2

Lilac peered out the train window again, marveling at the speed of the flashing landscape. After a full day’s travel yesterday, she’d finally gotten used to the constant rattle of the train car but not the wonder of it.

“How’re you likin’ your first time on the railroad, young lady?” Mr. Palmer paused by her seat with a fatherly wink.

“It’s . . . wonderful.” Lilac shook her head. “When I think how many weeks it took us to travel this distance by wagon just a few years ago, I can hardly believe it.”

“Me neither, and I ride these rails ever’ day.” He chuckled and touched the visor of his conductor’s cap with a finger. “You let me know if you need anythin’, now.”

“I will.”

Mr. Palmer moved on down the aisle between the seats, his legs as sure with their rolling gait as any sailor riding the seas.

Lilac’s stomach rumbled, and she dug through the basket on the seat beside her, packed full by Del so she wouldn’t have to spend much on food at the train stops. Fare available there could be dubious, not to mention expensive. She pulled out a cheese sandwich and a handful of cherries for her lunch, bowed her head for grace, then popped a bright cherry into her mouth. Lilac closed her eyes at the explosion of sweetness. Though warm from the train ride, the juicy fruit still refreshed. It was always a treat to have fresh fruit again after the last wrinkly winter apples had been eaten, and cherries were among the first to ripen in Nebraska. The Jorgensens had several trees, and they were gracious to share and barter, even selling basketsful in their mercantile.

Stuffy heat built inside the train car, and Lilac pushed up her window, though the hot, sooty wind wasn’t much better. Hard to believe that tomorrow she’d be back in Ohio. Back in the town where she’d spent her whole life, up until three years ago. Had it only been three years? So much had happened . . . building a homestead, starting their Leah’s Garden seed business in honor of their mother, not to mention a boardinghouse. Forsythia and Del getting married—and Lilac herself almost getting married. She didn’t doubt she was right to break off the engagement, but what did the future hold for her now?

Perhaps this visit back to Ohio would ground her a bit. And Anders should have at least one of his sisters there to support him and Josephine in the grand reopening of the rebuilt store.

The next morning, she stepped off the train, her traveling dress heavy with cinders and perspiration. She squeezed Mr. Palmer’s hand after he helped her down.

“Thank you so much. You made my first train trip a memorable one.”

“Always happy to oblige.” He handed over her carpetbag. “You got everythin’?”

Lilac nodded, taking her carpetbag in one hand and basket in the other. “I’m only staying a few weeks.”

“Lilac!”

She turned at the call to see Anders hurrying toward her, a grin splitting his face. She ran to meet him faster than was ladylike, then dropped her baggage to throw her arms around her big brother.

“I can’t believe I’m really here.”

“Well, we’re sure glad you are.” Anders stepped back and nodded to his approaching wife, one little girl clinging to her hand and a younger toddler in her arms. “Come meet your nieces.”

Lilac crouched to the two-year-old’s level. “Hello, Marcella. I’m your Tante Lilac.”

The blond-curled little one studied her, a finger in her mouth.

“Say hello.” Josephine gave her daughter a gentle nudge.

Marcella tugged the finger out and waggled her hand.

“We’ll have lots of time to get to know each other.” Lilac smiled at her niece and stood. “Josephine, so good to see you.” She embraced her sister-in-law, then ran her hand over the darker curls of the child in her arms. “And this must be Greta.”

The toddler bounced on her mother’s hip and grinned at Lilac.

Josephine laughed. “We think she resembles you—both in looks and personality.”

“Well, I take that as a high compliment.” Lilac drew a long breath and scanned the bustling, treelined streets, so familiar yet foreign. She shook her head. “It feels so strange being back.”

“Well, let’s get you home.” Anders grabbed her bag. “Mr. Holt is joining us for supper tonight.”

“Mr. Holt?” Lilac’s heart gave a glad leap. “What a treat to see him right off. But where’s Jonah?” She glanced around, memories stealing her joy. All the times her younger brother had run off in the years before they moved to Nebraska tripped through her mind. The saloon, the gambling table . . .

“He stayed working at the store while we came to get you.” Anders tipped his head for her to follow. “Don’t worry, we’ll stop by there on our way home. He’s as eager to see you as we were.”

“Oh good.” Lilac’s heart settled back. Of course he was. Jonah had turned over a new leaf these last couple of years, as they’d seen when he came to work on their homestead for some months last fall. Being here just brought back all the memories, good and bad.

That evening felt nearly like being back home before everything had happened. They sat around their parents’ beloved old dining room table again, Anders at the head, with the children’s babble, Mr. Holt’s gentle good humor, and Jonah’s droll imitations of various customers making them all laugh near to tears.

Lilac finished her last bite of mashed potatoes and glanced at the papered walls, as familiar as her mother’s woven napkin in her lap. “Almost feels like I never left. I keep expecting to hear Lark’s voice coming in from outside. Or Ma and Pa’s.” Her throat tightened. It had been a long time since she’d missed them this much.

Josephine reached under the table to squeeze her hand. “We’re so glad you’re here.”

Lilac smiled at her sister-in-law. “Me too.” She looked to Mr. Holt. “Hard to believe it’s been three years since you hid Lark at your place in the wee hours of the morning.” This good man had stepped in to help them after witnessing Lark’s besting of a crack gambler in a game of poker, all in trying to save Jonah from a sticky situation. Deacon Wiesel had shown up long before dawn that same night, making drunken threats. A chill ran down her arms at the memory.

Mr. Holt shook his head and wiped his gray mustache with his napkin. “And now the deacon has gone on to his just reward, and that Ringwald feller doesn’t seem to be doing too good either, lost a lot of weight. Folks say he’s got some sort of illness eatin’ him alive.”

“Ringwald is here?” Lilac nearly dropped her buttered roll. The gambler’s threats against Lark had combined with those of the deacon to send them packing for Nebraska in the first place. But they’d thought he left town.

Anders glanced between Mr. Holt and Josephine. “We’ve heard he’s back in town, but I haven’t seen him yet.”

Jonah stared at his empty plate.

“As Mr. Holt said, it sounds like he is unwell. So I doubt he’ll cause much trouble.” Josephine wiped Greta’s face and rose. “Dessert, anyone?”

Lilac shook her head, the news still pounding in her temples. Slate Ringwald was back in Linksburg just as she reappeared from Nebraska—after they’d fought so hard to conceal any traces of where the Nielsen sisters had gone.

Maybe she shouldn’t have come at all.

“What can I do to help with the grand reopening?” Lilac stepped into the kitchen Monday morning and breathed in the smell of the biscuits Josephine was taking out of the oven. After attending church with her family yesterday in the old familiar building, she felt a bit steadier and ready to dive in—though she was glad they’d left church before too many familiar faces started asking questions.

At the kitchen table, Marcella was eating a biscuit in tiny bites, while Greta, in her high chair, seemed more interested in strewing crumbs as far as she could.

“Anders is already over at the new building.” Josephine popped the hot biscuits into a basket with quick fingers. “You could go over after breakfast and see what he needs. One thing we could definitely use is some nice signs. Anders and Jonah were going to do it, but I’m afraid they haven’t an artistic bone between them.”

Lilac laughed. “I’d be glad to make signs. What should I use to make them?”

“I think we’ve got some old signs stored up in the attic. You could check up there, then just sand them down and repaint, if you don’t mind. Anders should have plenty of paint over at the store.” Josephine lifted the lids off two pans on the stove. “There’s bacon and fried potatoes to go with the biscuits and coffee. Mind helping yourself? I need to see to the girls.”

“Of course. Sounds like a feast.” Lilac fetched a plate from the cupboard and filled it, then sat down with her nieces and sister-in-law. She bowed her head for grace, a fresh wind of gratitude lifting her heart. Thank you, Father, for this new day, for family and good food, and for how faithful you have been every day of our lives. Forgive me for my fears.

After breakfast, she headed upstairs to the attic before the day’s heat set in. Pausing at the top of the narrow stairs, she breathed in the familiar scent of dust, dried lavender, and time. A smile tugged as she spied their old rocking horse in the corner, dusty but carefully preserved. She stepped over boxes to pat the horse’s dappled gray neck. “Soon Marcella and Greta will be big enough to ride you, old fellow.” So many memories.

She found the signs Josephine had spoken of, seasonal ones they’d once used to advertise spring planting sales or summer produce at the store. Lilac tucked them by the stairs, then moseyed around the attic a bit more, not ready to leave. She found one of their mother’s old hatboxes and lifted the lid, brushing her fingers over the faded green silk poke bonnet. “Ma,” she whispered, tears softening her tongue. “I miss you so much.” And there—the trunk where their mother had kept some of her old finery from when she lived back east before she came to Ohio to marry Pa. Lilac and her sisters spent many a happy rainy day in the attic playing dress-up in the old gowns and gloves.

She knelt in a burst of nostalgia and opened the trunk. There lay that same old purple velvet spencer jacket and lace fan she’d loved to wear to their imaginary balls. And the yellow silk slippers Forsythia had favored.

Some old books had been tucked in among the clothes now too. She lifted a simple brown leather volume from beneath a pair of lace gloves. Could this be something of Ma’s? She didn’t recognize it.

She opened the cover gingerly, the aged leather flaking beneath her fingers, and turned the fragile pages. She stopped at the first entry, penned lines so faint now she had to peer close to read them.

Juli 1825

Lilac sat up straight. That was July in Norwegian, if she remembered correctly. And 1825? Over forty years ago. This wasn’t one of her parents’ diaries. They’d been small children then. And if it was written in Norwegian, which a glance at the page below the date told her it was . . . She turned to the flyleaf of the little book: Cornelius Nielsen.

Her grandfather, who had died too soon for Lilac to even remember him. A thrill ran down her arms. Was this his diary from journeying to America? She thought back to what she knew of the dates. It could be. How had they never found it before? And how had it ended up in Ma’s trunk?

She turned the delicate pages, wishing she could read them. Neither she nor her siblings could read Norwegian well. Who could they ask to decipher the stories held in the leatherbound volume?

She halted at another page, which held not words but a drawing. A skillful sketch of a small sloop on the sea, sails filled. The ship slanted bravely into the wind, courage in each line and mast.

Hadn’t her father said she got her artistic talent from her grandfather? Lilac’s skin prickled again. She’d never seen any of his work before.

She kept turning pages, finding more drawings. A welcoming harbor, families standing hopeful at the railing of a ship, a log cabin half built. Children playing in a garden—her father and his siblings?

“Lilac?”

Josephine’s call up the stairs made her jump.

“Did you find the signs?”

Lilac closed the journal and trunk and stood. “I did.” She grabbed the signs from by the stairs, the journal tucked safely under her arm. She lifted her skirts and stepped carefully back down the narrow stairs. “And you’ll never guess what else I found.”

———

After showing the journal to Josephine, Lilac headed down the street toward the new store, rebuilt on the same site of their father’s original mercantile before it burned to the ground last fall. She couldn’t wait to tell her brothers.

She mounted the steps of the broad wooden porch, still smelling of new-cut wood and fresh paint, and poked her head inside the open door. “Anders?”

“Back here” came his call, apparently from the storage room behind the counter. A similar layout to the original store, that helped.

Lilac made her way through the store, glancing along walls and shelves ready to fill with goods. Some barrels and boxes of tools and supplies already lined the aisles. She headed behind the counter and into the storage room, a larger space than in the old building. “There you are.”

Both her brothers looked up from stacking crates of supplies.

“Just got the big shipment we’ve been waiting for.” Jonah hefted another crate. “Now we can really start to stock the store.”

“That’s wonderful.” Lilac peeked into an open box of button shoes. “You’ll have to put a lock on the door now.” Her middle jumped from wanting to spill her news. Maybe they wouldn’t be as excited about the journal as she was, but it was still quite a find.

“Planning on it.” Anders knelt to pry a crate open. “I thought I heard a clink in here, want to make sure no jars are broken.”

“Well, I came to be put to work. Josephine said you could use some signs for the grand reopening. But first, look what I found in the attic.” She pulled out the journal from her handbag.

“What is that?” Jonah cocked his head.

“I think it’s our grandfather’s journal.”

“Farfar Nielsen?” Anders raised his brows.

“Ja.” Lilac smiled. “I don’t know why we never found it before—it was tucked into Ma’s old trunk.”

“Josephine moved some things around up there when we needed more storage after the fire. Maybe she stuck it in there and didn’t realize what it was—or that we hadn’t seen it before.” Anders brushed off his hands and came to stand by her. “Isn’t that something. May I?”

She handed the journal over.

Anders flipped through the first pages. His lips moved, trying to decipher the writing.

“Can you understand any of it?” Anders had learned a little Norwegian, more than any of the other siblings.

“Not much. But I see the word Restaurasjonen—that was the name of the ship they came over in, I think. The ‘Restoration.’”

“They were mostly religious dissenters, Quakers, isn’t that what Pa said?”

“That’s what I remember. Though not all of them—our grandfather wasn’t a Quaker, I don’t believe.”

“Well, I just wanted to show you.” Lilac accepted the little book back from him. “There are even some drawings he did inside. Maybe we can look more together later.”

“That would be good.” Turning back to his work, Anders shook his head at the cracked glass canning jars Jonah held up from the crate. “Just get rid of those. At least the rest look all right.”

Jonah nodded and carried them out the back door.

Lilac tucked the precious journal into her handbag. More careful examination would have to come later. “I brought the old signs I found in the attic. Where would you like me to work on them?

“I’ve got some extra paint out on the porch. I’ll show you.”

She followed her brother. “How does it feel to be this close to opening shop again?”

“Well, you know we’ve done our best to keep business going in the barn since the fire. But it will be good to be in a real store building again.” He stepped out onto the porch and blew out a breath. “It’s been a long nine months.”

For the first time, Lilac saw the new lines around her older brother’s eyes, the weight he’d lost with the burden of this past year. She touched his shoulder. “I’m sorry it’s been so hard.”

He cast her a Nielsen grin. “We’re all right. The Lord has been faithful, and the town rallied around us. I think we’ll be able to pay back our loan quicker once we get fully up and running again.” He sobered. “I’ll never forget that night, though.”

Her chest tightened, imagining their beloved family mercantile engulfed in flames. “Who sounded the alarm?”

“The Gubberuds, who live next door—you remember, we went to school with their son. They woke up smelling smoke, and Mrs. Gubberud came running to us screaming the news. Her husband was organizing a bucket brigade before I even got here.” Anders shook his head. “I just thank the Lord their house was spared.”

“And how did you figure out it was Deacon Wiesel’s fault?”

Anders grimaced. “When we found what was left of him next to evidence of a candle melted into the charred floorboards, it seemed pretty evident.”

Lilac shivered. “Do you think he could have done it on purpose?” The thought had poked at her for months. “He was so angry at our family for supposedly taking Climie away from him.” He and Ringwald had each threatened to come after them years ago, Ringwald even claiming that Jonah, in one of his old drunken slips, had said something about his sisters being bound for the west. But none of them had heard anything of the gambler for years. . . . Surely he’d given up his vendetta by now.

“Of course I wondered, but I don’t think so. The deacon really did seem changed last fall—broken, you might say. Though I’m not sure how much was true repentance and how much just giving up. But if he wanted to get back at us, surely he wouldn’t have burned himself up in the process. I’m still trying to forgive myself for letting him sleep in the store, but I thought I was doing the right thing.” Anders shrugged as if letting the weight of the unknowns roll off his shoulders. “How is Climie, by the way? Since the wedding?”

“Happy. She and Jesse . . . they fit together like two sides of a broken painting made whole. Sometimes seeing such joy on her face almost makes me cry.”

“I guess the Lord does bring beauty from ashes.” Anders’s mouth tipped. “Sometimes quite literally.”

Anders hauled over a couple of half-used cans of paint, and Lilac propped the old signs against the porch railing.

“One should say ‘Grand Reopening,’ I imagine?” she asked.

“Let’s have two of those, one for the front and one for the side. And maybe a smaller one saying ‘free samples’ or ‘lemonade’ or something like that.” Anders scratched the faint stubble on his cheek.

“Well, what are you going to have? Free samples or lemonade?”

“Both. We’ll have lemonade for everyone, and the refreshments will be free samples of items we carry in the store. Plus Josephine and her mother are planning sandwiches and a baking spree.”

“I’ll make a sign for each, then.”

“Thanks. You sure it’s not too much?”

Lilac leveled a look at her big brother. “Four signs? I came out here to help, remember? And you better give me another job once this is finished.”

“Fair enough.”

Anders headed back inside with a chuckle, and Lilac found herself a stool to perch on while she sanded and painted. It felt good to have a brush in her hand, even if it was a big one, not at all like the delicate instrument used for watercolors. She needed to try painting again. She’d been so focused on her drawings for the series at the New York Weekly this past year, she hadn’t picked up a brush in far too long. And she itched to study her grandfather’s drawings more. What if she could copy one and enlarge it, maybe make one big enough to frame for their family home? The thought sent a swell of excitement through her.

Focus, Lilac. She finished the big signs first, Grand Reopening in bold but elegant letters and a few flourishes for effect. She set them side by side against the storefront wall to dry and stepped back, cocking her head and then nodding. That would do. Now for the smaller signs.

“Want some dinner?” Jonah poked his head out of the store some time later.

“Is it that time already?” Lilac squinted up at the sun through the leafy branches stretching over the front porch. Thankfully, the lovely shade trees had been only minimally damaged in the fire. Even so, her curls clung to her neck and collar, damp with the muggy heat.

“Josephine sent some sandwiches with us. You’re welcome to share, unless you want to go back to the house.”

“I’ll stay. I still want to finish this last sign, then I can help you with unpacking or whatever else.”

They lunched in the relative cool of the store’s interior, then after finishing the lemonade sign with an added tracing of a lemon wedge that made Lilac’s artist heart happy, she spent the rest of the afternoon stocking bags of flour, sacks of coffee, cans of beans, bolts of fabric, and coils of rope.

“Feels like we could supply the whole county.” Anders swiped his sleeve across his forehead. “I hope we haven’t overstocked.”

“You’ve never had to stock a whole new store before, not counting what you had in the barn.” Lilac sat back on her heels after lining boots on a bottom shelf, her lower back aching. “This uses different muscles than farmwork.”

“Lark must be missing your help with the summer work.”

Lilac nibbled her lip. “I’m sure she is. But at least the planting is done. And I’ll be back before Del’s baby is born. And before haying, I hope.”

“Wish we could come meet that little one. And Nils Peter.”

“Someday.” Lilac hoisted herself to her feet. “Now what?”

“I want to go over my inventory lists. Feel free to head on home if you like.” He turned. “Jonah?”

“I have an errand to run. See you at supper.” Their towering little brother shrugged on his brown jacket and headed out the door.

Lilac rolled her tired shoulders. “I think I’ll take the long way going back and walk through town a bit. I’d like to see all the familiar old places.”

She donned her straw hat and headed down the street, grateful the lengthening shadows eased the heat a bit, even if the sun was hours away from setting. She passed the blacksmith—making her think of the Hoffman family back in Nebraska—and the haberdashery, then the school she and all her siblings had attended. The brick church, full of mixed memories. There they’d grown up and been nurtured in the faith, but also there Lark had enraged the deacon by jumping up in church to try to aid Climie when she fainted during a “sermon” spouted by her abusive husband. He’d flat out forbidden her interference, sending Lark marching out of the service. Lilac hadn’t been back inside its walls till yesterday, but she’d been glad to see it led now by a true minister of the gospel, not a hypocrite. Still, it felt far different from their beloved little church in Salton.

She kept walking, awash in memories. The bank, the post office, the livery stable . . .

A burst of raucous music announced she was nearly at the saloon. In a long habit returned, she headed across the street to avoid it. How their lives had changed because of that awful saloon. She shuddered to think of Lark stepping inside that fateful night. Bent on getting Jonah out of one more scrape, she had ended up beating Slate Ringwald like he’d never been beaten—and his ensuing vile threats had sent them all packing.

She couldn’t resist a glance back over her shoulder. And stopped cold in the street as the saloon doors swung shut behind a tall, blond-haired young man wearing a brown jacket.

Jonah?

“Hey, miss, some of us are tryin’ to drive here!”

Lilac jumped aside as a buggy sped past her, dust swirling her skirts. Had that been her brother heading back into that saloon, whose swinging doors he’d solemnly sworn never to enter again? Was that the errand he’d had to run in town? Surely not. But . . .

She marched across the dusty street, pausing only an instant to suck in a breath before pushing through the swinging doors. She nearly gagged on the swirling odors of tobacco smoke, liquor, and sweat. Stepping near the closest end of the bar, Lilac blinked hard in the dim interior, searching through the haze of smoke for her brother.

“You one of the Nielsen girls?”

Lilac turned to see the hostess, a buxom woman with a tired face, scrutinizing her.

“Bonnie Belle?” Lark had talked about the kind woman from that night.

A smile broke out on Bonnie Belle’s face. “What are you, Miss Larkspur’s little sister?”

“Yes. I’m just looking for my broth—” The young man in a brown jacket stepped up to the bar and gave an order. He had broader shoulders than Jonah and a beard.

Lilac’s knees went weak with relief. So silly of her to chase the man all the way in here. “I’m sorry, I thought I saw someone enter here, but I was mistaken.”

Bonnie Belle poured the man’s drink. “Land sakes, I heard tell you all picked up years ago and moved some place out west after—” The woman looked over Lilac’s shoulder, and her face stiffened. She dropped her gaze to the counter, muttering, “You better go.”

Lilac glanced behind her. And froze.

Slate Ringwald. She knew him by description, though she’d never seen him before. The large frame, if somewhat shrunken now. The heavy dark brows. The gold pocket watch and chain, and manicured nails of a hand that tapped unceasingly on the table. The expensive suit, now having seen better days. And a knowing, deep in her gut.

For an instant his eyes flicked over Lilac, then away. Then back again. Or did she imagine it?

Lilac jerked her head around. “Sorry to have troubled you,” she mumbled and fled toward the door as fast as she could without attracting more attention than she already had. Why on earth had she gone in here? She charged out the doors and down the wooden sidewalk, head down as if she could still keep Ringwald from seeing her. From overhearing what Bonnie Belle had—

She crashed into someone and nearly fell into the street.

“Whoa, whoa.” Strong arms caught her. “Where are you flying to, sis?”

She looked up. “Jonah.” She clutched his arms. “I-I thought I saw you go into the saloon. So I . . . followed.”

“You did what?” His brows drew together. “I told you I’d never darken that door again.”

“I know, I know. But, Jonah, I think Slate Ringwald saw me.”