Tender Arms of Love

By Susan A. Moore

Madge McLellan was captivated by the sexy, muscular Patrick Musselman. He seemingly had no interest in her. A passing hello on Sundays at the church was the only acknowledgement from him that she existed at all.

Patrick was completely oblivious to his effect on the female gender. He felt the one encounter he had with a woman was enough, and thereafter kept his distance from them.

When his sister learned she had cancer and that her time was limited, she and Madge's father became matchmakers.

The result proved to be the best thing that ever happened to Patrick and Madge.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 13, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503568440

Susan A. Moore

Susan A. Moore leads the Nature Based Tourism Research Group at Murdoch University, Western Australia. Her expertise is natural area tourism, protected area management and biodiversity conservation policy. She has 150 publications including journal articles, books and reports and has successfully led more than 30 research projects delivering outputs to industry, government and non-government organizations, and the Australian Research Council.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

M adge Evelyn McLellan wandered through the garden occasionally sniffing one of the large cabbage roses her mother adored and labored so diligently to produce. They would be at their best in time for the rose show, which was only a couple of days away.

She cuddled a large Queen Elizabeth next to her chin, oblivious to the hovering bee impatiently humming at being kept from gathering the nectar. Its fragrance perfumed the air. Marge had inherited her mother’s love of flowers as well as her green thumb. Between them, they kept the garden blooming until the first snow.

From the garden, she could hear the roar of Patrick Musselman’s tractor as he worked on his farm. Now and then, he came into view as he plowed back and forth, back and forth. She wondered if he had seen her. The rose bushes and a tangle of brush stood between her and Patrick, but she could see him from his shoulders up under the thin cover of the tractor. The angle of his head told her that he was intent on what he was doing. A flurry of birds followed in his wake. No sense shouting a greeting, she thought, with all that noise, he would never hear her. As she watched, Patrick skillfully executed a ninety-degree turn in preparation for plowing the next block of the five-acre lot, which brought him toward her, though not so near that he would feel duty-bound to stop to say hello.

She could not be certain that he had seen her, although if he raised his eyes a bit he could not fail to do so. Her white dress stood out against the green of the garden. As he passed the tangle of brush and prepared to change direction again, Madge waved. Patrick waved back. Okay, so he had seen her. A warm feeling flowed over her, and a small smile curled her lips as she gathered a few of the less-than-perfect roses and took them back to the house.

She wondered how Patrick was doing with his farming. This was the last plot he had to till. She knew because sometimes early in the mornings she took her father’s grey horse out for a trot. On these excursions, she had developed the habit of looking over the Musselman land.

Madge did not try to fool herself. Patrick Musselman appealed to her, but at no time did he ever indicate that he had any interest in her. He was well mannered but cool and aloof every time they met, which was mostly at church on Sundays. Raising his interest in her became a secret raison d’etre for her.

Upon careful enquiry, she learned that Patrick was home from college these last eight years and had not displayed any interest in any of the young ladies of Little York where they both lived. It was madness, this hankering after him. She thought she was past all that, especially after what happened to her in Washington, D.C., but she could not deny that she was intrigued by him. Since watching him perform at the county fair, her every waking thought included him.

Patrick farmed one hundred acres east of the Padernales River in Little York.

Little York itself is located in the southeastern corner of Kansas, nestled in a bend of the Neosho River to the northeast as it makes its way to the larger Arkansas River to the southeast. The Padernales is really a stream that runs through Little York and empties into the Neosho River. To the west are bluffs that rise to the high prairie of middle and western Kansas, while stands of elm and birch covers the hills to the north. Far to the south lies the broad expanse of Oklahoma. The bluffs shelter Little York in general, and the Musselman Farm in particular, from the southwestern winds that swirl in a large crescent as they blow across Oklahoma and swing up through Missouri. Little York sits in the trough of that crescent. The area consists of beautiful, rolling, countryside land, well watered and suited for ranching and farming—a surprising but pleasant change of scenery from the rest of the state.

Patrick and his sister inherited the place when their father died. It was almost a run-down wilderness. After returning from college, he literally brought it back from the dead. He devoted his energies to improving the place, and it showed. His cows always won first and second place at the livestock show. His magnificent Brahman and Charolais bulls were prized for their reproductive qualities by the farmers for miles around. He had a reasonably decent herd of cattle now and half dozen fat pigs. He should do well at the auction this year.

Patrick lived on the farm with his older sister, Ruth. She was the only mother he knew. Ruth was a skinny, hard-bitten, no-nonsense woman, not given to easy friendships or wasting words. Patrick’s father had been a man of few words also, but Ruth was parsimonious indeed.

If she approved of something he did, he was rewarded with a grunt. If she did not, it was Git the hell out of my sight! Ruth ruled him with a free iron hand. His father never interfered, preferring to keep his own counsel. Something in the man had died while he was in prison, and he never recouped that loss after his release.

The only person who ever visited their home was Parson Bunyon. On the second Friday evening of every month, regularly as clockwork, Parson Bunyon could be seen purposely bobbing up and down as he stubbornly peddled his bicycle on the gravel road that led to their home while trying to avoid the worse potholes. They had no friends with the exception of Ben and Al Bruner, two farmhands who had helped on the farm before Patrick was born and who stuck with Ruth through thick and thin. Gruff and tough, but kindly, they were always good to Patrick, making him wood whistles as a child and teaching him all they knew about husbandry and farming.

Since Old Pete, Patrick had never seen another man call on his sister. Old Pete came once, just once, and was rewarded for his pains with a bucket of cold water turned over his head. He did not repeat the experience. Patrick was about nine years old then and was coming around to the front porch when he heard the splash and Pete’s yell at the same time.

You dern persnickety, impossible woman! Patrick was just in time to see Old Pete yelling at the closing door, dripping wet with the water still falling from the brim of his ten-gallon hat. He quickly reversed his steps and moved out of sight, wondering what Old Pete had done to deserve it. He would not dare ask Ruth, he knew. The last he saw of Old Pete, he was extricating himself from the Musselmans’ domain as fast as his feet would take him, alternately wringing the water out of his shirt and telling God what he, Pete, ought to do to that dern woman!

About the only one who could remember seeing Ruth smile in years was Pastor Bunyon, and that was just recently one Sunday morning when he preached a sermon about the beam and the mote. He must have struck a kindred chord in Ruth’s heart, for he chanced to look in her direction as he glanced over his congregation and saw the smile coupled with a slight nod of the head. It lit up an otherwise-rigid face for a second. Pastor Bunyon was quite surprised, accustomed as he was to her dour mien.

Ruth was an excellent cook, who, for all her skinniness, could hold her own at the dinner table with any farmhand. However, none of it was transferred to her body. She remained rake thin. Truth to tell, she also worked hard. She could rope a steer with the best of them, sit up all night at a hard birthing of a calf without showing any fatigue, and she could sling a one-hundred-pound bag of potatoes or corn as easily as any two-hundred-pound man.

She was invaluable on the farm. Blood and gore fazed her not. In fact, Ruth was fearless. Her accuracy with a shotgun was legendary, as many a snakeskin belt or hatband would testify could they but talk. The farm folk around the area swore that word must have gotten around to the slithery wrigglers and they were steering clear of that farm because there was not a sign near the road for a long time now declaring snakeskin belts and hatbands for sale. Instead, every now and then, the sign declared that eggs were for sale.

Everyone and everything on the farm paid attention to Ruth. The scrawny black-and-white collie, Thunder, kept out of her way. He knew that no pats on the head would be coming from her. For those he looked to Patrick. Proud Turk, the large turkey who strutted around the barnyard challenging all comers, also knew enough not to challenge Ruth. None of this business of fluffing up himself to his feathery maximum and attacking her. He had seen too many other turkeys that did that disappear. Though he was not sure where they went, he knew that once Ruth’s hands grabbed them and she disappeared into the rickety barn, they were never seen on the barnyard again. That was not going to happen to him. So when she appeared, he quietly folded his feathers and made off in the opposite direction.

Even the Philistine, a strapping Black Angus bull, paid attention to Ruth. Not that he was afraid of her, but he knew that she was not in the least afraid of him, as everyone else was, so he kept his distance, especially when he felt like pawing the ground threateningly and she fixed him in the eye with a gimlet stare. He had reason to be cautious. Once when he was much younger and feeling his oats, he had a yen for a young heifer that was brought into the barnyard for service. He was denied this pleasure when a farmhand said, No, not the Philistine. He is too much for that young cow. Better take her to the Hereford. The farmer was not too particular about this heifer’s offspring, and so she was led away to the Hereford.

The Philistine lifted his head and roared. Angered at seeing the object of his affections being led out of sight, he decided to demolish his stall. With a kick of a hind leg, he managed to flatten the door. He would have liked to have his horns free, but he was tethered by the ring in his nose, and he had occasion to respect that ring. Still he roared again and lunged out with the other leg, neatly clipping a bucket carelessly left in his stall. It sailed up and out, narrowly missing Ruth’s head as it whistled past, coming to rest with a Clang! Clang! Clannng! a few feet away from her. No amount of yelling could quieten him. He shook his massive head and roared again, pawing the ground fiercely. He rolled his eyes. They gleamed ghostly white in his jet-black head. Stamping his feet, he bellowed his anger and blew it through his nose, coating the ring with foam. All hands kept their distance.

The Philistine kept it up until he heard Crack! above his head. It startled him. Really angry now, he raised his head to see his attacker. She! She? A little wisp like that dared to lash out at him? He who once sent a younger Ben and Al Bruner scampering out of his pasture, where they were saved only by the fence? He was the Philistine, angry, fearful to see and fearful to cross, and he had been crossed today. She was coming nearer. He judged that in another minute, she would be within reach of his horns. He rolled his eyes again, pawed the ground, lowered his head, and prepared to attack. Crack! He felt no pain, but the sound was like a lightning shock to his maddened brain. It gave him pause. In fact, it halted him in midpaw. He threw up his head and met cold, steady, steel grey eyes, which bored into his own, equally fearlessly. For a minute, they stared at each other.

Back! the wisp commanded. Back!

She waved the long cowhide whip over his head. It spoke again menacingly, Crack! Crack! The Philistine hesitated a second longer, sensing that fire and lightning might be imminent if he did not stop. He lowered his hoof, blew his anger through his nostrils, and peacefully backed up, swishing his tail. After that, he, too, kept his distance from the wisp.

Upon his return from college, Patrick pulled down the rusting old barn and outbuildings and erected strong shelters in their places. He repaired the house and painted it. At first, Ruth looked on disapprovingly because she said it would cost too much too soon, but then acquiesced with a Guess it could use some fixing up. When he made the order for material downtown, Mr. Lobo tried to engage him in conversation.

Planning to give the old place an overhaul?

Something like that.

Going to give Marty (the carpenter) some business then? Patrick had fixed steely grey eyes squarely on Mr. Lobo’s fat face.

Ten pounds of ten-penny nails, six gallon cans of white interior paint, four gallon cans of exterior gray…

Mr. Lobo subsided with Yes, sir!

Patrick was an alumnus of the University of Durham, in Boston, Massachusetts. The university was one of the ivy-covered schools of the northeast, much favored by the rich. An unlikely place for a citizen of Little York, but especially unlikely for a Musselman, who were as far from rich as the earth is from the stars. But sometimes fate has a way of smiling on the poorest.

Patrick won a scholarship. No one in Little York proper knew how that came about, or was surprised that it did, although more than one of them were jealous and even went so far as to call the John Davis High School and demand to know how come their son or daughter had not obtained a similar scholarship. The principal had a ready answer. He would tell them the qualifying grade Durham University required, and then read their children’s scores to the parent. It never failed to get them off the phone and him an apology.

Most were not surprised also because when the men gathered in the local Hootin’ Annie to swap tales over their beer, the talk sometimes included Mr. Musselman, Patrick and Ruth’s father, who spent some time in prison. Mr. Musselman was not a member of the club and was never present, but every man there knew about the Musselmans. They had heard about Patrick’s achievements at John Davis High School from their own children, some of whom despised Patrick. All knew that he was a smart kid who was always at the top of his class. Some opined that it was rather unfair, him winning the top spot all the time and many a son received a cudgel to the head when he brought home grades lower than Patrick’s again. Others felt that seeing he had little besides that, they could afford to allow him the privilege. After all, it was not likely that any good would come of all that learning being pumped into his head. None of the Musselmans had ever amounted to anything, why should Patrick?

Patrick had no friends, but at school, if and when he had to speak in class, he was always accorded a respectful silence. Probably because what little he had to say was always right. He was not a member of any ball team and therefore was not popular.

At John Davis High, his teacher, Ms. Kozinski, long realized that she would never reach this particular child as far as feelings went, but she could as far as education was concerned. Everything she knew she poured into him, and every way, in which she could challenge his mind, she did. When his work was wrong, she punished him. When it was correct, she praised it to the whole class, but in such a matter-of-fact way that no one resented it because none could say that he was the teacher’s pet. Ms. Kozinski, called Kozi out of earshot by her students, had no pets. The appropriate place the Almighty provided on every child was regularly visited by her strap for any and all infractions.

Patrick showed up for classes and disappeared immediately after alone, always alone. His clothes were just this side of shabby, but he was always scrubbed and clean. He did not try to make friends or enemies with the other children. He was just there. Only once did he ever get into a fight, and then only upon extreme provocation. On that day, he did not disappear during the lunch hour, as he normally would, because it was raining hard. He sat alone eating his lunch and reading when Alexi Wiggins started poking fun at him and egging others on to call him names. Patrick ignored all efforts to draw him out and kept his silence. Alexi, either to show off to his friends or out of frustration at being ignored, walked over and slapped the apple Patrick was eating out of his hand.

Patrick glared at him, gathered up his books, and prepared to leave.

Hey, you aint afraid of little me now, are ya? the boy taunted Patrick. You aint chicken, are ya?

Patrick turned away. Alexi’s friends barred the way.

Yeah, they chorused. He’s chicken. Chick, chick, chick-a-caw, chick-a-caw!

Hey, d’you know who you’re ignoring? Alexi grabbed Patrick’s raincoat in the back and jerked Patrick backward causing two buttons to fly off the jacket.

Let go, Patrick demanded. He could not turn around because of the way Alexi held the raincoat.

Let it go, Patrick demanded again.

You aint the brightest star in the universe, boy. Say please, and I might let you go.

This time he twisted the jacket, jerking it at the same time, while bringing his foot up to strike Patrick in the back with his knee. The books fell out of Patrick’s hand. In one smooth movement, reminiscent of a striking snake, Patrick whirled, grabbed his tormentor, and delivered a severe trouncing that included two black eyes, a bloody nose, and a busted lip. The resulting screaming and shouting from the onlookers brought out the gym teacher, who grabbed the two boys by the scruff of their necks and hauled them into the principal.

Unable to get any information from either as to what caused the fight, the principal promptly delivered three smoking whacks each to the place thoughtfully provided by the Creator for such. Then for good measure, he gave the miscreants a lecture on the kind of behavior he expected in his school. Patrick was never bothered again, but thereafter he was always gone directly after classes whatever the weather. Where he went, no one knew.

It was Ms. Kozinski who was instrumental in getting him the scholarship. A short, somewhat-chubby and determined woman, Ms. Kozinski held the opinion that all children could learn. Some were slower than others, but all could learn something. She wore half-glasses. When teaching, she would raised her eyes over them and skewer some unfortunate as she asked a question, the answer to which he or she knew only a minute before, but which was now completely lost. Among the kids, it was called the fried brains look. No matter how much you knew, if she fixed that look on you, your brains became fried, and you could no longer remember anything. The absence of homework always brought the miscreant that look and the rod she called the Blessing. Her classes had a habit of removing the chaff from the wheat early. There was a beaten path to the door of the programmer’s office, where the chaff begged or charmed their exits from Ms. Kozinski’s classes.

When Ms. Kozinski took an interest in a kid and received a response, she considered it to be nothing less than latent genius. Potential waiting to be utilized. Not a few of the lights of Little York and elsewhere were there because Ms. Kozinski viewed herself as the potter and they as the clay. If they allowed her to do so, she would mold them into a fit vessel without their knowledge. Unbeknownst to them, she would go the extra mile for them also.

Patrick Musselman was such a vessel that she had been molding for the past two years. She taught biology and chemistry rigorously. In fact, Ms. Kozinski taught the subjects as if they were college classes. Few who survived her mauling ever failed their exams, be it her finals or qualifying exams for college. Complaints as to her requirements in her classes were legion, but those kids who made it through loved her. When they emerged from her classes, they just moved roughshod over any other classes, so thorough was her imbedding of study habits. She was hailed from far and near as she walked through the corridors of John Davis High School: Hi, Ms. Kozinski; Ms. Kozinski, remember me? Some had grown so much that when they returned to pay their respects to the school, she hardly recognized them. And they were those whom she helped financially but anonymously.

Ms. Kozinski had the habit of checking the transcript of every student sent to her class. Those who knew her called it looking for the clay pots. Scrutinizing Patrick Musselman’s transcript one day, she felt a rush of joy. The boy had high grades. She made some phone calls to other teachers and was gratified with the feedback. Here was a piece of marble worthy of the sculptor’s finest tools. She threw every curve in the road at him; every opinion he had was challenged, every lab scrutinized for pinprick accuracy. She molded the clay as finely as a potter at his wheel carefully removing every flaw. No favors were granted, but none was ever asked either.

Patrick, without realizing what was happening, soaked it up. He never complained. Heck, Ms. Kozinski’s class was a lot easier than life at home under Ruth. He slopped hogs, milked the two cows they had, mucked out the barn and barnyard, searched for (and if found shot the heads off) the snakes that came looking for the eggs that brought in a little cash. He also did battle with that stupid tom turkey every morning before coming to school. School was a vacation for him. Balance chemical equations? Make up 80 percent pure molar solutions? Differentiate between an artery and a vein? Find the vagus nerve in the fetal pig? No problem. His interest grew daily, although looking at him solemnly making his way around the lab, no one except Ms. Kozinski noticed. She keenly watched his every move, secretly rejoicing at the results.

Realizing that he would never ask for favors himself, she called him into her office one afternoon.

Patrick, you are graduating this June. What would you like to do after high school?

After high school? He did not quite know himself. Shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other, he mumbled, I don’t rightly know, ma’am. Maybe I could make a go of the farm.

You like planting things and watching them grow? Mr. Finstall, your botany teacher, swears that anything you touch in the greenhouse goes wild, and that he is afraid to allow you to walk around at recess because the weeds are taller when you leave. Seems to me you have a green thumb.

Ms. Kozinski smiled kindly at the lad. He smiled shyly and looked away, again shifting his weight to the other foot.

Have you ever thought of studying agriculture? You are especially good at biology, chemistry, botany, and zoology. He replied no, he had not thought about it. She asked him how about going on to the university. He said it was out of the question because they had no money. She asked that if the money could be found, would he go. He thought a little, then replied that he would not mind giving it a try, but he felt he was needed at home. Again, he reiterated that they had no money.

Ms. Kozinski acquired the necessary papers and went to see the father of this pupil who had been under her care for the past two years, but whom she had never met. According to the other teachers, none of them had ever seen any of his relatives either. It seemed that he had just shown up one day at John Davis High School. No one ever came to the school on his behalf during any of the school functions. He did not participate in any of the popular ball games, although he was pretty good in archery and fencing. In fact, he was not planning to attend his own graduation. It angered Ms. Kozinski to see talent wasted. This child for all his aloofness had potential, and so she made her pilgrimage.

When she knocked at the door of the run-down building that served as the home of Patrick and his family, she got no answer at first. She pounded with her fist, loosening slivers of peeling paint.

Okay, okay. Hold yer hosses. I’m coming. The owner of the voice was irritated. A skinny wisp of a woman opened the door, thrust her head out belligerently, and said, Yes?

Is this the home of Patrick Musselman Senior? queried Mrs. Kozinski.

Wha d’ya want?

I would like to speak to Mr. Musselman, if you don’t mind.

I don’t see how yer gonna do that since he’s now living over yonder in the cemetery.

You mean Mr. Musselman is dead?

Bin daid these las’ three years. Who’re you?

I’m Ms. Kozinski, Patrick Jr.’s teacher from John Davis High School.

Oh. Well, come on in. The door was opened wider, and the owner turned away.

Ms. Kozinski stepped into the sparsely furnished but spotless room and remained standing. The table did have a red and white oilcloth on it and four chairs of indiscriminate color around it.

Wha d’ya want with Paw? Has that rapscallion brother of mine bin up to no good?

You are his sister, Mrs . . . . ?

Ms. Musselman, Ruth to you. Never bin married. I’m his sister. What has he done now? Siddown.

Ruth motioned for Ms. Kozinski to take a chair at the table, and she did so, gingerly, but the chair was sturdy.

Actually, nothing. I’m here because he will be graduating from John Davis this spring. Ms. Mussel… Ruth, your brother is an excellent student. His grades are very good. I’m sure he could get into a good university.

Hmmmn, there aint no money fer that. The few pennies this run-down farm brings in just pays the bills aroun’ here.

Ruth, said Ms. Kozinski, leaning toward Ruth, if, just if, I cannot promise anything. But if we could get him a scholarship, do you think he could go? The scholarship would cover tuition and books, but he would need a place to live while there, clothes, food, and so on.

Ma’am, I just told you, there aint no money fer such things. We caint afford to hire anybody to work these one hundred acres. Paw left a pile of bills, which I’m slowly paying off. How could I afford money fer fancy clothes and lodgings?

Ms. Kozinski glanced around.

Ruth, if Patrick does not go to the university, what would he do around here?

He could help out on the farm more. Lord knows Ben and Al do as much as they can, but they are getting too old now fer all this hard work. Perhaps he could make things look a bit better around here, bring in a bit more money.

Ms. Kozinski thought a bit and persisted.

Ruth, Patrick is very, very good at zoology, botany, and biology. In our lab, anything he planted grew. He has a way with growing things. That kind of knack would be best served by higher education. Then he could really do something for this farm.

Ms. Kozinski again looked around quickly.

Listen, if a place could be found for him to stay, and if we could work out something with the college where he could work part time, do you think you might be able to squeeze out an extra outfit or two for him a year?

Ruth looked at Ms. Kozinski in exasperation. She opened her mouth and then closed it. Suddenly she turned away, but not before Ms. Kozinski caught a glint of something glittering in her eye. Tears? Was it possible? From this mother of time?

It was possible, and there were tears. Ruth slowly turned to face her again, wiping away one of the betraying tears with her fingers.

Once, a long time ago, a teacher came to this same farmhouse and asked Paw if’n I could go to college. Paw threw him out of the house. Said he didn’t hold with no girl going to no college, gitting no higher eddication. All girls were good fer was to git chilren, says Paw. Me and Maw begged him on our hands and knees, but it wan’t no use. I could jest fergit all them big ideas and plans, he said and git to werk making dis place fit fer living ’cause it wan’t no money, and he wan’t going to brek his neck trying to scratch no mo’ money out ’n these few scrawny acres. It was just a waste, girls gitting eddication. I wanted to be a vet’rinarian. Paw said who did I think would call a skinny girl like me to a sick hoss?

Ruth paused. It was for her a very long speech, and she dropped into the vernacular as she was wont to do when something touched her deeply. Ms. Kozinski sighed.

Ma’am. I’ll tell you sumthin’. If you kin fix it so Patrick got some place to stay, I’ll see to it that he gits some clothes to wear. He deserves a better chance ’n I got.

Ms. Kozinski and Patrick filled out the papers at school the next week. Ruth signed them, and Ms. Kozinski mailed them off. In due course, Patrick was accepted by three of the best universities in the northeast as well as the University of Kansas. The University of Durham not only accepted him, but offered the best scholarship of the three. Also, that university was affiliated with the Cattlemen and Agricultural Association (CAA), which allowed its students a wide variety of opportunities to study every aspect of agriculture and husbandry on-site, from planting corn, potatoes, and wheat in the Midwest, vegetables and fruit in California, the dairy industry in Wisconsin to cattle ranching in the Southwest. The association specialized in bringing in new crops resistant to disease and in investigating how to control the pests that ate the crops. Ms. Kozinski enthusiastically embraced Patrick’s choice of the University of Durham.

She wrung each teacher’s hand for a gift for a deserving student without telling them who that student was, made up the difference herself and purchased him a good coat with a removable lining, and presented it to him as a gift from the staff of John Davis in appreciation of his good fortune, being careful to present it after the school was closed.

On the Saturday morning that he left for Massachusetts, she was at the train station to see him off. Ruth was not there; she had a sow that was about to have a litter, and Al Bruner was sick with the flu, so she had to stay in case of trouble. Ben took him to the train station in the rickety old cart. Ruth gave him a brief hug and sent him off with, Be off with you now. Do us proud, y’ hear?

But she stood watching them as they rattled down the rutted, weed-choked lane that was the entrance to their home. Patrick looked back until they turned a corner, and he could see her no more. How frail and lonely she looked framed by the old farmhouse. He sighed.

Don’t you worry none, Ben spoke up. Me and Al, we will take care of everything. She’ll be okay.

Thank you, Ben. Thank you.

Ben deposited him at the Little York Station where he made his way to the counter to buy his ticket to Kansas City. There he would connect to the cross-country train to Massachusetts. The Silver Bullet, it was called. It was one of the fastest trains of its time. In the year 1925, this train could do seventy miles per hour, and it would get him to Boston in about two and a half days allowing for all the stops in between. Peopled milled about the Little York station.

Patrick! Patrick Musselman! He heard his name being called. It was Ms. Kozinski. She came to see him off. He introduced her to Ben, and she handed him a small package.

Just a little something for your trip. You can open it later, she said.

Whoooo! Whoooo! Whoooo!

The Wichita-Kansas City train signaled its entry into the station with its whistle and a squeal of brakes. The doors opened, and a few people got off. The conductor also got off and went into the station. It was a small train of only five cars. It made three runs to Kansas City every day, and three runs back, pausing for twenty minutes between each run. One at 7:10 a.m., one at noon, and the last at five o’clock in the evening. Little York was about one hundred and fifty miles south of Kansas City with Maverick, Crawford, and Galilee farther to the southwest. Above Little York was Loyola, Osawatomie, Fort Scott, and then Kansas City. That was the extent of the line. People went into Kansas City or Wichita only for important happenings, such as to the hospital for a difficult birth of a baby or surgery or, in the case of Wichita, legal matters. They were a self-sufficient bunch of folks.

ALL ABOOOARD! ALL ABOOOOARD, next stop Loyola!

Patrick shook hands with Ms. Kozinski who told him to take care of himself. Ben gave him a bear hug and wished him luck. He took a window seat and promptly stuck half his body outside, waving good-bye as the train rolled out of the station.

Good-bye, said Ms. Kozinski.

Bye, said Ben.

He waved until they were small figures on the platform.

CHAPTER TWO

T his was