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of peppermint sticks. Surely a peppermint stick would bring the smile to Deborah’s face that nigh unto broke his heart. But he knew the state of his wallet. “You got any milk?”
    She shook her head. “But the Stoltzfusses up the road, they might.”
    He nodded. While she measured and wrapped, he stalked the aisles. Should he ask?
    He returned to the counter. Lie number two was about to be born. “I have a cousin by name of Elmer Norton, and I heard he homesteaded somewhere to the west of here. You know anything about him?”
    “We surely do. Man’s had a hard time. Why, he was by here . . .” She squinted her eyes to think. “Here, I can check when.” She opened a leather-bound ledger book and ran her finger down the column of names. “About what I thought. He was in just before that big snowstorm in early spring. Bought seed, wheat, some flour, andthings like that. He apologized for running his bill up. Proud man but paid when he could. I sent two peppermint sticks home with him for his little girls. Poor things—their mother died clear last fall.”
    Zeb felt a weight crushing down on his shoulders. Mr. Norton had never made it home. And he hadn’t run out either.
    “You go straight west of town, about a day’s ride, I guess. Not too many folks out there. Them bare hills don’t grow much. Tell him Mrs. Abrahamson said hello, and I sure am glad he made it home. The storm that night was a killer.”
    Zeb dug in his pocket and withdrew the soft leather pouch that held the last of his cash. He paid the bill. “Thanks for the information. I surely will pass your greeting on to Elmer.” He picked up his packet and turned to leave.
    “Here, wait.” Mrs. Abrahamson unscrewed the lid of the candy jar and took out two peppermint sticks. “You give these to those two girls of his. They’re the light of his life, they are.”
    “Thank you again.” Zeb clapped his hat on his head as soon as he stepped out the door. Was another lie in the offing? He who never told a lie after the last whupping from his ma was getting right into the habit of it. And the one to the deputy would now haunt him.
    Within half an hour they were trotting east. Maybe the Stoltz-fusses could use a hand for a while. At least Deborah would have fresh milk to drink.

Blessing, Dakota Territory
August 1, 1886
    U ff da.”
    Ingeborg Bjorklund straightened from picking beans and pushed the basket ahead with her foot. Only about five feet to go and she would have the row finished.
    Sixteen months old and with a voice that carried clear across the Red River, Astrid scrunched her face and cried again, louder this time. “M-m-a.” She used her hands to boost herself back to her feet and, arms in the air for balance, toddled over the rough garden clods of Dakota dirt toward her mother. Wearing a yellow gingham dress as dirt-stained as her face, the child ignored the green bean her mother held out and reached instead for the front of her dress.
    “Astrid, see? Look to the end of the row. You can wait that long, can’t you?” Ingeborg pointed to the post at the end, then swiped a lock of hair back from her forehead with the back of her hand while glancing at the sun. “Not even midmorning yet.” She drew in a deep breath, the fragrance of string beans, both leaves and pods, heightened by the shimmering heat of the August sun.
    Astrid shook her head and pulled again at her mother’s dress.
    “Ja, and it feels more like midafternoon.” Goodie Peterson stood upright and kneaded the middle of her back with her fists. “Why don’t you and Astrid sit in the shade and snap these while I go punch down the bread? The men will be heading in before we can finish the picking.”
    Ingeborg nodded, pushing her faded sunbonnet back so she could tuck the stubborn strand of hair under the golden-hued braids she always wore wrapped around the crown of her head. Tall at five foot seven and strong of both chin and frame, she wore her darkskirt and white