CHAPTER TWO
Singer
T HE WIND STIRRED the tall prairie grass but the Kansas sea did not ripple in its usual, musical way. Fall was still some way off, but the grass was beginning to turn golden and dry out. The wind bumped against the dead heads of flowers and caught in tangles of broken stems.
Josephine McKinley shivered as she watched it, and pulled her knees up closer to her chest. She sat on a large, flat rock at the top of a gentle slope that ran down to a stream. This was a small part of their land that she and Clae had decided to leave unbroken, and it was one of her favourite places to sit. She kept her feet well off the ground, overly cautious of snakes ever since her encounter with a rattler in the barn several weeks before.
She pulled her shawl tightly around her. Since her recent illness she never felt comfortable – always too hot or too cold. Clae would be upset if he knew she had sat out here so long, but he was in town and would not be back for some time, and she could not bear another minute alone inside the house.
It had taken her much longer than anticipated to recover. The doctor could not tell them why, or whether the fever had done any permanent damage. She was tired of sitting and sewing or tatting. She was tired of thinking of new things to say to Millie and Beth, when they came to visit, or cook, or help with the more strenuous household chores. Harland had been generously supplying Josie with books from his vast collection, but even her favourite poems and sermons seemed dull.
The truth was, she admitted to the wind, she felt that she was failing Clae all the while she recuperated. There was always so much physical work for him and Harland to do around the farm, and there had been days when she hadn’t even been able to cook them a good morning meal.
She remembered the night Clae tore up the agreement she had signed before their wedding and declared that his love for her would never depend on what she did or did not do. The thought brought a little warmth. She must keep reminding herself of it.
The sun eased the soreness from her back, and it felt as if the wind was blowing away the dust inside her body. She sat so still for so long that a family of prairie dogs popped their heads out of their burrow. She watched them, delighted, until an involuntary movement on her part startled the male. He barked sharply and they all disappeared below ground in a heartbeat.
Disappointed, Josie stretched and slid slowly off the rock. It was time to start the walk back to the house. It was a long way, but thankfully the path was mostly downhill in the homeward direction.
As she rounded a corner and the roof of the big barn came into view, she was startled by a white and brown creature that leaped up at her from behind a thick clump of grass. She staggered backwards.
“Pea!” she admonished, pressing her hand to her chest and breathing heavily. “What are you--? How did you get out of your pen again? He’s not here. You have got to learn to be patient.”
She caught the little goat, Clae’s faithful shadow, by one of her horns and led her gently back to the barn yard. She tied her to a long rope beside the house, but the silly creature looked so forlorn that Josie gave in and let her inside. She would make a nuisance of herself, but she would be company.
Supper was prepared and Josie was dozing in a chair, exhausted, when Pea, who was lying across Josie’s feet, raised her head, her floppy ears twitching. The farm dogs started up a racket. A few seconds later Josie heard the rumble of wagon wheels and the clopping of the men’s horses, Thanksgiving and Christmas’s hooves. Clae and Harland were home from town.
She heard them pull up outside the house; heard Clae’s cheery voice commanding the dogs to be quiet. The next moment the front door flew inwards and the brim of a hat appeared around it, beneath
Singer
T HE WIND STIRRED the tall prairie grass but the Kansas sea did not ripple in its usual, musical way. Fall was still some way off, but the grass was beginning to turn golden and dry out. The wind bumped against the dead heads of flowers and caught in tangles of broken stems.
Josephine McKinley shivered as she watched it, and pulled her knees up closer to her chest. She sat on a large, flat rock at the top of a gentle slope that ran down to a stream. This was a small part of their land that she and Clae had decided to leave unbroken, and it was one of her favourite places to sit. She kept her feet well off the ground, overly cautious of snakes ever since her encounter with a rattler in the barn several weeks before.
She pulled her shawl tightly around her. Since her recent illness she never felt comfortable – always too hot or too cold. Clae would be upset if he knew she had sat out here so long, but he was in town and would not be back for some time, and she could not bear another minute alone inside the house.
It had taken her much longer than anticipated to recover. The doctor could not tell them why, or whether the fever had done any permanent damage. She was tired of sitting and sewing or tatting. She was tired of thinking of new things to say to Millie and Beth, when they came to visit, or cook, or help with the more strenuous household chores. Harland had been generously supplying Josie with books from his vast collection, but even her favourite poems and sermons seemed dull.
The truth was, she admitted to the wind, she felt that she was failing Clae all the while she recuperated. There was always so much physical work for him and Harland to do around the farm, and there had been days when she hadn’t even been able to cook them a good morning meal.
She remembered the night Clae tore up the agreement she had signed before their wedding and declared that his love for her would never depend on what she did or did not do. The thought brought a little warmth. She must keep reminding herself of it.
The sun eased the soreness from her back, and it felt as if the wind was blowing away the dust inside her body. She sat so still for so long that a family of prairie dogs popped their heads out of their burrow. She watched them, delighted, until an involuntary movement on her part startled the male. He barked sharply and they all disappeared below ground in a heartbeat.
Disappointed, Josie stretched and slid slowly off the rock. It was time to start the walk back to the house. It was a long way, but thankfully the path was mostly downhill in the homeward direction.
As she rounded a corner and the roof of the big barn came into view, she was startled by a white and brown creature that leaped up at her from behind a thick clump of grass. She staggered backwards.
“Pea!” she admonished, pressing her hand to her chest and breathing heavily. “What are you--? How did you get out of your pen again? He’s not here. You have got to learn to be patient.”
She caught the little goat, Clae’s faithful shadow, by one of her horns and led her gently back to the barn yard. She tied her to a long rope beside the house, but the silly creature looked so forlorn that Josie gave in and let her inside. She would make a nuisance of herself, but she would be company.
Supper was prepared and Josie was dozing in a chair, exhausted, when Pea, who was lying across Josie’s feet, raised her head, her floppy ears twitching. The farm dogs started up a racket. A few seconds later Josie heard the rumble of wagon wheels and the clopping of the men’s horses, Thanksgiving and Christmas’s hooves. Clae and Harland were home from town.
She heard them pull up outside the house; heard Clae’s cheery voice commanding the dogs to be quiet. The next moment the front door flew inwards and the brim of a hat appeared around it, beneath
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