Mist nodded.

  “He was acting funny all night. Sorta antsy. The minute we sat down in the booth, he pushed a little box over to me. It was his mother’s wedding ring.”

  “Oh, my goodness! What did it look like?”

  “It was beautiful---a narrow gold band with a small diamond in the center.”

  Mist squeezed Helen’s hand. “Have you picked a date?”

  “Sometime in June. We’re getting married at a justice of the peace in Savage. Will you stand up for me?”

  “I would be honored, Helen.”

  “Can we please keep it all a secret for now? I know Nels never gave a rat’s ass about me, but I still could see him giving Rufus a bad time.”

  “Good idea. Eventually, he’ll move on and find some other girl to bully, but for now, let’s be safe.”

  * * *

  Eventually, the snow did come to the Minnesota River Valley, and sleighs were now the only option to the roadhouse. Customers from neighboring towns and the Twin Cities could not get through, so at last, Mist was able to catch up on her rest. Axel had not yet received his order for a snow plow from Swartz Implement, so it gave her time to catch up on her reading and the countless details of running a home.

  She poured over fashion magazines at night, devouring every article and examining every detail of the gowns, hats, and shoes. Oh, to see New York, Paris, or even just Chicago, she thought wistfully, and to think of the great writers congregating there.

  She read every issue the library had of The Saturday Evening Post, savoring short stories by a writer named F. Scott Fitzgerald, a native son of St. Paul. “The Ice Palace” and “Bernice Bobs Her Hair” were her favorites.

  Mist was tired of looking doughty in her baggy print housedresses and wanted to start wearing something a little more attractive, so one afternoon in early February, she picked up Lucie, and they headed to Lehmann’s Clothing Store in Shakopee.

  “Lehmann’s is not going to have clothes like these,” Lucie said, flipping through Harper’s Bizarre as they drove into the city. She looked fashionable, as usual, in a long auburn coat with a faux fur collar and cuffs. A matching felt cloche hugged her red bobbed hair.

  “I know,” Mist replied, “but anything’s better than what I have.”

  Lucie leaned over and looked at her. “Your makeup looks good today. You’ve really figured out the eyeliner.”

  “I guess I have.”

  “Has Helen said anything about all your changes?”

  Mist shook her head. “No, she won’t say a word.”

  They rode in silence, bumping down the frozen road. “You should come with me when I go up to visit Viggo,” Lucie said at last. “You are more than ready for the big city. We could shop at Dayton’s or go to Young-Quinlan.”

  Mist pulled up in front of the clothing store and parked. “Now, when can I ever get away from that roadhouse?” she asked.

  “I know. I know,” Lucie replied, getting out and slamming the door.

  Lehmann’s Clothing Store was divided into sections. Men’s clothing was on one side, women’s apparel on the other, and children’s clothing upstairs. Down the center aisle were glass cases filled with hankies and hosiery. And displayed on the countertops were hats and purses. Pneumatic mail tubes lined one wall so transactions could go directly up into the office. It was all very modern.

  Mist and Lucie started combing through racks of apparel on the women’s side, and immediately, Lucie pulled out a blue and white seersucker dress with a dropped waist.

  “I would freeze to death in that,” Mist said.

  “Well, it’s too late to find winter clothes. It’s all spring fashion now.”

  Mist ignored her and kept looking.

  Lucie showed her five more dresses, and Mist refused every one.

  At last, Mist pulled out a pink print cotton dress.

  “That looks just like everything else you have,” Lucie exclaimed. “Now, are you going to make a change or not?”

  Grumbling, Mist went back to the racks again and pulled out another baggy cotton house dress.

  “That’s it! I’m taking over,” Lucie announced. “You are obviously too chicken.”

  Mist went home that day with two new dresses, both with dropped waists and scandalously high hemlines just above the knee. She put the box under her bed and never wore them again.

  * * *

  Spring rains were abundant that year, and most roads turned to mud, but the route to Axel’s place was open, thanks to gravel, grading, and under-the-table payments to one of the county employees.

  The roadhouse grew busy again, and Mist felt the energy she had gained over the winter fade. She dropped down on the front step of the house one morning in May with a cup of coffee, tired but ready to enjoy the sunshine and solitude. Her brothers had gone to the Midway District on a whiskey run, and she would be alone for a few hours.

  The birds had all returned to the Minnesota River Valley, and the farm was alive with wrens and warblers darting from tree to tree. Squirrels were chasing each other playfully, and baby rabbits emerged from their warrens to chew grass. The farm animals could feel the promise of spring in the air too. The cows were lowing, and the chickens were clucking contentedly. Pale green buds had sprouted on the trees, signaling the end of maple syruping and the beginning of spring.

  Mist spotted the mailman, old Mr. Barlow, coming down the road in the enclosed postal pickup.

  She walked out to meet him.

  “Why, hello, Mist,” he said in his thin voice. Mr. Barlow was bald with watery brown eyes and wrinkled skin. He was wearing a baggy blue uniform, and on his head was a hat with a badge that said, “U.S. Post Office.”

  “Hello, Mr. Barlow.”

  “I haven’t seen you in months,” he said.

  “No, I’ve been busy,” she replied, reluctant to converse. He was a notorious gossip.

  “I thought you’d be leavin’ us.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, it seemed like you had a sweetheart up there in Minneapolis,” he said, watching her closely.

  Mist frowned, looking confused. “What?”

  “Letters came for you different times last fall. They were in a fine hand, an educated man, I’m guessing.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “What was that name again?” Mr. Barlow mumbled to himself as he rubbed the gray stubble on his chin. “Underwood, it was, Mr. Garfield Underwood.”

  Mist’s eyes grew large. “Mr. Underwood wrote to me?”

  “Yes, several times. But I ain’t seen nuthin’ lately.”

  Mist felt anger surge.

  With a sly smile, the postman leaned in and asked, “Didn’t Axel give you those letters?”

  Mist took a breath, trying to steady her voice, and said quietly, “I’m sure there’s an explanation. Thank you, Mr. Barlow.” She started back to the house.

  Chapter 6

  Mist was furious. She went about her chores the rest of the morning with her jaw clenched and her heart pounding. How dare Axel take her mail. How dare he interfere with her opportunities. I may not have pursued the job, but that was my choice, not his. She considered ripping the house apart to find the letters but quickly discarded the idea. Why bother? I know he burned them.

  For the first time in her life, Mist felt like a prisoner. She could easily be replaced as a housekeeper through marriage, but Axel’s Place was entirely dependent on her. She wanted to run away, but where would she go? She had no options.

  As she walked back from slopping the pigs, she saw her brothers drive up. They were hauling the trailer, and several farmhands came forward to help offload the bull. When they finished, the men congregated by the barn door smoking and laughing.

  Mist straightened up and squared her shoulders.

  Axel was bragging about telling off a railroad dick when she strode up to him. He stopped, looked at her, and demanded, “What’s got your tit in a wringer?”

  “You took my mail,” she said.

  “What?”

  “I just found out I had a possible job in the Twin Cities, but you hid it from me.”

  Aware the men were watching, Axel flushed and said to them, “Well, boys, she’s finally lost her goddamn mind.” He chuckled. “It was only a matter of time.”

  “I’m the one who keeps that roadhouse going,” she said, tapping him on the chest, “and you know it. That’s why you threw my mail away.”

  Axel’s nostrils flared. “I’m the one that runs that joint, not you, you worthless bag of shit! You’re making this all up. No one would want to hire you.”

  The men did not move.

  “Liar!” Mist shrieked. All the years of abuse surged, and she screamed, “You’re not only a liar, but you’re a slack-jawed imbecile to boot!”

  Like lightning, Axel’s hand shot out, and he backhanded her across the face, sending her sprawling into the mud. The men looked on, stunned, their eyes like saucers.

  Axel stormed off as Mist slowly pushed herself up. Blood was gushing from her lip, and she was covered with mud. The men watched her as she stumbled to the house.

  Once inside, she retched repeatedly into the sink, pumping the water as fast as she could. Grabbing a towel, she held it to her lip and stood, doubled over and panting. The whole left side of her face throbbed.

  Axel hadn’t hit her in years. None of them had assaulted her since Uncle Viggo threatened them with far greater violence. But in many ways, it felt like yesterday.

  Mist pressed her eyes shut. She would have to endure a multitude of questions at the roadhouse tonight when they saw her bruises, and the thought sickened her. She was glad Lucie was in the Cities visiting Uncle Viggo. This was her fight, no one else’s.

  Dropping onto her cot, she continued to press the towel to her lip. Gingerly, she wiggled her jaw. It was not broken but extremely tender. She tried to rest but was too angry. Instead, she got up and worked. It helped the morning pass as she stumbled around the house kneading dough and doing laundry. She avoided the mirror, but as she cranked the wringer on the washing machine, she remembered her makeup. Maybe it would help hide some of the discoloration before she went to the roadhouse.

  Mist went to the looking glass. Heavy bruises were forming over the left side of her face, but her eye had not swollen shut. For this she was grateful. Her jaw was black and blue though, and there was a jagged cut on her upper lip that was swollen and purple. Makeup and powder lightened the area a bit, but there was little improvement.

  Picking up her book, she headed to Cornish Creek. She knew her brothers would be sniffing around for dinner soon, but today they wouldn’t get it. She’d be damned if she’d cook for them.

  Looking over her shoulder, she turned and followed the path into the woods down to the creek. It was good to be enveloped in the protective arms of the forest. The warm spring sun dappled the ground with a golden light, and the air smelled of wildflowers. About a mile down the trail, she came to Cornish Creek, a little stream flowing into the Minnesota River. Stepping off the path, she crawled under the footbridge that passed over the water. She had been coming to this place since she was a child. The mossy wood of the bridge overhead and the banks of the creek on either side created a barrier between her and the rest of the world.

  With a sigh, she sat back, opened her book, and lost herself in The Magnificent Ambersons.

  * * *

  Mist had to endure a multitude of questions that night at the roadhouse, but she had expected it. She said nothing, but everyone knew who had hit her; the farmhands had already shared every detail. At the end of the night, she collapsed into bed, tired and sore, ready for rest, but her sleep was fitful. A change was coming, and Mist could feel it. The challenge ahead would be daunting but inevitable.

  The next day, a spring heat wave hit the Minnesota River Valley, and customers turned out in droves to Axel’s Place. Well before sunset, motorcars came rattling down the road, the passengers whooping and hollering, ready for a good time. Many took their food and drinks outside where they sat on lap blankets, indulging their spring fever.

  All evening, it was busy, and the kitchen was a flurry of activity. Rufus, looking like an animated scarecrow, banged out lively music, as revelers crowded onto the dance floor. Mist and Helen plated food as fast as they could, ignoring the roar of laughter and shouts of merriment. But around midnight, Mist heard a different kind of noise from the dining room.

  Kitty, who was retrieving orders, heard it too and asked, “What’s going on out there? A fight?”

  Women started shrieking, and men were swearing. There was rumbling and crashing, as if chairs and tables were being turned over. A whistle blew, and someone started kicking the back door.

  Rufus burst into the kitchen and roared, “Raid!”

  Mist’s heart jumped into her throat. In a flash, she squatted under the worktable and yanked open a trapdoor. “Here quick!” she yelled.

  Helen jumped down into the shallow dugout tunnel, followed by Kitty. Rufus hesitated, looking at Mist.

  “Go!” she barked.

  Reluctantly, he jumped in.

  Just as Mist hopped down and slammed the trapdoor, federal agents burst into the kitchen. Digging her hands into the earth, Mist started crawling. The air was thick and moist with mold and night crawlers. Panicked, she scrambled along on her belly. Even though it was pitch black, there was only one way to go in the narrow tunnel, and moments later, she rose up into the sheep pen.

  Gulping fresh air, the first thing she saw in the moonlight was Rufus launching himself over the fence and disappearing into the trees. Crouching low, she ran to the other corner of the pen, jumped over, and dashed into the woods too.

  Mist thought her lungs would explode as she ran through the underbrush, leaping over debris and clambering over fallen trees. She had to find one of the trails to get her bearings. Twice she fell but hopped back up again.

  It seemed like she ran forever, turning this way and that until, at last, she saw moonlight flooding a path up ahead. She doubled over, panting. This was the trail to the stills, but it was not an option. The agents would be there too. The other way would take her home, but that was not an option either. Then she thought of her hiding place under the walking bridge. It was on this path and close by.

  When she found it, she slid down the embankment and scrambled under the bridge. Crossing her arms, Mist hugged herself. She had never been here at night, and it was eerie and cold. She could hear the creek splashing and bubbling in front of her. It was usually so cheerful, but tonight it seemed ominous, like a huge black snake.

  Mist swallowed hard. She was parched and exhausted, and her thoughts raced. How long would she have to stay here? Would the agents wait for her at home? Had they captured her brothers? Maybe at this moment they were taking axes to the stills and smashing the roadhouse.

  Then she heard voices, men’s voices. Holding her breath, Mist listened. They were coming closer.

  “Please, you boys gotta take me outta these cuffs,” she heard Axel say. “I think we can work something out.”

  “Like hell we will!” a man barked.

  “Let’s hear the bastard out,” a third voice said, and they stopped on the bridge over Mist’s head. “O’Leary’s calling in a gambling debt on me, and I could use some scratch.”

  “All right, all right,” was the reply. “You’d better do some fast talkin’, you hick, cause I don’t like you hillbillies down here.”

  “I can’t let you shut me down,” Axel pleaded.

  “Well, spit it out. What have ya got?”

  “If you take me back to the house, I’ve got a stash of bills that will make everything right.”

  “Well, that’s all hunky dory, but the Drys want to prosecute a liquor supplier.”

  “Don’t worry. I got a patsy for that too,” Axel replied.

  “Who?”

  “His name’s Novak. Rufus Novak. He’s a well-known bootlegger over in Savage, also our piano player.”

  Mist’s jaw dropped.

  Axel continued. “I’ve even got proof for ya. He transported his whiskey in a hollowed-out piano. It’s still sitting in the back of the boarding house where he lives.”

  “We’ll see about that,” the agent grumbled. “But you’re shut down until I got this Novak in hand and enough greenbacks to choke a horse.”

  They walked off.

  Mist sat rigidly until their footsteps faded. At last, she crawled out and started for the Borg homestead. She knew that’s where Helen would hide with Rufus.

  Crossing through the brush, she found the path down to the river and followed it to Helen’s house. Panting and looking over her shoulder, Mist banged on the back door.

  Mrs. Borg answered. The elderly woman was standing in her nightgown, her long gray hair in a braid. Holding up her lamp, she ran her eyes over Mist’s dirty clothes and tangled hair. “What happened? Is Helen all right?”

  “There was a raid at the roadhouse.”

  Mrs. Borg gasped.

  “But Helen’s safe. I saw her run into the woods with Rufus. I thought they might have come here.”

  “I haven’t seen them,” Mrs. Borg said.

  “I’ll keep looking. I’m going to search the barn.”

  “Let me know if they’re there.”

  Nodding, Mist dashed to the barn with the dogs at her heels, but they were not there. She scanned the yard frantically. Where could they be? Then suddenly she thought of the springhouse. It was nothing more than a cellar dug into the hill, but it was invisible at night and could easily hold two people.

  She ran to it. Slamming her foot on the sloping door, she called. “Helen! Rufus! It’s Mist!”

  Someone lifted the door. “Mist!” Rufus hissed, looking around. “Is it safe?”

  “For now. Come out quickly, and I’ll tell you what’s happening.”

  Rufus helped Helen out, and the three stood in the moonlight, hugging themselves. They were cold and trembling with fear. Mist noticed Rufus’s glasses were cracked.

  Mist began, “After getting out of the tunnel, I ran into the woods and hid under a footbridge over Cornish Creek. It’s on the way to the stills. I hadn’t been hiding long when I heard voices. The Feds were escorting Axel down the trail in handcuffs. They stopped right over my head and started talking. Axel said he’d pay them a great deal of money if they wouldn’t shut him down, and if they’d put the finger on you, Rufus, as the bootlegger for the roadhouse.”