Dandelions on the Wind (5 page)

Nodding, Emilie pulled the napkin from her plate and spread it on her lap.

After a brief prayer, PaPa gulped coffee and set two breakfast rolls on his plate.

Emilie added a sausage to her own plate, then handed him the dish.

“It’s Thursday.” He stabbed a thick sausage with his fork. “Are you going out to Mrs. Brantenberg’s farm today?”

Emilie broke open a roll, feeling its warm steamy freshness on her face. “I’d like to, if you’re sure you don’t need me in the store.”

He slathered apple butter on his bread. “We’re not expecting any deliveries today, are we?”

“Mr. McFarland said it would be tomorrow.”

“Then I should do fine.” He stuffed the sausage into the roll and raised it to his mouth. “You’ll tell the widow about that new cloth we got in Monday?”

“I will.”

Swallowing a big bite, he glanced at the mantel clock. “I think it’s time I hire some help.”

“Help?” It’d always been just the two of them. “For the store?”

“Yes. You’re a young lady now, and you’ve been working too hard.” He looked at the stove, then toward the door that opened up to the staircase. “It’s time I freed you up for other pursuits.”

Other pursuits? Her eighteenth birthday was only a couple of months away. He couldn’t be thinking what she thought he was thinking, could he? While many of her girlfriends from school and church were being courted and wooed, she’d kept too busy for such nonsense. And when such thoughts did tug at her, she dismissed them, knowing PaPa couldn’t manage without her help. Thinking about his welfare was what kept her levelheaded about any romantic notions.

“You need to think about your future.”

“My future?” She’d assumed her future would look much the same as her past and present … living here, cooking and cleaning, working in the store and managing the record books.

“Yesterday, when I went to the bank …”

Emilie nodded, her mind racing. If he did hire help, perhaps she could consider adding a social aspect to her life. Something besides Mrs. Brantenberg’s quilting circle. Not that men were lined up to court her. But it would be nice to—

“I went to Lindenwood Female College.”

“What a good idea!” She reached for her teacup. “Making a friendly sales call now and then is smart business.”

He smoothed the tails hanging from his tight bow tie. “I spoke with President Barbour. We both agreed that you’d be a valuable asset to the growing student body.”

Emilie sprayed tea into her hand. Wiping her hands on her napkin, she peered up at her father. “That’s the future you were talking about?”

Nodding, he poked the last bite of bread and sausage into his mouth.

“You want me to go to college?”

“You’re already a smart young woman. But with the higher education Mrs. Sibley’s school offers, well, there would be no limit to what you could do.” His smile didn’t quite reach his blue eyes.

She knew how to order inventory, check in orders, barter for garden vegetables and fresh eggs, and keep an accurate ledger. What else did she need to know? Emilie stood and carried his empty cup to the stove. Her father wasn’t thinking about anything even remotely close to what she was thinking. If she had her way, she’d live on a farm … like Mrs. Brantenberg’s. “I have much too much to do to add one more requirement to my calendar.”

“That’s precisely why I plan to hire help.” PaPa reached over and pulled a booklet out of a drawer in the sideboard. He handed it to her then reached for his full cup. “The entrance examination on September 21 is simply a formality.”

Emilie drew in a deep breath. “I’ll look at this when I return from the farm this afternoon.”

“You’re riding out with the Pemberton women?”

“Yes. Hattie and her mother should be here any minute.” She stacked their empty plates and carried them to the cupboard.

“I had best open up.” Standing, he gulped his second cup of coffee.

“I’ll clean up and be right down.”

When he pulled his apron from a hook and closed the door behind him, she stared at the table.

Mrs. Pemberton lost her husband in the war; Hattie, her father. Emilie knew she had a lot to be thankful for. And she was. Her own father was one of the few men able to remain in Saint Charles without dire consequences. But what made PaPa think a female college was the best thing for her? Now or for the future?

***

Woolly drove Mother Brantenberg’s wagon into town just as shopkeepers set out their wares and flipped the signs on their doors, showing they were open for business. He liked Saint Charles. It, too, had been marked by the ravages of war. Shops owned by Southern sympathizers lay plundered and empty, and empty lots marked the former locations of their homes. But the city hadn’t lost its quaint charm … tree-lined streets, brick buildings with white gingerbread trim, and cobblestone sidewalks. Martial law was in effect, but it didn’t seem to have dampened the spirit of the townspeople.

He pulled Mother Brantenberg’s horses to a stop in front of Higgins Lumbermill and stepped down from the wagon. Thanks to his bum shoulder, he couldn’t start the work on the fence or the barn yet. But he
could
stock up on the necessary supplies and have them at the ready. Perhaps that would help his mother-in-law see that he was serious about staying, and that he intended to earn his keep.

“Woolly? Woolly Wainwright, is that you?”

Removing his hat, Woolly turned toward the female voice approaching from behind. At the sight of her, he gulped hard. He hadn’t seen Mary Alice Brenner in more than four years. Not since—

“It
is
you!” Gretchen’s best friend stood in front of him, a small child attached at each hand and her middle swollen as Gretchen’s was toward the end. Tears filled her eyes. “I was so sorry. I still miss her terribly.”

His lips pressed against a wall of his own emotions, Woolly nodded and looked at the children. A boy and a girl, close to Gabi’s age.

“Twins?”

“Yes. Thomas and Alice.” A shadow crossed Mary Alice’s round face. “Born that next week.”

The week after Gretchen died. He knew what she meant. He’d measured most everything in accordance with his life with Gretchen and his life without her.

“I didn’t know you were in town. If you were even alive.” She met his gaze, her brown eyes still rimmed with tears. “I quit asking Mrs. Brantenberg about you.”

“I should’ve written.”

Her nod was curt. “Yes. She was worried sick … We all were.” She glanced at the horses, the same ones Mrs. Brantenberg had when he’d first met Gretchen. “You’re back out at the farm?”

“Yes.” But he couldn’t say for how long. “And Tom, he’s well?”

Nodding, she glanced down at her swollen belly. “He came home a couple of months before Lee signed.”

Woolly’s ears warmed in a blush. A poignant memory pricked his heart, and he looked away.

“Have you heard the talk about a wagon company goin’ west out of Saint Charles?”

He shook his head. “But I just got back yesterday, and this is my first trip into town.”

“Tom heard there’s a guy comin’ to lead a wagon train to California in the spring.”

Another memory clamped his throat. When they first married, he and Gretchen talked about going west.

“We’re planning to go.”

“The baby?”

“Will be several months old by then.”

Things don’t always happen the way they should
. Keeping the cynicism to himself, Woolly glanced at the giant wheel sticking out of the side of the mill, spinning away under the force of the creek water.

“Tom plans on homesteading in the San Joaquin Valley. Says there’s nothing but miles and miles of fertile farmland with plenty of water and mild winters.” Mary Alice blew a sprig of hair away from her eye. “Maybe you should think about it. You and Gabi and Mrs. Brantenberg.”

His mother-in-law couldn’t look him in the eye and was barely able to speak to him. He didn’t know if she’d even let him stay. He didn’t dare bring up going anywhere else, but he nodded anyway.

The twins squirmed and Mary Alice looked him in the eye. “I’m glad you survived too, and happy to see you.”

“Thank you.”

“I best get on with my shopping.”

He nodded. “Tell Tom I said hello.”

When she toddled off with the children in tow, Woolly strolled around the building and through the yard stacked with fresh-cut lumber. He breathed in the sweet scent of pine and the rich aroma of hardwoods. It’d feel good to have a hammer in his hand and be able to fix something. Even if it was only a fence or a barn door.

“Why, if it isn’t Woolly Wainwright come home.” Matthew Higgins took quick strides toward him and stuck out his meaty arm for a handshake.

“Hello, Matthew. Good to see a familiar face.” He and Christoph Brantenberg had bought more than one wagon load of lumber and cut trim from the man in those first years.

Twenty minutes later, after greetings and reports to Matthew Higgins and a couple of customers, Woolly stood in front of a bunk of pine board and looked up at the burly owner.

Matthew studied the sawdust-packed floor, his mouth twisted.

“Is there a problem? I’m not in a rush. If you have someone else needin’ it, I—”

“It’s not that.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll need cash.”

Woolly’s spine straightened. Earlier in their conversation, he’d seen Matthew sell a smaller order on credit to another farmer and bundles of stakes to a vineyard owner with nothing but a signature. He hated to admit it, but it did make sense that folks would either pity him or distrust his honor. After all, he had left his newborn daughter with a grandmother mourning the loss of her own daughter.

He drew in a deep breath. “I’m buying the supplies for the farm. Mrs. Elsa Brantenberg’s farm. She has an account.”

Matthew looked at the empty space around them, then leaned forward. “Not anymore, I’m afraid,” he said, his voice just above a whisper. “I’m sorry. But I have my own accounts around town to settle, and I need to know I have the money to pay my own debts.”

“She hasn’t been paying her bills?”

Matthew shook his head. “Not here, anyways.”

He’d just bought gifts at the dry goods store, and Heinrich hadn’t mentioned anything about Mother Brantenberg failing to pay her debt in his store. Of course, Elsa and Johann’s history dated back thirty years to their school days in Germany. Best of friends, he wouldn’t refuse her credit.

No wonder Mother Brantenberg hadn’t welcomed him home. He’d already cost her too much.

Six

E
very time the ladies take too long to get here.” Little Gabi sat on a stool in the kitchen, her arms crossed and a pout on her cherubic face.

Maren pulled a tray of almond paste cookies from the oven. “I agree, little one.” She, too, looked forward to the Thursday gatherings at the farm. Her friends Hattie Pemberton and Emilie Heinrich, who lived in town, would be arriving soon. Hattie had a knack for delivering local news with flair, but this week the big news was right there on the farm. Or would be when Woolly returned from town. Maren set the tray of cookies on the cooling shelf at the open window, then wiped perspiration from the back of her neck.

At the sound of a wagon rumbling up the road, Maren removed her apron and Gabi scrambled off the stool. Catching up to the child at the front door, Maren breathed in the sweet scent of the geraniums that hung in baskets from each corner above the porch. With all the work to be done, she hadn’t spent much time enjoying the porch. She glanced to the right, toward the barn, remembering the gift of Woolly’s help with her chores that morning.

“Orvie’s loss. The man is a fool.”

Woolly’s statements had been so matter-of-fact, and spoken so closely she had felt his breath on her ear. Then following a quiet breakfast, he’d left toward town with the wagon.

Jewell Rafferty’s wagon was the first to roll to a stop at the far trough, outside the barn. Jewell’s two daughters and her son scrambled over the tailgate, and Gabi ran to greet them. An unfamiliar young woman, who had been seated beside Jewel, carefully placed her feet over the side plank and onto the wheel spokes.

Mrs. Brantenberg stepped out of the barn, her arms full of hay.
“Herzlich grüße.”
The widow flung hay on the ground in front of the dapple gray.

“Thank you. Warm greetings to you as well. It’s good to be here.” Jewell wrapped the reins over the hitching rail and stepped into Mrs. Brantenberg’s hug. The older woman viewed an embrace as the fee for membership into the quilting circle. Mrs. Brantenberg was fond of saying hugs were an important part of binding their hearts together.

Jewell turned toward her guest. “This is my sister from Pennsylvania, Mrs. Caroline Milburn.”

As soon as Jewell made the introductions, Maren remembered having heard about Caroline Milburn last month in the circle. Mrs. Brantenberg had been praying for the young woman … they all had. She looked to be about Maren’s age, twenty-one or close to it.

Maren decided to leave the first hug to Mrs. Brantenberg. “Welcome, Mrs. Milburn.”

“It’s a pleasure.” The newcomer’s voice sounded small. “Please, call me Caroline.”

Mrs. Brantenberg gave Caroline her welcoming hug. “Do you quilt, dear?”

“No ma’am. Jewell spent more time in the house than I did as a girl.”

Giving the pump a few quick strokes, Maren added more water to the trough. “Mrs. Brantenberg is a good teacher.”

Caroline adjusted the bonnet on the pile of red curls swept back into a loose bun at her neck. Maren wanted to tell the young woman they were praying for her … for her husband, but instead she followed Mrs. Brantenberg’s lead and kept silent about it. They would give Caroline a chance to get used to all the new faces.

When two more wagons rolled up the road, Maren went to the barn and returned with armfuls of hay. Hattie Pemberton drove the lead wagon, with Emilie seated between her and Mrs. Pemberton. The elder woman still wore her mourning bonnet.

“Maren!” Hattie stepped down from the wagon first. A simple summer bonnet was never enough to suit the fifteen-year-old. Not when she had her deceased grandmother’s hatboxes to draw from. Today, Hattie wore a bright-green straw hat with a brim that bounced out past her shoulders, while a train of lace and ribbons trailed her back.