With Love from Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #2) (25 page)

Gregor Slovinski cleared his throat, shuffled his feet, and spoke after a moment’s hesitation.

“I don’ know if it iss goot for me to say, but d’ young man Tutley Baldwin iss vanting to sell his half of dat homestead. Perhaps ve shouldn’t talk aboud it anywhere else. I’m not sure his mudder knows.”

But apparently the folks at the table had suspicioned this, and no one looked too surprised.

“If you’re interested, Kerry, it would be worth looking into,” Angus Morrison said. “But, Gregor, it was my impression you wanted additional land yourself.”

“I been tinkin’ aboud it,” the massive man said, his beard and hair bright in a ray of sunlight coming through the window, “but dere are problems in it for me dat might not exist for a voman. Vat you tink?” Gregor looked around the circle questioningly.

“You’re right,” several murmured. “Yes, it would be better if a woman partnered with Della,” said another.

“Well, I’ll look into it,” Kerry said. “Now, Connor,” they were all on a first-name basis by now, “tell me about Bliss and why I should consider making this area my home. If indeed I should.”

It was a subject dear to the man’s heart, obviously, and he was an excellent example of the contentment Bliss could give. Contentment and satisfaction, the satisfaction that comes with hard work well done. The satisfaction that comes with taking something that is nothing and transforming it into something worthwhile.

When the rhubarb pie smothered in thick cream had been served and devoured, when Mam and Mary, never strong since the shipboard birth of her child years before, had been put down for naps, the table was cleared, the dishes done, and the farm toured, the day drew toward evening and chore time.

“I’ll take the girls home,” Connor offered, and he did so, offering further opportunity for Kerry to continue her interested questions, to feign fascination with Connor’s remarks, to glance at him from under half-lowered eyelashes and, finally, to grant him a lingering handclasp and a tantalizingly meaningful farewell at the stopping place gate. Gladdy sat, during the ride, as one hypnotized, eyes fixed on the far horizon, saying little.

Walking from the gate to the door, Kerry turned to wave a handkerchief of farewell to the man Connor Dougal who was, indeed, watching. With a small smile of satisfaction she turned to Gladdy’s face, expressionless in the dimming light.

“Well?” she asked.

“Well, what?”

“Well, how did it go, of course?” she asked a trifle impatiently.

“Charmingly, just charmingly,” a low-voiced Gladdy said. “And perfectly hateful!”

M
a,” Dudley began, his use of the shortened title an indication of the courage he was mustering.

Della turned from the dishpan, her eyes disapproving. But Dudley, holding on to his small victory, kept his eyes on a point somewhere over her shoulder. This was, after all, new ground.

“Sit down, Mum,” he said, softening a little, knowing full well the blow he was about to give his mother would have her reeling. It was a mark of his determination and his new and developing manhood that made such a confrontation possible at all. But could he carry it through?

I have to!
he thought desperately, as though struggling for his breath, perhaps his very life.

“Sit down?” Della asked, wary now.

“Yes, please.”

Della dried her hands on her apron and sat, leaning her elbows on the table’s oilcloth and fixing suspicious eyes on her son. Dudley wasn’t proving to be as amenable as she had hoped. What was he up to? Marriage? He was far too young—not yet twenty—and, hopefully, she could bludgeon, by force of will, such an impractical idea out of his head!

“Those young women that have just arrived in Bliss—” he began.

For a moment Della was indeed alarmed. Marriage with one of these outsiders? Totally ridiculous. Then, certain that they weren’t fools, she breathed more easily.

“What about them?”

“They, or at least one of them, is interested in investing in property—”

“In Bliss?”

Dudley sighed. “And Ma . . . I’m going to go talk to her about my half of the homestead.”

Della’s eyes were as large as sauce dishes. “What?”

“It’s mine to dispose of any way I want,” Dudley managed, before his mother’s full wrath descended in sound and fury on his senses.

Dudley closed his eyes, gripped his hands, bowed his head, and let the waves of vituperation flow over him. When it seemed Della was out of breath, he spoke.

“I’ll thank you to be decent to her when she comes—”

“Comes? Here? Are you totally out of your mind?”

“It won’t do any good to go on about it, Ma. I’ve made up my mind. I’m getting out of here, starting somewhere else. And I’m excited about it, Ma. Surely I deserve my chance, just as Pa did. If it isn’t this girl, someone else will come along sooner or later, maybe buy me out, maybe work the farm and send me part of the proceeds when harvest is done. It’s bound to happen. At any rate, Ma, I’m going to town now and see if this Keren Ferne will come and look the situation over.”

“Bring her!” Della said briefly. “Go on, bring her. We’ll see, won’t we?” She rose to her feet, went back to her dishpan, thrust in her hands, adding, “See this dishwater? That young miss never touched dishwater! Go tell her all about it—or get her, and I’ll tell her!”

Very shortly, Dudley was knocking at the Figbert door. When Ida opened it, she heard with surprise the young man Dudley’s inquiry. “Is the young lady here who was at church yesterday? The one who mentioned being interested in a place?”

“That’d be Miss Ferne. Yes, she’s here. Come on in, Dudley.”

Ida led the way to the “room” and said, “Keren, Gladys—” and the girls looked up from the letters they were writing. “This is Dudley Baldwin. I guess he wants to talk to you about something.” And with that, Ida went back to her work in the kitchen.

“Sit down, Mr. Baldwin,” Kerry said kindly.

“Dudley—it’s Dudley, ma’am.” Dudley called her ma’am though she wasn’t as old as he; but to him there was something regal about her that called forth this title of respect. “I heard about you being interested in an investment in Bliss. I have property I want to sell, ma’am. It’s my pa’s homestead, a quarter section about two miles from town. Buildings are all up, crop’s in, things are going pretty well as far as I can see.”

“Why do you wish to sell?” Kerry asked, as if she were accustomed to buying property, and making suitable inquiries of this person that was not much older than she, but who was, she supposed, infinitely more business-wise.

“Time for me to move on, ma’am,” Dudley explained, as if he were accustomed to selling property and moving on.

“I see. Mmmmm,” Kerry hmmmed blankly. Where to go from here in this spurious scheme to further her plans? “I see,” she repeated.

“Perhaps,” Gladdy interjected quietly, having had her say regarding Kerry’s revengeful attitude and wishing only to get it over and done with and herself away from Bliss, “we should see this property. Is that what you have in mind, Mr.—that is, Dudley?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Dudley turned his attention to the other young miss in the room and found himself fascinated. First by the bluest eyes he had ever seen, including Kezzie Skye’s, and
then by the most amazing hair anyone could imagine. He was tongue-tied before such glories.

“Well then,” Gladdy said as naturally as she could under such a gaze, “let us put on our hats and accompany the man.”

Man. Dudley’s status, until now bordering on change and in a state of flux—adolescent one moment, adult the next—made a dramatic leap. Never again, forever, would Dudley be considered anything but the man he had just been proclaimed. As though knighted by the queen herself, the mantle of adulthood settled on him, felt itself comfortable, and routed forever the youth who had been in uneasy residence.

Kerry supposed, having deliberately gotten herself into this fix, that she should carry through. Rising, she and Gladdy prepared themselves for the buggy ride and soon were on their way.

“I need to explain,” Dudley said as they approached what appeared to be a well-developed working farm, “that only half the farm is mine. The other half belongs to my mother. She might, when she sees I’m really getting rid of my share, consider letting her half go, too.”

Before Kerry had time to assimilate what this might mean, they were helped down and ushered into the whitewashed log house, small but adequate and clearly as neat as a pin.

“Mother,” Dudley said, “this is Miss Keren Ferne. And this—Gladdy McBean.” Why he hadn’t said “Gladys” he didn’t understand; it was as though he had already committed himself to intimacy with this glorious creature.

“Miss Ferne is interested in looking at the place, with an eye to investing. In my half of the farm, Mother, unless you would consider letting your half go. I know,” he finished doggedly, his eyes fixing his mother’s with a surprising firmness, “your folks back in Iowa write that they would love to have you there with them now that Pa’s gone.”

Della snorted most indelicately. “You’re out of your mind, young lady, if you imagine you can survive the realities of the bush. This is no play-pretty and no tea party for children!”

Kerry’s first reaction was one of distaste for the ill-bred response of the woman. The second was a feeling of relief.
Ah,
she thought,
here’s a woman who is going to make it difficult, even impossible, to do any business. Thank goodness!
Not really wanting to carry out her avowed purpose, Kerry was happy for the means of escape.

Nevertheless, the charade should be carried out. “If you’ll lead on, Mr. Baldwin,” she said clearly, while Della glowered in the background, “I’ll be happy to consider what you have to offer.” Following a stiff-backed Dudley, she glanced at the house, went through the barns, listened to his description of the acres under cultivation, and more.

The ride back to the stopping place was a quiet one. Getting out of the rig and turning toward the house, Kerry felt that she should be definite about the outcome of the visit to the farm, thus bringing to an end any false hopes Dudley might be harboring.

“I’m afraid it’s not quite what I had in mind,” she offered, halting but definite.

If she had been concerned for Dudley’s reaction, she changed her mind when she realized he was paying her little or no attention. Dudley’s eyes were fixed, in what could only be described as awe, on Gladdy. She, in turn, was absorbed with staightening her windblown clothing. Intent on her disarranged attire, Gladdy failed to see Dudley’s hand as it reached toward her hesitantly, tentatively, lightly touching the hair that had blossomed out of her hat into a tumble of curl and color. Quickly he pulled back when she turned and lifted her head.

But Kerry saw.

With Gladdy passing on into the house and Dudley standing beside the rig, his cap in his hands, his face a study—if ever love was seen to bud and blossom, Kerry had a ringside seat.

With a handshake and a word of thanks to Dudley, she followed Gladdy with this certain realization: There is no need to worry about her when I leave. Her future is outside, standing
dumbstruck beside a worn buggy, a cap twisting in his hands, a light as of the dawning on his thin face.

“Well, what do you know,” she murmured.

“I know,” Gladdy said crisply, “that his mother is not about to sell. If that man is set on getting away and starting over, he’ll have to do it independently. And I believe,” she added thoughtfully, “he’s just the man to do it. Peace River country? Sounds like heaven, the way he says it.”

As soon as chores were over, Dudley washed himself, combed his hair, put his cap on his head, and prepared to leave the house.

“And where do you think you’re going?” Della asked, her hands once again in the ever-familiar dishwater, this time washing the milk pail and strainer.

“Just out, Mum. I won’t be too late.” With that, the new Dudley went out quietly and walked down the road toward Gregor Slovinski’s place, even finding the peace of mind to whistle a bit as he went, dreaming a new dream.

“Hello, dere,” Gregor greeted. “Yust the fella I vas hoping to see. Come on in.”