Elm Creek Quilts [10] The Quilter's Homecoming (8 page)

1925

E
lizabeth woke in the middle of the night, shivering. She groped around at the foot of the bed for the comforter that she had folded out of the way when she first climbed beneath the covers, certain she would not need it, not in California. She drew it over herself and snuggled closer to Henry, who put his arm around her and slept on. The landlady had told them she kept extra quilts in the cedar chest at the foot of the bed, but Elizabeth was too cold to climb from beneath the covers to find one. She wished again for her wedding quilt, still tucked away in the trunk her brother had given her, bundled protectively around their fine china. Elizabeth puzzled over the curious cold snap until she grew warm enough to fall back asleep.

It was still early when she woke again. Henry had already risen and was sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling on his shoes. He saw that she was awake and leaned across the bed to kiss her. “Good morning,” he said. “Better get up soon if you want breakfast before we go to the station.”

Elizabeth would have gladly done without breakfast if it meant reaching the Arboles Valley sooner, but their tickets were for the midmorning train and it wouldn’t do them any good to wait on the platform for hours. She threw back the covers and quickly washed and dressed. It took only moments to repack her suitcase, and soon they joined several of the other guests in the dining room, where their landlady was serving breakfast.

“You folks leaving so soon?” inquired a traveling salesman seated across the table. “You won’t find many places on the road as hospitable as this.”

“Flatterer,” scoffed the landlady, but Elizabeth noticed that she added an extra pancake to his stack.

“If we weren’t expected elsewhere, we’d be happy to stay another night,” said Elizabeth, with a smile for her hostess. “We’re on our way to the Arboles Valley.”

The salesman turned an inquiring look upon Henry. “What do you plan to do all the way out there? The most popular tourist attractions are around the city. I hope you didn’t buy a bogus map. You have to be careful around here. People take advantage of tourists.”

“We’re not tourists,” said Henry. “We’ve come to stay. We’re farmers.”

“Farmers?” The salesman smiled at Elizabeth. “You’re much too pretty to be a farm wife. If you want work, you should get into the movies.”

“You’re not the only one to think so,” said Elizabeth, deliberately avoiding Henry’s eye. “Perhaps someday.”

“Not likely,” said Henry. “I don’t think you’ll be running into many movie producers in the Arboles Valley.”

“You’d be surprised,” remarked their landlady. “Movies shoot on location up that way all the time.”

Elizabeth threw Henry a triumphant grin. Perhaps the movie producers would come to her. Besides, as long as she had one producer’s card in her pocketbook, she didn’t need to meet any others.

“We’ll be too busy,” Henry reminded her. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

“I won’t, but I also won’t dismiss the possibility entirely,” said Elizabeth. “Isn’t California the land of opportunity? Anything can happen.”

The salesman nodded in approval of her optimism. The landlady beamed, and why shouldn’t she? Someday she might be able to brag to her friends that she had hosted the famous Elizabeth Nelson on her first night in California. Henry merely scowled and continued eating.

“Take care on the route north,” cautioned an older guest, who had introduced himself as a civil engineer visiting Los Angeles to study the aqueducts. “It’s a dangerous road through those hills. Highwaymen stop automobiles, wagons—anyone traveling alone. They’ll steal anything of value they can find and they’re not above roughing up women. Begging your pardon, miss.”

Elizabeth gave him a quick smile to reassure him that his words had not upset her, although they had, a little. After what Peter had said, the engineer’s warning carried more weight than he knew.

“The Sheik Bandits have been at it again,” said the landlady.

“It’s in the paper this morning. They robbed a bank and left the poor cashier tied up in the vault. They were last seen heading north.”

“The Sheik Bandits?” echoed Elizabeth.

“A gang of three or four men, always sharply dressed,” said the salesman. “A couple of years ago, they held up a post office just over the Los Angeles County line. They bound and gagged the postmistress and made off with nearly five hundred dollars cash.”

Elizabeth shuddered. “My goodness. The poor woman.”

“Anyone can disappear in those rugged hills,” said the engineer. “Rumor has it the bandits hide out in the old Indian caves. No one should drive that road without a loaded firearm at his side. You’re not safe until you’re within the Oxnard city limits.”

“It’s not that bad,” said the salesman, but unconvincingly. “The Arboles Valley is perfectly safe. It’s just getting there that’s the trouble. You young folks won’t be traveling after dark, will you?”

“We’re traveling by train to the Simi Valley and driving over the grade from there,” said Henry.

Around the table, the other guests visibly relaxed. “In that case, you’ll be fine,” said the engineer.

Elizabeth managed a brief, shaky smile, wondering what other plans Henry had made without explaining their imperative to her. She had assumed he had chosen the train for its speed and directness, not because their lives depended on it.

For the relatively short trip to the Simi Valley station, Henry had purchased two seats in coach and paid an additional fee for their excess luggage. Their seats were quite a change from the comfortable private compartments they had enjoyed on the first two legs of their journey, but Elizabeth was so eager to reach their final destination she did not mind.

At last the conductor called out the Simi Valley station. Almost before the train halted, Elizabeth and Henry leaped to their feet to collect their bags. As they waited for their trunks to be unloaded from the luggage car, Elizabeth paced along the platform, taking in the sights and unfamiliar smells, breathless from excitement. The station lay in a broad, flat valley surrounded by low, arid mountains. Just over the ridge was the Arboles Valley.

Henry set Elizabeth to counting their pile of trunks and suitcases while he went to hail a cab. She sat down on the largest trunk and watched arriving passengers being met by family as outgoing passengers climbed aboard the train. The conductor called out his warning; shortly after, the engine started up again and the train chugged out of the station. Elizabeth sat alone on the platform.

She rose, shaded her eyes, and looked around for Henry, but all she saw was a man working inside the ticket booth. In a moment, even he disappeared from view. Elizabeth began pacing again, but did not stray far from their belongings. Finally Henry appeared. “There’s not a cab anywhere.”

“Well, we
are
out in the country.”

“Sure, but this is a train station. We can’t be the only passengers who arrive here without anyone to pick them up.”

Elizabeth glanced around the platform but decided not to point out that they certainly seemed to be, at least for that train. “Could we send word to the ranch? If they know we’ve arrived, I’m sure they’d send someone for us.”

“If we had someone to send word to the ranch, we’d have our ride.”

“Of course,” Elizabeth murmured. She sat down on the trunk again, planted her elbows on her knees, and rested her head in her palms.

“I’ll find us something to drink,” said Henry in a kinder tone, as if to apologize for his impatience. He went off again and returned with two paper cones of cool water. Elizabeth drained hers quickly and wished for more, but Henry was in such a sour mood she didn’t want to inconvenience him.

A few minutes passed and Henry went off to try again to find a cab. Elizabeth wished him good luck with more cheerfulness than she felt. Nearly an hour had passed since their arrival, and a trickle of people had begun to gather on the platform to await the next train. Before long Henry hurried back, grinning. “I helped a farmer unload his cargo in exchange for a ride,” he said. “Our hotel for tonight is out of his way. Let’s hurry so we don’t delay him any longer than necessary.”

Elizabeth quickly rose and took two of the lighter suitcases in hand while Henry hefted a trunk onto his shoulder. She followed him off the platform and around the corner, where a tall, thin man in faded overalls and a plaid shirt waited beside a wagon, holding the reins of two draft horses. The weathered lines of his face spoke of hard times and disappointment, but his gaze was steady, though unsmiling. Henry hurried through introductions, and while Elizabeth shook Lars Jorgensen’s hand, her husband returned to the platform for their remaining luggage.

“Can you hold a team?” Lars Jorgensen asked Elizabeth gruffly. When she nodded, he helped her up onto the wagon seat and handed her the reins. One of the horses stomped an enormous hoof and shook his shaggy mane. The farmer said something to him in a language Elizabeth did not recognize and went off to assist Henry.

The Nelsons’ belongings took up nearly half of the wagon bed, much more territory than that claimed by the few wooden crates of supplies and cans of kerosene Lars Jorgensen had already stowed there. Lars took the reins from Elizabeth, who moved over to make room for him on the seat. Henry climbed into the back with the cargo. “Thank you for the ride,” he said to their host. “We’re obliged to you.”

“Yes, thank you very much,” Elizabeth added. Lars nodded and shook the reins to start the team forward. The wagon lurched and headed off down the road toward the west.

Elizabeth expected the farmer to be curious about strangers traveling with so much luggage, but he said nothing until the train station had disappeared behind them. “So you’re a Nelsen?” he said, and then added a few words in the same language with which he had addressed the horses.

“Sorry,” said Henry ruefully. “I know very little Swedish, barely enough to say hello and good-bye. My family always spoke English at home.”

“That was Norwegian,” said Lars dryly. “Many Norwegian families live in the Arboles Valley. Why did you say you were a Nelsen? You must be a Nel
son.”

Henry gave a small, baffled shrug. “That’s right. Sorry.”

“Norwegian settlers?” said Elizabeth. “I had expected Spaniards.”

“We got some of them, too. Mostly Mexican, though, not Spanish.” Lars fell silent for a moment, as if contemplating how much to tell them. “Most of the Arboles Valley belongs to five different families—the Olsens, the Pedersens, the Kelleys, the Borchards, and my people, the Jorgensens. Other families have smaller farms and ranches scattered thereabouts. We still got more sheep than people in the valley, but I expect that’ll change in days to come.”

Elizabeth wondered why he had left the former owners of Triumph Ranch off the list. “You have cattle, too, isn’t that so? I understand this is an excellent region for raising cattle.”

Lars shrugged. “Some folks have done all right with cattle. Sheep fare better here.”

At the risk of alarming Henry by divulging too much of their secret, Elizabeth persisted. “You must know the Rodriguez family, I’m sure.”

He gave her a sharp look. “Yes, I know them. Of course I know them. Their people have been around here for generations.”

And yet he was not aware of the Rodriguez family who ran a thriving cattle ranch? Elizabeth wondered if the Arboles Valley was larger and more populous than Henry had led her to believe. She was about to jog the farmer’s memory when Henry spoke up. “What crops do you raise on your farm, Mr. Jorgensen?”

Elizabeth recognized his attempt to change the subject and let the matter drop.

“I work my brother’s farm,” replied Lars. “He raises sheep, barley, and apricots. Sometimes he tries his hand at another crop just to see how it fares, but sheep, barley, and apricots are our mainstays. That was a load of wool bound for Los Angeles you helped me unload back at the station.”

Suddenly the wagon pitched as a wheel rumbled over a pothole in the hard-packed dirt road. Instinctively Elizabeth gasped and clutched the seat. Lars glanced at her, and something that could have passed for a smile briefly appeared in the tanned leather of his face. “Road’s a little rough in parts,” he said. “It’ll smooth out once we cross over the grade.”

“I don’t suppose there are any plans to improve the road?” asked Elizabeth, her teeth rattling with each jolt of the wagon. In the wagon bed, Henry muffled an exclamation as a trunk slid into him. China rattled. Elizabeth hoped fervently that the quilts the Bergstrom women had made would see the precious wedding gifts safely the remaining few miles of their journey.