Lonely In Longtree (2 page)

Petunia waited for him at Doyle's Livery. As soon as he entered and spoke to the proprietor, he heard his mare's welcoming whinny. “It do beat all the way that animal fancies you,” Michael Doyle said after sending his stable boy to bring the horse out and saddle her up.

Monte paid for his horse's overnight keep, then sat on an outside bench to wait. Summer traffic rattled past on Chippewa Street. He found it difficult to recall how the island had appeared just a few short years ago—a peaceful cathedral of towering pines, their lofty tops whispering secrets on every breeze. If only more of those trees had been spared to shade and beautify the new town. . .

Homesteaders and developers seemed intent on stripping their land of trees. He could not understand this compulsion. Why should progress always destroy beauty? Tourists flocked to Minocqua for its natural attractions. His lodge, he determined anew, would complement its surroundings and satisfy a tourist's hunger for nature unspoiled.

Recalling his two newspapers, he unrolled one and scanned its pages for a note from Lonely in Longtree. If another month passed without a response, he would give up. Responding to that ad had been a foolish whim anyway.

No reply in the older paper. Trying to ignore a sense of disappointment, he opened the second one.
To Lucky in Lakeland
—his breath caught.

Clop, clop, clop.
“Here she is, Mr. Van Huysen.”

Petunia butted her head into the open newspaper and nearly tossed it to the ground. Monte's flash of anger expired as soon as he glimpsed the mare's affectionate expression. “Rotten beast that you are,” he said, hugging her head as she lipped his shirt buttons.

“I like your horse, Mr. Van Huysen.”

“So do I, son.” He slipped the lad two coins and a wink.

“Thanks!”

With his mail safely stowed in the saddlebags, he headed north on the Minocqua and Woodruff Road, letting Petunia choose her pace. “Thanks to your interruption, I didn't have a chance to read her response. I sure hope this isn't a goodbye letter or a ‘no, thank you.' I reckon you think I'm crazy, girl, but this little correspondence is the most fun I've had in years. Well. . .woman type of fun, anyway. I'll admit I've had some fun reeling in a walleye upon occasion.” He grinned and patted the mare's sleek neck.

Much of the enjoyment lay in anticipation. Playing games with himself, he put off reading the ad. Only after his stock had been fed and after a leisurely stroll with his hound along the lakeshore, listening to the warning warble of loons and the incongruously twittering call of a soaring bald eagle, did he allow himself the pleasure of satisfied curiosity. Settling into a chair on the shore, he snapped open the newspaper and read:

To Lucky in Lakeland: Your offer intrigues, yet I find your suggestions improper at this point in our acquaintance. I would know more about a man than his age and property before I would travel anywhere to meet him. Please describe your situation in greater detail if indeed your offer is serious. Why should I leave my home and move north when I already possess a comfortable situation here? The name “Lucky” carries unattractive connotations. Do you gamble? Smoke? Drink? I require a man of virtue whose life reflects genuine fear of God, not lip service. Lonely in Longtree.

Monte gazed blindly across the lake. . .and smiled.

One

Delight thyself also in the
Lord
; and he shall give thee the desires of thine heart.

Psalm 37:4

Summer 1893

A blessed hush dropped over the train coach. Doubtful that the peace could last, Marva glanced from side to side, gently bobbing eight-month-old Ginny on her shoulder. To her right, Jerry, age eight, slumped against her arm. To her left, Joey, age four, dozed in his seat, still clutching a toy horse in each hand.

Marva heaved a restrained sigh. Ginny stirred, and Marva resumed patting the baby's backside. Motherhood was exhausting. . .and these weren't even her children. How did Beulah manage at home? Probably the children weren't as restive in familiar surroundings. The constant motion and clamor of the train, the cinder-thick air, the heat, and the press of humanity must be nearly unbearable to a child. It was bad enough for an adult who understood why such discomfort must be endured.

Not that Marva was certain of the reasons herself. This “vacation” had been anything but restful thus far. She felt like an unpaid nanny. . .although, to be fair, she had offered her help repeatedly. How could any decent person watch friends struggle to control and comfort their six restless and bored children and
not
offer to help?

She should have stayed home to care for the farm. Traveling in company with all married adults and children served only to emphasize her singleness. She should have seen her parents off at the train station with a wave and a blessing. Ridiculous to imagine that—

The front coach door opened, and Myles Van Huysen entered. He met Marva's gaze and smiled, making his way along the narrow aisle. After a quick glance at his sleeping offspring, he shook his head with a rueful smile. “How'd you do it? You're amazing, Marva,” he said in hushed tones. “Want me to take over? Beulah finally got Trixie to sleep. Tim and Cy are with the Schoengard family.”

The children might wake when she moved, but their father would simply have to handle that eventuality. Marva's every joint ached from hours of immobility. She handed Ginny to Myles, who cradled his baby girl expertly. Extricating herself from between the two boys was more difficult, but Marva managed it with only a few minor mishaps—such as pulling the hair of the man seated in front of her when she grasped the top of his seat for leverage and crushing her hat when she reached up into the luggage rack overhead. Once in the aisle, she straightened her back and legs, expecting to hear the crackle and pop of petrified joints. But the train whistled at that propitious moment, so any evidence of fossilization was concealed.

Myles took her place between his boys. Jerry wrapped his hands around his father's arm and snuggled down to sleep again. Joey slumped across Myles's lap.

Feeling a sudden need for air, even the smoky air on the platform, Marva staggered to the back of the lurching coach and outside, where she clutched the railing and breathed deeply. As long as she didn't look down, the speed wasn't too dizzying. To her delight, trees obscured her view. When had the scenery switched from farmland to forest? Absorbed in entertaining the children and calming the baby, she hadn't so much as glanced out the train's windows in several hours.

The clacking of the rails changed in tone as the train crossed a bridge over a blue river, and then the train flashed back into the cool stillness of forest on the far side.

A gust of smoke swept over her. Coughing, she blinked cinders from her eyes and made a futile attempt to wave away the choking fumes. Her white shirtwaist was now gray with black speckles. Enough of enjoying the scenery. She hurried back inside.

Near the back of the coach, her parents sat peacefully reading and dozing. Mother smiled at Marva's approach. “No children?”

Marva pulled her small valise from the overhead rack. “Myles took them. I think I'll try to catch a few winks.”

“Your father says we should arrive within the hour. Isn't the view splendid? I'm so thankful you came with us, dearest. I know you've always wanted to travel and see the world.”

She'd been thinking more along the lines of New York, Boston, or even Paris, but the Northwoods would have to suffice for the present. Marva returned her mother's smile. “The trees are magnificent. What are you reading, Papa?”

He closed the book over his finger and gave her a sheepish grin. “It's a Western novel I borrowed from Timmy Van Huysen.”

“Once a boy, always a boy.” Mother patted his arm.

The book jacket portrayed a cowboy astride a rearing horse on a narrow ledge above a cliff. His rifle spouted lurid orange flame at an attacking mountain lion. Instead of remarking on the hero's obviously imminent demise or the lion's improbably scarlet mouth, Marva said only, “My, but he wears furry trousers.”

“Those are chaps,” Papa grumbled and returned to reading. “Women!”

“I'm thankful this is a fishing trip and not a lion-hunting expedition. I'm picturing you in furry chaps straddling a wild mustang.” Marva smiled at the thought.

“Those days are long past for me.” He glanced up at her again. “You used to enjoy fishing.”

“Oh, perhaps I'll try it again if you wish, but this trip promises to be more of a babysitting ordeal for me than anything adventurous.”

Although she had tried to keep her tone light, her mother's eyes narrowed. “Marva, you are under no obligation to watch anyone's children.”

She tried to forestall a lecture. “I can hardly enjoy myself if I know Beulah is exhausted and miserable. I was merely funning. I'm sure I'll find time to catch a bluegill or two.” She glanced around in search of empty seats. “If I'm asleep when we arrive, please don't leave me on the train.”

“Wouldn't matter much if we did,” her father said, “since Minocqua is the end of the line.”

Three rows up, she plopped into a window seat and set her bag beside her. Across the aisle sat a pair of strangers, sleeping soundly from all appearances.

Marva opened her valise and dug around until she located an envelope. Holding it to her chest, she glanced around once more. No one was looking. She pulled out a few newspaper clippings.

Lucky in Lakeland.
For two years they had maintained an awkward association by newspaper ads. Sometimes months had passed between notes, yet each time she had thought the correspondence might be finished, another note would appear in the paper. For two years she had waited for him to make some kind of move, some indication that he wanted their relationship to advance.

He often spoke of her and her parents coming north, but no definite invitation had been extended, no names had been exchanged. The entire situation was distressingly indefinite.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

Most likely, Lucky, as she now thought of him, had simply entertained himself for two years by encouraging a desperate spinster. Still, he sounded sincere. . . .

Lonely in Longtree: I am not a gambling man, and neither do I smoke or drink—although I indulged in all these vices in my distant past. God changed my life. I actually consider myself blessed but chose “lucky” for the alliteration. You are right to demand more information. In December of last year, I filed claim on a section within easy distance of several local towns, located on the shore of a sizable fishing lake, rich in wildlife and quality lumber, and, in short, representing my idea of heaven on earth. Having made substantial improvements to date, I recently purchased the acreage and intend to begin construction of a resort lodge. Might you take interest in such a venture? Lucky and Blessed in Lakeland.

She ran her finger over the yellowed slip of paper. The man might have deceived her these past two years. He might prove a fraud. But she still felt vindicated in writing to him on the basis of those four powerful words: “God changed my life.”

Dear Lonely in Longtree, I intend to hire a cook, a housekeeping staff, etc. Your role here would be entirely your choice. I hoped you might enjoy the venture as much as I do. Construction has started, and the log walls are going up. I wish you could come and see. Plenty of room for your parents to either live in the lodge or have a comfortable cabin of their own. Do you enjoy reading? Lucky in Lakeland.

Back then he had sounded eager to meet her, to show her his lodge. But somehow their discussions had rambled away from relationship into surface matters. Discussions of reading preferences and leisure pastimes had their merits, yet the friendship had never deepened. Did Lucky possess depths of character? Or perhaps he was the type of man who would always keep a woman shut out of his inner life.

But what did she expect? Any woman silly enough to bypass convention and advertise for a husband in the newspaper shouldn't expect a perfect match. Any woman sinful enough to bypass God's leading and strike out on her own couldn't expect rich blessings.

She slid the clippings back into the envelope, careful to keep them neat and orderly. His notes had revealed many clues to his identity. She knew that the train brought his mail into town, so he lived near a railroad line. She knew the approximate date his town had been founded. He owned and operated a new resort built from logs and located on a lake. He was unmarried, which she could only hope proved true, forty years old, clean living, and exceptionally well educated.

A lifetime habit of prayer prompted her to whisper, “Dear God, I know I shouldn't have started this mess in the first place, but please help me to find him.”

Yet even as she spoke the words, a conflict rose within her. In the vast Northwoods of Wisconsin, locating one man who did not wish to be located would be nothing short of miraculous. Why should she expect God to bless her rebellion? If He had provided her with a suitable husband in the first place, she wouldn't have been tempted to advertise for a man. But then again, God knew she would advertise before she ever picked up the pen to write that first inquiry, so why shouldn't He bless her feeble efforts to force His hand?

❧

Monte strolled along the train platform, his gaze scanning the sky until he found a circling pair of eagles—two dots against the blue. A gentle breeze rippled the lake, scattering the reflected trees. A horse's snort gave him an inward start, and he realized how tense he had become. This would never do.

He swung his arms back and forth and rolled his head from side to side until his neck crackled. He sucked in a deep breath and exhaled noisily, attempting a grin.

It was no good. Nothing could lure his thoughts away from the approaching confrontation. For weeks, doubts and speculations had milled within the enclosure of his mind like corralled mustangs, determined to break free. No matter how diligently he reinforced the fences with known facts, those wild-eyed doubts kicked and pushed and jostled until the facts splintered and fell. Wriggling through the gaps, the ugly worries stampeded his composure.

He wanted a drink. More than once he cast a glance along Front Street toward St. Elmo's Saloon. It had been years. Many long years. Surely one drink to bolster his nerves wouldn't offend the Almighty.

To distract himself, he returned to check the lineup of Lakeland Lodge wagons waiting near the depot amid vehicles from other hotels and lodges. Petunia and Buzz nickered at the sight of him, and he placed his hands on their faces for comfort. His own comfort.

Forty-two guests would soon arrive. Not his first large party; he'd had several. His drivers would competently convey the tourists and their luggage to Lakeland Lodge, where uniformed staff would direct them to their rooms or cabins. His cook and kitchen crew were even now preparing a divine repast for the evening meal. A small fleet of boats awaited the arrival of eager fishermen.

He felt confident of his lodge and its staff. They could not fail to please. No doubts on that score rankled his mind.

“Monte,” one of the drivers, who was also his friend and business partner, called out. “I see smoke away down the line. Train's coming.”

He waved acknowledgment. “Thanks, Hardy.”

Selling a half interest in the business had allowed Monte more free time to continue his writing. Harding “Hardy” Stowell was a good businessman and a brother in the Lord.

His worries whipped back like a compass needle returning to
North
. How long had it been since he last saw Myles? Eighteen years? Nineteen? What if he didn't recognize his own brother? What if, when he revealed his identity, Myles hopped back on the train and took his family with him? What if. . . ? What if. . . ?

Rising panic finally drove him to pray. “Lord,” he muttered through his teeth, “help me face him. Give me strength to admit how weak I've been.” Imagining a look of disappointment and condemnation on his brother's face, he grimaced. “I don't have any idea what to say. I should never have done this.”

A distant train whistle brought his head up. Black smoke drifted above the treetops across the lake. Monte returned to the platform. His leg bones must have liquefied. Bile rose in his throat. He swallowed hard and felt nauseous.

The locomotive's brakes started screeching while it was still on the trestle. Its deep
chuff
,
chuff
slowed, and the great billowing monster finally halted with its passenger cars beside the platform. Steam hissed in a white plume from its side.

He could hardly bear to watch the passengers disembark. The sun's heat became unendurable. His mouth was parched.