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

Norwegian Grade in honor of those families.”
    “They must be very proud,” said Elizabeth faintly. If this were the safer pass, she prayed she would never be required to take the Old Butterfield route.
    The team pulled the wagon over the grade. At the summit, Elizabeth forgot about the rough road as she gazed out upon the Arboles Valley, a patchwork quilt of green and brown bathed in warmth and sunlight and framed by mountains. Behind her, Henry rose to his knees in the wagon bed for a better look. Elizabeth beamed at him as he took her hand, but she quickly returned her gaze to the breathtaking sight. She wished she knew which of the patchwork farms and ranches was theirs.
    “What’s that?” asked Henry suddenly, indicating a shadow cutting into the gentle roll of the valley floor.
    “That’s the Salto Canyon,” said Lars. “The Salto Creek runs through the bottom. Best source of water in the valley. The only reliable source when the rains don’t come.”
    The description of their land included a creek; perhaps it was this one. Elizabeth shaded her eyes with her hands and eagerly searched the region around the canyon for landmarks from the photographs the land agent had given Henry, but from their vantage point, one cluster of oaks resembled every other. She wished Henry would take out his map and locate Triumph Ranch while they could still enjoy the view of it from above, but he would not risk divulging their secret too soon, even to one taciturn farmer.
    They descended from the hills into the valley, and as Lars had promised, the road grew considerably smoother. They passed other farms and had a first glimpse of their new neighbors from a distance. Farmers labored in fields; a pair of dogs chased the wagon for an eighth of a mile before giving up and going home, tails wagging.
    They had nearly reached the opposite side of the valley before the first real signs of a town appeared. They passed the Arboles Grocery, a modest, one-story wooden structure with a single gas pump out front. Farther down the road was the Arboles School, a newer, whitewashed building with a bell in a high cupola. Children played in the short, brown school-yard grass.
    “Where’s the post office?” asked Henry. Elizabeth knew he really wanted to know how to find the land office, which was located within the post office, not an unusual arrangement for a town this size.
    “John Barclay runs it out of his front room.”
    “The post office is in his house?” asked Elizabeth.
    Lars shrugged. “He is the postmaster.”
    “How do we get there?” asked Henry. “And how early does he open?”
    “Take the El Camino Real north from your hotel, turn right at the first road east, and you’ll go right past it. Barclay’s likely up at daybreak to care for his livestock. If you go to see him that early, you’ll find him in the barn. If you want him to leave his chores to take care of post office business, you should offer to help him or he’s liable to take his own sweet time just to spite you.”
    “I gather Mr. Barclay’s a difficult man,” remarked Elizabeth.
    “No more than any other man who’s well acquainted with trouble. Some folks might say he’s brought his troubles on himself—and I might be one of them—but what hurts him hurts his wife, and she surely doesn’t deserve any more heartbreak.”
    Lars broke off and frowned deeply as if startled by his own frankness. Elizabeth wanted to ask him what manner of trouble and heartbreak had afflicted the Barclay family, but the set of his jaw made it obvious that he had said all he intended to say. She glanced over her shoulder at Henry, who was mulling over Lars’s words in bemused concern. Henry would not be content until the deed of trust was in his hand, and if what Lars said was true, acquiring it depended upon the goodwill of a temperamental man.
    Surely Mr. Barclay would fulfill his professional obligations, bad temper or not. Surely the citizens of the Arboles Valley