“Guess I’d better get moving.” He washed down the last of his breakfast with coffee, watching her over the rim of his cup.
“What are your instructions regarding dinner?”
“Laundry’ll keep you hopping, so fix something easy, something you can tote. Jake’ll know where I am.”
“What time?” She scanned the room. “There’s no clock.”
“I’m ready when you are.”
Susannah winced. Would she ever be ready for him?
Chapter 4
Is this going to be a lesson in forbearance,
God? I asked for wisdom, not patience!
Jake, stay. Watch over Susannah for me.” Jesse’s voice carried from the yard, and then he was gone. The dog’s toenails clicked on the threshold.
Susannah dropped her breakfast into his bowl. “You finish this. I can’t eat a bite. Feels like I swallowed a sparrow.”
Jake inhaled the meal and then rested his head in Susannah’s lap. She stroked his velvet ears. “So how did Reverend Mason make your master agree to this arrangement? I’m not wealthy, not pretty, and not trained for any work. So there you have it, the sorry tale of my life. What do you think?”
Jake seemed to grin as he panted.
“I suppose I’d best earn my keep.” Susannah got up, put two more logs on the fire, and set water to boil. The stove was a basic four-lid model, without the water reservoir and warming oven considered essential in Detroit’s kitchens. Water had to be hauled from the spring instead of a pump.
This city girl would manage.
She sorted the laundry. A sleeve from his undershirt, tacked with a running stitch, covered a rip in his sheet. The hem of his pillowcase had come undone. From under the bed Susannah pulled shirts with torn shoulder seams and threadbare elbows, canvas pants with frayed knees, socks with missing heels. He’d worn his best yesterday.
“I feel like a burglar, rooting through this man’s possessions.” Susannah shook out a wad of yarn, finding a moth-eaten sweater. “Except he has nothing worth stealing.”
Jake plopped his head to the floor and looked up with sorrowful eyes.
“Present company not included.” She stroked his head.
As she lifted the pile, she jostled the crate next to the bed and knocked off a couple of books. She let the laundry drop. Books were too precious to leave on the floor. What did he read? The Bible, of course.
“Here’s the real problem,” she confided to the dog. “God doesn’t consider me worthy of His attention, so I stopped praying.” She returned the book to its place. “I asked God to heal my mother and He didn’t. I asked Him to spare my father and He didn’t. And I asked for a husband—”
Now she had one. Had God remembered her after all this time? Not likely. She was here and married, but there was no guarantee she’d stay that way for long.
The second book was a ledger. Neatly penciled entries showed every penny spent for the past three years.
Flour $6/100 pounds
Dried apples $25/barrel
Prices seemed high, but then, so were the quantities.
Lamp chimney 30c
Black thread 10c
Guitar string 15c
Guitar? She looked around. There it was, propped in the southwest corner, protected by a canvas bag. Maybe he wasn’t such an ascetic after all.
While the whites soaked, Susannah looked for a shovel. She found it on the manure pile, its handle cracked. The wood was dark gray-brown, smooth from use, but the splinters were clean, fresh. He’d broken it last night, after he’d learned about her. If only she could mend it for him and mend herself into the wife he needed.
Using the pitchfork, she broke the dirt in front of the soddy and planted the limp shoots from her mother’s garden.
“Now, I know you’ve had a rough week,” she told the seedlings as she patted the dirt around the roots. “I have too. And this is the wrong time of year to transplant you, and you probably won’t like your new soil, but I want you to grow anyway.”
She brought a bucket of springwater and gave them a drink. “See that apple tree? It rode for weeks on a wagon. You can survive four days on a train.”
Susannah sat back on her heels. “Here less than a day, and I’m babbling to a dog and some half-dead plants. How did Jesse survive two years alone?”
The nervous flutter in her stomach returned as she prepared dinner. Jake led her past the spring, where she refilled the jug, then up the slope. At the crest of the hill, hot wind surged out of the clear sky, erasing yesterday’s wagon tracks.
On a speck of cultivated land in the wilderness, Jesse cradled golden-brown wheat to the rhythm of “The Man on the Flying Trapeze.” Jake raced to him. The man waved his bandanna.
Susannah faced the wind and felt it pull at her hair as if she were riding. She had always loved being on horseback. When the gardener enlisted for the Union cause, she had eagerly taken on the exercise of her father’s patients. Even at a walk or slow trot, she reveled in equine power. More than anything, she wanted a horse of her own. The Underhills, in a rare showing of parental unity, explained that their daughter had no need for such frivolity. But the wanting didn’t stop.
Now here she stood on open grassland all the way to the horizon. A rider could go on forever—
“Susannah, what are you thinking?”
She flinched and her stomach churned. No use mentioning her spendthrift wish. “N-nothing.”
“Your face was all soft and pretty.” He raised a skeptical eyebrow. Finally he marched to a cleared spot on the edge of the field. “Mrs. Mason, your table.”
“Thank you.” She laid out the food.
“Got company up here today.”
“Where?” Susannah scanned the horizon.
He pointed northwest. “See that smudge? Ivar. All the dust he’s raising, guess he’s hired a cutting machine this year. He’ll probably finish a week ahead of me.”
“Why didn’t you do that?” Susannah examined a strip of beef jerky, looking for a ladylike way to eat it.
“If this harvest pays off, maybe I will next year. Got to get chickens this year.” He took three giant swallows from the jug. “And how was your morning?”
“Fine, thank you. Except I couldn’t find your clothesline, or bluing, or washboard . . . or flatiron.”
He shook his head. “Remember, I’ve been baching it.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to complain.” She choked down a bite of cornmeal biscuit. In the list of matters never to be discussed, money held first place. Yet if she had known something of her father’s finances, she might have been able to fend off the banker’s attack.
The big question loomed over her: could this man afford a wife? She glanced up, making eye contact for only a second. It was enough.
“Guess you’re wondering if you landed in the poorhouse. No, I’m not having money problems—” He grinned. “Unless you count lack of money a problem.” He gazed at the horizon. “Susannah, when this farm gets going, I’m going to build you a two-story house with bay windows, a swing on the porch, a fancy six-lid stove in the kitchen, a piano in the parlor so you can teach our children to play.”
Another strike against her. “I don’t know how to play the piano,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“Then we’ll hire a piano teacher.” Her eyebrows must have shot up, because he added, “He can sleep in the bunkhouse with the hands. There’ll be a big barn out back, a smokehouse so we can have meat besides sowbelly and salt horse. Cows, sheep, chickens, horses, a buggy, and a sleigh. There’s a banker in St. Paul who’d loan me the money in an eye blink, but I won’t borrow. Too many times I’ve seen some farmer go in over his head. One bad crop later, he’s thrown out, nowhere to go, nothing to start over with.”
Jesse chewed on his beef jerky and took a bite of biscuit.
“Back in ’57, the neighbors just south of us lost everything. Here it is, fifteen, sixteen years later, and I can still see the faces of those boys as the
bank sold their beds, the milk cow, their schoolbooks. Pa gave them a ride into Buffalo so they could look for work. Just the clothes on their backs.” He shook his head. “Guess God has all those verses in the Bible about the perils of debt for a reason. My brother ever preach on the subject?”
“Yes.” Susannah picked crumbs off her skirt.
“What happened with your pa? He get in pretty deep?”
Susannah cut her gaze away. “Last week was the first I’d heard of any difficulty. He paid his bills on time. A few people in the area were behind on their veterinary accounts, but he never seemed too concerned. Mother ran our house by Mrs. Child’s book.”
“My ma swore by The Frugal Housewife too. See, we do have something in common.” His smile held a hint of challenge. He quoted, “‘The best economy is to do without.’ Mrs. Child would sure be impressed with this little farm.”
“It’s fine.”
“Matt said your pa was busy. Must have been good at doctoring animals.”
“He was busy because he was one of the few college-educated veterinary surgeons in the state. Perhaps he was better with animals than money.” She polished a plum with the corner of her apron, then took a deep breath and delivered the rest of her bad news. “I hope Reverend Mason can raise enough from the sale of the house to clear the debt. I didn’t bring a dowry—”
“You brought yourself. Don’t need anything more.” He put his hand over hers. “I’m taking care of you now.”
It was a lovely thought. All those years caring for Mother, Susannah wished for someone to care for her. But this man hung on by a frayed thread. She nodded to show she’d heard him.
He stood and stretched. “Best get back to the wheat so I can come home early.”
“I suppose that’s as clean as a dirt house can be.” Susannah set the broom in the corner and dabbed perspiration from her forehead. Late afternoon sun painted indigo shadows across the packed-earth floor. Jake stretched beside the bed, his ears twitching to her words. “Dirt house. Mother would have said I married down but at least I’m married.”
Susannah sliced a carrot into the stew. “As for Father, he never concerned himself with the house or its appointments. He never voiced an opinion about the conduct of others, including me and my lack of a social life. Except”—she added a turnip—“when I was twelve, I won the school award for orthography. All he said was, ‘You’re missing a button on your sleeve.’” A lump rose up in her throat. “Foolish of me to hang on to that hurt, isn’t it?”
Jake seemed interested, in the food, if not in the story.
“Ah, but if Father had not died, I would be in Detroit, drying herbs for medicines, accompanying him on calls, serving as his second pair of hands. I knew the names of his instruments and could thread needles faster than any heavy-handed farmer. I would have helped him every day if Mother hadn’t intervened.”
Next, a few leaves of parsley. “Do dogs think about their parents? I failed both of mine. Father wanted a son. Mother wanted a daughter who would marry well.” Susannah frowned at her own brooding. “Enough. They’re gone and buried. Moping won’t help. Besides, if I was in Detroit, I wouldn’t have met a good dog like you.”
Jake raised a hopeful eyebrow at the stew. Susannah gave it a good stirring. Celery or peas would make it better, but she didn’t have either.
Jake lifted his head, listened, then dashed out. Moments later a shadow filled the doorway. Susannah startled and dropped the ladle. Jesse.
“Hey!” Two steps brought him to the bed made with a new quilt and white sheets. “I thought you didn’t have a dowry.”
Susannah wiped the dipper with a dish towel. “Ellen packed some linens I sewed.”
Damp, clean hands lifted the edge of a pillowcase. “Look at all this fancy stitching. Must have taken years—” He ducked his head. “Sorry. Guess I put my foot right in it.”
“It’s all right. I know I’m an old maid. I turned thirty last spring.” She filled the bowls.
“Well, you’re not an old maid any longer. Look here, a little S stitched on this pillowcase!”
“A girl is supposed to embroider her future husband’s initials next to hers while she’s engaged.” Susannah sat on the stool and sliced a loaf of sourdough. “Supper is ready.”
His voice deepened. “This isn’t the engagement you were planning when you did all that fancy stitching.”
“Thank you for taking me in.”
“Thanks for coming.” He took her hands and said grace. His thumbs rubbed her wrists. “So soft.”
She pulled away, skin tingling. “Your food is getting cold.”
“Laundry and a hot meal. You’re a hard worker.” He tried the soup. “You’ve added some different flavors.”
“I’m sorry. I should have asked first.”
“Best I’ve had in years. What is it?”
“It’s parsley from Mother’s garden.”
“Ah, what you planted by the door.”
“With peppermint, rosemary, sage. I told them to grow like the apple tree.”
“Good.”
“Good?” For the first time that evening she met his gaze. “You don’t think it’s odd, talking to plants?”
He shook his head. “No. All these years I’ve been talking to God, my crops, Jake. And you.”
“How could you talk to me?”
“I figured if God provided a wife for Adam in the Garden of Eden, He’d surely provide for me. I’d talk to you, tell you to hurry home. Don’t girls dream about a handsome prince on a white horse?”
“If you’ve been dreaming about a princess, I’m afraid I’ve disappointed you.”
He cupped a hand at his mouth, announcing in heraldic fashion, “Presenting Susannah, Princess of Plums on the Plains.” He winked, then leaned forward, serious again. “Tell me what happened with the banker.”
Susannah chased a chunk of potato around her bowl and tried to keep her voice steady. “Nothing. Ellen stopped him.”
“Did the two of you talk about it?”
“There was nothing to talk about. Nothing happened.”
“And ‘nothing’ makes you jump every time I get near you.” He tipped his bowl, mopping up with a biscuit. “You know he can’t find you here. I’ll keep you safe.”
“It’s not a problem.”
“Well then, what is? I’ve promised never to hurt you. I’ve promised not to go in debt. I’ll build you a decent house soon as I can pay cash. I’ll get a haircut the minute there’s a barber within a hundred miles.”
His thumb slid under the cuff of her sleeve. “Say, you’re not pining away for some poor soldier who didn’t make it back from the War, are you? My older brother’s sweetheart moped around for two years. They weren’t even engaged. Or maybe there’s someone else you’d rather marry, maybe someone who didn’t ask in time.”
“There’s no one.”
“So what is the problem? Are you homesick? Miss your folks? Just tell me what’s got you so fidgety, and I’ll fix it.”
“It’s nothing.”
He dropped her hand, almost pushing her away. “I’m going to check on the oxen.” Lighting the lantern, he flung open the door. The dog rushed in, wolfed down her leavings, then plopped next to the bed. He panted, contented and relaxed.
“Jake, you’re going to get fat off my nervous stomach.” Susannah’s voice wobbled as she scoured the kettle with sand. “Why does this soddy feel like plenty of room when it’s just you and me, but when there’s one more person, it’s filled to overcrowding? I don’t know where to stand, how to move, what to say. You seem pretty happy here; you probably don’t have any idea what I’m talking about.” Her hands paused in midair over the dishpan. “Maybe I should have put his sheets back on the bed. What if he thinks—”
“Susannah—” The door banged open. Jesse paused on the threshold to catch his breath. “Don’t suppose your pa said much about cows.”
Chapter 5
Yes, Lord, she’s got a secret. And i
t’s a good one!
Susannah’s father had, in fact, said quite a lot about cows, all of which her mother forbade her to repeat in polite society. But the look on Jesse’s face told her this was no time to think about propriety. “What seems to be the problem?”
“C’mon. Quick.” With a tip of his head, he rushed back into the night. Susannah caught up with him at the stable door. She inhaled the strong bovine odor, a welcome change from the emptiness of Dakota’s air. Jesse hooked the lantern on a low-hung rafter. “Two years I’ve had this pair, and now . . .”
The bull gave them a glance, then turned his attention back to chewing his cud. The cow lay on the straw, abdominal muscles rippling with strain, trumpeting her distress.
“I can’t afford to lose her. If you know anything, tell me. Please.”
“Your Ma Ox is about to drop a calf. They must be Milking Devonshires. There’s hot water on the stove. We’ll need soap and rags.”
“I’ll get it.” He returned in a moment. “Thank God you’re here! What else?”
Susannah had watched her father and assisted him often enough to know what needed to be done. She remembered how Father would calm the anxious farmer by asking questions. “You’ve never seen a cow drop a calf before?”
“We raised pigs. They pop out.” He made the noise with his mouth.
Susannah rolled her sleeves up and lathered her arms. “What did your family do for milk?”
“My uncle had a large dairy across the road. Used to be one big farm until Grandpa Mason divided it between his sons.” The cow moaned again and he mopped his brow. “Is she dying?”
“I’ll do what I can, but she may not be receptive to my help. There’s no way to tie her up. You still have your boots on? If you could, please sit on her shoulders. Slow and easy. Put your heels on her horns. Steady, now.”
The cow protested with a long high-pitched moo. Holding the tail with her left hand, Susannah knelt behind the animal and reached into the birth canal. Wet. Good. The bag of waters hadn’t been broken long; the cow should have enough energy left to do her job, once the calf was in position.
Spring for Susannah Page 4