Back to The Homestead: Homesteader, #3

By Mary Jean Kelso

"I saw that look in your eyes when we met in town. I'm not one to mince words. I think you're sweet on me, too," Leroy said. Rosie felt her face flush. Even though his words embarrassed her, she knew they were true. She was drawn to him like a lizard to a hot rock even though she knew she shouldn't be.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 4, 2023
• ISBN: 9781597053006

Book preview

What They Are Saying About

Back To The Homestead

Back to the Homestead paints a believable read with vibrant characters that leap off the pages. This is a story that pulls the reader into the center of the action. I felt so much part of the family. I love the young adults that bring much depth to the storyline, as everyone learns to survive living on the farm. Mary Jean Kelso tells a wonderful story that this reader found completely satisfying. She leaves me spellbound, wishing to read more and this story is no exception!

—Linda L. Lattimer,Reviewer and Author

Back To The Homestead

Mary Jean Kelso

A Wings ePress, Inc.

Historical Romance Novel

Edited by: Leslie Hodges

Copy Edited by: Shonna Brannon

Senior Editor: Leslie Hodges

Executive Editor: Lorraine Stephens

Cover Artist: Richard Stroud

All rights reserved

NAMES, CHARACTERS AND incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Wings ePress Books

Copyright © 2008 by Mary Jean Kelso

ISBN  978-1-59705-300-6

Published by Wings ePress, Inc.

Published In the United States Of America

Wings ePress Inc.

3000 N. Rock Road

Newton, KS  67114

Dedication

To the brave men and women and their descendants who struggled to settle valiantly to civilize the West for future generations.

And to my eldest sister, Myrtle Helen Bischke, who was eagerly awaiting the release of this book but passed away almost two months short of its release at 91 years of age.

One

M a, Andy Kling, Molly Kling, Westerman’s oldest stepchild, called out, rider coming in. And, whoever it is, they’re riding fast!

ONLY A SHORT TIME BEFORE, Molly Westerman had been looking out across her homestead. She studied the nearly level terrain from her front porch to the distant mountains. The ground lay flat with only a slight tilt upward on the southeast corner where their two-story whitewashed house stood. Her view was clear for miles to the west and north. When she looked south, she saw more of the same until the small mountain range lifted from the valley floor to break the horizon. There, the tan landscape abruptly turned dark as the trees gathered at the base of the lowest hill. The wider-spaced timber at the lower elevation grew thicker as the mountains rose toward the clear blue sky.

Life had been peaceful for the past few weeks and Molly had overseen much of the planting of pinto beans in the field by her children while her husband, Trace, was away for a few days on business.

Before Andy called the alarm, Molly had stepped from the porch and walked past the root cellar which she, Rosie and Seth had dug, to hold the vegetables they would harvest from the garden plot, while Trace and Andy built the smokehouse. She went past the corral and out the short distance to the rows in the field ready and waiting to be planted.

There, Molly stood, side by side, with the two taller youngsters, Rosie and Seth, while the smaller and younger children played in the soft, turned dirt. She bent now and then to plant the seeds or look at a wild flower her toddler, Emmy, held out from her tiny hand for her to smell.

That’s beautiful, honey, Molly encouraged the child.

Boot-e-ful, Emmy answered back and lifted the light lavender flower to her nostrils so that the yellow center mashed against the tip of her tiny nose.

Beautiful, Molly corrected as her schoolteacher training made her prone to do. It’s a beautiful flower.

Fower, Emmy repeated.

Flower. Like Mama’s pretty red hollyhocks blooming outside the kitchen window, Molly explained.

Emmy straightened her arm and pointed her tiny index finger toward the high stalks that shaded the front of the kitchen window on the east side of the house.

Fl-ow-er, Emmy spaced the word out.

That’s right. Flower.

Molly brushed her palms together to knock the soil that had stuck there from her hands. She wiped her hands on her long apron that wrapped around her long skirt before picking the toddler up to hug her.

You are getting so big.

Molly held the child there for a few moments while she watched the other children as they worked.

Emmy pointed toward her eldest brother, Andy. She stretched her arm and leaned in his direction.

Andy’s busy, sweetie. He can smell the pretty flower later, Molly told her. She set the toddler on her feet in front of her between the rows of freshly planted seeds.

These days, Molly thought as she held Emmy’s one empty hand and looked at Andy, he can do a man’s job. It seemed Andy was fast becoming a grown adult. Seth, the next to oldest boy, was big enough to assist with plowing the field and to help Andy with the planting when Trace was gone. Even the babies, Emmy, who liked to follow Seth around, and Jacob, who was taking only a few steps before he plopped to his rear end in the dirt, liked to poke their fingers in the cultivated rows, now and then, to make holes for the seeds.

Rosie, the petite girl a couple years younger than Andy, followed behind the babies to fill in the gaps and correct the mistakes they left behind them. Wisps of her straight brown fine-textured hair, which had pulled free from a tight bun at the back of her neck, tickled her face as she moved. She tried to ease the strands from where they stuck on her face with fingers dusted in soil. The result was streaks of earth across her forehead and cheeks.

Finally, Rosie raised her own apron and wiped away the hair and dirt as best she could.

Molly smiled at her then returned to her reverie.

Molly was content to be in the midst of her family made up of the three oldest stepchildren from her first marriage and the two babies she and Trace had created together. She worked alongside the children with joy. An occasional hum, or a few words of a song, sprang from Molly’s lips.

On this day, Molly appeared to be the vibrant red-headed, slim woman she had been when she first met Trace Westerman.

It had not been that long ago that Molly had wondered whether she would ever be a functioning part of the family again. But, surviving a life-threatening medical attack on her body, she eventually regained her strength and, except for not being able to have more babies, shared the duties required to run the homestead.

Now, Molly and Trace Westerman were grateful they had their two children, along with Molly’s stepchildren, and that Molly was alive and well.

Molly straightened up and pressed her hand on the middle of her back, easing the ache that came from bending to plant the seeds.

She studied Rosie. It was a good day for her today. In the past, Rosie had lapsed into brief breaks from reality and Molly worried about the girl. Will Rosie’s slips into her own strange world someday become permanent? It made Molly feel queasy and she tried to push the horrid thought from her mind. Rosie’s fine today. Bright. Alert. Normal.

Oops, catch Jacob before he steps on Callie, Molly spoke to Rosie as the baby clumsily teetered on his bare pudgy feet before dropping to his heavily cloth-covered bottom, just missing the family cat, Callie.

Molly laughed. Callie looked back at the baby with her eyes pulled to narrow slits. She seemed to calculate how far his fall had missed her tail and twitched the extension back and forth as if in annoyance.

Callie flopped to her side and turned onto her back. She rolled in the warm, fine dirt, putting all four paws up in the air and wiggling on her spine to the music of Jacob’s delighted giggle.

When he reached over to shift his chubby hand onto her stomach, Callie jumped up and ran across the field with her tail held high.

Jacob started to follow on all fours.

No, Rosie spoke to him. She fought the urge to lie in the soft dirt and roll on her own back. She could imagine how good the warm earth must feel against Callie’s fur. Her mind told her she was far too big to fit between the tight rows. As appealing as the action appeared to be, it was not an activity she wanted to perform in front of Molly. These days, she tried hard to control her impulses. In her more rational times, she was concerned that someone might think she was odd. So, instead of following her urges, she grasped Jacob’s arm and tugged him back alongside her to keep him away from the cat. He immediately began picking up dirt in his small fists and letting it sift from his hands into small piles between the already planted rows.

NOW, MOLLY LISTENED to her oldest stepson’s alarm as Andy called the warning from his vantage point where he sat astride Big Boy, one of the family’s two workhorses they used to pull the buckboard as well as plow the field, as he turned a furrow of dirt to plant more pinto beans.

He studied the stride of the rider’s horse and the gait with which it approached. He made it a point to become familiar with most of the local’s personal mounts not only because he had an affinity with horses, but because he sized them up as possible competitors in local races. He’d raced his own black horse, Comet, many times at local gatherings and didn’t want any surprises when he set out to do so.

Molly looked at Andy for a signal to take up arms.

Her rifle hung over the fireplace mantel in the living room. She picked Jacob up from the ground, over his protests, and clutched Emmy’s hand as she started for the security waiting inside the white two-story structure. Seth ran around the side of the house toward the barn with Crazy Leg. The mottled grey and white dog was moving slower these days as he aged. He followed behind Seth, now, unable to keep up. A new puppy, taking his lessons of family protection from the older dog, raced to keep pace with him and Seth on his short legs.

It was situations like this that Seth wished he had been allowed to keep the firearms he had happened across at times in his short life. Since Molly and Trace saw fit to remove them from him, he headed for the only weapon he could think of—the pitchfork stuck in the hay pile near the barn.

It looks like Mr. Jennings’ horse, Andy announced noting that the animal was moving in a smooth gait but with haste. He was proud of his knack for recognizing horseflesh, especially when the animal was fast. He had raced Comet, a black gelding with a white blaze on his forehead, against most of the other horses in the area at one time or the other and won every race. He had raced a massive black stallion from Mexico and, by a very narrow margin, won that race, too. He had learned to judge the animal’s racing strength and knew whether the rider was astride a horse that would be good competition for Comet.

Now, he dropped from Big Boy’s back, onto the ground, and moved past Molly to the place where the lane from the main road connected to their front yard.

Rosie reached Molly before she stepped onto the porch. She swept Emmy up into her arms and pulled the screen door open for Molly to enter.

Molly hesitated at Andy’s words. Perhaps it was a friendly visit from their nearby neighbor.

Go ahead and take the children into the house, just in case, Molly said as she waited to see who the rider was. Jacob leaned away from her and reached for Rosie. Rosie settled Emmy on one hip and Jacob on the other as she went inside. She balanced their combined weight on her small frame.

Molly stood outside. She didn’t sense alarm. Did she really need her rifle?

Her question was answered when Andy confirmed, It is Mr. Jennings.

Rosie, fetch a cool drink for Mr. Jennings. He’s surely had a long ride over from his homestead. All the while, she wondered what would bring Tom Jennings here mid-week? He’d surely be needed back home, what with his wife, Sheila, pregnant with their first child and caring for a baby they had taken in and her six-year-old son, Elias.

Had Shelia already had the baby? Or was she having complications with the pregnancy? Molly wondered as she played the possibilities over in her mind.

Their farm surely has as many chores as ours to keep up with.

Morning, Molly, Andy, Tom said as he stopped at the hitching rail in front of the house. He stayed in the saddle, debating whether getting down would waste more time than he felt he had to spare.

Crazy Leg, nearly deaf, now, too, finally realized there was company and came around the corner of the house, barking, ahead of Seth as he ran back from the barn. The pup raced behind nipping at Crazy Leg’s haunches. He yelped in excitement and rushed toward the visiting horse’s feet.

Seth, having been pulled away from his search for the pitchfork by his pets’ insistent barking, came up last to the porch behind the noisy dogs.

Tom’s horse lifted his feet impatiently to keep the pup from nipping his fetlocks. He turned his head to look at the worrisome pup that buzzed around his hooves like a troublesome blowfly near a pile of road apples.

Steady, Ranger, Tom spoke to his horse.

Seth, get the pup, Molly instructed.

Sorry, Mr. Jennings, Seth said as he clutched the pup around its warm, fat belly and lifted it to carry it away. Come on, Crazy Leg!

Good morning, Tom, what brings you over our way? Molly greeted.

Business. You know I quit the Texas Rangers before Shelia and I got married. But, I got notified to testify on a case back in Waco and have to leave Shelia at the place alone while I ride as fast as I can to make it in time for the court date. A look of concern showed on his face. He talked from a higher position than Molly, not having dismounted, yet. He was eager to be on his way, but felt he must resolve his immediate problem of leaving his family home to fend for themselves first.

Been trying to figure out, all the way over from our place, what to do so’s Shelia’s not by herself while I’m gone. Tom worried that the baby might come sooner than they expected and, without a midwife to help, Shelia would be in danger.

Molly’s face creased in a frown as well. A woman, by herself in labor, with only a baby and a young boy there, was not good. She wondered how she could help.

Trace is off at Albuquerque taking care of some final paperwork, on the land he had in Texas, with the railroad representative, Molly told Tom. The kids and I are trying to finish up the planting before he gets home. I suppose— Molly’s words broke off while she considered the possibilities.

I know. We bumped into each other in Moriarty as I was looking for someone to go help Shelia. He suggested I come see you. Said you always had good ideas about things like this. Sure don’t want to put you folks out any though, Molly, Tom told her. Rigor Bennington is up for a retrial. He’s managed to get a lawyer that claims he didn’t get a fair trial the first time. Since I helped put him away, I’ve got to go back and testify, again, to keep him in prison.

Yes. I understand. But, we can’t leave Shelia to deal with this without help. Doc Landry’s a hard one to catch up with sometimes. She’d have to send Elias after him. Lord knows if he’d get him there in time. Tom, it’s just too dangerous for her to be there without someone to assist her at a time like this.

Thoughts of her first childbirth with Emmy came to Molly’s mind. The labor pains had come quickly and caught her by surprise. Although she had been married to her first husband and seen other women birth babies, before she and Trace got married, the series of events in her own body seemed so unlike what she had observed. She remembered other women writhing in pain. She had no way to know how hard the waves of labor hit. Nor, how severe the pain could become before a child was born. It was one of those things that people describe to you explicitly and, there was simply no way to know what happened or how it felt until you actually experienced it for yourself.

She remembered, indelibly, the day that Emmy was born and the pain she had gone through. I don’t care if other women do say ‘you forget the pain once you’re holding your baby.’ She hadn’t forgotten. She was sure she would pass the untruth on, herself, because no one wanted to instill fear in an expectant mother that had no choice but to deliver the child within her womb when the time came.

ROSIE, GET TRACE, she had called out from where she had buckled to her knees in the dirt of her prized hollyhock garden when her first forceful spasm hit.

Ma! What’s wrong? Rosie stared at Molly in horror.

Not wanting to frighten the young girl, Molly tried to stay calm as she felt sweat pop out on her brow and upper lip.

It’s fine, Rosie. Just—I think the baby’s coming. Please, she tried to keep a shriek of pain out of her voice as another contraction rippled through her body.

Go get Trace—please, she had spoke through teeth gritted to keep from screaming in surprise as the forceful contractions persisted.

Now, she shook the memory from her mind and thought about Shelia’s situation.

"COME ON