CHAPTER ONE
Maisie
Oh no.
I can hear Betsy lowing in the barn, long and low, an agonized, “Moooooo!” My cow has a foghorn for lungs, and the sound rings in my ears.
“Coming Bets!” I call out, almost running towards the barn now. “Coming!”
You’d think that my heifer was the master and I was the cow, with the way I scramble at her beck and call. But it’s the truth, because if I didn’t have Bets, I wouldn’t have much.
You see, I’m alone at the Double H. This place used to be a huge corn farm with five hundred acres, and Ma and Pa labored together to make it run. It was good times back then, with plentiful sunshine, plentiful rain, and lots of good harvests.
But those times are gone now. Ma died a couple years back, and Pa just last month. So it’s just me now, trying to operate the Double H on my own, and it’s not going too well.
“Coming Bets!” I call again, struggling mightily with the heavy barn door. “Coming!”
Finally, it inches open enough for me to squeak inside, and I run to Betsy’s stall. The poor thing turns to look at me with reproachful eyes, milky and sad.
“Moooo!” she lows again.
“Sorry, sorry,” I pant, grabbing my stool and sitting next to the cow. Oh god, she must be in pain. Her udders are tight and swollen, already dripping milk. So I reach forward and began squeezing with all my might.
Pshhhh! Pshhhh! streams the white liquid, warm and frothy. Psssh!
The milk hits the tin bucket in steady splashes, white and bubbly, almost hot. And finally, Betsy stops mooing. But she hasn’t forgotten. The cow turns her head to look at me reproachfully again, those big brown eyes blinking slowly.
“I’m sorry Bets!” I protest, hands getting a few last squirts. “I’m sorry, you know I’m trying to run this place on my own. It’s not easy, the Double H is huge.”
Bets just shakes her head, lowing again.
“What, you think I need help?” I ask during this imaginary conversation. “Of course I need help! But I can’t afford it Bets. After Pa died ….”
My voice trails off. Because it was only after Pa passed away that it became apparent that the Double H was in bad shape. I’ve been working on the farm since I was a little girl, helping to gather eggs, milk the cows, and even bale hay. But I’ve never seen the numbers. I’ve never been involved in any of the financials, and it was only after Pa crossed to the other side that our trouble became apparent.
Because the bank came knocking one day.
“Miss Jones?” called a scrawny man in black through my screen door. “Miss Jones?”
Wiping my hands on a kitchen rag, I approached cautiously. I’m a single girl alone on the farm now, so any visitor was suspect, especially someone wearing a suit. But this guy looked like Where’s Waldo, his glasses as thick as Coke bottles, hardly dangerous. So I decided to answer.
“Yes, I’m Maisie Jones,” I said slowly, pushing the door open. “Can I help you?”
“I’m Wilfred Moses from the Bank of Kansas,” the scrawny man said, bowing on the front porch. His balding head gleamed sweatily under the harsh sunlight, pink with burn. “Do you have a minute?”
As a matter of fact, I didn’t. There were a million chores to be done, from cleaning the chicken coops to tending my vegetable garden. So internally I sighed, but what choice did I have? If the bank comes calling, it’s best to answer. Stepping back, I let him into the house.
“Yes, come in please,” I said in as pleasant a voice as I could muster. “Can I get you some water?”
“That would be wonderful,” the short man said, wiping at his gleaming brow with a handkerchief. “Just the thing.”
And with quick movements, I poured a glass from an ice-cold pitcher, setting it in front of him. Wilfred took a couple grateful gulps before turning to me.
“Now Miss Jones,” he said busily, putting his briefcase on the kitchen table. “Let’s see what we have here. Was Walter Jones your father?” he asked, scrunching his nose at some papers.
“Yes, that’s my Pa,” I said slowly. “Why?”
Wilfred looked at the papers again, then back up at me, his expression sorrowful.
“Well the good news is that Walter left you this property in full. No problems with the title, no problems with the transfer,” he said. Leaning forward, the small man confided, “Sometimes these things are complicated, there’s a wife, an ex-wife, and five stepkids all fighting for their share. But in this case, it’s all you.”
I nodded, relieved.
“Yes, I’m my parents’ only child, so there should be no doubt,” I said. “But surely you didn’t come to tell me that? Is there something else?”
Wilfred sighed mightily, pausing to honk noisily into a handkerchief. Eew, that thing had to be filled with all sorts of unsavory body fluids, and I made a mental note to scrub the table after he left. I couldn’t afford to get sick, not with me being the only person left at the farm.
But Mr. Moses didn’t notice, and let out another gargantuan sigh.
“The bad news is that your dad left the property in debt,” he said solemnly, peering at me over his glasses. “Hundreds of thousands in debt.”
That wasn’t news. A lot of farms borrow money, it’s how we get by from season to season. The cost of running a working homestead is so high that you need someone else’s cash in order to survive. So I nodded slowly.
“Yes, I know,” came my words. “I mean, I know that Pa borrowed, but we’ve always paid our debts. We’ve always been on-time with our loan payments.”
But Mr. Moses shook his head sorrowfully this time.
“No Miss Jones, perhaps I was unclear. Your dad mortgaged this property to the hilt, and you’re way behind now. Six months behind, to be accurate. You’re technically in default already.”
I couldn’t move for a moment, all the blood draining from my face. Default? What did that mean? And six months late? I knew that we were late, after all, Pa had only just passed away. But six months? How could we have fallen so far behind?
“I’m sorry,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm. “But could you explain?” I asked, “Ever since Pa got sick, I’ve been up to my ears trying to manage this place. So if you could tell me a little more, I’d appreciate it.”
I didn’t want to sound pathetically helpless, but Mr. Moses treated me like a little girl anyways. He clucked and pulled a pen out from his briefcase, slowly drawing a diagram.
“See, this is your farm,” he said, sketching a picture of a house. “You owe money on it. And after you stop paying money,” he said, drawing a huge X emphatically through the home, “the bank then technically owns the property.”
“But he never told me,” I protested, heart beating fast. “Pa never said! He was sick towards the end of his life, and we were so busy trying to keep things afloat ….”
Wilfred nodded slowly again, his pen re-tracing the big black X.
“We know,” he said, “We know, but that’s not an excuse. The business still has to pay its bills or …. Zzzzzt!” he said, making the sign of a knife across his throat.
“What does that mean?” I asked, the panic rising in my voice, making it go louder and shriller. “What does that mean?”
Wilfred smiled sadly again.
“Foreclosure, my girl,” he said, tapping his pen against the table. “Foreclosure’s the name of the game.”
I stood up suddenly, the chair skidding across the worn kitchen tile. I’m not totally sure what foreclosure means, but it’s definitely not good. I’ve seen those properties in the past, desolate, abandoned sites with a sign across the front that said “FORECLOSURE” in big red letters.
“No,” I said swiftly. “No, there has to be a way. My family’s had this farm for generations, I can’t lose it now.”
But Mr. Moses just shook his head.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t make the rules. The bank sent me over to let you know that we’re beginning foreclosure proceedings.”
I shook my head furiously, lungs tight, trying to breathe.
“No,” I said tightly again. “There has to be another way. My dad was sick for a while, you have to understand. My dad passed away last month, and I only just inherited this business. Please, Mr. Moses. Please help me.”
Where’s Waldo took another sigh, mopping at his sweaty forehead again.
“Well, I suppose those are pretty tough circumstances,” he began.
“It’s more than tough,” I interrupted. “It’s insanely difficult, having your parents die and leave you with the responsibility. But I can do it,” I said with as much confidence as I could muster. “I’ve been working this farm since I was five years old, I know exactly how everything works. Just give me a little time,” I said, trying to keep the pleading note out of my voice. “Please, just a little time.”
Mr. Moses sighed again, this time wiping at his nose.
“Well, let me ask my manager,” he said slowly. “I’ll go back and talk with my boss, and we’ll see if we can get you an extension. Mind you, the interest will be accumulating, but I might be able to buy you a couple months.”
“Yes, please,” I said quickly. Again, I wasn’t sure what accumulated interest meant, but that was fine. Because all I heard was the promise of more time. “Please,” I repeated urgently. “Please make it happen.”
And the small man stood then, picking up his briefcase, shoulders stooped.
“Okay, I’ll give it my best shot,” he promised with a watery smile. “But no guarantees. In the meantime, call me if you have any questions, okay?” he said, sliding a small white card across the table. “Name’s Wilfred Moses over at the Bank of Kansas.”
I looked at the business card, trying to hide my reaction. The card stock was thick white with embossed letters, very fancy-looking. But my gut churned with nausea because it represented everything I hated at the moment. The bank was a bunch of corporate fat cats trying to take the only thing I had in the world away, ripping it from my hands.
But I nodded again, smiling tightly. It wouldn’t do any good to complain, Wilfred was trying to help me after all. So I tried to look professional, nodding coolly.
“Yes, thank you Mr. Moses. I’ll reach out if I have any questions, I know how to find you. And thanks again for stopping by.”
The little man departed then, picking his way down the saggy front stoop, and climbing into his dusty sedan.
“Bye now!” he called through the driver’s window, peering like as ostrich from the car. “Take care!”
I waved, trying to look as confident as possible.
“Bye! I’ll be in touch!”
But it was just an act. Was I in foreclosure? The Double H was six months behind on our loan payments. That was, let’s see … a hundred and eighty thousand dollars, not counting interest. I picked up the statement Mr. Moses had left on the table, fingers trembling, and the numbers swam before my eyes, blurring into a sea of black and white. Where in the world was I going to get that money?
And with a thunk, my legs gave out. Right there in the middle of the kitchen, my generous behind hit the kitchen floor with a muffled thwack. Dazed, I shook my head. Fortunately, there’s a lot of padding on my behind so I wasn’t seriously injured, just jarred to the bone.
Because where was I going to find the cash? How would I come up with some humongous sum? Options swirled in my head. I could borrow more from the bank, and maybe use the new loan to pay off this loan. But that made no sense because eventually, I’d have to come up with even more money.
Or perhaps I could sell something. I still had Ma’s diamond ring, plus Granny’s ivory comb set with semi-precious stones. But my gut churned, heavy with dread. Because first, they were heirlooms, and my heart hurt thinking of selling them. Plus, the two items together weren’t nearly enough. Ma’s diamond was more of a flake, a tiny glint in your eye. And isn’t ivory illegal these days? I wasn’t even sure I could find a buyer for the comb, much less sell it for a substantial sum.
So slowly picking myself up from the kitchen floor, I dusted myself off. Oh god, oh god, what were my options? Nothing came to mind, but there had to be something right? Limping slightly, I took the stairs one by one, bottom still aching from my fall. There had to be a way. There had to be something I could do, and the words rang in my head again and again as I got into bed, forcing myself to fall into an uneasy sleep. Even without a knight in shining armor … I had make it out of this maze somehow.