3

 

The next day, Sage kept thinking about Lanae Petersen and her comment about the trail around the bend. She was a western gal all right. Why the devil did she keep coming back to his mind? It irked him, having the woman there at the edge of his thoughts.

Well, the devil could keep those tempting thoughts.

Or God, for that matter, Whom he was still mad at for taking Becca from this life while in the prime of her life.

“Oh, God, will I miss her the rest of my days?” Sage raised his eyes to the cloudless sky. “Why, why didn’t You take my life, too, when You stole my love from me?”

His ragged voice sounded wounded to his own ears. No use talking to the heavens. He’d done enough of such wasted talk over the years.

God had yet to answer.

Sure bet he’d lived with his horses too long.

As long as I don’t answer my own questions, I guess I’m still sane.

But the picture of Ms. Lanae Petersen, petite and fit, with short salt-and-pepper hair, wouldn’t leave him in peace.

Lanae had chosen her steps with care when she took off toward the barn, as though her muscles were sluggish. Yet she had an underlying familiarity with the roll of dirt beneath her feet. He should have asked where she used to live. Her reference to a ranch in western Nebraska made him wonder about her past. He pictured her in her denim jacket and skinny jeans. She’d even worn boots that were none too new. She had nicely defined legs, just like a good filly.

She had downright shined in the sunlight. The sparkles and lace on her jacket over some kind of riotous-colored shirt had brought brightness and life to his day.

Sage gave Freckles, a paint horse with only a sprinkle of white blotches across the rump, a curious look. “You can tell I’m in some kind of fine mood, can’t you?”

The mare didn’t answer.

Sage was comfortable with silence.

Silence is where he liked to live.

Or did he? His mind sure hadn’t been silent with Lanae and her colors bouncing in and out of his head.

Truck parked at the barn—the woman had even commented on his wheeled beast—he loaded up the dresser. After padding the corners, he tied down the furniture piece with bungee cords, then jumped in and headed north.

The drive to the farrier’s shop took him longer than it should have because he pulled off twice to answer his cell phone. He made arrangements for a new horse to be boarded come spring. And he took a call from his daughter, Lezlie. They talked about a good day for Jaxson to visit.

“Suppose my grandson’s grown another inch.”

“At least two,” Lezlie said with a laugh. “Love you. Gotta go, Dad. Bye.”

He shook his head over the fast-paced life his daughter led as a working single mother.

To keep Lanae out of his head, Sage mentally ran through his list for loading up the two pack horses for the western hunting trips. Placement of the packing gear on the horses—saddles, saddlebags, hobbles, and canteens—had to be arranged just so. He wanted to go over hitches and knots and the whole procedure the next time Jax came to the acreage.

Sage planned to use the opportunity to explain to his grandson how to get hold of the reins and practice backing up, working the horses onto the ramp and into an open trailer. He’d remind Jaxson to use simple commands like soft throat noises along with his knees.

Bet Ms. Lanae Petersen looks right at home on the back of a horse.

He shook thoughts of her off once again. Since guide horses mostly walk over rugged, rocky terrain, Sage pictured the route. He would lead Jax over a dirt road that was currently under construction. The knowledge his grandson gained riding now would come in handy when he took the boy on a guided pronghorn-sheep hunt as a graduation gift a couple years down the road.

The horse details and mind pictures of Lanae kept his thoughts occupied until he arrived at the row of western-themed businesses south of Platteville. Then he remembered how Lanae had reacted when he mentioned coming here and considered introducing the entrepreneurial women.

Lezlie had teased him a while back by calling Lorinda his lady friend. That’s what she was. A lady. And a friend, but that’s all.

Lorinda Watts had done a fine job with her shops, aptly titled Western Row, where variations of whatever a country guy or gal needed were most likely available. Local artists with a knack for leather works, jewelry, paintings, bronze, even wood chainsaw sculptures, now had a fine outlet.

When he pulled up, a kid was swinging around one of a handful of iron hitching posts outside the building. The child’s long, straight brown hair flew a beat behind. Sage couldn’t tell if it was a boy or a girl.

He strolled past the boots store where a bright display featured a mannequin couple arrayed in Western wear. The scene tempted a guy to step right in and buy.

For some reason, he pictured Lanae Petersen as the all-decked-out faceless female. No doubt, she even line danced.

So much for keeping her out of my head.

He entered the saddle shop, pulling in the smell of leather oils, new and old. He bypassed the old horseshoes in the farrier area and avoided the antique anvil on display. The smithy tool reminded him of his Grandpa Earl. He never wanted to be reminded of the old coot.

Sage went right to where Lorinda attended to tooling a design into Sage’s saddle.

“How’s business?” he asked in greeting.

“Just fine. Thanks to you, I’ve got a couple more saddle orders. But if a horse needs shoed in the midst, I’ll handle it.” She nodded toward the horseshoes and tools in question.

“Saddle’s looking good. How long?”

“You’ll have it by Christmas as promised.” Her wide smile and nod assured him.

Sage tipped his hat and left.

When he stepped back into the sunshine, reminders of the way Lanae had sparkled greeted him anew. An unwelcome curl of some long-ago-buried emotion crawled low in his belly. Sage wanted only two women to be in his thoughts. His dead wife and his daughter.

Get out of my head, woman!

A short time later, he turned off the highway and onto Platteville’s Main Street. He could have found Frivolities without the name scrawled across the window. The front door and display windows were so decked out in pine boughs and Christmas bows and some lacy ribbon stuff that he burst out laughing. No competition for Western Row at all. The stores were planets apart.

No way was he walking through that fancy door on Main Street.

Sage stepped on the gas and circled the block. He entered the alley and parked behind the store. The back entrance to the place was every bit as decorated as the front. And then some.

Greenery wound up the stair railing, around the landing and top deck. Fake poinsettias curved above the sliding door and off a second-story deck where lights twinkled in the shadow of the roof. Warmth and light invited a woman to knock and enter.

He wanted to run.

Who would have dreamt a place off an alley in downtown Platteville, Nebraska, could look so inviting. To women with shopping in their blood.

And scary to men.

Was Lanae Petersen a high-maintenance woman? He doubted it, the way she seemed so at home on the acreage.

Lowering his eyes to ground level, though, he wanted to jump right out and explore the mini courtyard off the back entrance. Complete with curved path, he took in the bench, small table, fountain, and handsome windmill created from stained glass. He would have done it different, added some rocks instead of colored mulch.

He accepted the unspoken invitation to move closer and was halfway to the door under the stairs when Lanae stepped through.

“I thought I heard a diesel rumble back here.”

“That you did, ma’am.” He didn’t want to feel so good at the sight of her.

“Sage, I do appreciate your manners. But please, you can use my name.”

He nodded but didn’t acquiesce.

“Let’s get to it.” Lanae strode past him and went to the nearest side of the truck bed. She propped a foot on the running board and stretched on her toes to unhook the bungee. Her energy and agility made a lie of her petite, feminine appearance.

Sage let the tailgate down and climbed inside the bed of the truck while she undid the remaining cord.

He let the cords drop and slid the vanity along the piece of supporting plywood. He had the antique against his chest before either of them spoke again.

Lanae scuttled around the front of the truck and under the stairs, where she held the backdoor open wide.

Mindful of the garden furnishings, he followed her inside. She pointed to a long counter just inside the door. Refinishing supplies—cans, brushes, rags, and tools—were lined up and waiting for the dresser.

Lanae brushed a hand down the side of her fancy apron. “We in Frivolities boast the town’s best flavored coffees. Want to come in for a cup?”

“Thanks, Ms. Petersen, I drink it black.” He backed out the door. “I’d like to take a closer look at this stained glass windmill outside.”

“Rainn Harris is the artist. He’s in love with my sister.”

Sage didn’t have an artistic bone in his body, except for his rock garden. He admired the stained glass work and hoped to meet the artist.

When Lanae returned with the coffee, Sage drank fast and thought it was a shame. The aromatic brew called for lingering over. “The day’s a-wasting. I best be on my way.”

“Thank you again for delivering the vanity.”

“Don’t know if it’ll ever happen, but I’ll give you a holler if I run across the mirror.”

 

****

 

I will include Jesus on this life journey.

 

Years before, Lanae had tried to refinish a buffet. She wound up making a huge mess of the oak veneered top, and had to turn it over to a professional.

“Thank you, Sage’s mother, or whomever. This vanity is solid oak. No veneer in sight. I am thrilled.”

She was also glad she started the project here in the back storage area rather than up in the loft, where the smell would have drifted down and scared away Frivolities customers. In the storeroom, she could crack the alley door open for ventilation.

Brushing on the solvent to loosen the old varnish on the top of the vanity, the active chemicals made her think of Sage. Rather, her reaction to Sage. The two times she’d seen him, somnolent feelings had started to bubble to the surface just underneath her skin.

The memory brought a smile of pleasure. She’d told her sister about her first sight of him. “You’ve always been a sucker for a guy in a cowboy hat,” Geneva had responded.

For sure, after meeting Sage, all desire to delve into the singles ads disappeared. She’d tossed her stash of newspapers right in the recycle bin when she returned from his acreage.

She slid on plastic gloves, smoothing the fingers. She pulled the handkerchief drawers out and stacked them next to the center drawer. One slot wasn’t as deep as the other.

“How odd is that?”

She looked underneath the vanity to check for mismatched support boards. Nope. One solid board, as she remembered from before. She fumbled for a flashlight and looked in the corners of the deep slots where the drawers fit. A piece of wood kept the short drawer from going all the way back. She slid her hand inside. The thin wood rolled up.

Lanae jerked in surprise at the touch of a different texture inside the opening.

Using the light again instead of her fingers, she leaned in close and spied a packet of folded papers and heavier writing sheets wrapped in faded red ribbon. Letters? The thrill of discovery made her tremble.

She imagined the letter writer spritzing the essence of perfume, autographing the air as well as the paper the scent Lanae first noticed when Sage showed her the vanity.

Did Sage know about this hidden space? Hadn’t he mentioned the vanity had been in his family a long time?

“I’d venture to guess he doesn’t know about this secret compartment, or he would have kept the contents,” she said, tapping the letters against the vanity top.

She set the flashlight aside and held the letters in both hands. The temptation was too much. She slipped off the faded red ribbon and smoothed out the top sheet.

“He definitely would have kept the letters, if...” She looked down at the rolling cursive script on the uppermost letter.

“I wonder if this Katherine, or even Ted, is a member of Sage’s family,” Lanae mumbled with a shake of her head. Did all women of a certain age talk to themselves? She couldn’t tell herself to get a life. She had one, thanks to Frivolities.

She unfolded the stack of letters, smoothing the creases. Then she fanned the sheets of paper to note the dates: 1959-1960. They were in order, earliest on the top, most recent on the bottom.

Lanae licked her lips. Her heart fluttered with curious uncertainty as she separated the top letter and laid it on the counter.

 

Monday

December 28, 1959

 

My Dear Ted,

I was so glad to hear from you. I was afraid maybe you weren’t around anymore, that you had followed your temper and took off.

But why, Ted, don’t you write more? I am so anxious to know whether you are working or not, and what you’ve been doing all this time. Please write all about it, won’t you? Last time I heard from you, you were working in the granary for your dad but wanted to go off and build city streets.

Is your mother working on your grandpa’s farm?

As for me, I’ve been doing about the same old thing, day after day. I help in the bakery until about ten or later when the early rush is done then I come out here to the country for the rest of the day.

Sometimes I feel married, cleaning the Forsell bachelors’ home. I imagine it’s your shirts I’m ironing.

I am thinking of going to Omaha in the spring and trying to get a better job. I don’t know if I will or not. I have several girlfriends working there now, and they didn’t seem to have much trouble finding work. I’ve had plenty of bookkeeping experience here at the bakery. I’ve been practicing on the typewriter, so I should be able to hold a good job if I ever got it. Our business has been pretty good. With so many women working in the new factory, they are baking less at home.

Did you get lots of Christmas presents, Ted? I fared pretty well, I think. I got two boxes of handkerchiefs, some perfume, bath salts, and powder, stockings, and a nice linen tablecloth from my girlfriend in Wyoming. Evidently she thinks I’m going to be married. She better guess again, unless a certain man I know takes the hint.

Say, by the way, Ted, I had my picture taken at Christmas, and it’s pretty good. I might consider sending you one if you’ll send me one of you. I’ve changed a little since you last saw me. I think I weighed about 132 or more then and only weigh 117 now. Fifteen pounds is quite a bit of weight to lose. The baked goods were getting to me. I think I look better thinner, though, and I feel better.

Do you think you’ll make it up to Platteville—

 

Lanae shrieked. “Platteville? This letter was written right here in town?” She continued to read:

 

...again soon? I long to see you, and to know you are well.

Write to me, dear, real soon, won’t you?

Love,

Katherine

 

Lanae turned over the floral stationery, noting again the date the letter was written.

“Who are you, Katherine of Platteville? Who are you, Mr. Ted with no last name?” The thrill of a mystery tickled Lanae’s stomach. “Well, Katherine, whoever you are, I imagine you’re a couple generations older than me.”

Would Sage have any idea who Ted and Katherine could be? She grabbed the cordless handset and punched in his number. He answered immediately.

“Sage, Lanae here. I’ve discovered the strangest thing. It’s so exciting. And mysterious.”

Lanae pictured Sage shooting her a smile of indulgence.

“There’s a hidden compartment in one of the handkerchief drawers. I found letters.”

“Excuse me?”

“Letters. In the vanity. Do you know anyone named Ted? Or Katherine?” She wondered if they were still connected. The silence was so heavy. “Sage?”

“Got another call.”