Elm Creek Quilts [10] The Quilter's Homecoming (9 page)

“You’re looking at the improvements,” Lars replied. “Folks used to have to come over the Old Butterfield Road to the Camarillo Valley to haul our crops to the train. It was even steeper than this, and when it rained the wheels would stick in the mud so you’d lose half a day getting your wagon free. Everyone knew it was only a matter of time until a wagon overturned and someone got killed. So a farmer named Nils Olsen donated the land, and all the Norwegian families worked together in their spare time for two years to carve this route through the hills. They did it all on their own, with no help from the government except for the money the county gave them to buy dynamite to blast the boulders too large to move.” Lars regarded the road before them with pride. “They call this the Norwegian Grade in honor of those families.”

“They must be very proud,” said Elizabeth faintly. If this were the safer pass, she prayed she would never be required to take the Old Butterfield route.

The team pulled the wagon over the grade. At the summit, Elizabeth forgot about the rough road as she gazed out upon the Arboles Valley, a patchwork quilt of green and brown bathed in warmth and sunlight and framed by mountains. Behind her, Henry rose to his knees in the wagon bed for a better look. Elizabeth beamed at him as he took her hand, but she quickly returned her gaze to the breathtaking sight. She wished she knew which of the patchwork farms and ranches was theirs.

“What’s that?” asked Henry suddenly, indicating a shadow cutting into the gentle roll of the valley floor.

“That’s the Salto Canyon,” said Lars. “The Salto Creek runs through the bottom. Best source of water in the valley. The only reliable source when the rains don’t come.”

The description of their land included a creek; perhaps it was this one. Elizabeth shaded her eyes with her hands and eagerly searched the region around the canyon for landmarks from the photographs the land agent had given Henry, but from their vantage point, one cluster of oaks resembled every other. She wished Henry would take out his map and locate Triumph Ranch while they could still enjoy the view of it from above, but he would not risk divulging their secret too soon, even to one taciturn farmer.

They descended from the hills into the valley, and as Lars had promised, the road grew considerably smoother. They passed other farms and had a first glimpse of their new neighbors from a distance. Farmers labored in fields; a pair of dogs chased the wagon for an eighth of a mile before giving up and going home, tails wagging.

They had nearly reached the opposite side of the valley before the first real signs of a town appeared. They passed the Arboles Grocery, a modest, one-story wooden structure with a single gas pump out front. Farther down the road was the Arboles School, a newer, whitewashed building with a bell in a high cupola. Children played in the short, brown school-yard grass.

“Where’s the post office?” asked Henry. Elizabeth knew he really wanted to know how to find the land office, which was located within the post office, not an unusual arrangement for a town this size.

“John Barclay runs it out of his front room.”

“The post office is in his house?” asked Elizabeth.

Lars shrugged. “He is the postmaster.”

“How do we get there?” asked Henry. “And how early does he open?”

“Take the El Camino Real north from your hotel, turn right at the first road east, and you’ll go right past it. Barclay’s likely up at daybreak to care for his livestock. If you go to see him that early, you’ll find him in the barn. If you want him to leave his chores to take care of post office business, you should offer to help him or he’s liable to take his own sweet time just to spite you.”

“I gather Mr. Barclay’s a difficult man,” remarked Elizabeth.

“No more than any other man who’s well acquainted with trouble. Some folks might say he’s brought his troubles on himself—and I might be one of them—but what hurts him hurts his wife, and she surely doesn’t deserve any more heartbreak.”

Lars broke off and frowned deeply as if startled by his own frankness. Elizabeth wanted to ask him what manner of trouble and heartbreak had afflicted the Barclay family, but the set of his jaw made it obvious that he had said all he intended to say. She glanced over her shoulder at Henry, who was mulling over Lars’s words in bemused concern. Henry would not be content until the deed of trust was in his hand, and if what Lars said was true, acquiring it depended upon the goodwill of a temperamental man.

Surely Mr. Barclay would fulfill his professional obligations, bad temper or not. Surely the citizens of the Arboles Valley would not have chosen him as their postmaster if he was the sort of man to disrupt official business on a whim.

The wagon topped a low rise and approached an intersection with a broader, more recently paved road. “There it is,” said Lars, gesturing toward a two-story building on the other side of the street, high above them on a foothill of the scrub-covered mountains that rose dramatically behind it. “The Grand Union Hotel.”

It was the tallest, most stately building they had seen so far in the valley, freshly painted, with a broad wraparound porch, tall windows, and a second-floor balcony with a railing of turned spindles. Tall, leafy oaks lined the cobblestone drive leading up to the hotel, where Mr. Jorgensen brought the horses to a halt. The front walk was neatly kept, and the garden boasted several magnolia trees in full bloom. Around the side of the hotel, Elizabeth spotted a grove of orange and lemon trees with a walking path and a gazebo. Suddenly she felt a sharp, painful longing for home. Somehow this hotel, smaller and so different in appearance from Elm Creek Manor, reminded her of that beloved place.

Henry jumped down from the wagon and assisted her to the ground. While Lars helped Henry unload their belongings, Elizabeth took in the view from the porch and tried to peek inside the curtained windows. Then Lars tugged on the brim of his hat, wished them well, and turned the horses back down the cobblestone drive.

Elizabeth’s attention was drawn to the windowsill, which was pockmarked by many small holes. “What creature made these, do you suppose?” she asked Henry when he joined her on the porch. “An insect? A woodpecker, perhaps?”

Henry studied the holes. “That’s buckshot.”

“What?” said Elizabeth. “You mean someone shot at our hotel?”

“A long time ago,” Henry quickly replied. “Those are old scars. This is an old hotel. I’m sure it’s perfectly safe now.”

“Perhaps, or perhaps some of Peter’s business associates paid a recent call.”

“It’s safe.” Henry opened the door and gestured for her to precede him inside. “I wouldn’t put us up anywhere that wasn’t safe.”

“Not knowingly, you wouldn’t.”

“Elizabeth—” Henry waved her inside impatiently. “It’s safe. Go on in.”

She obeyed, reluctantly, and only because she did not think they had any other choice. Lars Jorgensen was long gone, and they had nowhere else to stay for the night.

Inside the lobby, the front desk was unoccupied, but Elizabeth heard voices and the clinking of glassware somewhere beyond. To her right was the doorway to a barroom, with a long bar that seemed to run the entire length of the building. Three or four men sat on tall bar stools, their backs to the lobby. Elizabeth wondered what they were drinking. If alcohol filled their glasses, they were making no effort to conceal it.

She looked to her left, through a second doorway leading into a Victorian parlor, which appeared to be unoccupied. Between the lobby and the parlor was a polished hardwood staircase spindled even more ornately than the balcony outside. The same small holes that marred the windowsill also riddled the banister. Elizabeth, hearing quick footsteps approach, gestured at the holes and raised her eyebrows at her husband to be sure he had taken note of them. Henry smiled weakly and shrugged just as a woman in her sixties entered through a doorway behind the desk. Her two dark braids threaded heavily with gray were coiled at the nape of her neck, her manner officious but cordial. “Welcome to the Grand Union,” she greeted them. “Do you need lodgings for the night or shall I show you to the dining room? Or perhaps you’d like refreshments in the bar?”

“We’ll be staying the night.” Henry reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a letter. “I’m Henry Nelson and this is my wife, Elizabeth. I wrote to you last month.”

“Oh, yes, of course. The newlyweds.” The proprietress smiled briefly as she skimmed the letter. “I’m Gertrude Diegel. Your room is upstairs. Do you need help with your luggage?”

When they explained that most of their luggage sat outside on the front porch, Mrs. Diegel suggested they store the heavy trunks in the staff area off the kitchen. Elizabeth and Henry agreed, and after summoning a porter, Mrs. Diegel led them upstairs. The staircase divided at a landing; they followed Mrs. Diegel up the righthand stairs to the east wing, down a narrow hall past several closed doors, and to their own room close to the end.

“It’s a single bed,” Mrs. Diegel warned them as she opened the door. “It will be cozy, but perhaps as newlyweds you don’t mind. Or would you care to take a second room?”

Peering inside, Elizabeth saw that the room was only about eight by ten feet, with a narrow dresser, a ladder-back chair pulled up to a table scarcely large enough to hold the vase of flowers set upon it, and a bed no wider than a single berth on the
Pacific Coast Limited
. It was smaller than Elizabeth had expected, but she did not want to spend the last night of her honeymoon apart from her husband, especially since their funds were dwindling and they had barely enough left to pay for the single room. Henry must have been thinking the same, for they both quickly assured Mrs. Diegel that a second room would not be necessary. Mrs. Diegel nodded, reminded them that supper would be served at five o’clock, and left them alone in the small room.

Elizabeth promptly went to the washbasin and pitcher on a dresser near the window, eager to freshen up and explore the citrus grove before supper. With a creak of bedsprings, Henry sat down and unfolded the map on the quilt, smoothing out the creases. “I think this is an older map,” he said after a moment. “None of the names of the families Lars Jorgensen mentioned are marked on any of the farms and ranches bordering our property.”

Elizabeth dried her face and hands and retrieved her brush from her handbag. “Is the hotel on the map?”

“No, but that doesn’t mean anything. This map only shows property boundaries, not buildings.”

Elizabeth ran the brush through her bobbed curls, unconcerned. “Land changes hands. Families change names through marriage. We’ll sort everything out at the land office tomorrow.”

“I’d rather go today.” Henry refolded the map, frowning. “I’d go this minute if I could.”

“They aren’t expecting us until tomorrow.”

“But John Barclay will be there, won’t he, if the office is in his house?”

“I suppose so, but if he’s as cranky as Lars Jorgensen implied, he probably won’t be happy if we show up early. What’s your hurry? Triumph Ranch is already ours. Waiting half a day won’t make a difference.”

“The sooner I can see the place with my own eyes, the better I’ll feel.”

“Really, Henry, what are you so worried about? Say we show up at the ranch and the cattle are sickly and the barn roof is half caved in. We can fix whatever’s wrong, and if we can’t, we’ll sell the land to recover our costs and go back home to Two Bears Farm. That’s the worst that could happen, and you have to admit that isn’t so bad.”

He looked up at her with such unexpected bleakness that she immediately regretted her flippant tone. She sat down on the bed beside him and kissed him on the cheek. “I’m only joking,” she said. “Everything’s going to be fine. Cheer up, won’t you? This is the last day of our honeymoon, we’re almost out of money, and tomorrow the real work begins. Let’s have fun while we still can.”

Henry closed his hand around hers and gently stroked her cheek. “You’re right,” he said, but the worry did not completely leave his eyes.

Elizabeth persuaded Henry to join her on a stroll along the walking path that wound through the orange and lemon trees. They found a stone bench beneath a shady oak and sat down to take in the view of the Arboles Valley, less dramatic than from the Norwegian Grade, but still lovely. Henry’s old confidence returned as he pointed out the direction of Triumph Ranch and what he thought was the western boundary of the property.

“Tomorrow we’re going home,” he promised. “We’ll have lunch in the kitchen of the Rancho Triunfo and sleep in a comfortable bed.”