lacked the full mountain views that she so enjoyed on her
place, but all in all it was a gorgeous piece of carefully tended
farmland. The rich, dark soil of recently tilled fields and the
old-fashioned barn with silo with farm machinery parked
nearby indicated it was still a working farm. And there, nes-
tIed beneath several old willow trees, was a charmingly old,
single-story farmhouse with a wide, if slightly sagging, cov-
ered porch. She parked in the gravel driveway and walked
up to the front door to be greeted by the friendly barks of a
black-and-white dog, its tail wagging happily.
"You must be Maggie Carpenter," called a raspy voice
from around the side of the porch. An elderly man in clean
but faded overalls removed his felt hat and approached her,
extending a work-worn hand in her direction.
17.
18Melody Carlson
"Yes, and you must be Mr. Westerly." She shook his hand
and was surprised at the wiry strength beneath the wrinkled
exterior.
"Pleased to make your acquaintance." His eyes were
warm and friendly and his smile seemed sincere. "I see
you've met my Lizzie." He smiled down on the dog. "Good
girl, Lizzie."
"Is she a Border collie?" Maggie stroked the dog's
smooth head, noticing that one of her eyes was murky and
gray, probably the result of age and cataracts.
"Purebred." He grinned proudly. "I owned her mother
and grandmother and great-grandmother. But she's the~ last
one for me."
Maggie nodded with understanding, suspecting that Mr.
Westerly was afraid he wouldn't last long enough to own
another dog. "Well, she seems like a very well-mannered
girl."
"That she is. Please excuse me for keeping you waiting on
the porch, especially when it's getting so cold outside. I think
we've got some snow on the way. Come inside. You'll find
I'm not much of a housekeeper-that was always Nellie's
territory, God rest her soul." He led her into a dimly lit
parlor with furnishings that appeared as if they hadn't been
changed or moved for more than fifty years. "Excuse the
dust and have a seat," he said. "I've made us some fresh
coffee. That is, unless you would rather have tea. My Nellie
always preferred tea."
"No, coffee is perfect. And you shouldn't have gone to
such trouble-"
"It's no trouble." He waved his hand and left.
Maggie sat on the plum-colored sofa, running her hand
along the stiff camel-hair fabric, still scratchy after all these
years. On one side of the sofa sat a platform rocker and on
the opposite side, a tufted armchair covered in a faded cab-