by Ginny Aiken
“It’s those mortgages, isn’t it?”
“I won’t deny I’ve loaned money to those affected by the drought and the insects. You know that—”
“Mr. Whitman?” Holtwood said after knocking on the office door.
A timely interruption. “Come in, come in. Nathan Bartlett’s here with me.”
Holtwood gave a brief nod to Eli’s minority partner, then turned. “Colby and I finished our study of the local terrain. We have a path to suggest for the rail line, and I’ve tracked down the status of the properties involved. A number of them are heavily mortgaged with us.”
Perhaps not so timely.
“How bad is this mortgage situation?” All ease vanished from Nathan’s posture. “It sounds serious, especially in view of what you just told me.”
It was serious, but Eli had hoped he could carry the bank to where the land at least showed signs of recovery. Perhaps now, with Nathan’s need, he wouldn’t make it that far. “We hold a number of large mortgages. They come due at different times next year.”
“Excuse me, sir.” Holtwood held out a ledger. “Take a look. Some could actually be called sooner rather than later, according to the terms of the loans.”
Eli stood. “I suppose, but I’ve given my word to those men. They’re counting on my patience, on my willingness to wait until they can effect some kind of profit.”
Nathan also stood. “With the railroad’s interest,” he said, “it seems to me that it’s time to call in those mortgages. I understand your unwillingness to go against your word, but if you don’t take the opportunity to foreclose, take possession of the land, and sell it to the railroad for a profit, there might not be a bank by the time those men bring in a crop.”
Eli felt ill. “I can’t do it. A banker’s only as good as his word.”
“A bank’s only as good as the funds it holds,” Nathan countered. “And I need my money.”
“Could you wait until the spring?”
“Will that make a difference?”
Eli shrugged.
“I could,” suggested Holtwood, “begin by contacting the most delinquent property owners to see if there’s any possibility of payment.”
“That sounds sensible,” Nathan said, his gaze on Eli.
“That puts more pressure on folks who are at the end of their rope,” Eli argued. “We need to operate in a practical manner, true, but we must also show compassion when it’s needed. It’s needed now.”
Nathan shook his head. “I understand compassion, but this is business. Would you rather I contact them? I am a partner in the bank.”
“What difference would that make? I’m the president of the bank.”
“I don’t mind if the landowners see me as the harsh and demanding one.”
Holtwood cleared his throat. “If Mr. Bartlett is willing to wait, I could have Parham prepare the letters right away. That way, you wouldn’t be the signatory.”
Eli hated the very thought. “That doesn’t feel right, not quite honest.”
“Nothing dishonest about exercising contract rights,” Nathan said. “I’m willing to wait. Especially if by doing so I can make sure we keep the bank on solid footing. I will admit, I have a personal need, but I also know the town needs the bank to survive this drought.”
“Give me some time to think it over,” Eli pleaded. “I won’t take long, but let’s not be hasty. If you need that flume so desperately, Nathan, then I’ll advance you my own cash.”
“Can’t do that, Eli. I don’t feel right taking your personal funds.”
“Then let’s wait. You won’t be cutting down many trees in the snow, will you?”
“True enough. But there’s still time before that happens—” He grimaced. “Never mind. I’ll wait. But like you said, not for long.”
Eli only allowed himself a sigh of relief when Nathan had left. He didn’t have much time. Neither did the men who counted on him. He prayed the Lord had better weather in the coming months for their needy community.
Chapter 14
On a Friday in late November, after she’d left the children at school and she’d met with Cooky to plan the day’s meals, Olivia gathered the gifts she’d made for her family and headed out toward the Moore farm. During the ride, she took yet another moment to thank God for Eli’s generosity. He’d made his buggy available to her at all times.
Afraid the reasonably mild weather wouldn’t last much longer, she’d decided to deliver her Christmas gifts early. Eagerness to see her loved ones’ responses made her click her tongue to urge the sturdy chestnut Mabel to a faster pace.
Soon the familiar land came into view. A mixture of pride and sadness filled Olivia’s heart. The whole Moore clan loved their homestead, knowing how much it meant to Mama and Papa and how hard they’d worked to wrest a living from it.
Memories of waves of golden grain flooded in: rippling in the wind, falling at the harvest, representing food, clothing, life.
Until last year.
Olivia also remembered the day Papa mortgaged the farm. Since then, not a morning or night had gone by without Olivia lifting the staunch man’s efforts in prayer to the Heavenly Father, as she knew he and Mama did. Surely God would hear those pleas.
In the meantime, she was thankful she’d been able to help. She’d given her parents one less mouth to fill, one less child to clothe, and her wages to help tide them over. Now she welcomed the chance to use the last of her modest savings from her brief employment to bring a few much-needed items to her family.
Growing impatient, she jiggled the reins. “Come on, Mabel. It’s only a bit farther now. See? There’s the house.”
Olivia would never forget the day the family moved into their new, permanent home. Neither would her brothers and sisters, she was sure. Mama had created a feast on the iron stove in her kitchen, taking advantage of the fruits of the garden she’d planted out back while Papa and some of their neighbors had built the home. She’d topped off the meal with a dessert of apple fritters, a favorite of the brood. If Olivia closed her eyes, she could still taste the crisp-fried dough morsels, heavy with chunks of tart fruit, drizzled with Mama’s homemade sweet syrup.
Home…
Where she knew her work had always been valued, and where she’d always been loved and cherished as a welcome blessing.
Home…
What she longed to build for her own family, for Randy and Luke, with Eli—
Well aware of the dissatisfaction to which that thought could lead, Olivia let herself consider only the good things that might come in the immediate future. For the longer term she would wait on God.
Elizabeth Moore’s walnut-brown eyes broadcast concern as she ran out the front door to greet Olivia. “Oh, my dear! Is something wrong?”
“Does something have to be wrong for me to visit?”
“I would hope not. Still, a mother can’t help—”
Olivia reached behind her for a carefully wrapped parcel. “Of course, she can. Especially when the daughter comes bearing gifts, Christmas gifts. See?”
“Christmas?” Mama took the reins from Olivia and looped them around the lowest branch of the lone oak in the yard. “That’s still weeks away, dear. Surely you didn’t use Mr. Whitman’s money on us… did you?”
Giving her mother a chiding look, Olivia pulled the box of wrapped presents from under the buggy’s seat and lugged it toward the whitewashed house. “I would never do that. I used some of my savings from when I worked for Eli—Mr. Whitman.”
Elizabeth wiped her hands on her crisp white apron. “Oh, dear. You shouldn’t have. You worked very hard for that money. You should spend it on yourself.”
With a chuckle, Olivia heaved her burden onto the porch. “You never change, do you? You’ll fret about everything. But look, I have no need to spend money on myself. Mr. Whitman is most generous with me. I have everything I need, even the pleasure of giving my family gifts and sharing the season with them.”
As she again wiped
her hands, Elizabeth led the way in. The familiar scent of baking bread embraced Olivia.
Tears welled, emotion surged, and she threw her arms around the woman who had raised her. “I love you, Mama.”
“Oh, child. I love you, too. We all do.” Holding her daughter at arm’s length, Elizabeth’s damp eyes raked Olivia from head to toe. “Are you sure you’re doing well? You do know there’s nothing you can’t tell me, don’t you?”
Suddenly uncomfortable, Olivia extricated herself from the embrace. “I do.”
But there was something she couldn’t discuss. She couldn’t tell her mother how odd things were between her and her new husband, about that… business arrangement of theirs. So instead she said, “Where are the others?”
After a final shrewd look, Elizabeth crossed the parlor and headed for the kitchen. “Come and have a cup of tea to warm yourself. Your father went to town today. I’m surprised you didn’t cross him on your way here.”
“If I know him at all, he left much earlier than I did.”
Clucking softly, Elizabeth removed the teakettle from its preferential spot at the rear of the stove to pour hot water into a teapot at the ready. “The man does love his sunrises. He says it keeps him close to God, seeing the day born like that.”
Olivia smiled, remembering the times she’d heard the same words from her father’s lips. “And Leah? Marty? The boys?”
Mama poured the tea and placed one of the steaming, thick white cups in front of Olivia, who wrapped her chilled hands around the crockery.
“The boys are in the barn.” Her mother took the chair across from her. “One of the cows gave birth awfully off-season, and the calf is runty. She won’t suckle right, so your brothers are taking turns feeding her round the clock.”
A sip of the fragrant brew warmed its way down Olivia’s middle. “I imagine they’re fighting to see who gets to do the honors. Which is probably driving Papa mad, since there’s nothing he’d rather do than see to his own—human or animal.”
“Just so.” Bobbing to her feet again, Elizabeth grabbed a thick fold of towel and opened the oven door. “Hm… the bread needs a while longer, but the molasses cookies look done.”
Olivia breathed in the sweet scent. “They smell done.”
“Livvy’s never refused cookies to go with tea,” Leah Rose said from the back door. “Neither will I, Mama. I’m frozen!”
As Olivia embraced her youngest sister, Mama gave a dainty sniff. “That’s what you get, Leah Rose, for following the boys to the barn.”
“But the calf is so sweet, Mama. It’s not fair that the boys get all the fun.”
“If you think it’s so sweet,” Elizabeth countered, placing the dish of cookies on the table, “next time, you can fork out the old hay for Butterball and her babe. Don’t forget how hard the boys work in the barn.”
“I work awful hard washing their stinky clothes.”
Olivia winked at her mother. “Seems a fair distribution of labor.”
“Maybe. But it isn’t when it comes to Marty,” Leah Rose grumped around a mouthful of cookie.
“I heard that.” The accused stomped down the front hall and into the kitchen. “I work, too. I help Mama in the garden—”
“So do I,” Leah Rose cut in.
“I cook and bake and clean house—”
“I don’t?”
“Sure, sure. But you run off to play with your colored threads and needles as soon as Mama turns her back.”
“That’s not fair, Marty. I sew. A lot. Try and tell me you do that. Especially, since I’m saddled with your needlework more than once in a rare while. True, I enjoy sewing, but it’s not fair when you don’t do your—”
Elizabeth tsk-tsked. “Truce, girls. No one can accuse Marty of skill with a needle and thread, but you both do work. And you’ve earned whatever gifts Olivia has brought.”
Time flew as the Moore women chatted and opened presents. Leah and Marty oohed and aahed over the tucked, lace-trimmed blouses Olivia had made. Mama ran her hand time and time again over the warm wool shawl she’d knitted.
Eventually, they prayed for one another, for the family’s menfolk, and especially for the future.
Olivia relished every second of her visit, even the good-natured sparring between Leah Rose and Marty, who was well meaning but somewhat flighty and occasionally careless.
Soon, though, Olivia realized it was getting late.
“I must be going,” she said into the lull.
“Why so soon?” Marty asked.
Olivia donned her forest-green wool cloak. “Randy and Luke will be home.”
Leah Rose followed her to the front door, a mutinous look on her still-rounded face. “But you have a cook. She’ll be there…”
Mama’s warning look hushed the youngest Moore child’s protest. “Your sister has responsibilities now. Her children need her, and she does well to see to them.”
Then she cradled Olivia’s face between her work-roughened hands. “Don’t forget what I said earlier. There’s nothing you can’t tell me, daughter. I’m always here, ready to listen and pray—and help, Lord willing.”
“I know, Mama.” Olivia averted her eyes. “I know. And I love you.”
“I love you, too.” As she always did before they parted, Elizabeth prayed a blessing over her daughter, then sent her on her way back to Bountiful and her new life.
Shortly after she’d returned from the farm, Olivia had a surprise. Cooky’s daughter Kate, who had recovered from her burned arm and recently returned to her regular duties, entered Luke’s room, where Olivia and the children had been discussing their day.
“Missus Whitman,” she said, “your papa’s here to see you. I showed ’im into the parlor.”
How odd, Olivia thought. Papa in town this late? Here?
“Thank you, Kate. I’ll be right down.” She turned to the children. “Please excuse me for a while, but do keep on with your lessons. Especially that arithmetic, Luke.”
On her way to the parlor, Olivia couldn’t ignore the sharp pang of apprehension. Why hadn’t Stephen Moore gone straight home after he’d finished his business?
Had he finished his business?
Or had his business concerned her?
“Hello, Olivia.” The much-loved bass voice welcomed her into the parlor.
Launching herself into his arms, Olivia swallowed hard against the knot in her throat. “Oh, Papa… it’s wonderful to see you. I went to the farm and I missed you, even though I spent the day with Mama, the girls, and even saw the boys for a bit.”
Papa’s arms grew slack at Olivia’s words. He stepped away and walked to the front window, his back toward her. “I’m sure your mother told you I had business in town.”
“Of course, but I could figure that out when you weren’t in the barn taking turns to spoil that calf with the boys.”
A brief grin danced over Papa’s lean face as he glanced over his shoulder. But then he turned his attention back to the darkening street outside. “You’re right. I much prefer spending my days in the barn. A serious matter brought me to town today.”
Her heart leaped into her throat. “And…?”
He released a deep, troubled sigh. “And things did not go well.”
“Please tell me about it.”
“I’m afraid that’s why I’ve come to interrupt your evening,” he said. “I’m terribly sorry about that, Olivia, but I believe you might be able to help.”
“Me?”
Instead of responding, Papa handed her a single sheet of paper. As Olivia unfolded the page, she breathed a prayer. But with every word she read, more blood seemed to drain from her head. She dropped onto the settee, hands chilled and shaking.
“This can’t be,” she whispered. “There must be some mistake.”
Papa shook his head. “No mistake, my dear. I came into Bountiful to see what I could do about it. As you can see, the letter demands repayment of the mortgage we had to take out on our land by the thirty-f
irst of December. If we fail to meet that deadline, the bank will take the farm. You know I don’t have the money. Won’t have it until I can bring in a new harvest.”
“Did you ask for more time? Until that next harvest?”
“Of course. But the answer was the same. New Year’s Eve by closing.”
“If you don’t pay…?”
“We’ll be turned out.”
“Where will you go?”
Papa shrugged and faced the window again.
Silence grew. A vise clamped over Olivia’s heart. “Did you…?” She paused, afraid of the response to her burning question. “Did you speak to Eli?”
Papa shook his head. “Your husband was in a meeting, but I spoke with that Holtwood fellow and the red-haired one, Colby. When it comes to matters at the bank, speaking with Holtwood is usually the same as speaking with your husband. Holtwood does nothing but carry out his wishes.”
Her father’s answer chilled Olivia. Dear Lord…
Winter had arrived, after all.
On the ride home from the farm she’d felt the change in the weather. The fierce wind had kicked up and the cold had pierced her woolen cloak. The air had grown redolent with the musk of snow, an invader who would attack at the time her family could withstand it least.
“Surely there’s something you can do to stop this.” She injected what encouragement she could dredge up into her words.
“There’s nothing more I can do, but there might be one last ray of hope.”
“What do you mean? Where do you see hope?”
“In you.”
“Me?”
“You.”
“What do you think I can do?”
Papa turned, a plea in his dark brown eyes. “You can speak with your husband. Ask him for mercy. We just need more time. Tell him about your brothers and sisters, your mother. He can’t turn them out with nowhere to go in the dead of winter.”
The reality made misery plunge deep into her middle. “You’re wrong, Papa. I can’t talk about this with Eli.”
“Why on earth not?”
