Fields of Bounty by Lauraine Snelling

Author:Lauraine Snelling
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Historical Fiction;Novels;FIC042030;FIC014000
Publisher: Baker Publishing Group
Published: 2023-01-18T00:00:00+00:00

15

One thing after another, it seemed these days.

Lilac buttoned her coat against the cold wind buffeting the soddy. With how gray the spreading clouds were, she’d almost think they threatened snow, though it was early. And now Lark lay sick in bed, her strong sister buckled by a nasty case of catarrh.

“I’m sorry.” Lark shook her head on the pillow, then the whole bed with a giant sneeze. “I feel so useless and stupid.”

“You are neither. You’ve just been pushing yourself too hard for too long. And a cold in the nose doesn’t respect anybody.” Lilac set a cup of tea beside the bed and tucked another quilt over her sister’s feet. “Drink your tea and rest up while I’m gone. I’ll stop at Forsythia’s and see if Adam has any recommendations to help you.”

“Don’t forget the mail.”

“As if I could. Though I’m afraid it’s too soon for another payment from the paper.” That surely would help them now, even with RJ’s generosity with that next loan payment. But what about the one six months after that? Lilac shut her brain against the worries. The Lord said not to worry about tomorrow, and He held it in His hands just as well as today.

She slipped out of the soddy, gasping at the bite of the wind. She fastened the door, then hurried to the barn.

“Sorry to take you out in this today, girl.” After locking the filly in the stall, she smoothed Starbright’s mane. “We’ll make it as quick as we can, all right?”

She ran through the mercantile list in her head while loping her mare across the autumn-seared prairie. More sassafras tea for Lark—they’d run out. Some horehound syrup for her cough. More coffee, sugar, lard, and salt pork. They were producing more and more of what they needed on the farm, but they hadn’t tackled a pig yet. Maybe next year.

She tied Starbright at the hitching post outside Jorgensens’ and stepped inside, shivering as the warmth from the potbellied stove hit her face. Mrs. Dwyer and Mrs. Jorgensen were murmuring together over the counter. They stopped when they saw Lilac—some town gossip, no doubt. She ignored them and went to gather her purchases, then when paying, asked for their mail at the counter.

While Mrs. Jorgensen went back to collect it, Lilac scanned the shelves of canned goods and bright bolts of fabric behind the counter. Her chest tightened at the memories of their own mercantile back home, her father’s store where she’d spent so much of her childhood, drawing picture after picture perched on a special stool he kept for her behind the counter. His artist daughter, he’d called her, the first person to seriously encourage her drawing and give her the dream she might really make something of it someday.

What would he think to see them all now, she a published artist, using his initials . . . and his beloved store burned to the ground?

“People are more important than things.” Hearing his wise voice in her head, she nodded to herself.

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