Jesse unhitched Pa Ox and sent him into the stable with his supper of grain. Then he ran to the south field for Ma Ox, who’d gained weight this summer and wasn’t inclined to move.
“C’mon, slowpoke.” He clapped his hands behind the beast. “Got my new bride to take care of.”
A new bride. Who brought to mind—well, she bore no resemblance to the laundress, wife of the big galoot with a big name, from down Binghamton way. Van Valkenburg. That’s it. Probably weighed more than two of Susannah. So why think of her?
Antietam.
Corporal Van Valkenburg hadn’t come back when the shooting stopped, so the missus set out hunting him. When she didn’t return, the other laundresses raised a fuss and sent Jesse to find her. She’d left a trail, rolling over each casualty, folding hands on chests, even those who’d been blown to bits. Even the Rebs. Even the wounded. Sometime in the night, she’d found her husband and managed to get him laid out. But instead of stopping, instead of coming back to camp, she’d kept on, working her way through the cornfield, down Bloody Lane, along the fences. Jesse caught up to her by one of the bridges. The hem of her dress dragged with blood and her hands were covered with offal. When he called her name, she kept going. Finally, unable to stand the smell, he’d grabbed her elbow. She’d flinched and screamed, more afraid of him than the dead.
Jesse could understand Mrs. Van Valkenburg being afraid. But why would her look, eyes wide and staring through him, show in Susannah’s face? Susannah hadn’t been to war. No battles had been fought in Michigan. Nothing happened on the train, she’d said. So then where’d she get her case of cannon fever?
While Jesse’s mind wandered, Ma Ox had stopped to chew a clump of big bluestem. “Get along now,” Jesse said to the cow and to himself. The last place he should let his mind go was the War. Lord Almighty. Anywhere but the War.
Back at the stable he settled Ma in, then unloaded the wagon. The cabin was empty. Where’d his scared little rabbit bride run off to?
He lit the lantern and checked his reflection in the window. He was overdue for a barbering but otherwise presentable. And ready for supper. When he pulled a chunk of meat from the brine barrel, the smell brought Jake in. “Hey, she seems to like you all right,” he said to the dog. “Go find Susannah!” Jake licked his chops, then loped out.
Why was she so skittish? Was it the soddy? It was built solid, plumb and true. He had tidied up the best he could.
Maybe she was used to fancy. But no, she’d had the shakes from the very beginning, back at the siding.
A twig snapped in the clearing as Jake led Susannah back. The set of her shoulders, the way she held her elbows close, her measured steps, was like she was heading for the hangman.
“Lord,” he whispered, “I don’t know what’s wrong, but I sure hope You’ll show me how to fix it.”
She stepped inside just enough to set the pail on the table. “Is the dog allowed . . .”
“It’s your house now.” Jesse kept his voice quiet. “You make the rules as you see fit.”
Jake went into begging mode, complete with wagging tail.
Susannah fell for it. “It’s all right. You can stay.”
He plopped next to the bed, watching for dropped food.
“Shouldn’t I be doing the cooking?”
Jesse wiped his palms on the seat of his pants. He was sweating up a storm, not a real attractive quality in a bridegroom.
“Do you know how?” He twisted the dish towel. “I mean, you probably had a cook.”
“She quit at the beginning of the War. I can prepare meals.”
“Well, supper’s about ready. You can start tomorrow. Here’s the fixin’s: baking powder, cinnamon, cocoa, salt, and—” His brain gave out. “Sally Ann, the other salty stuff.”
“Sodium bicarbonate? Saleratus?”
“Yep, that’s it.” He tried to focus. “Next shelf: coffee grinder, mixing bowl, colander, cook pot. There’s salt pork in the barrel, molasses in the firkin, cornmeal in the sack, and that bag hanging from the ceiling is a side of bacon. Root cellar in the back corner. Guess it’s not as fancy as you’re used to.”
“It’s fine.” She nodded at the shelves. “We never kept much food in the house.”
“What was your pa’s rank?”
“Sergeant Major.”
“Seventy-five dollars a month.”
“No, it wasn’t—” She stopped suddenly and bit her lip as if she’d said something inappropriate.
“Seventy-five. I was paymaster for a time. From the shock on your face, I’d guess not much of that made it home.”
“It was just Mother and me. We didn’t need much.”
“You’re not used to fancy living. Reckon that’s a good thing for being out here.” He served the side pork and biscuits. “We’ll use your trunk as a chair for now.”
Susannah perched on the edge and looked around. “You don’t have room for more furniture.” She stopped and gave him a nervous look. “Sorry.”
Well, she was right. Jesse had never really noticed how small the place was; now he bumped her legs when he settled on the stool.
He reached across the table and she shrank back. Patience, he told himself. “In my family, we hold hands when we ask blessing.”
Susannah hesitated and then at last extended a hand in his direction. He caught hold of her cold fingers. “Thank You, Lord, for answering my prayer for a wife, for bringing Susannah home safe, and for this food. Amen.”
She pulled away and stared down at her plate, avoiding his eyes.
Now what? When he’d thought about taking a wife, he imagined they’d have enough to say to each other that they wouldn’t run out of words until 1875 or so. Instead, here she was, silent as a stone, and he had to carry the conversation. “Got to get back to the wheat in the morning.”
She picked at her food. “What do you want me to do?”
“Whatever you’d be doing back in the States.”
“Laundry.”
She must have gotten a whiff of the mess under the bed. “Diving right in to heavy work. I haven’t had time to wash in ages. It’ll probably take a couple days. I’ll fill the tub in the morning.”
That gave him an idea. He straightened and grinned. “I know what you’d like after all that train riding—a bath!”
She choked. “Heating the water’s so much trouble—”
“Not at all. You saw that black barrel on the roof? The sun does the work. It’s great!” He brought in the washtub, set it under the pipe running down the back wall, and pulled the bung. Water gurgled into the tub. “I built this out of stuff the railroad threw away. Hop in and enjoy!”
She stared at her half-eaten food and didn’t move.
Jesse could have kicked himself. Did he expect Susannah to drop her drawers right here and now? He was an idiot. “I’ll go check the oxen,” he said. “Yell when you’re done.”
The door slammed behind him.
Susannah stared at the tub. Actually, she’d love a bath but wasn’t about to bathe in front of him. No one had seen her undressed since she learned to wash herself at the age of four. She glanced at the dusty windows but saw only the reflection of the lantern’s flame. She’d have to make curtains as soon as possible.
She dimmed the wick, dropped her clothes, and folded herself into the tub with a sigh. The unscented soap lifted away the sticky layer of perspiration and coal dust, and the warm water helped take the knots out of her sore, tense muscles. For a while she drifted, and her memory brought up an image of Ellen Mason’s boy, racing around the kitchen table, dripping wet and giggling. His equally naked little brother toddled after him. Ellen chased the little ones and ordered the girls out of the bathtub.
This girl needed to get out of the tub too. Before he returned.
She stood and squeezed the water from her hair. Since she’d started wearing it up half a lifetime ago, no man had seen it loose. Not that it was much to see—dirt brown, with enough wave to keep it from being s
ilky, but not enough curl to hold a style without a dozen hairpins. She slipped on her muslin nightdress, tied the ribbons at her neck, wrapped a shawl around her shoulders.
At the door, she hesitated. She had written “Dear Mr. Mason” on her two letters, but that greeting sounded even more stilted aloud. Using his first name seemed presumptuous. Finally she announced, “I’m done.” He bounded in from the direction of the stable.
“You smell sweet as an apple blossom.”
She wove her fingers through the fringe of the shawl. “I feel cleaner. Thank you.”
“Water’s still warm. I’ll take one too.”
“I’ll wait outside.”
“No. Your wet hair will call all the mosquitoes in the territory.” He shut the door, closing off her escape. “Susannah, I’m your husband,” he said in a low voice. The lamp flame cast deep shadows on the planes of his face. He unbuttoned his shirt.
Susannah sank onto the stool with her back to him and brushed her hair. Two splashes. He must be in the tub. She needed to think about something, something besides the fact that a man was bathing in the same room. Her head bobbed, heavy and dull, unable to catch thoughts hovering at the edge of the light.
“Let me help you.”
Susannah jerked upright and stared at this stranger who was her husband. She must have dozed. He was done with his bath and stood over her wearing only a nightshirt.
What did he want? To consummate the marriage, of course. It was to be expected. She had hoped fatigue would dull her senses for the procedure, but his touch affected her in the opposite direction.
“You were asleep! Susannah, you’re all played out.” He took the brush and worked at the tangles. “What a week you’ve had, leaving your old stompin’ ground, riding the train a thousand miles, getting married, new home. It’s enough to—”
He stopped and raised the wick in the lamp. “What’s this?”
“Nothing.” She covered her neck with her shaking hands.
“Looks like someone tried to strangle you.” He pried her fingers away. His face darkened. “What happened? Who did this?”
Her heart gave a feeble flop, and a chill frosted her all the way to her bones. She should have explained, should have told him when she first got off the train.
Through her fingers, she watched him take two steps to the door, turn, and pace back, clenching his fists and exhaling with each step, a bull in a stall. At last he sat on the trunk, scowling out the window. Susannah remained frozen in place. A sign from the Wells Fargo shipping office hung in her mind: “Damaged Goods Returned upon Receipt.” He had every right to put her out right now, in the dark of night. After several minutes, he gave a deep sigh and crossed the room. With an unsteady breath, he went down on one knee beside her.
“Tell me.”
Air caught in her chest. She choked out, “He said he was from the bank. He said Father owed money, a dreadful amount. Unless I—” She couldn’t say it. She couldn’t think it, even. “He grabbed the yoke of my apron. I fainted. Ellen struck him with the fireplace poker and he ran away.”
“My sister-in-law was your guardian angel? Did he . . . hurt you . . . anywhere else?”
“No.” She was crying in earnest now. Where was her handkerchief? “It’s my fault. I didn’t lock the door when I brought in the mail.”
“Only one person’s to blame. And you’re not him.” He wiped her tears away with a work-calloused thumb.
“I’m so sorry. All I’ve brought you is a ruined reputation.”
“Reputation? Who’s out here to gossip? I found a fresh start here and you will too.”
“He threatened me. The Reverend said it wasn’t safe to stay in Detroit.”
“So that’s why you came out here so suddenly.” He squeezed her hand again and gave her a crooked grin. “I thought it was all those fancy letters I wrote.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologizing. I’m glad I know. Explains why you’re so skittish.” He exhaled heavily. “Susannah, you’re my wife. God put you in my care. I would never hurt you. And I’m not going to rush you into something you don’t want. You let me know when you’re ready.”
Was he offering a reprieve or looking for a way to send her back? She pulled in a breath. “Best just get it over with.”
“Susannah, Susannah.” His words came out soft and slow. “It’s not a tooth-pulling.”
“There’s only one bed.”
“I’ll build you a fence.” He made a barrier with a quilt, then steered her to the bed. “Get some sleep now,” he whispered. “I’ve got to . . . check the oxen.”
Dirt walls. Dakota Territory. Her . . . husband, Jesse, snored inches away on the other side of the rolled quilt. He hadn’t woken her, and neither had the nightmares. Maybe the doctor had been right, the change of scenery would do her good. This marriage, on the other hand . . .
Sunrise showed a house about the size of her parents’ parlor, dug into the hillside and finished with sod bricks. Loosely woven branches webbed with the roots of prairie grass formed the ceiling. She bit her lip. Best not to look up there. It was probably home to several dozen species of insects and spiders.
Susannah had never shared a bedroom, much less a bed, with anyone. What was proper: to arise and start breakfast or wait for him to wake up? Mother always dressed before leaving her room. The way Susannah’s luck ran, he would rouse while she was changing. If she slid forward—
The rhythmic breathing ended with a snort and the mattress shifted, setting off an odd vibration in her midriff.
“Good morning, Mrs. Mason.” Propped up on one elbow, he peered over her shoulder. “You have a line of freckles running just below your eyelashes and across your nose.”
She pulled the corner of the sheet up to her shoulders. “I should have worn a sunbonnet yesterday.”
“Susannah.”
Here it comes. She braced.
“Guess I acted like a big galoot last night. I’d been praying for your safety on the trip, never thinking anyone would assault you in your own home. Scum, attacking a helpless woman. I should have gone back east to get you, if I could have sprung for train fare.” His fingers curled into a powerful fist.
“There’s nothing you can do; best to put it out of your mind.” She clung to the bed frame to keep from sliding closer.
“No, I don’t suppose there’s anything I can do about him.” He opened his hand and laid it on her hip. “The question is, what can I do about you?” He gave her a little shake, breaking her stiffness.
“I don’t know.” Was he considering sending her back and wanted her to broach the subject?
He flung off the quilts and clambered over the footboard. His arms spanned the width of the bed when he stretched. This was the first time she had seen him in daylight without a hat. Dark copper waves rambled back from his broad forehead and straggled around his ears.
“You have red hair,” she blurted out. The words came out blunt and harsh, in her mother’s critical tone. “Uh, I mean—red hair is fine. It’s handsome.”
“Hope our children look like you.” With a grin, he slid his feet into moccasins and headed out. “Be right back.”
“You’re going outside in your nightshirt?”
“Don’t tell anybody.” He winked.
Susannah raced into her navy calico. As she fastened her boots, the moccasins reappeared in the doorway. And stayed.
“Forgive me for staring, but you—you’re like a bur oak in a field of big bluestem. A much welcome sight.”
She fumbled with her shoelaces. “I’ll pick more plums for breakfast.”
He chuckled. “How will you go to the outhouse when the plums are gone?”
“Then it will be time to pick apples.” Her face burning, she made her escape into the quiet morning.
The temperature rose while she picked. Without the softening of rising dew, each blade of grass stood in sharp relief on the horizon.
“He’ll be expecting breakfast. I’d
better get moving.” She forced her feet back to the soddy but found it empty. Ah. The washtub had been dumped. Coffee simmered over the stoked fire. She sliced salt pork and potatoes into the cast iron skillet, then set the table. The dog bounded in, sniffing for scraps. He positioned himself by the bed; his coffee-bean eyes tracked her every move.
“So now you’re going to stare at me, just like your master.” Susannah scratched behind his ears and stroked his spine. A cloud of fur covered her hand. Examining him, she discovered countless tufts falling out of his coat.
“Mmm, breakfast!” Jesse said from the doorway. Susannah stepped back, pressing her hands together. “What’ve you got? Jake’s hair? Every spring he loses enough to make a second dog. Birds love it, makes good nesting material.”
“Yet he’s otherwise healthy.”
“Yep. Ivar’s hounds are walking fur factories too.”
Susannah squeezed together the tufts she had collected. When she opened her hand, the hair puffed back into a ball shape. “Do your neighbors use this? For quilts or sweaters?”
“You can ask next time we see them.” He reached around her and she scuttled to the door, letting the fur blow away.
He said “we.” Apparently he had no immediate plans to ship her back. Although if he had to serve himself breakfast like he was doing now, he might reconsider. Susannah hurried to pour his coffee. “When might that be, when we see the neighbors?”
“After the harvest is finished. We’ll go to the store with them. If you think of any supplies we need—”
What didn’t he need? She’d better start small, in case his lack of necessities was due to a shortage of money. “Perhaps jars for canning? I’d like to put up some plums. No, that won’t work; they’ll be gone by then.”
“I’ve got canning jars in the root cellar. Brought them out on the wagon but didn’t know how to use them. Plum preserves! Can’t wait! Anything else?”
“Many recipes call for eggs.”
“Yep. Bought wood for a chicken coop this spring. Know much about birds?”
Susannah nodded. “I’ve raised Rhode Island Reds.”
“What a team we’ll make!” He stood and reached for her. She stepped back, bumping the shelves. For a moment or two he held his arms out, then finally let them slap down against his legs.
Spring for Susannah Page 3