The Sowing Season Read online

  © 2020 by Katie Powner

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2020

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  ISBN 978-1-4934-2810-6

  Scripture quotations are from THE HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®, NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Susan Zucker

  Author is represented by WordServe Literary Agency.

  To my dad

  I still miss you.

  Contents

  Cover

  Half Title Page

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Ad

  Back Cover

  CHAPTER

  ONE

  April 2019

  Greenville, Washington

  Cow manure spewed from the burst pipe and rained down on him like retribution. With a tight-lipped growl, Gerrit Laninga rolled up a flannel sleeve and exposed a clean bit of skin to wipe the muck from his eyes. This wasn’t how he’d imagined his last day on the farm. But . . . well, it was fitting.

  The sun had already passed its zenith. He’d better hurry if he was going to make it to Jim’s office in time to sign the papers. If he didn’t value his old Dodge so much, he’d be tempted to drive to the meeting exactly like this. Covered in crap. That would give Nicholsen an idea of how Gerrit felt about him and his so-called “deal of a lifetime.” And an idea of what Nicholsen was getting himself into with this godforsaken piece of property.

  Gerrit trudged across the field with unwilling steps, the wind drying the manure so that it cracked and crumbled off him as he walked. After sixty-three years, he’d gotten so he hardly noticed the cow smell anymore—most of the time. But even he wrinkled his nose at the stench coming from him now. “Smells like money,” he’d heard other farmers say. But he’d never made a dime off this place.

  The farm was supposed to stay in his family forever. He’d meant to retire at the ripe old age of a hundred and be buried in the back forty under a cottonwood tree. But after last winter? Neither his old bones nor his bank account was going to make it through another year. Which he mentioned to the vet, who mentioned it to Grant Nicholsen down the road, who swooped in with an offer Gerrit couldn’t refuse before sunrise the following day.

  After cleaning up and changing his clothes in the office behind the milking parlor, Gerrit climbed in the Dodge and sat with his arms resting on the wheel. In a couple of hours, Nicholsen’s crew would show up for the afternoon milking, and the farm would hum with steady progress, but for now it was quiet and still. Holsteins flicked lazy tails at fat black flies. Barn cats bathed themselves in the sun. The breeze blew bits of sawdust from the top of the pile.

  Everything about this place felt like home and reminded him of his failures. He hated it, but he loved it. It was death, but it was the only life he’d ever known.

  For the first time, he was glad Luke was dead.

  GERRIT SHIFTED ON the fancy leather chair and stared at the manure under his fingernails. He still stunk. And his back was killing him.

  Beside him to his left, his older brother’s widow, Luisa, sat with the same sort of steady grace Luke had always had. She was surely no more surprised to be waiting on Jakob than he was. Gerrit had been waiting on Jakob most of his life.

  “You’ve got manure in your hair, Gerrit,” Luisa whispered, her Italian accent still strong even after thirty years in the States.

  He ran a hand through his untamed brownish-gray mane. A dried clump of manure fell onto the lush beige carpet.

  From behind his massive oak desk, Jim Dyk cleared his throat. “Okay then. Any idea where your brother might be?”

  Gerrit shrugged. “Check the nearest casino.”

  “We can’t wait much longer.” Jim tapped his desk three times with a pen. “Nicholsen is anxious to—”

  “Nicholsen can put a—”

  “Gerrit.” Luisa’s rebuke was just sharp enough. “This was your decision. Don’t take it out on Jim.”

  He grunted. He could take it out on whoever he wanted, but he forced his shoulders to relax. He wouldn’t cause a scene in front of Luisa. She didn’t deserve that, not after everything he’d put her through already. Yet he’d seen the smug look on Nicholsen’s face as Gerrit passed him and his lawyer on the way into Jim’s office, and part of him relished the fact that Nicholsen had to wait.

  The door swung open with a thud. Jakob shuffled into the room looking twice his age and scrutinized Gerrit with bleary eyes.

  Gerrit glared back. “Where you been?”

  Jakob took the seat on Luisa’s other side in silence, pulling his bright blue windbreaker tightly around him.

  Luisa patted his knee. “Good to see you, Jakob.”

  Jakob nodded.

  “All right.” Jim straightened the papers in front of him. “Time to get down to business. We covered all the details at our last meeting, so I just need you to warm up your writing fingers. There are a lot of papers to sign here.”

  Jakob leaned forward. “And what if I don’t?”

  Gerrit stiffened. “Then you can take over the farm all by yourself and run it into the ground.” He wanted to add a few more choice words but held back for Luisa’s sake. Jakob shouldn’t even be here. Didn’t deserve a penny. But their father had made sure years ago that Jakob would always have an equal share in the family business.

  Such as it was.

  Jakob huffed but offered no further resistance. Jim went over the pages of the sale agreement one by one, pointing out each place that required a signature or initials. He hurried them along as if afraid one of them might change their mind. And Gerrit considered it. He really did. Who was he without the farm? What would he do? But his back reminded him of the relentlessness of the work. The sunshine outside remin
ded him of the endless hours of labor ahead during the summer season. And his heart screamed that he had no choice.

  It was time.

  When the last piece of paper had been reviewed and signed, Jim shook hands with each of them in turn and dismissed them with a sigh of relief. Gerrit was the last to leave. In the hall, Nicholsen waited to take his place with an eager expression, and a strange feeling pressed against Gerrit’s heart. Take good care of her, he wanted to say. She’ll need all you have to give. Instead, he nodded, just once.

  Jakob was long gone as Gerrit walked Luisa to her car. He held the door open for her and searched for the right words, knowing there weren’t any. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what? Wanting to enjoy your life for once?” She patted him on the cheek. “Luke would not blame you.”

  He nodded, but inside he wasn’t so sure. After all, who else was there to blame? Jakob, of course. But Jakob wasn’t the one who decided to sell to Nicholsen.

  He hung his head. “I wish it had been more.”

  She waved his words away. “A hundred and thirteen thousand dollars is plenty for an old lady like me. And I’ve got that money from my father. Don’t worry.”

  “You’re not old.”

  “Hmmph. Tell that to the bunions on my feet.”

  He lumbered to his truck, the numbers taunting him. One hundred and thirteen thousand each, all that was left for the three of them after paying off the farm’s debts. All that was left of a lifetime spent believing his sacrifices would be worth it someday.

  He heaved himself into the Dodge with an unshakable weariness. If he was careful, he could make the money last. Over the last ten years, he’d sunk his and Hannie’s entire savings into keeping the farm afloat—a decision that haunted him now. But their mortgage would be paid off in a year, and Hannie brought in a little money from her shop. So long as nothing terrible happened, they would be okay. Right?

  So long as nothing terrible happened.

  “I’m tired, Luke.” He scrubbed his face with his hands. “You don’t know what it’s been like all these years without you.”

  With a heavy sigh he turned the key in the ignition. Forty years of hard time could do something to a man. Could whittle his spirit down to a splinter of what it was and change him so that even his stride reflected the rigid structure of boundaries. Limits. Gerrit knew.

  The Dodge hacked up some phlegm, pounded its chest, then roared to life. Gerrit gripped the wheel tightly. He was going home a free man, but he felt like a prisoner.

  It took more to be free of a place than just driving away.

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  It was six o’clock before Gerrit mustered the courage to point the Dodge toward his house on the hill. What a strange thing, to turn left at the junction. When was the last time he’d turned left while there was still daylight instead of driving on and getting back to work?

  There was always work.

  He parked the Dodge in the gravel next to the old pony barn and approached the house like a stranger. How long had Hannie been home? He quickened his step.

  When he opened the door, his wife stood before him, her hair held on top of her head by some sort of clip. Her cobalt eyes downcast. She had one hand outstretched to turn the knob, the other gripping the handle of a faded blue suitcase with a white stripe around the middle. For a moment, her face registered surprise, and then she lowered her hand.

  “You came home.”

  Gerrit blinked. “Of course I came home. Where else would I go?”

  Her corgi, Daisy, peeked out from behind her legs. Hannie shifted. “The farm.”

  “Can’t go there no more.” He stared at Daisy, then at the suitcase. “I signed the papers.”

  Hannie’s shoulders relaxed. Her grip on the handle loosened.

  He jerked his chin at the offensive blue case. “Going somewhere?”

  She chewed her top lip. “I didn’t think you’d go through with it. When I got home from the shop and you weren’t here, I thought you’d changed your mind. And I couldn’t face another day, another month, another year . . .”

  As her voice trailed off, he noticed her shoes. They were pink like rose petals. His muddy brown boots looked like filthy monsters beside them, ready to trample them into the ground.

  He took a step back. “I don’t understand.”

  “I didn’t want to keep competing with the farm for your attention.” She looked down. “I couldn’t.”

  The hair on the back of his neck stood up. “How come you never said anything before? About the farm?”

  “You make your own decisions, and you know it. You’re as stubborn as a goat on top of a junk pile. Quitting had to be your choice.”

  Quitting? No, he hadn’t quit. He’d been forced out by his traitorous, decrepit body. By unpredictable milk prices and unreliable laborers and Jakob’s abandonment. But he’d never heard Hannie complain. At least not in so many words.

  “Hannie, I—”

  “Ever since the kids moved out, I’ve been living here alone.” She raised her voice and jabbed her finger in the air for emphasis. “Just me and Daisy. You come and go at all hours. You’re never here for dinner. And you’re always angry.”

  He frowned. Yes, he’d been angry at times. A lot of times. That was Jakob’s fault, but after what happened today, he would never have to speak to Jakob again.

  “All that’s over.” His throat tightened. “Please. Don’t go. I’m here now.”

  “You wouldn’t even notice if I was gone.”

  He took another step back, his stomach clenching. “I would notice.”

  She looked him in the eye, and years of questions and memories and trials and joys passed between them. He struggled to hold her gaze. He had nothing to offer—no reason for her to stay—but he couldn’t lose her. Not on top of everything else. Not his Hannie.

  Daisy snuffled, sat on the linoleum, and looked up at her mistress, ready to follow her lead. The suitcase made no sound as Hannie set it down on the floor against the wall.

  DINNER WAS QUIET. Gerrit wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do. He couldn’t remember the last time he hadn’t come home late and pulled something from the fridge to heat up in the microwave. He’d almost forgotten what it was like to taste something fresh from the stovetop. Even if it was just spaghetti and green beans.

  He cleared his throat. “Your cooking is better fresh.”

  Hannie stared. He swallowed. What had he said?

  She stood to clear the dishes. “How nice of you to notice.”

  It was supposed to be a compliment. He should’ve known better than to say anything out loud.

  He sat frozen in his chair as he watched her work, her movements like cornstalks in July. Steady and determined. The refrigerator droned louder than a cab tractor. Daisy stood sentry in the hallway entrance, following Hannie with her eyes as his wife went back and forth.

  Gerrit’s large callused hands lay idle on the table. “Should I help you?”

  Hannie studied him until he squirmed. “If you’d like.”

  Suspicion scratched at him like a barbwire fence. Her words made out like it was up to him, but they sounded as though she’d already decided against it.

  He remained at the table. “You work tomorrow?”

  She looked at him again. “Yes.”

  Her voice was flat. Now what had he done? He considered asking what he was supposed to do all day at the house by himself but then studied the rigid set of Hannie’s shoulders and thought better of it.

  She draped the dish towel over the edge of the sink and snapped her fingers. “Come on, Daisy. Time for bed.”

  Gerrit glanced at the time. “It’s early yet.”

  “Tomorrow’s Thursday.”

  He stared. She stared back.

  His shoulders tensed. Better get it over with. “So . . . ?”

  Her nostrils flared. “So our biggest shipment comes on Thursday mornings. Every single week. At five a.m.”

&nb
sp; “Oh.” The first milking started around four in the morning, so he’d always been out the door long before Hannie. “I forgot about that.”

  She smirked. “Right.”

  “Can’t anyone else unload the flowers?”

  “It’s my shop, Gerrit. I’m the boss.”

  “Right.”

  Daisy was close on her heels as she strode from the kitchen. He strained to hear Hannie’s steady footsteps ascend the carpeted stairs, followed by Daisy’s bouncy ones.

  That was that.

  The house was quiet again.

  He pushed against the table to lift himself from his chair, his stiff back protesting, and trudged through the living room. He stepped out onto the deck. Though it was as dark as used oil in the pan, he could still see the farm lit up at the bottom of the hill. He could make out the milking parlor and the loafing shed. And the big red barn. Even his father’s old house, which had been empty for five years now.

  What was he going to do? Never in his whole life had he gone to bed not knowing what he would do the next day. The farm had always been there. The cows had always needed milking. The work had never ceased. Even as a child, he’d been out there.

  His throat tightened again, just as it had at the sight of Hannie standing by the door with a suitcase. He’d told her things would be different now. Would they? With a determined grunt, he went back in the house and climbed the stairs.

  Standing outside her bedroom—their bedroom—he hesitated. He had taken to sleeping on the rickety recliner in the living room years ago due to his odd and unfortunate hours. He never wanted to bother Hannie with his coming and going, plus he’d had the distinct feeling she didn’t want him in her bed. And he couldn’t blame her. He smelled like cows.

  His hand touched the doorknob.

  Should he go in? Would she order him out? Was she sleeping already? He had no idea how she spent her evenings. No idea how she would respond if he knocked.

  No idea who she was anymore.

  When had that happened?

  He slipped back downstairs, avoiding the third to last step, which would creak under his weight. She used to wait up for him, eager to hear about his day and make sure he had enough to eat. Sometimes she would be wearing something short and made of satin. But how long could a man expect a woman to keep giving when she got nothing in return?