He shook his head no. “Farming is my spouse.”
“That’s good!” Rose reached into her small pouch and took out the tiny pen and notebook. “Can I quote you?”
“Quote me?” His face sagged into a scowl. “Is that what this is all about? Can’t someone just have a conversation with you without you taking notes? Is everything anybody says going to appear in that Chicago rag you call a newspaper?”
Rose had had this conversation many times before in the course of her journalistic career. Lately, of course, in the society pages, people had been anxious to see their names in print, so possibly she was a bit rusty on her technique. She was almost a household name in Chicago. Here, she was as anonymous as the next stranger to step off the train. She needed to be vigilant.
If she was going to get people to open up to her, to learn what really drove these homesteaders—this homesteader, in particular—she’d better not be as aggressive as she was in Chicago.
One thing she had learned during her time at the Tattler was knowing what approach to take. Eric Johansen would need some coddling, but he seemed too smart to be flattered.
“Let’s sit down here,” she said, touching his elbow as she moved toward a small bench in front of the post office. “Let me start where I should—at the beginning.”
He settled uneasily on the wood-slatted bench. “Start.”
“I believe you know I’m a reporter with the Chicago Tattler. I’m here for six months doing a series of reports about homesteading.” She paused and flashed him her brightest smile.
He didn’t seem to be swayed, but on the other hand, he didn’t get up and leave. “So what does this have to do with me?”
“I’d like to focus on one homesteader so my readers will understand this whole Dakota Territory mystique better.” Rose touched the little notepad and stared directly into his eyes. “I’d like the story I write on these pages to be yours, and—”
“No!” He sprang up, his face tight. “No! Absolutely not!”
“Why not?” She stood up, a mollifying hand on his wrist.
“Simply put, I don’t want to.”
She hadn’t faced this kind of opposition since a short stint covering the women’s crime scene. Quickly her mind sought another approach. Maybe he had an ego she could appeal to. “Mr. Johansen,” she purred, “you’ll be the featured subject. People from across the country will read about you. You’ll be famous.”
“Famous.” He fairly spat out the word. “I’m a farmer. I dig in the dirt for a living. Who’d want to read about me?”
She moved in for the proverbial kill. “Our subscribers. The businessmen who buy a paper from a newsboy or a newsstand. Those who pick up a discarded Tattler from a sidewalk or a gutter and read it. Most of them will never make it past the Mississippi, but they wonder and dream about coming out here. They want to know what your life is like. They want to live vicariously through you.”
He didn’t respond, and she held her breath.
So much was riding on his response. He had to say yes. He just had to.
Birds chirped in the early summer evening, filling the huge silence with their twitters.
The fact that he hadn’t told her to leave was a promising sign, and Rose clutched at the thought.
Just as he was about to speak, a voice interrupted him. “Eric Johansen! There you are! I’ve been looking for you to thank you for fixing that floorboard.”
A tall thin man with a shock of amazingly blond hair had come up behind them. “No thanks are necessary. By the way, Rose, this is our minister, Reverend Wilton. And, Reverend, this is Rose Kelly. She’s visiting Jubilee.”
The minister smiled at her. “Ah, you must be the reporter I’ve been hearing so much about. All of Jubilee is quite abuzz with your presence. I understand you’re from Chicago?”
“Yes, I am,” she said, offering her hand to the stranger. “I’m planning to be here for six months, sending a series of articles about homesteading back to my newspaper, the Tattler.”
“What a splendid idea! Did you hear that, Eric?”
“Oh, I heard,” Eric answered dryly.
Rarely does opportunity present itself on a silver platter, Rose thought, but when it does, who am I to pass up such a gift? She saw her chance and took it. “I’m hoping Mr. Johansen will agree to be the homesteader I feature in the series. I think he’d be perfect.”
The minister rubbed his hands together. “Absolutely! Eric, don’t pass it up. All of us at Redeemer will be glad to help both of you on this project. I can assure you of our support.”
Eric shook his head, and Rose’s heart sank.
“It would be a splendid opportunity to help Jubilee grow into a real humdinger of a town,” Reverend Wilton continued. “I suspect quite a few people in Chicago read Miss Kelly’s newspaper, and just imagine how many of them her articles might inspire to head out here and join us.” Eric’s mouth stayed drawn in a tight, flat line.
“They could shake away the close confines of the city and come out here to experience God’s love under this great blue sky.” The minister’s hand arced in a grand gesture over his head. “Give it some thought, Eric. I’d do it, except I’m not homesteading.”
Eric sighed, and his next words gave her hope. “Reverend, I’m—”
Before he could finish his sentence, Mrs. Jenkins and the others from the church kitchen had joined them and were all chiming in with their enthusiasm for the project.
Eric didn’t have a chance.
“All right, I’ll do it. But with limits.”
The crowd cheered, and Rose barely restrained herself from joining them.
This was going to be a glorious six months.
Thank You, she breathed. Thank You.
Eric glared at the trees on the horizon as his horse plodded down the road. He scowled at the rabbit that ran across the road in front of him. He glowered at the hawk that swooped overhead.
What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he have just said no and been done with it? It wasn’t like he had even considered being the subject of her articles. It wasn’t possible. There were a million and one reasons why it wouldn’t work, and every bit of him screamed out a warning: Don’t do it.
There was only one reason why he should do it. But it was a terrible reason.
It had been a long time since his arms had held a woman. He didn’t allow himself so much as to dream of love. But Rose—she’d been warm and solid and real. Suddenly his dreams seemed silly.
Too much was at risk to get involved with her scheme. He couldn’t take the chance—and he certainly couldn’t put his heart on the line.
But he’d made a promise, and there was no way he was going to back out on it. He’d committed himself to doing this, and he had to stay the course. He’d have to be settled with that decision.
He lifted his eyes to the cloudless sky and prayed. His petition had no words, just a sincere heartfelt appeal, and he knew God heard it.
The dirt road curved, telling him he was almost home. There was something wonderfully peaceful about that word. Home.
He knew every inch of it by heart, every board and nail. It was his house. The closest any woman had gotten to entering it was when one or two of the women from Redeemer had brought towel-wrapped dinners when he’d first begun building it, and even then, they’d only set a foot in the door.
He’d built the house himself, placing every board in the structure, every nail, every brick. It was made the way that suited him. Bookshelves lined two walls of the living room, and they were organized not by author or subject or even color, but by the date he’d read them.
There was one picture on the wall, a painting of the battle of Jericho. It had hung in his bedroom when he was a teenager, a gift from his parents right before they lost their lives from influenza, and it had hung everywhere he had lived since then.
Now, as he pulled into the yard, attended to his horse, and went inside, he saw his home in a different light.
&
nbsp; For the first time, he noticed the dust on the table by the window. The sweat-stained kerchief tossed carelessly by the front door. His morning coffee cup still by his chair. His house was not woman-ready. She’d probably bustle in and start sweeping and dusting and cooking, and the next thing he knew, he’d have pink ruffled curtains in his kitchen.
He shuddered at the thought.
On the other hand, maybe it would be all right.
He and Rose had set boundaries for the next six months. They were simple. First, she could not shadow his every move. There was no way he could possibly get his work done if she were hanging around his neck like a clinging vine. Second, she had to respect his privacy. She was not to pry into his personal things, and snooping was definitely not allowed. Third, there would be no assumption of friendship. He was helping her out with her article, and that was the extent of it.
Eric groaned. It seemed so easy in theory, and so impossible in fact.
What had he done?
Rose woke early the next morning and quickly dressed for church.
“There’s a dinner after the service,” Matthew said at the desk of the hotel. “I’m planning to get over there for at least a while.”
She grinned at him. “I understand they’re serving lefse.”
He nodded. “Miss Kelly, they always serve lefse.”
She laughed. “I imagine they do.”
It seemed as if everyone in Jubilee went to Redeemer, Rose thought as she walked toward the church, joining the steady stream of people who were headed in the same direction.
Mrs. Jenkins waved at her when she entered the church and motioned her over to sit beside her. Across the room, she caught sight of the back of Eric’s head, his blond hair neatly combed. Reverend Wilton was a splendid minister, and his sermon about the joys of friendship was pleasant and inspiring and buoyed her already-elated spirits even higher.
After the service, she joined the throngs of worshipers who headed for the grassy area behind the church. “We’re going to eat outside,” Mrs. Jenkins explained, “since it gets a bit close inside during the summer with all the folks there and the cooking going on.”
She led Rose to a table where others were already seated. “Everyone, this is Rose Kelly. I’m putting her in your hands because I’m on duty at the bread table.”
Her tablemates began to introduce themselves. Freya and Lars Trease, both in their midthirties, ran the store in town. Lars was as thin as Freya was thick. Linnea Gardiner was the young teacher at Jubilee’s school, and Rose recalled seeing her in the lefse-making group at the church. Linnea’s lovely blond hair curled around her face in charming tendrils. Rose sighed silently. Linnea had the hair she’d always coveted.
She pulled herself up short on that thought. No, not coveted—admired. Linnea had the hair Rose had always admired.
Thomas Pinkley was Jubilee’s doctor. Arvid Frederickson farmed north of Jubilee and usually had his wife and three children with him, but they were home with summer colds.
“I hear you’re doing a story about us,” Lars said. At first Rose thought he was frowning at her, but she realized that the lines over his nose were permanently etched there.
“A series of stories,” Rose corrected him. “They’ll certainly touch on all of you, but the main focus will be on a single homesteader.”
Dr. Pinkley nodded. His silver hair and well-cut black suit made him look quite elegant. “I hear tell you’ll be writing about Eric Johansen.”
“That’s our current plan.” Rose’s experience had taught her to limit what she told others when she was working on an interview but to always be ready with one question. “What can you tell me about him?”
“He’s a good fellow,” Lars said. “We’re glad to have him in Jubilee.”
“Jubilee got its start with the railroad,” Linnea noted, “although it’s probably a toss-up as to whether the credit for its growth should go to the railroad or the land office. People have been coming out here regularly to homestead, but there’s no property left around Jubilee. It went quickly. You can’t find better land than right here in the Red River Valley.”
“The ground is rich and dark.” Arvid dug in the grass with his toe and uncovered a patch of soil. “Look at that, Miss Kelly. You can’t tell me you have earth that rich in Chicago.”
The conversation was not going at all in the direction she intended, and Rose tried to steer it back.
“That’s true,” Rose agreed, “but I’m wondering why people would come to a place like Jubilee.”
“I’m nearing retirement,” the doctor said. “I wanted to finish up my medical career where I could retire and dig in the ground, plant some radishes and corn.”
Freya Trease spoke next. “Lars and I came here from New York City. We had a store there, but the neighborhood started to go bad, and there was a fire, and…” Her eyes filled with tears, and her husband patted her hand awkwardly. She sniffed and finished, “Anyway, here we are and glad to be here.”
“Me, I’m just a farmer with dirt in my bones,” Arvid said. “The missus and I figured it’d be easier to coax a crop out of this river land than anywhere else, so we let Uncle Sam give us a parcel out here. All we’ve got to do is prove up, and with soil this rich, that shouldn’t be a problem.”
“What about you, Linnea?” Rose asked.
“I was in teachers’ college in Rhode Island, and I’d just graduated when my parents decided to come out here, so I tagged along with them.”
“These stories are so interesting,” Rose said. “I think that’s one of the things that drew me to newspaper writing—learning about people’s lives. So you came for a variety of reasons, I see. How about Eric? Do any of you know why he came out here?”
“You could ask him,” Arvid said practically, “but he might not tell you.”
Rose sat up straight, all her reporter’s instincts alert. “Why not?”
“Not polite.”
She was baffled. Why wouldn’t it be polite?
Dr. Pinkley leaned over and said in a low voice, “This is a land of new beginnings for all of us. As you’ve heard, each of us has our reason for coming out here.”
“Aren’t you curious, though?” she pressed.
He shrugged. “Not really. We all wanted a better life. Some folks were stuck in jobs that had no future. Others felt hemmed in, stuck in the middle of a city. I know at least one family came because of the grasshopper plagues in Minnesota. You’ve heard of those, haven’t you?” She made a face. “Yes, I have.” Even in Chicago, the invasion of the hungry creatures that ate everything in their path was legendary.
“And,” the doctor continued, “I suspect some left situations that couldn’t be tolerated any longer. If someone wants to tell us, we’ll listen, but Jubilee is all about the future. We don’t revisit the past out here.”
Rose couldn’t have heard anything that made her more anxious to learn more. Telling her she couldn’t know something just increased her curiosity.
As if on cue, Freya spotted Eric and motioned him over. “Come join us,” she said when he neared the table, a heavily laden plate in his hand.
His blue eyes twinkled when he surveyed their table. “No plates? What is this, a table of sluggards? You’d better move. I’ve left some lefse for you, but it’s going fast.”
As they all stood up to go to the serving tables, Rose noticed that they had neatly maneuvered their chairs so that the only open spot was beside her.
His words came back to her, something about how the women of the church were trying to get him paired off. She couldn’t resist a secret smile.
This was going to be a very interesting six months.
“Wait, Mr. Johansen!” Eric turned in surprise. Nobody called him Mr. Johansen except for some of the children in town. He’d have to get her squared away on that, really fast.
He was leaving the church, his arms full of bundles of leftover food. He dropped them in his wagon and waited for Rose to catch up with him.
“I’m so glad I caught you,” she panted. “I wanted to get a quick history from you before you left.”
He tried not to react. “Why do you need to do that?” he asked, leaning over to pick an imaginary bit of dirt off the wheel of his wagon.
“It’s common newspaper procedure,” she said, a small frown marring her flawless forehead. “I was thinking I’d start with what drew you out here in the first place.”
“I came here to homestead,” he said. “Now I really have to be going.”
He started to get in the wagon, but she stepped in front of him.
“Mr. Johansen—”
“Call me Eric. Whenever people call me Mr. Johansen, I look around for my father, and he’s been with the Lord for twelve years now.”
She smiled. “I see. That would startle me, too. But if you could tell me a few things about yourself, I’d certainly appreciate it.”
“Miss Kelly—”
“Rose. Call me Rose. Can’t you please answer a few questions? Why did you decide to leave wherever it was you lived before? What influenced you? Was it the advertisements for free land? Had you heard stories from people who’d already homesteaded?”
He knew how a trapped mouse felt—cornered, caged, and with no hope of escape. “Those are a lot of questions. You don’t expect me to answer all of them, do you?” He summoned a smile—a fake one, but a smile nevertheless.
“Oh, you don’t have to answer all of them. Just a few. Just one?”
“My past is not part of this,” he said a bit sharply.
She tapped her foot. He couldn’t help but notice it was a very small foot shod in an outrageously inappropriate style for prairie living. That pale purple leather wouldn’t last a day in his farmyard.
“Just tell me a little bit. I don’t like begging, but I’m going to have to do that. Please? Something?”
“No,” he said. “Just no. Plain and simple no.”
“Why not?”
His exasperation was edging to the point where he was going to say something awful. God, help me out here, please. Give me the words I need.
“I’ll tell you how I chose Jubilee, but that’s all.”
Reluctant Brides Collection Page 53
