by Peterson, Tracie; Davis, Mary; Hake, Kelly Eileen; Stengl, Jill; Warren, Susan May
Lilly eyed him warily. “You don’t suppose there is any chance you could look…”
“Be gone with ya!” Carlson bellowed, reaching for a glass of tepid water languishing next to his schedule book. “You’ll get the mail in your boxes, like always.”
Marjorie put a hand on Lilly’s arm. “Let’s go get a lemonade.”
As they exited the depot, Marjorie noticed Lilly’s limp. “What happened to you?” She stepped back and surveyed her friend. “Why, you’re filthy!”
Lilly brushed herself off. “A wild mustang plowed me over.”
Marjorie slid a hand around Lilly’s waist. “Are you going to be all right?”
Lilly smiled wanly and nodded. Her ankle would be fine. What upset her more was the lingering image of a handsome young cowboy who had nearly derailed her well-laid plans.
Chapter 2
Can we…rest…?” Lilly braced her arm on Marjorie’s shoulder and gritted her teeth against the pain spearing her leg.
“You’re really hurt, Lilly,” Marjorie said. “Maybe I should take you home. I could ask Willard if he would drive you in his Packard.”
“No!” Lilly snapped, then regretted her tone. “I want to wait for Reggie’s letter. I haven’t heard from him in two weeks.”
Marjorie gave her a sympathetic smile. “Don’t worry. I’m sure he’s fine.”
Fine? Lilly stamped down her bitterness, but it sprang back like a hardy thistle. Fine would be him here, planning their wedding, preparing to be a pastor. Fine would be him riding roundup or walking her home from church on Sundays. Fine had nothing to do with war or Germans or the fear that boiled in her chest.
She knew the truth. She read the newspapers, despite her father’s ministrations to hide them, and knew how “fine” the doughboys were in France. Some were coming home with limbs missing, others in pine boxes. She bit her lip to ward off tears. How fine would she be if Reggie returned home in a flag-draped coffin? Then whom would she marry? Lilly winced at her selfish thought and shook her head to dismiss it.
A heated wind snared a strand of hair from her bun and sent it dancing about her face. Lilly caught it and wiped it back. “Yes, he’ll be fine,” she agreed, needing to hear the affirmation.
“You should be happy Reggie proposed before he left.” Marjorie untied her bonnet and wiped the back of her neck.
How did Marjorie always manage to look beautiful, even under the blistering prairie heat? Her buttery hair turned golden in the blinding sun, and her creamy face never burned. Try as she might, Lilly couldn’t control the mass of freckles that overran her face each summer; and her hair, well, she’d seen a prettier mane on her father’s worn-out plow horse.
“He didn’t formally propose, Marj.” Lilly rotated her throbbing ankle, longing to unlace her high boots. “He just kissed me and told me we’d be married when he returned.”
Marj sighed. “But that’s enough.” Her eyes glistened. “Harley didn’t even do that much. Just waved with his floppy army cap as the train rolled out of the station.”
Lilly smirked. “That’s just because he refused to stand in line with all the other boys saying good-bye to the town sweetheart.”
Marjorie blushed and had the decency to look chagrined.
“If I had half as many suitors as you—”
“You didn’t need them. You have the most eligible bachelor of them all.” Marjorie’s eyes twinkled, and Lilly was instantly grateful for a friend who didn’t point out the stark reality. Even when Reggie had been away at seminary and the town teeming with cowboys and railroad brakemen, not one had taken a shine to the poor Clark girl from the farm up the road.
Then Reggie reappeared on her front porch. Fresh out of seminary, he told her that life with him would be heaven and that he’d been waiting for her since she was in pigtails. His wide smile was like honey to her heart. He’d changed, of course, become refined, serious, exacting of himself and others, but that only inspired her respect. He never stepped over the line with her and treated her as if she was his own cherished possession. Reggie was her future, her security, the man God had chosen for her. Her feelings felt more along the lines of gratefulness, but then again, who wouldn’t be grateful for the security of a husband and a family? Wasn’t gratefulness a part of love? Reggie would protect her and give her a home. Reggie was God’s steadfast reminder He had not forgotten her. After all the years of obeying the church and her parents and striving to be a woman of God, the good Lord had finally noticed and sent her Reggie.
And, if she did everything right, he would be hers forever.
“Let’s go,” Lilly said, pointing her gaze toward town. “Please drag me to Miller’s, Marjie. If I don’t get a lemonade soon, I might perish.”
Marjorie laughed and shouldered Lilly’s weight. They hobbled down the dusty road toward Mobridge.
They passed the shanties the Milwaukee Road had built for their brakemen and engineers who worked this end of the line and turned the corner onto Main Street.
“Billy Harper, you watch it!” Marjorie cried as a large hoop rolled in their direction. The barefoot ten-year-old deftly turned it, and a wide grin shone on his dusty face. As they shuffled along the boardwalks that edged the handful of false-front buildings, they dodged women in wilted bonnets scurrying from shop to shop, baskets of produce in one hand and unruly toddlers in the other. The clop of horses’ hooves echoed on the hard-packed street.
Lilly spied Clive Torgesen parked in front of the armory, propped against his gleaming Model T, arms folded over his chest as he accepted the fawning of goggle-eyed teenage boys admiring his new toy. Clive spotted her and pulled a greeting on his black Stetson. Lilly turned away, not wanting to give the town troublemaker any encouragement.
The smell of baking bread drifted from Ernestine’s Fresh Food Market, delicious enough to tempt Lilly to change her destination, but her parched throat won. She and Marjorie shuffled into Miller’s Cafe.
Ed Miller had his hands full serving a row of thirsty cowboys and field hands who were downing lemonade or sipping coffee. Marjorie joined the line by the cashier as Lilly claimed a spot by the bookshelf near the windowsill. The shelf sported a yellowing pile of magazines from the East: Vanity Fair, Ladies Home Journal, and a thick stack of American Railroad journals. Lilly picked up a week-old Milwaukee Journal, flipped through it, and listened to the murmur of muddled conversation around her. Opinions of Wilson’s latest political blunders, General Pershing’s field maneuvers, skirmishes on the western front, and Hoover’s wartime food regulations seemed to be the talk of the day.
“They’re movin’ the draft up ta age forty-five, I hear,” said a weathered cowpoke.
“It don’ matter, I’m gonna enlist anyway,” replied his neighbor. “At least then we’ll get ta eat some of the beef we’ve been tendin’. These ration days are gonna whittle me down ta bones.”
“Yeah, but it might be better than having to face those Germans with nothin’ more than a spear at the enda your gun. I hear Pershing has ’em runnin’ straight into gunfire with no more than a yelp and a prayer.”
“That ain’t true, Ollie. I know that our doughboys have themselves real live ma-chan-i-cal rifles. Spit out bullets faster than rain from a black sky. I do think I’d like to get my hands on one a those.”
“Well, you’re gonna have to live through the boat ride across the ocean first. I heard Ed Miller’s boy left a trail from New York to Paris.”
Lilly smiled as she heard the cowboys’ guffaw and Ed’s growl in their direction. She wondered what the war really looked like, up close.
Marjorie nudged her, holding a fresh glass of lemonade.
“Thanks.” Lilly took the cold drink and held it to her face, letting the cool glass refresh her skin. Then, she gulped it half down. Marjorie’s shocked face stopped her from tilting it bottoms up.
“Sorry.” Lilly licked her lips. “I was thirsty.”
Marjorie scowled. “So it seems.”
Lilly cr
inged, but caught sight of Reverand Larsen emerging from the alley between Ernestine’s and Morrie’s Barbershop. Lilly shoved her almost-empty drink into her friend’s hand. “I’ll meet you at the postal.” She hopped toward the door, ignoring Marjorie’s cry of protest.
Lilly limped across the street, dodging shouts of outrage from two cowboys on horseback and upsetting Billy Harper’s hoop. “Reverand Larsen, sir!”
Reverand Larsen halted two paces from Morrie’s front entrance. His angular face held no humor as he surveyed her disheveled appearance. “Lilly, what happened to you?”
Startled, she stared down at her dress. Grime embedded its folds and the sudden image of a cowboy with jeweled blue eyes glinting apology scattered her thoughts. Her mouth hung open, wordless.
“You ought to take better care of your appearance.” Reverand Larsen’s voice snapped her back to reality. “Just because Reggie is halfway around the world doesn’t mean he doesn’t care how you look. You have his reputation to uphold now.” He cocked a spiny eyebrow.
Lilly bit back defensiveness and instead extracted a respectful tone. “Have you heard from Reggie?”
“Of course not. He has a war to fight. You just do your part and keep writing to him. I am sure he will write back when he can.” He stabbed a skeletal finger into the air. “We all have a job to do in this great war, Lilly, and yours is to make sure our Reggie remembers what he has to come home to.”
Lilly blew out a trickle of frustrated breath. “I have been writing, sir.”
Reverand Larsen laid his bony hand on her shoulder, his gray eyes softening. “I’m sure you have. Mail’s often slow at the front. Be patient and trust him to the Lord’s hands. He’ll write soon.”
Lilly nodded. Reverand Larsen stepped into the barbershop, but his parting words lingered. Reggie was in God’s hands, and God wouldn’t let her down. She, her family, even the entire town knew she would become Mrs. Reginald Larsen, and she would trust the Lord to make it so. The alternative was simply unthinkable. Besides, she’d been so faithful to God, done everything right. She deserved God’s cooperation, didn’t she?
“Have you lost your senses?”
Lilly whirled and met a frowning Marjorie. “You look like you’ve wrestled a tornado, and you run up to Reverand Larsen like a lost puppy? What’s he going to think about his son’s fiancée?” Marjorie scowled. “You’ve got to learn to curb your recklessness if you’re going to be a pastor’s wife.”
Lilly grimaced. Impulsiveness was her worst trait, constantly running before her to embroil her in a stew of awkward situations. If she weren’t careful, Reggie would choose someone else to mother his flock.
“C’mon, let’s check the mail.” Marjorie tugged on Lilly’s arm.
At the post office, they crowded in behind anxious women waiting for the mail.
“Is it here?” Marjorie whispered.
Lilly shrugged, but her heart skipped wildly. A letter from Reggie—something to remind her she was still his. Please, O Lord. Then she glimpsed Mrs. Tucker as the thin woman pushed through the crowd. She held a letter in her hands, raised high as if a trophy. Lilly’s heart gave a loud inward cry, and Marjorie breathed the answer, “It’s here.”
Although the line moved faster than expected, an eternity passed before Lilly finally stood at the counter, biting her lower lip as they checked the Donald Clark family box.
They brought her a letter, postmarked from France, with tightly scrawled handwriting that could only belong to Reggie. Lilly clutched it to her chest and pushed her way to the door.
On the dusty street, Lilly paused, fighting the impulse to tear open Reggie’s letter and know in seconds whether he was all right, unhurt, and missing her. But then it would be over, the news spilled out like sand on the Missouri River shore. Lilly gulped a breath and calmed her heart. No, it was better to wait, to savor each word and hear his voice as she read the letter slowly under the oak tree behind her house. Or perhaps she would go to the ridge, past the grove of maples that overlooked the river, and imagine him beside her as the sun slipped over to his side of the world. Lilly tucked the letter into her skirt pocket.
Marjorie’s scream of delight preceded her from the post office. “It’s from Harley!” She waved a wrinkled envelope at Lilly, her smile streaming across her face.
She ripped open her letter, and the envelope drifted to the ground. Lilly picked it up, watching Marjorie silently mouth Harley’s words.
“He’s okay,” Marjorie mumbled absently.
Lilly breathed relief and gazed westward at the sun, now a jagged orange ball, low on the horizon. It had lost its fervor during the downward slide, and the air carried on it the cool scent of the Missouri. The field locusts began their twilight buzz, beckoning her homeward. Lilly limped away, leaving her friend standing in the street, a pebble among a beach of other women: sweethearts, mothers, and daughters who had paused to read the mail. But not just any mail…mail from France, Belgium, and all along the Western Allied front lines. Mail that gave them one more day to hope the madness and worry would soon end.
Reggie’s letter burned a hole in Lilly’s pocket, beseeching her to open it. She put her hand on the envelope, thankful for its presence. It was a shield against the unrelenting reminder of war and the horror that threatened to crash down upon her if Reggie never came home.
Chapter 3
The handwriting was bold and sturdy, the very essence of Reggie. Lilly clearly pictured him: his long fingers gripping a stubby pencil as he bent over the parchment, a shock of black hair flung over his chestnut brown eyes.
Lilly caught herself. Reggie’s black hair had been shaved, kept short to ward off lice. And the paper was smudged. Reality stabbed at her. Reggie would never willingly send her anything less than perfect. Her brow knit in worry as she devoured his words.
My Dearest Lilly,
I would like to tell you it’s quiet here, that Europe is beautiful and I’ll return soon, but I know how you hate lies, and those would be falsehoods of great proportion. In truth, I sit now in a support trench, my back against a muddy dugout wall, hoping Harley and Chuck will help me stay warm tonight. It’s not that it’s cold; on the contrary, the blistering heat of June has been my greatest challenge yet. The urge to throw off my pack, my helmet, and this grating ammunition belt and scratch the sweat and slime from my body is nearly as great as my desire to gaze into your emerald eyes and see that you miss me, desperately, I hope. No, I’m not referring to the cold that comes with a gathering Dakota blizzard. I mean the cold fear that lurks in the silence between offensives. Alone, I cannot staunch l the panic that floods my heart when I hear the command, “Over the top!” The charges are bloody and hopeless. We fling ourselves headlong toward the Germans, hoping to win their trench and thereby regain Europe, yard by yard. But I will never erase the sight of so many fellow soldiers, pale and lifeless in the mist at dawn, tangled in the lines of barbed wire that run through the no-man’s-land between enemy lines. I stare at them and wonder if and when that will be me. It is then I shiver.
But Harley and Chuck help fend off the cold. Together we remember the things worth living for: you and Marjorie, little Christian and Olive and all the others we protect. We are our own fighting unit, and these brothers have become closer to me than blood. It is with them I hope to return to you, soon.
Our troops are spread throughout Europe, providing the gaps left by Allied casualties in the French and British lines. I cannot tell you where I am stationed, but I serve with men such as Frances, Marc-Luc, Kenneth, and Simon.
As I reread this letter, I realize it’s seems hopeless. But I am not hopeless. I have you and the vivid memory of your brown hair loosened and fingered by the wind as you waved me off that day, not quite a year ago, as our train pulled away from the platform. Your tears etched sorrow down your cheeks and spoke to me of your devotion to our plans. My thoughts are ever turned toward you, and if (I hate to write it, but I must) I should fall and perish on foreign soil, I p
ray you will remember me as yours, devoted until the end.
Faithfully,
Reggie
Lilly hugged the letter. Despite the horrors of war, the fear he fought by the hour, and the evident ache of loneliness, Reggie remained the perfect gentleman, honorable and devoted. Tears filled her eyes. Oh! God would just have to bring him back.
Lilly read the letter again, her tears blurring every word as night enfolded her. Lilly listened to the crickets hum and the melody of the grass as the breeze danced off the river. She wondered if Reggie was warm now. She ached to do something for him…but she could do nothing but pray. Reggie was in God’s hands.
Wasn’t that, however, what she feared the most? God was so unpredictable. What if Reggie wasn’t a part of her future? What if he was to die in the war and she would never marry the boy she’d waited so long for?
But surely, God wouldn’t do that to His faithful servant. Surely, she’d earned the right for Reggie to come home safely. She’d done everything right and proper, acting in perfect obedience. Wasn’t that what religion was all about?
Lilly ground her nails into the palms of her hands as she looked past the dark fields toward the sparkling stars. She would not let panic leak into her letters. It would only spoil the pledge she and Reggie had made. Of course, God wanted them together. He was good and loving and blessed those who followed the church’s teaching.
God could prove His love, however, by bringing Reggie safely home.
She picked a blade of grass and freed it to the wind. Reggie belonged to her. They had plans, a God-given future, and nothing, not even a war, could destroy it.
Grateful to be out of the house, Lilly tightened her grip on her grocery basket’s handle and picked up her pace along the dirt road. The heat pushed everyone to the edge of composure. It slithered into the house from the fields, soiling cotton blouses and melting patience. With three wild younger siblings, her sister Olive and her baby Christian living under the Clark roof, Lilly jumped at the scorching two-mile trek into town, hoping to find reprieve for her frazzled nerves.