The Prairie Romance Collection: 12 Complete Stories
By Susan K Mary E./ Dooley Lena N./ Downs/Coleman Lynn A.
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After the Harvest
by
Lynn A. Coleman
September 1857
A gentle breeze stirred the white tips of rye and barley stalks. Rylan’s face creased with a satisfied grin. The bountiful harvest testified of God’s good grace.
Tall stalks continued to dance and play like carefree children. Children! The next step in Rylan’s plan–¬a wife and a pack of children. He shifted his weight on his chestnut sorrel, the creak of the leather protesting the sudden change.
Months had passed since his last letter to Margaret. Three years he’d worked to develop the land enough to support her and the children they would have one day. Five months and not a word.
Truth be told, he hadn’t had an encouraging word from Margaret in more than a year. The first year he’d come and settled on his land in Kansas and received regular letters. The second, they came less and less. But he refused to believe her love for him had dwindled. No, theirs was a strong one, a divine one. God had placed her in his life. Their love would withstand the hardship of separation. Yet her constant praise of Jackson Pearle, his best friend, made Rylan wonder...
Rylan reached down and pulled the grain from a stalk. The seed rolled in his palm. A farmer with land to work. What could be more exciting than that?
Margaret’s fine features glowed in his memory. “Ah, yes Lord, she is a fine one.”
Tomorrow the harvesting would begin. Today he would go to town and hire a few extra hands for the harvest. Rylan shifted in his saddle and nudged the horse forward. Perhaps Margaret’s letter had arrived, telling him when to expect her and her family. A man could hope.
He rode toward the the dozen or so buildings that made up Prairie Center the seat of Prairie County. This new territory of Kansas represented the hope and the future of the overpopulated Massachusetts and the rest of the North. Rylan had come and staked his claim, yielding to the enticement of free land. Margaret had agreed to postpone their wedding for a couple years to allow him to get the farm established. The fact that it had taken him a third year to build a suitable house and raise the funds for her ticket shouldn’t have been a problem.
Admittedly, her letters came less frequently after he wrote her of the need for yet another year of separation. Rylan shook his head. No, he wasn’t going to entertain those dark thoughts again. She was coming, he could feel it in his bones. It was just the knot in his stomach that didn’t seem to share the same amount of conviction.
Rylan hitched his horse outside the General Store, and ambled inside. “Hello, Pete.”
“Afternoon, Rylan.” Pete Anderson stood behind a counter with a white apron spread across his broad belly.
“Know of anyone needing a couple days’ work?”
“Crops ready?” Pete placed a pencil down on the counter.
“Yup, and it’s a good one.”
“Glad to hear it. How many men do you need?”
Rylan removed his hat and wiped the inside brim with his red handkerchief. “Six is a good start, but I’ll go as high as a dozen, if there’s enough men looking for work.”
“Usually are. A day or two’s work before a man continues west isn’t bad to line his pockets a tad bit more.”
Rylan grinned. Hiring extra men at harvest time wasn’t difficult in Prairie County. Keeping men to stay and work the season...that was another matter. “Spread the word. Tell ‘em to be at my place by sun up and we’ll work ‘til sun down.”
Pete picked up his pencil. “Can I get you anything else today?”
Rylan didn’t want to ask if he had a letter. He’d been asking every time he’d come to town for the past two months. “Think I’ll just browse and see what's new.”
“There are some newspapers from back east, Boston, in fact. Didn’t you tell me you came from there?”
“Yup.”
“Set and read a spell.”
“Thanks. Don’t mind if I do.” Newspapers were like gold, and once in a while someone would leave a previously read paper at the store, with a little prompting from Pete of course. Occasionally Pete would pull them out of the trash and save them.
Beside the front window of the store, Pete set a table and a couple of chairs. A man could grab a cup of coffee and read to his heart’s content. Rylan searched through the papers and found the one from Boston. He placed his hat on the table and sat down in the chair, spreading open the paper. Pete brought over a mug of coffee. Old names, familiar streets...Rylan journeyed back to Boston, to his family home, to a life he’d left behind.
An hour passed before he turned the final page. His heart stopped. He jumped up. The half full mug of coffee toppled over. The table wobbled. “No!” he moaned.
Randolph and Wilma Cousins are proud to announce
the betrothal of their daughter, Margaret Elizabeth to Jackson Pearle...
Rylan couldn’t believe his eyes. He blinked and read the malicious lines again and again. Why? All the work...all the planning...for what?
* * *
Judith leapt out of the way as a man barreled out of Pete Anderson’s store. She brushed the skirt of her dress from the dust and dirt kicked up. “How rude,” she mumbled under her breath.
Singularly focused and driven were the best ways to describe the human train pushing his way out of the store and to his horse. She opened the basket carrying the few tomatoes she hoped Pete could sell. They weren’t much, but they were something to help ease the burden of her father’s debt.
Her father wasn’t a farmer. He should have stayed in Worcester. Coming to Kansas to start over again seemed impossible. And having looked over the fields her father had planted in the spring compared to the other farmers in the area, it was painfully obvious he should have stayed back East.
“Hi, Pete. Who was that?”
Pete’s generous smile warmed his full face. “Rylan Gaines owns the spread west of your father’s.”
“Oh.” The farmer whose fields shouted her father’s ineptness. “I brought some tomatoes. I’m hoping you can sell them and put the money towards my father’s debt.”
“Sure,” Pete said, reaching for the bundle of tomatoes. “Fine looking vegetables. They’ll sell.”
Judith smiled. She didn’t know if Pete was being truthful or simply generous. It didn’t matter. What her father owed for seed, a few tomatoes wouldn’t make a dent in.
“There’s a paper from Boston over there.” Pete pointed to the small wooden table and chairs. Over the summer it had been her only hiatus in this horrible place her parents now called home. They had let her stay in Worcester the first year they settled.
Judith examined the soiled newspaper, an overturned cup, and a wet brown substance she assumed was coffee. The newsprint bled. The paper bubbled. “Pete, do you have anything to clean up this mess?” she called out.
“What mess?”
“Appears to be coffee.”
“Well, I’ll be. Something must have rattled Rylan.” Pete sauntered over with a dry rag.
Judith scanned what she could of the obituaries, birth announcements and wedding announcements. “Perhaps someone he knew passed away.”
“Always possible. Rylan was one of the first to arrive. He came in fifty-four. Far as I can tell, he hasn’t been back East since.” Pete sopped up the coffee the paper hadn’t. His hand paused in mid-air.
“What?”
“Uhh, nothing.” Pete finished his work and hurried back behind the counter.
Whatever bothered Rylan Gaines hit Pete with nearly as much force. Judith scanned the paper again. No one named Gaines had passed away, married, or had a baby. Of course, she had no idea who his maternal grandparents were. It was always possible one of these names represented someone there. But if someone had died, wouldn’t Pete have said?
Pete wasn’t a true gossip, but the man openly shared the comings and goings of most folks. He was Prairie County’s newspaper. No, it was something worse than death and something more personal, she assessed. Mind your concerns, Judith, she heard her mother’s voice chide her. Ever since childhood she’d felt the urge to butt in and know why so and so did this and so and so did that. Gossip was the hardest sin she fought. Her natural curiosity craved finding out information. Truly this wasn’t her concern. If so, Pete would have said what was wrong. But he hadn’t; and she needed to leave it at that.
Judith tore the damp page from the rest of the paper and placed it over the other chair to dry. She settled down and read about life back East, the life she left behind. The life she desperately wanted to return to.
“Excuse me, Judith,” Pete called over to her.
Judith popped her head over the edge of the newspaper. She’d been reading nonstop.
“Are you aware of the County Fair coming up?”
“County Fair?”
“Yeah, we hold it once a year. The farmers bring their crops, and the women–what few we have–bake pies. There’s horse pulls, judging contests...it’s a lot of fun.”
“No, I guess I hadn’t heard about it.” Even if she had, she knew her father wouldn’t be bringing his crops to show off.
“Reason I mention it is, there’s some prize money for the best foods, and I thought you and your mother might like to enter.” Pete continued to count his stock.
Prize money. Could she and her mom possibly win?
“There’s a flyer hanging in my window. You know, on your father’s land there’s the best batch of wild black raspberries. They’d make some mighty fine jam.”
“If one had the sugar,” she mumbled.
“They’re so sweet, hardly need to add sugar.”
Had he heard her? She really did need to stop mumbling to herself.
“So, you hold this fair every year?”
“It’s a grand time. Helps bring the folks in the county together. We’re spread so far apart.”
She’d seen enough of the county to know how true of a statement that was. Eighty acres were given to each man and woman who set up their claim, but they needed to stay on the land for five years before the property actually became theirs. Why did it bother her so much to be here? Nothing remained of the family home or her father’s bank back east. Her parents were here. Folks seemed friendly enough. She hadn’t left an admirer behind, so why her discontent?
“Where did you say these berries were?”
Pete rubbed his well shaved chin. “I’d say on the hill behind where they built the house. There’s a line of trees that form a V and point right to it. You can’t miss ‘em.”
“Thanks. Don’t know if I’ll be making any jam, but the berries would be a nice treat for the folks.” Judith headed toward the door.
“Don’t have to make jam–that was just a suggestion. You can make anything and enter it,” Pete encouraged.
Judith turned and waved. “Thanks, Pete.”
Something for Momma’s sweet tooth to get her through the winter would be worth the effort to find those berries. She hadn’t searched the land much. She’d been so busy tending the garden and livestock, who had time for exploring?
On the other hand, the money would be a blessing, if she should win. Who was she kidding? She held her own in the kitchen, but she was certain she couldn’t compete with the other ladies who’d lived in this territory.
Of course, there weren’t all that many women living in the county. Judith’s father had more offers for her hand in marriage than during her entire 18 years in Worcester. Some who hadn’t even seen her came proposing. She climbed up on the buckboard and headed home.
“Howdy, Miss Timmons, may I escort you home?” Brian Flannery tipped his hat and rode proud in his saddle. He wasn’t an unhandsome man, but the lack of a front tooth gave him a less-than-intelligent appearance.
“Thank you, Mr. Flannery, but it isn’t necessary.”
“Nonsense. A pretty woman like you shouldn’t be alone.”
Alone? How could she be? If Brian hadn’t shown up there was a list of at least a dozen other men who would. She’d never made a trip back from town without an escort.
“Thank you,” she said with a smile. Inwardly she sighed, praying just once an opportunity would arise for her to go home in peaceful solitude.
* * *
Rylan stormed home, pushing Max as fast as the workhorse could run. Back in the barn, he brushed the animal down with care. The poor beast wasn’t the problem. Margaret and Jackson, they were his problem. How long had they been seeing each other behind his back? The newspaper was nearly a month old, and he’d not even received a sorry-but-I-fell-in-love-with-another-man letter.
“Nothing. Not one single word,” he huffed. “Why, Lord?” He threw the brush against the shelf and left Max with a bag of oats in payment for the hard ride home.
He’d trusted her. He’d worked himself weary preparing this place for her and their children. He looked over the barn. A barn, a house and a root cellar, how much more did a woman need? And what was so great about Jackson?
Rylan didn’t consider himself a vain man, but he beat Jackson hands down in the looks department. Jackson barely had a chin to speak of. The poor guy was all neck.
“Jackson, thanks–friend.” The bile in his stomach boiled. He kicked a small stone with his boot.
He looked up at the house built for Margaret, a labor of love, now an empty tomb of disappointment and despair. “Why, Margaret? Didn’t I give you everything I promised I would? And why Jackson?”
Rylan turned his back to the house. He couldn’t sleep in there tonight. Not tonight. He needed to get a handle on his emotions. The temptation to tear the place apart board by board gnawed at him. Thankfully, something held him back. Perhaps it was all the hours he’d put into it or, hopefully, it was God’s grace giving him some good common sense.
Every instinct he had was to storm home to Massachusetts and demand some answers. His head throbbed from the war being fought within. He needed time. Time to absorb. And time to decide what to do with his future.
He pulled a wool blanket from the barn, tucked a knife in his boot, and grabbed his rifle. Tonight he would camp in the small woods bordering his land with Oscar Timmons’. Oscar wasn’t much of a farmer, but you only had to farm ten acres of the eighty to earn your land. The fact that he still lived in a dugout only proved how poorly the man was doing. Oscar once told him he was a banker. But his bank went bust when some investments he’d made hadn’t panned out. In the end, he ended up selling all he had to pay off the debts the bank had accumulated before he sold it off for pennies on the dollar. Whatever the man’s ability with numbers, he certainly didn’t have a hand for growing.
The brisk pace Rylan took as he headed toward the woods raised a sweat. A refreshing swim in the small pond on his property would help chill his burning temper. Most days it took Rylan quite a bit to lose his temper. Today was not most days.
He stripped to the waist and dove in. His long frame sluiced through the water as he swam deeper and deeper under the surface. No sound penetrated under the water. His lungs burned for oxygen. How long did he dare stay below the surface?
Rylan scanned the murky bottom and spun around looking toward the sky. The water was so clear above him. Below him it was dark, murky, full of decaying leaves and matter. Above, the pure clean water fed by a small stream.
He pushed his arms upward and kicked his legs with all his strength. He was a man, brought to this earth by God for a purpose. He needed to look up to find his direction in life, not down in the pit of darkness and despair. Another strong kick and pull with his arms and Rylan’s head broke the surface, his lungs sucking in the precious oxygen that gave him life. “Lord, show me what to do,” he gasped.