Elm Creek Quilts [10] The Quilter's Homecoming by Jennifer Chiaverini

expected the farmer to be curious about strangers traveling with so much luggage, but he said nothing until the train station had disappeared behind them. “So you’re a Nelsen?” he said, and then added a few words in the same language with which he had addressed the horses.
    “Sorry,” said Henry ruefully. “I know very little Swedish, barely enough to say hello and good-bye. My family always spoke English at home.”
    “That was Norwegian,” said Lars dryly. “Many Norwegian families live in the Arboles Valley. Why did you say you were a Nelsen? You must be a Nel son.”
    Henry gave a small, baffled shrug. “That’s right. Sorry.”
    “Norwegian settlers?” said Elizabeth. “I had expected Spaniards.”
    “We got some of them, too. Mostly Mexican, though, not Spanish.” Lars fell silent for a moment, as if contemplating how much to tell them. “Most of the Arboles Valley belongs to five different families—the Olsens, the Pedersens, the Kelleys, the Borchards, and my people, the Jorgensens. Other families have smaller farms and ranches scattered thereabouts. We still got more sheep than people in the valley, but I expect that’ll change in days to come.”
    Elizabeth wondered why he had left the former owners of Triumph Ranch off the list. “You have cattle, too, isn’t that so? I understand this is an excellent region for raising cattle.”
    Lars shrugged. “Some folks have done all right with cattle. Sheep fare better here.”
    At the risk of alarming Henry by divulging too much of their secret, Elizabeth persisted. “You must know the Rodriguez family, I’m sure.”
    He gave her a sharp look. “Yes, I know them. Of course I know them. Their people have been around here for generations.”
    And yet he was not aware of the Rodriguez family who ran a thriving cattle ranch? Elizabeth wondered if the Arboles Valley was larger and more populous than Henry had led her to believe. She was about to jog the farmer’s memory when Henry spoke up. “What crops do you raise on your farm, Mr. Jorgensen?”
    Elizabeth recognized his attempt to change the subject and let the matter drop.
    “I work my brother’s farm,” replied Lars. “He raises sheep, barley, and apricots. Sometimes he tries his hand at another crop just to see how it fares, but sheep, barley, and apricots are our mainstays. That was a load of wool bound for Los Angeles you helped me unload back at the station.”
    Suddenly the wagon pitched as a wheel rumbled over a pothole in the hard-packed dirt road. Instinctively Elizabeth gasped and clutched the seat. Lars glanced at her, and something that could have passed for a smile briefly appeared in the tanned leather of his face. “Road’s a little rough in parts,” he said. “It’ll smooth out once we cross over the grade.”
    “I don’t suppose there are any plans to improve the road?” asked Elizabeth, her teeth rattling with each jolt of the wagon. In the wagon bed, Henry muffled an exclamation as a trunk slid into him. China rattled. Elizabeth hoped fervently that the quilts the Bergstrom women had made would see the precious wedding gifts safely the remaining few miles of their journey.
    “You’re looking at the improvements,” Lars replied. “Folks used to have to come over the Old Butterfield Road to the Camarillo Valley to haul our crops to the train. It was even steeper than this, and when it rained the wheels would stick in the mud so you’d lose half a day getting your wagon free. Everyone knew it was only a matter of time until a wagon overturned and someone got killed. So a farmer named Nils Olsen donated the land, and all the Norwegian families worked together in their spare time for two years to carve this route through the hills. They did it all on their own, with no help from the government except for the money the county gave them to buy dynamite to blast the boulders too large to move.” Lars regarded the road before them with pride. “They call this the