by Janette Oke
It had been arranged that Lemuel would begin working at the Thompsons’ farm on Tuesday evening. His cumbersome cast had at last been removed. His excitement was palpable, though he gave voice to very little of it. He stood in the center of the entryway while Harrison looked on jealously. Calling down the hallway, Lemuel asked, “Miss Grace, I only got the one pair of shoes. I don’t want ta get ’em dirty. What should I do?”
Miss Grace called back from where she sat in the kitchen, “Wear those big rubber boots in the chest here at the back door. They’re Miss Lillian’s father’s boots. I use them when the garden is wet.”
Lemuel winced. They belonged to him—the man who would eventually return and throw them all out. “Thank you, Miss Grace. I’ll rinse ’em off, too, when I’m done.” He pushed an arm into his coat sleeve and swung the rest around his shoulders, easing the second arm in carefully.
“Bet ya fall in a pile first thing,” Harrison mumbled, keeping his voice low enough not to be overheard in the kitchen.
“Ha! Bet I get the barn so clean you don’t even have to work tomorrow.”
Mocking laughter. “That ain’t the way ’orses work, ya dumb clod.” Harrison scrunched up his shoulders, realizing he’d spoken the forbidden name-calling dangerously loudly.
Lemuel took no offense. “Well, I guess I’ve spent more time working round ’em than you.” But just the memory of his last experience made Lemuel’s arm begin to ache a little again. He half wished the heavy cast were still protecting it.
“Do ya think I can manage it, Lemmy? Really? I’m so much shorter than you.”
The older boy shot a look across the foyer. It was rare to hear humility from Harrison’s lips. He shook his head as if there were no real concern. “Yeah, you can do it. Kids way younger than you clean the barn. All ya gotta reach is the floor. I think you’re tall enough for that.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“Anyway, Mr. Thompson, he’s nice. He won’t ask you to do anything yer not able.”
“I suppose.”
Passing by him, Lemuel reached out a hand and ruffled up his hair. “You might ask Miss Grace if you can come along today too. He could teach us at the same time then.”
“Naw, it’s my turn ta fill the wood box.”
“Sorry.” Walking into the kitchen, Lemuel said good-bye to all those present and moved through to the back porch, where the rubber boots were kept. If he had to wear the man-sized work boots, he was determined to take good care of them.
“Have fun!” Hazel called after him. “Don’t get lost.”
“Be safe,” added Miss Grace. “Just be safe.”
If it hadn’t been for the oversized rubber boots clumping along the road, the walk to Mr. Thompson’s would have taken only a short time. As it was, Lemuel was tired before he arrived, tired from flexing his toes upward so the boots didn’t slide off with every step. He determined that from then on he would wear his shoes and carry the boots.
As he turned the corner, a long driveway lined with trees came into view—tall poplar trees, bright yellow sentinels on either side of the dirt path, and then a small house and large red barn, tucked neatly away from the road. Lemuel felt he was arriving at a kind of dream world. Completing the vision was Mirabella, standing at the fence just beside the barn, tall and round and perfect. She nickered at Lemuel in greeting. He hastened his steps. Clump clump, clump clump.
Mr. Thompson came out the barn door and into the yard. He waved. “Hello! Come up to the house first, we’ll get a bite to eat before you begin.”
He’d already eaten his after-school snack. However, Lemuel didn’t argue. He tramped across the grass, happily dropping the boots on the porch steps before proceeding into the house, his loose wool socks flopping a little before he hauled them up again. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Thompson.”
“Hi, Lemuel. What an exciting day! Mirabella must have known you were coming. She’s been at that fence most of the afternoon. Horses are like that. They know things.” Her hands moved quickly, serving up cookies and three cups of milk. Mr. Thompson dropped onto a chair at the kitchen table and motioned Lemuel to join him. It felt strange to see his principal at home and wearing overalls, stocking feet stretched out under the table.
For a moment Lemuel felt confused. They seemed in no hurry to put him to work. That was unlike any employer he’d ever known—was certainly unlike the man whose home he’d shared. But he followed their lead and sat down to chat easily with the Thompsons.
Two weeks passed as Harrison and Lemuel traded off their work. It became an easy routine, the walk through crisp fall air, time spent at the table chatting, work in the barn next to four horses with soft muzzles and steamy breath. There was nothing to fear, Lemuel decided. Even Harrison was comfortable from the first. These were not the same as the animals Lemuel had known in the livery. These horses were loved. They trusted their owners and knew their roles well. Mr. Thompson and his grown son Jesse guarded them carefully, treated them almost like family.
Best of all was the one-year-old filly. They explained that she was green—still unbroken, untrained. Turned loose in the field, she’d gallop and leap, would throw her hind hooves at odd angles when she bolted away as if unaware they belonged to the rest of her. She had a protected world, her sturdy mama always near. She had never known an unkind word. Mr. Thompson seemed determined she never would. His voice had been very serious when he’d explained to Lemuel, “Now, stay out of the pasture, son. And I don’t want you to go in the stall with her ever. Even dropping a bucket by accident in there could put a spook into her. You can pet her nose if she’s near, but go slowly. Remember that a yearling is a temperamental creature. One bad decision can turn her, and she’ll become ten times harder to train. Best you keep your distance unless I’m here.”
“Yes, sir,” Lemuel had promised. But it didn’t stop him from talking to her as he worked.
Just after school ended on Friday, Mr. Thompson pulled Lemuel aside from the other children and handed him a note. “Take this to Miss Grace, please. I have a question to ask her.”
All the long walk home Lemuel could feel the weight of the note in his pocket. His curiosity was intense, but he gritted his teeth and forced himself to walk more quickly instead. This brought whines from the other children.
“Lemmy, we can’t keep up. Slow down,” demanded Hazel.
Bryony whimpered, “Lemmy, ride me on your back. Please.”
Lemuel stooped to lift her up but also slowed his steps to accommodate the others.
The slower he walked, the more he wondered about the contents of the note. Was he being dismissed? Had he done something wrong? Had Harrison? Was it about the filly?
At last he entered the kitchen, surrounded by an avalanche of words, each child seeking attention from the women of the house first.
“Miss Grace, I got all my spelling words right.”
“Miss Tilly, can I get two sandwiches tomorrow? I was real hungry.”
“Miss Lillian, I’m ’posed to read two poems by Monday. We got any poems?”
Feeling like a youngster with impatience that he couldn’t restrain, Lemuel broke in. “Miss Grace, I have a note from Mr. Thompson.” He held out the folded piece of paper. His announcement brought silence to the kitchen.
“Thank you, Lemuel.” Miss Grace took the note, unfolded it slowly. Her lips pursed. “Have you read this, son?”
“No, miss.”
“Hmm. Lillian, what do you think?” She passed it along to her sister, who also made a face.
Setting the milk jug on the table, Miss Tilly declared, “Land sakes, is it asking fer ransom? Must be mighty frightful, scarin’ all these young’uns so.”
Miss Grace took a deep breath. “Miss Lillian and I will need to speak about this before we can give an answer. But Mr. Thompson has invited Lemuel and Harrison to go hunting with him tomorrow.”
“Wahoo!” Harrison tipped back his head and hollered.
“That’s not a yes. We nee
d to talk. Hunting is serious business, and I’m not sure either of you is old enough for that.”
A muffled grunt came from the kitchen corner.
“Miss Tilly?”
“It ain’t my place to say, Miss Grace. But all them other boys been huntin’ by this age—all their friends. And there ain’t a better man to teach ’em than Arthur Thompson. Safe as being home in yer own soft bed, only”—she chuckled to herself—“only a fair sight colder.”
Miss Grace looked at Miss Lillian, and it appeared they knew they’d been bested. “Fine then, yes. You may both go if—”
“Hurrah, hurrah!”
“I said if, Harrison. That is if your chores are done and if your homework is finished.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll go get those done right now.”
Lemuel watched Miss Lillian shake her head. She seemed glad and worried all at once. But then he noticed George, his sullen face darkened with envy. He’d been overlooked again—first while not getting to help with the work at Mr. Thompson’s, and now again. Lemuel was certain by the expression on her face that Miss Lillian was pondering the same thing.
Darkness enveloped the house still, and yet from her bed Lillian heard terse whispers in the hallway. She’d wakened from sleep, worrying again about George and how she could make it up to him, though it wasn’t quite clear what resources she had to offer that might compare to horses, wages, and guns. She knew immediately that the sounds came from Harrison and Lemuel, anxious to be ready and waiting when Mr. Thompson arrived at four—long before anyone was used to rising. Lifting the covers carefully, she slid out of bed. Before moving into the hallway, she reached for her robe and tied it around her waist, appearing in her doorway just in time to see the boys disappearing down the stairs. Several quick steps and she caught up to them, motioning them to keep silent with a finger to her lips.
Once in the kitchen she whispered, “Miss Tilly’s still asleep. So please keep your voices low. Is there anything you need? A packed lunch maybe?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Well, make yourself some bread and cheese for breakfast. And take some gloves and a scarf with you from the bin. It’s very cold to be out so early.”
Lemuel smiled as if that were part of the adventure.
A car rolled into the driveway. They hurried out, carrying their extra clothing and the rest of their hasty breakfast, waving behind them as an afterthought. Lillian lifted the kitchen curtain, peered out into the dark yard, and watched the boys cross in front of the headlight beams. It was too early now to work, and she was too awake to go back to bed.
I’ll do this week’s letter to Father. There’s always so much to tell him.
The stove was cold, so she stirred up the fire and added tinder and wood, set the teapot where it would eventually boil, and collected her letter box from the cupboard.
Dear Father,
All is well. It’s still the wee hours of the morning, and I’ve just sent two of the boys off hunting with the school’s principal, Mr. Thompson. Can you imagine? Hunting! I pray they’re safe and that they return with all their fingers and toes—and all their other parts, for that matter—intact. But I’m glad they can spend extra time with him. I hope to see a commitment to new relationships there soon. Grace would add “God willing,” but I’m more liable to just plead their cause.
Bryony is likely to be the first to leave us. Perhaps even before the end of the month. The Moorelands are anxious to have her with them and I don’t blame them at all. She’s blossoming like a desert rose. All it took was a little watering, a little loving care, and she’s sprung to life out of the long drought she’d known previously. And Roxie Mooreland told Grace just this week that they don’t even plan to change her name anymore—they don’t seek change in her at all. They just want to begin loving her into their family.
We still haven’t heard from Lethbridge about their decision concerning Milton and Matty, perhaps the silliest little boys I’ve ever had the pleasure to know. They giggle and tease all day long—if not one another, then any other child at hand. Milton is the instigator, but Matty is his faithful sidekick in all the nonsense. We put them in school in the primary class with Bryony, but I’m not sure how much it’s benefiting them. Miss Campbell is patient and kind. We hope they’re not too much of a distraction to the others. But we love them anyway, for all their silliness. I wonder sometimes what the source of all their joy is, but we’re happy to be the beneficiaries. If all goes well, the surgical procedure to loosen Matty’s tongue will happen very soon.
No one has demonstrated interest yet in George and Hazel. My heart aches for them, especially as George is excluded from the attentions paid to Lemuel and Harrison. Grace and I have met with a number of people from town on the pretext of getting “advice.” Really what we’re doing is trying to solicit interest. It seemed a formidable strategy but hasn’t worked out quite as well as we’d hoped. The fall recital is coming up soon. It will be another gathering of townsfolk. Perhaps that will yield some positive movement.
Lillian set down her pen and blew across the page lightly to help dry the ink. On impulse she added, Do you remember Walter Norberg, Father? He’s been such a source of encouragement to me, and a great help to our little endeavor here.
That was all. A mention on two lines. On one hand she hoped that Father would understand, but on the other, that he wouldn’t be distressed by this information, so far away from his only daughter. It was a terrible situation in which to learn that there might be potential—strong potential—for her to hope.
Miss Tilly’s door opened softly. She didn’t seem surprised to find Lillian already seated at the table. “Ya get them boys off all right? I heard ’em. I just didn’t feel the need ta join ya at such an hour.”
“The boys should be well on their way by now. I do hope they listen to Mr. Thompson.”
“Oh, Arthur’ll keep ’em in line. Nobody’s got more knack than he with the young’uns.”
“I’ll help you make breakfast. I—”
“No need, dearie. Might as well finish yer tea. You’d just be in my way. But I ’preciate the offer.”
With a sigh Lillian wilted back into the chair. She was going to feel the loss of sleep all day.
Thumps and footsteps soon came from upstairs. Another Saturday had begun. Lillian sipped the last of her tea and tidied up her letter supplies. Then she returned to her room to dress, joining the second-floor hullabaloo of children.
Breakfast advanced as usual except for the two vacant chairs. George’s eyes moved to them frequently. He seemed to be struggling. Lillian’s heart went out to him.
Before the room had been put in order again, George announced, “Miss Lillian, there’s a car pullin’ into the yard. Think it might be Mr. Norberg?”
Walter? “Thank you, George. I’ll go and see.”
She hurried to the front door in time to watch Walter vacate the driver’s seat and move toward the house. She waved and called, wondering what had brought him at a time she knew was busy on their ranch.
“Delivery,” he called. “Might want to gather the troops for this one.”
Lillian turned back toward the kitchen, relaying the message. “Walter says he has a delivery. Anybody want to come see?”
Tossing a shawl around her shoulders, she hurried out ahead of the rest. “This is so unexpected. What is it?”
“Gifts from Hope Valley.” He opened the trunk ceremoniously. “They sent some boxes. Don’t know what all’s in them. But I’ll bet we’ll have some happy faces soon.”
Rummaging through quickly, Lillian stepped away. “Walter, will you please close the trunk?”
“I’m sorry, what?”
Lillian could see children already hurrying across the yard to join them. “Close the trunk. There are toys, gifts. It might be better if Grace and I look through them alone.” He slammed the lid down and she laughed. “I guess what I’m saying is, you might as well be Father Christmas for all the gifts t
hat you’ve brought us.”
Bryony and Hazel arrived. “What is it, Mr. Norberg? What’d you bring?”
He looked at Lillian and frowned. Then his face kindled again. “Want to go for a ride?” There was a tepid response. Walter refused to relent. “’Cause I think it’s time for George to learn to drive. What do you say?”
Lillian lifted one hand toward Walter in an attempt to deter him and another toward George in hopes of quieting his enthusiasm. Neither was effective.
“Come on, Lillian. He’s old enough to see over the dash. We’ll stay to the dirt roads. I won’t let him go too fast.”
Had it not been for the wizened look on George’s face earlier, the decision would have been simple. However, while Lillian was irresolute, Grace was beaming. In the end, no one waited for her spoken reply. Children piled into Walter’s automobile, and this time, with great pride, George climbed in behind the wheel.
“Are you comin’, Miss Lillian?”
“No, thank you. I believe I’ll just wait here—and worry.”
Grace was already under the heap of children in the back seat.
Miss Tilly stood on the porch, holding her sides with laughter. “Ah, Miss Lillian, what a day the Lord brung ya. Two of ’em off with guns and one of ’em behind the wheel. What a mornin’!”
“Lunch!” Miss Tilly called across the yard. And though the children probably would have rather continued to play beside Walter’s car, they obeyed quickly. Miss Tilly had been known to deny a meal to someone who chose not to heed her first call.
“You goin’ in?” Walter asked Lillian.
“I guess I’d better.”
Walter came closer, leaned down a little so he could whisper in her ear, though no one was left in the yard. “But the gifts? They’re still all in the trunk.”
Lillian’s eyes flitted toward the house and back again, as if someone might have overheard his remark. “I’m not sure where to put them, and I know you need to leave. You must be anxious to get back to your own work.”