Broken Limbs, Mended Hearts by Regina Jennings (10 best novels of all time .txt) 📗

have experience in dealing with independent farmers like those of Grimes County. They never quite arranged themselves into a group that met Dr. Paulson’s standards, but he began regardless.

“Gentlemen of Oak Springs and the surrounding farms, today you will witness a harbinger of your future. Today you will turn from the antiquated methods you and your forefathers used and become ambassadors for progress.”

Unable to bear their scoffing looks, Adam focused on the buckles and tightened the harness again. He would have gladly gone unnoticed, but that was impossible when Dr. Paulson called him out by name.

“Many of you know my former student Adam Fisher. His work at the agricultural college has been a credit to this town, especially considering what a meager education he was given here. Adam and I have made it our mission to improve the yield and quality of your produce, and in so doing, to bring Texas up to the prosperity enjoyed by the more successful farmers of the Ohio River Valley.”

Why’d he have to go and say that? The last thing these men wanted was to be compared unfavorably to a bunch of Yankee farmers.

Adam grabbed the side of the wagon and, with one foot bouncing off a spoke, vaulted up next to Dr. Paulson. He had to intervene.

“Howdy, folks. I’m right pleased to see you again. I’m Adam Fisher, if some of you don’t remember me. My folks and I were only privileged to live here in Oak Springs for a year, but it’s one of my favorite places on earth. Now, Dr. Paulson, he’s very generous with his praise, but instead of believing him—­who’s a stranger to y’all and hasn’t proved his worth—­how about we fire this thing up so you can see for yourselves what it can do?”

Heads were nodding. Postures relaxing. While Adam recognized Dr. Paulson’s genius, he wasn’t surprised that it often went unappreciated.

“Now, what I have here is a machine that will cut your threshing time to a quarter of what it was. You know how you have to beat those stalks, or walk your cattle over them back and forth? And then you have to wait for a fine, windy day to toss your grain up in the air and hope the husks blow off? It’s hard work, and it takes time. You could be using that time to finish the rest of your field, or to plow up more ground if you had a mind to. This machine cuts out all that middle mess. All you have to do is toss the wheat into this chute here, and then the belts, the fans, and the beaters will do the separating. But don’t take my word for it. Let me show you.”

Wiping the sweat from his hands against his britches, he walked a circle around the treadmill and checked the horses’ harnesses again. With a prod from his whip, the big bay stepped forward, dragging the others along. Adam moved back to follow the workings of the gears and the pole above his head that meant the thresher’s mechanics were engaged. The creaking sound behind him told him that the thresher was starting to move. All the gears were engaging correctly.

“Ain’t you forgetting something?” Mr. Clovis laughed. “Or does this machine of yours make grain without any stalks put in it?”

He’d forgotten about Mr. Clovis, a farmer and beekeeper. His honey was sweet, but his temperament was not.

“In good time,” Adam said. “I’m making sure the setup is right.”

“I could’ve had three bushels of wheat winnowed by now,” Mr. Eden chimed in. “And that’s without the help of four draft horses.”

“He was up here for pert near an hour getting this rig set up,” Mr. Clovis volunteered. “With that kind of a head start—”

“I’m ready to begin.” A group of farmers with fields nearly ready to harvest weren’t as patient as agricultural students wasting class time. Adam lowered the tailgate of Mr. Granger’s wagon and pulled the bound sheaves toward him. With his knife, he cut the bonds and loosened the stalks. Thankfully, Mr. Granger had brought a pitchfork as he’d requested. But by the time he’d gotten the sheaves freed, the horses had stopped, and the threshing machine’s whirling ceased.

“That wasn’t as good as the juggler,” Mr. Eden said. “He stood on his head.”

“Give the lad a chance,” Dr. Paulson said. “You might learn something.”

Adam was too busy to answer. When he raised his head, his eyes lit on Mr. Granger. “Mr. Granger, could I talk you into prodding these horses for me? Not too fast, just keep them going steady.”

Granger readjusted his hat and tugged on the gelding’s bridle. The threshing machine whirled back to life.

Adam couldn’t help but look for signs that his audience was interested. They were, but maybe more interested in watching it fail.

Then they would be disappointed.

Standing at the back of the wagon, Adam took the pitchfork and tossed the first load of wheat into the hopper. To the new listener, the sound of the fans wouldn’t be discernible from the sound of the beaters, but to Adam, it was as sweet as a whippoorwill’s song. He pitched another bundle in, then another. The beaters were doing their work, but the evidence was hidden until . . . there! Straw was spitting out of the vent. Golden straw with no heads of grain. Mr. Garner lifted an eyebrow. Adam smiled. He’d impressed at least one, and there was even more to come.

The fan whistled inside the machine, and even though the work was hidden from their eyes, Adam knew the forced air was blowing across the grain and separating the kernel from the husk around it. And in just a moment . . .

The first clean grain dropped from the cleansing sieve. Like quickening raindrops, the kernels bounced faster and faster against the ground. Mr. Clovis swept off his hat and held it beneath the spout, catching the precious grain. “Whoo-­ee, look at that. And all he had to do was toss the stalks in.”

“After spending an