Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Author
Dedication
In Memory of Lucille Bohn
Who invited me into her home and told me her story.
Acknowledgments
Each time I begin a project I am delighted
to watch as partnerships grow.
I owe thanks to many.
Thank you to my cousins, Billy, Kenny, and Sue Hightower, and friend Lucille Bohn who helped bring their homeland to life for me. Their willingness to share their experiences and knowledge helped me see the spectacular and sometimes formidable place called Alaska.
There are also my writing cohorts. They walked through the pages with me, often putting in extra hours so I could meet my deadline. Ann, Billy, B. C., Ellen, Julia, and Shirley, I can't thank you enough. You ladies are great.
And to Vicki Crumpton, my editor, who willingly and skillfully jumped in to make this a better book, thanks for your dedication. I don't tell you often enough how much I appreciate your hard work and your commitment to excellence.
Chapter One
MARCH 1935
MADISON, WISCONSIN
LAUREL HASPER LEANED HER TALL, SLENDER FRAME AGAINST THE weathered porch railing and studied her father. He's always seemed invincible, she thought, trying to swallow the hurt. Now he looked beaten, the droop of his shoulders and his heavy step revealing his grief. The last five years had taken a toll. First the depression, then the drought had drained Will Hasper's spirit and stolen his dreams.
Dirt swirled into the air, dusting last summer's dead cornfields. Merciless sun splintered the haze into thousands of dusky red particles, creating a flaming sunset.
The beauty didn't soothe Laurel. The red cloud represented the end of their farm and so many others. The Midwest ranches were dead, carried away one piece of ground at a time. The air tasted like dust as it had for months. Laurel longed for the day when the air would again hold sweet moisture.
Sweeping off his hat, Will used the back of his hand to wipe grime and sweat from his face. His weary, gray-blue eyes closed a moment. He dropped to one knee, tenderly ran his hand over the dry ground, scooped up a handful of soil and watched it sift through his fingers. The wind caught the particles and swept them away.
Fighting tears, Laurel turned away and looked heavenward. “Why, God? Why?” Bitterness touched her voice. She gazed out at their once fertile farm. Again, there would be no crops, only wind and dust. A dry, frigid winter had sucked the remaining life from the land.
Will stood, planted his hat on his head, and marched back to the house. With little more than a glance at Laurel, he leaped onto the porch and brushed past her. “Laurel, get your brothers.” Pulling open the door, he stepped into the house. “Jean, we need to talk.”
Laurel found her brothers playing in a desiccated apple orchard. Justin and Brian were hanging from a limb while Luke twisted the branch of a dead tree.
“What are you doing?” Laurel demanded.
Justin and Brian quickly dropped to the ground. Luke let loose of the limb, and the dead branch hung limp.
Hands on hips, Laurel continued, “Isn't it bad enough the weather has all but destroyed our orchard? Do you have to finish the job?”
Sixteen-year-old Luke stripped off a piece of bark, then turned a defiant look on his sister. “What difference does it make? Everything's dead anyway.”
“Yeah. Everything's dead,” eleven-year-old Justin agreed, reaching up and slinging an arm over his brother's shoulders.
“It's wrong, that's all.” Laurel hesitated. “The rains might return.”
Luke gazed up at a cloudless sky, then gave his sister an insolent look. “You think so, huh?” His dark looks turned stormy as he broke a brittle branch from the doomed tree and shoved it close to her face. “Do you see any life here?”
