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Here in Thad’s world, on the Oregon frontier, she longed to feel welcome. She hungered to belong, not just as Thad MacAllister’s wife, but as herself. As Leah MacAllister.
After breakfast, a preoccupied Thad tramped off, then reversed direction and came back for Teddy.
“Gosh, Pa, I thought you forgot me, again.”
Thad ruffled the boy’s hair and together they went to inspect the fields.
Leah knew the alfalfa and wheat seedlings were struggling through the winter storms, and that the wheat especially worried him. There was so much to do on a farm besides grow things—caring for the horses and the milk cow, now heavy with a calf; rebuilding damaged fences; repairing the chicken house, where the wind had torn off slats. Thad had even found time to turn over the soil for the kitchen garden she planned for spring.
Last night, as he was rubbing liniment on her sore muscles, he had talked about his wheat. She knew he had borrowed money on the ranch to finance the experimental venture. It meant everything to him, and she was beginning to understand why. Not just because it was a challenge and a far-seeing experiment, but because it was something concrete Thad felt he could control in an uncertain world. A world where a runaway train could kill a man’s wife.
He told her again about watching his Scottish family struggle against starvation when he was a boy. Thad had been scarred by that. He tried to hide it, even from himself, but his fear still lived deep inside him. Whole days went by when he stared into the fire and ignored both her and Teddy.
She tried not to let his withdrawal bother her, but her heart ached for Teddy. Thad’s young son could not understand his father’s bone-deep concern for something as simple as a field of sprouting wheat. At times she wondered if Thad himself understood it completely.
Whether or not he did, she had her own challenges to face. she could not bother Thad when he was working long, long hours in the fields; today, she resolved, she must saddle up Lady on her own and ride into town to visit the mercantile.
The minute she’d made the decision she suppressed a shudder. Could she really do it? Could she once again haul the heavy saddle up on top of that huge animal?
Very carefully, Leah drew rein near the hitching rail in front of the mercantile and let out a breath of relief. She had done it! Saddled the mare and ridden all the way into town on her own without falling off.
The barber, Whitey Poletti, was sweeping the board walkway in front of his shop. Last week Ellie had told her about the daily sweeping contest between Whitey and Carl Ness, the mercantile owner. It had continued for years, and this morning it seemed the barber was beating Carl in the race to finish first.
She bunched up the long gray melton skirt she wore, kicked her foot free of the stirrups and dismounted. Before leaving the barn this morning, she had practiced it four times, but she still had to think out every move.
Mr. Poletti planted his broom in front of her and leaned one white-coated arm against it.
Leah nodded at him. “Good morning, Mr. Poletti.”
“No, t’aint,” he snapped. “Yer standin’ right where I was sweepin’.”
“I am sor—”
“Nah, you ain’t. Don’t know our customs, can’t talk our language, ner nuthin’,” he muttered under his breath. “Damned foreigners.”
“—rry,” Leah finished. The broom bristles poked at her boots.
She drew her frame up as straight as she could. “You will notice, Mr. Poletti, that I speak perfect English.” She struggled to keep her voice even. “My father was an American. A teacher.”
“Move!” he ordered. “Yer in my way.”
“Oh, I had not noticed.” She enunciated each syllable with extra care. “I beg your pardon.” She turned toward the mercantile entry.
“Huh!” the barber snorted at her back. “Damned Celest—”
The bell over the mercantile door covered the barber’s last word. Carl Ness glanced up from the newspaper spread on his counter; without the faintest glimmer of a smile or even a nod of recognition, he immediately looked down again.
“Good morning, Mr. Ness.”
The store owner kept on reading. Leah shifted from one foot to the other. Twice. Still he did not speak; he did not even look at her. Instead he kept his sharp, narrow face bent so low she could see the bald spot under the wisps of sandy hair on his head.
“Mr. Ness?”
The shopkeeper slammed the flat of his hand onto the newspaper. “What do you want?”
All at once she remembered her first visit to the mercantile. Carl Ness hated Celestials. The scowl on his face said it all. He hated her because she looked Chinese.
“Mr. Ness,” she persisted, pitching her voice loud enough to be heard throughout the store. “I came to purchase some fabric. For a skirt I intend to sew.”
