Erik arrived right after church Sunday and he and Lonestar wasted no time in tackling the work left on the barn. They voiced hope that, if they worked steadily through the afternoon, they might finish enough of it so that Lonestar could do the rest by himself. Gussie had her doubts.

The rebuild was taking longer than they’d expected because the loft had more damage than they’d first determined and they were running out of good lumber. What with having to shore up fencing that had been torn up, they had run short and were scavenging for useable boards. Erik had completely depleted his extra planks and Lonestar was trying not to spend any more money than he already had on the barn.

Erik had brought nearly a gallon of milk with him and Gussie had decided to use it to make butter out of it. She carried the churner out to the porch where she sat and began the arduous and boring chore. Buster trotted onto the porch to keep her company. He nosed around the churn and she shooed him away.

“This isn’t for you,” she said, easing the dog farther away with the side of her boot. “You’ve had your breakfast this morning.”

Hammering, mixed with grunts and an occasional curse, floated to her as she gradually separated the butter fat from the liquid. She poured the buttermilk into a pitcher and checked on the butter. Almost there, she surmised, tipping a few dippers of water into the churn before renewing the up and down motion that had her shoulder sockets burning.

Half an hour later, she squeezed the last drops of water from the newly churned butter and salted it. Then she rolled it out, divided it, wrapped it in cheese cloth, put it in a deep bowl, and set the bowl in a pan of cold water to keep the butter firm. She covered the pitcher of buttermilk and set it out on the back porch where it would keep in the cooling air. Autumn was moving in. Every morning now, the farm was covered in sparkling frost that melted within minutes once the sun was up. She’d picked the summer garden clean and had protected the winter plants with a bed of hay.

Buster barked out front and she made her way through the house to see what had excited him. A wagon pulled by two draft horses angled off the road and came toward the house. As it drew closer, she recognized Han Hoffmeister, flanked by two younger men with white blond hair sticking out from under their hats.

“Guten Tag to you, Mrs. Lonestar!” Mr. Hoffmeister gave a big, over-the-head wave of his arm, his grin stretching from ear to ear. “I trust you are well this fine day.”

“I am.” She stuffed her cold hands into her apron pockets. “What brings you here today?”

He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the wagon bed. “Brought you some lumber we had lying around and my two eldest sons to help hammer it into place in your barn. This is Stefan and Viktor. Say hello to the lady, boys.”

“Hello,” they both mumbled, giving nods of their heads in her direction.

Gussie couldn’t quite believe her ears. They’d brought lumber? For their barn? And they were here to work? “I . . . I don’t know what to say,” she admitted.

Hoffmeister let go of a hearty laugh. “Is your mister at the barn?”

“Y-yes.” She nodded and swallowed the lump forming in her throat. “He’s out there with Erik, his . . . I mean, our brother-in-law.”

“That’s where we’ll be heading them.” Reaching between his feet, he lifted a large, corked jug and offered it to her. “Brought you some of our fresh grape juice. Just finished bottling it this week.”

She took it from him. “Thank you. I’m sure it’s delicious.”

“It will make you want to dance a jig.” Laughing again, he slapped the reins against the horses’ backs and they set off for the barn. “Good to see you, Mrs. Lonestar.”

She stared after them in wonder that soon gave way to exultation. The barn would be finished today! For sure! With the Hoffmeister’s lumber and extra hands, they’d finally be back to normal and just in time, with the temperature dipping and the wind nipping sharper every day.

Hugging the jug, she danced around in a circle as relief mixed with happiness. Lonestar and Erik would be grinning right about now, she thought, ever so grateful for the help. The Hoffmeisters had traveled from Altus to help them, while their own neighboring farmers hadn’t offered even a kind word, much less any assistance. She stopped dancing and set down the jug as some of the joy drained out of her. Looking around at the land she’d come to love, she wondered if there would come a time when she and Lonestar were truly part of the tapestry of this place. If that day never came, would it be an anchor around her heart? She told herself that she didn’t care if folks accepted her or not, but in her heart of hearts, she did yearn to be on equal footing. She wanted it as much for Lonestar as she did for herself.

They’d never accepted him into their circle. He’d been tolerated because people thought a lot of his mother and her husband. But now that they were gone, Lonestar had become the “half-breed” and the “ex-con,” instead of “William and Adele’s son.”

Of course, he claimed it gave him no worries, but she had noticed the shadows in his eyes when he caught people whispering about him or turning sharply away from him. It had been so evident at that barn raising. She thought back to that day and how Lonestar had worked his tail off and those folks hadn’t even wanted to sit beside him at meal time.

She blew out a hot breath and realized she stood stiffly on the porch, her hands balled tightly, and her heart thudding almost painfully in her chest. Reining in her emotions, she went inside to see what food was in the larder. Those men working on the barn would deserve a good meal in a few hours and she was just the woman to provide it!

“Did you know that Hoffmeister has ten children and another on the way?” Lonestar asked.

“His wife must be about worn out,” Gussie said, putting aside the shirt she was mending and rubbing her eyes. It was getting late and she and Lonestar sat near the cookstove, enjoying its warmth, as wind and rain kicked up a fuss outside.

She smiled, thinking that Lonestar looked relaxed and lazy, even though he’d worked like a mule today on the barn. But it had been fruitful work and she could tell he’d enjoyed it. He’d been all smiles at supper, joshing with the other men, and thanking the Hoffmeisters and Erik profusely for helping him finish repairing the burned barn. They’d all set off for their homes following the meal. She and Lonestar had completed their daily chores and had settled in to read and sew and rest their bones. The rain had blown in after sundown.

“My father was from a family of sixteen.”

That made her jolt. “Lordy! Did you meet any of them?”

“No. If I did, I don’t recall because I was a babe when we left that area. Mother told me about his family. She met most of them, I guess.”

“So, you have a regular army of aunts and uncles and cousins milling around.”

He chuckled. “I suppose I do. You don’t have any brothers or sisters?”

“No. Pa and his missus never aimed to have me. I was a mistake from the get-go.”

He frowned at her. “You are not a mistake, Augusta.”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t.” He stared at the small flames leaping in the belly of the stove. “Mother wanted more than two children, but she had woman troubles. Susan said that Mother told her once that she’d miscarried several babies.”

“I hope I don’t have troubles like that.”

He gave her the side-eye. “How many children do you want to have?”

The thought of having his children made her a little breathless, a little dizzy. Was a babe already growing inside her? “I don’t know. A couple, I suppose.”

“Just two?”

“How many do you want?”

“Five? No, six. Maybe seven.”

She laughed, pleased with his eagerness to grow a family with her. “Tall, strong sons like Hoffmeister’s to help you with the farm work around here?”

“And daughters with brains and gumption to help keep them in line. There will be plenty to do once the vineyard produces.” He linked his fingers and rested his hands on his belly. “That grape juice of theirs is mighty tasty. Any of it left?”

“Not a drop. We drank the whole jug with supper.”

He chuckled. “See there, Augusta? Grapes don’t have to be just for making wine.”

“You’re right. I just don’t like the idea of us providing more spirits to men who don’t need more temptation or libation.”

He grinned at her word play. “Well put.” His gaze moved to the clothing pooled in her lap. “What’s that? One of my shirts?”

“Yes.” She held it up, examining the cuff she’d mended. “I noticed it had a couple of ripped places.”

“Thank you.”

His simply spoken gratitude made her blush with pleasure. “I can’t have you going around looking like you’re not well cared for.”

When he didn’t say anything, she looked at him and her heart caught in her throat at the blazing passion in his dark brown eyes and the way his gaze moved slowly to her lips and stayed there. He stood up, throwing a long shadow across her. Plucking the shirt from her fingers and laying it aside, he pulled her to her feet. Before she was even balanced, he caught her up in his arms, making her gasp and clutch at his shoulders.

“It’s been a good day,” he said, skimming his mouth across hers.

“Yes, it has.” Her lips tingled from his touch.

“Let’s make it a good night.”

Longing bolted through her, tightening her in some places, loosening her in others. “Yes.” It was the last coherent thing she said for the next few hours.

The next week flew by with Lonestar finishing up his field work and Gussie canning the last of the vegetables and fruit and helping Lonestar replace some rotted boards in the hen coop to make it warmer come winter.

And winter was coming.

Every morning the frost was thicker on the grass. By the end of the week, a thin coating of ice shone like rows of diamonds along the tree branches, but disappeared in the blink of an eye once the sun was up.

The horses’ coats thickened, and the goats frolicked more to get the blood pumping warmth to their extremities. Goats’ milk replaced cow’s milk on their supper table and every time Gussie drank some of it she cursed Bob Babbitt for killing sweet Louise. She had no proof that he’d done it except for knowing it to her very core. His vengeful acts reminded her of something Miss Irene had said when Gussie had threatened to do something evil to Lonnie Jamison for tripping her and making her fall into a bramble bush. Revengeful thinking is like drinking poison and waiting for the other guy to die.

Hadn’t made a big impression on her back then, but it had stuck in her brain and came forth whenever she plotted mischief or mayhem. Lately, it popped up a lot because she sure would like to find a way to make Bob Babbitt pay for his trespasses on her and Lonestar.

Mid-week one of the Hoffmeister boys rode up on a sleek, black gelding. He came with an invitation to sup with his family that Saturday. Lonestar accepted, so come Saturday after chores were done, he and Gussie hitched Quick and Clover to the wagon and set off for Altus. They admired the scenery, talked of books they’d read or were reading, and Lonestar told her a little more about the Osage, making the hours and miles click by. A few miles outside of Altus, they began to see vineyards.

Gussie sat up, her interest piqued by the rows of vines, looking like soldiers, straight as posts running from near the road along the rolling countryside to the horizon.

“Look at that,” Lonestar said, his tone almost reverent. “It’s pretty, isn’t it?”

She nodded. “Looks so different from cotton fields.”

“There’s no comparison in growing cotton and grapes. Grapes are more finicky, I’m told. But once they grab hold and get going, the harvest can mean money in the bank. This year cotton brought in a half a cent less than the year before. That’s how it’s been going since the end of the War Between the States. Everybody said that cotton would bounce back and be king again, but it hasn’t happened. Not like everyone thought.” He motioned toward the neat fields of staked vines. “With the Hoffmeister’s help, vineyards could be our cash crop.”

“Mr. Hoffmeister has been mighty kind to us. How’d you meet him?”

“At a county fair. We started talking about livestock and then about crops. The way he spoke about growing grapes . . . it sounded like poetry.” He chuckled, and sunlight sparkled in his eyes, turning them almost gold. “I guess he hooked me that day. I took him up on his invitation to come see his farm and that did it. I knew I was going to grow grapes if I ever got my own land.”

“How many acres does he have?”

“I’m not for certain. Maybe close to a thousand.”

She issued a low whistle. “And all they grow are grapes?”

“No, but the grapes are their main crop. You know, like most farmers they grow hay and alfalfa, vegetables, and the like. They have several hundred acres full of blueberries, blackberries, strawberries, and huckleberries. Mr. Hoffmeister says he likes to experiment with adding those to his wines.”

“But we won’t make wine.”

He grinned at her and patted her knee. “No, Augusta. We’ll just grow them, not ferment them.”

As they neared the Hoffmeister home, they were greeted by five or six barking dogs, two goats, several cats, and a pack of Hoffmeisters. Mrs. Hoffmeister, who insisted that Gussie call her by her first name, Franka, delivered a warm welcome with her beatific smile and merry blue eyes. She’d braided her brown hair and it sat in a crown atop her head. Her voluminous skirts disguised her pregnancy. Her sons and daughters all had her bright blue eyes and dimpled smile. They buzzed about, eager to make their guests feel at ease, while Mr. Hoffmeister huffed out suggestions, such as, “Marta, go fetch an extra cushion for that chair Mrs. Lonestar is sitting in.” “Stefan, put another log on the fire, why don’t ya?” “Lorraine, show Mrs. Lonestar the needlepoint you’re working on.” “Karl, bring me my farm journal. I want to show Mr. Lonestar here how I keep track of my vines and what they produce.”

After an hour or so, they’d dropped the Mister and Missus among them and were Max and Augusta and Han and Franka. However, the Hoffmeister offspring continued with the formal address, being well-brought-up.

Supper was laid on a long table in a dining room that was the size of the Lonestar’s whole house. The meal was a mix of ordinary dishes – fried potatoes, creamed corn, and green beans – along with German and Swedish ones. Gussie particularly like the rouladen, kartoffelpuffer, meatballs, and cinnamon buns that were served as dessert. She ate until she was as stuffed as a Christmas turkey and then had one more cinnamon bun with a cup of coffee because she couldn’t resist.

After supper, the Hoffmeister daughters cleaned the kitchen while Franka and Gussie sat near the fire in the spacious parlor. The Hoffmeister home was the largest Gussie had ever been in with seven bedrooms, a front parlor and a back drawing room, a big kitchen and dining room, and a bath room where a huge, copper tub sat, fit for a king.

The men took a stroll on the grounds. Franka told Gussie that their main building was constructed in the side of a hill and was partly underground to keep the grapes cool. They made wine there, too.

“Han is always working on the recipe,” Franka said, taking up her knitting while she conversed with Gussie.

“Wine has a recipe?”

Franka’s blue eyes twinkled. “Of course! Every year the grapes are different, depending on what kind of weather we had, and so the wine will taste different. Then, if Han puts in a few blackberries or boysenberries, he gets a whole other flavor. Ours is a young vineyard, so we’re still finding our way when it comes to wine. Back in Germany, Han’s family vineyard is old and they make a fine table wine. Very fine.”

“Are you from Germany?”

She nodded and the firelight made waves of light across her crown of hair. “My people are from Germany and Sweden. I met Han in a little village in Germany called Bamberg. One look and I was smitten. He was so tall and broad-shouldered! I had to tip back my head and look way up at him.” She giggled. “Where did you meet your Max Lonestar?”

Gussie swallowed the nerves that fluttered in her throat. Such a simple question, but the answer certainly wasn’t. “We met in Pear Orchard,” she said, then wondered if she had to say anything else. When Franka sent her an expectant glance, she added, “He looked as if he’d stepped out of the pages of one of the romantic novels I so love to read.”

“He is a handsome man, for sure. Han likes him very much. Han appreciates hard workers and he said he can tell that Max has no quit in him.”

“If that’s another way of saying he’s stubborn as an ornery mule, then I agree.”

Franka giggled again. “You’re planning on starting a family soon, I suppose.”

She blinked in surprise, then wondered how having children had become such a popular topic of late. “I suppose,” she hedged, then added before she could stop herself, “Lonestar wants five or six children.”

“Men.” Franka grinned. “It’s easy for them to decide such things, eh? I say that the woman should decide on the size of the family since she’s the one who will have to grow it in her belly and feed it from her breasts.”

“So, you decided to grow a big one.”

“I did. But this is the last.” She rested her hands on her mid-section and patted her stomach. “There is only one in here now. Thank the Lord. I’ve had two sets of twins.” She rolled her eyes. “Dear, I would not wish twins on any woman. They require double the work and give you double the headaches.”

“I will have all I can do to wrangle one at a time,” Gussie agreed.

They were silent for a few minutes and Gussie’s thoughts went to rocking a black-haired, dark-eyed baby in her arms and then of seeing Lonestar holding that same baby, beaming as his child clutched his finger in a firm grip.

“Ah, here come the men,” Franka said, pushing up from the cushioned chair.

“Yes, we should be getting back home.” Gussie stood and sent Franka a grateful smile. “I can’t begin to tell you how much I’ve enjoyed your company. We don’t . . . well, we don’t see many people, so this was like a holiday.”

“Then you must come back soon.” Franka rested a hand on Gussie’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. She motioned for her children. “The Lonestars are leaving! Let’s give them a sendoff fitting for new friends!”

The Hoffmeister clan gathered around the wagon and chorused “good-byes” and “come back soon!” Gussie laughed as the wagon pulled away, turning in the seat to wave at them.

“That was so nice, wasn’t it?” she asked, facing front again.

“It was. I ate so much my waistband is biting into me.”

“I know! Those cinnamon rolls! I have a sweet tooth and I do believe I could have eaten another one or two of them.”

He nudged her with his shoulder. “It’s good to see you happy, Augusta.”

She felt color pool in her cheeks. “Of course, I’m happy. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“We haven’t had an easy go of it. Seems like we’ve taken one step forward and two steps back. But we seem to be heading in the right direction.”

“Sure we are.”

“So, you’re fine with being grape farmers now?”

“Yes, as long as we put in a sizable cotton crop. You said it will take a couple of years before we harvest any grapes.”

“That’s right. Our cotton will see us through for a few years. The grapes are our future.”

Our future. She liked the sound of that.

During the next hours, they shared impressions of the Hoffmeister’s farm and family, laughing again at Han Hoffmeister’s bawdy observations and Franka’s whispered pleas, “Mind your tongue there, Han! Little pitchers have big ears!”

It was nearly dark as they passed by Susan and Erik’s place and moved on toward their own farm. Gussie noticed the glow on the horizon first. She sat up, staring hard at the funny colored sky. “Is that a fire up ahead?”

Lonestar leaned forward and slapped the reins to speed up the horses. “Could be someone burning a brush pile.”

“It’s in the direction of our place, isn’t it?”

“Hard to tell from here.”

She heard the note of concern in his tone and her heart froze in her chest. “Oh, God. I hope he hasn’t set fire to our barn again.”

Sniffing, she caught the first acrid scent of smoke. The horses laid back their ears, their instincts telling them that they should be running away from the fire and not toward it.

Lonestar flapped the reins again. “Haa!” The horses broke into a fast trot, making the wagon jostle and lurch.

Gussie held onto the sideboard, her gaze fastened to the glowing sky as her insides began to quiver and her tears burned her eyes. She knew. She knew beyond a doubt that something was burning on the Lonestar land.