Love’s Journey Home (17 page)

“Nee, I’d rather they get what’s left of the alfalfa cut and spread so it can dry.
We want to be able to turn it tomorrow and bale it later this week.” Thomas drank
deeply from his glass, then set it aside. He jerked his head toward the road. “Someone’s
coming. Looks like a car with all that dust it’s kicking up.”

Gabriel swiveled to follow his gaze. A huge silver pickup truck, not a car, roared
along the dirt road that led from the highway to the Brennaman house. They stood in
silence, watching it make a trip in a few minutes that took ten times as long in a
buggy. Gabriel had ridden in vehicles enough to know the driver wouldn’t be smelling
the fresh cut alfalfa or seeing the birds flock in the tree along the road. The scenery
would be a blur and the smells kept outside by the rolled-up windows. Inside, music
would blare from the radio and fake pine scent would waft from a little tree hanging
from the mirror.

Faster wasn’t always better. Just different.

The truck with its shiny silver paint and brilliant chrome churned to a stop, fumes
belching from double pipes in the back. Two men dressed in matching pale brown suits
and skinny bolo ties emerged the second the engine ceased to roar. One was tall and
bony, the other short and looking like he’d eaten more than his share of pie.

“Howdy, folks.” The tall, bony passenger clomped toward them in slick, brown cowboy
boots, his hand extended toward Gabriel. Gabriel took it, shook, and let go. The man,
who had clammy, soft skin, grinned, his teeth brilliant in his tanned face. “You must
be Thomas Brennaman. I’m Craig Shore. This is my partner, Bill Carpenter. We’re interested
in buying your property.”

“I’m Thomas Brennaman.” No note of welcome marked Thomas’s words. Nor did fear, anger,
or emotion of any kind. “This property is my family’s farm.”

Craig Shore’s gaze darted to Thomas, his interest in Gabriel gone flat. “We represent
a consortium out of Wichita interested in developing any potential oil reserves that
may be available in this great state of Kansas. Oil is vitally important to the future
of this country—”

“Mr. Shore,” Thomas interrupted, his voice gruff, but respectful. “Mr. Shore, the
decision to sell this property isn’t mine.”

“You said the property belongs to you.” Bill Carpenter, who smelled of cigarette smoke
and a heavy, sickening scent of cologne, looked confused. “Did you get another offer?
Is it one of the big oil companies? We can match their offer…”

Shore held up a hand. “I know a little about these people, Bill. I’m sure what Mr.
Brennaman means is he will have to check with the rest of the good people of his community
before he considers an offer.”

“It’s a great offer, Mr. Brennaman.” Bill Carpenter slid right back into his pitch,
seeming to ignore the irritated look on his partner’s face. “We’re authorized to offer
you a pretty penny for it. You got what—a hundred acres here? You won’t do better.
You’ll be so rich you could buy a dozen farms with what you make. Just think, you
could build a mansion for that bunch of kids I saw out there picking apples in those
trees by the road. Those kids are gonna need an education. College costs money.”

When Carpenter ran out of air and paused to take a breath, Thomas gave him a kindly
nod. “The name’s Thomas. I’m not interested in a dozen farms or a mansion. We educate
our children ourselves.”

The two men looked at each other, their expressions incredulous. The tall, bony man,
Shore, recovered first. “We’re talking three thousand an acre. I might be able to
get more. The people I represent—”

“I don’t mean to be rude, Mr. Shore, but what happens to this property is a matter
that will be decided by our bishop who will consult with the other men of our community.
We’ll decide together.”

“You people will want to make up your minds quick. The offer’s only on the table for
a short time.” The short, pudgy man’s voice increased in volume as if he thought Thomas
might be hard of hearing. “We have other irons in the fire. Other properties we’re
looking at. It would be in your best interest to act now.”

“When can we meet this Mr. Bishop?” Shore broke in. He appeared as calm as his friend
was agitated. He tugged a package of cigarettes from the inner lining of his suit
coat, extracted a cigarette, and offered the package to Gabriel. He shook his head,
so did Thomas. The man proceeded to light his with a practiced motion. “As my colleague
mentioned, we’re on a timeline here. We need to get moving, get into production.”

The reek of cigarette smoke in his nose, Gabriel quelled an urge to cough and to tell
him he should move along on his timeline, but Thomas’s simple approach was better.
The man had the patience of Job. “We’ll let Micah know that you have expressed an
interest.”

“In the meantime, can we see the spot where you sprung a leak?” Shore sounded as eager
as a boy anxious to go on his first hunt. “We’d like to take a look at the existing
infrastructure to determine what we’ll need to bring in.”

“Sprung a leak?” Gabriel spoke despite his intention to remain silent. The man rubbed
him the wrong way, try as he might not to take offense at phrases like
you people
. “It’s a farm, not a boat.”

“Of course it is.” Shore turned back to the truck. He tugged open the door and pulled
a long roll of white paper from the cab, slid off a rubber band, and unrolled a map.
“Is it here? Is it close to the road? How much of a problem will getting our trucks
in be? Do we need to clear an access point? Of course, we’ll need to clear and level
the land before we create the access road for our equipment. We’ll need to bring in
diesel engines—you folks don’t have electricity, do you? So we’ll need electrical
generators. The diesel engines will power them, you see. We’ve got the hoisting system,
the derrick…”

“You’re getting the horse before the cart.” Even Thomas’s patience seemed to wane,
even though his tone remained calm. “I’ll let Micah and the others know of your interest.
No decisions have been made. We’ll talk and we’ll think.”

“Talk is good. Doing is better.” Carpenter folded his arms over a gut that bulged
through his fancy jacket. Sweat rings soaked his armpits. “We heard you folks can’t
make a living anymore. You lost your wheat crop. How are you gonna feed your family
this winter? I’m hearing you don’t have the money to pay your property taxes? Doing
is better, Mr. Brennaman. We can write you a check today.”

“Thomas told you what he’ll do.” Gabriel took a step closer to his friend. He tipped
his hat to the two men. “Thank you for coming by. Careful pulling out up at the stop
sign. The trucks on the highway speed by real fast up there.”

Shore gave him the shrewd up-and-down look of a man assessing livestock at an auction.
He scratched a spot on his neck, then turned to his partner. “We better get back to
town. I got a meeting with a real estate agent about some office space. I also want
to take the mayor’s temperature, she might be able to…” He glanced from Gabriel to
Thomas and then seemed to think better of the monologue. “Give me the keys. I’ll drive.
You drive like an old lady.”

Carpenter mumbled something about wanting to live to see another day and tossed the
keys to Shore. “Give us a call…Sorry…we’ll come by in a day or two, give you a chance
to talk and to think. We can get our lawyers to draw up the necessary paperwork. You
won’t have to do a thing, except cash our check.”

Shore paused at the truck’s door, then quickly retraced his steps. He pulled a small
white card from a leather holder and handed it to Thomas, who took it with obvious
reluctance. “I know you people don’t have phones, but I imagine that bishop fellow
does. Or access to one. This is my card. Ask him to give me a call when you’ve had
your pow-wow. Thanks, man. Thanks for taking the time to meet with us.”

As if they’d been given a choice.

He slapped Thomas on the shoulder and once again held out a hand to Gabriel. Courtesy
dictated that he take it. The moist, soft skin made him want to wipe his own hand
on his dirty pants.

Shore got in the truck and pulled out, leaving behind a cloud of dust that billowed
all the way to the porch. Gabriel held his breath until it settled down. Thomas threw
out the water in his glass and poured a fresh one from the pitcher sitting on a table
next to the hickory rocking chairs.

“Well.” Looking sheepish, he smiled at Gabriel. “Don’t that beat all?”

“Don’t it, though?” Gabriel plopped down in a chair. “What’s a consortium?”

“I don’t know.” Thomas sprawled out his long legs and took another swig of water.
He removed his hat and poured the rest of the water over his head. It streamed down
his face and darkened the collar and the front of his shirt “Whew, that feels good.
It’s mighty hot this afternoon.”

“What happens now?”

“It’s not up to me or you.” He blotted the remaining water on his face with his bandana.
“If it’s best for the community, it will be best for me and Emma and the children.”

“That’s a lot of money.”

“It is. The very reason Micah feels we must go.”

“I understand.”

“I’m not sure Emma will.”

“She’ll do what you want her to do.”

“I know.” Thomas’s tone held a thinly veiled note of pain. “She’s a good fraa.”

A pain all his own jabbed Gabriel in the gut. Thomas and Emma had the bond of man
and wife. Thomas didn’t like the idea of hurting his fraa. Even if it were for the
right reasons.

Gabriel longed for that bond. At moments like this he missed Laura with a longing
so deep it drowned him. He tried to swim his way to the top so he could catch his
breath. He swallowed and studied the horizon. The silence stretched.

“She’ll want to do what is best for the community.” Thomas broke it first. He seemed
to be reassuring himself. “She always knows what’s best.”

Gabriel buried his own feelings under an avalanche of determined support for his friends.

“She does. You’re blessed.”

“I am.” Thomas glanced his way, his expression one Gabriel rarely saw on his friend’s
face. Uncertainty. “So are you. You will be again.”

Gabriel returned his gaze to the horizon. Not even with Thomas could he scale the
heights of the fence he’d built. “When will you tell Micah?”

“Soon. I know there will be more who will come. I don’t suppose there’s any hurry.
Might as well hear them all out first. Right now, I need to get into town and pick
up those shingles. I want to finish this today.” Thomas gave no indication he knew
he’d wandered into dangerous territory where Plain men generally didn’t go. He chuckled,
a sound with no mirth in it. “All this work on a house that won’t be mine much longer.”

“The next family who lives here—if it comes to that—will appreciate your hard work
and care when another big rain comes along.”

“Indeed.” Thomas clomped down the steps, stopped, and stared toward the corral and
the barn. “I was selfishly thinking of myself. You’re right. I’ll get what we need
to do a good job.”

Gabriel watched him walk to the barn, his long legs eating up the distance. Thomas
didn’t have a selfish bone in his body, of that, Gabriel had no doubt.

A
nnie laughed at the look on Emma’s face. Her sister didn’t like rhubarb much, but
she didn’t have to be such a baby about it. The strawberry-rhubarb pie had a sweet
tartness Annie loved. She scooted the pie plate back across the table that separated
her from Emma. All the awkwardness of the first few moments when Catherine had stalked
into the bakery disappeared over pie and iced tea and catching up on who had babies
and who was running around and who had moved away. Annie kept an eye on the door.
Most of her customers were Englisch, but the first Plain woman who came in the door
would recognize Catherine as someone who should not be here talking with her sisters.
God, I can’t. I can’t kick her out. She’s my sister. My sister. You love sinners.
We’re all sinners. We’ve all made mistakes. Who are we to judge? Nothing Catherine
says or does will draw me away from You
.

The mingled look of longing and sadness on Emma’s face sealed it. Even Helen, despite
the look of displeasure and distrust on her face, hadn’t suggested Catherine should
be made to leave. As a good friend who missed her own sisters, who’d married and moved
to other communities, Helen understood. She disapproved, but she understood the choice
belonged to Annie and Emma. Annie would willingly face censure from the rest of their
family and from the community in order to spend a few moments with her sister. Then
Catherine would go and they wouldn’t see her again. For how long, none of them knew.

For now, they were friends and sisters catching up on a visit. Like all Plain folks,
they loved a good visit.

Helen and Catherine both grinned as Annie defended her pie against Emma, who was arguing
over the merits of ruining a good strawberry pie with sour rhubarb. They had devoured
their pieces of the steaming hot pie with no complaint. Her sister needed to keep
an open mind about such things.

“My customers love this pie. Come on, it’s not that bad.” To prove her point, Annie
slid a second piece on her own plate, cut a bite with her fork, and held it up to
her mouth. “Have another bite. I have to get back to work soon. The afternoon crowd
will start flooding through the door any minute.”