Bountiful, Hope County, Oregon—1879
Olivia Moore swiped the back of her hand across her cheek. She slapped away a trickle of tear, the only moisture visible as far as she could see in all directions.
Drought.
Such a simple word, but, oh, how complicated its reality was to her family. And not just to her family. All the other farmers and ranchers scattered across Hope County were suffering as much as Mama and Papa, with no hint in the cloudless sky of any relief to come.
“Oh, I hate this,” Leah Rose, Olivia’s youngest sister, complained. “I hate it, I hate it, I hate it!”
Olivia hitched the willow basket more securely onto her hip, crammed down another one of their father’s shirts with the rest of the laundry, and prayed for patience. “Nobody likes to fight the wind when they’re trying to work. But we must get the clothes inside before they get dirtier than before we washed them. You don’t want to scrub them again, now, do you?”
Leah rolled her eyes then yelped and rubbed her nose, her eyelids, and her mouth.
Another blast of hot air buffeted Olivia right then, its texture rough and sandpapery with the tiny grains of dry dirt it picked up as it gusted across her family’s ravaged land. She wrapped her arm tighter around the tree limb where Papa had tied one end of the wash line. The bark rasped her skin.
Not ready to go back inside the house quite yet, she propped the basket between her hip and the bare trunk then shielded her eyes with her free hand. The wind whipped her calico skirt into a froth against her legs, the flapping another unwelcome irritant.
Leah Rose muttered something, but the rising wind carried away the words. Olivia suspected it was just as well. More grumbling that echoed her own misery didn’t appeal just then.
She didn’t want to gather still-damp laundry any more than Leah Rose did. Still, Olivia couldn’t be too hard on the girl. She, too, wished things were as they’d always been, that the old rhythm of their pleasant lives still determined their daily schedules. In previous years, that late in the summer, nearly September, had meant days filled with the mad busyness of preparing for winter. Olivia had always worked with her mother as Elizabeth Moore canned, dried, salted, and helped her husband smoke the results of their efforts, the fruits of their land. The hardworking couple had made certain their family would have enough provisions to see them through the dark, cold months ahead. Olivia admired her parents’ diligence.
That year, however, diligence would not be enough.
“Oh, Livvy, I can’t stand it another minute!” Leah Rose threw a petticoat at Olivia, but before she could catch it, a gust of wind snatched it and turned it into a tumbleweed, rolling and bouncing just out of her reach.
She sighed and hurried after the voluminous white garment. “Go on in, then. I’ll be right behind you. When I’m done with the wash, you understand. Let Mama know for me.”
Leah Rose bent against the wind, dramatizing a bit more than necessary, and ran to the house. Once on the porch steps, she glanced back over her shoulder. “I will. And do hurry, Livvy. I want to show you my latest project.”
Leah Rose had the ability to turn needle, fabric, and thread into exquisite things of beauty. Olivia, while a competent enough seamstress, couldn’t come close to producing the fine needlework at which her youngest sister excelled. “I’ll be happy to see what you’ve accomplished so far as soon as I’ve finished out here.”
She chased after the elusive petticoat, the willow basket on her hip hampering her steps. But if she set it down, the contents would likely capture the swirling dirt. With every step she took, her irritation rose. Just as she came within a finger’s length of the renegade piece, the wind caught it, tossed it up and over, and then flung it against a large rock that in previous years Elizabeth and her girls had ringed with cheery blossoms. This August the flower bed around the boulder lay bare, the soil as dry and dusty as everything else.
Olivia rushed the garment, but the next blast of wind snatched it away again, whirling it across the rear of the house. Finally, when she was about to give up on ever capturing the infuriating piece of clothing, it slammed up against the privy wall and sagged in a pile onto the dirt at the base. Olivia grabbed the petticoat, shook it out, grimaced at the dirt stains it had gathered, and finally stuffed it in her basket, resigned to another session with hot water, lye soap, and the washboard.
Her temper didn’t tamp down as easily as the fabric did. Frustrated by her family’s situation, and aggravated by the rebel slip, she squared her shoulders and marched back over to the clothesline, her every step propelled by her resolve.
With renewed vigor, she yanked a pillowcase off its mooring, reached for a pair of socks, and then an old towel. In moments, she had stripped the rest of the wash from where she’d hung it not so long ago. When she reached the post at the end of the line, she leaned on it and paused to catch her breath, a difficult endeavor as the gritty air continued to batter her face. Through narrowed eyes she looked out over the Moore property—Papa’s pride and joy.
Olivia’s heart constricted, and she fought again for breath. As awful as the scorching, dusty wind was, she knew it wasn’t wholly to blame for her misery. Her distress stemmed from watching her dear parents work, work, work, and then, by virtue of a twist of nature’s fickleness, see all their efforts come to nothing.
In the years since they’d come to Oregon Territory, her father had plowed and planted his fields as soon as spring deemed the land ready. For the last two years, however, the plants had battled to drink what little moisture the land provided, and when the sturdy shoots had broken through to the sunshine, they’d been ravaged by the sudden arrival of swarming airborne beasts that descended on the young crops. The ravenous grasshoppers had left nothing behind.
Despite the weather, Olivia lingered outside. She couldn’t bear to see the worry that drew deep lines down either side of Mama’s mouth again, nor hear the strain in her mother’s voice. She didn’t know what she would do in an hour or so when Papa dragged himself inside for whatever Mama put together and passed off as that night’s supper. The ruts etched across his forehead and those that fanned out from the corners of his eyes made her heart ache with futility.
Mama and Papa hadn’t meant for Olivia to overhear their late-night conversations. But she had. At the age of nineteen, she was no child. By all rights she should have been married already, and maybe even a mother, as well, like her friends Adelaide Tucker and Rosie Thurman. But so far she hadn’t been tempted to take that step with any of the very few marriageable men in town, and her parents hadn’t pushed, to her great relief. She’d yet to meet the man who appealed to her enough to make her consider the momentous change.
She’d been happy to stay home. She helped Mama with the younger children, and with the never-ending work around the house. She also helped her father and the boys with whatever she wheedled Papa into letting her do out in the barn.
But even those welcome chores had vanished with the last of the grasshoppers. Papa had been forced to sell Olivia’s sheep when he no longer could provide properly for them. There was little feed anywhere, and whatever could be found came at a dear cost indeed. Faced with the choice of feeding animals or feeding his children, Stephen Moore hadn’t even blinked. He’d sold a fair number of the Moores’ prized cattle as well.
The small sum Papa had realized from that sale hadn’t stretched far enough. Olivia wasn’t supposed to know what her parents had resorted to, but she’d struggled with sleeplessness during the last couple of months as their circumstances had worsened, seemingly by the day. Papa’s anxious words during the late-night conversations had confirmed her unsettled feeling.
He’d been forced to mortgage the property.
“Livvy!” Leah Rose called.
“Coming—” Olivia tried to respond, but her dry mouth turned the word into a croaked rasp. She ran her tongue over her parched lips, grimacing when she tasted the dust there. She started toward the house and gave her answer another go. “I’ll be right there.”
At the top of the porch steps, she cast a final glance down the long brown drive. It was as dry and dreary as it had been the last time she’d looked that way, scant minutes earlier.
“Well, Lord,” she said. “I trust you will show me what I’m to do at a time like this. I’m not a child anymore. Surely you have something for me to do. I refuse to be nothing more than another mouth for them to feed here at home. Show me, Father, but please don’t take too long. Our situation is dreadful. Winter isn’t far off now. And when it comes…”
She couldn’t let herself think of that right then. She had to focus on solutions rather than the frightening what-ifs. There had to be a way for her to help her father and mother. Even if she had to leave the home and family she loved.
“Livvy!” Leah Rose cried again, impatience in her voice. “You said you were coming.”
As Olivia closed the front door behind her, a sharp pang crossed her chest. She was going to miss her little sisters… her brothers… her parents… their home… Once she discerned the Lord’s leading, of course.
Until then, she’d relish every minute she was blessed to spend with them.
“Here I am, silly!” she answered, drenching her words with more enthusiasm than she felt. “Let’s see that needlework of yours.”
Sunday morning, Reverend Alton delivered a thought-provoking sermon on 2 Corinthians, third chapter, third verse, where he exhorted his congregation to be living scriptures for the lost world, flesh and blood illustrated lessons on God’s abundant blessings. After the final hymn, Olivia followed her family outside the church, her Bible hugged close against her chest, her soft drawstring leather purse slung from her right elbow. The fierce winds of the past week had finally calmed, and the fine dirt that had roughened the air had settled down once again.
While the sky remained as relentless in its clear blue brightness and the ground as persistent in its dusty brown dryness, the temperature had dropped enough to make midday almost bearable. Olivia had dressed in her best slate-gray serge skirt, white blouse, and fine blue fitted jacket. She appreciated any chance to dress up, since at home, with work always needing to be done, simple cotton calicos made the most sense.
Before the Moore family left home for the service that morning, Olivia had told her mother and father that Adelaide Tucker, her dearest friend, had invited her for lunch—and, of course, for Addie to show off three-month-old Joshua Charles Tucker, Jr., her pride and joy. Olivia missed Addie since her friend had become a married lady. As much as there was at home to keep Olivia busy, Addie had far more on her plate, what with all her responsibilities as wife and new mother.
“You’ll meet us back here by three, right?” Papa asked after Olivia’s two brothers had left to find their friends. Mrs. Alton approached Mama and the younger girls, since the pastor and his wife had invited the remaining four members of the Moore clan for the noon meal.
“Oh, yes,” Olivia said. “I’m sure Addie will be tired by then. She’s told me Baby Josh keeps her up for hours most nights, and she must steal naps whenever he sleeps. She and Joshua have been trying to teach their sweet little one that nights are for sleeping, but that lesson seems to hold no interest for him.”
Mama traded glances—and knowing smiles—with the pastor’s wife. “It does happen with some little ones. I suppose you might have been too young to remember, Livvy, but your sister was like that, too. Marty took almost a year to figure out what sunset meant.”
“Poor Addie!” Olivia shuddered. While no one could accuse her of laziness, she did enjoy crawling under her blankets, and most nights she dozed off right away. “I won’t tell her about Marty—”
“Hey!” the Moore family’s tomboy yelped. “I learned, didn’t I?”
Olivia fought a laugh. “Of course you did, Martha Jean. And, I’m sure, not a moment too soon for Mama and Papa.”
Chuckling at Marty’s glare, and aware of the time passed as they’d visited with Mrs. Alton, Olivia set off toward Addie and Joshua’s neat clapboard house. While the church sat on the eastern edge of Bountiful, Joshua’s parents had built their home in the center of the small town, next to their thriving livery stable. Now that the elder Tuckers were in heaven with the Father, Josh ran the business, while Addie ran their household with easy efficiency and good humor.
Olivia enjoyed any opportunity to catch up with her friend as much as Addie did playing hostess.
Her stroll from the church to Addie’s place had her crossing the road a few houses down from Reverend and Mrs. Alton’s home. A final glance back showed Leah Rose and Marty standing to a side while Papa helped Mama up the front steps and into the generous-sized white house. Her younger brothers were… well, Olivia hadn’t heard where the boys planned to spend the afternoon, but she suspected they might be with the Carters, since that family abounded in high-spirited boys.
As she hurried down the wooden sidewalk toward Addie’s home, a burst of children’s laughter at Olivia’s left caught her attention. A chorus of shrill girlish cries followed, as they evidently headed toward her.
The loud guffaws grew more raucous.
The frantic screams grew more frenzied.
The commotion resounded from the alley up ahead. She quickened her pace, curiosity piqued. Before she reached the mouth of the alley, a trio of little girls, around the age of eight or nine, burst into the street, white-faced, their wails near to hysteria, their shoes kicking their Sunday dresses into a froth of skirt and petticoat.
Seconds later four boys, in their Sunday best as well, darted out from the alley and surrounded the girls, fencing them into a huddle in the middle of the street. Fortunately, Sundays saw little traffic once churchgoers left for home.
“We got ’em now, Luke!” a freckle-faced, red-haired imp yelled as he ran circles around his anxious victims. “Hurry up afore they get away.”
The towheaded boy with chocolate eyes joined in with his own taunt. “Fraidy-cats.”
All four closed ranks around the girls, their laughter destroying the afternoon’s peace. The high-spirited quartet made for a lively, if frightening, cage for the captives.
As Olivia marched toward the children, a new sound joined the cacophony. Grunts and snuffles grew louder, ushered in by a dusty dervish that stampeded past her. A dervish otherwise known as…
“A pig!” Olivia backed up flat against the front window of Mrs. Selkirk’s charming new millinery store. She was not about to step into the swine’s path.
A fifth boy, this one with jet-black hair tumbled down over a pair of brilliant blue eyes, followed on the heels of the monstrous hog.
“Go on, go on, go on!” He yelled, stomped his feet, and smacked two sticks against each other, urging the filthy creature along.
His cronies laughed so hard that the red-haired one fell in a heap onto the dusty road. The little girls tried to flee through the opening his fall created, but the hog went for that exit route at the same time. As the girls ran past, three pretty Sunday dresses picked up dirt from the pig’s coat.
The girls’ wails multiplied.
The boys’ laughter did as well.
The hog tore off between two buildings, his hooves kicking up a dust storm all their own. “I’ll get him!” hollered the black-haired boy as he chased after it around the corner.
She’d seen enough. Olivia tucked her Bible between her elbow and her ribs as she hurried toward the children before the other boys ran off as well.
When Eli locked the door of the bank, the usual thrill at the sight of the gold-foil letters on the pane of glass sped through him:
BANK OF BOUNTIFUL
ELIJAH WHITMAN, JR., PRESIDENT
He breathed a prayer every single day, thanking his heavenly Father for helping him save the enterprise he and his late father had worked so hard to build. He’d come too close to losing everything two years earlier.
As he pushed away the memory of that painful time, he heard children’s squeals and laughter from not too far away. Then, a clear feminine voice called out, “Gentlemen.”
Silence descended.
He wished he had that kind of effect with his two youngsters every time he spoke to them. He slipped the key into his pocket, sighing. Things were fast approaching a desperate stage at home.
He stepped down to the sidewalk and glanced down the street. A young woman marched toward a group of children gathered in the middle of the road. The picture they painted piqued his curiosity. What parent would allow youngsters to run wild in the middle of town in their Sunday best?
Eli headed toward the group.
“Gentlemen,” the lady repeated in a firm, stern voice as he approached. “Which one of you would care to explain what this”—she gestured to encompass the entire scenario—“is all about?”
The boys grew mute.
The girls rushed to the lady’s side.
“Oh, Miss Livvy!” cried a petite blonde with bouncy curls. “They’re horrid, these boys. Look. Just look at what they did to my lovely new dress.”
The young lady—Miss Livvy as the girl had called her—dropped down to the child’s level, clearly more concerned about the besieged girls than about the possible soiling of her gray skirt.
“I saw what happened, Melly,” she said. “Go home now, girls. But as you do, would you please stop by Mrs. Tucker’s home and let her know I’ll be late? I might not even make it today after all.”
All three nodded and stepped away. Before they left, however, Miss Livvy seemed to have another thought. “If any of your mamas is upset with the state of your clothes, please have her speak to me. I’ll vouch for you.”
With a chorus of agreement, the girls scampered away. The young lady then turned to the tight knot of boys. “Now, gentlemen, what do you have to say for yourselves?”
“Ah…”
“Um…”
“Er…”
“Hm…”
When none of them responded, Miss Livvy prodded, “Well?”
Silence reigned on Main Street.
She went on. “Aside from the apologies you owe the three young ladies—”
“Aw…”
“Nah…”
“Really?”
“But…”
“Aside from the apologies you owe the three young ladies,” she repeated, “there is still the matter of that runaway pig.”
Eli stifled a laugh. A pig? He crossed his arms, enjoying the moment.
“Oh, no!” the red-haired boy cried. “Pa’s gonna kill me if he sees Rufus’s not back in his pen.”
Rufus. Eli smiled, he couldn’t help himself. Albert Brown, a friend of his son Luke, would soon be facing a dressing down, if not a switching, from his father. Mr. Brown put a lot of stock in his pigs.
Miss Livvy seemed to agree with his assessment, as her lovely features brightened with her own smile. “Perhaps you should have thought of that before you decided to torment the girls,” she told Albert.
“Uh-huh.” He took a step away from the gathering. “Reckon so. Yes, ma’am, I do.”
Miss Livvy crossed her arms, Bible and purse hugged close. “Not so fast. You have some friends here, don’t you?”
With a lingering look in the direction of the offices of the Bountiful Scribe, the town’s weekly paper, and the schoolhouse, Albert stopped. He wiped the dusty toe of one shoe on his other trouser leg. “Yes, ma’am.”
The other boys donned differing levels of worry.
“And did your pa say for you and your friends to chase his swine around town?”
He blushed under his freckles. “No, ma’am. He don’t rightly know Rufus’s gone.”
“Then it would seem that you gentlemen could well be called thieves. You took a hog that didn’t belong to any one of you. After all, Rufus wasn’t given to you.”
“Oh, but—”
“That ain’t how it happened—”
“Not so—”
“Nah—”
“And,” she said as though they hadn’t argued, “thieves are fair game for Marshal Blair, don’t you think?”
Four pairs of eyes opened wider than ever. The boys began to argue, their statements indecipherable since they spoke one over the other.
She went on in her calm, even voice. “So. What’ll it be, gents? Shall I send for the marshal or will you set things to rights again?”
“SOOO-oo-eeyyy!” shrieked the aforementioned porker as it reappeared, galloping back down Main Street toward Miss Livvy and the boys.
“There!” the lady cried. “A chance to do your duty, gentlemen. Catch him—Rufus—and return him before I’m compelled to fetch Marshal Blair.”
The boys pelted off after the squealing swine, each determined to beat the others to their quarry.
Eli caught sight of the three girls peering out from around the corner of Metcalf’s Mercantile. Apparently they’d stayed to watch the boys get their just deserts.
The girls squealed.
The pig did as well.
The boys pursued the animal, one of them managing to get a hand on its ear, but the creature changed direction, and the would-be captor fell to the dirt.
The girls laughed.
Jonathan Davidson, another of Luke’s friends, bounded upright and dusted off his clothes. “That’s not funny.”
“Neither was chasing us, Jonny!” said the small blonde. Her headful of ringlets bobbed with her indignation.
Miss Livvy donned a slight smile and seemed to settle in to observe.
Eli followed suit.
Young male glares flew toward the girls as they tried to capture the pig who, after his taste of freedom, did not intend to be caught. He darted and weaved from street-side to street-side, the boys in hot pursuit. The girls found the situation hilarious.
No matter how hard the boys tried, each time any of them came close to laying hold of the animal, the pig wriggled out of their clutches. The would-be trappers grew grimier with every pass, as the girls giggled and cheered on the elusive prey.
“Miss ’Livia!” Albert bellowed after he, too, landed face-first in the dust. “It ain’t funny. Make ’em stop laughing!”
Miss Olivia arched a brow. “The young ladies didn’t find being chased by runaway livestock particularly humorous, gentlemen.”
The pig turned back toward the way he had come, but a fifth boy, dirty and breathless, blocked his escape.
Eli recognized the fifth trouble-maker. In a flash, he stomped down the street, anger and frustration burning in his belly.
“Lucas Andrew Whitman!” he roared from just behind Miss Olivia. “What is the meaning of this?”