Madysen joined in. “It’s true, John. You’ve been working so hard for our family, it doesn’t seem right that you know so much about us, but we don’t know much about you.”
He looked back toward Madysen and Whitney, and then to Havyn. “You’re very kind to ask.” He shrugged. “There’s not a lot to tell. I come from a wonderful family. I was raised in Italy on the family farm by my parents and my grandfather until I was twelve years old. Then my parents passed away.”
“Oh, that’s awful! I’m so sorry. What happened to them?” Madysen’s voice sounded like she could cry at any moment.
“Measles. I was sick as well, but recovered, as you can see. It was devastating to lose my parents, and even harder to leave my home and everything I’d ever known. Nonno, my grandpa, thought it best to take me far away from the difficult memories and the grief. Besides, there was a lot of unrest in Italy then. Political problems. And the dairy was struggling.”
“Dairy?” Whitney asked. “Your family had a dairy? I suppose you always wanted another one?”
John laughed. “I never really thought much about it after we left. I was young, and my grandpa wanted something different. Nonno always had a dream to dig for gold, so we came to America. After we learned English and heard of the gold strike in Cripple Creek, we settled there. That’s where we knew your grandfather.”
“Oh, so Granddad knew you before?” Havyn pointed her words at Whitney. “And you grew up on a farm. That’s very interesting. No wonder Granddad brought you on.” Was Whitney getting the point?
John laughed. “Well, he knew of me. I went to school, so we met briefly. I was young. He and Nonno knew each other well. Even after your family left Cripple Creek, they wrote letters to one another and stayed abreast of the other’s family. Before Nonno died, he asked me to come see your grandfather.”
“So that’s why you came to Nome?” Havyn shot another glance at Whitney.
“Yes, it is. But I used up all my funds to fulfill my grandfather’s last wish, so I needed a job right away. Dr. Gordon told me that Mr. Bundrant needed help out at the farm, so I had two reasons to find him.”
“That’s fascinating.” And it was. This man interested her more than she wanted to admit. “Tell me, what do you remember about your farm back in Italy? Did you have cows and chickens?”
“Yes, we did. We also made cheese. Mozzarella. Then there were the sheep. Mama made cheese out of the sheep’s milk as well. It was so tasty. I don’t remember how to make that. But mozzarella? I could probably still make that in my sleep. It was a job I knew well.”
His deep laugh warmed Havyn to her toes. “I bet you must miss it very much.”
“I do. But I love America. It’s more my parents that I miss.”
“That’s understandable. I miss our father. He’s been gone since I was ten, but even so. The ache is still there not having him around.”
A tiny huff from the back seat made Havyn want to turn around and give Whitney a piece of her mind. She knew exactly what Whitney thought of their dad, and could just see the scowl on her older sister’s face.
It took every bit of Havyn’s restraint to keep her gaze straight ahead.
If John heard the huff, he didn’t comment on it. Thankfully. “Was your father in a mining accident?”
It was a fair question. Especially after she’d asked about his parents. Nevertheless, it struck her heart like a knife. Whenever anyone found out their father died up in Cripple Creek and he was a miner, they just assumed that it had been an accident. But she couldn’t very well lie about it. Oh, how she hated this question. “No. He was drunk and got in a fight outside one of the bars. The men left him for dead on the side of the mountain.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Whitney all but snarled her words. “It’s better this way.”
“Whitney! How could you?” Maddy’s voice again sounded as if she were about to cry.
“That’s not true, Whitney.” The only thing Havyn could do was try to defuse the situation. Why was her older sister so bitter and suspicious? She turned to John. “You’ll have to excuse Whitney. She’s tired.”
“The only thing I’m tired about is how you’ve set our father up to be a saint. Why do you have to bring him up so much lately? I realize he was our father, but you and Madysen don’t know half of what he did.”
Havyn couldn’t deny the truth of her statement. The awkward silence around them sizzled.
Madysen sniffed in the seat behind her.
Another huff from Whitney. “Forget I said anything. You’re right, I’m just tired. I’m sorry.”
Havyn looked back and watched her older sister wrap her arm around Madysen.
The quiet engulfed them for several minutes.
What would John think of them? Especially after hearing the bitterness in her sister’s voice.
His voice came soft and kind. “Death of a family member is always difficult.” He reached over and gave her arm a squeeze. Havyn’s chest tightened. She gazed upward to look into his eyes. He smiled, then turned his attention back to the horses.
“It was a heavy loss to me.” Havyn kept her voice low so Whitney couldn’t make out her words. “You’d think it would get easier. But it doesn’t.”
“Stop the wagon!” Whitney called out. “I think it would be nice to walk the rest of the way.”
“Don’t go alone, Whit.” Madysen laid a hand on her sister’s arm.
Havyn pointed. “The dairy is just ahead.”
“I know. That’s why I want to walk. Maybe I’ll rid myself of the foul mood.” Whitney jumped off the back. “I’m sorry, John. Thank you for the ride.”
“I’ll go with her.” Madysen hopped off as well.
John held the wagon steady for a moment.
“Whitney has a hard time talking about your father, doesn’t she?”
Havyn gave a nod, then bit her lip. “Well . . .” Now that he’d asked, maybe she wasn’t being fair. “You’re right, Whitney doesn’t like talking about our father. And Madysen is so full of compassion, she can’t stand watching our sister suffer alone. But Whitney, being the oldest, saw more and understood more about our father’s . . . flaws. She loved him. But also is realistic about who he was—a drunken gambler. Madysen was only seven when he died, so naturally she only remembers the good times.”
“And you?” His expression said he truly cared.
“Well, I know my dad wasn’t perfect and did some pretty awful things. But I’ve also chosen to forgive him. He was my dad. Does that make sense?”
He nodded. “It’s all right, Havyn. Pain makes people act strange sometimes. Losing a father is never easy, and each person grieves their own way.” He started the horses back on their course.
Havyn pushed aside her discomfort. “Tell me about your grandfather.”
“Oh, he was an ornery old man.” John laughed. “But I loved him and he loved me. You have to know Italians to understand what I’m talking about. Family is everything. So when he decided to come to America and raise me here, he poured himself into me because I was all he had left. Most Italians have big boisterous families, but I was the only child of an only child.”
“You must have been very close.”
“We were. He longed for me to marry and have a family, but he was also determined that we needed to build a family fortune since he’d used up all his savings to get us to America. You’d never meet a harder worker than my grandpa. He was a wonderful man.”
They fell silent as the horses turned toward the lane to the barn. John let the lines go lax. “I’m glad we had the chance to talk. This is nice.”
“It is.” She lifted her face to the evening breeze. “Thank you for your compliment tonight. It meant a lot.”
“It was honest. I’ve never heard anything like you three. How did you get started?”
She felt the smile cover her face. “Our mother is a musical prodigy. I don’t think there’s an instrument made that she hasn’t m
astered. When she married our father back in 1877, she made him promise that he would allow her to teach us music. It was her one demand. So we started singing from before we could even really talk. Then, once we were each four years old, we were allowed to pick one instrument to be our main focus. Whitney chose the piano, I chose the violin, and Maddy the cello. We still all had to continue with voice lessons, musical theory lessons, and piano lessons—because all good musicians must be able to play the piano, according to Mama—but then we’d have two lessons a week from her on our chosen instrument.”
“That’s incredible.”
“We tried other instruments too, and spent much more time on music than anything else. But don’t get me wrong, our mother taught us reading, math, and history as well. I’m just saying that we spent hours every day on music. Sometimes we still do.”
He brought the horses to a stop outside the barn and set the brake. “Well, don’t stop, because you are extraordinary.”
The evening sun gave them plenty of light, and Havyn enjoyed the way his eyes sparkled. They were so dark it was hard to distinguish the color of his eyes from his pupils. “I’ll let you in on a little secret.”
“Oh?”
“I love to sing more than anything. As much as I love to play the violin, there’s something about singing . . . I simply can’t put it into words.”
He looked straight ahead for several seconds and a big grin filled his face. “Did you know that the first time you introduced me to your chickens, I had stopped at the chicken yard just before and heard you singing to the flock? Not just any song, either. You were singing ‘Santa Lucia’ in Italian.”
Her face heated as she put her hands over her mouth.
“Don’t be embarrassed. It was quite charming. I just never expected an Italian song.”
Dropping her hands, she shook her head. “I didn’t know anyone else heard me that day. Other than the milkers, and they’re used to me singing. Did you know that while ‘Santa Lucia’ is a song with Neapolitan roots, written by an Italian, Swedish folks sing the same tune but with different lyrics? They call it ‘Sankta Lucia’ and sing it on December thirteenth while the eldest daughter wears a wreath of lighted candles on her head and serves the family breakfast. Mother taught us that when we were studying the song.”
“So it’s the same melody as the ‘Santa Lucia’ that you were singing?”
“Yes, it’s quite lovely. But with Swedish lyrics that request Saint Lucia to light her white candles.”
“Would you sing me a bit?”
Havyn bit her lip. She couldn’t remember the whole thing in Swedish. “Well . . . I only remember a bit of the chorus. ‘Drömmar med vingesus, under oss sia, tänd dina vita ljus, Sankta Lucia.’” She let the notes sound clear in the night air.
“That was beautiful.” The man beside her stared into her eyes.
Oh, how she wanted to stay there, caught up in his gaze.
“So my next question is, why haven’t you sung to the chickens since?”
“I didn’t want to disturb you or for you to think that I was a senseless lady who sang to chickens. Even though . . . I guess technically I am. All except the senseless part.”
He gave her a lopsided grin. “Definitely not senseless.”
“Thank you.”
“And I think you should go back to singing to the chickens. I know it would make my day brighter.”
The warmth in his voice made a blush rise up her neck. “Thank you for that.”
“You deserve as many compliments as I can give, Havyn. You are the most talented person I’ve ever met.”
She narrowed her eyes a bit. “You haven’t heard our mother play all her instruments. She could be an entire orchestra on her own if she could be in more than one place at a time.”
“While I would love to hear your mother, you are entirely too modest about your own abilities, Miss Havyn Powell. And I meant what I said.”
How to respond to that? She looked at her hands in her lap. “Thank you.”
“You’re most welcome.” He climbed down from the wagon and reached up to help her. “One day I’ll have to tell you some of the stories my grandpa told me about your grandfather and him. They’re pretty comical.”
She laughed. “I can only imagine. Our grandfather can be quite cantankerous.” She scooted across the seat and took hold of his hand—and stilled. She got caught up in his eyes.
What was happening to her?
“Havyn! Havyn, come quick!”
She startled, as did John.
“Havyn!” Madysen came running.
“What’s wrong?” Havyn let John help her from the wagon. Madysen reached them just as Havyn’s feet touched the ground.
“It’s Granddad. He’s had another fit of apoplexy!”
Thirteen
Dr. Geoffrey Kingston opened the door to his office and walked into the dark space. He took off his coat and hat as his mind went to Mr. Bundrant.
This second bout of the apoplexy appeared to be much worse, but only time would tell. The effects weren’t all known yet because they hadn’t been able to wake him.
He hung his coat and hat on a hook beside the door and went to light the lantern on the table beside him. Some fresh start. Rather than seeking his own fortune and putting himself first, he wanted to actually heal people—like what doctors were supposed to do. But now . . . everything he tried to rid himself of came back to haunt him. All because of Judas Reynolds.
The money was good though. Very good. So far, he’d made double what he made for being a doctor from selling the fake medicines. And Judas was making a tidy sum himself. Maybe it wasn’t so bad.
Kingston walked to his bookshelf and searched for a tome that would help him with Mr. Bundrant. The only way to ease his conscience now was to continue to help people as best he could. That way, he wasn’t just taking advantage of people who were always in search of the next great elixir or pill that would cure their ailments, ready to spend their gold nuggets and coins on whatever new medicine he could peddle.
Perhaps if he could build a reputation of actually being the doctor who helped people, then nobody would think that he was a swindler on the side. The fact of the matter was, he knew medicine. Went to school twice for it.
What did it hurt that he provided pills and syrups to people who just wanted something to make them think they felt better? It wasn’t like he was doing this to anyone who was seriously ill. Of course, if anyone came to him with an ailment, he would treat it with the best of his knowledge and ability. He was a good man. He really was. This little side business with Judas was just that. A side business. It wasn’t hurting anyone. And he wouldn’t allow it to go too far.
Reading several entries about apoplexy, Geoffrey wrote down some notes on paper. He’d take it with him next time he saw Mr. Bundrant and see if he could help the man make any progress. It all depended on which side of the brain was affected this time. And, if it was the same side as last time, if the damage had increased in severity.
A brisk knock on the door startled him. It must be a patient.
He opened the door to an old, grizzled man. “Good evening. How may I help you?”
“I’m afraid it’s the whooping cough, Doc. Old Fred down at the saloon started coughin’ and coughin’, and then he couldn’t breathe after it passed. We’s seen it afore here, and so we sent him home. I told him I’d come get ya.”
“Yes, of course.” Geoffrey grabbed his coat and hat. “I treated many cases of the horrible disease before I came.” Grabbing a jar of cough syrup out of his medicine cabinet, he nodded at the man at the door. “Please. Take me to him.”
Melissa Powell loaded the last of her cloth-wrapped squares of butter and counted them one more time. This ten pounds of butter would bring a pretty penny in town. Their farm was the only source of butter in these parts, unless you counted that horrible oleomargarine, which she certainly did not. Many of the miners, however, used it because they couldn’t afford the re
al thing. The restaurants used the oleomargarine in cooking, but for baking they all still wanted butter and were willing to pay well for it. That put her butter in even higher demand.
A week had passed since her father’s second bout. What if he didn’t ever wake again? A shiver raced up her spine. Not a thought she wanted to entertain right now. No sense being afraid of the future. She’d just have to take one day at a time.
She hated the thought of leaving him, but she wouldn’t subject her daughters to the bartering tactics of one of the men in particular. It was one thing for her to do it, but her daughters?
“I heard you were going to town to sell butter and cream.” John joined her at the wagon. “Do you need any help?”
She smiled but shook her head. “No, that’s awfully sweet to offer when I know how much you have to do. Whitney’s staying with my father, and I don’t want to be gone a lengthy time. Besides, this will be a pretty quick transaction. There’s not a lot of cream to sell since Mr. Norris already picked up his dairy order, and we used a lot of it to make the butter. Everything will be sold to the two restaurants that have been asking us for whatever we can send their way.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask how much you sell it for. I need to try to keep up with the ledger.”
“The butter will fetch over ten dollars a pound.”
“Ten dollars?” John’s eyebrows shot up and he whistled. “It’s only twenty-eight cents a pound in Colorado. At least it was when I left.”
“We sometimes get as much as fifteen in the winter. One winter I had ten fellows show up and they carried on a bidding war for my butter. It was the craziest thing you ever saw, but being up here in the shortened days and long nights can do that to a man. You can’t get fresh butter, milk, and cream up here unless you have your own milk cow or come to us. Oh, there are a couple of folks trying their hand at producing dairy products, but they don’t have the livestock we do.”
“Wow. I’ll get that in the books. Thank you. I still have a few things I need to ask your father. But nothing to worry about.”
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