Love Finds You in Wildrose, North Dakota

by Tracey Bateman

  TRACEY BATEMAN

  Summerside Press™

  Minneapolis 55438

  www.summersidepress.com

  Love Finds You in Wildrose, North Dakota

  © 2012 by Tracey V. Bateman

  ISBN 978-1-60936-592-9

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.

  Scripture references are from the Holy Bible, King James Version (KJV).

  The town depicted in this book is a real place, but all characters are fictional. Any resemblances to actual people or events are purely coincidental.

  Cover design by Lookout Design | www.lookoutdesign.com

  Interior design by Müllerhaus Publishing Group | www.mullerhaus.net

  Cover photo by Susan Fox / Trevillion Images

  Summerside Press™ is an inspirational publisher offering fresh, irresistible books to uplift the heart and engage the mind.

  Printed in USA.

  Dedication

  .......................

  For Jesus, the lover of my soul

  Acknowledgments

  .......................

  Rusty, you cook, clean, and rub my arms at

  the end of a really long day of writing.

  Thank you for being steady. You’re a perfect match for me.

  Thanks to Lori Ranfeld, who listens. This book

  might not have happened without you.

  Thanks to Rachel Meisel, who offered prayer

  and support as I wrote this book.

  WILDROSE, NORTH DAKOTA, WAS A GREAT NORTHERN RAILROAD town site founded in 1909. It absorbed the old post offices of Paddington and Montrose. It was planned that the Montrose name would be transferred here, but there was already a stop named Montrose on the Great Northern Railroad line, so officials of the railroad selected a new name noting the wild roses in bloom at the site. Until 1916, it was the terminus of the railroad line and billed itself as the largest primary grain market in the United States. A peak population of 518 was reached in 1930. Today the town boasts only about 110 residents.

  Tracey Bateman

  Prologue

  ......................

  Wildrose, North Dakota, 1913

  She took her son’s hand and allowed him to help her down from the wagon.

  “Are you okay here by yourself until Pa comes to find you?” he asked. “He said he wouldn’t be long.”

  “Of course. Go find your friends.”

  The image of his pa, he looked down at her. “You sure, Mama? I don’t mind waiting.”

  She gave him a dismissive wave. “Go. The girls already ran off to find their friends; you may as well too. I’m fine here alone.”

  At eighteen years of age, Roland would be off to college next year. And the year after that, her youngest would too. The years had gone by much too quickly.

  The mayor stood in front of the post office as the crowd milled about, waiting to watch the historic moment. In his hand, he held a pink flower. “Citizens, neighbors, and friends,” he started in that grandiose manner that had always irritated Rosemary—even when he was the mayor of Paddington, which had recently joined with the town of Montrose. Today the two towns were being absorbed into one: Wildrose. A new town didn’t mean a new mayor.

  “Today we become incorporated into one village,” he said. “Wildrose, North Dakota.”

  She clapped along with the crowd as her husband came alongside her and touched her elbow.

  “My wild rose,” he said in her ear. “They finally got smart and named a town after you.”

  Her face warmed at his teasing. She tapped her fingertips on his arm. “Don’t be silly.” The town had almost been called Montrose, until one of the railroad officials caught sight of the wild roses blooming and decided that would make a better name for the town. But of course her husband had always called her his “wild rose,” so he liked to tease her about it.

  He slipped his arm around her as they listened to the mayor christen their town. Rosemary couldn’t help but think what a difference such a few short years had made. The crowd around her faded as her mind took her back twenty years to the day she arrived in Dakota Territory.

  As she loved to tell the children, “It was the coldest wind I’d ever felt in my life….”

  Chapter One

  ........................

  North Dakota, 1895

  Bone-weary and half-frozen, Rosemary Jackson stepped down from the wagon into the kind of swirling snow that even the hardiest of men would have called a blizzard back in Kansas. But this weather was like nothing she’d ever experienced, especially in the middle of April. The wind sliced into her cheeks, and she was almost certain that if she looked into a mirror she’d find cuts and bruises from nature’s assault.

  Rachel had warned her that the weather up here in Dakota Territory was harsh and raw, but no one could have possibly prepared Rosemary for a spring blizzard of this magnitude.

  Mr. Bakker, the freighter who had allowed her to ride with him from Williston the past forty miles, left her baggage in the back of his wagon and made a beeline for the warmth of the little log cabin—the first shelter they’d come across in six hours since the snow began to twist and swirl. Thankfully, Mr. Bakker had been able to keep his horses on course, though the going had grown slower and slower as the blinding snow accumulated, and with the wagon wheels threatening to bog down more than once.

  For the first time, she wondered if she had done the right thing by leaving her home in Kansas. After all, the school board had offered her a teaching position after Pa’s death. But Rosemary’s mind had been set on seeing her sister again. She hadn’t even thought twice before thanking them kindly and refusing the offer.

  The front door swung open, and a broad-faced woman with a toddler on her generous hip ushered Rosemary inside after the driver. “Gracious me,” she said with a thick accent that Rosemary surmised was German. “Please come quickly and close the door. Ve do not vant the cold coming in vith you. Nor the snow.”

  She stared at Rosemary with something akin to pity in her bright blue eyes. “You must be frozen in your body. Come vith me.” Turning to a red-faced little man with a blond beard and a thick mop of blond hair, she deposited the child in his arms. “Varm up the soup while I take care of the little girl.”

  Inwardly Rosemary flinched. At twenty years of age, she was often still mistaken for a child. She was small—a good two, even three inches shorter than most of the girls she had gone to school with back before she earned her certificate of commencement. Rachel was just as small of stature, but it had never bothered her the way it bothered Rosemary.

  The German woman escorted her to the far end of the one-room cabin and pulled aside the curtain that had been hung for privacy. “Now, let’s get da clothes off and get you varm. Vhere are your bags, Fräulein?”

  Rosemary had packed a valise with her Bible, an extra dress, and a nightgown. The rest of her things were in the trunk. And of course there were still crates to come. But those had been shipped and wouldn’t arrive for some time. “Still in the wagon.”

  A deep frown drew the woman’s eyebrows together. “Dat man did not bring it in? I vill give him a piece of my mind, yes, I vill.”

  “I c–can’t blame him.” Rosemary had been in just as much of a hurry to get inside, and she hadn’t been the one fighting the horses for the past ten miles. She unwrapped her scarf and pulled it from her face. The woman’s eyes went wide with recognition.

  “Frau Tate, vat are you doing so far from home?”

  Rosemary smiled at the mistaken
identity. “You’re thinking of my sister, Rachel—the r–real Mrs. Tate.” She slipped off her gloves and extended her hand. “I’m M–miss Jackson, her s–sister.” Her body felt the chill through and through, and although she willed herself to stop shivering, it refused to obey.

  The German woman’s face split into a wondrous smile. “You are the image of one another.”

  “T–twins.”

  Her large, work-roughened hand enfolded Rosemary’s, and the woman gave it a hearty shake that nearly yanked her arm from the socket. “I am Frau Fischer, and my Heinrich you haf met vhen you come in. Gracious, your hand is like icicle.”

  Rosemary hadn’t exactly “met” Frau Fischer’s Heinrich, but that point was moot for now. The important thing was that these kind folk appeared to be willing to put them up while the snow prevented safe travel.

  “Pleased to meet you, Frau Fischer.”

  Rather than release her, Frau Fischer covered Rosemary’s hand with both of hers. “I too am pleased to meet you, Fräulein Jackson.” The calloused palms moved swiftly across Rosemary’s skin, coaxing the feeling back into her fingers.

  “Call me Rosemary,” she said, relieved to discover that she would not be permanently frozen, as her body began to warm up. “If you and my sister are neighbors, then I’m your neighbor now too. And I prefer the friendliness of using given names.”

  “And you vill call me Agnes.”

  “All right, Agnes.”

  The two exchanged the sort of smile reserved for strangers who already knew they could be friends if given half a chance.

  “Frau and Herr Tate’s homestead is ten more miles north of here. Too far to visit often. Dat Herr Tate, he is fine man. Vork very hard.”

  Rosemary nodded. “Finn worked for Pa back in Kansas on our ranch. It’s where he and Rachel met.” Now that her fingers were no longer freezing, they were beginning to burn. At least they weren’t frostbitten. “Pa wanted to keep him on as foreman, but Finn had an itch to start his own farm.”

  “It is the vay of man. He must plow his own land. Raise his own herd. This is goot. It is God’s vill.”

  Yes, Rosemary supposed it was good. If only he hadn’t wanted to fulfill God’s will so far from home.

  Agnes Fischer patted Rosemary’s shoulder as though understanding her unspoken thoughts. “Come, come. Ve should get your vet skirt off so you do not catch death.” Agnes handed Rosemary a thick quilt. “Cover vith this vhile I go and put some vater on the stove so you may vash.”

  “I’d appreciate it.” She felt as though she hadn’t cleaned up in a month. How heavenly an actual bath would be. But she guessed she’d have to wait until she arrived at Rachel’s house for that.

  Rosemary’s fingers still trembled as she clumsily worked at her buttons. By the time Agnes returned, Rosemary had wrapped the quilt around herself and was becoming drowsy as she grew warmer.

  Agnes smiled her approval. She handed over a wool dress. “This is my Marta’s. She is just about your size. The blue vill match your eyes—just like Marta’s.”

  “Thank you.” Rosemary clutched the dress to her chest.

  Agnes waved away her thanks and took Rosemary’s wet things from the stool by the bed where Rosemary had set them. “I vill hang these by the fire to dry.”

  “I hate for you to go to so much trouble for me,” Rosemary said. “I’ll hang them up as soon as I’m dressed.”

  “Nonsense, Fräulein.” She shook her head. “I vill not mind.” Agnes patted the bed. “You lie here and rest vhile the vater heats on the stove. My Heinrich and Herr Bakker are taking care of the horses. Heinrich vill carry in your valise.”

  “Will we be going on to my sister’s homestead in the morning?”

  Agnes hesitated then shook her head. “The snow is still coming down very hard.”

  As if to accentuate her words, the wind gusted outside, howling and shaking the little cabin to its foundation.

  “How long, do you think?”

  Agnes shrugged. “Perhaps if the snow stops by morning, who knows. Two, maybe three days? Or maybe a veek. But do not vorry. It vill not be so bad here. My children, they are all five vell-behaved.

  “Voman!” Herr Fischer called. “The vater is hot for the little girl.”

  “My Heinrich, he does not holler so much.” She rolled her eyes. “Only sometimes.”

  Rosemary watched Agnes duck around the curtain and felt ashamed. Here this woman was doing her best to make her feel comfortable, and she felt like complaining about being forced to stay for a few days.

  Agnes returned moments later, carrying the water.

  Rosemary stood up. “Thank you for everything, Agnes.” She released a sigh. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful.”

  A kind smile played at the corners of Agnes’s lips. “There is no need for apologizing.” She set the bowl of warm water on the dresser. “You vish to see Rachel. It is to be understood. I vould also so love to see my own sisters.”

  Tears threatened Rosemary’s eyes, but she refused to surrender. Instead she smiled. “Thank you. I appreciate the warm water and the dress—and the food.”

  “You vash and get dressed and I vill dish you up some supper. You are hungry, ja?”

  “Yes, thank you. That sounds lovely.”

  “Do not worry, Rosemary. A veek vill go by much faster than you know.”

  Rosemary reached out and touched Agnes’s arm. “I’m sure it will be fine. I just miss Rachel so much. We haven’t seen each other in three years.” She smiled at her hostess. “Papa used to tell me to look in the mirror if I missed her so much. The problem was, I could tell us apart even if he couldn’t.” She let out a little laugh at her unsuccessful attempt to lighten her mood.

  “I vill tell you apart. Already, you are Rosemary and she is Rachel. Both beautiful, but vith different eyes.” Agnes headed toward the curtain, leaving Rosemary to wonder what she meant. Rachel’s eyes were identical to hers, just like the rest of their physical appearance. She didn’t have the opportunity to question the woman, as she seemed to be in a hurry to get to the other room. “The food vill be ready soon. You rest. I come and get you when it is hot.”

  “Thank you.” After the curtain closed behind Agnes, Rosemary let the quilt drop and then slipped the blue wool dress over her head. A wave of sadness washed over her as she buttoned up the front. She had been so sure she would be seeing Rachel tomorrow. She had been on one train after another for a week until her arrival in Williston. And it had taken another three days to find a freighter willing to let her ride as far as possible in the direction of Finn and Rachel’s homestead. The three years without Rachel had been the most miserable of her life. Waiting another week felt like a lifetime.

  By the time she was dressed, Rosemary could hardly keep her eyes open. As hungry as she felt, exhaustion was winning the battle between the two basic needs. She stretched out on the bed and barely heard Agnes slip back around the curtain. She hovered over the bed and clicked her tongue in disapproval before patting Rosemary’s leg. “It is all right. You vill not become ill from one missed meal. Tonight you vill sleep. Tomorrow you vill eat.”

  “I don’t want to put you out of your bed,” Rosemary said, slurring her words.

  “Do not vorry,” Agnes said. “Marta and Elsa will sleep in the bed vith you, and Herr Bakker vill sleep on the floor by the fire. You sleep. I vill haf bed. My Heinrich vill haf bed. Children vill also haf bed in the loft.”

  Too weary to argue, Rosemary murmured a thank-you she hoped reached her lips. She didn’t awaken when the children were placed in her bed, but in the morning, when the smell of frying pork tempted her awake and made her stomach rumble, two cold feet were pressed firmly against her back and only part of her body was covered with the quilt.

  Her stomach sank as she recognized the sound of the howling wind outside and felt the chill through the cracks in the wood. There was no point in trying to go back to sleep, so she carefully slid out of bed, so as not to wake the two child
ren, and ducked around the curtain. Mr. Fischer and Mr. Bakker sat at the table, their feet stretched toward the stove. Clearly, the two men had already taken care of the chores outside.

  Agnes stood in front of the stove, frying ham and stirring a pot. On her hip rested the child she’d been holding the night before when they arrived. She looked up from the stove and scowled. “You should still be in bed, Fräulein.” She shook her head as understanding dawned on her face. “Those children of mine sleep every vich-a vay. I should not haf put them to bed vith you.”

  “I slept fine.” She grinned. “Until I woke up with icy feet on me. I’m sorry to take your bed, though.”

  “It does not matter. Ja, Heinrich?”

  He grunted, and Rosemary had a pretty good idea that Heinrich wasn’t as generous about lending his bed to strangers as his wife was.

  “Well, I insist upon sleeping elsewhere and giving you back your bed tonight.” Rosemary joined her in the kitchen area. “How can I help?”

  “Oh no. You are guest. Sit. Sit. I get you coffee?”

  “I’m not an invited guest. I’m a drop-in guest who has imposed upon you due to the weather, so please, let me help.”

  Agnes hesitated for only the briefest moment before agreeing. She handed over the spatula. “Goot. I vill tend the children.”

  The men ignored Rosemary as she pushed the slices of ham around the pan to keep them from scorching. As she watched the fat sizzle at the edges of the meat, her thoughts flowed to Rachel and the letter she had received just after Christmas.

  I am beside myself with worry over Pa. However, I am afraid coming to you is impossible now. Finn has offered to purchase fare for my travel after the spring thaw, bless him. I have enclosed a letter for Pa. And darling Rosemary, please know that when Pa’s time comes, Finn and I will welcome you with open arms into our home.

  Thinking of those open arms brought a bittersweet smile to her lips. She lifted the slices of meat onto the platter and stirred the oats. Had Rachel received the letter she’d penned three weeks ago after Pa’s death? Pa had taken care of everything important ahead of time, so all that was left for Rosemary to do was to give him a decent burial in the cemetery next to Ma and then make her arrangements to travel. And with nothing else to stay for, she’d left Kansas within two weeks, with the school board’s assurance that, should she decide to come home, the teaching position would be hers.