hair. He emitted an unwashed smell of sour and sweat. “I hear news. I so much sorrow.” He thumped his misshapen fedora against his heart.
“Yes, thank you,” Mom replied. “What may I help you with today?”
“Owen, dear,” Mrs. Brumbraaten said, pulling her wool scarf back from her head of gray hair and tugging on Owen’s s
leeve. “Would you be so kind to help get the stray cat down from my tree? I don’t dare get on a ladder. Your mother said you wouldn’t mind, and it would be such a kindness, especially since I think I’m going to have to name it and make it my own. Will you then?”
For a second, Owen wished he could haul off and slug someone. But he closed his eyes and tamped down his frustration. He was glad for an excuse to step outside before he blew up at Boshelink.
He swallowed hard before answering. “Sure,” he said.
If you can get through the long dark months of October, November, December, and January, you can survive winter. Come February, there’s a shift in the air. The sun climbs high as a Ferris wheel and reflects off the snow, blindingly bright. It’s enough to make a guy pause from his labors, close his eyes for a minute or two, and look skyward to feel the warmth on his skin.
He might start dreaming there’s a sudden thaw around the corner or that marsh marigolds will start popping up soon in ditches.
But he’d be wrong to get his hopes up.
Winter isn’t finished yet.
Not by a long shot.
6
SOMETIME WELL PAST MIDNIGHT—TRUE TO HIS PROMise to Pengler—Owen climbed into the passenger seat of Jerry’s dented Model T behind the White Turtle.
“Good to see you, Jer,” Owen said. “But if I have to miss a night’s sleep, I’d rather it be with Sadie Rose than with you.”
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