“That’s right,” Ennis replied, his voice steady, like a steel freighter breaking ice. “If not from you, I have friends in Minneapolis. They’ll sell to me at cost. It’s entirely up to you.”
In a flash, Owen replayed other moments. The past summers when he delivered dairy products by boat to islanders, no one had tried to drive a harder bargain on price than Ennis or his staff. And he never tipped. And then more recently, the news about how Ennis had tried to swindle a widow of ten children out of her land. She’d leased her river property to him, and when one of her boys died she’d asked Ennis for an advance on his rent. He’d agreed, sending someone out with papers for the widow to sign. But unknowingly, she’d signed all her property over to Ennis. She took it to court, and the judge agreed that he’d overstepped his bounds. The contract she’d signed became null and void. If anything showed Ennis’s character, it was that. Owen was a mere son of a creamery owner, but that didn’t mean he was a pawn.
“You’re a businessman, Mr. Ennis,” Owen said. “You know I can’t stay in business if I don’t make a penny of profit. What about supporting businesses here? That way, you help me, I help the community. You know, we help each other.” Then he smiled and gave a quick nod to Ennis, as if to communicate to his higher sense of purpose.
But Ennis smiled right back, straightened to his towering height, so that all Owen could see for a moment was the double-breasted buttons on his black wool coat. “Business isn’t for the weak of heart,” he said, turning away. “Takes money to make money, young man.”
Then Ennis pulled his wife closer by the arm—as if he owned her and everything else in the whole world.
Stupefied, Owen sat there, as if the wind had been knocked out of him. He watched as Ennis walked off, head high, greeting townsfolk with his presidential waves and handshakes.
Ennis wouldn’t help a local boy on his way up? Didn’t make sense. He had money—was supposedly one of the richest men in the country. No wonder Victor Guttenberg was waging such a head-on battle to protect the lakes and wilderness from endless development. Ennis didn’t care that his proposed dams would destroy the water levels; he didn’t care that higher levels would erase the bays and nesting loons, the craggy inlets and endless scattered islands. He didn’t care that his plans would destroy the lake as folks knew it. Ennis saw only one path forward: the one that served his—and only his—needs. There was a name for that. Blind ambition.
If that kind of ambition defined success, then Owen wasn’t sure he’d ever make it big in business. He didn’t want success at the cost of what mattered.
Soon a gaggle of kids came over, gaping, and wanted to run their mittened hands over the Studey, but their parents ordered them back, as if their children might break it and they’d end up having to buy it. Owen waved. “Someday you’ll each be driving one of these yourself,” he said to the kids with a smile.
Another fellow smirked as he walked by. “You’re just a kid. You and Pengler got some kind of a deal goin’, dontcha?”
“Sorry?” Owen replied, as if he had no idea what the man might be referring to, but the man walked on with a shrug of his shoulders.
“How much?” one large woman asked, taking Owen by surprise and putting her head through the open window. On her breath—booze. And she reached under her fox stole and pulled out several bills—heavy with perfume. She waved the bills in front of Owen’s nose.
Owen pulled back, but there was nowhere to go. “Well, today I’m offering a discount, a one-miler special.”
Her lips, dabbed with deep red, parted in a smile. “Or better yet, Owen Jensen, you’d like to take a spin with me. Find out what a big engine can really do.”
He hadn’t expected her to know his name, though he recognized her as one of the four hefty women locally known as the “Beef Trust.” They, too, worked above the White Turtle. “Uh, well.”
“I’m Belle,” she said with a wink, and extended her gloved hand, as if she expected him to kiss it. He shook it instead.
Still, she was a potential customer. “Miss Belle,” he said, “I’m happy to make your acquaintance. There’s no reason you shouldn’t own a fine Studebaker yourself someday.”
She straightened and backed up from the window. “You’re a sweet one,” she said, “but you look so lonely. You come see me sometime. I’ll give you my one-miler special.” Then she sauntered away, her ankle-length coat swooshing against her lace-up boots.
Owen tilted his head back and closed his eyes. Hell would freeze over before he’d hike upstairs to visit Belle or any other pay-to-play gal in Ranier. A guy had desires and needs, sure, but he’d heard stories about picking up things worse than lice or bedbugs.
He groaned.
Lonely?
Yeah, Belle had that part right.
But he wanted only Sadie Rose.
When Aasta and Hans Johannsen stopped by, Owen jumped out, glad to see them.
“Hello, Owen!” Aasta exclaimed, a red wool scarf tied neatly beneath her narrow chin. She was as tall as he was, and she looked right through him with sky-blue eyes. “Where you been these days?” she asked. “With our Sadie Rose to college, we don’t see you so much.”
Hans nodded at Owen. Owen had always enjoyed Mr. Johannsen, a man of few words. He was a skilled carpenter and handyman whom the Bairds often employed on their island. The last time Owen saw him, Hans was repairing the lodge’s stone chimney. “Owen,” he said. “How you be?”
“Hi, Mr. Johannsen,” he replied. “Great. I’m great.”
“We have talked together, me and Aasta, and we vant to buy Studebaker.”
“What?” Owen thought he must be joking. It wasn’t that the Johannsens were penniless, but between working as caretaker and cook for the Worthingtons, and Hans doing extra work for the Bairds, Owen had often thought they were hanging by a thread. Though always freshly painted and tidy, their house in Ranier wasn’t much bigger than a thimble. He thought he should talk them out of this wild notion. Besides, why would they need a Studebaker? They had use of the Worthington’s Model T when the Worthingtons were in St. Paul, which was more often than not.
Aasta smiled and linked her arm with her husband’s. “Ow-en,” she said, as if to get his full attention. “We are quite serious. It is the first.”
It took him a moment to find his words. He still doubted they had any idea what kind of money it would require. “Well, that would be just great. When do you want to buy an automobile? I’m happy to give you an idea of cost. A bit more than a plow horse, you understand.”
“Ja, we understand,” Hans replied a little coolly, and Owen worried he’d offended them.
“Soon,” Aasta replied. “We’re still saving. But we see one on your lot we like.”
“Okay, sure!” Owen answered, reaching out and taking both of their hands in his own. It was an awkward handshake, but his heart was in it. A possible sale! Soon. It would be his first official sale! It was exciting, even if in the back of his mind, a wispy thought arose. Sadie Rose was, after all, their granddaughter. And there wasn’t a doubt in Owen’s mind that they’d do anything in the world to support her. By buying a Studebaker, they were supporting him—supporting them.
As the Johannsens walked across the snow-covered ice toward the start of the races, Owen caught himself. Did he owe it to tell them that he and Sadie Rose might not be together? Was that his responsibility? Would they change their mind? But then, he didn’t even know with absolute certainty what he and Sadie were anymore.
15
HE SHOVED HIS HANDS INTO HIS POCKETS, FOUND HIS pocket watch, and pulled it out. Just a few minutes until the start of the race. No wonder the crowd had all but moved to the track. Owen trotted off toward the horses, riders, and scattered mounds of hay.
Jerry was working One Ear, bareback, in wide circles. The stallion blew and snorted, bending his muscular neck and body, prancing with high steps. His sorrel coat was smooth and glossy; Jerry had been blanketing him at night to lose his winter
coat for maximum speed, unlike the other dozen horses, who wore two-inch coats of winter growth.
The other equally glossy horse was Pengler’s dark bay, Ace-in-the-Hole, who was ridden by a jockey-sized man Owen didn’t recognize. Pengler must have imported a real jockey from somewhere out of the region.
Owen looked for Pengler and spotted him talking with Frank Hetter, who held a pistol in one hand and a megaphone in the other. They stood at the edge of the start and finish line—a black line of paint drawn on the ice. Beyond, a loop had been plowed through the snow to mark the mile-long track.
Hetter lifted the megaphone to his lips and shouted. “Three minutes and counting! All contestants line up for the one-miler!”
Like a school of fish, the crowd shifted to either side of the starting line. Horses and riders sidestepped, pranced, walked, and trotted up to the starting point. One Ear kicked out at Ace-in-the-Hole.
“Hey! Keep your horse under control!” Pengler shouted. “Wait. Jerry Melnyk? You told me you couldn’t ride my horse!”
“That’s cuz I have my own horse to ride!” Jerry shouted back.
Pengler stood tall in his coat of wolf pelts, arms crossed, running his gloved hand over his chin. “I’ll be damned.”
A dozen horses pranced and snorted, a mix of large and small, as they lined up at the starting line.
“One minute and counting!” Frank Hetter belted into the megaphone. “This, folks, is exciting! Fifteen horses. One winner takes all.”
A white horse reared, and its rider, a square-headed teenager, clung to the horse’s neck. But in one giant backward tumble, the horse and rider fell back. The crowd gasped, just as the teenager landed and rolled out of the horse’s path. The horse came down with a thud, then scrambled and pulled itself up to its feet.
The teenager shook his head, as if to clear it from cobwebs, then grabbed his horse’s reins and climbed back into the saddle. He steered his horse toward the starting line.
The crowd cheered.
“Five, four, three, two, one!”
Hetter shot the gun in the air as Ace-in-the-Hole crossed the line. The other horses skidded and startled. They lunged forward as their riders hung on. One Ear was last to bolt, his haunches churning up snow.
“Go, Jerry! Hang on!” Owen shouted, heart suddenly in his throat. They needed this win more than anyone could know.
The horses kicked up a whirlwind of snowflakes behind them as they formed a wild herd, racing forward as one. The crowd cheered and whistled and clapped, watching as the horses grouped and then gradually began peeling off. A few horses lagged behind. A few horses gained, striding well ahead of the rest. Now specks, a half mile off, the horses began rounding the midway point. Heading back, at the front of the race, two horses were in the lead: Ace-in-the-Hole followed a length by One Ear!
“Come on, Jerry!” Owen whispered under his breath.
Seconds slowed to an eternity. The horses drew closer and closer. The crowd went silent. Hooves thudded and pounded, and Owen felt the reverberations up through the ice and into his legs. A slight crack sounded. Nothing unusual. Happened all the time with the lake—cracks, whines, and moans—but still, he prayed the ice would hold this gathering of people and animals.
“Ace-in-the-Hole! He’s gonna do it again!” a woman cried, clapping her hands together. With that, the crowd erupted anew, as if everyone had been holding their breath and finally chose to inhale.
The last quarter mile.
Something happened.
In the blink of an eye, One Ear and Jerry were down, sprawled across the ice. One, two, then three riders passed. Had they hit a patch of glare ice? Or tripped? Owen waited a second or two to see if they’d rise, and if they didn’t, he would start up his Studey and race out there to check on them.
But as quickly as the thought passed through his mind, One Ear scrambled up to all fours, and Jerry climbed on. “Good,” Owen murmured. “Thank God.”
Ace-in-the-Hole was coming on strong, but One Ear stretched out, powered ahead, and gained . . . gained . . . and passed the third horse, the second, and went neck and neck with Pengler’s bay. The two pounded and snorted toward the finish line. The crowd went wild, cheering. And the two bounded toward the finish line, with One Ear and Jerry following by a length.
Pengler threw both arms up. He shouted something, but the crowd drowned out his words.
Owen couldn’t believe it. Jerry had proved to be an amazing rider; One Ear had almost won. They were so close.
The horses, after overshooting the finish line, ended up near the woods. Horses and riders gradually made their way back to the crowd. One Ear was lathered in sweat across his chest, flank, neck, and head.
“I’ll get a blanket on him before he gets chilled,” Jerry said as Owen approached.
Pengler strode up to them in his silvery-gray long coat. “One helluva race!” Pengler barked. “Jerry, you work for me. Now I see why you couldn’t ride my horse. I don’t like you boys going behind my back like this.”
Owen spoke up. “We’re trying to pay off what we owe you.”
Pengler looked One Ear up and down. “Where the heck did you find this horse anyway?” But instead of waiting for an answer, he strode off to his rider and Ace-in-the-Hole.
Owen walked alongside as Jerry led One Ear back to his Model T truck. Along the way, folks shook Jerry’s hand and admired his horse. From the truck bed, Jerry grabbed a fistful of rags and rubbed down the horse’s legs and neck until he was nearly dry. Then he secured a wool blanket over One Ear’s back, rump, and chest. He tied the stallion up beside a pile of loose hay.
“You almost won—riding bareback!”
“Less weight. I prefer bareback, so I figured if I could stay on, we’d win. But—we hit a patch of glare ice.”
Then Owen and Jerry walked over to the table where they’d placed their bet and registered One Ear. The two men on the opposite side both worked for Pengler. The one with a frost-covered beard shook his head and laughed out loud. “Not sure it’s so smart to try to beat out your boss, but you boys came close.”
“Yeah,” Jerry said. “First place would have made the risk worth taking. But second place will have to do. How much did we win?”
The man laughed again. “Win? You didn’t win a blessed thing. The race is winner takes all.”
“Aw, you’re kiddin’ me!” Jerry turned away. He booted a chunk of snow and sent it flying. “Winner takes all. If that isn’t a kick in the head.”
Owen walked alongside him. “Guess we kiss it good-bye.”
Jerry kissed the air.
16
THE DAY AFTER THE HORSE RACE, OWEN NOSE-DIVED. He spent all night wondering how they were going to meet their deadline. Maybe he’d get lucky and sell a Studebaker or two, but they still owed a bundle of money.
He needed a break this morning. The thing with a creamery is you never get a day off. Cows keep producing milk, and milk needs refrigeration. Since it was Sunday, he asked Erling to cover for him today. Hands in his pockets, he walked to the Sterling Café.
He headed for a counter stool.
“Joseph!” a man in the corner called. “Care if I join you?”
Owen didn’t recognize the tall, thin man with gray tufted eyebrows. He strutted over, bringing with him a half-eaten piece of apple pie and a cup of coffee. He sat down, his legs barely fitting beneath the counter. His eyes lingered a second too long, like a heron watching the shallows, ready to dart in with its long beak.
“It’s Owen, not Joseph. But go ahead.” He nodded at the free stool beside him. “I don’t own the counter.”
The waitress stopped by and took Owen’s order—coffee, two eggs sunny-side up, biscuits, and gravy.
“So Owen? What is your purpose in life? Where would you go if you could? You have any dreams for your future? Ever wondered if you might be called to serve the Lord, to spread his Word to the heathen?”
Owen shrugged. “Sorry, mister. I’m not much for talking. B
esides, I’m Catholic.”
“Well, I’ll tell you, young man. I’m ready to shake the dust off the soles of my boots and head on to another county. This is one tough area to reach the lost. But someone from here who knows this area and the folks, he might reach the lost here. And it’s a pit of vipers, debauchery, and sinfulness.” He leveled his gaze on Owen. “Young man, I have the feeling that someone could be you.”
Owen laughed. “You’ve gotta be kidding.”
The man placed his hand over his heart. “God has laid you on my heart. Of course, you must be baptized. Have you been baptized?”
“Uh-huh. As a baby.” Owen knew that wasn’t the kind of baptism this preacher was likely talking about.
“Oh, but when you give your life to the Lord and go down in the waters of a lake or river, you come up a new man!” The man was now preaching to a congregation—anyone in the café who had ears. “The old ways are left behind, and you’re born into a new being! That’s right!” He spread his arms wide, bumping Owen’s shoulder and spilling his coffee as it met Owen’s lips. “Born into a whole new being!”
The café grew quiet. A shifting in a chair, a slight turn of the back, a sinking deeper into shoulders. Backwoods preachers came and went through Ranier. There were any number of ways Owen might live his life, but becoming a preacher wasn’t one of them. When breakfast arrived, he bolted it, gulped the last of his coffee, and tipped his hat. “I wish you well. Good luck to you.”
The man nodded. “Thank you. God bless you, Joseph.”
Owen returned to the creamery for the truck and drove three miles to International Falls. At noon, he took a seat in the middle row of the Broadway Theater, just in time for The Paleface, starring Buster Keaton. A western comedy was just what he needed. Keaton, a butterfly collector who unwittingly wanders into an Indian camp, soon earns the title “Little Chief Paleface” and leads the tribe in their effort to stop oil tycoons from forcing them off their land. Owen smiled. Next time he ran into Victor Guttenberg, he’d joke and call him Little Chief Paleface for standing up against the local tycoon.
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