The baby . . . gone.
Jesse would be angry. He wanted a child so much. Her fingers slid lower. Dry clothes. He’d cleaned her. She couldn’t even take care of herself, much less pull her own weight. She had to be strong, to show him—
The door scraped the icy threshold. Susannah turned, sending the room into a jerky orbit. Jesse came into focus. His shoulders drooped, his skin gray, his eyebrows drawn together. He glanced up, meeting her gaze. The grim set of his mouth widened into a smile. His fatigue dropped off with his coat and gloves.
“You’re awake. Sweet Susannah, you sure had me worried.”
Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, making her words come out garbled. “I lost your baby.”
His eyes were haunted and red-rimmed. He still wore his hunting clothes. Had he slept at all? “Afraid I’d lost you too. You’re white as the sheets.” He lowered himself to the bed and brushed the hair from her face.
“I’m so sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry. I should have never left you alone. Got a buck and had to rig a travois to drag it back. Made me late. Jake ran on ahead. I knew something was wrong by his bark.” He shuddered, covering his face, his voice straining at the words. “So much blood. More than the deer, more than guys shot through with cannonballs. I couldn’t wake you up. Even your medical books didn’t say what to do.”
“There isn’t any-anything you could have d-done.” A lady, Mother always said, must be calm. A lady must not get carried away by futile sentiment. “Miscarriage isn’t that un-uncommon, especially with first b-babies. There’s lots of sup-superstitions, but no one really knows why it h-happens.”
Jesse wiped his tears with the heel of his hand. “You’re freezing. Stay here.” He tucked the covers under her chin, then hustled around the stove. Men didn’t cry—not when their sons went to war, not at funerals, not even when the president was assassinated. But Ellen argued that Jesus cried, so maybe Christians were allowed. Even Jesse? Especially Jesse with the loss of his child.
“Susannah.” He held the bowl like an offering plate, its steam rapidly dissipating in the cold room.
She pushed upright against the headboard, but the edges of her vision grayed. “Maybe later.” She sank back to the pillows.
“No. Now.” He slid in beside her and cradled her head in the crook of his elbow. She opened her mouth to protest, and he spooned in hot cereal. “Most times I’m more than ready to listen to you, but not today. Get your strength back and then we’ll talk.” Her shivering vibrated his arm. She forced a swallow. “Grandma said oatmeal gives heat to the body. ’Course us kids thought oatmeal was just a reason to get out the maple syrup.”
His voice faded. “Susannah? C’mon now, stay awake. This isn’t my most interesting story, but it’s all my tired head can think of right now. Wish we had some syrup. Wonder if my sister would send some. Probably not. She was always the last to the table in the morning. The good stuff would all be gone by the time she showed up.” He held a mug to her lips. “Cocoa? Take a sip. Two more bites. Good girl.”
Despite warm food and piles of quilts and blankets, Susannah continued to shiver. Jesse wrapped her wool scarf around her head and spread her cape on the bed. He threw two more logs into the stove. He heated the new sadiron, rolled it in an empty flour sack, and set it by her feet. Studying her, he rubbed his stubbly new beard. “Bootless,” he muttered, referring to the ineffectiveness of his efforts. “Bootless.” He shifted his gaze to his footwear. In seconds he stripped to his long underwear, slid between the sheets, and curled around her.
She had lost enough blood to make her light-headed, but she was coherent enough to realize Jesse had saved her life. “Thank you for taking such good care of me.”
“I love you.”
Love? Love . . .
Her shivering subsided and she slept.
Susannah rolled over and opened her eyes. Jesse stood at the stove, slicing carrots into the Dutch oven. Late afternoon sun glowed in his hair like a copper halo.
“Smells good. Maybe next year you could cook and I’ll work on the threshing machine.”
A slow smile widened his mouth. “Crew’d love that.”
A sharp bark from the other side of the door interrupted him. Jesse let the dog in with a swirl of snow. Jake raced to the bed. Susannah reached to pet him. He licked her hand.
“I’m not the only one worried about you.” Jesse set a tin plate of meat scraps on the floor. Jake gulped his dinner, sniffed Susannah again, then vanished into the snowy dusk.
“I’m not that hungry,” Susannah objected when Jesse ladled up a large bowl of stew.
“Got to build you up, get the color back in those pretty cheeks of yours.”
“Well, at least I can sit without fainting.” Susannah leaned against the headboard.
“Shucks. I was looking forward to feeding you again. Good practice for when I become a pa.” Susannah turned away to hide her tears, and Jesse groaned. “I’m sorry.”
“I want to be strong, but—” She sniffled.
Sitting beside her, Jesse pulled her head to his chest. “God gave us tears for a reason, Susannah. Go ahead, let out all your sad so you can start to mend.” His voice held an odd note of relief. He seemed almost pleased about her crying.
She tried to swallow the lump in her throat. “How can you miss someone you never knew?”
“I don’t know, but I feel it too. Like a hole in my heart.” His large hand stroked the top of her head down to her back. “Boy or girl, do you suppose? Would have been a year younger than Ivar and Marta’s baby. They could have played together. Now he’s getting fitted for angel wings.”
“More likely taking his first heavenly harp lesson, seeing as how he’s your child.”
“Eat your dinner, silly girl,” he said. And for the first time in days, he smiled.
After cleaning up, Jesse once again shed his boots and climbed into bed. “Ecclesiastes is right.”
“Pardon me?” Susannah asked from her sleepy haze.
“Chapter 4, verse 11.” He pulled her back against his chest, matching the bend of her legs with his. “‘If two lie together, they have heat.’”
The sun shone weakly through the frosted panes, providing a glimmer of light but no warmth. Grains of snow sifted through unseen chinks, forming drifts across the quilt, in the corners, and along the window frames. Another lumberjack-sized meal burbled fragrantly on the stove. Jesse worked through a four-bar phrase on his guitar.
“What day is today?” Susannah levered herself into sitting.
“Thursday. Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Oh no! I slept right through your birthday!” One step from the bed, her legs gave out.
“Whoa! Who said you were allowed to get up?” He scooped her off the floor and bundled her back to bed.
“But—” She had planned to surprise him with his favorite dessert, apple pie.
“Just get better, back to your usual lively self. You’re all I want for my birthday, this year and all the years to come.” He leaned over to rub noses with her, his growing beard tickling her cheeks. “No sad faces.”
“You haven’t had anyone here to fuss over you, and now—”
“With a family the size of ours, no one ever fussed over me.” He dismissed the idea with a swipe of his long hand.
“You didn’t celebrate birthdays?”
“Sure. If it was your day, you got served first. Every night at dinner, Ma would look around the table at the ten of us and whatever cousins were visiting and try to remember whose turn it was. We’d all point at the birthday kid—soon as he got his, we’d get ours.”
Our baby won’t have a birthday, she thought, then pushed the thought away. She had to stop crying and get better. “What else?”
“We’d sing ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’ and get lots of hugs. How ’bout you Underhills?”
“Mother made spice cake and served it on her best plates. She decorated the table with violets.” Susann
ah received gifts too: hair ribbons, books, watercolors. But she didn’t mention it. Maybe Jesse’s family couldn’t afford presents.
“Good thing you were born in the spring.” He patted the covers. “You’ll be ready to make a birthday cake by December 25.”
“Who has a birthday in December?”
He arched an eyebrow at her. “Whose birth do we celebrate at Christmas?”
“Oh.” She felt a flush creep up her neck. “Yes. Of course.”
Jesse kissed her forehead. “No more bolting out of bed, now. I’ll sing you a lullaby. And, Susannah?” His brows drew together and he looked away, his gaze passing over the stove, the shelves, and the table before coming to rest on his shoes. His jaw clenched. “Never mind. We’ll talk when you’re better.”
“Much as I like spending time with you in bed,” Jesse said, “it sure is great to see you up, back to spoiling me rotten.” He bit into a Christmas cookie.
Susannah decorated the gingerbread men with raisins. Whatever he’d been worried about had been forgotten, and she’d do her best to keep it that way. “You’re overdue for some pampering. I’ve been more of a burden than a help to you these past few weeks.”
“Never a burden, only a joy.” He wrapped an arm across her shoulders. “So, what’s with all the baking?”
“I always make extra cookies for—” Susannah paused. “I guess we won’t have any carolers, any company.”
“It’s all right. You know I’ll eat everything, and you could use the extra food.” Jesse’s hands circled her waist. He reached over her shoulder for a pan, frowning at his reflection in its shiny surface. “Susannah, don’t scrub the tinware. It just gets sooty again. It’s not like Mrs. Child is going to show up to judge your housework. Save your energy. And sit for your baking.” He maneuvered her to the stool.
Susannah’s thoughts circled the possibilities. “What if you replaced the wagon wheels with runners?”
“Sure, a sleigh would be great fun. Matched pair of horses, bells. I’d take you for a long visit with Mr. and Mrs. Rose.”
The talkative shopkeepers? Susannah groaned. “Who needs a sleigh? We’re fine right here.”
Christmas morning dawned clear, a definite improvement over the murky overcast of December in Detroit. Susannah popped the corn the Volds had given them, strung it, and hung the strings from the rafters. She longed for a Christmas tree but didn’t mention it. The nearest pine might be hundreds of miles away, and there was no room in the soddy anyway. After a breakfast of cinnamon pancakes, baked apples, and sausage, Jesse read the story of the first Christmas from the gospel of Luke.
When he got to the part about Mary giving birth to Jesus, Susannah struggled to maintain control. No tears on Christmas.
From her trunk, Susannah brought out three packages wrapped in brown paper.
“All this?” Jesse leaned over and whispered to the dog curled under the table, “Maybe she does like me.” He opened the first two: a red woolen stocking cap and a matching scarf. The third package contained one gray knee-length sock, a skein of matching yarn, and a pair of knitting needles.
Susannah explained, “With me getting sick and you spending so much time in the house, I didn’t finish the second sock.”
Jesse’s eyes twinkled. “That’s a relief. Figured the first one was a pattern and you expected me to make the second—revenge for me teaching you to play by ear.”
“Since it’s no longer a surprise, I can work on it now.” Susannah reached for the yarn.
“Not so fast.” Jesse kissed her hand, then slid a narrow silver band on her ring finger. “Should have given this to you sooner, but I wanted something special for our first Christmas.”
Susannah gasped. Jesse, who kept track of every penny, who wouldn’t spend more on the soddy than absolutely necessary, who wore his clothes until they fell apart, had bought a wedding ring for her. Tears filled her eyes. “Thank you!”
He grinned. “One more present. Close your eyes.”
He rustled and pounded, then said, “Merry Christmas!”
Her mirror stood over the washstand on a hand-carved pine shelf. Jesse had arranged her comb and brush on either side.
“It’s wonderful! Merry Christmas to you too.” She rose up on tiptoes, aiming for his cheek. He turned and caught her kiss with his lips.
“My sisters fill their houses with doodads and geegaws.” He swept the soddy with a grand gesture, almost knocking over the new shelf. “Our house is clean, and there’re your trunks, but nothing else of you here. You need to leave a mark, besides the one you’ve left on my heart.”
“I wouldn’t want to clutter—”
“Halt right there. None of this practical stuff on Christmas.” Pulling on the stocking cap, Jesse posed in front of the mirror. “I am ze famous French fur trader, Pierre Chouteau.”
“Joyeux Nöel, Monsieur Chouteau.” Susannah curtsied.
“And you are ze first woman I’ve seen in a decade.” He swept her into his arms.
“But, monsieur, I am married.” Susannah held up her hand, displaying her new ring.
“You are so beautiful, I cannot restrain myself.” He waggled his eyebrows.
“Monsieur!” Susannah giggled as he nuzzled her ear. “Stop! Your beard is ticklish!”
“Stop? What is ze meaning of zat word?”
Susannah dug her fingers into his ribs. Jumping back, Jesse grabbed her wrist. “Ah, I zee you are full of fire.”
“Speaking of fire, monsieur, we are nearly out of firewood.”
“So, where is zis husband of yours when ze wood bin needs filling?” He kissed the back of her wrist. “Madame, I will embrace you later.”
Susannah yanked his hat down. “If you can find me.”
“Flat.”
Susannah leaned forward, peering at the hymnal. “Where?”
“Not in the music. Your A.” Jesse plucked the note.
Susannah drew her bow across her A string.
“Not that A. The one on your E string. It’s not the violin, it’s you. From the beginning.” After three measures, Jesse hit another A. “Now you’re sharp! Listen to what you’re playing. Double stop it with your open string. Hear that? Again.”
Susannah frowned at the passage, willing it to reveal perfect pitch. These unruly high notes, always screeching. Why couldn’t composers keep violin music between the lines of the treble staff?
This time Jesse stopped completely. “What’s wrong with you? Can’t you hear you’re sharp?”
Susannah stiffened her back. “Sorry. I don’t have frets like some people.”
Jesse jabbed his fingers through his hair, nearly impaling her with his elbow. “You don’t have frets, but you do have ears. Don’t you want to play better?”
“Certainly,” she said in the proper British tone her mother used for reprimands. “I must be ready for my Dakota Symphony Orchestra audition next week.”
Jesse glared at the rafters. A jaw muscle twitched. He swallowed. “You’re right. Music is supposed to be fun. You choose the next song.”
“My choice is to listen to you.” Susannah tucked the instrument under her arm.
“Think I’d let you off the hook that easily? Come on, ‘Soldier’s Joy.’”
They ran through the tune three times.
“Much better.”
“On that note, I’m done for the night.” Susannah cranked the screw on the bow, loosening the horsehair. “You should have told the Reverend to find you a wife at some music school.”
“Now that you mention it, I’m thinking of asking him to send a cellist.”
“Preferably someone who doesn’t mind being yelled at.”
“You think I yelled at you?”
“I don’t have to think about it.” She laid the violin in its case, snapping the latches closed. “I know when I’ve been yelled at.”
“I did not yell at you. You’re upset with yourself for not playing well.”
“Good night.” Susannah shoved the
case into the trunk. She yanked the pins out of her hair, changed into her nightgown, and flopped into bed, disappearing with a jerk of the quilts.
She tried, she really did try to please him. But all her efforts fell short. If only she hadn’t lost the baby. He hadn’t mentioned trying again. Maybe he planned to send her back after all.
Once, a few weeks ago, he said he loved her. And he gave her a ring. She turned it on her finger. Perhaps, in whatever remained of winter, she could become worthy of his love again.
The bed creaked under Jesse’s weight. “You awake?”
“No.”
“Got it figured out.” He uncovered her head, drying her tears with the corner of the flannel sheet. “With my family, no one can hear you unless you talk loud. You’re just not used to that, seeing as you’re an only child. So I didn’t really yell. You can stop being mad.”
Susannah opened her eyes. “Why is Jake barking?”
“Don’t know.” Jesse threw on his greatcoat, slipped his feet into his boots, and grabbed the shotgun. Seconds later he returned and stowed the gun.
“What was it?”
He rolled Susannah up in the quilts and carried her outside.
“Jesse? What is it?”
The answer glowed overhead. The northern lights, a transparent curtain the color of new straw, shimmered across the heavens from east to west. They watched without speaking until the cold drove them back inside.
“I’ve never seen anything so beautiful,” Susannah whispered when Jesse set her back in bed.
“Just for you. To help you forget to be mad at me.”
“If you’ll forget about the cello player.”
“We’ll make one of our own.” He grinned and pulled her close for a kiss. “Happy New Year.”
Chapter 18
Thanks for the light show, Lord.
Susannah glared out the window at the snow-filled draw. The vernal equinox brought low gray clouds across the prairie. As the temperature inched above freezing, icicles dripped from the edge of the roof.
Spring for Susannah Page 14