Lonely In Longtree

Copyright

ISBN 1-59789-385-5

Copyright © 2007 by Jill Stengl. All rights reserved. Except
for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole
or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means,
now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the permission of
Truly Yours, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., PO Box
721,
Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683.

All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

All of the characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental.

Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.

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Prologue

March 1891, Minocqua, Wisconsin

“Need anything else, Mr. Van Huysen?”

“Just my mail, ma'am.”

“You got a newspaper and some big envelopes,” Mrs. Daniels observed as she handed his mail over the counter. “You should come into town more often. This community hops with activity even during winter. Dances, concerts, masquerades—you ought to get more involved.”

He smiled at the widow. “I keep busy. I'm too old for masquerades and such anyhow.”

“Nonsense. You need to find yourself a wife. No sense in a man staying lonely in his old age.”

“Hope I haven't yet reached that stage.” Was she fishing for a second husband herself? Monte paid cash for his groceries, picked up two heavy sacks, and made the first trip out to his waiting sledge. He covered the sacks with oiled tarps to keep them dry. Two more trips, and he brushed off his gloves.

Sunlight tried to break through the heavy overcast. Icicles like jagged teeth glittered on the eaves of the shop and of every building along Front Street. The snow near the train station and tracks was grimy with soot, and traffic had fouled the roads. So much for a pristine wilderness.

“Wake up, Buzzard Bait.” He rubbed one horse's furry ears, then gripped the other by its soft chin. Giving a little shake, he lifted until its fluttering nostrils blew steamy-warm breath into his face. “No more nap, Petunia-gal.” He kissed the whiskery pink nose and straightened Petunia's tangled forelock. Both horses tried to rub their faces on his sleeves or his backside while he removed their blankets and checked their harness and hooves. “Watch it there, Buzz,” he warned when the horse nearly knocked him sprawling.

The door of the general store squeaked open, and Mrs. Daniels stepped outside. “You dropped your newspaper, Mr. Van Huysen.”

“Always dropping something.” Monte tucked the paper under his arm. “Thank you kindly, ma'am.”

“The roads are bad. You take care.” The store mistress retreated into her small but warm building.

“Will do. I go mostly across the lakes anyway.” But Mrs. Daniels had already closed the door. Monte climbed to the seat of his wagon set on runners, clucked to the team, and started off west along Front Street, passing a line of hotels and shops and circling the island's shoreline until he reached the landing. Other sleds and sledges had packed a smooth track down to the lake. The snow on top of the ice was light; his horses made easy work of it. Speeding across the level white plain, Monte found it hard to recapture a vision of blue summer lakes and lush green shoreline. Frigid wind burned the exposed skin around his eyes and found every niche in his outerwear armor. Weaving around islands, cutting across necks of land, he made his way back to his remote section.

Pride swelled his chest when he first glimpsed the tree-lined shore. No finer piece of land existed in the Northwoods, he firmly believed. Magnificent white pines towered above naked oaks, elms, maples, and aspens. Birch boles traced silvery streaks against the deep green of fir and spruce. At his approach, a group of deer startled into the trees, white tails bobbing and flashing.

Come spring, he would begin breaking ground for a lodge. A hunting and fishing lodge to attract the wealthy socialites of Chicago and Milwaukee. Unlike local logging towns, Minocqua staked its future on its natural beauty. Monte's dream lodge should help bring that bright future and prosperity to the Lakeland area.

He drove the team up a shore landing and along the lane he had labored to carve from his wilderness home. The horses stopped in front of his cabin and waited for him to unload. A mule brayed a noisy greeting from the paddock; Buzz whinnied in answer. Petunia only snorted. Inside the cabin, a dog bayed and scratched at the door.

“At least I don't come home to a quiet, empty house,” Monte mused.

He made himself wait until evening before he opened the newspaper and put up his feet. Ralph the hound stretched on the hearth before a blazing fire. Monte lowered one foot from his stool to rub along the dog's side.

He snapped open the paper, tilted it to catch the oil lamp's beam, and started reading at the top of the front page. No article escaped his interest. Each week he found pleasure in reading accounts of mostly unknown people in a far-off town. Mr. and Mrs. Boswell Martin celebrated their ninth anniversary by traveling to Chicago to see an opera. Ole Sutton was robbed on the road just east of town; a drifter was arrested in connection with the incident. Mr. Gustaf Obermeier celebrated his sixtieth birthday with his wife, Elsa, and daughter, Marva.

A familiar name caught his eye, and he straightened in his chair.
Last week,
Longtree's own
Mr. Myles Van Huysen performed a benefit concert for Longtree Community Church, donating all proceeds toward a new and larger facility. The concert was a great financial success. .
. .
Monte skipped over details about the proposed construction.
Mr. Van Huysen lives near town with his wife, Beulah, his children, and his paternal grandmother, Mrs. Virginia Van Huysen of Long Island, New York.

Monte read the article three times, then stared across the room. Myles, still singing, but not for his own profit. He might have been rich and famous by now. How did his grandmother feel about her prodigy grandson's choosing a farm over a brilliant career on stage? How would Gran feel about her miscreant older grandson's new life as proprietor and owner of a recreation lodge?

A wave of loneliness for family swept over him. He closed his eyes and rubbed their lids. How old would Gran be now? She had seemed ancient twenty years ago. Had it really been twenty years? Pretty near.

What if. . . ? He pursed his lips and stared into the fire. What if he were to advertise his new lodge in the
Longtree Enquirer
? What if Myles could be tempted to bring his family north for a vacation on the lakes? Myles had always enjoyed outdoor sports. Perhaps if Monte played up the family fun
aspect of the lodge. . . Maybe he could run a family special. . .
. He must get a piano. . . .

The idea had merit, yet the probability of luring Myles and his family to Minocqua was laughably remote. Only God could pull off such a miracle. And Monte didn't dare ask Him, since God would ask in return, reasonably enough, why he didn't simply take a train down to Longtree to mend fences with his estranged family. Why should the Lord perform a miracle to accomplish reconciliation when he could easily initiate it himself?

Moping, he skimmed through the personal ads:
16h. molly mule for sale. . .housemaid needed. . .farm auction.
Then one ad caught his full attention:

Single woman of good reputation, in possession of small but prosperous farm, requires godly man of solid character as husband. Must tolerate presence of elderly parents. I can manage a farm alone but would prefer companionship. I am healthy, average in appearance and education, and easygoing by nature. I neither expect nor desire romantic overtures. Interested parties may contact the
Longtree Enquirer
for further information. Lonely in Longtree

❧

April, Longtree, Wisconsin

Marva dumped tepid dishwater over the edge of the porch, then hurried back inside, already shivering with cold. “I think the temperature's dropping again,” she commented. “The days may be getting longer, but they aren't much warmer. I'll put a hot water bottle in your bed tonight.”

“No need, dear. Your father has warm feet.” From her rocking chair pulled up close to the stove, Marva's mother smiled and nodded. Her knitting needles never missed a click.

Papa snorted and shook his newspaper until it crackled. “What stuff and nonsense they print in this paper!” He scooted his slippers closer to the stove, dropped the outspread paper into his lap, and tapped it with his magnifying lens. His white beard trembled in indignation. “Some fool man wrote an answer to some fool woman's advertisement for a husband. Can you imagine anything more idiotic? The man could be anything—a drunkard, a murderer, anything!”

“Or the woman could be out to trap him for his money,” Mother said.

Marva set the dishpan upside-down on the drain board and wiped down the countertops, watching her damp pink hands with deep concentration.

“Our Marva would never need to advertise,” Mother said dreamily. “Some man will come along and snatch her up one of these days.”

Marva paused and stared through the kitchen window at the landscape of early spring. A bleak view: gray, cold, and muddy. Much like her own future.

At one time she had believed her mother's romantic predictions. At one time she had considered herself a prize. But then man after man had come into her life, and man after man had passed on to some other woman or some other town. Marva might have married a filthy deputy with a bullet head and barrel chest, but he had turned out to be crooked as well as repulsive. She might have given the nod to a certain buck-toothed, goggle-eyed farmhand by the name of Camarillo Nugget had she so chosen.

She hadn't been that desperate.

Not back then.

Back then she had trusted that God would fulfill the desires of her heart. Back then she had depended on Him to provide her with a husband.

The one worthy man she'd thought might ask to share her future had chosen a pretty young girl of nineteen instead. Not that she begrudged Myles and Beulah Van Huysen their happiness together, but no one could deny that Beulah's gain had been Marva's loss.

All these years she'd spent alone, watching other women bear children and raise them. God must have forgotten about Marva Obermeier. That was the best she could figure.

“Time for us to turn in, Mrs. Obermeier.” Papa folded up the paper, rose and stretched with a crackle of joints, and thumped his broad chest with one fist. “I'm fishing in the morning. Ice is off the ponds now.”

“Yes, dear.” Mother immediately wound up her yarn and stashed her work into the little wooden bin at her elbow. “Fishing, fishing. Always fishing.” But her voice held no rancor. Rising to her diminutive full height, she trotted over to kiss Marva good night and passed on through to the bedroom. Papa gave Marva a whiskery kiss on the cheek and a tender smile and then followed Mother.

Marva waited for the door to clank shut and listened to their voices rise and fall in nightly conversation. Lifting her hand to her cheek where their kisses lingered, she smiled faintly.

Before their light turned out, she picked up the discarded newspaper and spread it on the kitchen table. Bringing the lamp close, she turned it up so that its golden light pooled on the pages. At the bottom of page 4, she found the response:

Lonely in Longtree: In answer to your advertisement posted in a March edition of the Longtree Enquirer, I proffer myself as a candidate for the position. Age 38 this month, never married, of sound health and character, I am a God-fearing man. I lay claim to considerable wooded property in the north of the state and plan to build come spring. Your parents are welcome. Sell the farm and stock and travel north to God's country. Or come first and see if the climate and conditions suit. If you dislike pine trees and sparkling lakes, you'll hate it here. Lucky in Lakeland.

❧

June, Minocqua

Monte walked out of the Bank of Minocqua with a spring in his step. He would have sung or shouted had anyone questioned his broad grin. But passersby paid him no attention, and the horses tethered at the hitching rail dozed in complete indifference. He considered a visit to the barbershop or blacksmith but settled on Daniels' General Store instead.

Passing the Minocqua House Inn, he tipped his hat to a passing woman who gave him a rather unfriendly stare. Perhaps he had better moderate his expression to pleasant rather than beaming. As he entered the store, Mrs. Daniels greeted him in her cheery way and immediately announced that he had a stack of mail waiting. “Two of them newspapers. Now that we've got
The Times
here in town, maybe you could cancel that other subscription.”

“I could.” He accepted his mail, rolled it into a neat bundle, and tucked it under his arm.

“I hear you placed a large order from Glendenning. Pine and cedar and oak, they say, and huge beams of it. You planning to build soon?”

“As soon as possible, ma'am. A crew will begin digging the basement tomorrow. I plan to have my resort up and running by next summer.” He met her curious gaze with a pleasant smile.

“You know they've got the ferry running to the Hazelhurst road now, and a drug store is going in across the way. This town is booming! I wish you luck with your resort, Mr. Van Huysen. What are you planning to call it?”

“I haven't yet decided.”

“Did you have a nice visit to Wausau? Word is that you visited the land office and bought up your claim. Wherever did you get the money for that? Rumors are flying all over town!”

“I had a pleasant visit to Wausau, Mrs. Daniels, although the train north ran twenty minutes late. Ma'am, I'm thinking I don't need to subscribe to
The Times
. I've got you to keep me informed of all the local news.”

She stared for a moment, then chuckled. “Mr. Van Huysen, you're such a card! Now you take care.”

He paused in the doorway to tip his hat. “And you, ma'am.”