Hattie Big Sky Read online

  I posted both letters, the one to Charlie and the one to Perilee Mueller. Perilee’s return letter arrived promptly and with the promise to meet me at the train depot in Wolf Point and take me the rest of the way to Uncle Chester’s claim. Almost as if she could read my mind, she added to Uncle Chester’s brief list of instructions:

  As far as what to bring with you, your uncle has most everything needed for running a house. A sturdy hat to keep the sun and rain off and maybe some bed linens as Chester’s are none too choice.

  Your new neighbor,

  Perilee Mueller

  A smarter girl than me might have wobbled a bit at the thought of heading west to prove up a claim. I had lived on a farm with some cousins for six months and I helped Uncle Holt with his vegetable garden every year, but that was the extent of my agricultural expertise. I pushed all doubts and worries away the moment they crept into my thoughts. All I could see was the chance to leave Aunt Ivy and that feeling of being the one odd sock behind.

  Resolute in my decision, I did what any good homesteader must do: I took the four hundred dollars my parents had left me out of the bank and bought warm clothes and a twelve-dollar ticket on the Great Northern Railway. Packing didn’t take long. Uncle Holt gave me his old work boots, and Miss Simpson presented me with a copy of Campbell’s 1907 Soil Culture Manual. Her brother had gone out to Montana himself and assured her this was the text any homesteader must have for farming in eastern prairie country. And, along with a warm embrace, Charlie’s mother gave me a sturdy pair of canvas gloves. My last purchase was a wicker travel case for Mr. Whiskers.

  Aunt Ivy was still fuming about the whole thing and refused to come to the station. Uncle Holt drove me there in his new Ford Town Car.

  “I know you can do the work, Hattie.” Uncle Holt unloaded my trunk, then handed me Mr. Whiskers in his case.

  “But there will be new ways to learn. Don’t be too proud to ask for help.” He pulled his pipe out of his pocket. “You know what Ivy says. Pride goeth—”

  “Before a fall,” I finished. My pridefulness was a constant source of sorrow and agitation for Aunt Ivy. She’d worn out many a switch trying to cure me of it.

  Uncle Holt busied himself with filling his pipe and tamping down the tobacco. As he lit it, I thought I saw a dampness in his eye.

  “Thank you, Uncle Holt.” Three years of small kindnesses flashed through my mind. “I—I—” Our gazes caught, and I felt he understood my feelings, even if I couldn’t say the words. “I promise to write.”

  “No piecrust promises, now.” He patted my shoulder awkwardly. “But it would be good to hear from you. Now and again.”

  “All aboard!” called the porter.

  Mr. Whiskers and I boarded the train. Uncle Holt stood at the station and waved. I waved back. Then I settled myself in and faced west.

  CHAPTER 2

  January 1918

  On the Great Northern Railway,

  somewhere in North Dakota

  Dear Charlie,

  The first night on the train I couldn’t sleep for my excitement; the third night, I couldn’t sleep for the smell and the din. I can hear you saying that my train ride is nothing compared to your travels overseas. That’s true as true, but I’m cross, hungry, and grimy, so I will have my fuss. The book Miss Simpson gave me does not hold my interest. It speaks of work, work, work. I’d rather read the railroad pamphlets, which make homesteading sound as easy as rubbing a magic lamp.

  I know there is no genie out there, ready to do my bidding. That is why a hundred questions bubble up inside me. What shall I do first when I arrive? What is entailed in proving up? What if I can’t do it? My mind whirrs at the thought of all that must be done. Aunt Ivy would be as pleased as Mr. Whiskers with a mouthful of feathers to know I am in such a muddle. I’m afraid I will have to rely on that painful teacher, Experience, until I get my homestead legs.

  I looked up from the letter I was writing to Charlie and turned my attention outward. The view from the grimy rail-car window was most discouraging. “The pamphlet says Montana’s the land of milk and honey,” I wrote, “but you’d never guess from this endless stretch of snow. I’m sure it’s different around Uncle Chester’s claim.”

  I wondered again about my uncle. I had heard of him, of course, but not much and had never met him. He called himself a scoundrel—what did that mean? What had taken him to Montana? It seemed to me that Uncle Chester’s heart could not have been all that dark if he remembered a niece he scarcely knew in his will. I trust you’ve enough of your mother’s backbone, he’d written. I sat up straighter. I had no idea if I had my mother’s strength; I knew little more about her than I did about this long-lost uncle. That didn’t stop me from imagining her, perhaps even looking down on me now. What would she say? Would she side with Aunt Ivy? Or approve of my decision? I wondered, as I had so many times, if it would’ve been easier to lose my parents when I was still a baby, with no knowledge of them at all. The memories I had now were frustratingly faint—whispers of the past. From the one photo I had of them, I knew I’d inherited my father’s straight nose and my mother’s crooked smile. In what other ways they had made their marks upon me, I had no way of knowing. But, surely, agreeing to move to Montana, to Uncle Chester’s claim, showed some familial gumption.

  “Me-rowr.” Mr. Whiskers wiggled in his case.

  “You poor puss.” I checked Mother’s watch, pinned to my bodice. “You’ll be a free cat soon.” The train would arrive in Wolf Point in less time than it’d take bread dough to rise. I shifted on the seat, trying to discreetly rearrange the folds of my skirt under a very tired rump. The fat man across from me had been snoring loudly, but my movements woke him. I quickly turned my face to the window again.

  “It does make a heart glad to see such country, don’t it?” he asked.

  I mumbled a polite response.

  “Where you headed?” He leaned forward, puffing out breath soured with stale tobacco smoke and whiskey.

  A washboard-thin cowboy, slouched in the next seat over, chimed in. “She’d be headed to Helena. That’s where all the young ladies aim for.”

  Despite Aunt Ivy’s constant warnings not to talk to strangers, here, in the tight community of the Great Northern Railway car, it seemed bad manners not to answer.

  “I’m going to my uncle’s homestead in Vida,” I answered. “Near Circle.”

  The fat man hooted and slapped his thigh. “Child, that’s near nuthin’. Abso-tootly nuthin’.” He shook his head.

  “Honyocker,” the cowboy mumbled. He tugged his greasy hat farther down on his head.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Honyocker, hayseed, squatter—it’s all the same.” The cowboy wielded a wicked-looking knife to pare a chaw of tobacco off the hunk in his hand.

  “Fool farmers think they can make a go of it out here.” The fat man swiped his forehead with a grimy handkerchief.

  “M–m-my uncle has a lovely farm.” I adjusted my new hat. “B-Bumper crops this past year.” I cringed a little at my lie. But then I didn’t know that Uncle Chester hadn’t had bumper crops.

  “Goldarned railroads.” The cowboy spat toward the brass spittoon in the aisle and nearly made it. The sight made my stomach threaten mutiny.

  “Bet he got suckered by them railroad pamphlets, didn’t he?” The fat man shook his head. “Thought he’d plow up gold coins instead of turnips.”

  “My uncle’s farm is quite…” Flustered, I couldn’t come up with the word I wanted. “Bountiful.”

  The fat man exploded with such an exceedingly indelicate phrase that my stomach lurched. “Blast him,” he continued. “Him and all them greedy conniving railroad men, making promises Montana can’t deliver.” His voice pummeled me with its force. Now all the passengers were nodding and murmuring agreement with this dirty cowboy and red-faced fat man. The only one keeping his own counsel was a man in a dark overcoat.

  My tongue tingled with choice words for these rude men. I cl
utched my lunch basket closer and reminded myself that a lady should also keep her own counsel. Aunt Ivy had branded that message on my bare legs countless times.

  “Wolf Point! All out for Wolf Point!” The conductor stuck his head in the car. “Miss, here’s your station.”

  The train slowed, but the fat man’s tirade did not. In fact, he reminded me of Reverend Porter at the last tent revival, proud of his three-hour orations. I tried to shut him out as I gathered my things.

  “…starving to death. Ain’t got the sense when to quit,” he rattled. “If you was my daughter—”

  At that moment, the train lurched. I tottered in the aisle, desperate to preserve my balance—and my dignity—as well as a grip on my bags and my cat. A lady can only bear so much. It had been a long, miserable trip. My patience was as frayed as my second-best dress. “Sir, if I were your daughter,” I said, looking him full in the face, “I would wait until this train started up again and throw myself in front of it!”

  The car fell into stunned silence. Then the cowboy hooted. “Look like she’s told you a thang or two, Chet.”

  Voice quivering, I managed to say, “Good day, gentlemen.” As I passed through the doorway, a man’s hand grabbed my arm.

  “I beg your pardon.” I already regretted my outburst. Now I was probably going to be killed for it. Aunt Ivy had warned me a hundred times about the “wild men out West.” I looked down and saw that the hand belonged to the quiet man in the dark topcoat.

  “Blame their manners on bad whiskey.” He tipped his hat. “May I say, miss, that I have utmost confidence in your success in this hard land.”

  “Thank you.” I willed my legs to stop shaking. They did not obey. “But my uncle does have a going concern.”

  “I’m sure he does,” the man said softly. “Sure he does.” He stepped back inside the car.

  I made my way to the corridor and off the railroad car on legs weakened by more than fatigue and anger. It didn’t help that Charlie’s face appeared before me, awakening memories of his kind and tender ways. Awash in self-pity, I even longed for Aunt Ivy. At least I knew what to expect of her. I thought I’d known what to expect of Montana—that here a person could not only have dreams, but could hold them and they wouldn’t shatter. Now I wasn’t sure.

  I turned around, half thinking to jump back on the train. “Good luck, miss.” The conductor swung my trunk down. “And welcome to Montana.”

  CHAPTER 3

  January 3, 1918

  Wolf Point, Montana

  Dear Uncle Holt,

  A few lines before I say my prayers. To say the trip was an adventure would be a bit like saying you enjoy your newspapers! And, after today, I can only guess it is the beginning of adventures, not the end.

  The Muellers indeed met me at the station, though not quite at the appointed time. Isn’t it fascinating how long a few minutes seem when you are completely alone—except for a valiant tabby companion—at a strange train depot with not a familiar face in sight? You would be proud of me for putting a plan into action when I realized I may have to rely on my own resources.

  I shivered and tucked my mittened hands under my arms to warm them. I had no idea how long the trip to Wolf Point would be for Perilee and her family. And in this weather! What if something had happened on the way? What if they couldn’t come? What if their horse broke a leg and they had no way to travel? What if—

  My hand went to my mother’s watch. I could use some of the Wright backbone now. My teeth pounded out a frozen rhythm in the icy air. Standing here on the platform was not a reasonable course of action. I might freeze to death before the Muellers arrived. A sign down the way advertised “Hotel.” It was too darn cold to debate much longer. I left my trunk, grabbed my valise and Mr. Whiskers, and started off down the snow-lined street.

  I was not ten paces from the train station when I heard a woman’s voice. “Yoo-hoo! Yoo-hoo! Might you be Hattie Brooks?”

  A few moments late but certainly true to her word, Perilee Mueller did meet me at the station. Her husband brought the wagon to a creaking stop, and she hopped out.

  “Oh, I was afraid we were going to be late.” She hurried to me. “Mattie couldn’t find Mulie.”

  I’m certain she thought this explanation was clear as crystal, but I couldn’t fathom one word of it. I managed a weak smile. “You must be Perilee Mueller.” Perilee was what Aunt Ivy would’ve called plain. Her long nose sat at odds with her round face. Rusty brown hair scrambled every which way on her head, and she walked with an ungraceful limp. No, Perilee would not turn heads. But when she smiled a welcome to me, I thought her an equal to Bebe Daniels, my favorite film star.

  She took my valise and looked me up and down. “Yes, I can see the family resemblance.”

  “Really?” I touched the brim of my hat. “I never met Uncle Chester.”

  “He was mighty good to me,” she said. “We’re glad to help you for his sake.” She opened her arms as if to enfold me in a hug. I deflected her by holding Mr. Whiskers between us. Her smile flickered uncertainly, then lit up her homely face again.

  “And for my own. You’ll be my nearest neighbor. I’m dying for some woman talk!”

  “It’s so kind of you to meet me,” I said. “And give me a ride to my new home.”

  “Pish-posh.” Perilee waved her plump hand. “It’s a badge of honor! New folks are big news here. I’ll be a celebrity for a month.” She led me over to the wagon and introduced me to the tall, rugged man in the driver’s seat. “This is Karl.”

  “Guten Tag.” Karl nodded.

  “H-h-hello,” I stammered, surprised at his greeting. “Guten Tag,” I replied, using the very little German I’d learned in school. Karl smiled, handed Perilee the reins, then strode back the few steps to the platform to get my trunk. He carried it over as if it were full of feathers.

  Perilee nudged me into the wagon, climbed up herself, and tucked us under a huge woolen blanket. She pointed back to the wagon bed. “And this here’s Chase—he’s eight—and Mattie’s six—she’s our little magpie—and the baby’s Fern.”

  “Hello, children.” I counted heads. “But which one’s Mulie?”

  Mattie held up a rag doll with a distinct bald spot on her black yarn head. “Why, she’s right here!” The doll danced a jig in Mattie’s mittened hands. “She says she’s very pleased to meet you.”

  There was something so serious in Mattie’s tone that I returned the greeting solemnly. “And I am very pleased to meet you, Mulie.”

  “Hello, Miz Brooks.” Chase stuck out his hand. I shook it.

  “I’ve been feeding Violet and Plug for you.” It took me a moment to recall that Violet and Plug were the animal part of my legacy from Uncle Chester.

  “We’ve got them at our place,” explained Perilee. “Chase can bring ’em over soon as you’re settled.”

  At that moment, little Fern began to wail. Karl finished loading my things, and we headed toward the hotel. He let us out in front and rode on to the livery stable. We hurried into the lobby, to get out of the cold.

  “Erickson’s isn’t fancy,” said Perilee, “but the food’s good. It’s too far to head back tonight. We’ll start out after breakfast.” She managed to unwrap baby Fern from the blankets, help Mattie out of her coat, and scold Chase for peeking in the brass spittoon, all in one breath and motion.

  “How long a ride is it?” My heart squirreled in my chest at the thought of my new home, now within reach.

  “Oh, we’ll be there by suppertime tomorrow.” Perilee rounded up her wayward chicks. “I’d better take the children upstairs.”

  “That’s fine,” I said. “I have some business in town. I’m to see a Mr. Ebgard.” I relinquished Mr. Whiskers’ case to Chase. “About the claim and such.”

  “Can we pet him?” Mattie asked, crouching down to peer into the case.

  “When I get back,” I said. “He needs to settle in a bit.”

  “Ebgard’s office is a few doors down that
away.” Perilee pointed. “Why don’t you pop back over to the hotel when you’re done? Then I can help you with your shopping.”

  “Oh, don’t trouble yourself.” She didn’t need one more chick to watch over. “I can manage.”

  “See you at supper, then.” She herded the children upstairs.

  Mr. Ebgard was assisting someone else when I arrived, so I settled myself on the one spare chair.

  “That looks like everything, Tom,” Mr. Ebgard said to the careworn man across from him. “You got the final filing fee?”

  Tom counted out bills onto the desk. “Highway robbery.” He shook his head. “Thirty-seven dollars and seventy-five cents for paperwork. After I’ve already paid twenty-two dollars to open the claim!”

  “I’m not getting rich off you, Tom.” Mr. Ebgard put down his pen. “My commission’s only two dollars.”

  “Not saying nothing against you, Ebgard.” Tom laughed and stood up. “But there’s not much free about this free homestead land.”

  Mr. Ebgard shook his hand. “Congratulations, Tom. You are now the proud owner of three hundred twenty Montana acres. Good luck.”

  Tom tipped his hat to me as he passed by. “Morning, ma’am.”

  I nodded back.

  “May I help you?” Mr. Ebgard held out the recently vacated chair.

  “I’m Hattie Inez Brooks.” I sat, hoping to appear more mature than I felt. “Niece to Chester Brooks.” I showed him Uncle Chester’s letter.

  “Most unusual.” Mr. Ebgard shook his head. “Most unusual.”

  “Sir?”

  “I don’t know…” He tapped the pen against his moustache. “How old are you?”

  “S-seventeen.” I squirmed at the fib.

  “How old?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “Good heavens!” The pen dropped. “What was Chester thinking?”

  There didn’t seem to be any way for me to answer the question, so I didn’t.

  “Why on earth did your mother let you come?” he demanded.