Where Wildflowers Bloom: A Novel Read online

  © 2012 by Ann Shorey

  Published by Revell

  a division of Baker Publishing Group

  P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287

  www.revellbooks.com

  Ebook edition created 2011

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  ISBN 978-1-4412-3600-5

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  Scripture used in this book, whether quoted or paraphrased by the characters, is taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Published in association with Tamela Hancock Murray of the Hartline Literary Agency, LLC, Pittsburgh, PA.

  The internet addresses, email addresses, and phone numbers in this book are accurate at the time of publication. They are provided as a resource. Baker Publishing Group does not endorse them or vouch for their content or permanence.

  To Sharron,

  my sister at heart

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  1 2 3 4 5

  6 7 8 9 10

  11 12 13 14 15

  16 17 18 19 20

  21 22 23 24 25

  26 27 28 29 30

  31 32 33 34

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by Ann Shorey

  Back Ads

  Back Cover

  1

  Noble Springs, Missouri

  March 1866

  You can do this,” Faith Lindberg told herself as she gazed into the hall mirror and straightened her bonnet. “After all, it’s only for a short time.” Once she gathered the courage to talk to Grandpa about her plans, she knew they’d be leaving Noble Springs.

  She slipped her well-worn copy of Randolph Marcy’s The Prairie Traveler into her carryall. Her grandfather said he wanted her to take over managing the store. He hadn’t said she couldn’t spend time reading when there were no customers.

  The onyx mantel clock in their parlor chimed the half hour. Grandpa had been very specific—meet him at eight o’clock and he’d show her what to do before Lindberg’s Mercantile opened for the day’s business.

  Faith hurried out the door, grateful that the morning sun promised a pleasant day after a week of rain. Maybe she wouldn’t have to bother with lighting the store’s cranky wood-burning stove. Its warmth drew elderly gossipers the way a freshly iced cake drew bees.

  Her boots rapped a rhythm on the wooden boardwalk. After several minutes, she passed the livery and tossed a wave at the man working out front. Noble Springs’s courthouse rose tall and proud off to her right. She turned, skirting the square. The mercantile stood across the street, next to a drugstore and the newspaper office.

  Once under the sloping porch roof, Faith noticed the closed padlock securing the store’s entrance. Odd. Grandpa left home half an hour ago. If she’d known he wouldn’t be on time, she wouldn’t have rushed.

  She looked up and down the street, but at this hour most everything was closed. She shook her head. They always walked the same streets from their home to the store. She could not have missed him.

  Faith settled on one of the benches in the shade and took her book from the carryall, but after a couple of pages she snapped the slender volume closed. He’d been forgetful lately. Maybe he stopped to visit a neighbor and lost track of time. She would retrace her route, and then if no one had seen him, double back across town.

  Past Courthouse Square, she knocked at the first house on West High Street. A woman holding a squalling baby opened the door. “Miss Lindberg? Isn’t it a little early to come calling?”

  “I apologize, Mrs. Bennett. I’m looking for my grandfather. Did you see him pass by this morning?”

  “No.” Mrs. Bennett frowned. “Why? Is he missing?”

  “He was supposed to meet me at the store. He wasn’t there.” Her anxiety rising, Faith backed away from the door. “So sorry to trouble you.”

  Stops at the rest of the houses yielded similar results.

  In front of the livery, the stableman bent over a wheel on a black phaeton, polishing each spoke with a grimy rag. She stopped short.

  “I beg your pardon. Have you seen an elderly gentleman this morning? He would have passed here about an hour ago.”

  He straightened. “Using a cane? About my height?”

  “Not quite as tall as you are, but yes, he walks with a cane and favors his right leg.” Her voice rose. “You’ve seen him?”

  “I did. Earlier on. Besides the cane, he was carrying a chair.”

  “Carrying a chair?” Faith’s mouth fell open. “Whatever do you mean?”

  He dropped the rag over the dashboard of the buggy and walked toward her. Up close, he looked to be nearly six feet tall, with a tanned face and deep brown eyes. A partially healed scar ran along one side of his neck, tracing a thick red line from his jaw to a point behind his left ear. Another veteran, starting over.

  “I mean just that, miss. He came by here at first light, stepping right along, with a bentwood chair hooked under one arm.”

  Faith rubbed her forehead, dislodging her bonnet. This had to be the strangest thing she’d heard in a long time. She took a deep breath and let it out with a puff. “Which way was he heading?”

  “Sorry. I didn’t pay attention. We exchanged nods, and he went on his way.” He shoved a hand in his hip pocket. “Guess you’re looking for him?”

  Obviously, she thought, but didn’t say so. “He’s my grandfather. He was supposed to meet me at our store—Lindberg’s Mercantile—at eight, but he never arrived.”

  The stableman’s brown eyes filled with concern. “Your granddad is Judge Lindberg, then? And you must be Miss Faith.”

  She nodded.

  “I’m Curt Saxon. If you’d like my help, we can search for him together. I’m a pretty good tracker.”

  “I don’t know what kind of tracking you can do on town boardwalks—”

  “There’s more than one way to track. Sometimes you need to think like the quarry.”

  “I don’t think of my grandfather as quarry, Mr. Saxon.”

  A muscle twitched in his jaw. “You said he was planning to meet you at the mercantile. I’ll walk back that way and see what I can see. You can come with me or wait here.”

  “I’ll go with you. He’s my grandfather.”

  “Let’s go then.” Mr. Saxon set off along High Street. With his long legs, he was soon half a block ahead.

  Sighing, Faith decided to try a different route and crossed the street, following picket fences and peering into yards. By the time she reached Courthouse Square, Mr. Saxon had vanished. Splendid. Now they were both missing. Suppressing a flare of temper, she stalked up the steps in front of the mercantile and flopped on a bench, arms folded across her middle.

  She turned at the sound of footsteps on the porch. Mr. Saxon walked toward her, grinning. “Found him.”

  Faith jumped to her feet. “Where is he? Is he all right?”

  He held up his hand with a calming gesture. “He’s fine. C’mon. I’ll take you to him.”

  She glanced at the neighboring businesses. No one in sight.


  Apparently sensing her reluctance, he scowled. “Rather not be seen with me? Then go around to the alley. Your granddad’s in the shed.” His boots pounded on the boardwalk as he descended to the muddy roadway. “I need to get back to the livery.”

  She flushed at his brusque tone. “Thank you for your help.”

  “Don’t mention it.” Crossing the street, he strode away.

  Faith left her carryall on the bench, dashed behind the store, and peered into the storage shed. Grandpa sat at a makeshift table comprised of short boards resting across two sawhorses. An oil lamp flickered next to a stack of loose papers.

  “What are you doing out here?”

  He leaned back in one of the bentwood chairs from their kitchen. “This is a busy place this morning. First that new fellow from the livery stable, now you. Can’t a man have some peace and quiet?”

  Faith jammed her hands on her hips. “Grandpa! You told me to meet you at the store at eight this morning. It must be going on nine by now.”

  “No need to take that tone with me, young lady.” He removed his watch from his pants pocket and flicked open the lid. “By George, it is after nine. Must have lost track of time.”

  He stood, bewilderment clouding his eyes. “Why were you supposed to meet me?”

  2

  Faith stared at her grandfather, fear prickling through her. They’d had a long discussion the previous evening about her need to learn the business. She put her hand on his arm, his flannel shirt soft under her fingers. “You wanted to show me the ledgers, who should get credit and who had to pay up front. That kind of thing.”

  “Why would I want you to operate the store?”

  She felt like she’d been punched in the stomach. “Papa and Maxwell were killed two years ago at Westport.” She spoke in a gentle voice, as though she were breaking the news to him for the first time. “You thought I could manage the mercantile for you now that I’ve turned twenty.”

  He placed a hand over hers. Comprehension flooded his face. “You’re right. You should take over. I’ve decided to write my memoirs.” Grandpa gestured at the papers. “I’ve seen a great deal in my seventy years. When you get married, your children can read them.”

  If she ever got married. There was only one man she wanted, and like so many, he hadn’t yet returned from the war.

  Grandpa blew out the lamp, jingling a ring of keys in his right hand. “Come with me. I’ll show you what to do.”

  Her mind reeling at the swift changes in his behavior, she trailed him to the door of the mercantile and watched while he selected the correct key and clicked the padlock open. They’d no more than stepped over the threshold when a woman wearing a fashionably gathered dress pushed into the store.

  “Your sign says you open at nine every morning but Sunday.” She made a show of lifting the watch she wore on a chain around her neck and pointing at the dial. “It’s nearly half past and your shades are still drawn.”

  Grandpa patted Faith on the shoulder. “Please uncover the windows while I assist this lady.” Leaning close to her ear, he whispered, “She needs to pay up front. No credit.” With a bland smile, he turned back to their customer. “What can I show you this morning, Mrs. Wylie?”

  Her skirt swished as she walked to a shelf displaying samples of china. “Mr. Wylie said we should have better dishes now that he’s opened the wagon factory. We will have to entertain buyers, you know.”

  Faith half-listened to their conversation while she rolled up the shades between the window displays and the interior of the store. Mrs. Wylie seemed interested in the newest tableware that had arrived from back east. Thankful that Grandpa had recovered his wits and could help the woman, Faith located a feather duster in the back room and proceeded to flick dust from the new cookstoves on display. From there she moved to the hoes, rakes, and shovels, straightening handles in the racks.

  Studying the merchandise, she decided that the first thing she’d do would be to enlarge the dry goods area by transferring the farm implements to a far corner. The farmers knew what they wanted, but ladies liked to browse. Even though they’d be selling the business as soon as Grandpa agreed, it wouldn’t hurt to make the store more inviting in the meantime.

  Her mind spinning with ideas, she continued her circuit of the room until she reached the placard Grandpa had allowed her to mount on the wall behind the case holding oil lamps.

  She’d copied a list from The Prairie Traveler, titling it “Necessities for the Overland Trip to Oregon.” The catalog of supplies represented the first step. Now she waited for an opportune moment to broach the subject of leaving Missouri to journey west. Both she and Grandpa would be happier away from reminders of the war and the losses it represented.

  The voices in the background faded while she read through the items they’d need. Wrought iron kettle, coffeepot and heavy tin cups, iron frying pans, tin buckets . . .

  “Faith, would you come over here, please?” Grandpa gestured from a counter across the room. Plates, bowls, and a cream-and-sugar set were arranged next to a ledger. “Here is the price for each piece. Tally the numbers and write the amount at the bottom. Mrs. Wylie will pay you while I pack her china for delivery.” He took a small silver key from the ring. “This’ll open the cash drawer.” While she unlocked the drawer, he tucked gold-rimmed plates into a barrel filled with wood shavings.

  Mrs. Wylie leaned toward Faith and spoke in a confidential whisper. “Truthfully, my dear, I’ll have to wait to settle with you until Mr. Wylie obtains a few more orders for wagons. Could you see your way clear to put my purchase on your books for a month or two?”

  Faith’s heartbeat increased. How was she supposed to refuse without offending their customer? She looked toward her grandfather for help, but he continued stacking china in the barrel, paying no attention to their conversation.

  Harold Grisbee and Jesse Slocum, two of her grandfather’s cronies, entered the store and sought chairs next to the cold stove. Instead of talking to one another, they focused their attention on Faith and Mrs. Wylie. Faith tried to remember her grandfather’s dealings with customers on the Saturday mornings she’d helped by dusting shelves and sweeping the floors with oiled sawdust.

  Mrs. Wylie drummed her fingers on the countertop. “Just give me a statement of what we owe you so I can be on my way.”

  Faith met the woman’s impatient glare with a steady gaze. “I’m sorry. We require cash. If you can’t pay today, we’ll be glad to put the dishes aside until you have the funds.” Her heart boomed in her chest.

  Mrs. Wylie’s face turned a mottled red. “Well! I’ve never been so insulted.” She dug in her reticule and dropped a gold piece on the counter. “Make sure you give me the correct change, young woman.” She swung around to face Grandpa, who watched with a grin lifting one corner of his moustache. “I’ll expect these to be delivered right away. And don’t hold your breath waiting for me to trade here again.” She swept from the store, banging the door closed.

  Over the chuckles of the men next to the stove, Faith turned to her grandfather. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know what else to say. You told me not to give her credit.”

  Grandpa threw his head back and guffawed. “She’ll be back before the week is out. You watch and see. She knows better than to ask me to carry her on the books, but she thought she could put one over on you.”

  Faith slumped against the counter. “Do you deal with customers like her every day? I wanted to tell her to go home—without her dishes.”

  “You’ll find most of the folks who shop here to be agreeable. Not too many bad apples in Noble Springs.”

  The entertainment over, the men near the stove busied themselves placing red and black pieces on a checkerboard and debating whose turn it was to begin. She stopped Grandpa on his way to settle the dispute. “Before any more customers come in, please show me where to find the list of people who shouldn’t receive credit.”

  He scratched the top of his nearly bald head. “Now where’d it
go?”

  While Faith watched, he riffled through the pages of the ledger, then bent over and brought a group of similar volumes from the shelf below the cash drawer. A musty smell rose from the pages of the dustiest books as he searched. “Put it somewhere safe, I reckon.” He chuckled. “It must be safe if I can’t find it.”

  Grandpa lifted an invoice that had fallen from one of the ledgers and turned it over. “I’ll make you a new list. Keep it in the cash drawer.” He licked the tip of a pencil and scribbled a half-dozen names.

  She peeked over his shoulder. “That’s all? I can remember that many easily.”

  “There’s more, but right now I can’t call the names to mind. They’ll come to me.” Frustration shadowed his words.

  Faith frowned. The man who could recite most of Longfellow’s poems, including the newest ones, couldn’t remember names of people he saw almost every day. She brushed her lips across his smooth-shaven cheek. “You’re tired. I heard you up pacing last night. Why don’t you see who’s winning the checker game? I’ll put these books away.”

  “You sound like a mother hen. I’ve got a barrel of chinaware to deliver, remember?”

  “Wait until this afternoon. The druggist’s boy can help you when school’s out.”

  “I’m perfectly capable. I’ll go borrow Simpkins’s horse and hitch the wagon.”

  The stubborn set of his mouth told her that argument would be useless. The thump of his cane against the floor punctuated his departure.

  “Never been a woman could tell Nate Lindberg what to do, Miss Faith. Not Miz Clara, rest her soul, and not your mama, neither. Might as well get used to it,” one of the checker players said.

  She nodded, ready to reply, when the bell over the door tinkled and a young woman she didn’t recognize entered. Dressed in dove-gray watered silk with a high white collar and matching silk bonnet, she formed a picture of modesty. Her eyes didn’t meet Faith’s as she walked to the fabric display at the rear of the room. Faith glanced at the list of names and hoped she wouldn’t have to handle another request for credit.