Home Is Where the Heart Is

by Linda Byler

  He was thrilled to see Hannah walking toward the field, Nip and Tuck bouncing and jostling around at her feet, the wind blowing her skirts in all directions, her gray apron flapping unhandily. He loved to watch her walk. Her long-legged stride covered a good distance in a short time, effortless, as graceful as any of God’s creation.

  Impatience was in her way of moving, her long, slender neck leaning forward just a bit, her jaw elevated, jutting forward slightly, as if her mind was running ahead of her feet.

  Now what had she thought up? What was important enough to come all this way with her fast gait? He caught her eye, pulled on the reins, called to the mules. When the squeaking of the drill stopped, the silence around him held nothing but the soft sighing of the wind, a sound like the breath of God or the whisper of angels’ wings, as he often imagined the wind to be.

  “Hey, Hannah!” he called.

  As usual, no greeting. Only the exact reason for her arrival. “I’m going to the new neighbors.”

  “Why don’t you wait until I can go with you?”

  “No.”

  “All right. Are you sure they moved in already?”

  “No, but I plan on finding out.”

  “Be careful.”

  She had already turned, but flapped a hand over her head to show she’d heard, and then she was gone, out of earshot.

  Jerry shrugged, called to the mules. He was almost certain no one had moved in at the Klassermans’ place, the way Hod said these Texans were planning on enlarging everything, both the house and the barn. But hey, let her find out for herself.

  Jerry watched Hannah lead the palomino out of the barn, run the grooming brush all over, thoroughly, then throw the saddle across his back. He wondered if she’d take Nip and Tuck.

  Hannah rode off in a cloud of dust, the sun shining down on her squared shoulders, her men’s kerchief blowing in the wind. And then, nothing, as far as he could see. Emptiness all around him, the sky gigantic in its unknowable immensity, the grasses waving like dancers, pirouetting in every direction until he imagined the prairie to be made of water, with waves and eddies and whirlpools hidden in its depths.

  Hannah rode hard down the dusty road that led north, away from the ranch, into the prairie where she could feel the freedom of being on a horse’s back, feel the power and strength beneath her, thrill to the rush of wind in her face.

  She missed the Klassermans already, if she admitted it. It was always nice to know the next ranch over was inhabited by someone she was acquainted with. So now, it seemed strange to be riding along the same road without knowing who, if anyone, she would meet.

  Why would someone from Texas move to the plains? Surely they weren’t thinking straight. Well, if they thought they were going to move out here and buy up every acre they could, they wouldn’t get very far. Folks in these parts didn’t take kindly to someone throwing their weight around. They liked things the way they were, and the way they had been for decades, and no upstart from Texas was going to change the way they raised cattle or grew wheat or built long, low houses—or anything.

  Hannah smiled, slowed the palomino, gazed around at the swells and dips of the land as she caught sight of a badger slinking away beneath a thick stand of swamp grass. He was fat and clumsy, his bright eyes popping out of his striped face.

  She noticed dust rolling on the horizon and kept to her side of the road as a truck approached, the sound of the motor an invasion of her senses. Wheezing and gasping, the truck careened out of a low place, covered in mud, the front fender missing, wooden racks clapping and swaying, as if the whole haphazard mess would let loose and splinter into a thousand pieces on the road.

  Wasn’t Hod Jenkins. This truck was even worse than his. Inside was a small man, barely visible above the steering wheel. No passenger. Hannah reined in the palomino as the truck wheezed to a stop, acutely aware of being alone with no ranch in sight.

  Well, she was on a horse, so she’d be fine.

  The window on the driver’s side was being cranked down with a painful squeaking noise. She saw an elbow, followed by a small, wizened face with a bill cap pulled low over the eyes. Those ferret eyes. She’d know them anywhere. Hannah drew up her shoulders, straightened her jaw, and said, “What?”

  “Sittin’ high and mighty, there, aintcha?” Lemuel Short rasped, his words like fingernails on a chalkboard, followed by a series of coughs and throat-clearing, and a splat of phlegm that landed at her horse’s feet. The palomino sidestepped, snorted. Hannah reined him in, spoke to him soothingly so he’d settle.

  “Can’t handle a horse like him, huh?” Red blotches of color suffused the small man’s face, pock marks like fissured rock, bristly stubble over everything, the desperate brown eyes glinting like a cornered badger. From his shirt collar, blue veins protruded on his brick-red neck, as scrawny as a pecked chicken.

  “I can handle him. Stop spitting on him.” She glowered down at the man she had protected, sheltered, even cared about, even after all his lies and half-truths he’d used to gain the Detweiler family’s sympathy. Almost, she had come to like him.

  “Where’s my gun?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “What’d you do with it?”

  Hannah shrugged.

  “You better tell me. I mean it!”

  “I wouldn’t give you the gun even if I knew where it was.”

  Lemuel did not answer. To meet his eyes was like gazing into a volcanic pit, seething and churning with a nameless emotion that jarred her from the disdain she felt for him. A quick wave of shock rippled over her body. Whatever humanity Lemuel had once had in him had disappeared, leaving behind this icy creature who could be capable of anything.

  He coughed and spat. Hannah loosened the reins and dug her heels into the palomino’s flanks, leaned forward and prepared herself for the surge of power that would come when her horse took off. She didn’t look back.

  She flew down the dusty road, the wind in her face, the steady thock-thock of galloping hooves, the horse’s great muscles propelling them forward. She focused only on the amazing sensation of the horse’s pure power.

  Then she heard it. Low at first, like a whine. The sound of a bumblebee in wood. The whine turned into a roar, then a high, crazed screech.

  Hannah turned to look back over her shoulder. The sight that met her eyes was almost comical, if she would not have sensed the danger. Bent low over his steering wheel, both hands gripping it, Lemuel Short had every intention of running her down. The truck careened through dust and low places where the mud flew up in showers.

  If the ancient, wheezing piece of junk he was driving went any faster, he’d catch up. Better to veer off to the right, onto the open prairie, even if she had to slow down on unknown territory.

  The prairie could be deceiving, appearing as level as a kitchen table, but filled with surprises. Badger or prairie dog holes, rises in the most unexpected places, or hollows that were not visible to the eye.

  She slowed her horse, then laid the reins flat against the left side of his neck, steering him to the right. It was called being neck reined and was gentle on a horse’s mouth. Obediently, the palomino slowed, then cantered at an easy, rocking pace, his ears flicking forward, then back, alert to his rider’s commands.

  Hannah turned in the saddle, saw the truck slow, but didn’t wait to see if he would pursue her. There was no way he could navigate the prairie in that old truck—certainly not fast enough to overtake her.

  She still was not seriously frightened, but it was hard to forget that look in his eyes. He was old, small, and desperate, like a dark wisp of smoke that could be nothing or could be deadly, depending on the size of the fire at its source.

  He probably stole that wheezing old bucket he drove. If he came after her on the prairie, he’d break an axle or run out of gas. At least she’d never have to worry about car problems for herself. Not that she wouldn’t have loved to drive one of those late models, long and sleek, the kind you occasionally glimpsed i
n Dorchester. No one in Pine had enough money to purchase a decent car. They all drove around in rusted-out pickup trucks that dated back to the twenties.

  Jerry was as Amish as schnitz und knepp, that century-old dish of home-cured ham and apples with dumplings. It didn’t make a difference that they lived out here on the plains by themselves. He considered himself of the Old Order and fully expected to remain there, honoring the dress code and corresponding with the Lancaster County ministers via mail. No automobiles for them.

  She shrugged involuntarily. She’d been desperate enough to keep her homestead that she’d married him, and now she had to follow his rules—or at least try. But it had worked and that’s what mattered. She still had her beloved homestead on the plains.

  Things were becoming steadily more complicated, though. Take last night. Oh my. What had possessed her to thank him? A burning shame washed over like rain. Now what? She didn’t give two hoots if he loved her or not. She certainly did not love him, didn’t even really need him except so she could stay on the plains. She would be happier on her own if she could be.

  And so, her thoughts kept time to the horse’s hoofbeats, until she realized she’d have to turn directly north, to the left, or she’d miss the Klasserman ranch.

  No sight of Lemuel Short and his decrepit old junker. Good. She leaned forward in the saddle, eagerly scanned the surrounding land for the neighboring buildings, and wondered who these Texans would turn out to be. Friendly? Wealthy? Hostile? What would they think of her peculiar Amish lifestyle?

  She really didn’t care. Folks in Pine had been less than welcoming to the Detweiler family at first, but they’d warmed up to them eventually. So would the Texans.

  Her calculations had been right. She caught sight of the dull gray galvanized roofing of the large barn their former neighbors had built. They’d raised a large herd of Black Angus cattle with German determination and a work ethic that far surpassed her own father’s lackadaisical ways.

  She still found it hard to believe they had actually retired and went back to the old country, especially now, the way Germany was still healing from the war. They received no newspapers and had no radio so the images of World War II were strictly hearsay. Sometimes Hod would rant on about the whole mess, in his words, and Hannah had no interest in any of it. They were self-sufficient, or almost, so what went on in the world was of no concern to her.

  “Whoa!” She pulled back too hard and too fast on the reins, startling the palomino to a haunch lowering stop that almost unseated her. She grabbed the saddle horn and settled back down in her seat. What was that?

  It looked like railroad cars lined up in a circle. Or wagons. The way a wagon train parked in a tight circle for protection from the Indians years ago. She counted eleven white horse trailers and as many trucks. There were men wearing white hats everywhere.

  They were building, digging post holds. Horses everywhere. And not one single cow. It was like watching an anthill, or a beehive, only everything seemed to be white. Even the horses!

  Hannah gasped. Those horses were white and they were enormous! Or was it only the fact that she was observing all this from a distance? From her slightly elevated standpoint, a rise in the deceptively level prairie, it seemed otherworldly, as if she was in a dream where the scene was devoid of color.

  She wasn’t aware that she was shaking her head back and forth and murmuring, “No, no, no. I can’t go there.” She remained rooted to the exact same spot, the only movement the wind flapping at her skirt, the legs of her trousers, the horse’s mane, riffling through the autumn grass, and the constant flicking of the sensitive, waiting ears of her mount.

  Were there no women? Only men, wearing those wide-brimmed white hats. No, she wasn’t going there without Jerry. She clicked her tongue, laid the reins to the left, and was on her way back, fleeing now, half-afraid one of those white-hatted men would see her and follow, chasing her off his property. That would be embarrassing. Like she was a common spy, or worse yet, an intruder, a tramp.

  She retraced her route, keeping an eye out for Lemuel Short, but there was no sign of him. The sun was still high overhead, although she could tell by the angle of her shadow that it was well past noon. And Jerry would be hungry.

  Would all her days from now until her death be punctuated into three separate pieces? Breakfast. Dinner. Supper. Every day. If she lived to be seventy years old, that was a lot of ruptured days.

  She’d wake up in a good mood and then realize she had to make him breakfast. A few hours of work and then there was another meal to be reckoned with. Figuring out what to cook was the hardest part. There wasn’t much of a variety after two years of drought, and Jerry was as stingy and tight as her Uncle Jonas who’d had a reputation for being the most frugal person anyone had ever heard of.

  Well, they hadn’t met Jerry Riehl. Every bit of bone and gristle from a piece of meat was given to the dogs. Vegetable peelings went to the hens in the henhouse. All leftover grease that remained in the frying pan was left until the last meal of the day, to reuse again and again. Leftover bachelor philosophy is what it was. One of these days, she’d get tired of his tightfisted ways and tell him so.

  Marriage vows didn’t necessarily include cooking. You promised to care for them, in sickness and in health, although there was no mention of exactly how. As long as Jerry wasn’t losing weight, it meant he had kept his health okay, right? There was nothing saying she had to cook well.

  As she approached the ranch, Hannah searched the wheat field for the nodding mules and Jerry’s straw hat, but found the field empty. The team was standing by the corral fence, so she figured her calculations were right on the dot. Jerry was hungry.

  She stabled the horse, carried herself to the house with her long strides.

  She smelled the dinner before she saw him standing by the kitchen range, spatula in hand, batter down the front of his white shirt. He turned when he heard the screen door slap closed.

  “Hannah!”

  No reply, as usual.

  “You’re back so soon.” A smile spread his mouth wide, creased the dark eyes with a glad light. Almost Hannah dropped her guard, but she caught herself in time. Almost, she forgot herself and blurted out the whole story of the strange goings-on at the Klassermans’. She almost mirrored the enthusiasm in his eyes with her own. But she held back.

  “It’s not too soon,” she said gruffly, as she turned and disappeared into the bathroom to wash her hands.

  “I’m making pancakes.”

  No answer, only the running water and hand wringing, the drop of the lava soap into the dish. When she reappeared, her face was dark with an unnamed emotion.

  Jerry stood eyeing her, his hands on both hips, the pancake turner sticking out of his curled palm like a growth. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Who said there was anything wrong?”

  “You look troubled.”

  “You can’t tell.”

  “Sure I can. Something isn’t right at the neighbors’.”

  Hannah didn’t reply. How did he know? She walked over to the stove and peered in the cast-iron frying pan. “You’re burning your pancakes.”

  Quickly he inserted the turner under a bubbling orb of batter, lifted it, and bent his head to examine the color. Straightening, he announced, “Wrong!”

  His face, his shoulders, everything was too close. His nearness was too much like a magnet, starting with those crinkling brown eyes that enveloped her with that disturbingly happy light, a glow that was so genuine, so real, a light she had begun to accept, which was a weakness, a letting go of … something. He continued to smile at her, the light in his eyes changing to a darker one, with even more magnetic power.

  Hannah stepped back, called over her shoulder, “I see you trailed mud into the washroom, like you always do.” Harsh, grating words. The tone accusatory.

  Jerry flipped the pancakes, felt the rebuttal, was used to it. One step forward, two back.

  “No syrup?” he cal
led.

  “Molasses.”

  “Boy, what I would give for a glass jar of maple syrup.”

  “I hate that stuff.”

  One eyebrow arched as he stared at her. “Maple syrup? Hannah, come on.”

  She didn’t answer, slammed two plates on the table, added glasses, knives, forks, and spoons. They ate in silence. The clock ticked on the wall, the pendulum clicked, catching the afternoon rays of the sun when it swung left.

  Hannah was ravenous and devoured three pancakes with a thick coating of molasses, washed down with milk. Jerry watched her eat, loved the way food disappeared in small, neat bites, efficiently consuming as many pancakes as he did.

  “You want coffee?” she asked, when she was finished.

  “Is it hot?”

  “Did you heat it?”

  “No.”

  “Won’t take long.”

  And so they chipped away at the solid wall between them, like digging mortar from between bricks with a toothpick, leaving all Hannah had seen, all she had experienced, uncovered and untouched.

  He didn’t need to know about Lemuel Short. As far as those white people at the Klasserman ranch, he could find that out for himself. She didn’t know who they were or what they were doing, so there was no use talking about it.

  CHAPTER 5

  TO STAND BESIDE JERRY ON A MILD AUTUMN AFTERNOON, TO ALLOW him to show her the small green shoots of wheat appearing above the tilled prairie soil, to feel the same sense of hope and accomplishment, was something she had not prepared herself for.

  Anything that had to do with the prosperity of the homestead struck a deep emotion in Hannah, one that eclipsed every other aspect of her life. It was beyond comprehension, glorious.

  The success was coming with almost no anxiety on her part, no staying awake worrying how the poor, worn-out horses would ever pull a plow through this awful soil. It seemed like a luxury no one deserved, least of all, herself.