SEPTEMBER WIND.

Kathleen Janz-Anderson.

In loving memory of Sharon A Engstrom.

August 6, 1974 a July 15, 2005.

PROLOGUE.

Rachael & Emily.

1940, Illinois.

September wind carried the scent of wheat through the upstairs window where Rachael lay across her bed, angry and in tears.

Six months ago, she leaped from her bed each morning with so much joy, she would sing out the window in high octaves and playful yodels greeting anyone within earshot. Now as the long hot summer turned to fall, and with the bustle of harvest ending, her dreams lay by the side like dying leaves crumbling beneath the feet of ruin. There was nothing to keep her there any longer except for Timothy, her freckle-faced, bushy-haired, stubborn-since-birth brother who sat in a chair at the bottom of the stairs whittling on a pipe.

She blinked away tears and fixed her eyes on the door. "You're a rotten traitor. And I hate you for it." She pulled herself out of bed, lumbered across the room, and yanked the door open. "The bus leaves at two, and I'm goin' no matter what you say."

Timothy dug his knife into the wood, rolling his eyes.

"I need to use the john."

"Liar. You went no more'n fifteen minutes ago."

She blew a wisp of blonde hair from her face, stooped for her suitcase and hobbled down the stairs. "I'll be eighteen soon, Timothy, and you've got no right holding me like this.

He watched her, calmly setting his whittling aside, waiting for her to pass. Then he flew out of his chair, grabbed the suitcase, and marched her back up into her room. "You don't know what you*re doing, Sis," he said, tossing her luggage in behind her. He poked his head in the doorway. "Why don't you give up? Lay low for a while." "I'll never give up. Never!" She reached into a pot of acorns, meant for planting a garden of oak trees, and hurled a handful at him.

He covered his head, taking the steps two at a time, ducking as another acorn whizzed past. It bounced off the far wall barely missing an empty tin can sitting up against the baseboard. He looked up with a miserable sigh, then dropped to his chair and picked up his whittling.

She swung an arm back as if to launch another assault. "You're gonna be sorry, you..."

He reached for one of the nuts lying on the floor, and she popped her head back in, slamming the door for the umpteenth time that morning. This time the windows shook.

She began to pace, every now and then stopping to shout at her brother, picking up a shoe or anything else handy to throw at the door.

Timothy listened in silence to her hopeless bursts of anger, while winds from the north came in whispers of warning. Finally, out of breath and weary, she took to her bed.

By mid-afternoon, the peaceful milieu of that fall breeze developed into gusts of wind heaving about branches, an army of angry arms that spun leaves to the ground where they would wilt and die as if they had never been.

All of a sudden, the winds dropped and silence filled the air like those uncertain moments after a lightning strike. Timothy's footsteps came up the stairs and Rachael opened her eyes struggling to sit up. He knocked, opened the door and slid a plate into the room.

"Brought you a sandwich."

"I'm not hungry," she moaned, swinging her legs to the floor.

"Suit yourself." He closed the door and clomped down the stairs.

She pulled on a pair of shoes, then went to the rear window, and looked down to where a ladder had been set up for repairs. It was gone. Turning to the window across the room, she was halfway there when a swift kick to the ribcage took her breath. She stopped in front of the mirror, opened her blouse, and moved a hand over her swollen belly. As she gazed upon her reflection, at eyes filled with pain, a brow lined with worry, and lips that hadn't smiled for months, she knew if she didn't leave then, she never would. Shadows from an oak tree with branches nearly bursting through the front window caught the corner of her eye.

She glanced over, then buttoned her blouse and slipped on a sweater. Then she knelt beside her suitcase, unhooked the clasps, and laid it open. Her fingers trembled as she took out just enough items to fill her pockets. Reaching for a sapphire birthstone ring, now too small for her swollen finger, she tucked it inside her bra then pulled herself off the floor and went to the window. Hoisting it open, she held on with both hands, sat on the sill, and heaved a leg outside.

Looking back into her room, she felt nothing but the overwhelming grief that waited if she stayed. The tree, which had been a playground of happier days, was her only way out. She had climbed it so many times even a blindfold couldn't stop her now. She ducked her head outside, waited for a burst of wind to pass, and then maneuvered her way onto a limb and began to slowly make her way down.

Her descent was almost graceful until the winds picked up again. She looked down through the leaves, and then quickly up to the curtains flapping out the window, realizing it was too late. The moans came first and then powerful gusts of wind hit, one after the other. Leaves ripped from the vines, twigs snapped and then a crack and a jolt beneath her feet turned her blood cold. Her fingernails sliced into her palms as she gripped with all of her might, but it was no use. Her hands slipped from the branch, slowly until they were free, and then she dropped to the ground with a thud. The tempest stilled as she lay. From the quiet, a gust of wind came over the trees, swooped down with a guffaw of laughter and zipped off around the corner with a whimper.

Footsteps approached across gravel, stepping to the wooden sidewalk, across the grass, to the dirt mound where she lay. Rachael opened her eyes and saw Cousin Claude standing above her. She cringed, although for once, it seemed he might have come for the good from his small dwelling set in a grove of trees beyond the barn.

She raised a hand for help, but all at once, a wrenching pain squeezed her insides. She clutched her belly...and then blackness....

Timothy stuck his head of the door. Two puppies scrambled between his legs and down the steps to her rescue. He hopped off the porch and went to look around the corner. "What in the name of...?"

"I think we're about to witness a birth right here in the front yard," Claude said.

Timothy froze to the spot as the pickup carrying his parents Rupert and Martha and his brother Steven pulled into the yard.

Steven slammed on the brakes.

They leaped from the vehicle; Rupert before the wheels stopped turning and Steven not far behind, hollering to his brother. As he raced over, "Don't just stand there gawking, Timothy, get a doctor!"

Steve dropped to his knees beside Rachel and when he saw she was unconscious, he glared up at Claude. "What in the hell happened?"

Claude leaned against the house, lit a cigarette, and tossed the match aside. "Don't look at me. I didn't tell her to climb out the damn window."

Rupert scooped up Rachael in his burly arms and carried her into the house, her mother weeping at his heels. When they got inside, she nodded towards the stairway.

"Up there where she'll be...where she'll...oh, Rupert, you know you've gone too far this time," she wailed. "I'm afraid you've sewn your last."

"How was I to know she'd do something like this?" He bowed to gaze at his daughter. "Oh, Rachael, Rachael. What've I done? What've I done?"

Daylight faded as Rachael's pains grew stronger. When Doctor Grant arrived with Rupert's sister Francine, the men escaped to the basement with a bottle of whiskey. Francine gathered supplies, keeping pots of water warming on the stove.

Throughout the night, the two Norwegian Elkhounds lay on the porch with their heads resting on their paws. Now and then, they moved their eyes nervously toward her curtain-drawn window as if they were aware of the drama that was taking place inside.

Sometime in the wee hours of the morning, cries of anguish sent hair-raising chills through the house and out into the night. Doctor Grant's voice rang through the painful fog. "Push, Rachael, push! You're almost there. That's it, you've done it, you've done it."

There was a snapping sound as the doctor slapped the baby's bottom. The room became still. Then as if in protest, the baby's wails broke the silence. "It's a girl, everyone. It's a girl!"

Francine came with warm water and towels, helping attend to mother and baby. Finally, when the doctor could do no more, he nodded to Martha.

Rachael opened her eyes as her mother placed the bundle in her arms, her hands trembling as she pulled back the tiny blanket. Her fingers slid across the baby's cheek. "Oh Emily, my beautiful little girl, I love you." She kissed her forehead then looked up at her mother.

"Ma," she said, as her mother sat beside her. "Please, Ma. Don't... Don't cry when I'm gone."

"No, honey. No, don't say that, don't...."

"Ma, please... please. Just tell me that you'll keep her safe."

Tears poured down Martha's cheeks as she looked down at the tiny bundle. "I will. I will, but..." She sighed and reached for Rachael's hand. "Yes, of course. I'll keep her safe."

"And Ma? Tell Timothy I'm sorry."

"Whatever for....?"

"Ma."

A sob shook Martha's shoulders. She sat up then, straining to hold it back. "Yes, Honey, yes. I-I'll tell him."

Rachael smiled and closed her eyes. Her face filled with peace as she surrendered her mind and soul to the light that waited for her.

Martha gently brushed back her daughter's hair, kissed her forehead, and then lifted Emily from her arms and carried her to a corner rocking chair. Tears streamed down her face as she rocked and sang to the newborn until exhaustion finally brought her sleep.

Dawn brought a violent gust of wind that sent Martha to the window with the orphaned child cradled against her bosom. She pulled the curtain aside and watched a shadow move across the yard and settle over the barn. The building, already old and weathered with the brush of winds, looked eerie under darkening skies. The front door squeaked on its hinges, and on top, a rusty weather vane spun out of control.

When the eastern skies lit up with a flash and a distant rumble, Martha dropped the curtain and pulled Emily closer. "The storm's headed our way, little one. I can feel it in my bones."

CHAPTER ONE.

EMILY.

1949.

Emily tiptoed down the steps, up the hallway, and into the kitchen, scooting past the table to the door. Her hand was on the knob when Grandfather looked in from the hallway, shirtless, and barefoot.

"Where're you off to?"

"Just checking the veranda, seein' if the dogs are out, that's all."

He grunted, pulled a bath towel from a shelf, and turned up the hallway.

She went to fire up the wood stove, made coffee, and then sped off to the barn, to the far corner, where no one bothered to investigate. She looked down at the baby kittens snuggled against their mamma. They looked so content it was heartwarming. But it wasn't going to last. This perfect little scene would never play out the way nature intended. Not with Claude around it wouldn't.

She squatted and gave the new mamma a good rubbing. Kidders was barely an adult herself, although she purred and yawned, obviously content with her new role.

"Sorry," Emily said, scratching the area around her whiskers. "I wish they could stay. But it's for their own good."

These kittens would be safe, but there'd be more, always more. Her heart ached because of things she had witnessed, things she would die to never see again. She shivered, squeezing her eyes in an effort to lose the vision.

Familiar footsteps came up alongside the building, and she held her breath as Claude's shadow passed over cracks in the wall. When he was gone, she set out water for Kidders, and then went to put on breakfast before the men started fussing.

She was grateful Steven had agreed to take the kittens to town later that morning on his way to the market. At times like this, she thought there was something decent about that man. Although she couldn't understand why he went along with the others, catering to Claude as if he was something special. Could be the men were all part blind. Or maybe they just didn't want to see the truth. Not that she knew the truth herself except that something warned her to keep her guard up as long as she was anywhere near him.

After breakfast, she cleaned up, and then took a bowl of peas out on the porch, sat on the step and began preparing them for soup.

As she stripped the peas from the pods and dumped them into a bowl, she watched Grandfather and Timothy fiddle with the trucks while Claude cranked up the tractor. When they left for the fields, she kept an eye out for Steven to load up the eggs and vegetables.

He was already in the pickup when she brought the kittens over. Every muscle in her body tightened when he looked at her as if he'd forgotten his promise to take them into town. Finally, he reached for the basket, set it in the seat next to him and drove off.

She watched him disappear up the road, and then returned to the front steps to finish shucking peas. It took some persuasions, a week's worth, but she was proud of herself for pulling this off, felt content, and happy, grownup. She wasalmost nine, after all.

On top of everything else that had happened these last few days, it was a treat not having to deal with the usual braids that had pulled at her scalp for so many years.

Before today, there was only a short period in her life, right after her grandmother died, when her dark hair wasn't wet down and tamed into braids. For weeks, in a state of shock and grief, she had walked around with her hair in such disarray that Aunt Francine had finally decided to cut it off.

"This length should do just fine," she said, flicking her own hair with the back of her hand. "We'll take care of it first thing in the morning." Aunt Francine left for home then while Emily sat on the front porch watching the dogs romp around the yard. She wondered why both Grandfather and her aunt's favorite solution to everything was to throw it out, burn it, pretend it wasn't there, or cut it off.

She knew that nothing would keep her aunt from chopping off her hair come morning, except maybe a visitor; and that didn't happen too often. Francine's house, as well as her own, sat a good distance off the main road that led to Watseka, the nearest town some fifty miles away. Their long driveway ducked into a grove of trees and was so secluded that unless someone knew them, they didn't exist.

At nearly five, Emily had been horrified at the prospect of having hair like her aunt's cut off like a broom right below her ears. That night she went upstairs right after chores to practice putting in braids. Her grandmother taught her how to braid her doll's hair, but still, it took half the night to put in a decent pair on her own head. Sometime after midnight, she stood at the dresser holding a hand mirror. The braids were far from perfect, but nothing that a little more practice wouldn't fix.

The next morning Aunt Francine walked in and headed straight for the sewing basket. She had already picked up the scissors before it struck her that Emily's hair was done up in braids. She didn't say anything, just cocked her head in wonder, and then dropped the scissors back into the basket.

That all happened over three years ago. Since then, she'd grown nearly four inches. Her workload had grown too, more than any nine year-old should be saddled with, she reckoned. And the little control she had over her life was something she already treasured.

She knew her complexion, dark hair and curls came from her grandmother's Italian side of the family. She would have preferred her mother's golden locks, coming from her grandfather's French side. Although, it was the mass of wild hair she and her uncle Timothy inherited that was such a nuisance. The worst part for her was to keep it in braids.

The day before, she had talked Steven into getting store-bought shampoo and conditioner so she could try out a trick she saw in a newspaper advertisement. Upon rising, she worked the solution through her hair and tamed it into some real nice curls. Her aunt didn't complain when she showed up to help with the canning, just stopped in the doorway for a moment gawking, and then went about her business. Not that she even had a say in it any longer. Emily was the one taking care of the house now, taking care of the men as well, except for the few times her aunt dropped by to help with the canning, although that was likely to end too.

Emily popped a crisp pod into her mouth and watched a black car come up the driveway and stop between the barn and the house. The engine knocked several times before it died, and then a woman in a calf-length red-and-white print dress stepped out. Her blonde hair was back off her face with barrettes and loose curls hanging around her shoulders. Emily couldn't take her eyes off the woman she thought might just as well be her mother.

It was no secret Grandfather was so pained over his daughter's death he'd done everything he could to block her out of his mind. He wouldn't allow the mere mention of her name in an attempt to erase her memory. Yet, Emily didn't see any harm in imagining.

Aunt Francine came around from the back yard with a pail of tomatoes they would can and store in the basement.

"I'm Miss O'Reilly from the school board," the woman called as she made her way toward the house.

Aunt Francine stopped next to the wooden arbor shielding her eyes with a free hand. "You're who?"

"Miss O'Reilly. Miss Mary Jane O'Reilly. From the school board."

Emily stuck another pod into her mouth, wondering what the school board, whatever that was, wanted with them.