Where Wildflowers Bloom: A Novel (11 page)

Faith stepped into the parlor where Grandpa sat in his green-upholstered wing chair staring out the front window. Leaves on the maple tree spun in the morning breeze. “Are you ready? It’s half past eight.”

“You go ahead. I’m staying home today.”

Disquiet buzzed through her. “It’s Tuesday. We have to open the store.”

He frowned. “I know it’s Tuesday. Do you think I’m a simpleton?”

Faith blinked at his sharp words. “Then why aren’t you coming with me?”

“Don’t feel like it.” He rested his head against the antimacassar draped over the chair back. His age-spotted hands lay quiet in his lap.

She placed her fingers against his stubbled cheek. Grandpa always shaved. The buzzing inside grew louder. “Are you ill?”

“Sick at heart. Just let me be for a while.”

“Shall I bring your manuscript home at dinnertime?” She kept her voice bright.

“No. I sat down there all day yesterday with nothing to say. Makes no sense to pretend to be busy.” He pointed at the clock. “Run along. I’ll be fine.”

Faith kissed the top of his head. Controlling her trembling lips, she said, “See you at noon.”

“Fine.”

Once out the door, she fought tears, wondering how she’d keep an eye on Grandpa if he wasn’t working in the shed. Drat Royal and his recollections. At the moment she wished she’d never laid eyes on him.

“Faith, would you come out here, please?” Rosemary called.

She brushed dust and cobwebs from her apron. Casting a last look at her project, she hurried through the burlap curtain dividing the storeroom from the front of the mercantile. A young couple stood holding hands under the “Necessities for the Trip to Oregon” poster. He sported a trim beard and moustache and she wore a sunny yellow calico dress. From the glow on their faces, Faith guessed they were newlyweds.

Rosemary stepped forward. “Mr. and Mrs. Potter are outfitting a wagon for the Oregon trail. I thought you could best assist them, since you’re planning the trip yourself.”

Mrs. Potter turned to her, eyes alight. “Are you and your husband joining our company?”

“I’m not married. My grandfather and I are going together.” She bit her lip against the tiny lie. After today, he’d have to admit a fresh start was what they both needed.

“You’d best sign on with a good wagon master,” Mr. Potter said. “That trail shows no mercy to stragglers.”

“I do know that, Mr. Potter. May I have the name of the captain of your party?”

“Alonzo McGuire. He’s made the journey several times.”

Faith scribbled the name on a scrap of paper on top of a display case. “Does he live in Noble Springs?”

“He’s currently residing at the hotel by the train depot. He’ll be there until we’re ready to leave—probably by the end of May.”

The hotel. Friday night’s dance seemed long ago, rather than only four days. From what her customer said, she had less than a month to sell the business and prepare a wagon for the journey if she planned to leave with McGuire’s outfit. And she did plan to leave.

Mrs. Potter dropped her husband’s hand. “We’ve read over your list.” She pointed at the wall. “Do we have to have everything? After paying what Mr. McGuire charges, we must guard our cash.”

Faith scanned the placard. She’d read Randolph Marcy’s book so often she had most of the contents memorized. “The journey will take at least a hundred and ten days. You’ll need a minimum of what I have listed. For instance, twenty-five pounds of bacon is a ration for one person. Same thing with the flour, coffee, sugar, and salt. Be sure to take a great plenty. West & Riley’s has the groceries. We have all the clothing and camp equipment.”

Mr. Potter rubbed his fist across his beard. “Let’s get started then.” He looked at his wife. “You select our clothes and medicines while Miss Lindberg shows me the supplies I need for the oxen.”

They left an hour later, their spring wagon loaded up the sides with necessities. Faith grinned at Rosemary. “Finally. I was afraid I’d never have a big sale.”

“If this wagon train is just forming, you’ll soon have many more customers.” Rosemary’s eyes moistened. “I’m happy for you, but I must admit to hoping you’ll never leave.”

“If you’d seen Grandpa this morning, you’d change your mind. He’s gone into his shell, just like after we got word about my papa and Maxwell. If I could, I’d take him away from here today.”

Rosemary tilted her head, an expression of pity on her face. “What if he doesn’t want to go?”

“Of course Grandpa will go. He keeps saying we have to sell the mercantile first. Now that business is on the increase, I’m sure we’ll find a buyer.”

But when Faith returned to the storeroom, Rosemary’s question echoed in her thoughts. The wooden crate she’d dragged to the far corner beckoned. She hefted a cast iron kettle over the edge, settling it on top of four blankets and a painted canvas cloth. Their supplies would be ready the moment they sold the mercantile.

Before going home at noon, Faith stopped at the newspaper office. “I have two advertisements for next week’s paper,” she said to Mr. Simpkins. She gave him the pages.

He fished his glasses from his coat pocket and read aloud, “Free piece of tea-leaf china with each purchase totaling fifty cents. Your choice. First come, first served.” He grinned. “So, if I spend two dollars, do I get four pieces?”

Faith nodded. “Spend ten dollars and I’ll give you the entire lot.”

Mr. Simpkins impaled the sheet on a spindle and read the second one. His eyes grew round. “You’re selling the mercantile? ‘Interested buyers call between the hours of nine to five.’ Does your grandpappy know about this?”

“We’ve discussed selling, yes.” Her heart fluttered at the half-truth.

“Well, I’ll be. Can’t imagine the town without Lindberg’s Mercantile. You folks made it through the war. Why sell now when things are looking up?”

“We’re going to Oregon.”

With exaggerated movements, he took several steps backward and flopped on his chair. “Judge Lindberg leaving. This is a front-page story.”

Faith gasped. “No. Not yet.” Grandpa had stopped reading the
Observer
after Papa and Maxwell were killed. Heaven help her if someone mentioned the advertisement before he’d given his approval. She forced a bland smile. “Wait until we have a buyer for the mercantile. Then you’ll have a bigger story for your paper.”

“I’m surprised you’d want to leave. I hear Royal Baxter finally made it back. You were right, no news was good news as far as those casualty lists were concerned.”

“We can’t make our plans around Major Baxter, or anyone else for that matter.”

He peered at her over the top of his glasses, chuckling. “You wouldn’t be the first gal to adjust her sights to suit a fellow.”

“I need to be on my way, Mr. Simpkins. Please let me know the cost of our advertisements at your first convenience.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He snapped a mock salute.

During the walk home, the truth of what he’d said broke through. Grandpa leaving Noble Springs
was
front-page news. She quailed at the idea that she might be wrong, then shook her head. She had to do something to help him. Oregon was the best idea.

Faith stepped into the entry hall. “Grandpa?”

“In here.” His voice came from the parlor.

She hurried to his side. “I brought your manuscript home. Thought you might change your mind about writing.”

He took the papers and dropped them on the floor beside his chair. “Thank you. I’ll put it away later.”

“Well, then, dinner will be on soon.” She swallowed a lump in her throat. “Potato omelet. You like that, don’t you? And jam tarts for dessert. I stayed up last night to bake them.”

“Anything you cook is fine. I’m not too hungry.” He stood, straightening his waistcoat over his collarless shirt. “I’ll be upstairs. Call me when the food’s ready.”

While the stove heated, Faith left the kitchen and walked to the stone springhouse to retrieve the ingredients for their meal. Inside, icy water bubbling from the ground poured over rocks before flowing out into the woods behind their home. She paused for a moment and pressed her forehead against one of the cool stone walls.

“Show me what to do,” she whispered. “I’m frightened.”

She stopped at Ripley’s Livery before she returned to the store. Curt had his back to her, currying a horse in the first stall. Faith lifted her skirt and crossed the straw-littered floor.

“Curt?”

He started, then dropped the currycomb into an empty feed bin. A pleased grin spread over his face. “Afternoon. Where’s your granddad?”

“Grandpa’s the reason I stopped by. He stayed home today.” She pressed her hands together. “I’m concerned about him. He spent all morning just sitting in the parlor, and hardly ate a bite of dinner.”

Curt stepped out of the stall. “Want me to stop by this afternoon?”

“Would you? I’d be so grateful.” Up close, he smelled like horses and fresh hay. She warmed at the pleasant reminder of her childhood with Maxwell. Their horses were another thing Grandpa sold when he learned of his son’s death.

“Be happy to. I like your granddad.”

“Thank you. You’re a blessing.”

He took a step away, tugging at his shirt collar. “Best get back to work. See you this evening.”

Curt certainly wasn’t one for long good-byes. She turned her steps toward town.