Susannah shrugged. “I guess so.”
He leaned his chin on her shoulder. “Are you scared of everybody, the whole world?”
“I haven’t met everybody.”
“All right. Forget everybody and try to make friends with just one person: me. I don’t like having my wife shy of me, especially when I’ve given her no reason.”
He was right. He hadn’t given her a reason. He’d been gentle and patient. A better husband than she had hoped for. “I’m sorry.”
He pulled her closer, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Especially after last night. Oh, woman. I can’t even begin to say . . .” He stroked her hair. “Let’s do it again, right now.”
She caught his hands raising her gown. “In the daytime?”
“Yeah!” Jesse tugged at the ribbons, untying her neckline.
“But it’s not—” She stilled his hand.
“Not proper? Who says? Remember, no ‘shoulds’ out here.”
“Not even a ‘should’ about being on time for church?” Beneath her hand, his fingers flexed, working her buttons loose.
“They’ll understand. I had to wait for them last year.”
“What about the oxen?”
Jesse exhaled. “Oh, all right. We have all winter to play. One more kiss—”
He dropped his mouth onto hers. One arm wrapped around her shoulders and the other cradled her head. The quick peck lengthened into a full-blown, breath-stopping kiss. He prolonged the kiss and began to touch her in ways that would undoubtedly lead to a reprise of last night. She jabbed him in the ribs and wriggled out of bed.
“Hey, can I help it if I can’t get enough of you?”
While Jesse dressed, Susannah concentrated on rolling out sourdough. As he left to picket the oxen, he turned and gave her a long look. “Someday, Susannah, you’re going to trust me, you’re going to want me to touch you. Hope I live long enough.” The door closed with a firm thud.
Was he right? Could she want him?
Susannah hesitated at the top of the bluff.
“Even prettier than last week.” Jesse winked.
Heat rose in her cheeks. “Will they know? Will they be able to tell what we’ve done?” She focused on the yellow leaves dotting the cottonwoods.
“They think we’ve been enjoying married life ever since you got off the train.”
She glanced up. “Yes, but this week you are . . . grinning.”
“I never felt so good!” He reached for her, then froze as a wail pierced the morning. “Sara!” Jesse raced for the big tree. Susannah followed as fast as her cumbersome skirts would allow. How could such a loud noise come from such a little person?
Hollow-eyed, Ivar yawned at them. “All night, no sleep.”
The baby gasped, then let loose with another long cry. Perspiration stuck her white hair to her beet-red scalp. Even Marta propped her head in her hands.
Handing his guitar to Susannah, Jesse picked up the baby. He kissed her forehead. “No temperature. When did she eat last?” he yelled over the extended howl.
Ivar collapsed onto the blanket, plopping his hat over his eyes. “Not long ago. She refuses more.”
Jesse slid his hand under her dress. “Don’t slap me for being forward, Sara. Just checking your diaper.”
Ivar tossed his hat at Jesse, whacking him on the knee. “Of course she’s dry. We half been parents long time. Veterans.”
Ignoring the neighbor whose faced flushed as red as his daughter’s, Jesse cooed to the infant, “Three months, Sara. You’ll never get a job with the Northern Pacific if you stay ahead of schedule. The wine, please.”
“Don’t you get my baby girl drunk, Mason.”
Marta poured a glass of wine and Jesse dipped his little finger in. He swabbed the white nub protruding from her lower gum. The infant blinked, then clamped down. Her crying ceased. Four adults sighed with relief.
“Teething,” Jesse explained.
Ivar rolled upright and took his Bible in his hands. “You half a scripture for everything, my friend. What verse for this?”
Jesse cradled Sara on his knee. “Proverbs 31:6.”
Ivar flipped the pages, then burst out with a snorting laugh. “‘Give wine to those of heavy hearts.’”
When their laughter subsided, Jesse continued, “The real lesson is in the Gospels. People brought their babies to Jesus so He could touch them. Not just see Him, not just hear Him. Not have Him wave a magic wand over us. But touch. We are made to touch and be touched.”
Susannah lowered her head to hide her reddening face. He was talking about her, to her.
Jesse looked down at Sara. Her fingers daintily uncurled as her sleep deepened. “There’s still power in touch.” Jesse nodded at Ivar. “One of the ways Jesus touches us is through His supper.”
Ivar conducted the sacrament in Norwegian, handing flatbread and plum wine around their tiny circle. First-century communion must have been like this, Susannah thought, a common cup passed among people who knew each other. Definitely preferable to a church filled with strangers.
The discussion during lunch centered on the upcoming trip to town. Agreeing to meet at dawn Wednesday, they parted.
From the ridge top, Susannah watched Marta and Ivar disappear into the crimson-tinted grass. “How did you figure out she was teething? You knew just what to do.”
“Second oldest of ten, an uncle many times over. I’ve picked up a few tricks.”
“Such as pulling a sermon out of thin air?”
He grinned.
“I’m amazed,” Susannah said. “Your brother spends his week locked away with a bookcase full of references.”
“What’s he do that for? He’s got plenty of kids to write sermons on.” Jesse adjusted his guitar strap and they headed for the homestead. “What’d you think of the message?”
“Good.” She slowed, putting space between them.
“Right.” He broke off a grass stem, popping the seeds off with his thumb. “I don’t know if it’s because of the banker or some other reason, but you don’t like to be touched.”
“I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to.” He turned and reached for her.
Reflexively she stepped back, realizing her mistake a second too late. “I’m sorry.”
“Next week’s sermon is on apologizing too much.” He grabbed her elbow, compelling her to walk with him. “Where do you like to be touched? Are your feet ticklish? Does it feel better if I touch you easy or a little more?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you like your kisses wet or dry?”
She lifted her shoulders, more of a jerk than a shrug. How was she supposed to know, when his kisses comprised the full extent of her experience?
“Exploring unknown territory. Lewis and Clark, Stanley and Livingstone, Susannah and Jesse.”
Yes, he had the intensity and vision of an explorer. If only he would choose a less personal subject, say British literature or steam engines. But he would not be diverted. He caught her peeking at him. Her words choked out like food gone down the wrong way. “Are you . . . will you tell me . . . what you like?”
“Nope, Sacajawea. Got to blaze our own trail.”
The flutter in her chest returned. She crossed her arms over her middle so he wouldn’t see it. “What if I do something wrong?”
“Was there a wrong route to the Pacific? No. Different routes, different scenery. First exploration starts now. Do you like to hold hands this way or the other?” He pried her arm away from her body and joined hands, first fingers interlocked, then palms together.
“Either.”
“Speak up, girl. Did you say ‘neither’?”
“Either, both.”
“Both!” Jesse beamed. “Log entry for this day reads: ‘Met friendly native.’”
Chapter 12
Your idea about becoming one flesh,
God—it’s the best.
A half dozen prairie chickens burst out of the dark g
reen slough grass with a flurry of feathers and squawks.
Jesse grabbed the reins. “Easy there, Pa. Have to remember this place. They tend to feed in the same area.”
Susannah pried her fingers from the wagon’s seat and watched the birds disappear on the horizon. “Seems like a lot of hunting for so little meat. Could they be tamed? Then you wouldn’t have to buy chickens.”
Jesse shook his head. “They’re wild. Don’t worry—we’ll see enough from the wheat to get your Rhode Island Reds.”
The Sheyenne River meandered under a canopy of bright yellow leaves. The tallest trees were cottonwoods, reaching seventy or eighty feet. Despite their size, Susannah could see why Jesse didn’t build his house from them. Before the trunk reached the height of a man, it split into sections that curved too much for use as lumber. Other species, mostly oaks and box elders, grew only a foot or two in diameter.
Jesse set fishing lines, then started chopping. Susannah collected windfall from the underbrush, noting the location of wild grapes, gooseberries, and raspberries for next summer’s picking. Next summer. Would she have a baby by then?
When they had collected a cord of wood, Jesse rigged up a block and tackle to a square of canvas. A few yanks on the rope hauled the pile up from the riverbank.
“How did you learn this? Were you an engineer in the army?”
Jesse coiled the rope. “Nope. Pa taught me to take every opportunity to try new things.” He hauled in the fishing lines and tossed three trout under the seat, then reached for her. “This warm day could be an opportunity.” His finger stroked her lips, down her throat to the neckline of her basque. The top hook popped open.
“Outside? In the middle of the day?”
“Can’t think of anything I’d rather do.” He unfastened the second hook.
“But the fish will go bad.”
He chuckled. “They already have. I saw their reports from school.”
The third hook opened, exposing the edge of her corset.
“Jesse!”
He slid his finger into her chemise, pulling her toward him. “This is one of the unique opportunities available in the territory.”
“The Emigrants’ Guide didn’t mention it.” She pushed his hands away.
“What a waste of a perfect day.” He exhaled heavily and lifted her to the seat.
Susannah fastened her bodice with trembling fingers. Never once had she seen her parents touch, much less express affection. A man might escort his wife, her gloved hand on his well-clothed elbow. But more ardent displays of feelings crossed the line of propriety. Kissing in public belonged to the lower classes, foreigners, loose women. Removing one’s clothing outdoors was completely unthinkable. And what Jesse suggested was no less than animal behavior. But she couldn’t change him, so she would change the subject.
She nodded at a long line of birds migrating below the cirrus wisps. “Could those be pelicans? This far north?”
“Yep.” Jesse swung into the seat. “They nest upriver.”
“More traffic than Woodward Avenue on a Sunday afternoon.”
He aimed the wagon for the soddy. “Tell me, pretty lady. How come you turned down all those city boys? The ones who took you driving up and down Woodward in their cabriolets pulled by fancy trotters?”
“They all went to war.”
“None of them came back?”
“Mother took ill in ’64. Caring for her kept me busy.”
“You needed a sister to help you.”
“We tried to hire someone. If her difficulties had been only physical . . . I don’t know if it was the apoplexy or losing her only brother in the War, she just wasn’t in her right mind. Ellen arranged for ladies from the church to sit with her, but they decided she was possessed. Nothing Reverend Mason said changed their minds.”
“Was your pa sick too?”
“He worked himself to death, battling the horse epidemic.”
“I read about that. Hit Boston, New York, as far west as Milwaukee.”
“It was awful. Detroit lost hundreds of horses, despite everything Father tried. He passed away one morning on a call at the police stables. At least he didn’t suffer.”
“And there was no one to help you.” He shook his head.
“My father was the only member of his family to emigrate. Mother just had the one brother.” Mother had drilled into her the principle that girls who talked about themselves were bores. “What did you do in the War?”
“Against the wishes of my folks, my older brother and I volunteered. For God, Country, Glory, and Adventure. We’d all be home by Christmas. But I came home alone, leaving him dead at Gettysburg. Thank God Matt and the rest were too young. Guess that’s a big part of my leaving, that empty place at the table. If I could have reloaded faster, stood in his place, taken that bullet . . .”
His spiral into despondency unnerved her. “How did we get started on such a gloomy subject?”
Jesse straightened. “I was trying to figure out how you escaped the clutches of the Detroit bachelors.”
“Then let me ask you the same question.”
“Don’t think Detroit bachelors would be interested in me.”
“No, I mean, why didn’t you marry before you came here?”
“And miss the adventure of writing off for you?” He tickled her under her chin. “It’s embarrassing to admit, but even with the shortage of men caused by the War, no one chose me.”
“You mean, no one chose to come out here.”
“I might have stayed back east, for the right offer.”
“The right offer? New York girls do the asking?”
“Not exactly, but they sure do let a fellow know how his question will be received.” He stretched his legs against the footboard. “Truth is, that yearlong binge after the War blew my reputation to smithereens. I got nothing but cold shoulders at my sister’s wedding.” He turned to look at her. “Did one of those Detroit boys bother you?”
She returned his gaze. “None of them bothered with me at all.”
“Their loss, my gain.” His eyebrows twitched together. “Anything else you want to ask me?”
Susannah thought a moment. “How many others did you write to?”
“Just you. Ellen said you’d be perfect for me, so no sense wasting money on stamps.”
Her heart sank. He hadn’t chosen her after all.
Jesse halted the wagon and leaned over to kiss her. “I’m happy with the way it worked out. Hope someday you’ll be too.”
Happiness, she thought, was too much to expect.
When they had left for their afternoon trip, Susannah had pulled a handful of corn kernels from her apron and scattered them in the grass. Jesse had raised an eyebrow but hadn’t interrupted his rendition of “Tenting Tonight.” Now, as they returned at dusk, he sat bolt upright.
“Susannah, the prairie chickens are waiting for you! You’ve tamed them with one meal.”
She jumped off the wagon, gathered three docile fowl, and climbed back on.
Jesse inspected her catch. “Still alive but acting mighty strange. What exactly did you feed them?” He stuck his nose into her apron pocket. “Clever girl! You’ve gotten them drunk! But on what?”
Susannah folded her hands. No one had called her clever before. “They’re not inebriated, they’re medicated. Simmons Liver Regulator. Ellen packed it.”
Jesse hooted. “Have to tell her you’ve found a new use for her favorite concoction. All right, let’s get these birds home before they sober up and figure out they’ve been shanghaied.”
After dinner, Jesse picked out a few notes on his guitar while Susannah mended his socks and shirts. The melody wandered without words from “Battle Hymn of the Republic” into “John Brown’s Body,” then “Johnny Comes Marching Home.” She left him alone in his wartime reminisces to delve into her own.
In this particular memory, seventeen-year-old Susannah Underhill toiled over her schoolwork in preparation for final examinations. The frag
rance of hyacinths filled the parlor. Father unfolded the Detroit Free Press, tilting it toward the kerosene lamp in the center of the marble-topped table. “An army of secessionists occupied a Federal garrison in South Carolina.”
Her literature anthology slipped to the floor with a thud. “Does that mean war?”
Mother stabbed the hem of Susannah’s graduation dress with her needle. “Ladies do not talk about such things. Go to your room and remain there.”
Six weeks later Susannah was arranging a freshly ironed cloth over the dining room table when Mother appeared in the archway. “You need set only two places this evening. Your father has enlisted.”
Jesse slapped his hand against his guitar, returning her to the present. He said, “I hope we have only daughters. No sons.”
Susannah let her needle pause. “Most men prefer sons.”
“I’ve seen too much war to want any son of mine—no, that’s not right. War hurts women too—refugees, mothers, wives—” His focus reeled in from an unknown distance. He nodded her way. “Daughters, nieces. Thousands of years of so-called civilization and all we got to show for it is killing each other more efficiently. Wonder why God puts up with us. We’re not getting any closer to peace.” He shook his head. “Men have had their chance. I say, let women run the country.”
“Are you saying women could keep the country out of war?”
“Let’s say Ellen had been president instead of Lincoln.” He stowed his guitar and paced between the bed and the table.
“I can’t imagine a woman president.”
“Sure you can.” He poured a cup of coffee and handed it to her. “What does Ellen do when there’s trouble at church?”
Susannah considered the tumult over instrumental music in the service, the uproar when women’s clothing styles became more elaborate, the tensions over support for the Freedmen’s Aid Society. “She meets with each person involved, hears them out, then brings them all together to work out a compromise. Of course, she prays a lot.” Susannah sipped the coffee. “She has this amazing ability to make the people involved feel ashamed of themselves for the disharmony they’ve caused. That’s when Reverend Mason steps in to bring reconciliation.”
Spring for Susannah Page 9