The Daughter's Walk - Jane Kirkpatrick [96]
She scoffed. “I thought you’d put that idea out of your mind,” she said. “You haven’t spoken to the Warrens about livetrapping. You haven’t arranged to travel to see things first hand.”
“I’ve been waiting for the right time. The Warrens haven’t been too encouraging about livetrapping for me. I either have to get someone else or try it myself. Look, it says in the Times that it’s working.”
Olea looked over my shoulder.
“With foxes maybe. You ought to pay attention to Franklin’s wish for you to design.”
Had she been reading my mail?
“What if it was a dream I had,” I told her, “to do something new and innovative?” I thought about Olaf reminding me that I hadn’t pursued any of my dreams. But I had. I owned property. I hired seasonal workers to harvest my fruit. We farmed wheat on shares, took chickens to markets that included Spokane restaurants. By all measures I was successful. So what was this longing that made me hungry even after one of Louise’s big meals if not the desire to do something more, something bold, the way my mother and I had walked across the country?
Olaf might not be interested in farming on shares, but maybe I could inspire him with my idea of fur ranching. We could do it on the acres near the Spokane River or on the wheat farm. Olea was right, I finally agreed. This separation between Olaf and me needed to be addressed. I took the train to Spokane and walked the four miles to the Elstad farm east of town.
“I’m a sister to a man I hope still works for you,” I told the woman who came to the farmhouse door. She was younger than I and wiped her hands on a yellow apron. “His name is Olaf Estby.”
She shook her head. Sheep bleated in the background, and I heard a dog bark behind the barn. A recent rain added freshness to the air. I looked around hoping to see Olaf come out from the field, but he didn’t. I wasn’t sure the woman spoke English, so I started to repeat my request in Norwegian when I heard a man call out, “Who is it?” He was inside the house. I hadn’t been invited in.
I handed her my card and she called back, “Clara Doré.”
“I’m Olaf Estby’s sister,” I said loud enough for him to hear, and shortly, as I’d hoped, Erik Elstad appeared.
“Miss Doré.” He grinned, looked at my card, dismissed the woman, and she disappeared. He stepped outside and directed me to a swing on the wide porch. “Would you like water? I can have Beatrice bring it.” I shook my head. “What brings you here?”
“I’m trying to track down my brother. He’s a terrible letter writer.” I smiled.
He looked puzzled, and in the silence that followed, my heart began to pound. “You don’t know,” he said at last.
“Don’t know what? That he doesn’t work here anymore?”
“No, no, he doesn’t.” He looked away from me, stared out onto his fields.
The pounding in my chest grew louder as though my heart knew the danger before my ears could hear the words.
“He’s. He died. I’m so sorry. Phthisis.”
“Tuberculosis? When?”
“I’d have to think,” he said. “Nineteen-ought-two. Yes. The year the irrigation Reclamation Act was signed. He resigned, said he’d help you farm. Got sick and went to Spokane. I assumed … to be with your family. I think he was in a hospital for a while. I hated to lose him. He was a good worker.” He politely didn’t ask why I’d never been informed.
I hope I thanked him for his time. I don’t remember. He offered me water again, suggested he drive me to the train station when he realized I’d walked. “No, no, the walk will do me good,” I said.
My feet knew the way; my mind meandered. Olaf would have been twenty-three when he died. All that time I’d harbored irritation toward him, he was dead.
Waiting for his letters, watching as Louise brought in the packages and mail, had once offered a blend of hope mixed with ache, but now there’d be only ache. I should have tried to contact him sooner. Regret weighted each step I took. Sobs of sorrow made me stop, lean against the gate post. Too late; I was too late.
I’d lost five brothers and sisters to early deaths, all younger than