Windrow Garden Page 5

  “Yeah?” a slightly breathless, familiar voice asked.

  “Sergeant?”

  “Master Sergeant, retired. Who is…Ms. Windrow?”

  “Yes, Nicole. Am I…am I interrupting anything, Sergeant?”

  “Nicole will do, Ms. Windrow. I didn’t know it was you. You caught me a little off guard.”

  “Is it Nicole, or did I hear that you prefer Nicky?”

  “Ah, actually, I prefer Nicole. Nicky is a diminutive I gave up in my twenties,” Nicole choked lightly as her young companion returned to her side. The sounds of a cooing female voice drifted over the phone.

  Sally took a moment to compose herself and ignored what she thought she was hearing at the other end of the line. She wanted to try to finish the conversation she had intended before she lost her nerve and hung up. She took a deep breath and began. “I’d like to hire you if you are still interested. I’d want you to move into the spare cottage. No one’s been in it for a while, so it needs cleaning up. Maybe more. We’ll arrange for whatever has to be done and try to have it ready for you by the time you get here. I’d like for you to be here Sunday evening or early Monday morning. I’d like you to be available to start working on some of the machinery first thing Monday. By the way, unless something unusual comes up, everyone gets Saturday evenings through Sunday off.” Everyone but me, it seems, Sally realized.

  “I can do that.”

  “Good. I’ll tell Jake to expect you. He’ll help you get familiar with our operations. I hope we’ll be able to work well together,” Sally said lightly. “And, I hope that cottage will suit you.”

  “I’m sure it will be fine, ma’am,” Nicole responded. “Thank you.”

  “Monday, then.”

  “Monday it is,” Nicole said and hung up the phone.

  Sally stared at the phone as she lowered it onto its cradle. She hoped that she knew what she was doing and hadn’t lost her good sense. Something else was hovering near, plaguing her. A curiosity fluttered against her musings as to why her heart and mind raced at the thought of the captivating master sergeant. She did not have words for it.

  Once before the question had come knocking. She had managed to push it back and move forward in her life with the more certain expectations of family and community. It had been years since she had let it rise to the level of conscious consideration. The old temptation would call, and she would toss it aside as the unwelcome, uncomfortable intruder it was. In fifteen years, the only freedom she’d allowed it was its unpredictable, ghostly throbbing against the louder protests of her safe and familiar reasoning.

  = Chapter 4 =

  Homestead Arrangements

  Farmers are the landscape architects of agricultural Kansas. They define and modify not only the landscape but the farm’s culture. Although farming is a business, and a tough business at that, environmental amenity is not —and should not be —at odds with the working character of the land or people. What most people wish to attain is elegance, as a sense of pleasing surroundings.

  The work-service area, or farmyard, is generally separate from the house but closely linked to it. The rear of the main house and the nearby buildings form the core of the farm courtyard enclosure. An arrangement of low and tall shrubs and shade trees lessens the drift of dust, rain, and snow. The arrangement is pleasant and practical. The farmyard or work-service area needs to be large enough to allow the easy manipulation of machinery and be a safe distance between buildings for fire protection and access to adjacent fields. The area should be partially screened from public view yet easy to see from the rear of the house, particularly the kitchen.

  Shade trees along the outbuildings can tie in the rooflines and provide a sense of practical symmetry to the area. Shade trees planted along the various buildings will provide protection from the vagaries of wind and weather. They can also provide areas of recreation and rest for those working on the farm. Although labor is a primary function of a farmstead, rest and leisure are not to be neglected.

  Windbreaks are trees planted near and around the farmstead to reduce the destructive drift of snow. Additional benefits include cool breezes in the summer and protection from blowing dirt and dust. More important, windbreaks serve as wildlife habitats and improve the general aesthetics of the land. A well-planned and maintained windbreak can reduce energy consumption for heating and cooling buildings by twenty to thirty percent. A windbreak is not a luxury; it is a practical value for those who live and work on the farmstead. Additionally, it provides for their physical and psychological well-being.

  A little imagination in the creation of a windbreak or shelterbelt should be used. Curving windbreaks, instead of squared rows of trees, can provide ground protection and a sense of space in the service area. Close-planted lines of successively shorter trees back to front that relate well with the lay of the land on the north and west in a flowing L shape provide much-needed protection from the cold winds of winter.

  In summer, the best protection, and one that enhances the flow of cooling breezes, is the arrangement of deciduous trees on the southwest side of the home and along the farmstead boundaries of the service area. No planting of underbrush should be undertaken that would restrict the flow of air through the taller trees.

  Windbreaks and shelterbelts on the prairie are a must. They conserve the visual and ecological balance of the land. The loss of drifting topsoil and erosion are as serious today as they were a few decades earlier in the dust bowl days. The effect of wind and rain on the unprotected land can have the same chain reaction as an avalanche. That is, it’s not noticed until the results pour down on your head. A balanced concern for the practical and the pragmatic cannot be ignored without consequence.

  Groundwork

  County highway engineer Kenneth Rooney sat in his office waiting for his secretary to put the finishing touches on the most recent highway proposal for the state planners. He was anxious and annoyed with the increasing costs of the scheme. His fingers drummed in irritation on the top of his desk and periodically combed through his thick blond hair.

  He swiveled in his chair, looked out the window, and tried to let the morning sun cheer him. It didn’t do any good. He wasn’t prepared, and Donald Bradley was going to be arriving for the meeting at noon.

  Rooney couldn’t remember any longer how he’d let the assistant bank vice president talk him into going along with the conspiracy. Had it been the country club, the friendly rounds of golf, or the friendlier rounds of drinks? They had a lot in common, and it had started innocently enough. Their ages, love of outdoor sports, and love of money and fine women had given focus to their friendship over the last two years. But those interests did not explain how or why Bradley had got him talking about the state’s interest in building a highway through the county. He shouldn’t have shared that information with anyone. He certainly shouldn’t have listened when Bradley started to hatch the scheme about getting rich beyond their dreams.

  “Damn Bradley,” he spat, and then winced at the kind of hell there would be to pay if farmers got wind that their property was about to be taken under the right of eminent domain for a new four-lane express from Kansas City, Kansas, to Atchison. Of the two hundred thirty-two pieces of prime farmland, only fifty-three were in Leavenworth County. Twenty of those with the best land offered charming features, scenic hollows, and wooded bluffs. They were prime real estate and development properties. And all of them were mortgaged to the hilt at Bradley’s bank.

  A year into the development, Bradley had used his money and influence, Rooney’s money, and their combined leverage to buy as many portions of land sitting along the proposed highway as they could. Their resources had purchased most of the land through tax-indebted farmers and bank-forced foreclosures. They had been lucky and bought much of the land for pennies on the dollar in value.

  The parcels that nestled under the new blue lines of Rooney’s map would be resold to developers and franchisers as the new highway scored through the western edge of
the county. But with all the wealth of possibilities before them, Bradley had insisted that they needed more. Three damned farmers stood in their way. Temple’s Dairy Farm near Bashor, Gnew’s Orchard near Tonganoxie, and Windrow Garden southwest of Leavenworth were yet to be approached.

  “Call, you bastard,” Rooney said, glaring at the phone. He’d begun to get nervous lately. All of his ready cash and liquid assets were tied into the future. He knew Bradley didn’t give a damn about him, and he was beginning to feel the crunch. He glowered at the map on the wall and the orange-tinted patches indicating the farms they didn’t have in their pockets yet. He knew that if those property owners caught wind of the highway, if they protested, if there was an investigation into the consortium that owned the land and right-of-way…

  If, if, if. He could hear Bradley laughing at him now.

  “If nothing. As long as you keep your mouth shut,” Bradley had told him during their last meeting, “we’ll own everything we want to if you don’t panic.”

  “But what if they find out?” Rooney protested.

  “No one is going to tell them. Leastwise the state. I need a little more time for the remaining farms to add to their debt. Trust me. I know how to appeal to these folks' egos. We’ll have them borrowing money and stretching themselves to the breaking point. And break they will. I’ll make sure of that. It’s the devil in the detail and the loan contracts, if you know what I mean. They never really understand what they sign. They’re always too anxious for the money. It will be my own special 'in the best interest of the bank' clause addition that will put them in our pockets. We’ll foreclose, and then all I have to do is pick it up at the sale,” Bradley explained. “Simple.”

  “Windrow is not going to do that. If she learned anything from her father, it was how not to be a fool,” Rooney insisted.

  “Maybe. I can be very charming and persuasive, however.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, the lady and I are seeing each other. Meaning, you don’t have to buy what you own by marriage.”

  “Are you going to marry her?”

  “That’s the plan. Although I slacked off on the courtship lately, I can pick it up quick enough. Not like there’s a whole lot for her to choose from around here,” Bradley said, straightening his tie in the reflection of the kitchen chrome.

  “You’d do that? You’d marry someone to get her money, her property, just like that?” Rooney asked in awe of his silent business partner.

  “Hell, yes. Think of it as a two-for-one deal. I get the property and the woman. She’s a lonely widow and quite attractive, too. Kansas does have laws that favor my making the decisions for her when it comes to the property. She works too hard. Besides, what woman wouldn’t rather be waited on? I think it’s about time she took a break and learned to enjoy life,” Bradley asserted.

  It had been more than a month since Rooney had received those assurances from Bradley. His confidence had been bolstered by his partner’s certainty, but now the plan was in its last stages of development. He would be required to submit the proposal to the state highway engineers for inclusion in the new fiscal year. Rooney wanted assurances again. The state would make the plans public once they were approved. That approval would first raise questions and then a hue and cry from every corner when it was done.

  * * * *

  Assistant bank vice president Donald Bradley frowned and glanced at his watch. His ten-thirty appointment was late. Doug Harkner was in financial trouble again, and he was late for his ass-chewing. Tardiness irritated Donald. People who didn’t pay their loans on time irritated him. They pissed him off. Doug Harkner had become a constant source of irritation and serious bad mood for Donald. With three hundred dollars of bad checks, a car loan four months overdue, and the audacity to be late for their meeting, Donald’s blood pressure was rising.

  Donald swiveled his high-backed chair around to look out through the wide expanse of the bank. His glass-walled office provided him with an all but complete view of the staff and tellers as they performed their tasks with customers and clients in the lobby. He liked the view. He liked being in charge of making sure others were doing what they were supposed to do. His promotions from teller up to his present position had been sure and swift because he made sure he knew what he was doing and what other people were not.

  Fifteen years ago he’d arrived at the bank with the ink barely dry on his master’s degree in accounting and banking. Fifteen diligent years of investing time and money, of going the distance and of keeping notes on his fellow workers had got him where he was today. Money was his life and making it was his mission, but presenting the best example of compassion was his forte. He lacked one thing, the last thing on his life’s list of things to do. But he had the plan in motion. That’s what counted. The regional banking president had told him what he needed to do to ensure his continued rise in the industry. It was simply a matter of getting to the bottom line.

  Annoyed with the late appointment, Donald tossed the file folder with Doug Harkner’s name on it across his desk and turned back to his computer screen. In his impatience, he missed seeing Harkner hurry through the automatic doors of the bank.

  At forty-two, Doug Harkner looked like the sum of his misfortunes and missed opportunities as he stomped past the lines of customers waiting turns in front of the tellers. Thinning dark hair waved wildly from underneath a grease-encrusted ball cap. His worn pea coat, work slacks, and unlaced construction boots bunched and bobbed as he made his way across the lobby floor.

  He wasn’t happy about being in the bank, and it showed on his face. He knew that Bradley would have nothing positive or hopeful to say. And he knew that he was in enough trouble to get a year in the county jail if the bank insisted on pressing charges. Doug also knew that there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it. His luck, mostly bad, had not changed over the last six months.

  Doug stopped outside the clear glass door and looked in at the profile of the man sitting inside. He could see the sure, swift movement of the man’s hands on the computer keyboard, the tenseness in the clean-shaven face, the chiseled jaw, and firm set of the mouth. Doug knew that Donald Bradley was not a man to trifle with in any fashion. A former college football player, Bradley had not lost the powerful build nor had he let his desk-hugging work life reduce the tone of power in his body or increase the width of his waist.

  Doug screwed up his courage, placed his hand on the doorknob, and tried to remember what promises he would tell Bradley he intended to keep.

  Donald Bradley heard the latch of his door click and looked up into Doug Harkner’s wide, uncertain eyes. “I’ve been expecting you,” Donald said smoothly. He would save his anger. He would let it grow as he hammered Doug during a recitation of his errors. Then when he had him where he wanted him, he would let him know he was going to jail.

  “Sorry, Mister Bradley,” Doug said, whipping his cap off his head as he walked toward Bradley’s desk. “That car of mine broke down again. I…it needed a battery jump. I got here quick as I could.”

  “Let’s get to it. Sit down,” Donald said as he reached for Harkner’s file. He opened the file and flipped through the pages as Doug settled into the chair and waited. Donald let him wait. He made a show of pretending to read the printed information, of letting a smirk slip across his face, and of growling his discontent. He wanted Doug to squirm, wanted him to relax enough even in his squirming to consider the possibility of hope. Then he would dash it. He waited to speak until, in his peripheral vision, he saw Doug’s head begin to swivel as his eyes wandered aimlessly around the room searching for something to look at.

  “Mr. Harkner, it appears you’re up to your neck in trouble,” Donald said, letting the folder drop between his hands onto the surface of the desk. He folded his hands and waited for a response.

  “I’ve had a run of bad luck…I never intended for things to get this far,” Doug offered.

  “Oh, so you never intended to write those checks? S
omeone forced you to take money from this bank?”

  “It’s not like that and you know it.”

  “Do I?”

  “Of course you do. I’ve been a customer of this bank for twenty years. I’ve had some rough times, but I always recover,” Doug protested.

  Donald looked at the folder and placed his right hand palm down on the thick file. “Is that what you call writing bad checks? A rough time? Seems more like a tendency toward making illegal loans. You expect us to tote the brunt of this while you recover? What I’m interested in right now is just how are you going to recover from this?”

  “I’m looking for work.”

  “That’s what you said last month when we talked about the overdue note on your car,” Donald asserted. “That was before you wrote these,” he said as he thumbed the corners of the stapled insufficient-funds checks.

  “Honest, I’m still looking for work. Things are pretty tight around here,” Doug said as he tried to remember to sit up straight in his chair.