by Jody Hedlund
“So you live with them here in New York City?” Although her gown was pretty and stylish, it wasn’t anything fancy, not something he’d expect of a young lady residing under Thornton Quincy’s roof.
“They’re splitting their time between Illinois and New York. So I live in a boardinghouse nearby. Besides, I didn’t want to intrude on them since they’re newlyweds.” At her mention of the word newlyweds, she shifted away from him and ducked her head. If she’d been a blushing girl, he guessed her cheeks would have been bright pink.
“From what I’ve heard about the Quincy mansion, I doubt you would see them enough to intrude on their privacy.”
She gave a soft laugh. “True.”
“So what’s the real reason you aren’t living there?”
She met his gaze directly. The brown of her eyes was mesmerizing as it flickered with the raw honesty of her emotions. “I can’t deny I appreciate the help my sister and Thornton have given me.” She caressed the folds of her skirt, and suddenly Drew understood that she owed everything to them—not just the job but her clothing, the funds for the boardinghouse, and perhaps all she had. “I’ve relied upon my sister my entire life, even before she married Thornton. And now part of me needs to go out and prove I can be strong enough on my own.”
He knew what it felt like to live in an older sibling’s shadow. He’d hated it. And he knew that driving need to prove oneself to be strong and different. He’d had to do that too—was still doing it.
For a long moment, she busied herself with soaking the rag, rinsing and then squeezing and repeating. Her motions were brusque, and he could see she was chagrined at revealing so much about her personal life so hastily to a stranger.
But he didn’t mind at all. He felt connected with her, as though she was a kindred spirit. When she lifted her hand to replace the warm compress on his arm, he stopped her by capturing her wrist.
“I’m glad you’re coming on the trip, Miss Neumann. I think we’ll make a good team.” Maybe she was a little young to be an agent, but now he understood why.
Before she could respond, Wally rushed into the room, followed by the physician. “What’s this I hear about you being shot by an angry parent?” Dr. Morrow asked as he brushed past Marianne. The doctor was one of the supporters of the Society and gave of his time and medical attention freely as a gift to the ministry.
Marianne stepped aside, relinquishing her position to the doctor. Drew wanted to tell her not to go just yet, but the doctor probed his wound, making him forget about everything but the pain in his arm. Well, almost everything. He caught sight of Marianne’s slight smile as she turned away. And he decided it was one smile he’d never get tired of seeing.
Chapter 3
Reinhold Weiss jabbed at the dark soil, then dropped the potato cutting into the hollow. He made sure the piece landed with its eye facing upward before raking dirt over the spot and patting it firmly with the flat end of the hoe.
The leather strap of the potato pouch cut into his shoulder and rubbed against the blisters that had formed there hours ago. At least the bag was almost empty. And at least the sun was low in the sky. Even though the burning heat from midday lingered in the warm soil, it wasn’t pounding on his head and back and shoulders anymore.
He paused and leaned against his hoe. Surveying the rows upon rows he’d walked that day, a surge of satisfaction coursed through him like the cool evening breeze that was just beginning to tantalize his sweat-drenched shirt. He slipped off his hat and let the rush of air comb through his sticky hair.
He’d made good progress. If the weather held, he’d be able to finish the potato planting on the morrow. Of course, he wouldn’t get a full night’s sleep if he hoped to cut the rest of the seed potatoes into pieces in readiness for the remainder of the planting. But in the end, all the hard work would be worth it because Mr. Turner had promised him a percentage of the profits.
Profit enough, hopefully, to go toward the purchase of the adjacent acreage. His very own farm.
The thought spurred him to pick up the hoe and shuffle forward a foot to dig the next shallow hole. Dig. Drop. Cover. Pat. The motions came effortlessly and with little thought since he’d been doing them since sunup with only a break at noon to rest in the shade of a lone elm at the edge of the field. He’d eaten corn bread and a thick slice of dried ham Mrs. Turner had sent with him. Then he’d lain back in the tall grass, heedless of the flies that had come out to feast on his flesh.
Early June was late for the potato planting in central Illinois. From what he’d heard, the seedlings should have been in the ground in April or the early part of May. But he’d been too busy helping Mr. Turner harrowing the fields, turning up the moist earth with the implement’s sharp teeth so that the soil would be mellow and smooth. Once the land had been prepared, they’d sown the grains—first a field of wheat, then one of rye, and finally a field of oats they would use to feed the cows and horses next winter. The biggest job had been the corn planting. They’d worked for weeks from sunup to sunset to get the seeds in the ground.
Mr. Turner had said they’d be plenty busy once the weeds started growing. They’d spend their days fighting off the thistles and choking sprouts that had no place in the fields. In the interim, Mr. Turner was breaking his calves. When Reinhold had approached him about planting the potatoes, the man had grudgingly agreed to the plan, allowing him to use two acres.
The clang of a distant bell stirred the hunger pangs that had been gnawing Reinhold’s stomach for the past hour. The hunger was nothing like it had been the last few weeks in New York City when he’d been out of work and trying so desperately to provide for his mother and siblings. Thankfully now, he was earning enough that he could not only send them money but also save a little each month.
He marked the spot where he’d planted his last potato cutting and then started the trek back to the farm. The shadows of the gray fence posts had grown long, and the few wisps of clouds in the sky were tinted with a glow of pink and orange.
As he walked the winding dirt path, the two-story white clapboard house came into view, along with the barn, henhouse, and the smoke shed. The outbuildings were arranged in a U-shape with a large fenced-in vegetable garden growing in neat rows behind the house, and a pigpen behind the barn. He breathed deeply of the scent of damp earth and clover, relishing the freshness of the prairie wilderness.
Weariness settled through every bone of his body, but the soreness was strangely satisfying. He’d done a good day’s work, and eventually he’d have something to show for it, unlike all the construction work he’d done while living in New York City. Of course, he’d been grateful for the employment, which had freed him from having to sew like most of the other people in his tenement. And yet he’d never felt fulfilled the way he did here on the farm.
“Nice of you to show up now that the chores are mostly done,” Higgins remarked as Reinhold strode into the barn. The comforting waft of hay and horseflesh greeted him and reminded him the other hired laborer was only a temporary part of his life—like a sliver under his thumbnail that he had to endure for a little while, but not forever.
Higgins stepped out of the shadows of one of the cow stalls and wiped his hands on his trousers. Chewing on a piece of hay, the young man’s thin face was masked with freckles from spending hours in the sun. Although Higgins claimed to be a year older than Reinhold’s twenty years, he was scrawny compared to Reinhold’s stocky frame.
Soon the barn would be shrouded in darkness, and Reinhold would have to finish the chores by the light of a lantern. A quick glance around told him that most of the chores hadn’t been done yet, in spite of Higgins’s claim to the contrary. The stall floors still needed to be mucked out and the mangers filled with fresh hay. The water troughs were empty, and the young calves were bleating for attention.
“I’m going to supper,” Higgins said, brushing his fingers through his short-cropped hair before putting on his hat. “But old man Turner won’t take kindly to
you showing your face at the table until you do your part with the chores.”
Reinhold let the strap from the potato bag slide from his shoulder and fall to the floor. He reached for a rake and then crossed toward Higgins with strong menacing steps. Higgins shifted uncomfortably, fear flashing in his eyes. Reinhold knew he shouldn’t feel satisfaction, but he did anyway. Every once in a while Higgins deserved to be put in his place. And this was one of those times.
Rake in hand, Reinhold walked straight up to Higgins and glared at him. Higgins glanced at the door as though gauging how long it would take him to reach it and bolt from the barn.
Reinhold adjusted the rake to his other hand, which caused Higgins to flinch. But just as swiftly defiance flared in the man’s eyes. “You’re the one who wanted to plant potatoes.”
“He offered it to you too.”
“I already work hard enough.”
Reinhold had to hold back a laugh. “You didn’t do your fair share of chores tonight and you know it.” The man never did his fair share with anything, but that was beside the point.
A smirk curled Higgins’s lips. “How could you know everything I’ve been doing if you haven’t been here to see it?”
Reinhold had learned it wouldn’t do any good to argue with Higgins. He was slippery, much like one of the trout they fished for in the nearby creek. He’d wiggle and squirm his way out of any situation and glide off downstream smoothly and effortlessly.
“Don’t provoke me, Higgins.”
“Or what?” Higgins’s annoying grin widened. “We both know you’re too nice to do anything to me.”
Reinhold stared at the man a moment longer before he made a point of bumping Higgins’s bony shoulder with his brawny one so that the farmhand was forced to move aside. Then he lowered the rake into the soiled hay and began to toss it aside, ignoring Higgins.
Over the past several months of laboring alongside Higgins, Reinhold had learned the only thing he could do was put up with the man and, at best, ignore him.
After a minute of working, Reinhold sensed he was alone, that Higgins had made his escape and gone to supper. Reinhold paused and rolled his aching shoulders. By next spring he’d have his own place, he’d be plowing and harrowing his own fields, and he wouldn’t have to put up with Higgins or rely on anyone else ever again.
Not that Mr. Turner was a bad man to work for. Even if he was rough at times, the farmer paid decent wages, fed him, and let him bed down in the barn. After getting used to the smells and noises, the barn wasn’t a bad place to live. It was more spacious and cleaner than the two-room tenement apartment where he’d subsisted with his family in Kleindeutschland.
In fact, the more he worked and lived on the farm, the more he was convinced he wanted a farm of his own. Even though he’d only been a hired hand since February, he’d fallen in love with every aspect of living off the land. He loved the livestock, the soil, the fresh air, the openness of the prairie, the solitude, and even the hours of toil.
The first time Mr. Turner had mentioned there was still plenty of land left in central Illinois for sale, Reinhold had realized maybe it was possible for him to make a better life for himself, that maybe America actually did hold opportunities for men like him. The overcrowded streets of New York City had never held much promise, and he’d all but given up hope that his existence would ever amount to more than drudgery.
But here . . .
Reinhold took a deep breath, and as he exhaled, his stomach rumbled with a fierceness that spurred him to pick up his rake again. If he worked hard and fast, he might be able to finish in time to get a plateful before Mrs. Turner and her daughter started to clean up the evening meal.
When he’d completed the chores, he hoisted himself up the ladder to the loft. He debated heading to the farmhouse without changing his shirt first. But if he showed up wearing the sourness of a day’s worth of sweat, Mrs. Turner would only shoo him out of the house with the enormous wooden spoon she carried in her apron pocket.
The rafters forced Reinhold to duck low as he crossed to the spot where he bedded down and kept his possessions. The hay still bore his impression from the previous night, and the letter he’d started writing to his mother lay abandoned in the scattering of straw. He reached for his haversack, which contained everything he owned: a small bundle of clothes, an extra pair of shoes, letters, blank paper, pen and ink, and his father’s pocket watch. The glass case was cracked in a dozen places, making the numbered face underneath nearly impossible to read. Although it had stopped ticking long ago, it would always work to remind him of the kind of man he never wanted to become.
As he pulled out a clean shirt, he stopped short. The hay behind his bag had been pushed aside and scattered as though an animal had been clawing it. A cat? Or mouse? Or . . .
His gaze shot across the loft to where Higgins slept, to the thin blanket strewn in the straw, the scattering of dirty clothes, and the empty haversack.
With his pulse pounding an ominous rhythm, Reinhold dropped to his knees and started digging in the hay, his fingers groping for the leather pouch he’d buried there. At the brush of the smooth purse, Reinhold allowed himself to breathe again. It was still here. Higgins hadn’t taken it.
Reinhold had tried to be careful not to remove it when his fellow farmhand was present. He didn’t think Higgins knew of his hiding spot. Even so, he needed to find a new, safer place to keep his earnings.
He sat back on his heels and lifted the flap of the pouch to reassure himself that the coins Mr. Turner gave him at the end of every month were still there. But as he widened the pouch, his stomach dropped with a sickening thud. All that met his touch was the dry leather interior. The money was gone. Every last dollar.
With a groan, he tossed the purse onto his bed of hay. Four months of hard labor. Four months of going without any luxury for himself. Four months of saving for his own place. In an instant, all of it had been ripped away from him.
The weight of his loss crushed him, bending his head and shoulders, pinning him with the dejection that had been his companion in recent years. He should have known his new employment was too good to be true. He was only a poor immigrant with no skills. What made him think he could rise above his station? Do something more with his life and find fulfillment?
He was still just an ignorant, uneducated, simple man of peasant roots. Maybe that would always be his lot in life. Maybe he was destined to be disappointed if he dared to dream of life beyond what he’d always known.
“No.” He straightened his shoulders and lifted his head. The effort was like trying to toss off a load of stones, and he almost buckled under the depressing weight once again. “No. I won’t give up.” He spoke louder, and the sound seemed to lend him the strength he needed to stand. He crossed to Higgins’s side of the loft and rummaged through the man’s meager belongings. He didn’t expect to find anything, but his gut told him Higgins had taken the money today while he’d been planting potatoes.
Perhaps that was why Higgins had decided to stay back. Maybe he’d been planning all along to get his hands on Reinhold’s savings and had been waiting for the right opportunity. Why work hard from sunup to sundown when he could earn the same amount by thieving?
With a cry that was half aggravation and half anger, Reinhold jumped up. His head bumped against the rafter, and this time he roared with all the emotion pumping through him.
Without another moment’s hesitation, he climbed down the ladder and stalked out of the barn. He took long strides across the barnyard and didn’t stop to wash his face and hands at the big iron kettle that sat next to the well. He made his way directly to the back kitchen door where Mrs. Turner had instructed them to enter for meals.
Stomping inside, he let the door slam behind him. He didn’t stop until he’d passed through the kitchen into the dining room where everyone was gathered at the table. At his appearance, silence descended over the room.
Mr. Turner sat on one end of the long table. His gaze
flickered to Reinhold for only an instant before returning to the last few bites of his honey-glazed dried apples. He was the tallest man Reinhold had ever met, easily grazing doorframes with the top of his head. Even sitting, he reached as high as Reinhold’s chest.
The oil lamp at the center of the table was lit, casting a golden light over the leftover radishes, onions, and lettuce picked from the vegetable garden the women tended. A few dried, tough-looking pieces of roast beef sat on one platter, and a dark end piece of bread remained on another. Otherwise the meal had been picked clean, with Mr. Turner’s daughter already clearing off the table. At his appearance she’d frozen, a collection of empty bowls and plates in her hands.
“Reinhold,” Mrs. Turner said, her sharp eyes scouring him, “you get on back outside and wash up before coming in here. You won’t get a crumb from this table until you do.” The woman was almost as tall as her husband but much more portly. She ran the house with the precision of an army commander, neat, organized, and efficient. Lucinda, their only child, resembled the couple in her height, but was as quiet and timid as Mrs. Turner was loud and forceful.
For once, Reinhold ignored Mrs. Turner. Instead, he stalked over to where Higgins sat, grabbed a fistful of the man’s shirt, and pulled him up from his chair. “Give me back my money.”
Higgins had a mouth half full of dessert. “Hey!” he mumbled past the dried apple. “Get your hands off me.”
“Reinhold Weiss!” Mrs. Turner barked his name. “Stop the fighting this instant or I’ll boot you right out the door without a drop of supper.”
“I want my money.” Reinhold tightened his hold on Higgins’s shirt, twisting it into a bunch and yanking Higgins so their faces were only inches apart.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Higgins spoke the words so innocently that for a fraction of a second Reinhold was tempted to believe him.
“The money I’ve been saving for the land on the other side of the creek.”
