“Hyah, Day! Hyah, Lily!” The team sensed the urgency in their mission and took off as if they were in a race, galloping in perfect harmony. All around them, the snow moved like a living thing, and the cold wrapped itself around him until his fingers became stiff.
The path of the well-worn road was becoming obscured as the wind-driven snow filled in the ruts, smoothing it out so it matched the rest of the endless prairie. The storm altered the landscape as the wind moved the snow into piles and drifts, making hills that hadn’t been there before. Nothing looked the same as it had on the ride into town earlier that day. It was perilously easy to get lost.
Joel tried to keep the landmark tree in his vision, the place that would tell him where he needed to turn to the east. If he could see it, they would make it safely; but the fury of the storm increased, and the horizon was disappearing into a blur. Suddenly, the tree vanished.
All around him, everything turned white. He could barely make out his own hands holding the reins.
Whiteout.
It was every traveler’s worst fear on the prairie, this time when the wind took the snow, picked it up, and made it into a whirling cloud of white that took away a man’s sense of direction and often drove him farther out onto the prairie.
There was nothing to do at a time like this but hold true to the course, trust in the horses … and have faith in the Lord. This was, Joel figured, as good a time as any to talk to God. And he did. God, it seems like I come to You more when I’m needing You than when I’m thanking You, and for that I truly apologize. But I’m in a fix here, and if You feel that it’s right to take me in this storm, do so, but save Lizzie. Save my love.
He would have given anything to be able to take her in his arms and hold her tiny form to him. The winds paused briefly, and in this pocket of quiet he realized she was speaking. He couldn’t catch every word, but he made out enough to recognize what she said. She was reciting from her beloved Psalm 100: “‘Know ye that the Lord He is God….’ “
What an odd choice, he thought. A psalm of praise, now?
The reins pulled in his hands, and he realized Day and Lily were turning. He tried to straighten them out, but they resisted.
“Day! Lily!” The wind tore the words from his lips and tossed them away with the flying snow. The reins slipped from his frozen fingers and flapped free. He couldn’t catch them and watched as they disappeared into the white cloud that surrounded them. He had no choice but to give the horses their head and let them take them home … if that was, in fact, where they were going.
“Joel?” Elizabeth’s voice cut through the wind, and he turned to look at her. Her next words vanished into the wind’s roar, but the question on her face was clear. Will we be safe?
He smiled at her with an assurance he didn’t truly feel. It was one thing to place all your trust in God; it was another thing entirely to be sure that you and God were of the same mind.
How did he know they would be safe on earth—when, in fact, the Lord might be planning for them to be safe in heaven? It was a theological question his wind-chilled mind could not fathom, but something crept through his numbed thoughts with lightning precision: he wanted to live—with Elizabeth.
The full measure of his love for her almost overwhelmed him. He’d always known he loved her. It was something he’d never doubted, not from the first moment he saw her on the steps of her grandfather’s church in Omaha. He’d known then that this woman had his heart.
He was not one to believe in love at first sight, not at all, but what happened to him was different. Not that he could explain it, not then, not now. He was a pragmatist. He wanted proof, something solid he could point to and say, “This is real. I can see it. I can touch it. I can prove it.”
But one thing became progressively more obvious to him: love was the one thing that could never be explained as he would like.
He smiled as Elizabeth reached for his hand and squeezed it. Even through the snow-crusted mitten, he could feel the warmth of her touch. Maybe this was the physical proof he wanted. Love was real in Elizabeth.
The horses stopped. He hadn’t even realized they had slowed. The cloud of white that had been their nemesis dissipated somewhat, and he shouted with joy as he saw what was in front of him. “Elizabeth, we’re home! The horses brought us home!”
He swung out of the wagon, nearly toppling when his deadened hand didn’t grasp the edge of the wagon.
They were home!
He clumsily wrapped the reins around his wrist and led the horses to the barn, recognizing as he did so the irony of that. Here they were, just yards from the barn door, and he was leading in the animals that had brought them there.
The door was wedged partially shut with snow, and he kicked it free. Day and Lily trotted inside, their breath turning translucent in the warm barn.
Joel helped Elizabeth down awkwardly; his hands might as well have been wooden stumps. He blew into his mittens, his breath warming his cold hands. Experimentally he flexed his fingers, grimacing as his fingertips stung. The painful tingle was a good sign; the feeling flowing back into his hands meant that there was no frostbite. “The barn is safe. We will stay here and wait out the storm.”
She nodded, and he noted how tired she was. Joel checked her hands and feet and even the tips of her ears to make sure she hadn’t suffered any frostbite. He took a pitchfork and freed a bale of hay, releasing the sweet-smelling dried grass into a fresh bed for her, but she shook her head. “No. I’ll help you curry Day and Lily. Then, we all will sleep.”
Working together, they had the horses brushed and fed and in their stalls quickly. They tended to the cows and chickens, then collapsed onto the fresh hay.
They rested in each other’s arms and were silent until Joel broke the stillness. “You were saying Psalm 100 during the storm, weren’t you?”
She nodded drowsily. “It seemed appropriate.”
“Why, though? Why were you praising God instead of pleading with Him?”
She glanced at him. “Is that what you were doing, pleading with Him?” She smiled. “I was, too. But through it all, I felt drawn to the Psalm. ‘For the Lord is good; his mercy is everlasting; and his truth endureth to all generations.’ No matter that there was a storm, Joel, the Lord is good.”
He ran his hand over her hair, now tangled and matted with hay, and touched her cheek, wind-bitten and raw. He had never seen anyone as beautiful in his entire life.
The Lord was, indeed, good.
Chapter 7
Stomp, stomp, stomp, stomp.
The unmistakable sound of Joel’s entrance to the house woke Elizabeth. She knew she had probably overslept again, but she had been bone-tired after the trip through the storm, almost as if she had pulled the wagon herself.
Joel grinned at her as she stumbled to the fire. “Good morning, sleepyhead.” He planted a kiss squarely on her lips, laughing at her reaction to his icy cheeks against her face.
“Is it still snowing?” she asked, pulling back as a shower of snow cascaded down her neck.
He shook his head. “The storm blew itself out late last night. Don’t you remember coming in here?”
“Only vaguely. Are the horses all right?”
“They’re no worse for the wear. Actually, they seem rather proud of themselves, bringing home the mister and missus all by themselves.”
Mister and missus. How she loved to hear that. “I hope you rewarded them well.”
“Each of them got an extra apple this morning. That made them very happy. In the horse world, an apple must be the equivalent of a gold medal. Day and Lily came as close to smiling as I’ve ever seen.”
The image of the two horses smiling was too much for Elizabeth, and she was still laughing as she returned to the fire, now dressed warmly. Joel stood at the window, looking out across the snow-swept plain. Something was bothering him, she could tell.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, coming up behind him and wrapping her arms around his waist.
“I’m worried about Brother Jensen,” he said. “He can’t get around too well with that broken leg of his. The temperature has dropped so low that it would be dangerous for him to be out there, alone in his house, without a fire.”
“Is it very cold?” she asked, already knowing the answer.
He nodded, his eyes not moving from the landscape.
“Then why must you go?”
It was then that he turned to her. “Lizzie, Brother Jensen is a man of God; but even if he weren’t, I couldn’t rest with myself knowing I didn’t try to ensure his safety.”
“‘Insomuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these My brethren, ye have done it unto Me,’ “she quoted softly.
Elizabeth knew, then, that he had to go. She’d worry, she’d fret, she’d stew. But she would let him go on his journey because he was on God’s errand. She had to trust in that.
Besides, a little voice in her head reminded her, he’ll be gone long enough for you to make the fruitcake. She smiled up at him. “Give Brother Jensen my best, won’t you, please?”
The thought of finally getting the fruitcake baked was almost heady. She wrapped Joel in two scarves, the old red mittens, and a thick fur-lined hat; packed three pairs of extra socks and a spare sweater; and bundled the wagon seat beside him with quilts, blankets, and the ever-present buffalo robe.
As he was set to leave, she added a heated brick, wrapped in layers of cotton flannel, to the floor of the wagon near his feet.
She handed him a basket. “I’m sorry I don’t have something fancier for Brother Jensen, but here are the leavings of lunch and some nice new bread. I included a jar of raspberries for color. They might be tasty on the bread.”
“He’ll appreciate anything you send, Lizzie.”
She kissed him and urged him into the wagon. “You’d better hurry along now.”
Joel looked at her curiously. “You know, Elizabeth Evans, you seem mighty anxious to get me gone. What’s going on?”
She widened her eyes innocently. “Why, nothing. The winter days are short, and I don’t want you riding at night.”
Joel didn’t seem entirely satisfied by her answer, but he picked up the reins, and Day and Lily instantly became alert. “I will try to be back before dark, but if I’m not, put a light in the window to guide me through the prairie night.”
“If you are late, my husband, I shall put a light in every window and all along the edge of the house and the barn, to bring you back safely.” Her words were barely above a whisper.
With a click of his tongue to encourage the horses, he set off. Elizabeth watched him go until he faded to only a speck on the endless white horizon. At last a spasm of shivering sent her inside.
She took her ingredients down, congratulating herself on having had the foresight to place them in a metal container. They were, indeed, safe and fresh. Within minutes she had the table covered with the accoutrements of baking. One by one, she laid the ingredients out next to the bowls, the spoons, and the pan.
Then she tore into the bedroom and from the trunk where she had carefully hidden it, she took a piece of paper—the recipe.
The recipe seemed straightforward enough. It seemed a bit overladen with the flour and molasses, but Mr. Nichols had said that fruitcake was heavier than the usual cakes she was used to.
She creamed the lard and eggs to a frothy pale yellow, and then scraped the brown sugar cone until she had the correct measure. In went the sugar, the flour, the baking powder, the spices, and the salt, and she stirred and stirred until she was convinced her arm would drop clean off her body. The mixture was so dreadfully thick.
She consulted the recipe anew and checked her additions. Yes, it was right. Apparently, it was supposed to be this unyielding.
The recipe called for alternately adding molasses and the candied fruit. The molasses gave the batter some liquid, but it was still terribly thick.
Elizabeth frowned and studied the recipe again. She had done everything correctly. Perhaps it was one of those miracles of cooking that she had never understood. She sighed and put it in the oven and sat down to wait.
Elizabeth had never been a good waiter. She alternately sat and fussed around the tiny kitchen, popping up and down like an impatient sparrow. The cake had to bake for at least two hours, possibly three, and she’d drive herself insane if she didn’t take care of her edginess.
Finally she took her Bible and settled before the fire. She knew exactly what she needed to read. The glorious opening lines of Psalm 9 had the power to ease her soul: “I will praise Thee, O Lord, with my whole heart….”
They reminded her of her grandfather. He had read opening verses of it in her wedding service.
She missed him, but he had been so happy at his own wedding that she couldn’t begrudge him spending Christmas with his new wife and her family in Lincoln. Besides, there was the very real fact that this house would be stretched to hold the three of them when Joel’s mother came. Adding two more people would tax it beyond its limits.
Perhaps after Christmas they could ride into Omaha and visit her grandfather and his new wife. She’d suggest it to Joel.
The most heavenly aroma reached her nose, and she was drawn into the kitchen. She couldn’t resist a peek in the oven. Taking a mitt from the table, she opened the black metal door. Heat blasted her face, and she blinked reflexively before leaning closer. She didn’t like what she saw. It smelled wonderful, but it looked awful. It was flat with a sudden depression in the exact center.
No cake she’d ever made had turned out like that. What could be wrong with it? Was it underdone? Overdone? Or—and she shuddered a bit at the thought—was it perfect as it was? For the first time since they moved to the claim, Elizabeth regretted not having a clock. She’d never had to bake anything this long, and she’d certainly never had to bake anything like this.
She gave it an experimental poke. The edges were springy, no, spongy. The depression in the middle was gooey and clung to her fingertip. The hot batter burned and she stuck her finger in her mouth.
It tasted good, a bit strongly flavored, but perhaps it would mellow after baking.
Elizabeth shoved it back into the oven. She’d leave it in there a bit longer, at least until the center set, and then she’d take it out.
Her stomach clutched with anxiety. Joel’s whole Christmas was riding on this fruitcake—and so was hers. She couldn’t focus on anything, not even her Bible now. She flitted around the house, straightening neat pillows on the bed, wiping off spotless shelves, adjusting a perfectly aligned painting on the wall.
The house had never been tidier.
She couldn’t stand it any longer. She opened the oven door and pulled out the pan. It was still soft in the center, completely undone, but the edges were becoming harder.
Maybe she was so worried, she’d temporarily lost her ability to determine how long two hours were. She put the cake back in the oven and threw her coat on. She might as well check on her chickens while she waited.
The barn was warm, although it was warmer when the horses were there. The cows mooed a greeting, and she freshened their hay.
Her chickens clucked in anticipation of the grain she spread out for them, and she chided them as they eagerly pecked at the hem of her dress in their zeal to get at the food. “Patience, patience,” she scolded, realizing the irony of the words as she said them. She was certainly no one to lecture a chicken about patience.
There was not enough to do to fill up the empty minutes while she waited for the fruitcake to bake. At last she pulled a chair up beside the oven and waited.
Time after time she checked, and time after time the results were the same. The edges were getting harder and harder, and the middle seemed content to stay uncooked.
When she looked out the window and realized sunset was falling over the plains, she knew she couldn’t wait any longer. Joel would be home soon, and he certainly couldn’t find the cake there … not yet, anyway.
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She took the cake out, amazed at its weight, and put it on the sideboard to cool. It looked even worse in the lamplight. Muddy in color, pebbled in texture, it was a dreadful sight.
Another problem presented itself quickly. The aroma of the cake permeated every corner of the tiny house. She stirred up some spice cookies and put them in to bake. They’d be warm when Joel got home, and they’d disguise the smell of the fruitcake.
When the cookies were in the oven baking, she tackled the fruitcake. It had hardened even more in cooling, and now she could not get it out of the pan. The usual gentle pat on the bottom of the pan didn’t work. A butter knife around the inner edges of the pan didn’t work. A whack on the edge of the table didn’t work.
In desperation she took the sharpest knife she had and tried to cut it out of the pan. With a loud clunk, the cake fell out onto the table.
It was, indeed, a heavy cake. She picked it up. The cake kept its form, even out of the pan, and except for the still-soft middle, the cake was as hard as a brick.
Perhaps it was supposed to be crusty on the outside, and inside it would be moist and delicious. She stood at the table, the knife poised over the cake.
If she tested the cake carefully, perhaps a judicious sampling from the bottom, she could for once and for all satisfy herself that the cake was all right.
Elizabeth tried a cautious cut across the bottom with the knife, holding her breath.
The knife blade bent.
She pressed harder.
The blade bent more.
She put her weight into the cut.
The knife threatened to snap. It was then she knew her worst fear had come true. The cake was as hard as the frozen prairie. Certainly this was not the fruitcake that was the rage on the East Coast. This fruitcake was totally inedible.
She opened the door and, with all her might, hurled the fruitcake across the open land, startling a flock of winter-roosting birds to flight.
With a somber heart, she returned to the fire to wait for Joel’s return. And, as she had done so many nights in the past, she turned to her Bible once again.
Tracie Peterson, Tracey V. Bateman, Pamela Griffin, JoAnn A. Grote Page 49