The Baron’s Nephew—Oliver Olsen

About the Book

Oliver Olsen and Jack Strickland planned to leave on their journey to western Kentucky as soon as it got light enough for the horses to see. Monday morning came too soon. They all picked at their breakfast and fought to keep a straight face. Patrick, Lucy, and Martha Sawyer had spent the night with the Woldes; as did Jack Strickland. Paul arrived suddenly, it seemed, to say the surrey was at the end of the driveway and it was time to go. “Mister Olsen, sir,” Julian said, his voice trembling, “you’ve said nothing about Lady or her puppies. Do I dare ask what you mean to do?” “Julian, it’s been on my mind ever since I got here. Lady has followed me everywhere I’d let her go, and the puppies are too precious for words. I can’t decide what’s best to do. By the way, I haven’t seen Lady this morning. I wonder where she is.” “Pardon me, Mister Olsen,” Paul Interrupted, “but I happened to overhear what you said. I think the decision has already been made for you. Lady’s outside, sitting in the buggy seat, waiting for you and Jack.” With tears in his eyes, Julian asked, “Please, Mister Olsen, I’d like to tell her good-bye. May I walk out with you, sir?” “Of course, you may, Julian,” Oliver replied, hugging the man and fighting tears himself. “You will keep one of her puppies, won’t you?” “Oh yes, sir, I will keep the little girl and do my best to raise her to be like her mother. I’ll call her Tina.” Halfway down the driveway, Oliver spoke to Jack, “When you get to the pike, stop for a minute. I want to take a last look behind us.” A few minutes later, Jack stopped. Oliver and Lady got out and stood in the roadway a few minutes. He shed tears while the beautiful red Labrador whined for her puppies. “We can’t have this, Lady,” Oliver said to his dog. “If we stand here any longer, we’ll both change our mind. Come on, girl. Let’s go home to Kentucky.” Bill Conner Author

About the Author

I retired on the last day of the year 2008. I was seventy-eight years old, and it was a sad day; I found it very hard to let go. After several weeks of listening to my growling and complaining about having nothing to do, my wife gave me a challenge I could not refuse. I had talked for years about writing a book but claimed I never had time to do it. My wife said I now had plenty of time so I should get to it, and that’s what I did. I had no idea how to begin, but somehow I managed, and The Last Good Year is my eighth book to be published. I am halfway through writing the ninth and promised myself I would write a total of ten before I quit and retire again. It’s a pretty lofty goal for a man now eighty-four years old.