ALL NIGHT LONG: Prologue
September 12, 1832,
Youngstown, Ohio: 'Oh, how I long for Peace,for an end to this Great Unknown. Find our son, Dear Sir,
wherever he may be. Ease a Mother's broken heart, and bring my Boy home
again.' -- Mrs. Augustina Hudson,
copy of a letter to Colonel Zachary Taylor"
April 13
Mr. Rurik Magnusson
Black Hollow Farm
Magnusson Road
Warfield, Wisconsin
Dear Mr. Magnusson,
You don't know me, but
I fervently hope you will take a moment to read my letter and consider
the request you'll find herein. As you'll see by the enclosed book, I am
a photographer/ writer of documentary stories with a picture-intensive
format--that is, your basic coffee-table books.
For the past ten or so
years, I've been working on a story involving the 1832 confrontation in
Wisconsin known as the Black Hawk War. A particular incident is of importance
to me, and I have firm evidence it involved an area of your land, which
is now referred to as Black Hawk's Hollow. I am writing to request your
permission to research and photograph this area. My work is nondisruptive
and will only require as much time as it takes me to take pictures, make
notes, and follow through with research in local museums and libraries.
I feel quite strongly
about bringing this story to its close. I'd like to schedule the trip for
July, and therefore would appreciate a response as soon as possible. Please
feel free to contact me with any questions or concerns you may have.
Sincerely,
Annora Beckett, Author & Photographer
The Romance of Route 66, Hanneman Press
***
April 24
Ms. Annora Beckett
85 W. Chesterfield Street, #3B
Columbus, Ohio
Dear Ms. Beckett,
I do own a couple acres
of woods called Black Hawk's Hollow, but old Chief Black Hawk never came
anywhere near it, no matter what local legends say. Coming here would be
a waste of time, so save yourself the trouble. I'm sending back your book. Nice job.
Regards,
R. Magnusson
***
April 30
Dear Mr. Magnusson,
My apologies for not being
clearer. I'm not researching Chief Black Hawk, but the journey of a young
officer who fought in the war. Since this area of your land is mentioned
several times in my primary sources, I would very much like to visit the
landmark. Again, I assure you the nature of my work is not invasive. I'm
sending another book, this one chronicling a race- car driver's season
on the circuit. I think you'll see my work is inquisitive and honest, but
never exploitive.
Please reconsider my request.
Sincerely,
Annora Beckett
***
May 10
Ms. Beckett,
Thanks for asking my permission
first, but the Hollow is on grazing land for my dairy herd and I don't
want strangers upsetting their routine. July isn't good for me, anyway.
I'm returning your book again. Looks nice, but I don't have time to read
it, and I make a point to never keep gifts with strings attached.
R. Magnusson
***
May 30
Dear Mr. Magnusson,
Pardon the tardy response,
but I've been on the road a lot lately. Part of the job, I'm afraid. I
also wasn't sure how to respond to your last letter. In my years of freelancing,
I've worked with rodeo riders, long-haul truckers, train conductors, race-car
drivers, military history reenactors, and fishermen and trappers in the
Louisiana bayous, to name just a few. In addition, I've written pieces
for national magazines which have required me to follow historic journeys,
such as the Mormons' westward trek, old cattle-drive routes, and the trail
taken by the Cherokees during their relocation. As a professional, I'm
more than willing to work with you until we reach terms that meet your
satisfaction.
I'm sorry you feel the
books I sent came with some sort of 'strings' attached. Because I cannot
present my case to you in person, I had hoped examples of my work would
impress upon you the sincerity of my intentions and the depth of my dedication.
My only purpose is to take photographs that will complement the text of
my book.
I can promise that you--and
your cows--won't even know I'm around. If my books are not proof enough
of my intentions, I can offer you monetary compensation, one-half payable
upon my arrival at the Hollow and the remainder due upon completion of
my project. I often provide cash payments to those I work with, especially
if I'll require a few hours of their time. No strings attached to this
offer, Mr. Magnusson. Think of me as a contractor, if it helps, and I'm
hiring you to help me complete an ongoing project.
Also, if July is not good
for your schedule, I can make August, but would prefer not to wait much
longer. Please be assured that my intentions are sincere and legitimate.
I anxiously await your response.
Sincerely,
Annora Beckett
***
June 10
Ms. Beckett,
You sure are stubborn
but have convinced me that you are serious. I'm not so sure about this
money thing. Sounds like a bribe to me. How long will you need to be at
the Hollow? The farm keeps me busy, and I don't want a bunch of people
around, getting in my way.
Rik
***
June 15
Rik,
This will have to be brief,
as I'm leaving for a short assignment soon. Your last letter made me laugh,
because I'm usually not so pushy. I'm persistent only because I feel strongly
about completing this story. You could say it's been a dream of mine for
many years. I also laughed at the word 'bribe,' and it seems I'm not the
only one here who's rather stubborn. The money is NOT a bribe and the amount
is negotiable to a certain extent. We can talk about this more later, if
you wish. As for how long I'd be at the Hollow, I estimate the project
will take six to eight weeks to complete. I'm a stickler for doing thorough
research. I can also assure you that only I, a suitcase, and a lot of camera
equipment will arrive at your place. Which reminds me, if you agree to
let me come to the Hollow, I'll need a place to stay. Are there any decent
hotels or bed-and-breakfasts in or near Warfield?
I trust all is well with
you. I've heard on the news the Midwest hasn't been getting much rain lately.
I hope that's not causing you too much worry.
Please respond as soon
as you can, so I can begin making travel plans.
Warmly,
Annie Beckett
***
June 23
Ms. Beckett,
Hope your assignment went
well. Rain would be great, but it doesn't look like we'll get any soon.
Since you won't give up and since July isn't much worse than any other
time, I grant you permission to work at the Hollow and research your book.
But only if it won't cause disruptions. As for the money, I guess a little
extra is always welcome. I don't know about hotels. I tore out some pages
from the phone book for you. Let me know when you'll arrive. The door's
always open, but I'll need to tie up the dog in the yard. He bites. I'm
in the barn by six every morning and often don't get in until after dark,
so if you need me, leave a note by the coffeemaker. I'll find you.
Rik
***
June 28
Rik,
I am delighted everything
worked out. My plane arrives in Madison on July 20. And, yes, do tie up
your dog--I've been chased by more than my fair share of those creatures.
I PROMISE there will be no trouble. Girl Scout's honor! As for the money,
I'm willing to offer you a compensation of $3,000. I hope this will meet
with your approval. I'm on the road again until July 19, so I won't have
time to talk with you before I arrive in town. You can't change your mind
now!
Oh, and thanks for the
list of hotels. Not much to choose from, but I'll make do. Hope you get
a little rain soon.
Annie
"June 27, 1832, Dixon's
Ferry, Illinois: We are preparing to march and so I must be brief, or I
shall miss the post. I have read your last letter and beg you, Dear Mother,
not to fear for my health. The weather holds warm and clear, and wild game
is plentiful (Father would be keen to hunt here!) Indeed, I am in most
excellent spirits! The Beauty of this land leaves me in much wonderment,
and I am sending you these little sketches so you may see, through my eyes,
the blue rivers and swaying grasses growing as high as my chest. Give my
sisters my love and tell Emily the shirt is splendid, that I wear it with
great pride and I hope to be home for Christmas to settle A Matter most
dear to her sweet heart. With Affection, Your Obedient Son, Lewis.
-- Lieutenant Lewis
Hudson, to his mother Augustina"
"Ow!"
Rik Magnusson sucked in his
breath as his bare toe hit a warped porch plank. He jerked straight at
the stab of pain--and sloshed hot coffee over his hand.
"Dammit!"
His curse cut across the
hushed quiet of dawn and startled a pair of mourning doves coo-cooing on
the porch rail into flight. If stubbing a toe wasn't enough to bring him
wide-awake at five-thirty in the morning, the hot coffee made sure of it.
Wiping his hand dry on his
jeans, Rik scowled at the board and reminded himself, as he had umpteen
times already this summer, that he needed to fix the damn thing as soon
as he could find a little extra time and money.
With a last muttered curse,
he limped to the far side of the wide porch and hitched himself up to straddle
the railing. Leaning back against a carved post, he sipped his coffee and
watched the early rays of sun spread a soft, golden glow across his 220
acres of land.
In the low light, the bare,
bone-dry patches amid his hay were less noticeable, although nothing could
hide the fact the corn was at least a foot shorter than it should've been
by now--or that it wouldn't take more than a single spark to start a flash
fire just about anywhere.
At the click of paws on wood,
Rik glanced down to see his collie, Buck, trotting toward him.
"But you gotta admit," he
said, putting his cup aside to ruffle the long fur on the dog's neck, "it's
still the prettiest sight in the world."
To Buck, fields were nothing
more than good places to nose out mice, so his bright eyes and lolling
tongue likely meant he wanted his food bowl filled. Or that Rik would play
a game of fetch on the way to the barn.
"Maybe later, boy," he said.
Buck replied with an excited, snuffling bark.
Sitting back again, Rik breathed
in deeply, taking in the familiar scent of sweet hay on the morning breeze.
The breeze also carried with it a lowing from the barn, reminding him it
was nearly time to get off his butt and begin the morning's chore of milking
his herd of forty cattle. Once he finished there, he'd start repairs on
the garage roof, fix the radiator on the John Deere--they didn't make tractors
like they used to--and after a quick lunch he'd feed the Belgian horses
and give them their daily practice before he had to milk the cows again.
Just a day's work at Black
Hollow Farm.
For now, though, he enjoyed
the luxury of letting the minutes drift by as he nursed his coffee and
ate a tart Macintosh from one of his own trees, which he sliced with a
pocketknife.
Man, this was the life. No
time clock to beat, no one to tell him when to work or how. Farming wasn't
for guys who needed quick profits and instant results, or who didn't like
ruining their designer shirts with sweat, but the job sure had its moments.
Like now. Even when he was
an old, old man, he wanted to look across his land and feel the satisfaction
like this, warm and deep in his belly.
As his father always used
to say: You earn what's yours, and no man can ever take that away.
Not without a fight, anyway--and
if he smelled trouble on this dry, hot wind, he'd just work that much harder
to keep it away. He'd done it before.
Which brought to mind that
pesky writer, and her carrot-on-a-stick offer of money. He never should've
agreed to let her come. It didn't set right, not from the very start.
With sudden determination,
Rik straightened.
"Hell, we don't need her
money," he informed Buck, who cocked his ears forward. "And Magnussons
never beg."
The dog swished his soft
brush of a tail against the porch. Then he rolled to his back, paws curled,
and whined, eyes begging.
Rik grinned, shaking his
head as he rubbed the dog's belly. "Except for Magnusson mutts, that is."
Patting the dog a last time,
Rik glanced again at the sky, where the gray had given way to blue. His
eye tagged the time close to six. Time to get to work.
But he had a telephone call
to make first, and set everything aright once more.
###
God, what a life.
Smothering a yawn at the
early hour, Annie Beckett picked her way through the cases and trunks scattered
across her living room floor.
She hadn't bothered to unpack
after flying in from Santa Fe yesterday, since she had to head right back
to Columbus International tomorrow morning. Half the cases lay open, awaiting
a pretrip equipment check--a tedious chore, but no way would she ever find
herself ready to snap the photograph of the century, only to discover a
lens was scratched or her batteries had died.
In the small island kitchen,
Annie
put water on to boil, then pulled a mug from the cupboard. She tore open
a Constant Comment tea packet, filling the room with the pungent scent
of orange and cinnamon.
Yawning again, she quickly
sorted through a mound of mail lying jumbled on the counter. The usual
bills, which she'd pay in advance by several months and post before hitting
the road; a few letters which she separated from the pile so she could
write back while at the airport or in-flight; and the letters from her
Wisconsin farmer, scrawled on notepaper from Dow's Feed and Seed.
Rurik Magnusson.
What a name for some guy
who probably wore dirty overalls, sported a farmer's tan and chewed tobacco;
a contrary old coot who, as his blunt notes told her, lived alone and zealously
guarded his solitude and comfortable routines.
While waiting for the water
to boil, she took the mail with her into the living room and sat cross-legged
on the floor next to her desk. She pulled a leather attaché toward
her, placed the mail in the front compartment, then opened her file cabinet
drawer and began packing her files on the Hudson project.
With any luck, this would
be the last time she'd ever have to pack those files.
The irony of it all never
failed to touch her, that while searching for her mother and her own past,
she'd found Lieutenant Lewis Hudson instead.
Lewis was actually family:
a tie of blood existed between them, and Annie's admiration for Gussie
Hudson's tireless thirty-year search for her lost son had bound that tie
into a knot.
Such a shame that her own
mother hadn't inherited even a smidgen of her ancestress's maternal instincts.
Just as the teakettle whistled,
the phone rang. Annie looked at her watch in disbelief. Anybody calling
this early was either a wrong number or someone she didn't want to talk
to.
She headed to the kitchen,
letting the answering machine take the call. As she turned off the stove,
a deep, unfamiliar male voice filled the small room.
"Yeah, Miz Beckett, this
is Rik Magnusson at Black Hollow Farm."
Annie froze, her fingers
tightening on the kettle's handle.
"I'm calling about your visit.
Something's come up, and I can't have you come by. Sorry for the short
notice and for any trouble this causes with your ticket. I'd, uh, be willing
to pay you for it, if you can't get a refund." The man hesitated, then
added with finality, "Good-bye."
The tape beeped and began
rewinding as Annie swore softly and slammed the kettle back down on the
stove.
The wishy-washy worm! After
all her efforts to appease him, how dare he screw her over?
Well, she wouldn't let Magnusson stop her that easily.