Farmer's Daughter Romance Collection : Five Historical Romances Homegrown in the American Heartland (9781630586164)

by Peterson, Tracie; Davis, Mary; Hake, Kelly Eileen; Stengl, Jill; Warren, Susan May

  “Have you lost your senses, or are you trying to destroy your life?” Olive added a hiss to her furious whisper.

  Lilly clasped her hands and sat still as stone on the straight-back chair. News traveled like a lightning bolt across the prairie and, as Olive marched out her fury on the clapboard floor of Lilly’s second-story bedroom, Lilly knew her rash behavior in town had ignited.

  Olive bounced little Christian over to her other hip. Christian giggled at the bumpy ride. The two-year-old loosened a strand of his mother’s chestnut brown hair, unraveling the bun at the nape of her neck, to match Olive’s demeanor. Her sister had stomped home an hour earlier, her after-dinner stroll with Elizabeth White destroyed by “a sordid tale that involved Lilly cavorting with a stranger in town.”

  “You have no idea who that man is, nor where he is from. He could have hurt you!” Olive’s voice rose a pitch. Lilly winced. “You stepped into a fight that was none of your business! I heard the Craffeys caught him stealing—he had two apples in his coat pocket!”

  “He wasn’t wearing a coat, Olive.”

  “And he spoke a different language—like he was demon-possessed!”

  Olive paused in her tirade to plunk Christian down on the double bed Lilly shared with Bonnie. Christian rolled across the quilt, drooling.

  Lilly sucked a calming breath of air. “Olive, listen. I admit my foolishness.” She held up her hands in surrender. “I won’t do it again.”

  Olive bent down and glared into Lilly’s face. “You bet you won’t. Because if you do, I’ll tell Chuck…and he’ll tell Reggie!”

  Lilly recoiled as if she’d been slapped. Her sister’s threat hung in the air like an odor. Lilly willed her voice steady. “Don’t worry, Olive. I don’t even know who he is. I’ll never talk to him again, I promise.”

  Olive clamped her hands onto her narrow hips. “You better not, or you’ll be sorry.” She scooped up Christian. “Reggie doesn’t need distractions, Lilly. Do you want to get him killed?”

  Lilly gasped. Olive stormed out, slamming the bedroom door behind her.

  Lilly closed her eyes. “Please God, no.” She hadn’t considered that perhaps God would punish her for helping the German. Perhaps He, too, considered her a traitor. But would He let Reggie die because she’d sinned?

  Lilly fought the insidious idea and walked over to the window seat. The cushion in the alcove was one of her first sewing projects, a calico pillow in blue and yellow. Lilly climbed into the nook, pulled her knees to her chest, and rested her head on her crossed arms. The prairie stretched to the far horizon, forever past the hundred and twenty acres that belonged to the Clark family. The sun painted the wheat field hues of rose gold and the hay field to the north a jade green. Her father would begin haying soon, cutting the grass, letting it dry, and gathering it up into giant mounds for cattle feed during the winter.

  Was it only two years ago she’d worked with Reggie, mowing the hay? She smiled at the image of his serious brown eyes, the sun baking his back and arms. Even then, he’d wanted to protect her. “Lilly-girl, you shouldn’t be working here. This is men’s work.” She wanted to cry. After all he’d done for her, and she’d betrayed him.

  Oh God, please send him home! If Reggie were here, perhaps he’d be working with Chuck, dragging in water from the Missouri to keep the crop alive.

  The front door slammed, and she watched her father stride out to the barn, heading for the evening milking. The Clarks had two dozen Holstein her father used to run a fairly lucrative dairy route on the west side of the Missouri to the ranchers who didn’t raise milkers.

  But if the prairie dried up, so would their Holsteins. Lilly’s eyes burned. The threat of drought made her escapade in town seem all the worse.

  “I’m sorry, Reggie, I’m sorry.” Had she really betrayed him? Lilly pressed her fists into her eyes, but she couldn’t erase the clear image of Heinrick, hands up in surrender, backing away from the Craffey boys, jabbering incoherently. Nor could she forget the tone of longing in his voice when he’d offered his name in friendship. No, she hadn’t done anything wrong; she’d merely performed a Christian duty of kindness. At least she hoped that was true. She hoped she hadn’t somehow stepped over the line of faithfulness to Reggie or to her country and summoned punishment from the Almighty for her misbehavior. Dread seeped into her bones.

  “Please forgive me, God,” she moaned feebly.

  She would never see the German again. Lilly resolved it in her heart, to herself, to Reggie, and finally to God.

  Chapter 6

  Please, Mrs. Torgesen, just two more pins.” Lilly snatched a straight pin from the corner of her mouth while she struggled with the flimsy newspaper pattern.

  Mrs. Torgesen, wiggling about as if she were a two-year-old, held the latest edition of the Ladies Home Journal and flipped from page to page as if window-shopping in Boston.

  “Oh, this eggshell blue chiffon is just breathtaking! How long did you say it would take to order?”

  Lilly stifled a groan as another page tore across Mrs. Torgesen’s ample backside. Doggedly, she pinned it together. “Two weeks, earliest.”

  Mrs. Torgesen sighed, then glanced down at Lilly. “Well, how’s it coming?”

  Lilly managed a smile. “Do you want pleats or gathers?”

  Mrs. Torgesen hopped off the tiny stool, and Lilly heard the remainder of her pattern rip to shreds. She sighed and conceded defeat. Mrs. Torgesen would change it three or four times before completion, anyway. Lilly stuck the pins into her wrist cushion and collected the scraps of paper.

  “How about this one?” Mrs. Torgesen held out the magazine, pointing to a picture of a two-tiered gown in muted lavender. The skirt slid to just below the knees, with wide pleated rows running hip to hip. An underskirt, in the same shade, continued to the ankles. The bodice was a simple white cotton blouse with puffed sleeves and a boat-style neck. What made the piece stunning was the sheer lace lavender overcoat that covered the blouse and flared out over the hips. The ensemble was then secured with a wide satin belt, accentuated on the side with a six-inch satin rosebud.

  “How exquisite.” Lilly passed back the magazine.

  “Make it for me, Lilly. I know you can.” Mrs. Torgesen rained a toothy grin down on her. Lilly smiled as if she couldn’t wait, but she wanted to grimace. The woman would be a giant purple poppy.

  Lilly stood up. “Let’s see what you have for fabric. Maybe I can do it from scraps.”

  “You know where the fabric is, dear.” Mrs. Torgesen patted her glistening brow with a lace-edged handkerchief. “I need a glass of lemonade.” She waddled off toward the kitchen.

  Lilly always thought Mrs. Torgesen could be described by one word: excessive. She was a woman who couldn’t be contained—or contain anything, including her appetite for food and clothing. She lived with one foot dangling in the waters of lavishness and laughed away the criticism of brow-raising conservatives from the North Dakota border on down. Yet all tolerated Mrs. Torgesen, despite her fanciful ideas, and Lilly supposed it was for one very large reason—the breadth and strength of the Torgesen T cattle ranch.

  Lilly slipped off her wrist cushion and tucked it inside her sewing box. She considered it a blessing to be employed by Mrs. Torgesen—not only did it allow her to work with feather-fine silk, transparent chambray, and filmy chiffon, but Mrs. Torgesen’s dreams pushed Lilly’s skills to new heights. And, despite Mrs. Torgesen’s desire to dress like a French dame, her generosity had helped Lilly finance her wedding dress and prepare for the event she knew her father would struggle to provide. And now, the work could help keep the Clark family fed.

  Lilly headed upstairs to the sewing room. Mrs. Torgesen couldn’t even sew a straight stitch, but she owned a gleaming black Singer. Lilly preferred, however, to bring her work home and sew in the comfort of her bedroom, laying the pattern out on the hardwood floor or on the kitchen table. And, at home, her mother was always available for advice.

  The high sun
spilled through the yellow calico curtains, lighting the corner room in an array of cheery colors.

  The remnant fabric was stuffed into a three-door oak wardrobe. The doors creaked as they opened, the wood split from years of dry prairie heat. Lilly wrinkled her nose against the pungent odor of mothballs and dove in, wading through a sea of jeweled fabrics from dyed wool in jade and mauve to calicos in every shade of blue.

  Lilly finally unearthed five yards of plain, sea foam green cotton and a piece of white flowered lace large enough for the overcoat. Perhaps she could dye it. Tucked in the back, behind a piece of red calico, she pulled out a forest green satin, perhaps meant for a pillow edge. It would make a perfect sash. Mrs. Torgesen would be a flowing willow, drifting along Main Street on Independence Day. Lilly stifled a chuckle.

  Lilly was piling the fabric pieces onto a small box table next to the Singer when movement in the yard below caught her eye.

  The sight of a golden mustang, bucking and writhing beneath its rider in the sunbaked corral, made her step toward the window. The animal’s black eyes bulged with terror as the cowboy atop the bronc whooped, grabbed the saddle horn, and spurred the horse. The mustang reared, then threw himself forward and bucked, flaying out his hind legs. Sweat flicked off his body. Lilly stood transfixed at the desperate wrestle.

  Suddenly, the cowboy dropped one of the split reins. Lilly winced as she watched him grab for the saddle horn. His whooping had stopped and only her thundering heart filled the silence as the horse bucked and kicked, twisting under its mount. Then, with a violent snap, the mustang pitched the cowboy into the air. Lilly watched him climb the sky in an airborne sprawl. He flew a good ten feet and landed with a poof of prairie smoke.

  The mustang continued to twist, jump, and kick in a hysterical dance. His wide hooves landed closer to the hapless cowboy with each furious snort. All at once, the animal reared, pawing the air above the terrified rider. The man wrapped his arms around his head, curled into a ball, and waited to be trampled.

  Lilly covered her eyes and peeked through her fingers.

  Suddenly, a figure erupted from the barn door. A blond whirlwind, he burst right up to the furious animal. Holding out both hands as if to embrace the beast, he closed quickly and in a lightning motion snared the dangling reins and planted his feet. The downed cowboy scrambled toward the barn.

  The mustang reared and snorted. The man extended his hand to catch the horse’s line of vision. The horse jerked his head and pawed at the ground, but with each snort, the terror dissipated, his feet calming their erratic dance until, in one long exhale, he stopped prancing altogether. The man brought a steady hand close to the horse’s eye. The mustang bobbed his head twice, then let his captor touch his velvet nose. After a moment, the man stepped close and rubbed the bronc between his eyes and over his jaw.

  Lilly exhaled and realized she’d been holding her breath. Whoever he was, the cowboy had a way with animals that tugged at her heart and stole her breath. As she watched, the man turned and looked toward the house. The sun glinted in his blue eyes, and he wore an unmistakable half-smile. Lilly jumped away from the window. Her heart did an erratic tumble in her chest, and her skin turned to gooseflesh. Despite her vow, she’d somehow found Heinrick.

  Lilly heaped the fabric into a ball, scooped it into her arms, and scrambled downstairs. Her heart flopped like a freshly netted fish, dazed and horrified at the recent turn of events. The last thing she needed was a reminder of yesterday’s scandalous incident. She would keep her head down and flee like a jackrabbit from the Torgesen T and its troublesome German.

  “Ma, I don’t think Buttercup is the right name for that mustang!” Clive Torgesen slammed the screen door and dragged a trail of prairie dust into the kitchen. Lilly skidded to a halt in the doorway, clutching the fabric to her chest. She didn’t realize it had been Clive, Mrs. Torgesen’s uncouth son, who had ridden the terrorized animal. At best, Clive was a roadblock to a speedy, unsuspicious escape; at worst, he would smear her with one of his crude remarks and recount yesterday’s embarrassing tale in embellished detail. Lilly gritted her teeth and sidled out of view.

  The fair-haired Torgesen boy was one of the lucky—he’d been granted a bye in the enlistment lottery. Some thought it was because he was Ed Torgesen’s only son. Others believed it had something to do with a wad of George Washingtons in the county registrar’s back pocket. Nevertheless, Clive Torgesen was now one of the few, and of them the most, eligible bachelors in the state.

  To Lilly’s way of thinking, that wasn’t saying much. Underneath the ruggedly handsome exterior—his curly, sandy-blond hair, his earth brown eyes, and his heavy-duty muscles—was a completely rotten core. As her father liked to say, “There was a foul smell to that bird’s stuffin’.” Lilly had the unfortunate experience of sitting next to Clive in school. She’d seen his pranks firsthand, from cutting off the braids of little girls to throwing youngsters into the Missouri River in October. Now older, he was downright dangerous. Lilly had heard the gossip, seen the faces of girls he’d “courted,” and doubted the honor of the man in the wide-brimmed black Stetson.

  Clive plopped down in a willow-backed chair next to his mother at the kitchen table. The housekeeper, Eleanor, served him a sweating glass of lemonade, and he guzzled it down.

  Mrs. Torgesen dabbed at her forehead with her handkerchief. “Your father thinks the mustang will make a wonderful stallion. He is expecting two brood mares from Wyoming in a week or so.”

  “Well, he’s impossible to ride. He ought to be hobbled.”

  “Hobbled!” Lilly cried and burst through the door. “What he needs is a gentle hand, Clive.”

  Clive sat back in his chair and tipped up his hat with one long, grimy finger. “Well, Lilly Clark. Since when are you the expert on wild horses?”

  Lilly clamped her mouth shut. Her face burned, and she wanted to melt through the polished clapboard floor. Mrs. Torgesen leveled a curious frown at her. Lilly swallowed, and held out the fabric to Mrs. Torgesen. “I think I found something that might work,” she croaked.

  Mrs. Torgesen turned her attention back to Clive. “Give him a week or so, dear. He’ll settle down. Pick a different horse.”

  Clive snuffed. “I almost had him broke, too, Ma. Until that stupid German interfered.”

  Mrs. Torgesen peeked at Eleanor, then drilled a sharp look into Clive. “He’s not German, Clive. He’s from Norway, just like us.”

  Clive’s eyes narrowed, squeezing out something unpleasant. An eerie silence embedded the room while Clive and Mrs. Torgesen sipped their lemonade and glowered at each other. Lilly glanced at Eleanor, but she busily stirred a pot of bubbling jam on the stove. The sharp, sweet smell of strawberries saturated the humid air.

  Clive gulped the last of his drink. He examined the glass, turning it in his hand. “Well, whatever he is, he’s a troublemaker, and I’d keep my eye on him if I was you, Ma.”

  Mrs. Torgesen slid a dimpled hand onto Clive’s arm. “That’s why you’re the foreman.”

  Clive emitted a loud “humph.” He set the glass on the table and ran a finger around the edge. “So that means I can do what I want with him, right?”

  “It’s your crew, dear.”

  Clive smiled, but evil prowled about his dark eyes. He stood and tipped his hat to Lilly. “See ya ’round.” He winked at her as he turned away.

  The bile rose in the back of Lilly’s throat.

  Mrs. Torgesen sighed. “Let me see the fabric, Lilly.”

  The next two hours crawled by as Lilly fashioned a makeshift pattern from a remnant piece of muslin. The costume would require a mile of fabric, it seemed, and Mrs. Torgesen would bake in it under the hot summer sun, but she obviously had no regard for such discomforts.

  “I want it ready by the Fourth of July.”

  Lilly pushed a rebel strand of brown hair behind her ear. One week. “Yes, ma’am.”

  The low sun tinged the clouds with gold and amber as Lilly plodded home. Three mi
les to go and her arms screamed from the weight of the small mountain of fabric. But the wind was fresh on her face and not only had she avoided another perilous run-in with the German, but neither Mrs. Torgesen nor Clive hinted Lilly might know him. Either they hadn’t heard or they were hoping she’d keep their secrets if they kept hers.

  A hawk circled above, and Lilly heard Reggie’s voice, strong and wise, in her head. Watch the hawk, Lilly, it will lead you to dinner. She didn’t do much hunting, but somehow his words stuck in her memory. Just like his firm hand upon the small of her back, or nimble fingers playing with her hair. She could never forget his kiss—just one, on an eve such as this, as the sun slid behind the bluffs beyond the river. She and Reggie had strolled to her favorite refuge, a tiny retreat nestled in a grove of maples. There, he told her he would marry her. He didn’t have anything to give her, he said, “but his promise.” Then he cupped her face in his strong hands and kissed her.

  He’d left for the war the next day, yet she could still feel his thumb caressing her cheek, feel his lips upon hers. Oh Reggie, please come home soon.

  The creak of a buckboard scattered her memories. At a hot breath over her shoulder, Lilly gasped and sprang into the weeds lining the dirt road. Laughter, rich, deep, and unpretentious, filled the air. Lilly whirled, squinting into the sunlight.

  “Hello. We meet again.” Heinrick greeted her with a sweeping white smile and twinkling blue eyes.

  Lilly’s heart raced like a jackrabbit eluding prey.

  “Want a ride?”

  Lilly shook her head.

  “C’mon. I can repay you for saving me.” His grin seemed mischievous.

  “I thought you said you didn’t need saving.” Lilly shut her impulsive mouth and squeezed the fabric to her chest.

  He raised his eyebrows. “Did I say that?”

  Lilly frowned. Had he? It didn’t matter. She wasn’t getting into a buckboard with an enemy of the community. She’d vowed it to Reggie and to God, and she wasn’t going to break her promise.