Forever Hidden

by Tracie Peterson

  Shaking his head, John continued on the road for the farm. Silly to have such fears. No doubt they were brought on by his hunger and thirst. God had already provided for him to find his grandfather’s friend. John needed to press on in faith.

  As he crested a slight rise in the road, the dairy finally came into view. His stomach rumbled loud enough that a cow behind the fence on his left turned to stare. John laughed out loud. One thing was for certain: Hunger was a good motivator.

  Down the lane in front of him, a team of horses pulling a wagon converted to a sleigh kicked up snow. John had to jump to the side—into waist-deep snow—so the conveyance could make it in the well-traveled tracks. It slowed, and a man nodded to him. “Sorry to push you off the road there, but I’m so loaded down, we’d never get her unstuck out of the deep stuff.” The man looked him up and down. “Though I ’spect you’d be strong enough to push me out. You new in town?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I hear a slight accent. Don’t think I’ve heard it before. You from abroad?”

  “Italy, originally. Colorado recently.”

  The man chuckled. “Ah, so you’ve come to hunt your fortune in gold?”

  “No, I can honestly say I haven’t.” John gave the man a smile. “I’ve seen enough of that in my lifetime.”

  The man relaxed back in the seat. “Good to hear. We’ve got plenty of ’em filling up our town.” He nodded toward the pack on John’s shoulders. “So what brings you so far north?”

  “I’m looking for a friend of my grandfather’s.” John spied the large metal cans in the back of the wagon. They must be from the dairy. He looked back to the driver. “Do you know where I can find Chuck Bundrant?”

  “Sure, he’s in the birthing shed. That’s the first building on your left past the house.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Name’s Herb Norris. I own the Roadhouse on the outskirts of town. We offer good food and musical entertainment in the evenings. Clean. No gambling. No saloon.” The man lifted his eyebrows and nodded at John. “Let me know if you need a place to stay.”

  “Thank you, I will. I’m John Roselli. It was a pleasure to meet you. I greatly appreciate your help.”

  “You’re welcome.” He lifted the reins, and the horses started pulling again.

  John stepped out of the snow and back onto the ice-rutted road. Dusting the cold, wet snow from his trousers, he headed up the hill.

  The sprawling house was much larger than anything he’d seen in Alaska so far. The rock apron around the base was a nice touch. Someone had taken great care to build a beautiful home.

  As he hiked the rest of the way up the slight incline to where the homestead was situated, more buildings came into view. Chickens chattered and cows bellowed.

  Now these were the kinds of sounds he could live with!

  The door to the first building on the left was propped open with a milk pail. John walked in and allowed his eyes to adjust from the brightness of the snow to the interior of the barn.

  Opening his mouth to call out for Mr. Bundrant, he stopped.

  He’d walked in on a man praying.

  “. . . forgiveness. If the girls ever found out what I did, it would crush them . . .” The next words were muffled. “. . . to understand why I did what I did if they come to know the truth.” A shuffling noise sounded and muted the rest.

  Who was praying, and what had he done? John had done plenty of things he wasn’t proud of, but the man made his wrong sound so . . . ominous. Frozen in place, John glanced around. What should he do? The shed was silent for several moments, so the man must be finished praying.

  John shifted, weighing his options. Should he step outside and make more noise as he entered again? If Mr. Bundrant had been the one praying, John definitely didn’t want him to know that he’d invaded his privacy and overheard his prayer. But it was all so quiet now . . . if he moved, the man might hear him.

  His quandary was solved when one of the cows started up a ruckus. From the sound of her, she was getting ready to calve. It gave John the perfect opportunity to walk outside and start again. This time he stopped in the doorway and knocked on the doorframe. “Mr. Bundrant?”

  “Be right there.”

  The same voice he’d heard praying. The right thing to do would be to tell the man that he’d overheard his prayer. Maybe introductions first, then he could decide what to do.

  A man shuffled through the straw toward him. “I’m Chuck Bundrant. How can I help you?” He didn’t look like a man harboring some dark secret.

  John extended his hand. “It’s nice to see you again, Mr. Bundrant. My name is John Roselli—”

  “You’re Giuseppe’s grandson, aren’t you?” A huge smile filled the man’s face as he took John’s proffered hand and shook it.

  “Yes.”

  Mr. Bundrant pulled him into the barn. “How is the old chap doing? He used to tell me so many stories about you and your folks. I haven’t heard from him in almost a year.”

  John swallowed the sudden lump in his throat. “He passed away four months ago.”

  Bundrant’s face fell. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. He was a very good friend. I’m surprised you remember me. It was a long time ago when we met.” He walked over to the stall, where the cow made her displeasure known.

  Maybe he’d misheard the man’s prayer. The man in front of him had been Nonno’s friend. There was no reason to judge him for his private words. “Yes, sir, well . . . I don’t remember much, but my grandfather often talked of you and how much your friendship meant to him.”

  Mr. Bundrant shook his head. “It’s hard to believe he’s gone.”

  John dipped his chin as his stomach rubbed itself raw, and he looked at his boots for a moment. “Nonno asked me to bring you a package, so that’s why I’ve come . . . but I’m also in need of a job, sir. It took everything I had to get here. I was inquiring in town when I ran into Dr. Gordon. He suggested I come see you and told me to tell you that he sent me . . . just in case you have any questions.”

  “So you ran into the good doc, huh? He’s been hounding me for months to slow down and hire a foreman, but I haven’t gotten around to it.” He grabbed a bale of hay. “Not exactly like there’s a lot of good men to choose from.” Setting it down next to the moaning cow, he rubbed his chin. “What’s this about a package?”

  John took off his rucksack. “It must be awfully important because Nonno made me promise to bring it to you. Right before he died.”

  “Giuseppe was a good man. We helped each other a lot over the years, but I don’t remember him having anything of value for me.” Mr. Bundrant looked down at the cow and then back to him. “Ah . . . now I remember . . .” He shook his head and chuckled. “The old coot.”

  “Well, let me give it to you.” John untied the flap to his bag.

  The cow’s abdomen undulated as she gave a cry. “Don’t think we’ll have time for that right now. I’m going to need your assistance.” Chuck took up a looped rope and slipped it over her head. He tied the other end to the stall. “How are you with cows? Ever helped with a birth?”

  “My family used to have a dairy farm back in Italy. But I was a kid last time I did that.” John took off his coat and mittens, then rolled up his sleeves. “Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

  “How about you help keep mama calm, and I’ll explain what I’m doing as I do it?” The older man pushed his sleeves up his arms. “Ya know, I always thought I’d be able to run this place myself, but the good ol’ doc is right. I need help. I’ve got plenty of hands milking, and my girls do a good job helping out, but I need a foreman. A man who knows the ins and outs and intricacies of the whole business. You up for learning all that . . . handling that much responsibility?”

  All thoughts of leaving Nome as soon as he could vanished. Even the few minutes he’d spent with Chuck Bundrant made him feel at home and reminded him of Nonno. Might as well learn the job, do it well, and see what God had in store
for him down the road. “It’s been a good long while since I did this sort of work, but I’ll do everything I can to learn and do what you need. It’d be an honor to work for a friend of my grandfather’s.”

  The older man’s face broke into a smile. “It’s all right, son. You don’t have to convince me. I’ve already decided to hire you.”

  “Thank you, sir.” His limbs relaxed as he stroked the cow’s head. At least he’d have an honest job.

  “And why don’t we stop this sir business, all right? Your grandpa and me were mighty close. Chuck will do just fine. You might not remember me all that well, but I definitely remember you. Tall and lanky, a little awkward. You’ve filled out a good deal over the years, but I still see the family resemblance. How old are ya now?”

  “Twenty-seven.”

  “Wow, it’s been longer than I realized. Time sure does fly these days.” Chuck’s focus shifted to the cow again. “This little one’s having trouble being born.”

  John’s stomach took that moment to rumble loudly. He put a hand to it. “My apologies. I just got into town and haven’t eaten anything since dawn.”

  Chuck gave a wry laugh. “Nothing to apologize for. As soon as you help me deliver this calf, we’ll head up to the house and get you fed.”

  John stroked the cow’s black head. “I’m not familiar with this breed.”

  “Canadienne.” Chuck rubbed some sort of oil over his right arm. “Hearty breed, developed in Canada. Some folks call them Black Jersey. Most of mine are black, but they can be brown or even reddish. Now hold her tight. She’s been at this for far too long. I’m going to check the position of this little one.” He lifted the cow’s tail and maneuvered his arm into the birthing canal. “Ah, just as I thought. One leg’s forward and one’s bent back.” As he withdrew his arm he held fast to the forward leg. “Get me one of those ropes.” He motioned with his head to the stall gate, where several lengths of calf rope awaited.

  John left the miserable mama and grabbed the first rope he could reach. He came back to Chuck.

  “Tie it on the calf’s leg right above the hoof and then tie off the other end to the stall fence.”

  John did as Chuck instructed and stepped back.

  “Now go hold mama’s head again while I push this baby back inside and see if I can’t get that other leg in the right position.”

  The poor cow protested louder than ever, but Chuck had things well under control. After a few strenuous moments, he smiled. “There we go.” He pulled his arm out, bringing the calf’s leg forward as he did. He released the rope from the stall as the mother cow pushed the baby partway out. The front legs and face were delivered, and Chuck reached over and pulled the sack from the calf’s face as the cow pushed her baby out to plop down onto the straw below. The miracle of birth. Was there anything more beautiful? Memories of witnessing it as a child came back and made him feel whole and complete again.

  This was what he was meant to do.

  “Untie her and step aside.”

  John did as Chuck instructed, then followed the older man from the stall.

  The cow attended to her baby, seeming not to want anything more to do with the men.

  “There. Now that’s a sight to see.” Chuck reached for a rag hanging on the rail of the stall, wiped at his hands and arms, and shot his smile toward John. “I’m glad to have you here.”

  “Thank you, sir—I mean, Chuck.”

  “Let me take you up to the house. We’ll get washed up, eat, and meet everyone, and then I’ll show you the ropes around here. It’s a mighty big job, but I’m inclined to believe you can handle it.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  Chuck turned and eyed John as they walked out of the birthing shed. “Seems like the good Lord above sent you at the perfect time. How are you at handling redheads?”

  Five

  As she glanced at the bubbling pots on the stove, Havyn wiped her hands on her apron and then went into the dining room to check on the table. The background music of cello and piano filled the air around her. With a glance to the empty table, she planted her hands on her hips. “Madysen? You haven’t set the table!” She raised her voice so it would resonate across the dining room and reach her younger sister in the parlor.

  The cello screeched to a halt. “I’m sorry! I’m coming!” Footsteps accompanied her words. It only took a second for Madysen to come blazing into the dining room in her stocking feet, her hair flying behind her in a thick curtain of cinnamon. “I completely forgot . . . again. I’m sorry.”

  Havyn laughed and went to the sideboard. “Here, let me help you.”

  “No, this is my job. You have enough chores to do without having to do mine.” She waved a hand at Havyn. “You go finish whatever you were doing. I’ll get this all set in a jiffy.”

  Havyn covered a giggle. Madysen was the most stubborn of them all, but she was also the sweetest. Which was quite the juxtaposition. But then, they were all stubborn. And hopefully a bit sweet.

  Whitney, the oldest at twenty-five, was the most passionate and no-nonsense. Always making sure they were all on track. She could remember a list seventy-five items long and not forget a thing. Whereas, twenty-year-old Madysen could forget what day it was if you let her. In fact, a mere two years ago, they’d all had to remind Madysen about her individual duties. Daily. It had become tiresome for them all until Mama finally had a stern meeting with her and laid out how the youngest sibling’s forgetfulness was affecting everyone else. As Madysen was also the most merciful of them all, her heart about broke in two when she realized the time, effort, and exasperation she was causing everyone else. Since that day, she’d done a pretty decent job at keeping up—with the exception of a few mishaps.

  Like today.

  But oh, to cherish each day as Maddy did. That would be such a blessing. Tiny and full of life, Maddy focused on each day as it came and seemed to enjoy every moment. A luxury most youngest siblings had, perhaps? If Whit and Havyn hadn’t spoiled their little sister when she was younger, maybe things would have been different. But Havyn wouldn’t change Madysen for anything. They needed her to be just who she was.

  A creak of the back door let Havyn know that Granddad would soon join them for dinner. Ladling the fish chowder into the large soup tureen, she hummed the new song they were going to sing tonight at the Roadhouse. It was one that Whitney and Mama had written for the three of them, complete with tight harmonies and glorious minor chords that sent chills up and down her spine. Their audience might not be refined and high society, but she and her family would still perform their very best.

  Madysen came in and took the tureen out to the dining room, and Havyn dished up the creamed corn into another serving bowl.

  The tips they received each weekend at the Roadhouse grew as time went on. Didn’t that prove that not all men in their little gold-seeking town were at the brothels and saloons each night, like the paper reported? In fact, the crowds at the Roadhouse were increasing. So maybe there was hope for a God-fearing man to come along one day. Problem was, they’d need three God-fearing men, one for each sister. And that might be asking for a bit much. Even from God.

  She placed the biscuits in a basket and wiped her hands on her apron. Maddy came in again, but her eyes were wide.

  Havyn angled a look at her. “What’s that face for?”

  Madysen stepped closer and took the basket of biscuits. “There’s a man with Granddad. I saw him as they were mucking their boots in the mud room.”

  Havyn smiled at her sister’s hushed voice. “Granddad has lots of men who come to get milk, plus there’s all the milkers. What’s got you so surprised about this one?”

  “He’s . . . new. Someone I’ve never seen before. And he’s not a native.”

  “Okay.” Havyn tried not to giggle at her sister’s expression. “That doesn’t exactly raise the alarm.”

  Madysen hugged the basket to her chest. “You don’t understand. Just wait until you see him.”

>   “All right.” Havyn pushed her way through the swinging door to the dining room, smiling at her sister’s dramatics. Setting the bowl of creamed corn next to the chowder, she checked the table. “Madysen, you better grab another place setting, just in case.”

  The bass of their grandfather’s tone, mixed with the baritone of another man, drew closer. The baritone had a bit of an accent. What was it? Ah! Havyn snapped her fingers. Italian. Their mother had taught them to sing many songs in Italian. A few in French and German as well.

  Whitney entered the dining room with their mother, a slight frown on her face. “Why is Madysen setting another place?”

  “Because we have a guest.” Granddad spoke from the doorway, his face all smiles. “Girls, I’d like you to meet John Roselli. He’s our new foreman.”

  Havyn, her sisters, and her mother fell silent. The man with Granddad was much younger than she’d expected.

  And much better looking.

  Blinking several times, she realized her mouth was open and shut it with a snap.

  Whitney stared too.

  Madysen coughed into her hand.

  Wait . . . what? Did Granddad say a new foreman? Since when?

  Mama gathered her wits first. “John, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Likewise, ma’am.” The tall, dark-haired gentleman nodded and bowed slightly at the waist.

  “John, meet my daughter, Melissa Powell, and my three granddaughters. Whitney, Havyn, and Madysen.” Granddad beamed at them, pride shining all over his face.

  “It’s an honor.” John bowed to them as well.

  Havyn caught her breath. Mr. Roselli’s skin was a lovely olive shade, which made his dark brown eyes appear mysterious. A strong jawline and Roman nose reminded her of their Latin studies and the tales she’d read about Rome. His dark hair was almost black, a lot like the native people up here in Alaska.

  Whitney elbowed her. Had she missed something?

  Another elbow to her side.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” she spit out. Had they been waiting on her? With any luck, the elbows would stop. It wasn’t her fault. They’d never had a guest like this before.