Waiting Out the Storm. Ruth Herne Logan
disliked farms into the mix…
Ugh. She swallowed hard. “What should I do now?”
“Hold tight. I’ll pass the word and have them get back to you. They’re swamped, but a petition for removal is serious so it shouldn’t be too long. Then the question is how do we help Rita?”
Sarah pictured her sister-in-law. Silent. Distant. Morose. “I don’t know. I… She’s….” Her voice tapered off.
“We’ll figure it out.” Cade’s voice reassured. “No one wants to see Rita hurt. Or those kids. It’s time for everyone to move on.”
Cade’s magnanimity seemed ironic when she’d been face-to-face with his brother’s animosity too many times to count. Of course, he’d been nicer yesterday. Much nicer. Still… “Not everyone feels like you do.”
“They will.”
His assurance heartened her. The lamb, impatient, bleated an entreaty. Cade laughed. “Go feed your little friend, Sarah. I’ll be in touch.”
A small part of Sarah’s heart loosened at this overture, the olive branch extended. “Thanks, Cade.”
“You’re welcome.”
Sarah reached for the lamb. Angling the bottle, she mulled Cade’s words.
Losing the children could push Rita over the edge and the fear of suicide worried Sarah. If they could get help for Rita while the kids stayed on the farm, that might help.
Liv wouldn’t like this. She was a town girl. Her daddy had looked down his nose at farmers, and the girl took after him. That should be interesting.
Brett? A little uncertain, but definitely an easier-going personality. And he had an intrinsic love for nature, if not for sheep dung.
Both in the thick of puberty. Adolescence. Oh, man. An additional form of insanity right there.
And Skeeter. Skeeter needed someone to care for her, watch over her. Share in the joy of each new day when she wasn’t whining or complaining about something, which was fairly often of late. Simple, by comparison.
But not one of them was accustomed to the sights, sounds and smells of a working farm.
St. Lawrence County boasted multiple classes of people. Those who farmed, including the Amish, their quaint wagons and roadside stands dotting a countryside thick with agriculture.
Then there was the upscale staff and alumni of Clarkson and St. Lawrence Universities. Throw SUNY Potsdam and Canton into the mix, and you had a diverse dynamic at odds with itself. Town kids might be raised within two miles of some of the best northern farmland in the U.S., but have little association with product or producer, fairly certain food came from the local grocer.
Sarah grimaced, remembering her family’s expressions when she announced she was starting a farm.
They blamed her mother’s Abenaki blood. The urge to be at peace with the land, one with the Spirit.
The aspersions to her mother’s memory stung. Peg “Bent Willow” Slocum had been a good woman, a strong Christian who cherished her mix of heritages. Maybe if she’d lived, things would have been different.
But she hadn’t and Sarah could pinpoint the day and time when she’d known where her own destiny lay. It was her first summer away, the end of her freshman year of college. She’d stayed in Cortland, working a sheep farm by day and waiting tables at night. She’d made enough money to guarantee her second year of studies and celebrate her freedom from the Slocum domain, the “me first” mind-set prevalent at old Tom’s table. Her father was not a nice man.
She found the faith her mother inspired at a white clapboard church and a Bible passage that brought shepherds to a newborn babe, laid in a manger.
She found home.
Practicality insisted she finish her degree. A girl had to eat and farms weren’t an easy venture.
Angling the bottle to keep the lamb from sucking air, a smile tugged Sarah’s mouth as she regarded the tiny creature before her. Not easy, by any means. But worthwhile.
Chapter Five
Craig careened to a stop and pushed out of the car, instantly enamored of the view. “This is it.”
His home site. He was sure of it. His new house would sit there, right there, at the apex of the hill, its south-facing windows benefiting from the winter’s sun. Evergreens rose beyond the hill, close enough for privacy, far enough to let the winter sun shine unfettered. The slope angled toward the road in an easy climb, nothing too difficult for winter months. The adjoining land was farmed, but this parcel lay unplanted, ready for building. Native trees surrounded enough open land to offer fun. He pictured Rocket ambling through the woods, ears perked, hunting new sights and sounds. Maybe it would pep the old boy up, to have fresh grounds to explore.
Craig strode forward, oblivious to the weariness he’d felt moments before. He grabbed his cell and dialed Laraby Realty. “Steve? Craig Macklin. Listen, I’m staring at a piece of property on Waterman Hill. It’s perfect. It lies between two farms. Across from another. Probably seven to ten acres I’m eyeing up. Yeah, that’s right. The south side.” Walking as he talked, Craig studied the site.
Home. He was home. He knew it the moment he rounded the bend. Now, depending on who owned the parcel—
Craig turned, his signal fading. “This is part of Ben Waters’ land? I was at his place this morning, treating a cow.”
Craig paused, listening. “I’ll head there now.” At the Realtor’s caution, Craig shook his head. “I understand, but you know how old-timers are. If Ben’s interested in selling, he’ll be up front with me. Who’s got the property on either side?”
To the west stretched old cornfields, stubbled and brown. Beneath the rise to the east lay a hay lot. Alfalfa. Across the street pastureland extended right from a barn adjacent to the road. He could see the peak of another building, back and behind. Left of the barn a small, dark house nestled among trees. The scent of wood smoke tweaked his nose, increasing the ambience. “I’m heading to the Waterses’. I’ll call you after I’ve seen Ben.”
Excited, Craig retraced his steps. Arcing a U-turn, he headed north. An hour later he emerged from Ben Waters’ kitchen, stuffed with Etta’s banana bread and the promise of a deal. Ben’s handshake was aged but solid. “Have Laraby draw up the papers. I’d always thought little Ben would build there, but he’s gotten used to the city.”
Craig choked back a laugh. Little Ben was fifty-plus, and the city Ben referred to was the edge of Canton, off Route 11. Young Ben didn’t have his father’s farming instincts, but had made a good name for himself in investment circles. He’d orchestrated the retirement plans for half the county, both business and personal, doing well for his family. Things would have turned out quite different if Gramps had used Ben instead of Tom Slocum, but that was a useless complaint at this juncture.
“Thank you, sir.” Craig clasped the offered hand, then surprised the old man with a hug. “I’m grateful. I love that piece of land.”
“Well, now…” Old Ben scratched his chin, thoughtful. “I might hold out for another thousand or two if you’ve taken that kindly toward it.” Craig’s chagrined expression drew the old farmer’s chuckle. “Gotcha. Tell your Realtor to come by with papers. I’ll sign ’em. The building approval is up to date. I jes’ kept renewing it, thinkin’ it would pay off.”
“I’ll subcontract the work right away. That way I can finish the interior by the end of summer.”
“I’m a good hand with plumbing,” acknowledged Ben. “You need a hand laying pipe, I’ll step in.”
“Thank you, sir.” Craig gazed into the worn, blue eyes of the smaller man. “I’ll remember that.”
“Congratulations, son.”