Hope

By W. D. Murray

It is May of 1990 when Simon Fischer steps off the bus in Promise, Saskatchewan. A recent college graduate with a promising career looming ominously before him, Simon has decided to take some time to fi nd out what he wants next in life.

As he begins his summer working as a hired farmhand, Simon has no idea his life is about to change forever. Small town life in Promise is a world away from how Simon spent his university years, yet he is energized by the physically demanding work and the rural environment. Content to leave his career goals on the back burnerat least for the time beingSimon unexpectedly falls for Hope Winter, a young woman from a neighboring farm who is mature beyond her years. As the young couple embark on the journey to fulfi ll the promise of their shared love, unforeseen events are about to affect their lives in a devastating way.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 22, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462051526

W. D. Murray

W. D. Murray was raised in a small town on the prairies of Saskatchewan, Canada. After graduating from college he remained in Saskatchewan for a number of years until relocating to Alberta. He now resides with his family in Calgary. A respected professional writer as well as a classically-trained musician Mr. Murray is an avid reader with a life-long love of literature. This is his first novel.

Book preview

Contents

Prologue

PART ONE

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

PART TWO

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

PART THREE

Chapter Thirty-Four

To my wife and daughter, who continue to encourage me with their unfailing support and love.

To those who have gone before me—especially my nieces M and S, who despite their youth demonstrated great courage and strength of spirit in the face of tragic circumstances.

To my parents, whose simple yet firm faith set an example for me to follow; and to my brothers—my first, best, and longest-lasting friends.

Lastly, to everyone else who provided me with support, help, and inspiration over the years in ways too numerous to count.

Prologue

The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.

—John 3:8

We have this treasure in clay vessels, so that it may be made clear that this extraordinary power belongs to God and does not come from us. We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed …

—2 Corinthians 4:7–9

The choice for true love is made at a moment in time, reverberating through all the moments that follow, founded on the commitment to accept and embrace both the known and the unknown for whatever the future may reveal.

True love will always be reciprocated in greater measure than it is given; it is the only gift that is to be respected, revered, and treasured without hoarding. Made of nothing, it is everything. Ethereal and eternal, it leaves an indelible mark on the soul that neither disappears nor diminishes.

The redeeming power of true love provides the courage to accept the person we are and the will to become the person we are meant to be. It provides the strength to overcome the impossible, accept the unendurable, and pardon the unforgivable.

Mysterious and miraculous, true love gives meaning to our short, earthbound lives. Through God’s true love for us, guided by the Spirit, we can transcend suffering and sorrow to find the wonder of unbounded joy, regardless of circumstances.

In the simplest terms, true love is the supreme source of hope, the living embodiment of alchemy, with the power to turn leaden lives into golden ones.

PART ONE

Connections

Chapter One

Promise, Saskatchewan, Canada

May 1, 1990

Simon Fischer stepped off the bus and into the parking lot of the Esso station. The bus from Saskatoon had only been half full, and though he had been able to stretch out comfortably across a couple of seats, after a few hours of watching the scenery pass, Simon was glad to be at his destination.

What’d you bring with you? the driver asked as he unlatched the door leading to the underbelly of the bus.

Just that blue duffel bag, he said, pointing.

With a grunt, the driver heaved the well-used bag to the ground and shut the door in a single, well-practiced motion.

Okay, then, the driver said. Take care! Focused on keeping to his schedule, the driver bounded back onto the bus and within moments was accelerating noisily on the highway heading toward Swift Current.

Simon made his way into the garage, his shoes crunching on the gravel, and dropped the duffel bag onto an old, beat-up school bus seat set in front of the plate-glass window. The flyspeck-covered glass badly needed washing. A big, black fly buzzed, meandering through the air, repeatedly plinking against the window in frustration, uselessly trying to escape to the outside world. Finally, it gave up the fight and landed on the windowsill to begin meticulously rubbing its front legs together. Grimy and unkempt, the lobby was empty, but Simon heard two men in the service bay arguing loudly.

I’ve told you before, Sully: you still owe me money, and until it’s paid off, I need cash from you for everything. You should be happy that’s all I’m doing and that I never talked to the cops.

Screw you, Buzz! I never took a thing from you that wasn’t coming to me! I worked my ass off for you, and you know it!

Look, Sully, this isn’t up for negotiation. If you don’t like it, don’t bring your business to me; it’s as simple as that. I don’t need it, and I don’t want it.

Yeah, sure, I know, but where the hell am I supposed to get gas? You know that the Co-op is closed on Sundays.

That’s not my problem.

Fine. Here’s your damned money! You can pick it up like the scrounger you are! He threw the bills, scattering them across the concrete floor.

Having eavesdropped too long to take sanctuary in the washroom, Simon met the baleful glare of the man called Sully as he stormed into the lobby.

What the hell are you looking at? Sully said.

Now that they were face-to-face, Simon sized Sully up. He was in his early twenties, about six feet tall and heavyset in the muscular, well-fed way common to men from small prairie communities. Fair-skinned with small, light-green eyes, he had high cheekbones that curiously hinted at a measure of Native ancestry, despite his Irish coloring. His square face was topped with a thick mane of short-cropped, strawberry-blond hair. Incongruent with his scowling countenance, a scattering of light freckles were peppered cheerfully across the bridge of his smallish nose. His teeth were clenched, the thin lips of his broad mouth were pressed tightly together, and his strong jaw was set firmly, causing the muscles to bulge. He stood defiantly in front of Simon, pugnaciously daring him to knock the chip from his shoulder.

Simon was not intimidated. He met the intensity of Sully’s menacing gaze and locked into an unspoken struggle, two alpha males fighting for dominance. A few interminable moments followed, the silence only disturbed by the rhythmic buzzing of the fly as it resumed tapping against the window.

A sound from the garage bay broke the tension—the other man was coming into the lobby. With a huff, Sully violently shoved the door open and heavily trod across the lot to his bronze-colored car. Soon he was speeding away, tires squealing as the car slewed across the pavement, leaving short, black streaks in its wake.

I’m sorry about that—not much in the way of a welcome to Promise.

Simon turned to see a large but fit middle-aged man smiling broadly. He was dressed in a pair of well-used coveralls whose gray-green cloth was stained with an assortment of grease and grime of various vintages. Good-looking in an ugly sort of way reminiscent of Robert Mitchum, the man bore a swollen, ancient scar on his upper lip that he had likely gained on the battlefield of one athletic endeavor or another. He was swarthy, with darkly warm brown eyes.

Sorry I wasn’t here sooner. I saw the bus come in, but I was in the middle of that little discussion with Sully. As you might have figured out, I’m the owner of this place. My handle’s Bill Beausoleil, he said, pronouncing his last name as bo-zho-lay, closer to Beaujolais, the wine, than what would have been the correct French pronunciation. Most people around here call me Buzz. Self-consciously wiping his hand on the front of his coveralls, Buzz offered it to Simon in greeting. So, what’s your name, then? Since I know everyone in town, I’m guessing that you’re not a local.

No, you’re right—I’m not, Simon said as he shook Buzz’s hand, but in some ways I feel like I’m at least an honorary citizen or something. I used to spend quite a bit of time here when I was a kid. I’m Simon Fischer and my aunt is Peg Evans; you probably know her.

Of course I know her! Buzz exclaimed. She was in the same grade as my oldest sister! So help me out here—how exactly is Peg your aunt?

She’s my mom’s older sister, Simon replied.

Then that’d make your mom Mary Weiland?

That’s right, Simon said. But of course she’s been Mary Fischer for as long as I’ve known her.

I guess that’d have to be, eh? Well, I’ll be damned! I haven’t seen Mary in twenty-five years if it’s a day. He paused and absentmindedly scratched the back of his neck. "You’re sure bringing back memories. Wait’ll I tell Rita tonight when I get home.

Who was the guy who just left, anyhow? Simon asked. He sure gave me the stare-down.

Well, that’s no surprise. Sully’s unfortunately not the best ambassador for our little town, and is probably one of the least-liked characters around here. Buzz scratched the back of his neck again, a habit that seemed to help him think. The two of us have a little history, which I guess is pretty obvious. Last year I hired him because I thought he was a young guy who could use a break. Boy was I wrong! He worked for me until I caught him stealing—taking parts to soup up his car—and the jerk didn’t even try to deny it! Told me that I didn’t pay him well enough for all the work he’d done for me and that he only took what was coming to him. That’s a load of crap! And now, after all that, he expects me to sell him fuel on credit. I can tell you that I regret not going to the cops. He’s a real piece-of-work.

You call him Sully?

His real name’s Thom Sullivan, but no one calls him that—believe it or not I actually had to think about it before his real name finally came to me! Buzz smiled. Nicknames are popular around here—most everyone has at least one, including me. Pretty much everyone calls me Buzz, or Buzzer—even my kids

Where’d that come from? Simon asked.

When I was a kid I played a lot of hockey and was a pretty fast right winger. Tough, too—I never backed away from a fight, Buzz said proudly. My dream was to play in the NHL. Needless to say, it didn’t happen, otherwise I wouldn’t still be living here in Promise. He chuckled. Anyhow, I got the nickname and I’ve been stuck with it ever since … even though I’m not so fast anymore!

I’m going to be here all summer; maybe I’ll get a nickname too, Simon said.

You just might, said Buzz. You just need to do something memorable! I sometimes think we picked the use of nicknames up from the Indians—you know how they changed their names based on big things they’d done? Or maybe it’s biblical, like Saul becoming Paul. Buzz chuckled at his own humor, his shoulders shaking. What brings you to Promise?

I came to work for Cy Mueller, as his hired hand, Simon said. Aunt Peg thought it might be easier for Cy if his hired hand were someone who was sort of in the family, and since they’re getting married she figured I fit the bill.

That’s right! I had heard on coffee row that they had got engaged! You can’t keep much of a secret around Promise; the place’s just too small. Good for them! Buzz said. Do you mind if I give you a little advice?

Not at all, Simon said.

Well, as I’m sure you know, Cy doesn’t have the best of health anymore, and although there’s no doubt he needs a hired hand out there on the farm, he’s independent and as self-reliant as all hell. Basically, he needs you but he may resent it. My advice is this: don’t let Cy work you too hard. He’s a good man, but he’s also a real squarehead—German through and through. He’s a perfectionist with high expectations and he’ll be hard to keep happy. I think that’s a big reason why his son Jason doesn’t work with him.

Simon was silent for a moment, pondering Buzz’s advice. He sounds a bit like my dad, he finally said. Thanks for the warning; I’ll keep it in mind.

No problem. As I said, there’s no doubt that Cy’s a good man, but I think he’s struggling a little bit, Buzz said. Well, I better get back to work; there’s a set of brakes waiting for me that won’t install themselves. He looked at Simon. Say, do you want a lid? I’ve got a whack of ’em.

Sure, Simon said.

After rummaging around in a box of merchandise that he pulled from behind the counter, Buzz pulled out a ball cap and handed it to Simon. It was dark blue, with the familiar Esso corporate logo and Beausoleil Esso emblazoned across the front.

Thanks, Buzz, Simon said. I appreciate that. He immediately began working the brim into a proper arc and then adjusted the band before putting it on his head.

Looks great! I guess I turned out to be the town’s welcome wagon, Buzz said. It was nice meeting you, Simon. Say hello to Peg and Cy for me, will you? And make sure you mention my wife Rita and me to your mom.

With that, Buzz returned to his work, leaving Simon alone in the lobby. He adjusted the cap, using his reflection in the glass, and then took it off once more to work the brim. Warmed by Buzz’s welcoming, Simon already felt as if he had been officially accepted by the town of Promise, and it felt good. He happily looked forward to whatever adventures the summer might bring.

Chapter Two

None of Simon’s university friends had understood why he would choose to work for the summer in Promise; for them it would have been a prison sentence. Though not so far away geographically, Promise was a world away psychologically from the life Simon had led during his university years in Saskatoon. Looking through the film of dust on the window of the lobby, Simon mentally replayed a conversation with his roommate, Pewter, held the previous week.

"Why would you actually choose to live in a small town like that?" Pewter asked, grabbing a beer from the fridge and flopping onto the threadbare chesterfield in the small living room of their shared apartment. Pewter’s actual name was Peter Ewart.

I’m not going to be living in town, Simon corrected him, somewhat irritably. He did not need to discuss his decision one more time with Pewter. I’ll be living on a farm fifteen miles away.

Pewter rolled his eyes. Even worse! he exclaimed. I just don’t get it—and what’s the name of the town again?

Promise, Simon said.

Pewter chuckled. You’ve got to know that’s a funny name. I know that Saskatchewan has a lot of towns with funny names, but this one’s especially good! There’s a paradox for you—a boring prairie town called Promise! Sounds like something out of an old Western movie, some duster with Clint Eastwood. He whistled an off-tune version of the theme from The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly and then took a swig from his beer bottle. It’ll be torture—a living hell! You’ll be bored out of your mind.

No, I won’t, Simon said firmly. Look, I know it’s unusual, and I don’t expect you to understand, but it’s what I want to do. Besides, it’s not like I’ve never done this before: I worked on a farm outside Saskatoon over the summers when I was in high school. I know that you couldn’t wait to get as far away as you could from farmwork, but I really liked it.

Okay, my friend, Pewter said, chuckling. Calm down—I’m just trying to get your goat. I’m just disappointed that you’re not coming with me to Europe. I’m going to miss you, bud! It really would have been great to have you along. You’re going to miss out, my friend. As my uncle used to tell me, the time to be young and foolish is when you’re young and foolish.

Simon sighed. "Yeah, I know. It would be good to go with you, but I can’t afford it. I have to work, but I’m also not ready to begin my career. I feel like I need a break to do some living for a while before locking myself into the rest of my life. Working on the farm for the summer will give me the break I need."

Pewter clapped Simon on the back. "More than anyone, I think you deserve a trip to Europe, and if I could afford it, I’d pay for it! Hell, out of all of us, you worked the hardest to get your bachelor’s in commerce, and I’m glad that it paid off for you. Even if I had worked as hard as you did, I still wouldn’t be able to get your marks, and that’s over and above the fact that you also had to work your way through school to make ends meet."

It was true; Pewter came from a well-to-do family that farmed a large spread of land near Kamsack, in the east-central part of the province. His parents had easily been able to afford the entire tab of his education in addition to giving him a brand-new car—a nice little Honda Prelude—when he graduated from high school.

Simon had never been jealous of Pewter, who was a very generous and dependable friend, but he had not been quite so fortunate. His parents had been successful small-business owners, and for much of his life, Simon had lived quite a comfortable life. Money had never seemed to be an issue; their house had been large and new, with the luxury of a pool in the backyard, and they had driven nice cars that his father replaced every three years. The family had also been able to afford a good vacation every year. After Simon’s parents had made some bad business decisions, however, the family’s financial situation had deteriorated, and his parents had finally been forced to declare personal bankruptcy just as Simon was in his last term of Grade Twelve. The stress had almost ended their marriage, and the change from a happy family environment to one of almost constant fighting and bickering had left Simon with deep emotional scars. Simon had spent most of his last year in high school avoiding home by keeping busy with school or work, or spending his time alone in his room.

Embarrassed by what had happened and wanting to make a fresh start in their lives and their marriage, Simon’s father and mother had finally decided to move from Saskatoon to Toronto, where, with his brother’s help, his father was able to find work as a business manager for a construction company.

Although his parents had wanted him to make the move with them, Simon thought it better to stay in Saskatoon. His parents needed some time to mend their tattered relationship, and he needed time away from them to sort out things as well. Simon’s relationship with his father had been severely strained, and he did not want to potentially make matters worse by having to live under the same roof with him. Simon had always looked up to his father as a role model, but now he felt betrayed, and to a certain extent resented the man he had once admired.

Firmly committed to starting his own life, Simon had applied to the College of Commerce at the University of Saskatchewan, and after being accepted, he had spent the past four years of his life on campus as an undergraduate student, determined to prove himself and get an education that would prevent him from making the same mistakes that his father had made.

I know you can’t afford to go with me, Pewter continued, but if you had taken that plum job in Calgary, you’d easily be able to pay for a nice trip to Europe. We could have had a blast! Instead you decide to go to the armpit of the world to work your arse off hauling manure and feeding cows! You’ve been my roommate for what, the last three years? I still can’t figure you out!

It’s not something I want to do forever, Pewter, Simon insisted, but if I don’t do this now, I’ll never have the chance again. It’s no different than you going to Europe to ‘find yourself.’ He uttered the phrase with just a touch of sarcasm.

Ah, but I beg to differ, Pewter said, ignoring Simon’s tone. When I’m in Europe, I’ll be drinking wine in the cafés of great cities of Paris and Rome, flirting with beautiful girls with the slim figures of fashion models and alluring accents, and living a life of joyous debauchery without a care in the world into the small hours in the clubs at night. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, you’ll be stuck with the smell of manure everywhere with nothing but inbred, corn-fed, fat-arsed farm girls to look at, and even less to do! He shook his head. And that’s only if you can pull yourself away from feeding slop to the hogs!

Sometimes Pewter went too far, but after years of being his friend and roommate, Simon knew that he did not mean anything by it; he just got carried away with what he was saying. This time was no different, and Simon just let the comments flow over him without letting any of them stick. Although he projected confidence in his decision, Simon was not completely sure why he wanted to delay the start of a promising career in business—something that he had focused on so resolutely for the past four years. Now that he was on the cusp of achieving the long-held goal of starting a successful career in business, however, doubts had entered his mind as to whether it was what he really wanted. He had begun to think that perhaps he had been driven too hard to do well in business school by his family’s unfortunate history.

I promise that next year or something, we’ll go on a trip to Cancun or somewhere, Simon said.

All right, I’ll be looking forward to it. But don’t say I didn’t warn you, Pewter replied. You go ahead and live like an old cowhand from the Rio Grande this summer, and we’ll catch up when you get back to civilization in the fall. Maybe you can come visit me in Edmonton—I can help you find a job when you’re ready to re-enter the land of the living. You can always crash with me for a few weeks if you need to.

The sound of an approaching vehicle returned Simon to the present. He looked up to see an older, beat-up, half-ton Ford truck, a bit rusty from years of enduring the harsh prairie weather, the original robin’s-egg-colored paint faded to an even paler shade of blue. Typical for a farm truck, a red metal diesel tank was strapped in the box, right behind the cab.

The truck rolled up to the garage, and almost before the vehicle stopped, the passenger door was flung open with a protesting squeal, and a short, somewhat round woman stepped out. Dressed simply in a light-pink blouse and skirt, with fresh lipstick and a bit of makeup, it was clear that she had taken time to make herself up before coming to town. Upon seeing Simon, she smiled broadly.

Simon Peter Fischer! his aunt said, using his full name. I’d recognize that face anywhere! Did anyone tell you that you sure look like your grandfather? He was tall like you too. There aren’t many tall people on the Weiland side, and my mom was short like me—and most of the rest of them. My goodness! She pulled back, put her hands on her hips, and looked at him again. I’d say that you sure are a true Fischer!

The years had added a few more wrinkles around his aunt’s eyes, a few more pounds to her frame, and a lot more gray to her hair, but Simon saw that her light-brown eyes still sparkled with an irrepressible liveliness from behind the large plastic frame of her spectacles. For some reason, his aunt Peg had always reminded him of Queen Elizabeth, and, like the queen, she had a glowing complexion and a certain self-assured manner.

Within his first few moments with Peg, Simon knew that he would easily be able to pick up where he had left off with his aunt, regardless of the years in between, and he was happy to confirm that she was still the same person he had grown to love dearly as a young boy. A kind, caring person dominated by a heart as big as the prairie sky, she was gentle and compassionate while at the same time as tough as a prairie winter and as relentlessly determined as the incessant prairie wind. She had weathered many hardships in her life, and they had merely tempered both her resolve and her practical nature without affecting her innate love of life. Simon remembered that her real name was Margaret, and when he was really young, she used to amuse him with a singsong poem based on all the possible variants of her name. It was kind of corny, and though he no longer remembered all of it, he did remember the last part: I’m not Marge from the barge/or Maggie who’s shaggy/I’m not Meg from Winnipeg/just call me plain old Peg!

How long has it been, Simon? she asked.

I was here about six years ago, for Uncle John’s funeral, Simon said, but I was only here for a day. Dad and I dropped Mom off and then turned around and drove back to Saskatoon.

My Lord! The older I get, the harder it is to keep things straight, but that also wasn’t a good time for me—everything was pretty much just a blur for a long time after your uncle died, she said. How old are you, then?

I’ll be twenty-two in October, Simon replied.

You’re only a year or so younger than Jason—he’s Cy’s son. He doesn’t live on the farm anymore, but I’m sure that you two’ll meet soon. Oh, my goodness! In all this excitement, I’m forgetting my manners! She moved aside like a curtain revealing a prize. Simon, I’d like you to meet my fiancé, Cy Mueller.

Glad to meet you, Cy said, coming forward to shake Simon’s hand firmly with strong, calloused fingers that had been thickened by years of working on the farm. They made Simon a bit self-conscious about his own soft and tender hands.

Piercing watery-blue eyes shone from beneath the brim of a worn and soiled baseball cap; his face was lined from years of hard work in the harsh prairie climate. Though somewhat diminutive, Silas Mueller’s physical stature suggested the quiet determination and the resourceful strength of a man not easily daunted by the challenges of life—the kind of man who dealt with all obstacles in a simple manner: just go around it, go over it, or go through it.

I’m pleased to meet you, too, Mr. Mueller, Simon said.

Well, I don’t think we need to be that formal, Cy said. Regardless, he was obviously pleased that Simon had addressed him as Mister. Simon was relieved that he had made a good first impression. You can call me Cy, if you’re all right with that.

Okay, Cy, Simon said, grinning.

Peg said you’d be kind of scrawny, Cy said.

I never said such a thing! protested Aunt Peg. Cy just grinned, happy to have evoked a reaction from her. There seemed to be at least a dose of mischief in him. I told him that you were thin the last time I saw you. You’ve filled out quite a bit since then.

All right, Peg. Don’t get your gotch in a knot! You ready to go? he asked Simon. I guess we can all get acquainted on the road. It’s already late, and I’m getting hungry.

We haven’t eaten yet, as we thought we’d wait for you, Peg explained to Simon.

I’m ready. All I’ve got is a duffel bag, Simon said.

Well, let’s go, then, Cy said.

After putting his duffel bag in the battered bed of the truck, Simon climbed into the cab. He sat beside Aunt Peg, who squeezed into the middle.

You’ll be living with Cy at his place, Peg said as she settled into the seat. I’m still living on my farm, a few miles down the road from Cy’s. My plan is to live there till we get married; I love my garden too much to leave it behind!

In the summer months, Simon remembered, Aunt Peg’s garden was her life. About an acre in size, the patch of land boasted a huge crop of potatoes, carrots, lettuce, tomatoes, and other vegetables every summer. Peg also grew large patches of strawberries, raspberries, and rhubarb.

As a boy, Simon had visited Aunt Peg and her family every summer. When she was not looking, he would eat his fill of ripe raspberries right off the bush, warmed by the sun, or fresh carrots pulled from the ground and rinsed in the rain barrel. Simon had always found that these rewards were worth the backbreaking work of pulling weeds and helping out with the gardening.

Simon had loved living a life of adventure on the farm, and, as an only child, enjoyed spending time with his older cousins. Aunt Peg and Uncle John had three children, a girl named Janet and two boys named Joe and Jim, who were eleven, nine, and six years older than Simon. They had always treated Simon as a little brother and had readily brought him into their lives, taking him everywhere they went and including him as a willing participant in all they liked to do. With his cousins, he had learned to ride a motorcycle, learned how to snare gophers, and built a raft that he floated on the large slough just down the road from their farm. As an only child, Simon had found this ready acceptance special, and he had left Promise with lots of warm and indelible memories.

When are you and Cy getting married? Simon asked. I don’t think you ever told me.

We’re planning the wedding for right after harvest, Peg said, but Cy hasn’t let me set a firm date yet. It’ll probably be sometime in October, before there’s snow on the ground. Cy said he wants to get married on Halloween, but as you can probably guess, I’m not real fond of that idea.

Smirking, Cy said, Why not? Getting married is the spookiest thing I can think of doing on Halloween. We’ll even have our costumes—you in your dress and me in my suit!

Hush! Peg scolded. And keep your eyes on the road! Simon noted that Cy continued to smirk, once again pleased that he had been able to get a reaction. Simon was glad to see that his new boss had a sense of humor. You’d be invited, of course, if you can make it. Who knows? You might still be here by then. I know the kids would like to see you. They often ask about you, you know.

I’d like to see them too, Simon said.

With Cy behind the wheel, the truck crept through Promise; Simon saw that Cy was a man of dogged determination, not of speed—at least not while driving. Simon’s foot involuntarily pressed into the floorboards as he willed Cy to accelerate, but his efforts had no effect. The truck was passing Promise’s water reservoir, almost a mile out of town, before Cy finally reached his cruising speed, which he stubbornly kept at just over the posted limit.

I’ve got a lot for you to do this summer, Cy said to Simon. My health’s been poor for a couple of years, and I ended up having to leave a bunch of stuff undone. Don’t know if Peg told you or not, but Doc Goode told me that I have late-onset diabetes, and he put me on pills to deal with it and told me to slow down. So, this year, I can use you to help me catch up.

He was going to try to keep running things single-handedly, but Dr. Goode and I convinced him that that was foolish, Peg said. I don’t have a problem with hard work, but I also don’t want to marry someone who’s going to work himself into an early grave; that’s happened to me once already, with your Uncle John, bless his soul.

My son Jason was helping out when he could, but he says he can’t do it this year, because he’s too busy at work, Cy said. He works for a big oil-pipeline outfit over in Prophet. As Peg said, it’s close enough that he can make it home from time to time, but far enough away that we don’t see him regularly.

After about fifteen minutes the truck dipping and diving on the rough two-lane highway, Cy slowed and turned onto a gravel road. You turn by this alkali slough, he said to Simon, pointing out the driver’s-side window. With the spring run-off, it’s full of water right now, but come August, it’ll start to smell pretty bad. That usually makes it hard to miss. I also nailed an old license plate to that telephone post, he added, pointing again. It’s for finding the turn at night.

You’ll have to get this washboard road smoothed out soon, Cy, before somebody gets hurt, Peg said as the back end of the truck bucked and jumped around like a cantankerous mule.

The winter was tough on this road; it’s pretty bad this spring, Cy agreed. I’ll make sure they don’t forget down at the RM office; we don’t need someone driving too fast, rolling their vehicle, and suing us.

After traveling another five minutes down the gravel road, Cy slowed again and pulled into the yard of his farm, parking beside a two-story stucco farmhouse. The house was light beige, and in the old style of past decades, featured small broken pieces of colored bottle glass poking out of its surface to give the stucco additional character. The roof was green and covered with asphalt shingles, and the white veranda, which ran along the entire front of the house, was enclosed by multi-paned glass windows that were open to the breeze, but screened against unwanted entry by black flies and mosquitoes. The yard was sheltered from the constantly blowing west wind and the snow on three sides by the high, fast-growing caragana bushes that were common on the prairies. The remaining side was the front of the house, facing the yard. Full of little thorns, the leaves of the caragana bushes were just budding out. The sweet, yellow blossoms that Simon had enjoyed eating as a boy would come in the late spring, at the beginning of June.

Beside the entrance was a row of old wooden granaries, painted deep red with white trim, and next to them stood a longer row of newer, round granaries made of galvanized, corrugated steel. A large metal Quonset hut dominated the south side of the yard and was surrounded by an array of neatly arranged farm implements. In addition to serving as Cy’s shop, the Quonset stored the larger farm equipment, such as the combine and the tractor. Further out, Simon could see a corral and at least one livestock shed in the first field outside the yard. Vague shapes of cattle milled aimlessly in the semidarkness of the rapidly fading day.

Here comes Hoover, Peg said as a large, brownish-gray dog loped in across the yard.

Also known as His Royal Houndness, Sir Wigglebottom, Knight of the Round Dinner Dish! Cy said, grinning. Take a look at his rump: when he’s wagging that tail, it’s always wiggling around. We got him from the reservation down by the river, and he’s a Heinz 57: a mixture of border collie and German shepherd, we think, with maybe a bit of terrier thrown in for good measure—that’s where the wiry fur probably comes from. He’s smart, though—a good cattle dog, and the first dog in a long time that knows better than to run after cars. He knew it was us coming into the yard; otherwise he’d be raising Cain, I can tell you! I haven’t had any trouble with stuff getting stolen from the yard since Hoover’s been here.

Jason ended up naming him Hoover, Peg said, because he sucks up food scraps like a vacuum cleaner!

You’d think he never got fed, Cy said, shaking his head and then stroking Hoover affectionately on the muzzle. He’s big, but he’s mostly a big suck.

Simon, who liked dogs, squatted down on his haunches to introduce himself. After letting Hoover sniff the back of his hand, Simon scratched him behind the ears, to which Hoover responded by wagging his tail and jumping up on Simon to lick his face.

Looks like you two’ll get along fine, Cy said. Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some chores to do before supper. Peg’ll help you get settled in. Taking his leave, Cy headed toward the Quonset.

Peg led Simon to the house. For the first time in a long while, he was reacquainted with a mixture of richly organic odors common to a farm—the earthiness of recently turned soil, the pungency of manure, and the faint muskiness of nearby animals. The smells were so different from those of the city, refreshingly enjoyable—it was as if Simon had stepped out of a spaceship onto a newly discovered planet.

Walking up the wooden steps and through the veranda, Peg fumbled for a moment with her keys and then unlocked the door. Even in the dim light, Simon was able to read a sign posted above the door: There’s no place just like this place anywhere near this place, so this must be the place! The house was already in darkness, so she turned on the lights. Bring your bag, she said. I’ll take you upstairs and show you to your room.

The stairs to the second floor were just off the entrance, in the middle of the house. The carpet runner was worn, and most of the steps creaked under the weight of Simon’s tread. A short hallway greeted him when