Adam carefully picked a nut off the top of his banana split and ate it. “I could, but there are some things I still don't understand.”
Laurel's anger grew. “All you wanted was a story!”
“Why are you so mad? It's my job.”
“This was supposed to be time with friends—nothing more.”
“All right, all right.” He tucked his pencil and pad back into his pocket. “But I am interested in knowing how Robert ended up here … as a friend,” he added.
“I don't mind telling you.” Robert took a drink of his soda. “Like so many of the folks in Wisconsin, our farm was dying because of the drought. When my dad heard about the project, he decided we ought to join the colonists—we needed a new start.” He took another sip. “A week before we were set to leave, he died.” Robert gazed at his drink.
“Oh, Robert. I didn't know,” Laurel said, reaching out and placing a hand over his.
Robert glanced at her hand, then at Laurel. His eyes were moist. “The doctor said it was his heart.”
“But you and your family made the trip anyway. Why?” Adam asked.
“Moving to Alaska was my father's dream since he was a boy. He'd probably read every book ever written about Alaska. After he died, we decided it's what he would have wanted us to do. The government agent said I was old enough to be listed as head of the household. So here we are.”
“Do you know what you have ahead of you?” Adam asked. “This isn't going to be a picnic. It's gonna be tough.”
“I'm ready.” Robert had a stubborn set to his jaw.
“Have you managed a farm on your own?” Adam pressed.
“No. But …”
“If I were you, I'd go back home,” Adam said.
“There's no turning back, not for us.”
Adam took a bite of banana, then leaned his arms on the counter and looked directly into Robert's eyes. “Look, I wasn't going to say anything. I want to believe this ‘experiment’ can be done, but I have to tell you, this whole thing is madness. Life isn't the same in Alaska as it is anywhere else. You colonists think you're on some kind of lark, but I'm telling you … it's not what you think. Things are going to get serious— real serious, real soon.”
Robert leaned toward Adam. “I'm not on a lark. I know how it's going to be, and I'm ready.”
Laurel searched for something she could say to change the subject. She glanced out the window. “The rain has started up again,” she said. Neither man paid attention.
“This whole colony thing isn't going to work,” Adam said. “Even the experts say it's doomed.” He glanced at his melting ice cream. “I've been with you folks for a week now, and I like you. There are a lot of good people in this project. I hate to see anyone get hurt, or worse, end up stranded in the wilderness. Furthermore, something you probably haven't heard is that the homesteaders who already live there are real unhappy you're coming.”
“What are you talking about?” Laurel asked. “Why would anyone be upset because of us? And why do you think this is going to fail?”
“The homesteaders settled there on their own with no help, and they don't appreciate interlopers on government apron strings.” He shook his head in disgust. “And you know as well as I do that government projects don't work.”
“What about the CCC and WPA?” Laurel argued.
“Those are exceptions.”
“This will be too. All the government is doing is moving families there, then helping us get on our feet. We'll each have forty acres to work. We know farming. We can do it.”
“A lot of the families have never farmed.” Adam paused.
Robert stood. “Even if some folks going aren't farmers, they're hardworking and determined, and they'll make it. What one person doesn't know, someone else will; we'll work together.”
“That's right,” Laurel said, but she wasn't so sure. What if they didn't make it? Then what?
Chapter Seven
THE BUS BUMPED TO A STOP, AND EXHAUST ROLLED IN THROUGH OPEN windows. The noxious fumes didn't help Laurel's already tumbling stomach. The door whooshed open and she stood, cradling her apple seedling against her chest. She stepped into the aisle behind Justin who was struggling to dislodge his suitcase from between two seats.
Finally, yanking it free, he peered out the window, then looked up at his sister. “That's it! That's our boat!”
Laurel gazed at a white ship docked alongside the pier. Above the waterline were two rows of small round windows and U.S. Navy Transport, St. Mihiel written on the port side. Masts and rigging crowded an upper deck. Resting in the center of the ship was a pilothouse; its long row of square windows looked out over the bow. A squat smokestack sat behind and above the wheelhouse and, like a sentry, watched over the ship.
“I'm glad the ship's white,” Miram Dexter said from behind Laurel. “White represents purity. That's got to be a good sign.”
“I was told she's overloaded,” a man wearing a tattered jacket and wool cap said. “So we'll have to sail the open sea route.”
Miram glanced up at black clouds. “Oh, dear! What if there's a storm?” She pressed a white handkerchief to her pale face. “I'll be sick for sure.”
Laurel could feel her stomach muscles tighten. They'd been told the ship would take the quiet waters of the Inside Passage. She turned to the man with the wool cap. “Are you sure about being overloaded?”
He stuck out a whiskered chin. “That's what I was told.”
“Hey, get a move on!” someone shouted.
“I'm sorry,” Laurel murmured and closed the gap between herself and Justin. When it was Laurel's turn to walk down the steps, she peered to see around the seedling, carefully placing her feet on one step then the next. She left the bus, and a cold mist touched her face.
“Let me carry that,” her father said.
