Marta. All week loneliness had dragged at Susannah, making her wish for Ellen. She missed their easy confidences, her friend’s blunt good sense and droll worldview. Exchanging correspondence would take months. Besides that, her letter would be passed around; much of what she’d like to write would have to go unsaid. Surely Marta had been lonely too, and would welcome her friendship.
Just the thought made Susannah’s heart a little lighter.
Chapter 7
All-wise God, please . . . why won’t she talk to me?
Are you in love with Matt?”
Susannah choked on her coffee. “Pardon me?”
Jesse leaned across the table. “You asked if I’d thought of going into the ministry. Maybe you’re in love with Matt, hoped I’d be just like him. It’s not unheard of for a woman to fall in love with her pastor.”
Her appetite vanished under his scrutiny. “He’s married.”
“What if he hadn’t been?”
“Ellen is a much better pastor’s wife than I would ever be.”
“Why do you say that?”
Susannah picked at a fried potato slice. “She’s a ‘blessed peacemaker.’ At the first sign of discord she jumps right in, not resting until it’s resolved.”
“Where are you when the doctrines fly?”
“Hiding under the pews.”
Jesse chuckled. “Guess we’re different there. My family likes nothing better than a good old brawl. Ma would even change sides to keep it going, though she drew the line at defending slavery.”
“I was under the impression your family got along well.”
“We did. No suffering in silence for us. We enjoy the debate too much.” He thumbed his whisker stubble. “So, what’d you see in my brother that made you think I’d be a good husband?”
Susannah served him a wedge of plum pie. “Why do you ask?”
“I’m trying to puzzle you out. Figure out why you married me.” He raised his hands, palms toward her. “Yes, Matt and Ellen threw you on the train because you weren’t safe alone, and they didn’t have room for you, and you didn’t have any money. But you wrote me before all that, before your pa died. Why?”
Why? Because Ellen told her to. No one refuses Ellen.
Susannah remembered the exact afternoon, eight days after her mother’s funeral. The thrumming of a spring rain framed the uncharacteristic quiet of the parsonage. The boys napped and the girls were still at school. Bread in the oven filled the house with a welcoming yeasty smell. Ellen served tea at the kitchen table, and she had that look on her face, the expression that told Susannah she wanted something. As it turned out, she wasn’t recruiting a Sunday school teacher or a women’s circle leader, merely someone to write to the Reverend’s brother, alone on the frontier.
Susannah agreed. After all, writing came easier to her than talking. Even when Ellen got around to the subject of marriage, Susannah wasn’t too worried. She couldn’t leave Father. And surely Mr. Mason would write to several women and choose someone else.
Ellen’s eyes brightened with a zealot’s flame. Didn’t Susannah realize? This was their chance to become sisters. With a hug, Ellen welcomed her to the family.
Now Susannah rolled up the corner of the oilcloth, studying the neat hemming her mother had stitched. With his blunt question, Jesse had nipped at the heels of the truth. In marrying the minister’s brother, she hoped in some way to become more like Ellen: confident, outspoken, at ease with people.
But how could she explain that? “Reverend Mason is a good man. He’s gentle with his children, well respected in the community, doesn’t indulge in tobacco or alcohol.”
“Guess he didn’t tell you about my drinking habit.”
“You have nothing stronger than coffee here.”
Jesse rubbed his temples. “When I first came home from the War . . . well, let’s just say I don’t remember ’66 at all. Except maybe waking up in an alley in Buffalo, hands frozen to a whiskey bottle.”
Ah, that explained the deep lines carved in his face, the sadness tugging the corners of his eyes. What horrors he must have seen to resort to drink in a family of teetotaling Methodists. Susannah reached across the table. “Plenty of men despaired of the War. You’re to be commended for conquering it.”
“I had help—strong hands lifted in prayer and reaching down to me.” He caught her wrist, his thumb overlapping the last joint of his middle finger. “Aren’t you going to have some pie?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You’re too jumpy to eat. What were we talking about? Oh yes, how you wrote to me because my brother doesn’t drink. I’ll just hold this hand of yours until you tell me the rest.”
She pulled. His grip held. “What do you want me to say?”
“What’s in your head, in your heart.” His other hand worked a fork through the pie. “Hmm. You’re a better cook than my ma.”
“Cooking for such a large family must have been a challenge.” She waved a fly away from the open pan. Jesse flicked it out of the air with a one-handed snap of his napkin.
“Susannah—”
“All right.” She worked a thread loose from her apron. “It’s not so much what I thought of the Reverend, but my admiration for the way he and Ellen work together. They support each other.”
His grip loosened into a caress. “I’d like our marriage to be like that.”
Susannah stood to clear the table.
“Did Ellen ever take on your folks?”
Her plate dropped back to the oilcloth. “Pardon me?”
“You said she dove into conflicts.”
“Whatever gave you the idea my parents had conflicts?”
“So I’m wrong. Tell me about Mr. and Mrs. Underhill.”
Father’s college education earned him no financial reward or respect in a country where any farmer could call himself a veterinary surgeon. Yet he refused to return. Mother pined away for her beloved England. Susannah had never wanted to involve herself in the conflict; she feared their bitterness might infect her. If she understood her parents’ feelings, she might feel the need to take sides, so she stayed out of the line of fire. She took care not to draw their attention, not to give them a focus for their anger.
“They never raised their voices,” she said. Not often, anyway.
“Did they talk?”
She scoured the cook pot. “Of course.”
“More than ‘How’s the weather, what’s for dinner, and guess whose horse went lame today?’” Jesse slid his plate into the dishwater. “Did your pa hug your ma? Did she run to kiss him when he came home? Why are you an only child?”
She wiped the plate. “That’s hardly—”
“Hear me out. I’ve been chewing on this. Seems like people tend to follow the roads they know, without thinking where they want to go.” He reached around her for the coffeepot and refilled their cups. “Guess your folks’ marriage was quite a bit different from Matt and Ellen’s.”
Susannah scrubbed harder.
“Looking at other marriages, I see a lot of unhappy people. Guys in my regiment signed up to get away from their wives, if you can imagine. I don’t want us to be like that.” Grasping her arms, he turned her toward him. “I want this marriage to work for both of us. I want you to be glad to see me when I walk in the door.” He slid his hands up to her shoulders, rubbing in circular motions. “See how wound up you are, how you pick at your food. Susannah, you don’t want to live like this forever.”
She bit her lip and focused on the empty pie pan. What choice did she have?
He sighed. “Guess I need to back off, give you more time. Will you think about what road we should take?”
She nodded.
“I’ll bring in the tub. Want me to scrub your back?”
Her midriff quivered. “No, thank you.”
One finger moved to the top hook of her bodice. “Or help you undress?”
She backed away. “I believe I hear your oxen calling you.”
J
esse sighed. “Some other time.”
This broad-shouldered man was her husband. She had to get used to the idea. Closing her eyes, she gave a quick nod.
“I’ll take that as a promise, one I won’t forget.” He sauntered to the door. “Holler when you’re done.”
Although the warm water soothed her aching muscles, Susannah bathed quickly, not trusting the man to wait.
“Jesse!” she called out the door, then sat with her back to the washtub. While he took his turn, she mended his shirt. She heard the rustling of clothes, the splashing as he entered the water, then turned her thoughts to church tomorrow. They would sing and read Scripture, Jesse said. She hoped to talk privately with Marta.
“Don’t suppose you’d scrub my back?”
Susannah started toward the tub, then caught herself. “You’ll sing tomorrow? I forgot, the Reverend sent a hymnbook.” She rummaged through the trunk by the table.
“A hymnbook? Tune up the piano!” Jesse splashed out.
“Must be in the other one.” Using her hair to shield her vision, Susannah sidestepped to the other. “Yes, here it is.”
Jesse reached around her, his nightshirt flapping. “Protestant Episcopal Hymnal. Guess the Methodist songbook isn’t out yet.”
“Reverend Mason said it could be another year or two.”
“Well, let’s sing! Teach me a new one.”
While he tuned his guitar, Susannah set aside the hymnal and pulled a copy of a magazine from the trunk. “Here’s Fanny Crosby’s latest, ‘Blessed Assurance.’” She passed the magazine to Jesse. “Page 36.”
“Palmer’s Guide to Holiness and Revival Miscellany?” he asked. “That’s a mouthful.”
“Ellen gave it to me,” Susannah said. “It was just published in July.” She stood behind him as he propped it on the table with the cracker tin and two potatoes. His fingers picked out the melody, adding chords as she sang. Heat rose off him in a steam. They’d used the same soap, yet he smelled so different.
Midway through the first verse, he stopped. “You’re breathing through your shoulders, like the other day on the wagon. Come here.” He did not raise his voice, but it was a command just the same. He set the guitar down. “Sing the last line again, without moving your shoulders.” He shook his head when she inhaled. “Corsets. They make you huff and puff even when you’re not wearing one.” He spread his palm across her lower rib cage. “Breathe so you move my hand.”
How could she, with all that fluttering going on inside?
“Better. You’ll have air to sing a whole line on a breath.”
Her heart raced and her legs had all the stability of a newborn calf’s. Surely he could feel it. She could barely breathe, let alone sing.
Jesse raised a speculative eyebrow in her direction. “Let’s try again.” He picked up the guitar and resumed playing. On the next verse, a yawn interrupted Susannah’s singing.
“I’ve worn you out with this fieldwork.” His face softened with an apologetic smile. “Lie down. I’ll join you soon.”
Susannah nodded, then, just for a second, touched his elbow. She dropped off to sleep during his next song.
Morning found Susannah face-to-face with a snoring man. Husband, she corrected, as if the word might offer some comfort. Why did this man affect her so? Jesse had an aura of command, perhaps from his time in the army. He took charge, issued orders, while his brother let life unfold around him. He had an edge to him, a wildness absent in the civilized Reverend. Where the minister saw good, this man seemed too aware of the dark side of people, including herself. His critical eyes could pierce any armor. She had the feeling he could see beyond her mask of respectability to her worst self, the self she couldn’t face, and it terrified her.
Susannah had once called on Ellen and happened upon the Reverend Mason. He had fallen asleep stretched out on the braided rug in the parlor, the baby napping on his chest. His expression had relaxed and, except for the full mustache, he looked like a larger version of the little boy.
Here in Dakota, the sleeper on the other side of the bed was no little boy. He had a rugged face, with a nose that ran straight down from his wide forehead; deep eye sockets, high cheekbones, jutting chin. Even a big smile. Smile? How long had he been awake?
“What’s good for the gander . . .” His early morning voice rumbled. “I’ve been studying you enough, you’re welcome to take a peek at me.”
“I’m sorry.” She attempted to roll away, but her muscles cramped in protest.
“You’re hurting. Lie on your stomach and I’ll rub your back.” He tried to look innocent, businesslike. The attempt was only partially successful.
She eased upright. “I’ll be fine once I get moving.”
“You should have soaked in the tub longer.” Jesse clamped a warm hand on her shoulder, kneading the base of her neck, loosening each knot of pain. It felt entirely too good. “Where are you going? I’m not done yet.”
Susannah slipped off the bed. “Thank you. I feel much better, but I must—”
“The outhouse. Have to figure that out before winter hits.”
“Pardon me?”
“When it’s bad, I use a bucket. Not comfortable for you.”
“I’m used to cold weather.”
“Not this cold. When the wind kicks up you won’t be able to find the outhouse. It’s all I can do to get to the stable and back. We’ll buy a chamber pot when we’re in town.”
“Where—?” Susannah glanced around the soddy.
Jesse sat up and rubbed his chin. “Good question. We could tie a clothesline between the rafters, hang a sheet over it.”
Susannah hurried out. How would she manage, cooped up with this man for months on end? How did anyone survive out here? And how would she get even a tiny portion of the privacy she craved?
Marta. She would ask Marta.
Only another woman would know how to endure winter with a husband. Only another woman would be able to answer her questions.
“Ahh, just what these sourdoughs have been crying for.” Jesse spooned plum jam onto a biscuit. “Until I tasted this, I used to think apple butter was—” He frowned. “Susannah!”
“What’s wrong?” She smoothed the bombazine dress. Had she spilled on her skirt, missed a button on her basque?
Jesse shoved the spoon into the jam, tipping the jar. “Black? You’re wearing black?”
“This has been my Sunday dress since my mother’s death.”
“I hoped celebrating our marriage would outweigh mourning your folks.”
The hurt in his voice pierced though her social conventions. “I’ll change.”
“Appreciate it.” He touched a work-roughened finger to her cheek. The door closed with a soft click.
Susannah pulled on her dark red dress and buttoned it. When would she learn how to please him?
Chapter 8
Susannah is a new song in my heart.
Teach me to sing her.
Do you know anything about this church?” Susannah asked Jake as she packed dinner into the basket. “They’re not going to ask for a testimony, are they?”
The dog tipped his head to one side, then the other. He was a wonderful listener, but he didn’t have many answers.
Jesse stuck his head through the doorway. “Ready, Susannah?” He nodded his approval and came to her to touch the lace decorating her neckline. “Oh yes. Very nice. Prettier than ever in red.”
Morning sun heated their shoulders as they crossed the wheat field and plunged into the prairie. Big bluestem grass shimmered silver overhead. Insects scattered before them. Hindered by her petticoats, Susannah stopped to shift the basket and pull her skirts close. When she looked up, she was alone.
“Jesse?”
He couldn’t be far ahead. She took a step forward. Wait a minute. Which way was forward? She ought to see a path, a line of bent stalks, but the grass grew equally dense in every direction. Susannah stood on tiptoes but saw only seed heads vibrating above her. She was
lost. No, not quite lost. She could return to the wheat field. Except . . .
She couldn’t tell which way they’d come.
Her mouth went dry. They’d been heading west. The sun shone almost directly above her. No help there. Wind whipped the stems, slapping her face. She turned, but the grass beat her from a different direction. Flowered spikelets pressed close, shutting off the air. What was that rustling noise?
The sound moved closer. A snake? Her heart raced. Or a fox or a badger? With a gasp, she pulled her skirts higher. She whirled right. No escape. It could be a wolf, inches away, watching, waiting for an opportunity to pounce. Or an Indian.
“Jesse?” Her voice quavered.
He emerged on her left. “Yes?”
Her knees buckled and she almost threw herself into his arms. She swallowed hard. “I was wondering . . . what sort of animals live in this grass.”
He shifted the guitar to his other shoulder, then brushed a bead of perspiration from her temple. “The big-eared sort. They heard us and are miles away by now.” He took the food basket from her, then hiked on, whistling “The Campbells Are Coming.”
With hands free, Susannah managed to keep Jesse in sight. Thank God he’d come back for her. Could she thank God for Jesse?
The land ascended to the west, opening to a valley cut more than a hundred feet into the plain. Hills and draws rippled along the bluffs. A stream flowed south through a ravine filled with cottonwoods, elms, box elders, willows, and scrub oaks.
“The Sheyenne River.” Jesse pointed.
“Trees,” Susannah sighed. After six days of nothing but grass, the wooded slopes seemed like a paradise.
“This is where we get our firewood.”
“Why don’t you live here?”
“Our claim’s got the best spring in the territory. Soil’s not so good here.” His boot scraped at a patch of gravel between clumps of grass. He glanced from her face back to the valley. “I suppose we could build our real house here.”
Jesse headed for the nearest cottonwood where two people sat on a blanket. Susannah tucked a stray lock of hair under her hat and brushed seeds off her skirt. What if Marta didn’t like her? What if she thought Susannah’s worries were foolish?
Spring for Susannah Page 6