Elm Creek Quilts [10] The Quilter's Homecoming (31 page)

“It’s a good thing they didn’t.”

“Why not? Everyone stood to gain. My uncle would have made a good sale, Safari World would have acquired more of the finest horses anywhere, and I would have made a commission.”

“I guess you didn’t consider how those horses would have been delivered to their new owners.”

Elizabeth did not understand his concern. “By train, of course.”

“Yes, and your uncle Fred likely would have come with them. He never sells to any man he hasn’t shaken hands with, and he never delivers horses to a new home sight unseen. Can you really imagine him putting his horses on a train in Pennsylvania and taking a chance they’ll be well cared for on the trip west and that the new owners will be there to meet them in Los Angeles? Of course not. He’d accompany them every step of the way. And do you really think that after traveling all the way to Safari World, he wouldn’t go the extra few miles to visit his niece?”

“I certainly hope he would.”

“Do you? Do you really? Do you really want the folks back home to see how we live here?”

“I’m not ashamed of where we live,” she retorted. “We’ve fixed up the cabin nicely considering our circumstances, and anyway, it’s not forever. It’s just until we can go home.”

“We can’t go home.”

“Of course we can. We’ve had a setback, but we’ll save up the money again, and then we’ll go—but not until we can go together.”

“You don’t understand,” said Henry, agitated. “We can’t go home. There’s nothing waiting for us back in Pennsylvania. Nothing.”

Elizabeth stared as he bolted from his chair and began to pace the floor. “You’re not making any sense. How can you say nothing’s waiting for us? What about our families? What about Two Bears Farm? Your family will be overjoyed to have you back. You’re the oldest son. Two Bears Farm is your rightful place.”

“Not anymore it isn’t.” Henry halted and covered his eyes with his hand. “Elizabeth. How do you think I got the money to pay for Triumph Ranch?”

“You said…” She tried to remember exactly what he had told her. “You said it was your life savings.”

“What is the life savings of a man who works the family farm?”

Then she understood.

At first she said nothing. Until she said the words aloud, she could pretend nothing had changed, that the haven of Two Bears Farm still awaited their homecoming. When the silence stretched on unbearably long, she murmured, “Your inheritance.”

Henry nodded bleakly. “When I told my father I wanted to strike out on my own, he gave me my inheritance in cash. No part of Two Bears Farm belongs to me anymore. If I go back, it will be as Lars returned to the Jorgensen farm, as a hired hand working for my brothers.”

“But—” Elizabeth’s thoughts churned. “But when we told your parents about our plans to go to California, your father seemed as surprised as anyone.”

“That was a show for my mother. I knew she would object to my leaving and I didn’t want her to blame my father.”

Elizabeth remembered how Mr. Nelson had studied the photographs of Triumph Ranch, how he had nodded approvingly and passed them on to his wife, how he had not voiced a single concern about his son’s sudden announcement. At the time, she had assumed he trusted his son’s judgment so implicitly that he had simply had no reason to believe Henry had not made a sound decision. Now she imagined the weeks of debate and argument and persuasion that must have preceded the purchase of the land. Henry would have worn his father down with the facts, with the logic of his plan, and his father would have given in out of love, because he could not bear to stand in the way of his son’s dream.

“You see now why I can’t go back,” said Henry. “I can’t face my father. I can’t look him in the eye and tell him I lost everything he had given me. It wasn’t my life savings I lost, but his.”

Elizabeth could hardly bear to look at him, but she could not tear her gaze away. Before her eyes he had transformed into a man she did not know. “Why didn’t you tell me?” In all the years she had known him, he had never lied to her. His integrity and truthfulness were the bedrock of her world. “You never intended to return to Pennsylvania, did you?”

“I can’t. But you still can.”

“How can you say that?” she cried. “How can I go without you? I love you.”

“It’s Elm Creek Manor you love,” he shot back. “My family’s farm was right next door, the closest you could come to owning the land you loved. Out of all the men who wanted to marry you, only I could offer you that.”

Her heart cinched. At last she understood why he had bought Triumph Ranch, why he had not included her in his plans but made his decision before asking her to marry him. Unless he gave up Two Bears Farm, he would never know if she had married him for love or to be close to the land she longed for, the land that could never be hers. It had been a test, and she had passed, and yet he still doubted her.

She felt the blood rush into her head until it spun. He had lied to her. Like every other man she had known, he had created a world of lies and expected her to live in it without questioning the fragile threads of deception that bound it together. He was no different from her father. He had sold his birthright and would regret it for the rest of his days. He expected her to believe his words and not the evidence of her own senses. He desperately wanted her to pretend that the ground was not constantly shifting beneath their feet, because only then could he keep walking.

She sat with her fists knotted in the patched and faded quilt, angry, helpless, lost.

Then the truth whispered, gently but urgently. That was her father, not Henry. Henry had never pretended that what had befallen them was anything but the most brutal of disappointments. He had never blamed anyone but himself for the choices that had led them there. He had never asked her to pretend that everything was fine when their world was crumbling apart all around them.

As for his test of her love, she could not bring herself to fault him for that. If not for her flirting, her capricious teasing, her foolish attempts to make him jealous, he would never have questioned whether she loved him or only his land.

Henry broke the silence with words that threatened to strangle him. “You never should have married me. I thought if you went back, alone, you could start over….”

His voice faltered and failed. Elizabeth set the Road to Triumph Ranch quilt aside and went to him.

“Henry.” She touched his shoulder gently.

He trembled but did not pull away as she kissed his cheek, tracing the rough stubble of his beard with her lips. “I lied to you. I deceived you.”

“I know. But it’s going to be all right.”

“All these weeks I’ve wanted to tell you the truth. I’ve taken you away from the home you love and given you nothing in return.”

“That’s not so.” She pressed herself against him until Henry put his arms around her. “All I’ve ever wanted since I was fourteen was for you to love me. It wasn’t Elm Creek Manor I wanted. It was you. It was always you.
You’re
the home I love.”

“Elizabeth—” Then he said nothing more, because he was kissing her. She tangled her fingers in his hair and returned his kisses fiercely, to make up for the long weeks when shame and secrets had kept them apart.

1913

Isabel wrapped the warm tortillas in a towel and placed them in the basket on top of the layered tamales, still hot within their cornhusks. She smiled as she drew on her shawl, remembering her own pregnancies. After the queasiness of the first three months had passed, she had craved tortillas and tamales at all hours of the day and night. Isabel had never been able to equal her father’s skill at making perfect tamales, but hers were still tasty and nourishing, just the thing to satisfy an expectant mother’s appetite.

She did not know for certain whether Rosa’s cravings mirrored her own, but they were alike in other ways, so Isabel took a chance that their tastes would be similar. If only she saw her daughter more frequently, she would know what aromas tempted her to eat her fill so her baby would grow strong, but Isabel had seen her daughter only infrequently since her marriage seven months before. The five miles separating the Barclay farm and Rosa’s childhood home might as well have been one hundred. Isabel supposed Rosa’s unexpected withdrawal from her mother was only natural. If it was not, Isabel would not know it. Her mother had died before she had even met Miguel. She had never been in Rosa’s place, leaving behind a mother who missed her as she embarked on a new life as a married woman. With no similar experience of her own to consult, Isabel told herself Rosa was a young bride and wanted to devote herself to her new husband, rather than come to her mother’s kitchen for a home-cooked meal and unsolicited advice. Once Rosa was settled and more confident about running her own household, she would visit more often, especially when she wanted help with the baby.

But what expectant mother, fiercely independent or not, would turn down tortillas and tamales, a Christmas delicacy in June? Isabel smiled to herself as she placed one last gift into her basket—a cradle quilt, pieced of the softest cottons she could find. As Isabel had sewn the Four-Patch blocks, she had imagined snuggling her tiny grandchild within its soft folds. In less than two months, God willing, she would. She prayed that Rosa would have an easy labor and a strong, healthy baby blessed with his mother’s beauty and his grandfather’s kindness and—Isabel searched for something of John’s she hoped the child would inherit. His diligence. His cleverness. They had served John well and perhaps would do the same for her grandchild one day.

Isabel walked to the Barclay farm, enjoying the brilliant sunshine and clear skies of late June. The farmers were hard at work in their fields. Oranges, lemons, and apricots thrived in the orchards. Late summer and autumn would bring a bountiful harvest to the farmers of the Arboles Valley. Isabel, who would soon receive the richest blessing of all, did not envy any of them. She could almost wish even the Jorgensens well. By the end of summer, Rosa would surely be ready for an excursion. They could take the baby to the mesa and play with him on a blanket as they enjoyed the view of the canyon and marveled at his darling little feet, his sweet toothless smile, his strong and insistent grip when he curled his fist around their fingertips. Or perhaps the baby would be a little girl, with a tumble of dark curls and a sweet rosebud mouth. Isabel would tell her stories and when she was old enough, teach her to quilt and make tortillas and tamales the way her mother and grandmother had taught her.

At last her daughter’s new home came into view, a snug adobe house on a hill with orange trees in the front yard. Acres of rye stretched to the hills lining the western edge of the Salto Canyon; John walked among the rows, inspecting the slender shafts that swayed in unison as the wind moved over them. Isabel broke into a smile, called out a greeting, and quickened her pace, careful not to jostle the basket.

John looked up and crossed the fields to the dirt road leading up to the house. He stood there and waited for her to come to him.

“How’s Rosa?” Isabel asked, breathless from her five-mile walk.

He shrugged, removed his hat, and mopped his brow with his shirtsleeve. “Fine, I guess.”

“Well, it won’t be much longer now. I imagine you must be getting excited.” Isabel was determined to be cheerful and pleasant to her son-in-law, although he did not make it easy. “Does Rosa say if she has a feeling whether the baby is a boy or a girl? Sometimes a mother knows.”

John flicked his unsmiling gaze over her. “It’s a girl.”

Isabel had to laugh. “You sound very certain, but for the next two months, we can only guess.” She indicated the basket. “I brought Rosa some things, some food and a gift for the baby. Is she resting?” As much as she longed to see her daughter and chat about their plans for the baby, if she had to, she would leave the basket in the kitchen rather than disturb Rosa’s sleep.

John took the basket from her so unexpectedly that Isabel had no time to protest. “I’ll see that she gets it.”

“I don’t want to interrupt your work.” She reached for the basket, but to her astonishment, John held it out of reach. “Honestly, John, I’m happy to take it to her myself.”

“She doesn’t want any visitors.”

“I’m not a visitor; I’m her mother.”

“She doesn’t want to see you.”

Bewildered, at first Isabel could only stare at him. “I don’t believe that,” she said. “I came to help. I’ll cook supper for the three of us and do some housekeeping so my daughter can rest. I know Rosa, and I know she’ll try to keep the house in perfect order even though she should stay off her feet as much as she can in her condition.”