Love on the Line - Deeanne Gist [45]
Finally, he crossed into Peter Finkel’s land. Unlike von Wrede, Finkel had close to four hundred acres, yet field after field lay fallow. No cornfields. No plowing or preparation for cotton planting. Just neglected, overgrown ground.
Honey Dew gave a long, blustery exhale, as if disgusted by the waste of fertile soil. Luke had to agree and began to despair of finding any cultivated fields. But a few acres from the farmhouse a good amount of redtop cane had been planted for feed, along with several rows of molasses cane, a half-acre potato patch, and a full-acre garden.
He smelled the cow pasture before he saw it, then rounded the corner to find a giant, fenced-in grazing area. Even though there was room a’plenty to spread out, the black cows plastered themselves shoulder to shoulder in tight clusters beneath a smattering of shade trees.
At the top of the rise a typical one-story house with a front porch faced southward. A flock of guineas in his path scattered, squawking an alarm and pumping their heads like rocker arms on a locomotive wheel.
A young girl in braids and calico scattered shelled corn from her hand to a gaggle of turkeys, chickens, and geese gathering about her feet. She paused and looked his way, shading her eyes from the bright sun. “Mutti, somebody’s coming.”
A boy in a straw hat and overalls churned butter on the porch, his eyes tracking Luke all the way to the yard. The old hound at his feet lifted its head, then thought better of it and lowered it back down.
Pulling Honey Dew to a stop, Luke touched his hat. “Howdy.”
The boy switched hands, then continued churning, the swish, swish, swish letting Luke know he hadn’t been at it very long.
The girl smiled, her two front teeth missing. “I’m Dewiller.”
“Pleased to meet you, Miss Dewiller. I’m Mr. Palmer. Your ma or pa around?”
A woman in a brown dress stepped onto the porch, drying her hands with the serviceable black apron about her waist. Though her face still hinted of youth and her eyes sparked with interest, her posture was bent and her blond hair didn’t have near the luster Georgie’s did.
“Hallo.” She scanned the area behind him. “Vhere’s der Wagen?”
Dismounting, he touched his hat. “Mrs. Finkel?”
She nodded.
“I’m Luke Palmer, the troubleman for Southwestern Telegraph and Telephone.”
The tiny bit of animation in her eyes receded. “You’re not der Peddler?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Nodding, she indicated a set of rockers to her left. “Haf a chair, Herr Palmer, and I’ll get my Mann.”
Luke schooled his features, offering no reaction to the fact her husband was home in the middle of the day, during planting season, no less. Tying Honey Dew to a scrub bush, he smiled at the girl, who’d ceased feeding the chickens.
Her large brown eyes took a thorough survey of him. “I haven’t seen you before. Are you new to die Gemeinde?”
He pushed his hat back. “Reckon I am. New to Washington County, anyway. I guess you must know just about everybody around here.”
Her smile grew. “I reckon.”
The boy on the porch glared at his sister. “Mutti wird bald Hilfe mit dem Bügeln brauchen.”
Luke didn’t speak much German, but he recognized business, mother, and help.
Rule #5: Go about your business cheerfully and quietly. When you enter a residence don’t overlook the foot mat. If requested to go around to the back door, don’t consider yourself insulted. Say “good morning” or “evening.” It doesn’t cost anything and shows you started out right at home.
Before he could smooth the boy’s feathers, a burly man in his early thirties stepped onto the porch. Brown hair, brown eyes, brown mustache, brown suspenders, brown pants.
He gave Luke the same once-over his daughter had. “You on your way to town for das Gun Tournament? You’re a bit early.”
Luke stretched out his arm. “No, sir. I’m Luke Palmer with SWT&T. Sure is an impressive place