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Before she could ask, shouts erupted from the store. Men’s voices. She stepped out of line to see, but a large figure blocked her view. Ike Bruhn! Thank goodness Thad was not here; the last time Thad and Ike had tangled she had used up the last of the liniment.
When she finally reached the mercantile entrance the first thing that caught her eye was the lean figure of Colonel Wash Halliday, bent over a four-pound tin of Arbuckles’ coffee. A slot had been cut in the top to serve as a ballot box.
A grim-faced Carl Ness stood stiff as a broom at one end of the counter. Opposite Carl, Marshal Johnson, Ellie’s husband, lounged casually against a display of hoes and axes and snowshoes. Showshoes?
Leah studied the odd-shaped wooden objects. They were a reminder that eventually this awful dry, tense summer would be over, followed by fall—harvest season—with crisp air and scarlet maple leaves and, oh, please, God, some rain! And then would come winter, with snow. It did not seem possible these dreadful months would finally be over.
The line swayed forward another arm’s length and a tantalizing spicy aroma wafted on the air. Leah peered past the mercantile display shelves to an upturned bushel basket next to the ballot box; on top rested a familiar flower-patterned platter heaped with cookies. Big ones. With raisins.
Her heart flip-flopped. Uncle Charlie might be diminutive and shy and soft-spoken, but he was clever.
People filed by, snagged a cookie and dropped their folded paper ballots into the Arbuckles’ tin. Leah clapped her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing. The pile of cookies was diminishing so fast there would be only crumbs left by the time Thad rode into town.
Ellie joined her in line. “I just came from the schoolhouse. Plans are shaping up for the spelling bee.”
Four people ahead of them, Leah spotted a woman she had not noticed before. The sadness and resignation in her face tugged at her.
“Ellie, who is that?”
“Elvira Sorensen. She rarely comes into town.”
“She looks so unhappy. Do you know why?”
“Not exactly. Her husband grows bush beans, and they have lived on a farm outside Smoke River for years, but there are no Sorensen children at school. I have often wondered why.”
The woman kept her head down, but when she looked up to drop in her paper ballot, Leah flinched. Elvira Sorensen appeared dried out, her face lifeless.
Was she mistreated? Or did she have a husband who—Leah caught her lower lip between her teeth—who no longer cared for her?
Leah could not bear to think about it. She shook off the thought, then stepped forward, picked up the offered square of paper and a pencil, and marked her ballot with a big yes.
When she turned to leave, she collided with Mrs. Sorensen in the doorway. For a brief instant the woman looked into Leah’s eyes. Her face was a mask of desolation.
Leah swallowed over a lump the size of a lemon. Would she end up like Mrs. Sorensen? She tried to scrub the thought from her mind and walked to the hitching rail to mount Lady.
Just as she reined away and headed toward the edge of town, she glimpsed Thad, looking handsome in the new shirt of white linen she had finished yesterday. His battered gray Stetson was tipped down so his face was hidden, but from the set of his shoulders she knew he was not smiling.
His big black gelding moved slowly up the street toward her, its pace unhurried. She stepped her mare forward to meet him.
“Thad?”
He glanced up. “Looks like everybody in town came to vote. How’s Uncle Charlie doing?”
Leah gave a short laugh. “Uncle Charlie is unsinkable. He is busy supplying cookies to the townspeople. You had best hurry before they are all eaten.”
“In a minute.” Thad pushed his hat brim back with his thumb, and his gaze settled on her face. “First, there’s something I want to tell you.”
A rock dropped into her belly. She could see his eyes now; they were a stormy grayblue, and the bleak expression in them made her insides go cold.
“What is it? Tell me.”
He rubbed his jaw. “The wheat’s pretty far gone. The well went dry before we could dump even one bucket of water on the crop, and there’s not a goddam thing I can—” His voice choked off.
She leaned forward to touch his arm. “Oh, Thad, I am so sorry.”
“I figure I can wait two more days for rain, then I’ll have to plow it under.” He studied his saddle horn.
Her heart twisted. What could she do to help him?
She gripped her reins so tight the mare jerked. “I thought I would make potato salad for supper tonight, with some cold sliced beef. When you come home, we could eat out on the porch, where it is cool.”
“Yeah. Sure.” He reached out and squeezed her shoulder. But his eyes had that faraway look she was learning to fear. In silence he moved the gelding on past her, and her chest tightened into an ache.
