Home Is Where the Heart Is

by Linda Byler

  She heard the distant chuffing sound of an automobile, lifted a hand to shade her eyes to see if she could catch sight of who was coming to the ranch. A dark car with gold lettering.

  She straightened and saw the gold star on the side of the car. The sheriff. Her heart fluttered, then began to pound. Please don’t let it be a death message.

  The car rolled to a stop, the cloud of dust thinned and was blown away. The passenger door opened first, the dark shirt and trousers, the white Stetson. The door on the driver’s side opened with an identically clad sheriff, tall and sober, unfolding out of it.

  “Hello.”

  Hannah nodded, her mouth gone dry. The dogs set up a racket, bouncing on two hind legs as they strained on their leashes.

  “We’re making the rounds of Elliot County. Have you seen anyone here on the ranch that answers to the name Isaac Short? Older fellow, small and skinny.”

  “Isaac? Only Short I know is Lemuel. He was here in early spring—April or May. Riding a horse. Wanted me to hide him.”

  “Lemuel, you say.”

  “Yes. When my mother still lived here, he stayed with us for months. Gave us a story that was all a lie.”

  “Mind if we search your house and outbuildings?”

  “No.”

  So Lemuel was still loose. Nothing she was going to worry about, that was for sure. She watched for signs of Jerry, waited until the men completed their search, acknowledging their warnings politely, her hands behind her back, tipping forward then backward from toe to heel.

  “You have a man here with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, you make sure you’re not alone, unless you have a sizable dog to protect you. I understand you don’t use firearms in self-defense. Your faith.”

  It was only then that she thought of the revolver. Her eyes widened as she put her hand over her mouth.

  “What?” Instantly alert, the trained sheriff picked up on her astonished expression.

  “I forgot. When Lemuel Short was here, he threatened me with a pistol. I knocked it out of his hand. I swung a hammer quick before he saw I had one. I have the revolver.”

  That was, of course, a tremendous help in tracking him down, so Hannah received words of praise for her quick-wittedness, her bravery. They thanked her and left.

  Well, that was something now, wasn’t it? She felt good from the inside out. She watched for Jerry, anxious to tell him, then decided against it. If she told him now, he’d never leave the ranch. He’d stick close like an unwanted burr, and she had absolutely no intention of putting up with that.

  Her stomach growled. Time for lunch. She’d skipped breakfast, for some reason she couldn’t remember. Oh, Jerry wanted oatmeal, she remembered. She had eaten so many bowls of rolled oats as a child, and again here on the prairie when starvation was very real. So now, when she could choose other foods, she did.

  She heated a saucepan, added leftover ham and bean soup she’d made a few days ago. With rivvels. She loved rivvels. Like small lumps of noodles, they were pure energy. All that good flour and egg mixture dropped in tiny chunks into a bubbling pot of soup. She put rivvels in chicken corn soup and vegetable soup, or any other stew she threw together.

  She got out the sourdough bread which, as usual, was hard as a rock, but toasted in a pan and spread with lard or butter, it was edible.

  Her meal completed, she wiped the tabletop, put her dishes in the sink, then looked around the house with a sense of satisfaction. The afternoon sun slanted through the west-facing windows, bathing the front living room and kitchen in the golden glow of late summer. The deep gleam of the polished oak flooring added a warm luster to the white walls. The brown davenport and wooden rocking chairs both had a scattering of bright pillows and throws. Jerry’s rolltop desk stood against the east wall, where the wide door led to the kitchen.

  Hannah had been fortunate to be able to keep all the furnishings when her family returned to their home in the East. With Jerry’s belongings, the house was filled up nicely, except for one spare bedroom.

  Mam had had no desire to take the furnishings, even if she could have. It was not what she’d brought when her and her beloved Mose had made the trek out West. That had all burned in the fire. The furniture that graced the rooms now had all been generously donated by concerned members of the Amish congregation in Lancaster, and by well-meaning neighbors here on the plains.

  The day the gasoline engine threw sparks and ignited the tinder dry grass had been one of the worst days of Hannah’s life. But now, so many good things had come out of that fire. The generosity of friends and family had gotten them back on their feet.

  Charity or not, Hannah had never looked back.

  She walked back to the barn, still searching for Jerry as her eyes scanned the position of the sun, then moved back to the direction he’d gone when he left. He would likely ride in alone, knowing how hard it was to round up cows that had no intention of leaving their buffet of thick broom grass.

  A small brown dot appeared on the horizon, turning into a bobbing, weaving mass as it neared the ranch. Hannah shaded her eyes, thrilled at the sight of Jerry on King, driving a tight knot of lowing cattle that seemed to be walking along without being agitated or cranky, as they often were.

  Quickly, she moved to the gate, swung it wide, then fastened it with a piece of rawhide before disappearing into the barn. She knew how frustrating it was to drive a herd of cattle successfully for miles, only to have them veer in the wrong direction at the last minute because someone was lounging on the corral fence. She could watch Jerry work now, without being seen.

  On they came, led by the largest, oldest cow, the brindle bull behind her, his massive horns swinging, his eyes rolling. As they neared the buildings, Jerry pushed them harder, yelling and swinging his rope, maneuvering expertly from right to left, tightening loose ends and keeping them in a rectangle of movement, never allowing any stragglers.

  King took her breath away. It was as if he’d been bred to chase cattle, which Hannah knew he had not been. If he was still back East, he’d likely be pulling a gray-and-black market wagon, in the rain, with a driving harness and blinders on his bridle. He’d only be half the horse he was here.

  Jerry wore no hat, saying they were useless in the prairie wind. His thick, dark hair flopped up and down, blowing every which way depending on the direction of the wind. His skin was darkened, fissured by the elements. It suited him. If he lived out here another forty years, he’d look much like Hod. Hannah swallowed, thinking of Hod’s tobacco juice.

  The cows were coming faster now, bunched together, the lead cow becoming agitated as the ones behind her pushed her forward. She bawled, her eyes rolling, but on she came.

  Jerry yelled, “Hey! Hey! Get up there! Hup!”

  Hannah gripped the barn windowsill until her knuckles were white. Would the lead cow go through the open gate? So close now, only a hundred yards.

  On they came. Hannah held her breath, feeling weak and dizzy. She could smell that bovine odor, the tart, sweet scent of cows. She heard the nineteen noses breathing hard, the hooves milling up the dusty ground around the barn. A cloud of dust and black flies followed the herd, sometimes almost obscuring them for a moment.

  And then they were in, smoothly, without one straggler. Hannah was relieved, ecstatic. She ran out of the barn, unfastened the rawhide in one quick movement, swung the gate wide and lifted the wooden bar to place it in the proper notch.

  She dusted her hands and looked up at Jerry, ready to receive his praise for her quick work. To her chagrin, he wheeled King around and dismounted, working the girth and throwing the reins before dragging off the saddle and throwing it on the floor of the barn.

  Without looking at her, he walked off in the direction of the house. Her first instinct was to catch up to him and tell him about the soup on the stove. But she stayed, watching him go. What was wrong with him now? He’d done an excellent job of bringing the cows in. Why was he acting like this now
, when everything had gone well?

  She climbed the fence, sat on the top rail, and surveyed her herd of cattle. Still nineteen. Why did it seem as if this herd, these strange-looking cattle, were truly hers, her way to becoming successful now, with Jerry by her side?

  Or, rather, she was by his side. Without doubt, Jerry was far superior in everything to any man she had ever known. She couldn’t begin to compare him to her poor father, may he rest in peace. Even the Jenkins did not have the skills, the work ethic that Jerry had.

  She knew he intrigued her, the way he planned ahead, asked for advice and took it, both priceless attributes when it came to managing the ranch. Those forty acres of plowed ground, done so effortlessly, the four plodding mules doing what they were meant to do, without fuss or fury.

  Well, she couldn’t tell him these things or he’d think she was starting to like him. Likely he’d try to put his arm around her shoulder or her waist like he was always wanting to do. Those arms were a trap, one she had no intention of being caught in.

  When Jerry returned from the house, she stayed on the top rail, but did dare to look down as he approached. He was looking up at her, then climbed up, threw a leg across a post and perched on it.

  “How did it go?” she asked, in a small voice.

  “How did what go?”

  She glanced at him. His face was pale and sick-looking.

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  “I got sick. Hannah, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, okay? But I absolutely hate rivvels. We, uh … you know, eat lots of rivvels. I know you love them, so you go ahead and make them for yourself, but I’ll need potatoes or something else instead. Sorry.”

  Hannah wished she could disappear like a cloud of dust. Her embarrassment turned into anger, and to save herself she retorted, “You can make your own meals from now on, then.”

  “Hannah, I told you, I’m sorry. I knew this would hurt your feelings. I didn’t mean to.”

  “Yeah, well, you did. So get over it. What do you want me to do as far as worming these ugly brutes?”

  “We need them in the chute, one by one.”

  “I know that much.”

  “Can you give an injection?”

  “I think so. Manny or my … my father always did it.”

  They worked together the remainder of the day sorting cattle and getting them into the narrow chute, lowering the gate behind them like a trap door and shooting the needle into their tough hides, putting pressure on the plunger and forcing the worm medicine into the cows’ bodies.

  Jerry was quick and vigilant, avoiding the horns as he drove the cattle with a sturdy black whip, one he mostly cracked above their heads, or used the handle to prod them along. He told Hannah that he didn’t believe any of them were truly dangerous, or a threat to their lives. You just had to be careful around them, that was all.

  Hannah looked at him, trying hard to cover her admiration.

  The work was dirty, with dust coating everything. The cows milled about in the soil, throwing up everything under their feet with their ungainly cloven hooves. Hannah’s eyelashes, the top of her head, everything seemed painted with the cloying dust. She choked, blinked, swiped at her eyes, then yanked the man’s handkerchief from her head and tied it over her nose and mouth the way the Jenkins boys had taught her.

  After the last cow had gone through the chute, Jerry walked over and told her she had done a great job. “Another man couldn’t have done better.

  Hannah looked at her feet and refused to meet his eyes. She didn’t say thanks. She didn’t smile. She just walked off and told him she was going to make rivvel soup for their evening meal.

  That evening, though, things seemed to be changing, if only enough to allow Jerry a miniature ray of hope for the future. Hannah did make a small pot of rivvel soup for herself. But she cooked a pot of potatoes with ham and red beans for him, which was actually an overcooked mush with lumps of gristly ham and beans so hard they would have bounced off the wall if someone had thrown them.

  But he was ravenous after losing his lunch so he enjoyed the dubious-looking mess and was grateful. He figured she’d learn as time went on, although he wished she would try and befriend some neighbor women who could teach her a few of the basics.

  They sat together on the porch, Jerry on the steps, leaning back against a post, one knee drawn up with an arm slung across it. Hannah sat on a wooden chair, her legs crossed, swinging one foot, her elbows resting on her top knee.

  Crickets chirped beneath the wooden floor of the porch, seeking out the only dark moist corners they could find. Grasshoppers leaped and chewed their noisy way through the grass by the fence, and evening larks called their plaintive call to one another as the sun slid behind the horizon.

  A cow lowed from the corral. Another one answered. “How come they’re still in the barnyard?” Hannah asked.

  “I want to make sure none of them get sick.”

  “Good idea.”

  “I’m not looking forward to winter. Out here, everything is just so unpredictable. The blizzards, or no snow at all, or freezing, bitter cold and a wind that never stops.”

  “I love the prairie winters.”

  Jerry looked at her sharply. “You’re serious?”

  “Of course. Every day is a challenge. I love getting up in the morning without knowing what will present itself. It’s never dull. Getting enough firewood, for one thing. You know the cottonwoods and oak trees in the creek bottom won’t last forever. Will we have to buy coal from town? Or will we travel farther to find enough firewood?”

  Jerry looked at Hannah with an unnamed expression. “So this challenge, this day-to-day onslaught of obstacles, the surprises, is what keeps you here?”

  Hannah’s gaze was riveted on the disappearance of the orange orb of the sun setting in its usual display of grandiosity. She jutted her chin in the general direction of the sunset. “Yes. And that.”

  Jerry watched the sun disappear, felt the twilight creeping over the plains, shadows of night encroaching, the air turning cooler and carrying a hint of frost, a harbinger of the howling winds of winter. He felt a foreboding, a portent, shivered, then shook his head from side to side. “You are different, Hannah.”

  “Don’t you feel the same way?” she asked.

  “I do, at times, yes. But I can’t say I look forward to winter. And I miss the social life of Lancaster County, the hymn sings, church, the frolics and hoedowns in the barn. I miss the friends of my youth.” The minute the words were out of his mouth, he knew he’d spoken too plainly.

  Her foot bobbed faster. She removed her elbows from her knee and sat up straight, glaring at him with baleful eyes. “So you regret out marriage? You wish you could return, exactly like my mother and all the rest of them did?”

  “I didn’t say that. I just mentioned the fact that I miss the goings-on back East.”

  “There are churches in Pine. We could go to any church we choose.”

  “Hannah, we are of the Amish faith. I have no intention of leaving and changing my beliefs, or the way of life we were taught from our youth. I’m very comfortable living under a bishop and ministers who look out for our souls.”

  Hannah had nothing to say to this. They sat in silence that was fraught with unspoken longings, doubts about the future, about the marriage they both knew was as empty as the prairie itself. Jerry could not have known how difficult the path would be, seeing how Hannah drew into herself with no visible sign of harboring even the beginnings of a natural love for her husband.

  His patience was God-given, this he knew. But when he thought of the years stretching before him, one after another, filled with only a swirling mist, a substance devoid of anything real, he felt only doubts and a nameless dread.

  “You’re always better than I am,” Hannah remarked, as shadows deepened around them.”

  “No. No, I’m not. You know that.”

  “You don’t have to stay.”

  “I want to stay here with
you.”

  Her foot bobbed faster than ever. “You’ll get tired of me. I’m not a very nice person.”

  “Hannah, I married you for one reason. I love you. It’s up to you when you’re ready to return my love.”

  Jerry could only watch as she lowered her face to her knee, and whispered very soft and low, “Thank you.”

  CHAPTER 4

  THE NEXT MORNING, JERRY WHISTLED AS HE BRUSHED HIS MULES, working from the top of their broad backs, down their sides, their haunches, to the tops of their oversized hooves. He threw the black leather harness across their backs, tightened cinches and buckles.

  He needed only two of the mules today. The drill used for sowing wheat was not heavy. It was easily pulled by the best two of the four—Max, the largest one, and Mike, the slightly smaller but energetic one. He knew if Mike didn’t get worked enough, he’d be frisky.

  Four mules—Max, Mike, Mollie, and Mud Mule. It was the naming of the mules that brought their first real laughter together. They could not come up with a fourth reasonable name that started with “M.” So, Jerry suggested Muddy and they shortened it to Mud. Hannah forgot herself and snorted in laughter, which encouraged Jerry to carry on about their precious Mud Mule until they both were laughing so hard they had tears in their eyes. The poor mule was no beauty, as mules go, his nose even longer than his teammates’, his eyes slanted and bulging like a frog’s eyes. His tail was much shorter and had less hair on the end of it.

  After that whispered, “Thank you,” last evening, Jerry could take anything. It was like a sip of water to a parched throat. She was human after all. She said she appreciated his love. The sky was blue, the sun was golden, the birds singing songs of joy as the wind whispered a rhythm of longing and love.

  What could go wrong now? Nothing. He felt as if he knew the right way, the times when she would need a firm refusal, the times when he could win her with kindness.

  Jerry poured the sleek kernels of seed wheat into the hopper, the fifty-pound bags weighing almost nothing, the muscles in his arms rippling with strength, a song on his lips and his heart filled with hope. Back and forth the mules plodded steadily, the creaking wheels on the drill releasing the millions of wheat seeds into the well-harrowed soil, waiting for the autumn rains and sunshine.