With a shrug, he pulled back onto the road and began making his way toward the Melnyks’ home. It pained him. He loved learning. He loved studying about ancient civilizations—Greek, Egyptian, Roman, Viking; about changes in society—feudalism, the Renaissance, and the Age of Enlightenment. He was fascinated by conflict and why social upheaval happened—the Napoleonic Wars, the War of 1812, the French Revolution, and the more recent Civil War. He loved learning how individuals changed the world, from Marco Polo to Ben Franklin to Abe Lincoln and Harriet Beecher Stowe. He loved debating recent events—how and why we got into the Great War and what was gained and lost; why Russia had undergone its own recent revolution. He even liked tests and competing against himself for high scores. He’d “borrowed” a few textbooks and novels from school, always intending to return them. He read before falling asleep. He knew he was reading late into the night whenever Tipper stopped snoring to lift his head, as if to ask, You’re still reading?
At the “Blacksmith” sign, a few miles southwest of International Falls, Owen followed the snow-rutted road alongside the barbed wire fence. The pasture was devoid of cattle; no livestock huddled near spruce trees or hidden in thickets. Months would pass before cows would be out on pasture again. Until then, the Melnyks kept their livestock in barns and paddocks—less tempting for wolves and coyotes. In a separate paddock, the two dappled drafts—Daisy and Dot—stood side by side, dozing. With them, a new horse—a thick-coated sorrel with a white blaze and angular head raised high—paced a worn path beside the length of wood fence. He would have been a looker, but he was missing an ear.
The Melnyks’ clapboard home towered, its roof peak nearly as high as the top of a nearby spruce. Most homes in the country were one-room cabins or shacks. But the Melnyks, who had immigrated from Ukraine, were an industrious lot. Mr. Melnyk eventually purchased land and now had eight kids.
Owen knocked on the door, and it opened instantly.
“Hello, Owen,” Mrs. Melnyk said, her hair in two braids atop her head. “Come, come in.”
He stepped into the kitchen, leaving his muddy boots behind.
“You want to see Jerry.” A statement, not a question, that carried with it a bit of finger wagging. “Upstairs.”
“How’s he doing?”
“Last time he took to bed, he was breaking devil horse for Furstads. In bed two whole days.”
Owen just nodded, then headed toward the staircase, glancing at the wall displaying a crucifix, an icon, and a photo of a soldier, Jerry’s older brother, Joseph, who never returned from the trenches in Europe. For a moment, Owen thanked God—again—that Jerry survived last night. He wouldn’t wish the loss of another son on the Melnyks. Losing a son to war was one thing, but losing one to bootlegging?
Beside the photo stood the glass-doored cabinet, filled, as always, with a changing assortment of Ukrainian Easter eggs. Displayed like candy in various glass bowls, the eggs were uniquely and intricately designed—reds and blacks, oranges and blues, deep greens and pale yellows—each painted in patterns that hinted at a foreign world left behind. Mrs. Melynk created them and sold them to shops.
“Owen,” Mrs. Melnyk said. “When you go, you take one—for your mother. We are sorry about your father.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Melnyk. That’s very kind.”
Jerry’s bedroom door was ajar, and Owen peeked in before entering. Jerry was asleep.
“Hey, Jer.”
Jerry murmured, his skin pale. His eyes flashed open, bloodshot. “Hey.”
Owen walked to the window. A few dozen cows ambled around a towering pile of hay in the paddock. Ravens cawed on the leafless birch tree outside the window, then flapped off. It nearly killed him last night, those moments thinking Jerry was gone. He turned and said, “Just wanted to see if you’re okay.”
“A little fever.” He pulled the blanket up to his chest, and the motion sent him into a coughing fit. “And,” he began, then spat into a handkerchief. “I’m still getting a little lake water out of my lungs. I’m gonna be fine. But what are you gonna tell Pengler?”
“Me? You mean you. You’re gonna tell him that you veered off the main ice road. I know you were trying to save time—”
“I’m not telling him that.”
“You lost his truck, Jer,” Owen said, keeping his voice down. “And the load of sugar. You think he’s gonna just brush that off, like it doesn’t matter?”
Jerry wagged his head, laughed, and started coughing again. “Hey, out East, the stakes of running booze were—” He marked an imaginary spot above his head with his hand. “But here, it’s safe as a rabbit’s den. Here you get a few feds; back there it’s an army of ’em. Seriously, Owen. It’s good work and good money. Pengler’s gonna figure it’s part of doing business, that’s what I think. I’ll bet he’s making money hand over fist.”
“You went through the ice, Jer. You could be dead by now.”
“Yeah, well, that’s this lake. She’s a goddess. She demands something in return for all that beauty.”
He was right. Every year, a few souls paid the price by breaking through and never surfacing.
“Jer, we’re the ones who are gonna pay a price,” Owen said. “And I’m not facing Pengler alone. So get outta bed. Better he hear it with you looking half-dead. He might show us some mercy. Besides, you gotta get your Model T. It’s parked at my house. I told my mom you were too wallpapered to drive.”
As Jerry climbed into the passenger side of the truck, the new horse snorted and whinnied, then charged back and forth along the fence, sending up a fountain of snow and dirt in his wake.
Owen lifted his chin in question. “Where’d you get that horse?”
In the light of morning, Jerry sported a light growth of stubble on his pale face. His eyes were bloodshot. “A guy claimed he was too flighty for draft work, so I got him for a song. Basically rescued him from a life of pulling logs. Rode him all the way home from Duluth.”
“What happened to his ear?”
“Guess another horse bit it clear off.”
By the time Owen pulled up to the White Turtle Club, Jerry had fallen asleep with his head against the passenger door. Owen shook his shoulder. “C’mon.” Then they headed inside and asked for Mr. Pengler.
“I’ll fetch him,” Izzy said. “Just take a seat in the restaurant.”
“Ah, this isn’t a conversation for the public—”
Izzy peeked in the restaurant. “We’re between breakfast and lunch. You can—” She pointed to the soda fountain. Owen and Jerry went through the hidden door and waited in the blind pig.
8
“YOU DID WHAT?” MR. PENGLER SHOT UP FROM HIS CHAIR the moment Owen told him what had happened. “You lost the Packard? The cargo? Everything?”
“We’re alive,” Jerry said, then coughed and spat into his handkerchief.
Pengler’s eyes narrowed like a timberwolf’s, assessing its prey. “That sugar was meant to go straight into production. You know how many stills are out there? You know how hard it is to keep up with demand?”
“Ten? Twenty?” Jerry guessed.
“It’s not a question, Jerry!” Pengler swore. “You think folks south of here are gonna be happy? Think they’re gonna say, ‘Hey, Harvey, good ole boy, we don’t care. It’s just money’?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Owen noticed the bartender reach down under the counter, as if he might be going for a gun. He didn’t know what Pengler was capable of when pushed into a corner. He sure didn’t want to find out.
“Well?” Pengler pressed. “Think that’s what they’re gonna say?”
Jerry opened his mouth to speak, then must have thought better of it.
Owen piped up. “They’re gonna want what they paid for.”
A look of relief passed over Pengler’s eyes, as if he was glad they’d come to some quick understanding. “Exactly, Owen. You’re smart. You know how things work. So when I total up the costs of this loss, you boys are in pretty deep. The du
mp truck. The sugar. The loss of production.” He closed his eyes, and his eyelids twitched as he calculated. Finally, he nodded to himself, opened his eyes and said, “Let’s just make it an even three and a half grand.”
“Thirty-five hundred dollars?” Owen choked, as if he’d just been slugged in the gut. He did the math. That was the same as ten Ford Model Ts.
“Afraid so.”
“Where are we going to come up with that kind of money?” Jerry blurted.
“You’re resourceful young men. You’ll figure it out.” Then Pengler stood and added, “I’ll be generous. I’ll give you two months from today. That’s after the horse race. Jerry, I heard you’re a good rider. You ride my horse and win, I’ll cut you in on ten percent of the winnings. You could make up to six hundred—maybe as much as a thousand of what you boys owe me.” He walked over to the bartender. “Pour these boys a shot of whiskey. I believe they’re going to need it.” And then he left.
When the bartender clunked two shots down in front of them, Owen was tempted. He needed something to calm the trembling in his gut and hands. But drinking at this hour of the day wasn’t going to help his problems go away. Feeling as bad as he did, one shot might lead to two or three—and only make things worse.
“Thanks,” Jerry said to the bartender, as if this was just any other day. “Hey, did ya catch all that?”
The bartender nodded. “I don’t miss much.”
“So, what will happen,” Owen asked, “if we don’t make Pengler’s deadline?”
The bartender smiled. “If I was you, I wouldn’t wanna find out. He’s not a-running a creamery, if you know what I mean.”
Jerry knocked back both shots. “Well, what’s our next move?”
“Heck if I know. This isn’t just another card game. Jerry, from what you were saying, you know more about this business than you’ve let on. You tell me, Jerry. Why didn’t you think? Why didn’t you think this might happen when you took a shortcut? You know the current’s unpredictable around the islands!” He slammed the flat of his hand on the table. “You tell me how we’re gonna come up with that kind of money!”
Jerry started coughing, pulled his handkerchief from his pants pocket, and spat.
Owen fell silent. Elbows on the table, he pressed his forehead into his open palm. He was disgusted at himself for thinking that anything related to bootlegging could be simple. How could he have been such a fool? Dad’s words pounded over and over in his head. Think you know everything about everything, son. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
“When your Studebakers get here soon, let’s hope they sell like hotcakes,” Jerry offered.
“If . . . maybe. You know what I think?”
“Shoot,” Jerry said.
Owen motioned for them to leave. He didn’t want the bartender listening in.
They climbed into the creamery truck parked outside. “We need to find a horse faster than Ace-in-the-Hole,” Owen said. “You heard Pengler. If he’d cut his rider ten percent, then the winning purse must be at least ten thousand dollars. His horse wins every year. He’s been unbeatable.”
“One Ear,” Jerry shot back, a smile spreading across his lips and reaching his eyes.
“Not just any horse,” Owen said. “We need a horse that can win.”
“I know. I’m serious. That horse is lightning on long legs.”
Owen stared out the window, which was beginning to fog on the inside. “I know he doesn’t look like much,” Jerry continued, “but if I can ride him and work him between now and the race, I’m telling you—there’s a chance. I just know there have been moments. Never been on a horse with that gear. Part of me wonders if he was used once on racetracks. All I’m saying is that if I ask him for speed, he delivers.”
Owen couldn’t afford to take risks. Just because Jerry had an idea didn’t mean it was a good one. “You’re not being overly optimistic?”
Jerry crossed his arms. “He stands a chance. Honest. Besides, what have we got to lose? Maybe an entry fee? If he loses, we still have to come up with the money, right?” He laughed, but it wasn’t convincing.
Owen started up the creamery truck and drove across the tracks to where Jerry’s Model T waited. “So if you ride One Ear,” Owen said as he parked, “Pengler will have to find someone else to ride Ace-in-the-Hole. He’s not going to be happy with us, especially when you show up on a different horse.”
“That’s his problem,” Jerry said, hopping out. He started hacking again and spat on the ground. “I’ll tell him I have pneumonia and can’t ride. I’ll dust off a saddle, start working One Ear. I’ll do what I can to get him ready for the race. You work on getting those Studeys here.”
By the third week in February, clouds settle low and dark above the village.
Day after day, snow falls.
Sometimes it’s just a light dusting. Other times it drops buckets of snow on every branch and limb, every car and rooftop. A quiet settles, punctuated by shovels clanging, the muffled voices of children, and the gargled call of ravens.
When the clouds move on, they take the warmer air with them, leaving everything deeper in snow. The skies clear, nighttime temperatures plummet to well below zero, and you brace for another cold snap.
9
AT THE KITCHEN TABLE, BEFORE THE REST OF THE HOUSE stirred, Owen added three lumps of sugar to his coffee, wondering how he’d blundered so badly. Two weeks had passed since they’d lost the truck. Since then, Jerry had started working One Ear in the pasture. Owen, for his part, had been on the phone with the inventory manager at Studebaker Company, who assured him they would have his vehicles ready to ship—any day now. If Owen could get them on the lot, he could start selling them. Each day meant waiting, and it was driving him crazy.
He wished he could make a train trip down and back to St. Paul. He drummed his spoon lightly on the table. He needed to see Sadie face-to-face to put his worries about her to rest. Besides, through her work with the Wilderness Society, she knew several attorneys. Maybe he could ask for advice on how to get out from under a bootlegger’s thumb—where he could borrow a quick three and a half grand. Wasn’t that what attorneys did? Help folks who found themselves in some sort of trouble? He stopped himself. More than a long shot, it was pure folly.
He exhaled a soft whistle.
Forget everything else, forget the debt, forget the creamery. It was Sadie he needed to see. He’d get down there and back quickly, but with so much snow the past few days, he was going to need help.
Getting to the outhouse had been an expedition. There was no going anywhere until someone started shoveling out.
With a huff, he set his spoon down and climbed the steep stairs to the stuffy attic. His brothers were all sawing logs. He felt bad for them. Dad hadn’t been perfect, but at least Owen had grown up with a father around.
He leaned over the lanky shape on the end cot, surprised at how much Erling had grown into Dad’s footsteps. Literally. Erling had grown into Dad’s size 13 boots.
“Erling,” Owen whispered, tapping his brother’s shoulder. “Hey.”
His brother groaned and rolled over.
“C’mon, get up. I’ll wait downstairs for you.”
After a shuffling of feet overhead, Erling appeared at the base of the stairs, tucking his red wool shirt over his long johns and into his trousers. “Got a lotta snow?”
“Yep.” Owen pointed out the window at the brick creamery building across the street. High mounds crested over the street and right up to the entry door. “I need your help making the rounds.”
“Can’t you skip it for a day?”
Owen leveled an “are you kidding?” look at him. “You think cows and chickens are going to stop producing just because it snowed?”
Erling yawned and shook his head of hair like a yellow lab after a swim. “You’re gonna get stuck.”
Owen smiled. “Yep. That’s why you’re coming with me, so you can dig us out.”
“School’s probably closed to
day anyway,” Erling said, lifting a dish towel off yesterday’s fresh loaves of bread on the counter. He found a knife, cut himself a hunk, stuffed his mouth, and held out another one-inch-thick slice to Owen.
“Thanks.”
Mom’s door was still closed. “Hey, I’ll make breakfast,” Owen said. He fried eggs, sunny-side up, and thick strips of bacon, and it apparently didn’t take much time for the scent to reach the attic and tickle the noses of the rest of his brothers.
In moments, they all plopped into chairs and Owen dished up their raised plates.
Erling smiled. “You know how to sling ’em!”
An hour later, under a brilliant sun, Owen and Erling were busy shoveling out around the house and creamery when the back door opened and the four younger brothers spilled out, bundled from head to toe, two carrying skates and two grabbing toboggans from the side of the house.
Mom leaned out the door, huddled in her plaid robe. “Keep those hats on!”
And then they were off, headed to the local sliding hill and ice rink.
Sweat formed under Owen’s cap as he shoveled. Lately it was all he could do to stay on top of things. Along with the creamery work, he’d spent the past week and a half keeping a bonfire going at night behind Pengler’s hotel. It wasn’t a prime location, but the price was right, as Pengler reminded him: “You clean the junk piles outta there, you can use it until you can afford a location of your own.” He’d burned old boards and debris. Next spring, Owen would have a small mountain of ash to clean up before the rains came and turned the lot into a muddy black mess. But for now, he had a rock-hard frozen lot that needed to be ready for a fleet of Studebaker six-cylinder models: the Light Six, Big Six, and Special Six. After he and Erling did rounds and finished up at the creamery, they’d have to clear the lot, too.
“I’m going heavy on Light Six models,” Owen said to Erling. “More affordable, but still plenty solid.”
“Yeah?” Erling replied, not losing a beat as he shoveled snow from around the creamery truck: bending, scooping, and tossing it aside.
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