Immigrants and steel tell the story of Pittsburgh in the late 19th century, a time when Eastern Europeans were pouring into Western Pennsylvania. It's the debut novel by Kristin Bair O'Keeffe, 43, a Bethel Park native who lives in Shanghai with her husband and daughter. Her maternal grandfather and two great-uncles were Croatian immigrants who worked in U.S. Steel's Clairton Works.

Starting Sept. 7 you can read the remaining chapters of "Thirsty" at PG Plus the Post-Gazette's new premium Web site.

In the beginning, Drago smelled of dirt and bloom, the odor that would rise if you peeled the earth back at its seams. When he appeared on the doorstep of her father's farmhouse in Croatia on the first anniversary of her mother's death, Klara was sixteen and grateful that the mourning period for her mother had finally ended. At sunrise that very day, for the first time in a year, she had put on the pale green skirt that lit her eyes instead of the black one that highlighted only her grief. But even so, she was still encumbered with the care of five little ones who clung like spiders to her, so that when Drago knocked and she opened the door, she looked more like the three-headed, seven-limbed monster that was fabled to live among the haystacks in the fields than an almost beautiful girl on a farm. The littlest child was wrapped around her neck, fingers clawed deep into the skin, and the eldest crawled up her back like a lizard. The remaining three hung at odd angles'upside-down and sideways'from her arms and legs. Only the littlest one was quiet; the rest cackled and shrieked and giggled.

At the sight of such frenzy, another stranger might have turned to run, but Klara had just baked a rhubarb pie and its scent kept Drago on the stoop. While he watched from the doorway, she pulled the pie from the stove, set it on the sill to cool, and stepped out to meet him, all with five little ones still dancing on her. The juices from the baked rhubarb ran down her arm, and as she looked at Drago for the first time, Klara licked her fingers clean. Close up, his full, rich odor blended with the scent of pie and filled her nostrils. Though he was dusty and road-worn, he had clear blue eyes, a strong jaw, and muscled shoulders. He carried a leather satchel and one small traveler's bag.

'Zdravo,' she said. Though many travelers had stood in that very place, this man was surely the most handsome of all. Klara's stomach twisted into a funny knot, and a burning heat spread across her chest.

'Hello,' Drago answered. He smiled and looked into her eyes. They were odd, but beautiful'green like the skin of a grape just before picking. Bright and luscious.

'Who are you'? Klara asked.

'Drago Bozic.'

'Gdje ide'' she asked, nodding to the traveler's bag.

'To America,' he said. 'Would you like to come'?

Klara's heart jumped, and although she didn't answer his question directly, she smiled. Ameriku. This man was going to Ameriku.

After a moment of silence that was thickened with more expectation and hope than she'd ever allowed herself, Klara looked past Drago to the rolling meadows beyond. A few houses were scattered in small clumps between the stoop and the horizon. Otherwise, she could see only apple orchards and fields of wheat and rye. She had lived in this village her entire life and had rarely traveled beyond its borders. Whenever she'd pointed to the road that led away from the village and asked, 'Where does this go'? her father had said, 'To trouble and back.' And her mother had always agreed. Though Klara knew better than to answer back as a child, she'd never believed them. She'd let their answers drift far away and instead turned to her dreams for inspiration. In them, she saw that the world beyond was magnificent.

Klara looked at Drago again. 'Would you like to come in'? she asked.

He nodded and stepped into the house.

After settling the children into their beds for a nap, Klara settled Drago at the table. Over a bowl of piping-hot potato soup and a slice of still-warm rhubarb pie, she invited him to rest with her family for a few days. As their home stood at a crossroads between the inland villages and the Adriatic Sea, her mother had often offered the same hospitality to passing travelers. It wasn't unusual to have a newlywed couple or even a family of four or five spend a few nights in the barn with the cows and horses for company. Once a family of fourteen had rested there for four days: a mother, a father, six children, three aunts, two uncles, and an ancient grandmother who had told Klara stories about traveling by boat. For many nights after, Klara had dreamed of waves.

Shortly after Drago agreed to stay, Klara boiled several buckets of water over the fire and poured a steaming bath for him. She stirred lavender into the water with a wooden paddle and then rubbed a few drops onto her wrists and neck. While she waited outside the door for him to undress, she thought about America. In that moment, she realized that all her life she had been waiting to leave this little village. Ever since she'd been old enough to read the letters that arrived from travelers who had stayed a few days on their farm, she had longed to follow them. She'd carried their letters to the swing under the apple tree or to a quiet corner in the barn and read each one over and over until the pages were worn through and tattered. This one told about the jungle-like forests and ferocious animals. That one told of fashionable cities, fancy shoe stores, silk stockings, and high tea. Though she'd never admitted it out loud, each letter had lured her farther and farther from her home, and the urge to go had been especially acute since her mother's death.

When Drago was appropriately submerged in the tub, Klara entered the room. The air was thick and foggy with lavender steam that gathered in small droplets on her lips and forehead. Her heart was pounding and her arms and legs felt as if they might give and fold. She looked at Drago's bare chest and smiled shyly. Though she had seen her older brothers naked from time to time, this was something different.

'Bok,' he said. This time his greeting was informal, almost intimate.

Klara smiled. 'Hello,' she answered, then she dipped a pitcher into the bath and poured the water slowly over his head.

'I haven't been bathed since I was a boy,' he said.

Klara ran her fingers through his hair to push water to the roots. 'And I have never bathed anyone but the children and me.'

Drago stretched his arms out to let them float on the surface of the water, and Klara soaped them and rubbed them with her hands. The long sinews of muscle in his forearms loosened under her fingers.

She scrubbed his back and then wrapped her arms around him from behind to wash his chest. He made a quiet sound as she rubbed the soap in circles on his stomach, drifting for just a moment below the surface of the water. When she paused, enjoying the feel of his body, he let his head fall back against her chest. They stayed like that for a long minute, and when she finally stood and looked down, Klara saw that a wet spot in the shape of Drago's head was imprinted on her blouse.

Of course, she knew that bathing this man was a strange and premature adventure. If one of her older brothers had come in from the fields, she would have been chased from the room like a child, eternally chastised and bereft of this opportunity. If her father had come in for a cup of hot coffee, he would have beaten her silly. But despite her desire to venture out on her own and explore the world she had seen in her dreams, Klara knew that her only chance at escape from life in this village was a man. Otherwise, her father would never let her go.

So despite the danger of the encounter, Klara finished her task and left Drago to dry and dress. By the time company arrived, he was spit-shined and pressed, full of charm and stories.