an international initiative that provides protection for these valuable commodities against the challenges of natural and man-made disasters.
When Anna was collecting seeds in 1869, there were at least 285 varieties of cucumbers for her to plant. If she were gardening now, she’d have limited varieties from which to choose. While savings seeds from year to year was common, Anna was ahead of her time in post-Civil War America in cataloging the heirloom seeds for future generations. Seeking historical varieties of seeds has become a hobby for many people in recent years.
While gathering and growing different varieties of seeds is a fun and important way to remember our history, cultivating these seeds can also protect against blights. The Great Famine in Ireland was caused, in part, by heavy reliance on only one or two high-yielding types of potatoes. Cultivating genetic variety is often used as a protection against losing an entire crop to a disease.
The next time you’re at the grocery store, think about all the different varieties of fruits of vegetables!
I hope you enjoyed Anna and Russ’s story. Don’t forget to read book one of the series by Cheryl St. John, The Rancher Inherits a Family, and book three by Karen Kirst, Romancing the Runaway Bride.
I love connecting with readers and would enjoy hearing your thoughts on this story. If you’re interested in learning more about this book or others I’ve written in the Prairie Courtships series, visit my website at SherriShackelford.com or reach me at [email protected], on Facebook at Facebook/SherriShackelfordAuthor, on Twitter @smshackelford, or with regular old snail mail: PO Box 116, Elkhorn, NE 68022.
Thanks for reading!
Sherri Shackelford
To my editor on this project, Elizabeth Mazer, for working with authors all day long, and still loving her job! To the other authors in this series, Cheryl St.John and Karen Kirst, I’m humbled to be among you.
Contents
On the road to Cowboy Creek, May 1869
“Something don’t feel right,” the wagon driver declared, casting an uneasy glance over one shoulder. “I travel this road every Tuesday and Friday delivering eggs to the restaurants in Cowboy Creek. But something don’t feel right today.”
“How can you tell?” Anna Linford anchored her bonnet with one gloved hand and squinted against the sun. A narrow creek snaked beside the road with scrub brush lining the steep banks. “We haven’t seen another soul for miles.”
Everything in Kansas was exaggerated and larger than life. The sky was painfully blue, the clouds a preposterous shade of white and the horizon seemingly endless. Even the fluttering prairie grasses were an overblown hue of emerald.
“That’s why I’m worried,” said the driver, Mr. Ward. “There should be more folks traveling this time of day.”
Mr. Ward’s skeletal hands trembled on the reins. Anna’s reluctant companion was somewhere past seventy and as gnarled and bent as the old oak tree outside the window of her childhood home. Layers of wrinkles corrugated his face, rendering his expressions indecipherable. Though he’d politely refrained from smoking in her presence, the sooty odor lingered on his coat, and her stomach churned.
As
