Looking For You All My Life Part 7

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-fas.h.i.+oned 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, G.o.d rest her soul." He led her into a dimly lit

parlor with furnis.h.i.+ngs 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-