“Laundry time again,” Del said, shaking out a coverlet. “I’ll get a fire going and heat some water.” A wail from Mikael made her pause. “As soon as I feed the baby.”
“All right.” Lark rolled her lips. So it would be just her and Jesse for haying today. It was too much for two people, really. But the other tasks were important too. Lord, help us.
Jesse walked up. “S-sorry to be late.”
Lark pulled on her gloves. “I know it’s a bit of a walk from town. Has your uncle given any thought to getting a horse?”
“He’s t-talking about it.”
“Need some breakfast? There’s leftovers on the table outside the soddy.”
Jesse dipped his head in thanks and stepped over to scarf down some ham and biscuits. By the time Lark had tied on her straw hat—she refused to wear a sunbonnet because it hampered her vision—and sharpened her scythe, he stood ready to work.
They cut the waist-high prairie grass all morning, until the sun beat hot on their backs and sweat mingled with the dust sifting into Lark’s bodice and sleeves. She paused to wipe her forehead when Lilac brought them water.
“How’s it going with the soddy floor?” Lark drank, grateful. “Thank you.”
“Almost finished for this round. I’ll be out here to help soon.”
They paused for a dinner of ham sandwiches, and then Lilac joined in the haying for the afternoon. By the time the sun lowered toward suppertime, they’d finished nearly half of the field. The drying hay lay in wide stripes across the land, the unevenness of the first rows showing their inexperience.
Lark rolled her sore shoulders. They were getting there. But it had taken days to get this far—would they manage to cut all the hay before another rain ruined it? Should they stop to rake and stack what had been cut already so the livestock would have at least some for the winter? Or just press on with the cutting? So many questions and not enough answers.
Every muscle aching, she trudged back to the house. Jesse and Lilac trailed behind.
“How is it going?” Forsythia met them with Mikael in her arms and a pitcher of switchel.
Lark downed her cup in one swig. “Going. But awfully slow.”
“You need more help. Del and I can trade off with the children and the haying tomorrow. Maybe it’s just as well I haven’t heard from the Jorgensens yet about working at the store.”
“I c-could ask my uncle to help.”
They both turned to look at Jesse.
He shrugged. “I could ask.”
“Sure, thanks.” Lark smiled at him. But would Dr. Brownsville come? He’d let Jesse, true, but he had his own practice to get running. And they’d barely seen him or heard a word since the tiff over her masquerading as a man. Lark rubbed her tired forehead. Should she try to talk to the doctor herself? It wasn’t fair for Forsythia’s hopes to be dashed over something Larkspur had done. But then, it wasn’t fair for Dr. Brownsville to blame Forsythia either. They’d all just done what they had to do.
At least she thought so. Lark dragged herself to the washbasin set outside the soddy and splashed cool water on her sweat-grimed face. Having to come west in the first place had been because of her rash actions, and now she’d caused more trouble. If she couldn’t get this homestead up and running sustainably, that would be on her shoulders too.
No wonder she carried a yoke heavier than the oxen’s lately.
The next day, they cut grass all morning, making progress with Forsythia helping as well as Lilac and Jesse. After the midday meal, Lark left the others still working, Del spelling Forsythia now, and headed to town.
She took the wagon and hitched two of the oxen to it—Sam and Soda. Walking alongside with the whip brought back memories of the trail. Had that life really been only weeks ago? It felt strange to drive the oxen wearing a skirt instead of pants.
Lark stopped the oxen outside the store and climbed the wooden steps. The bell jangled a welcome on the door, and she blinked in the dim interior after the sunshine outside.
“Afternoon, Miss Nielsen.” Mr. Jorgensen looked up with a cheery smile. “What can I do for you?”
Good, he was easier to work with than his taciturn wife. Lark stepped up to the counter.
“I’m looking to get a breaking plow. Do you carry those, or would I need to order one?”
“Sure, we carry them, though mostly in planting season. I might have one in the back, if you’ve a mind to wait a moment.”
“Of course.” Lark scanned the shelves behind the counter while he was gone. Bolts of colorful calico and flannel, bottles of liniment, cans of kerosene. Horse harnesses hung from the rafters overhead.
“Yes, we have one, if you’ll bring your wagon around.”
She led the oxen behind the building, and Mr. Jorgensen lugged the heavy piece of equipment from the back storage room. The steel blade glinted, ready to bite into the tough prairie sod.
“How much is it? I was wondering if I could trade in a couple of our oxen.”
The storekeeper chuckled and shook his head. “Fifteen dollars, but a span of working oxen is worth nearly ten times that. You’d do better to sell them to some homesteader.”
“Ah.” Clearly she was out of touch with prices around here. Or farming in general. “I’ll have to come back, then. I didn’t bring enough cash. Would you hold it for me?”
“To be sure. Not much call for new plows this time of year, as I said. If you don’t have the cash right now, we can start a tab.”
“Thank you,” she answered with a nod. They’d had plenty of tabs run at their store at home, too,
