Tempest in the White City by Deeanne Gist

Author:Deeanne Gist
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Howard Books

For more from the World’s Columbian Exposition, read an excerpt from Deeanne’s April release, It Happened at the Fair, on the next page!

Cullen’s eyes swelled to mere slits, his roughened cheeks itched, and a sharp line separated the raw skin on his neck from

the skin protected by his shirt. It had happened every planting season for his entire twenty-seven years, and it would happen for the next.

He yanked off his gloves, shirt, and undershirt, worked the pump, then stuck his whole head beneath the water. The icy stream stung and soothed all at the same time. He dare not dither, though. Those cotton seeds rode on the breeze and any exposed skin would begin to itch within a day’s time.

Rearing up, he combed his fingers through his hair. Water drizzled down his back, mingling with the sweat collecting between his shoulder blades. The hinges on the back door screen squeaked. His stepmother clomped out, her plump body listing with the weight of the pail she toted.

“You ready to throw that out, Alice?”

She nodded, dirty water sloshing over the sides of the bucket. “I’ve got it,” she said. “You get on inside. You know better than to be out here without a shirt on.”

“A few more minutes won’t hurt.” Taking it from her, he retraced his steps, tossed the pail’s contents, and pumped fresh water into it.

She stood at the door, her back holding the screen open. Her auburn bun sagged, as streaked with muted white as a song sparrow’s wing. “Come on,” she said. “Ya look a fright.”

Pulling off a boot, he glanced inside. His father already sat at the head of their hand-hewn table, shaking out his napkin. Three plates balanced across its slightly slanted surface. The table had been Cullen’s first attempt at making a real piece of furniture. He’d presented it to his mother on his eleventh Christmas, prouder than any rooster in the hen house.

By the time he realized her other table was not only level but nicer, she’d already passed away. She’d never let on, though—just stroked it as if it were made of mahogany and asked Dad if he didn’t think it was the grandest table he’d ever seen. Dad would give Cullen a wink and agree that it surely was. To this day, Cullen didn’t know what had happened to their good table.

“Ya gonna stand out there all day or cm in so we can eat?” Dad tucked a napkin into the collarless neckline beneath his bushy black beard.

“Coming.” Dropping his boots outside, he stepped in, plucked an undershirt from the wall peg, and pulled it over his head. At least his arms and chest still held a healthy glow. Two strips of startling white skin dissected his coppery torso, delineating the spots where his suspenders rode. Going shirtless during the plowing was not a problem, it was the planting, weeding, and harvesting that bothered him most. “Smells good, Alice.”

The door banged shut behind her. “Made ya some bean kttl soup.”

He suppressed a cringe.

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