Dakota Territory—1879
Brigit Streeter ran into the small house, hooting with laughter. “Fulton and I just raced a rabbit,” she said to her father, “and we won.”
Mr. Streeter sighed, and Brigit knew she was in for the usual litany of Why can’t you act like a girl instead of a wild animal? Do you think this is a barn instead of a house? When will you grow up?
“It’s good exercise,” she protested as he opened his mouth. “It keeps Fulton healthy so he can pull the plow. Horses need to stretch out their muscles, you know. Plus, running and riding keep my arms and back strong. What would you do with a weak daughter?”
Her father seemed to shrink, and Brigit wished she could bite back the words she’d just spoken. She didn’t have the life he’d wanted for her, presiding over a grand house with lace curtains and plush carpets. Instead, she was a farmer, working just as hard as any son would. She knew it pained him.
She stepped behind his chair and threw her arms around his shoulders.
“Oh, Papa, you know I didn’t mean anything by that except that I love being here with you and I will never, ever leave you.”
He smiled, and she relaxed. The crisis had been averted—for the moment.
They’d been on this farm, just the two of them, since she was born. She’d never known her mother, who had died giving birth to her. All of Brigit’s life, there had been her and Papa, and it was enough.
It always would be.
But now Papa had a crazy thought rolling around in his head—that she should be thinking about getting married.
What a foolish idea that was. First of all, she had no interest in getting married. Second of all, there was no one in the entire Dakota Territory who was even faintly husband material.
That pretty well summed up her situation. It didn’t bother her one whit that her prospects were at best slim. She didn’t care. She was perfectly happy staying on the small farm with Papa, watching the sun set on the Dakota fields.
Days like these were precious, the first true moments of spring with their fragile beauty, so full of promise. She could feel life bursting from the land right into her veins.
“What did you do this afternoon, Papa?” she asked, flopping into the only other chair in the tiny room. This one was hers, and the thin cushion on it now fit her body perfectly.
“I went into town to see about some new boots. These are getting to the point where they’re like vanity: from the eyes they look good, but from the sole they’re sorely lacking.”
Brigit laughed at father’s pun. He was a God-fearing man, always had been, always would be. Even her mother’s death hadn’t swayed him from his abiding belief in the Lord.
“Papa, why didn’t you become a minister? You would have been a wonderful preacher.” It was a question she’d pondered for many years, and although she’d asked it before, she’d never gotten an answer that totally satisfied her.
“I’m a farmer. It’s in my bones and in my blood. A minister is a farmer, too, I suppose. He plants the seeds of hope and love and awe in the hearts of his congregation. And that’s lofty work. But me, I need to feel the dirt in my fingers, and in my hair, and yes, in the cracks of my feet.”
He lifted up his foot and smiled ruefully as the sole flapped away from the upper. “If I don’t get these boots fixed soon, I might as well go barefoot.”
“You said you went into town to get some boots. Why didn’t you?”
“I guess I got waylaid by some news. And mighty big news, too.”
Brigit wriggled to the edge of her chair. “Tell me! What happened?”
“A new minister is headed our way.”
“Really?”
“Really. Our very own minister! Just for us.”
Archer Falls was so small that it didn’t have a minister. Marriages and baptisms had to take place in Fargo, a two-hour wagon ride away. For Sunday morning worship services, the townspeople relied on each other, with the sermon duty handed from man to man.
Brigit didn’t mind it at all when her father brought the message, but she dreaded the days that Milo Farnsworth, the owner of the feed store, stood in front of the congregation. Mr. Farnsworth apparently felt that the significance of his sermon could be absorbed only if he hollered it so loud that Brigit’s ears rang for the rest of the day.
Mr. Streeter smiled at his daughter. “And this new man, according to the rumor, has two very interesting attributes.”
Brigit knew he was teasing her. “Attributes, huh? Let me guess what they are. He’s breathing, and oh, let’s see, what else would be important? Wait, don’t tell me. Could it be—he has a heartbeat, too?”
“Very good. But I was thinking of two more. One is that he is young, fresh out of the seminary, and the other is that he’s a bachelor.”
The joy evaporated from the day. “Then let me guess two more things, Papa. He will be as horrid looking as a dusty toad, and he’ll be equally as boring.”
“Brigit, don’t do this. All I mean is, he’s going to be our new spiritual leader, and we’re certainly in need of that.”
Immediately she regretted her outburst. She knew that her father had longed for the presence of a permanent minister, not just for Sunday services, but to expand his own understanding of the Lord and the world. She’d seen his subtle grimace—although he must have thought it hidden—when Milo Farnsworth bellowed forth dire predictions of a fiery afterlife for those who didn’t follow in his oversized bootsteps.
She kissed her father’s sun-dried cheek and smiled. “We are indeed. And he can start working on my heart right away after words like that! I’m sorry, Papa.”
“Not to worry.” He smiled at her reassuringly. “Reverend Collins will be conducting services next Sunday morning. They’re expecting an overflow crowd.”
He touched her tangled strawberry-blond hair, and she laughed. “Yes, my dear father. I will clean myself up and wrap this messy mop into a respectable bun. I’ll look so splendid, even you won’t recognize me.”
“You’re a beautiful young woman.” His voice was so quiet that she knew he was talking more to himself than to her. “When did that happen? When did you stop being that little girl who ran beside me, catching grasshoppers as I put in the wheat?”
She dropped a kiss onto his head and noticed how his hair was starting to thin. As she was getting older, so was he.
She ignored the catch in her heart and answered lightly, “It just wasn’t fun anymore when you made me stop putting them down the back of your shirt. But if you’re getting nostalgic about that, well, dearest Papa, we still have a quarter to plant. Better guard your back!”
The train shuddered to a stop. The newly ordained Reverend Peter Collins leaned over to retrieve his hat, which had slid to the floor with the last jerk of the brakes.
He glanced out the window at the station. The presiding elder had told him that someone would be waiting for him, but which one was it? The man wearing overalls? The presiding elderly woman, balanced on her cane? The family of three, finely dressed in what must be their Sunday best?
Excitement fluttered in his stomach. This was his first real assignment as a minister. He’d been given it so easily, he suspected no one else had wanted it.
How could they not, though? Who wouldn’t want to live in a town like Archer Falls? It had the best of two worlds: it was small and rural enough to be a true community yet large enough to have the world of possibility open to it.
And the Dakota Territory! The very words evoked the images of a land rich in soil and belief. The closest he’d ever come to being one with the earth was putting a petunia on his windowsill at the seminary.
As he stepped out of the car, he blinked at the vast panorama that greeted his eyes. He’d underestimated the expanse of sky and the stretch of land sprinkled with the bright green of new grass that seemed to go all the way to the ends of the earth.
And it was now officially where he lived.
“Reverend Collins?” The fellow in the overalls spoke, and when Peter nodded, the entire group moved forward. He took a moment to realize that they’d come to greet him—and that they were all beaming as happily as he was.
Introductions were made—names Peter knew he would know better soon—and he was taken to a waiting wagon.
He had never been happier. Never.
God had truly brought him home.
Brigit struggled with the bag of rice, succeeding at last in spilling half of it across the table. Waste not, want not, she reminded herself, but her attempts to sweep the grains back into the bag only sent them skittering onto the floor.
A call at the front door diverted her attention. It was Mary Rose Groves, her best friend, motioning madly to her.
“Brigit, did you hear? Did you? A new minister, and he’s single!” Mary Rose’s slightly nearsighted brown eyes glowed with excitement, and she pushed up her wire-rimmed glasses with a finger.
The two of them plopped on the edge of the shallow porch boards.
“Papa told me. I just hope he isn’t going to scream the Word at us the way Mr. Farnsworth does. My ears can’t tolerate that anymore.” Brigit shuddered at the thought.
“I think the damage has been done.” Mary Rose frowned. “There’s something already wrong with your ears.”
“What?” Brigit watched an ant industriously carrying a minuscule bit of something under the boards.
“Didn’t you hear a word I said?” Mary Rose demanded. “I said he’s single. Not married. A bachelor.”
“If there were any hope that he’s handsome as well, I might let myself get excited, but the fact is, Mary Rose, there isn’t a man in this territory that I would have for a husband. Not a one.”
“You shouldn’t be so negative, Brigit.” Her friend stared at her earnestly. “This could be the fellow, the man you’ll share your life with. You never know.”
“Oh, I know perfectly well. I know all about the so-called eligible men in Archer Falls. I’d have to be a desperate woman to marry one of them. Look who I have to choose from: Lars Nilsen, who doesn’t speak a word of English, at least as far as I can figure.” Brigit rolled her eyes.
“Jerrod Stiles would make a terrific husband, wouldn’t he, assuming I could wave my way through that constant plume of pipe smoke to see what he looks like,” she continued. “Or maybe I’d be happiest with Arthur Smith, who’s a hundred ten if he’s a day but thinks he’s fourteen.”
Mary Rose kicked her friend’s leg lightly. “You are exaggerating, but not by much. There aren’t good pickings here; that’s the truth.”
Brigit grinned. “Between you and Papa, you’ll have me married by the time I’m twenty-one or die in the trying.”
Mary Rose’s slightly myopic gaze got dreamy. “I only want you to be as happy as I am. Just think, by autumn I’ll be Mrs. Gregory Lester.”
“You had to go and get greedy and take the last good man in the territory,” Brigit teased, “and look what you left me with. My choice of a fellow I can’t understand, one I can’t see, or one I can’t abide.”
“Maybe so,” her friend argued back lightly, “but you’ve got to admit that this new minister might be just the one.”
“If he is even palatable, Mary Rose Groves, I will eat my hat. I promise that to you. I will sit in front of the school and eat my hat, ribbon and all.”
“I hope that hat is as tasty as it looks,” Mary Rose whispered as she slid into the pew next to Brigit. “I’ve heard that straw is quite flavorful.”
“Mmmm-hmmm.”
“Don’t you think Reverend Collins is handsome?” Mary Rose insisted.
“Mmmm-hmmm.”
“Brigit, why don’t you say—oh, I see.” Mary Rose leaned back and smiled in satisfaction. “You agree with me. And for some reason, I think you’re happy to lose this wager.”
“Mmmm-hmmm.”
The Reverend Peter Collins was the kind of man who had inhabited Brigit’s dreams—when she’d dared to let her thoughts drift to that vague fancy that somehow, someday, she would find true love.
Standing to the side, silhouetted against the newly painted wall, was her hope personified. Tall, with dark hair that would silver elegantly when he aged, he stepped easily to the front of the small sanctuary. With every move, he stepped closer to her heart.
Then he turned and faced them. His gaze settled on each member of the congregation, as if recognizing every individual, and Brigit held her breath.
Finally, her turn came, and during that moment when their gazes met, she saw a true faith glowing in his deep brown eyes.
He began to speak, and his glance flitted away to the rest of the people packed together. But Brigit knew what she had seen, and she liked it.
Mary Rose jabbed an elbow into Brigit’s side and motioned expressively toward the new minister. Brigit understood what the motion meant. Yes, he was handsome beyond belief. But more important, he radiated faith. That, as far as Brigit was concerned, was more important than his appearance.
She peeped at her father. His weathered face was not going to grace any advertisements for genteel menswear, that was certain, but she saw beneath the wrinkles and the leathered skin what was more valuable: a trustworthiness, a security, a steadfastness that far outweighed his physical appearance.
A pang stabbed her heart. She hadn’t known her mother more than a few moments, just long enough, her father had told her, for the woman to hold her newborn daughter and whisper some words in her ears.
She’d often asked what those words were, but he’d turned away, sudden tears in his eyes even after all these years, and shaken his head. She no longer pursued the issue. She did not want to hurt him any more than he had already been hurt.
As if aware that she was thinking about him, he turned to her and smiled. From the relaxed expression on his face, she could tell that his heart was filled with gratitude as the new minister’s words filled the room.
Piecing together their faith in this small town had been like making a quilt of scraps. Bit by bit, the ragged edges had become smooth, the small unmatched bits turned into a beautiful unity, with each color, each shape enhancing the others. It has been, she thought, her heart filling with gratefulness for her father, an extraordinary work of love.
Now Reverend Collins’s strong, young voice filled the hall. “… Seminary in St. Paul, when the call came for this church. I was eager to come here. I have lived in the city my entire life. Admittedly, twenty-four years isn’t an eternity, but I was ready to commit to another twenty-four years spent under God’s sky, watching the country grow before my eyes.”
His smile swept the crowd. “I was delighted to accept the assignment.”
Then he paused. Only the sparrows chirping in the lilac bush outside the open window made any sound. The listeners stopped all motion and stared at their new pastor.
“I’m not being entirely honest with you,” he said at last, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “I have a confession to make.”
The assemblage leaned in to hear his barely audible words.
“I begged to come here.” He grinned at the surprised faces. “I wanted to come to the Dakota Territory—I have since I was just a lad and saw all those wonderful notices about life out here. More than anything, I wanted to see the sun overhead, the clouds floating like white puffs of God’s breath against the blue vault of the firmament. I wanted to be able to look at the horizon and see the curve of the earth without any buildings crowding it from my sight. I wanted to be able to dig my hands into rich, black Dakota valley soil, to feel with my fingers where the seed finds its root and, I pray, where I might find mine.”
If it were at all seemly, Brigit thought, the church would have stood and applauded. She realized she’d been holding her breath and exhaled.
Around her, the people of Archer Falls were smiling happily. This was the moment they had waited for, for a long time, ever since their community had been nothing more than a cluster of sod houses. It had grown board by board, building by building, until it lacked everything except a man of the cloth to lead them.
And now they had their minister.
Brigit looked at the new young minister, and he looked at her … and her heart stirred.
At that moment, Brigit Streeter fell in love.