Worthy of Riches Read online

  Dedication

  To my brother Bruce, who knows and loves Alaska.

  Thank you for sharing your many adventures.

  This story would not be the same without them.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 1

  MARCH 1937

  JEAN ADDED SPLIT BIRCH TO THE FIREBOX, THEN FILLED TWO CUPS WITH TEA and placed them on the table. Then she took pen, ink, and paper from a kitchen cabinet and sat across from her daughter. “Thank goodness Susie's asleep. Now we can plan for the wedding.”

  Laurel stirred sugar into her tea and rested her face in her hand. “One more month and I'll be Mrs. Adam Dunnavant.” She sipped her tea. “It's hard to believe that when I first met Adam I detested him. All I could see was an arrogant meddler.” She grinned. “I must say, he was a handsome meddler though. Those blue eyes caught my attention right off, and the way his hair curls onto his forehead reminds me of a sweet boy.”

  Laurel slowly shook her head. “I was so wrong about him.”

  Jean brushed auburn hair off her neck. “I have to admit, in the beginning I didn't think too highly of Adam either. He seemed awfully bold and brash with his camera and pencil, intruding into everyone's business. Even if he was a reporter, it didn't seem right.” Jean smiled, her amber eyes sparkling. “I'm glad I was wrong.”

  “Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if King Edward hadn't abdicated his throne for Mrs. Simpson,” Laurel said. “Adam might still be in London.”

  Dipping a pen in ink, Jean said, “We need to get this list taken care of. We still have a lot to do before the wedding.”

  Laurel leaned on the table. “Jessie said she'd take care of the flowers. You know how much she loves plants and living things. I'm sure she'll do a beautiful job.”

  Jean wrote down Jessie's name. “It's too early for wildflowers.”

  “She knows a woman who grows flowers indoors.” Laurel took another sip of her tea, then looked at the golden liquid. “Jessie's the one who got me drinking tea—all those hours at her place recording her husband's notes.” A sad expression crossed Laurel's face. “After I'm married, I won't be able to work with her much. I'll miss it. I have to admit, working on a book about Alaska made me feel kind of important.”

  “You're not going to give it up altogether, are you?”

  “No. Jessie said we'll keep working but at a slower pace.”

  “Good. I'm glad you're going to finish. Folks on the outside ought to know more about Alaska and its history.”

  “I still have so many notes to go through and record. I'm beginning to think we'll never finish.” Laurel set her cup on the table. “It's sad her husband died. I wonder if she's lonely, especially since she never had any children.” Laurel looked squarely at her mother. “Maybe we ought to find someone for her.”

  Jean held up her hands. “Oh, no. I'm not getting involved in match-making. Seems to me Jessie's more than happy just as she is, and she ought to know her own mind by now. She's lived alone for a good number of years. I don't think she'd appreciate our meddling.”

  Jean redipped the pen. “All right now, enough of this. Back to the wedding. Since it's at 11:00, people are going to get hungry. I think we ought to make some sandwiches and maybe have some salads. Norma Prosser said she'd bake and decorate the cake. She's a wonder in the kitchen.”

  “Good.”

  Jean wrote down Norma's name and beside it, cake. “The reverend said April 10 will be just fine. He asked if we could all be at the church the night before for the rehearsal.”

  Emptying her cup, Laurel said, “It seems strange to practice a wedding. I'll feel silly.”

  “We won't go through the ceremony. The reverend will just make sure we all know where to stand and how it's all going to take place.” Jean set the pen in its holder. “Since Celeste is going to be your maid of honor, will her father be there?”

  “Ray Townsend at a Hasper wedding? I think he'd rather die.”

  “Just thought I ought to ask since he's your best friend's father.”

  Laurel folded her arms over her chest and leaned back in her chair. “He detests me, and he hates Daddy even more. I think just the sight of an outsider gets him riled. Now he's threatening to turn in any colonist who bypasses the co-op.”

  “I'm still praying for him. Maybe he'll have a change of heart.”

  “He'll never change, and I'm sure he won't be at the wedding. I wouldn't want him there anyway.”

  “It would certainly raise a stir.” Jean grinned. “Oh well, what Ray Townsend does or doesn't do is between him and God. It has nothing to do with us.” She looked back at her list. “Oh, Celeste told me she'd talked to you about the bridal shower?”

  “She said she wanted to have one and that we could use the community building.” Laurel frowned. “I don't know how I feel about it. After what happened with Robert, it doesn't seem right. I mean, we had a shower when I was going to marry him; it doesn't seem right to have another one.”

  Jean reached across and patted Laurel's hand. “Everyone understands about you and Robert. They were surprised when you called off the wedding, but it's better to do that than to marry a man you don't love.”

  “I know, but I feel strange having another shower. It's only been a few months. I'm embarrassed.”

  “It'll be fine. Celeste is your best friend. She'll feel badly if she can't do this for you, and I actually believe she'll have more fun this time, considering how she feels about Robert.”

  Laurel smiled. “I'm glad they're going around together. She fell for him the first time she saw him.” She took a deep breath. “All right. We'll have a shower.”

  “Did she tell you when she wanted to do it?”

  “A week before the wedding, Friday, April 3.”

  “All right then.” Jean wrote down shower and the date alongside Celeste's name. “We can serve coffee at the wedding, but I think we ought to have punch too. Grandma Hasper's punch recipe has always been a favorite.”

  “Can we get the lemons?”

  “That shouldn't be a problem, but I'll check.” Leaning back, Jean ran her hands through her hair. “There's so much to think about—so many details.” She studied her daughter. Laurel was a taller, younger replica of herself, with long auburn hair and hazel eyes.

  Laurel smiled. “The house is nearly finished. Adam's done a wonderful job. He's a good carpenter. I guess that's one good thing that came out of his growing up in that dreadful orphanage.” She shuddered. “Every time I think of that horrible Mr. Hirsch and how he treated the boys, I want to cry.”

  “You can be proud of Adam, especially considering all he's been through.”

  “I can hardly wait to move into the house and make it ours. It's sad that so many colonists left, but at least the empty farmland is still available. Adam and I can be thankful for that. We'll have a fine farm o
ne day.”

  Uneasiness settled over Jean. She wasn't at all sure that Adam should give up his career as a reporter. It had meant everything to him. “Are you sure farming's what you ought to do? Adam's a writer.”

  “It's new for him, but he's excited to try. I'm sure he can do it. He can do anything he sets his mind to do.”

  “Farming's a far cry from living in Chicago and writing for an important newspaper like the Tribune.”

  “He wants to farm, and he'll do it. Just look at the house he's built for us. And he's already making plans for sowing barley and wheat. We have a good piece of land. There's no reason why we can't make it.”

  Jean put on her kindest expression. “I know what it's like to be young and full of dreams. It wasn't so long ago that I was in your place. I haven't forgotten. But sometimes dreams don't turn out the way we plan. I just wish you two would step back a bit and pray about this.”

  “You don't want us to get married?”

  “Of course I want you to get married. I think you are meant for each other. It's just that I wonder if Adam will be happy as a farmer. Maybe he ought to do something else. The depression has eased some with President Roosevelt's new ideas.”

  “He's already decided, Mama.” Laurel's voice had taken on a sharp tone.

  Jean reached out and covered her daughter's hand. “I just want you two to be as happy as your father and I have been. What if Adam wants to go back to Chicago? Or take up traveling again? What will you do?”

  “He won't. He promised. In fact, we're planning on getting a tractor so we can grow more. The government is still helping out farmers by giving loans like they did for you and Daddy.”

  “Yes, well, our debt is still rising. I'm not so sure the tractor was a good idea.” She looked squarely at her daughter. “Laurel, what if living here makes Adam miserable? Can you ignore that?”

  Laurel didn't answer right away. “I don't know what we would do. If it happens, we'll work through it together.” She scooted her chair away from the table, straightened her legs, and crossed them at the ankle. “Tell me about your wedding. Was it beautiful?”

  “It was a wonderful day. We didn't have much money, and the only flowers were in my bouquet. They were just wildflowers, daisies mostly. My dress was simple and made of cotton, but I remember how your father's eyes lit up when he saw me.”

  Jean paused. “He was so handsome. I wondered how such a man could love me.” Jean smiled softly. “He's still handsome.”

  “You were younger than me when you got married.”

  “We didn't want to wait to begin our lives together.” She chuckled. “Twelve months after our wedding, you were born, and life got busy.”

  “Adam and I want children—as many as God gives.”

  “I thank God for every one of mine.” Jean's eyes misted. “I just wish Justin…” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Sometimes it's still hard to believe he's gone.”

  “I think we all feel that way. I'll never stop missing him. He was a sweet boy.”

  “He was. I never knew a child who loved to read as much as he did.” Jean leaned her arms on the table. “In spite of the sorrows, your father and I have a wonderful life. I can't imagine living without him.”

  “I feel the same about Adam, and I know we'll have a good marriage.” Laurel carried her empty cup to the sink. “Laurel Dunnavant.” Turning to look at her mother, she said, “I like the sound of that, don't you?”

  “It's perfect,” Jean said with a wink. More seriously she added, “I know you two will be happy.”

  “Help! Someone help!” Luke's cries carried in from outside. A moment later the back door flew open and he ran into the kitchen.

  “What's wrong?” Jean asked. “Where's Brian? Where's your father?”

  Luke struggled to catch his breath. “Dad's hurt.”

  “What happened? Where is he?”

  “The tractor. It tipped and …”

  “Laurel, stay with Susie,” Jean called and raced out the door. Luke followed. Glancing at him, she asked, “Where's Brian?”

  “He stayed with Dad.”

  She headed for the far field where Luke and Will had been working. Her heart pummeled her chest. “How bad is it?” she gasped.

  “I don't know for sure. He's alive. I checked him, then ran for the house.”

  “He was alive when you left?”

  “Yes, but he looked bad. He was unconscious.”

  Lord, keep him here with me. Please God, let him be all right, Jean prayed as she ran, her feet sinking into muddy earth. The freshly turned loam threatened to trip her as clumps clung to her shoes. The tractor lay on its side. She couldn't see Will. Although it had been a warm spring, she'd warned him not to start plowing so early.

  Jean approached the machine, and then she saw him. Will sat with his back resting against a wheel. Brian stood beside him, his hand on his father's shoulder. Relief flooded the boy's face when he saw his mother.

  “Will,” Jean cried, dropping to her knees beside her husband. “Are you all right?”

  He managed a nod.

  She did a quick inspection. He looked pale. Blood dribbled from a gash on his head. Gently, she touched the wound where a lump had already formed. “Thank God you're alive,” she said, fighting tears. She ripped off a section of her apron and pressed it to the injury. “Luke, keep pressure on that for me.”

  Luke laid his hand over the makeshift bandage and his father winced. “Take it easy,” Will said, managing a smile. He looked at Brian and added, “It probably looks worse than it is. You know how head wounds can be. They bleed like a stuck pig.”

  “What do you mean?” Brian asked, his voice higher than usual. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, Brian, he's fine,” Jean answered, then asked, “Where else are you hurting?”

  “My hip's screamin' at me, but I don't think it's much. This is the biggest problem.” Closing his eyes and gritting his teeth, he barely lifted a broken, twisted hand. Two fingers were splayed at odd angles; another was badly bent. Bone showed through a knuckle, and his palm was already bruised and swollen so badly that it resembled a bloated dumpling.

  Jean sucked in her breath. “Dear Lord.” For a moment she stared at the mangled appendage, then said resolutely, “We best wrap that up.” She tore off another section of apron, tied it around his neck, and gently lifted his arm so it rested in the sling.

  Will squeezed his eyes closed and sucked air through his teeth.

  “I'm sorry, but we've got to hold it steady until we can get you to the doctor,” Jean said. She ripped another piece of apron and wrapped it around his trunk and over the injured arm, bracing the limb so he couldn't move it. “Can you stand?”

  Will nodded but cringed at the movement. “My head's pounding, but I think I can make it.” His face bathed in sweat, he leaned against Luke as Jean and the young man helped him to his feet. For several moments he stood between the two, swaying.

  “Dad, lean on me,” Luke said, moving his shoulder beneath his father's good arm.

  Will rested against his son. “The world's spinning. Give me a minute.”

  Brian stood close to his father. “You can rest your hand on me if you want.”

  Will managed to nod but didn't answer. His pale skin blanched more, and fresh beads of sweat merged with those already on his face. He compressed his lips.

  The gash started to bleed more heavily, so Jean reached up and pressed down on the cloth. “Can you make it back to the house?”

  “I'll try,” Will said, his voice weak.

  “We can bring the truck out here,” Luke said.

  “No. You'll end up stuck. I can do it.”

  Taking small, slow steps, they headed for the house. Jean didn't like Will's color. He'd gone gray and was shaking. He needed the doctor soon.

  Laurel met them at the driveway.

  Her eyes swimming in tears, Susie followed, dragging a dilapidated blanket in the dirt. “Daddy, are you all rig
ht?”

  “He's gonna' be fine,” Jean said. She looked at Laurel. “We've got to get him to the clinic. His hand is broken, and the gash on his head is going to need stitching. You stay with the little ones. Luke will drive us.”

  They guided Will toward the pickup and helped him in. Jean slid onto the seat beside him. With Will leaning against her, they headed for town.

  “Darndest thing,” Will said. “I didn't see that hole. I pulled out a stump last week and just plain forgot about it.”

  “What happened?” Jean asked.

  “My right back tire dropped into the hole, and over I went. I tried to jump clear.”

  “Praise the Lord you're alive. It could have been worse.”

  Shivering, Will lay under a wool blanket on an examination table. His feet were elevated, and an IV with fluids dripped into his arm. Jean caressed his forehead and cheek. His skin felt cool and clammy. “I'm sure the doctor will be here any minute,” she said, glancing at Will's misshapen hand.

  A nurse stepped into the room and placed a thermometer in Will's mouth. “The doctor's treating another emergency, but he'll be here soon and have you fixed up in no time.” She felt Will's face, took his pulse, then checked the reading on the thermometer. After shaking it down and replacing it in a container of alcohol, she headed for the door. “I'm sure it will only be a few more minutes,” she said and stepped out.

  Jean stood beside Will, keeping a hand on his shoulder. “How are you feeling?”

  “Not so good, but I don't think I'll be dying anytime soon.”

  The door opened, and Dr. Donovan walked in. His graying hair needed the attention of a barber, but he was clean-shaven. Pushing his hair out of his eyes, he peered over small square glasses. “Afternoon, Jean. Will.” He crossed to the table. “So, you were out playing on that new tractor of yours, huh? Looks like the tractor won.”