Free Dorothy Garlock by Homeplace Page B

hard to find a woman to take care of him, but if he wanted a mother for the boy and a wife for himself he didn’t have much to choose from. Half the women between here and Lansing were related to him; the other half married or older widows.
    Esther had pushed Lily at him for the past two or three years. It was one of the reasons he had married Harriet. Esther just couldn’t understand why he refused to court Lily, and he was determined not to tell her.
    A heavy step on the porch broke into Owen’s thoughts.
    “What ya sittin’ in the dark for?” Gus’s voice boomed in the quiet as he came into the kitchen. “Looky here who’s come.”
    Owen squinted at the tall man following his uncle, then got up from the chair.
    “Soren? Soren, you ornery cuss!” Owen held out his hand. “I’ll be damned. I didn’t expect you until time to cut the winter wheat.”
    “Howdy, cousin.” The tall man clasped Owen’s hand. “I guess I got homesick.”
    “Mighty glad to see you. Mighty glad.” Owen continued to pump Soren’s hand, his stern features softened by the broad smile on his face.
    “Pa’s been telling me you got yourself a wife and lost her since I was here last. Sorry to hear it.”
    “Thanks, Soren.” Owen lit the lamp. He turned to look at his cousin, then clapped him on the shoulder affectionately.
    Soren had the blue eyes and the blond hair of his Swedish mother. Two years younger than Owen, he had grown up with him, and the two had left home together to see what was down the big river. One Christmas, Owen came home for a visit. While he was here, his father was gored by a bull. Owen’s thigh was pierced by a horn as he tried to rescue him. The elder Jamison died, and it took the rest of the winter for Owen to recover. He stayed to work the farm and Soren had continued to roam, coming home once a year at harvest time to help Owen and to see his father.
    “Welcome home.” A broad smile washed the gloom from Owen’s face. “Are you hungry, Soren? There’s plenty here.”
    “Pa told me the neighbors had dragged in something to eat. I’d sure like to have a go at it.”
    Owen laughed and glanced at his uncle. Gus stood with his hands in the bib of his overalls watching his son and his nephew greet each other. They were both fine men and he was proud of them.
    A broom-maker by trade, Gus had moved out to the farm when Owen took it over. He lived in the small log house Owen’s father and grandfather had built when they settled here in 1840. He had a patch where he grew his broom corn and a shed Owen had built for him to dry his crop. Twice a year he took a wagonload of brooms to Lansing. A merchant there resold them to the merchants down river.
    “I saw one of your brooms in New Orleans, Pa,” Soren said. “The name Halverson burned in the handle just jumped right out and grabbed my attention.”
    “’Twas more than likely the pretty lass sweepin’ with it that caught your eye,” Gus snorted.
    Soren laughed. “It was standing in the corner of the toughest saloon on the river front.”
    “Humph!” Gus turned his back to hide his smile, took a plate from the kitchen cabinet and began to fill it for his son.
    “How’s all the folks, Owen?”
    “Folks are fine. Most of them came today.”
    “Heard anything from Paul?”
    “Not for a while. Paul always hated the farm.”
    “I saw Esther leaving. Has she mellowed any?”
    Owen looked away from his cousin. Esther was a topic they usually avoided. Soren had no patience with Esther, but then he didn’t know the hell Esther had to live with.
    “I think you’ve put on some muscle,” Owen said, changing the subject. “But that doesn’t make you a damn bit smarter.”
    Soren smiled. “I’m working on the day I can take you down and sit on you—” He turned his head to listen. “What’s that?”
    “That’s Harry,” Owen said, his eyes suddenly shining.
    “Harry?”
    “The boy. He’ll soon be three days old.”
    “Pa told me. It’s