Lonely In Longtree Read online

  Marva heaved a restrained sigh. Ginny stirred, and Marva resumed patting the baby’s backside. Motherhood was exhausting. . .and these weren’t even her children. How did Beulah manage at home? Probably the children weren’t as restive in familiar surroundings. The constant motion and clamor of the train, the cinder-thick air, the heat, and the press of humanity must be nearly unbearable to a child. It was bad enough for an adult who understood why such discomfort must be endured.

  Not that Marva was certain of the reasons herself. This “vacation” had been anything but restful thus far. She felt like an unpaid nanny. . .although, to be fair, she had offered her help repeatedly. How could any decent person watch friends struggle to control and comfort their six restless and bored children and not offer to help?

  She should have stayed home to care for the farm. Traveling in company with all married adults and children served only to emphasize her singleness. She should have seen her parents off at the train station with a wave and a blessing. Ridiculous to imagine that—

  The front coach door opened, and Myles Van Huysen entered. He met Marva’s gaze and smiled, making his way along the narrow aisle. After a quick glance at his sleeping offspring, he shook his head with a rueful smile. “How’d you do it? You’re amazing, Marva,” he said in hushed tones. “Want me to take over? Beulah finally got Trixie to sleep. Tim and Cy are with the Schoengard family.”

  The children might wake when she moved, but their father would simply have to handle that eventuality. Marva’s every joint ached from hours of immobility. She handed Ginny to Myles, who cradled his baby girl expertly. Extricating herself from between the two boys was more difficult, but Marva managed it with only a few minor mishaps—such as pulling the hair of the man seated in front of her when she grasped the top of his seat for leverage and crushing her hat when she reached up into the luggage rack overhead. Once in the aisle, she straightened her back and legs, expecting to hear the crackle and pop of petrified joints. But the train whistled at that propitious moment, so any evidence of fossilization was concealed.

  Myles took her place between his boys. Jerry wrapped his hands around his father’s arm and snuggled down to sleep again. Joey slumped across Myles’s lap.

  Feeling a sudden need for air, even the smoky air on the platform, Marva staggered to the back of the lurching coach and outside, where she clutched the railing and breathed deeply. As long as she didn’t look down, the speed wasn’t too dizzying. To her delight, trees obscured her view. When had the scenery switched from farmland to forest? Absorbed in entertaining the children and calming the baby, she hadn’t so much as glanced out the train’s windows in several hours.

  The clacking of the rails changed in tone as the train crossed a bridge over a blue river, and then the train flashed back into the cool stillness of forest on the far side.

  A gust of smoke swept over her. Coughing, she blinked cinders from her eyes and made a futile attempt to wave away the choking fumes. Her white shirtwaist was now gray with black speckles. Enough of enjoying the scenery. She hurried back inside.

  Near the back of the coach, her parents sat peacefully reading and dozing. Mother smiled at Marva’s approach. “No children?”

  Marva pulled her small valise from the overhead rack. “Myles took them. I think I’ll try to catch a few winks.”

  “Your father says we should arrive within the hour. Isn’t the view splendid? I’m so thankful you came with us, dearest. I know you’ve always wanted to travel and see the world.”

  She’d been thinking more along the lines of New York, Boston, or even Paris, but the Northwoods would have to suffice for the present. Marva returned her mother’s smile. “The trees are magnificent. What are you reading, Papa?”

  He closed the book over his finger and gave her a sheepish grin. “It’s a Western novel I borrowed from Timmy Van Huysen.”

  “Once a boy, always a boy.” Mother patted his arm.

  The book jacket portrayed a cowboy astride a rearing horse on a narrow ledge above a cliff. His rifle spouted lurid orange flame at an attacking mountain lion. Instead of remarking on the hero’s obviously imminent demise or the lion’s improbably scarlet mouth, Marva said only, “My, but he wears furry trousers.”

  “Those are chaps,” Papa grumbled and returned to reading. “Women!”

  “I’m thankful this is a fishing trip and not a lion-hunting expedition. I’m picturing you in furry chaps straddling a wild mustang.” Marva smiled at the thought.

  “Those days are long past for me.” He glanced up at her again. “You used to enjoy fishing.”

  “Oh, perhaps I’ll try it again if you wish, but this trip promises to be more of a babysitting ordeal for me than anything adventurous.”

  Although she had tried to keep her tone light, her mother’s eyes narrowed. “Marva, you are under no obligation to watch anyone’s children.”

  She tried to forestall a lecture. “I can hardly enjoy myself if I know Beulah is exhausted and miserable. I was merely funning. I’m sure I’ll find time to catch a bluegill or two.” She glanced around in search of empty seats. “If I’m asleep when we arrive, please don’t leave me on the train.”

  “Wouldn’t matter much if we did,” her father said, “since Minocqua is the end of the line.”

  Three rows up, she plopped into a window seat and set her bag beside her. Across the aisle sat a pair of strangers, sleeping soundly from all appearances.

  Marva opened her valise and dug around until she located an envelope. Holding it to her chest, she glanced around once more. No one was looking. She pulled out a few newspaper clippings.

  Lucky in Lakeland. For two years they had maintained an awkward association by newspaper ads. Sometimes months had passed between notes, yet each time she had thought the correspondence might be finished, another note would appear in the paper. For two years she had waited for him to make some kind of move, some indication that he wanted their relationship to advance.

  He often spoke of her and her parents coming north, but no definite invitation had been extended, no names had been exchanged. The entire situation was distressingly indefinite.

  She squeezed her eyes shut.

  Most likely, Lucky, as she now thought of him, had simply entertained himself for two years by encouraging a desperate spinster. Still, he sounded sincere. . . .

  Lonely in Longtree: I am not a gambling man, and neither do I smoke or drink—although I indulged in all these vices in my distant past. God changed my life. I actually consider myself blessed but chose “lucky” for the alliteration. You are right to demand more information. In December of last year, I filed claim on a section within easy distance of several local towns, located on the shore of a sizable fishing lake, rich in wildlife and quality lumber, and, in short, representing my idea of heaven on earth. Having made substantial improvements to date, I recently purchased the acreage and intend to begin construction of a resort lodge. Might you take interest in such a venture? Lucky and Blessed in Lakeland.

  She ran her finger over the yellowed slip of paper. The man might have deceived her these past two years. He might prove a fraud. But she still felt vindicated in writing to him on the basis of those four powerful words: “God changed my life.”

  Dear Lonely in Longtree, I intend to hire a cook, a housekeeping staff, etc. Your role here would be entirely your choice. I hoped you might enjoy the venture as much as I do. Construction has started, and the log walls are going up. I wish you could come and see. Plenty of room for your parents to either live in the lodge or have a comfortable cabin of their own. Do you enjoy reading? Lucky in Lakeland.

  Back then he had sounded eager to meet her, to show her his lodge. But somehow their discussions had rambled away from relationship into surface matters. Discussions of reading preferences and leisure pastimes had their merits, yet the friendship had never deepened. D
id Lucky possess depths of character? Or perhaps he was the type of man who would always keep a woman shut out of his inner life.

  But what did she expect? Any woman silly enough to bypass convention and advertise for a husband in the newspaper shouldn’t expect a perfect match. Any woman sinful enough to bypass God’s leading and strike out on her own couldn’t expect rich blessings.

  She slid the clippings back into the envelope, careful to keep them neat and orderly. His notes had revealed many clues to his identity. She knew that the train brought his mail into town, so he lived near a railroad line. She knew the approximate date his town had been founded. He owned and operated a new resort built from logs and located on a lake. He was unmarried, which she could only hope proved true, forty years old, clean living, and exceptionally well educated.

  A lifetime habit of prayer prompted her to whisper, “Dear God, I know I shouldn’t have started this mess in the first place, but please help me to find him.”

  Yet even as she spoke the words, a conflict rose within her. In the vast Northwoods of Wisconsin, locating one man who did not wish to be located would be nothing short of miraculous. Why should she expect God to bless her rebellion? If He had provided her with a suitable husband in the first place, she wouldn’t have been tempted to advertise for a man. But then again, God knew she would advertise before she ever picked up the pen to write that first inquiry, so why shouldn’t He bless her feeble efforts to force His hand?

  ❧

  Monte strolled along the train platform, his gaze scanning the sky until he found a circling pair of eagles—two dots against the blue. A gentle breeze rippled the lake, scattering the reflected trees. A horse’s snort gave him an inward start, and he realized how tense he had become. This would never do.

  He swung his arms back and forth and rolled his head from side to side until his neck crackled. He sucked in a deep breath and exhaled noisily, attempting a grin.

  It was no good. Nothing could lure his thoughts away from the approaching confrontation. For weeks, doubts and speculations had milled within the enclosure of his mind like corralled mustangs, determined to break free. No matter how diligently he reinforced the fences with known facts, those wild-eyed doubts kicked and pushed and jostled until the facts splintered and fell. Wriggling through the gaps, the ugly worries stampeded his composure.

  He wanted a drink. More than once he cast a glance along Front Street toward St. Elmo’s Saloon. It had been years. Many long years. Surely one drink to bolster his nerves wouldn’t offend the Almighty.

  To distract himself, he returned to check the lineup of Lakeland Lodge wagons waiting near the depot amid vehicles from other hotels and lodges. Petunia and Buzz nickered at the sight of him, and he placed his hands on their faces for comfort. His own comfort.

  Forty-two guests would soon arrive. Not his first large party; he’d had several. His drivers would competently convey the tourists and their luggage to Lakeland Lodge, where uniformed staff would direct them to their rooms or cabins. His cook and kitchen crew were even now preparing a divine repast for the evening meal. A small fleet of boats awaited the arrival of eager fishermen.

  He felt confident of his lodge and its staff. They could not fail to please. No doubts on that score rankled his mind.

  “Monte,” one of the drivers, who was also his friend and business partner, called out. “I see smoke away down the line. Train’s coming.”

  He waved acknowledgment. “Thanks, Hardy.”

  Selling a half interest in the business had allowed Monte more free time to continue his writing. Harding “Hardy” Stowell was a good businessman and a brother in the Lord.

  His worries whipped back like a compass needle returning to North. How long had it been since he last saw Myles? Eighteen years? Nineteen? What if he didn’t recognize his own brother? What if, when he revealed his identity, Myles hopped back on the train and took his family with him? What if. . . ? What if. . . ?

  Rising panic finally drove him to pray. “Lord,” he muttered through his teeth, “help me face him. Give me strength to admit how weak I’ve been.” Imagining a look of disappointment and condemnation on his brother’s face, he grimaced. “I don’t have any idea what to say. I should never have done this.”

  A distant train whistle brought his head up. Black smoke drifted above the treetops across the lake. Monte returned to the platform. His leg bones must have liquefied. Bile rose in his throat. He swallowed hard and felt nauseous.

  The locomotive’s brakes started screeching while it was still on the trestle. Its deep chuff, chuff slowed, and the great billowing monster finally halted with its passenger cars beside the platform. Steam hissed in a white plume from its side.

  He could hardly bear to watch the passengers disembark. The sun’s heat became unendurable. His mouth was parched.

  Laughing, talking people descended the steps, gathered on the platform, and stared at their surroundings with evident interest. Children ducked and scrambled amid the legs and skirts. One man made a grab at a young boy, catching him by the back of his jacket.

  It was Myles.

  Two

  Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness.

  Isaiah 41:10

  Monte recognized his younger brother instantly, not by his appearance—which had changed over the years—but by his graceful movements and an indefinable quality in his bearing.

  “Myles,” he whispered the name.

  “Mr. Stowell?”

  A tall, burly man with graying blond hair had approached Monte unnoticed.

  “Uh, no. Mr. Stowell is over there.” He nearly introduced himself, but indecision tied his tongue in a knot. Hardy had handled all reservations and business with this group from Longtree.

  “But you’re with Lakeland Lodge, aren’t you?”

  Monte nodded.

  “David Schoengard here. I’m a minister.” Rev. Schoengard smiled and shook Monte’s hand. “It was a long ride, but we’re here at last.”

  “Welcome to Minocqua. The town isn’t much to look at, but wait until you see the lodge.” To his surprise, his voice sounded normal.

  Only dimly aware of his actions and praying in his heart, he supervised the loading of luggage, including fishing poles and tackle. “You people are serious about your fishing,” he said to a bearded old gentleman waiting near the wagon hitched to Petunia and Buzz.

  “That we are, sir.” Anticipation gleamed in the man’s faded blue eyes. “Are you our driver?”

  “I am.” Monte climbed into the wagon bed, slid a valise beneath one of the bench seats, and arranged fishing poles along a side panel. “You’ve never had better fishing than you’ll find around here.”

  “This is a lifetime opportunity. I’ve read the advertisements for this lodge in our local newspaper these past many months and dreamed about landing one of those record muskellunge.”

  Monte climbed down and gripped the man’s surprisingly powerful hand. “I sincerely hope your dreams will come true, Mr. . . ?”

  “Obermeier. Gustaf Obermeier, sir. And this is my wife, Elsa, and our daughter. . . . Ah, well, she’s here somewhere.”

  “She’s helping Beulah with the children,” Mrs. Obermeier said. “What is your name, sir?”

  “Just call me Monte.” He tipped his head toward the wagon. “Your luggage is loaded. I imagine you’re eager to reach the lodge and start fishing.”

  Mrs. Obermeier chuckled. “Please don’t tempt him, Mr. Monte. Morning will be soon enough for that, I should think.”

  He took the woman’s elbow to assist her into the wagon.

  “Mother!” Rapid footsteps clopped on the platform.

  Mrs. Obermeier turned back. “There you are,
dear. Are you riding with us or with the Van Huysens?”

  Hearing that name gave Monte a jolt.

  “Beulah asked me to ride with them—the children are nearly beside themselves with excitement. I’ll rejoin you at the lodge.” The younger woman spoke rapidly. She had a rich-sounding voice. Monte wondered which man in the party claimed her as his wife. That ash-blond hair of hers would catch any man’s attention.

  As she walked away, more guests climbed into Monte’s wagon: a young couple who behaved like newlyweds and a family of four whose names he missed. While Monte clucked up the horses, his passengers launched into happy discussion of the coming weeks. They mentioned names he found vaguely familiar, probably from seeing them in news articles.

  At times he glimpsed Hardy’s wagon ahead on the road. Myles and his family were in that wagon, he knew. Sunlight glinted off the lake alongside the Minocqua and Woodruff Road. In summer there could be no cutting across the lakes to shorten the trip home, but the local roads were in decent-enough repair. “What lake is this, Mr. Monte?” one of the women asked.

  “Just Monte, ma’am; no ‘mister,’ please. It’s called Kawaguesaga Lake. Up ahead here the road splits off, and we’ll head west toward the Lac du Flambeau reservation.” He jiggled Petunia’s reins to wake her up.

  “Will we see any Indians while we’re here?”

  “You’re likely to, ma’am.”

  “Are they friendly?” Mr. Obermeier asked.

  “Mostly.” He shrugged. “They’re like any people—some are friendly; some are not. One of the lodge’s fishing guides is Ojibwa. We call him Ben. If he can’t find you a big fish, no one can.”

  They again conversed among themselves, leaving Monte to his thoughts. When would be the best time to approach Myles? Probably not tonight, while the children were overtired and ornery. In the morning, perhaps? But he could never wait that long! Somehow he had pictured himself walking up to Myles on the station platform to reveal his identity, but that idea had fizzled. Myles and his wife had been far too preoccupied with controlling their numerous offspring even to notice his presence.