Racing Home by Adele Dueck Page B

you see the wagons?” Erik asked. “It must be the new settlers. I heard Mr. Nilson say there were some coming this fall.”
    “They might be.” Lars started to pull the door closed.
    “Can I talk to them?” Erik asked quickly. “I can tell them about the town and where the well is and about there not being a school yet.”
    “Go along, then.” Lars took the broom and Erik dashed out of the store.
    “Don’t stay too long,” his uncle’s voice followed him. “Rolf will be here soon.”
    “I won’t,” Erik called back over his shoulder.
    As he neared the wagons, he saw people gathered to greet the newcomers. Men shook hands, then turned to help the women down from the wagons. Erik didn’t mind that he wouldn’t be needed to give information. He just wanted to talk to the boy.
    He saw him jump down from the wagon and look toward the buildings, the peak of his cap shading his eyes from the sun.
    “Good day,” said Erik in Norwegian, running up to him. “Welcome to Green Valley.”
    The boy looked at Erik, his face totally blank. After a moment he said something unintelligible.
    Erik froze. The new settlers weren’t from Norway. They weren’t even from England. They spoke another language altogether.
    The boys looked at each other for a long moment.
    Erik smiled and tried again. “Good morning,” he said, this time in English.
    “Good morning,” said the other boy. The words were English, but perhaps he was only imitating Erik.
    “My name is Erik. Erik Brekke.”
    “Colin,” said the other boy. “I am Colin O’Brien.”
    “You speak English,” said Erik with relief.
    “Yes,” said Colin. “And Gaelic.”
    Erik heard Rolf’s voice behind him, then a man from the wagons called for Colin.
    “I must go,” said both boys at once.
    “I’ll see you again,” said Erik.
    Colin held out his hand to Erik. They shook, then he turned and ran back to the wagons. Erik turned to Rolf.
    “They speak English and Gaelic. Whatever that is.”
    “They must be from Scotland or Ireland. They’re part of Great Britain.”
    They usually walked to town, but they’d taken the oxen that day to bring home flour and rice. After climbing onto the wagon, Rolf sat for a moment, staring at the oxen.
    “I’m through building for now,” he said finally. “I’m joining a threshing crew. It pays better. Your mother, she thinks you’re too young and the work will be too hard, but if you want to come along, we’ll see if they’ll hire you on.”
    “I’m strong,” Erik said, thinking of the sods he’d stacked and the grass he’d cut. “Least I’m as strong as I can be for my size.”
    “That’s right, Erik,” said Rolf, “you are, and that’s what I told your ma. You’ve worked hard and you haven’t complained. I wouldn’t have got near as much done without you.”
    Erik looked down at his feet. Rolf had never said anything like that to Erik before. It felt good that he’d noticed, just like a real father would.
    The thought brought Olaf to mind. Would kind words make any difference to Rolf’s real son?
    “The extra money will be a help,” added Rolf.
    That was the important part. Maybe Erik could fish through the ice in the winter, and there might still be rabbits to snare, but there was so much they had to buy. The flour Rolf had bought today would last just a few weeks, and the potatoes Erik had bought would be gone even sooner. They would soon need kerosene for the lamps. Elsa had grown out of her shoes and Erik’s pinched his toes.
    “I can work,” Erik said.
    “Just while they’re in this area. When they move on, I might go with them, but you’ll stay here and take care of your ma and the livestock.”
    That night Erik spread his straw-filled ticking on the floor near the stove as he had since the nights had grown cold. Long before dawn, he woke to see Rolf building a fire. They rolled their blankets with a clean shirt or two and tied the bundles with string. Inga made them porridge and