“Which? The doctor’s methods or the orphans?”
Jesse’s eyebrows peaked. “Both.”
She looked up into the face more familiar than her own, its hard lines a disguise for a soft heart. She wanted to lay him down in the spring grass and love him until she was sure of carrying his child. “What size baby would they send?”
The hard lines curved. “Probably bigger than the Duffys’. Never seen babies that small. My guess is they’ll be more the size of Sara.”
Longing burned her throat and threatened to spill out her eyelids. She could love an adopted baby, certainly. But what she wanted was Jesse’s child. Their child.
White puffs of cottonwood seeds danced like lazy snowflakes in the Sunday sun. Jesse continued through the chord progression but stopped singing in the middle of a phrase. “Ivar, how many Indians are behind me?” he asked in a casual tone, his voice just loud enough to be heard over the guitar.
Indians? Where? Heart pounding, Susannah lowered her violin to her lap. She saw only a flock of goldfinches tracing a scalloped course around a thicket of white-blossomed plum trees.
Ivar scanned the wooded riverbanks. “No Indians.”
“You didn’t happen to bring your rifle today?”
Ivar’s blond eyebrows drew together. “You know I don’t hunt on Sundays.”
“There’s an Indian about twenty-five yards south, heading right for us.”
A rangy man with shoulder-length black hair hiked down the slope. A prickling sensation ran under Susannah’s hat.
Marta, calm in every storm, pulled Sara into her lap. Ivar rooted through the picnic basket, finding a kitchen knife. Jesse kept strumming. Susannah tensed, ready to hit the savage with her violin, poke him with her bow, throw herself between him and the baby. Why were they just sitting there?
The Indian’s long steps closed the distance. Midday sun glittered off the beads and quills decorating his buckskins. He stopped a few feet away and opened his palms toward them. “Pain, s’ il vous plaît? Mangez?”
“Bien sûr. Voulez-vous dîner avec nous?” Susannah responded automatically. He’d asked for bread, and she’d responded with a line straight out of a practice dialogue from school, an invitation for dinner.
Ivar gaped. “Jesse, your wife speaks Indian.”
Jesse strummed the final chord. “Unless I miss my guess, it’s French they’re speaking.”
The Indian folded himself onto the grass between the two men. His rapid walking pace had led Susannah to expect a man in his teens or twenties, but his finely creased face belonged to someone in his forties or fifties. He seemed composed of straight lines: horizontal eyebrows and mouth, vertical nose and hair, diagonal jawlines, erect posture. His skin was lighter and not as red as the Indians in paintings, almost the color of the back of Jesse’s neck at the end of summer. Although he did not carry a bow and arrows or a gun, a knife stuck out of a brightly decorated scabbard at his waist. Susannah shivered, and cold perspiration dampened her camisole.
Continuing in French, the stranger told her he recognized the violin but not the other instrument. “It’s a guitar,” she said in a tremulous voice. With a twinkle of amusement in his eyes, he asked why the others were not talking. Susannah explained they spoke English and Norwegian. Mademoiselle Dupont’s lessons, preparing young ladies to read menus in Montreal or to tour art museums in Paris, flashed through her memory. She asked the savage where he’d learned French.
“Black Gown, at the end of the river,” he replied, pointing northwest.
Jesse cleared his throat. “You might let the rest of us in on this conversation.”
Through laborious two- and three-way interpretations, Susannah introduced the group. The stranger’s Indian name tripped her tongue. She understood only the first two French words of his name. The Indian made some sign language, but Susannah still couldn’t grasp his meaning.
“He’s called ‘Sees-the-’ and I don’t recognize the third word, Tatanka. It doesn’t sound French.”
“Sees? As in ‘looks at’ or ‘grabs’?” Jesse asked without taking his gaze off the man.
“Looks at.”
“Sees-the-Tatanka,” Jesse repeated. He passed the man a prairie chicken sandwich. “Ask what brings him down the river.”
The Indian had traveled alone to a holy place called Standing Rock, one day’s journey south. He sought wisdom for his second child, a son. Grinning with pride, he spoke of a grown daughter married a moon ago and a third child who just learned to walk. But this adolescent son—
He pinched dirt between his thumb and forefinger, then let the wind blow it away. Susannah wanted to ask how he had limited his family to only three, with many years between them. Most white families consisted of stair-step children an average of two years apart. But one did not speak of such things.
Marta passed Sees-the-Tatanka a fried pastry. The expression on his face needed no translation. Licking his fingers, he asked if Ivar would sell Marta to him. Susannah shook her head and refused to interpret his offer. The Indian grinned and thudded Ivar on the back. Ah, he knew how to tease, like Jesse. Assuming he asked about the food, Marta gave him the recipe, showing him how to shape the dough with graceful movements of her hands. Enraptured, the Indian sighed.
“He says you are a most fortunate man, Ivar.”
The Norwegian grunted.
Sees-the-Tatanka picked up the Bible and noted its similarity to the one “Black Gown” read. Jesse launched into a discussion of the differences between Catholics and Protestants.
Susannah stopped him. “Mademoiselle didn’t cover theological terminology. I don’t know the French words for sacrament, pope, saints, or half the other things you said. And I’m not sure he’s interested.”
The Indian’s eyes had glazed over, but he brightened as Jesse reached for the guitar.
“All right then, interpret ‘Jesus Loves Me.’”
This was the first English hymn Ivar and Marta had learned. All four voices joined in, with percussion provided by Sara’s clapping.
Sees-the-Tatanka leaned back on one elbow, grinning. When they finished, he cried, “Encore! Encore!” By the third time, the Indian added his bass to the chorus. Lifting his head on the final note, he blurted in French, “If I don’t get home before the new moon, my wife will have me sleeping with the dogs.” He bounded up the hill, his voice echoing off the riverbanks: “The Bible tells me so.”
Susannah collapsed against Marta. “At least he left without our scalps.”
“Seemed like a regular fellow.” Jesse corked his canteen.
“Regular fellow? Where were you in ’62 when his kind massacred hundreds in Minnesota?”
“Another massacre. Antietam.”
Ivar grunted, then grabbed his daughter as she tried to crawl away. “The extra sandwich—did you know we’d half a guest today?”
“No. He ate Susannah’s.” Jesse finally turned from the northern horizon where Sees-the-Tatanka disappeared. “Come on, Sacajawea, let’s go home and get some food in you.”
Ivar frowned. “Yes. I want to check my stock.”
Jesse led the way out of the valley. “If we had the orphanage letter ready, Sees-the-Tatanka could have taken it to town for us. That’d ruffle Mrs. Rose’s feathers, an Indian in her store. Give her something to cackle about. Well, better he skirts town. Mac’s trapped with Indians, so he’s all right. But some of the boys in the section house subscribe to Sheridan’s notion: The only good Indian’s—”
“Could we please stop a minute? My knees are knocking.” Susannah fanned herself with her handkerchief. “I guess once a coward, always a coward.”
“Coward? Who?”
“Me. I was terrified.” She leaned against Jesse.
He gripped her shoulders, dropping his head low to look her in the eye. “With the newspapers screaming ‘Massacre!’ ‘Scalping!’ every other column, only a fool wouldn’t be afraid. Susannah, you’re no fool and you’re no coward.” He hugged her. “Th
ink back to your French class, the girl who sat in front of you.”
“Marie Goodman.”
“Ah yes, baker’s daughter, clotheshorse. What would Mademoiselle Marie say to Sees-the-Tatanka?”
“She’d run. And scream.”
“And get her two dozen petticoats caught in the underbrush.” Jesse held her hand as they crossed the ridge. “And what about the girl behind you?”
“Elizabeth Van Meter. She would have the vapors. She actually did faint once, when a bee flew into the classroom.”
“And the girl between Marie and Elizabeth?”
“Susannah Underhill. She wouldn’t have said a thing.”
Jesse lifted an eyebrow. “Do I need to preach a second sermon today?”
Chapter 23
Hey, I could use that army of angels about now . . .
Susannah watched her husband cross the partially cut field, vaulting piles of mown oats. Jesse drew energy from the wind, boundless, unpredictable, vigorous energy. His vitality nourished her, strengthened her, opened her to accept his love.
Love. It still amazed her that he thought she was worth loving. And if he loved her, maybe God could love her too.
Jesse tucked his work gloves into his waistband and rolled his sleeves to his elbows. She loved his hands: strong, masculine hands, with dark hair curling over the backs. She liked the angle of his knuckles, the way his palm curved when he held a tool, the sureness in his fingers when he played guitar. And especially, she liked his touch. In his hands she felt treasured, valued.
He removed his hat, letting the breeze dry the sweat from his head. The sun showed the deep lines etched by the War, sculpting a face more interesting than handsome, a face to study for the rest of her life.
His warm smile of greeting froze. He leaned on the long handle of the cradle, studying the cumulus-flecked sky.
“What’s wrong?” Susannah set the lunch basket and canteen at the end of the row.
“The air smells funny. I’d say we’re in for a storm.”
“Maybe that’s why the chickens were so noisy this morning.” Susannah settled onto the grass and opened the lunch basket. “Hope it holds off a few hours so I can work on the garden. The beans, carrots, and cucumbers are ready for picking.”
“You know that’s not what we need to talk about.” Jesse folded his long legs, bringing his face level with Susannah’s.
She met his intense gaze. “Can’t we try again? I’m strong enough to carry two buckets from the spring to the house without stopping. I’ve gained so much weight, I’ve had to let out my waistbands.”
“So to keep you healthy, we’re not even going to consider it.” He made a circular motion with his sandwich, tallying the drooping heads of grain. Every morning a brief thunderstorm heralded the dawn, keeping the fields well watered. “Even with the drop in prices, the oats alone will bring in enough for the house lumber. We’ll buy the barn lumber and a team with the wheat. If we write to the orphanages now, we can have a family before winter. Think of it, Susannah, children around the house for Christmas. Some little girl who’s never opened a gift or a boy who’s never gotten an orange in his stocking. Maybe a brother and sister. We’ll have room.”
“Could we get a little one, a playmate for Sara?”
“A little one with an older brother or sister.” Jesse uncorked the canteen, washing the dust from his face with a palmful of water. He squinted over Susannah’s head, cocking his head toward an unheard sound.
“We can’t take an older child. Not until there’s a school.”
“Plenty of people, most not half as smart as you, teach their own children. Besides, the Roses have a flock of kids and so does that new family north of the tracks. We’ll be getting a teacher soon enough.”
All the color drained from his face. He didn’t breathe for several moments, then his voice came out in a hoarse cry. “Oh perdition! No! Not again!”
The day dimmed with unnatural suddenness, swifter than the darkening of an impending storm. Susannah looked up, expecting to see an eclipse. A huge black insect flew past her face. She swatted it. One landed on her shoulder, another on her arm. Revulsion shuddered down her spine.
“Get the laundry! I’ll get the stock!” Jesse shoved the lunch basket at her. “Susannah, now!”
Grasshoppers whirled across the sky, filling the air with their shrill roar.
“The oats?”
“Too late!” Cradle swinging from his shoulder, Jesse sprinted for the stable.
A curtain of black-winged insects dropped over her, clinging to her clothes, tangling in her hair. A scream rose in her throat.
Grasshoppers hit her face, beating, clawing, scratching. She couldn’t see through the mass of insects. She had to move, get the laundry, get inside. She took a step. Their bodies crunched beneath her shoes. Others crawled up her legs. She swatted, gently at first, not wanting their crushed bodies on hers, then harder, not caring, just wanting the biting, scratching, and crawling to stop.
Susannah fought her way down into the draw. She gave up trying not to step on the hoppers; they left no part of the ground uncovered. Crawling bodies blackened the laundry, too, and clung to the fabric as she gathered it. She shook them off and stumbled into the soddy, slamming the door and collapsing onto the stool.
The crackling and chewing followed her inside. “Not in my house!” She yanked on work gloves, opened one of the stove lids, and began chasing grasshoppers. Shirts, drawers, sheets, and rags were laced with holes and noxious bugs. Something pinched her leg. She shook her skirts, searching through each petticoat. One screeched in her ear. She raked her fingers down her scalp, unraveling her braid, ripping hair from her head. “Ow! You evil monsters! Go away!”
Grasshoppers hit the window and roof like hail and marched in under the door. “Screaming doesn’t help. Calm down. Think. Mrs. Child recommends turpentine, but we don’t have any. Spearmint repels ants, and marigold works for potato beetles. What works on grasshoppers?” Susannah snatched the saltshaker from the shelf and sprinkled the doorsill. They kept coming. She tried pepper, but they were not impressed. Kerosene was far too risky. But what about . . .
Jake and Jesse arrived in a stampede of insects, knocking Susannah backward as they scrambled through the door.
Jesse sniffed and made a face. “What’s going on?”
“Ellen’s perfume seems to be repelling the grasshoppers.”
He collapsed sideways onto the bed. “We’ll have the best-smelling hoppers in the territory,” he mumbled.
The dog shook, scattering insects throughout the room. Susannah raced to capture the invaders. “How long will this last?”
“Until they’ve eaten everything.” His words tolled heavy with finality.
“Everything?” The garden? The herbs from the seeds Ellen sent? The flowers?
“Yes, everything.” Jesse covered his eyes with his forearm. He sounded hollow, defeated. “How much food do we have left?”
Susannah checked the shelves. “The brine barrel is a quarter full. We have a pound of bacon, one can of peaches, a half pound of coffee beans, almost two pounds of cornmeal, and nearly five pounds of flour. Hey, they’re eating through the flour sack! Into the fire with you. The root cellar is pretty empty, just some dried plums.” Of course provisions ran low right before harvest. “Is there anything we can do?”
“I’ll set fires tonight, but it won’t help. Might as well try to fence the wind.”
At dawn, Susannah armored herself in her husband’s canvas pants, belted with rope and tucked into socks. She pushed her gloves into her sleeves and pinned on a hat with a veil. With a prayer for courage, she stepped into Dakota’s version of the Inferno. Despite smoldering piles in every field, the grasshopper population seemed as great as ever. The chirr from millions of chomping jaws and beating wings continued like the noise of a demonic machine. Jesse, his face black with smoke and despair, stood at the edge of what had been his wheat field. His posture sagged; only his clothes
and the rake held him upright. Susannah’s steps crunched on insect bodies. “Jesse? Are you all right?”
A tremor ran through him. “The field will have to be burned next spring to kill off the eggs. Or planted late, after they hatch.”
“We can do that.” She slid her palm under his elbow to steady him. “This smell has turned my stomach, but I’ll fix breakfast for you. Would you like your grasshoppers poached, fried, or on toast?”
He pulled away. “Susannah, there’s nothing funny about this. We’re out of food, out of money, and there’s no railroad jobs like in ’72.”
She retreated a step. “Mr. Rose will let you open an account. You’re a good customer.”
His spine stiffened. “Once a man gets into debt, he never gets out. I’ve never owed anyone and don’t intend to start now.”
“There’s the egg money and what I brought with me. Maybe ten dollars.”
He didn’t seem to hear her. “If I can find a buyer for the calves, I’ll order grain from Fargo. Grasshoppers haven’t hit there yet, so the price should still be low.” At last he looked up. “Where did you get that hat?”
“It’s my mourning bonnet.”
“Funeral for our homestead.”
She took his hand. He didn’t return her squeeze. “Come on. I’ll fix you a bath and even scrub your back.”
The next morning, while Jesse slept, Susannah went out to see what she could do for the stock. The chickens seemed content, lethargic even, from feasting on the grasshoppers, but the oxen snorted their agitation.
A bobbing mass of insects clogged the creek. Susannah found a couple of tree branches broken from the weight of the infestation and anchored the ends in the mud on either bank, crossing them in the middle to form a dam. The insects piled up against the sticks, and on the downstream side patches of open water appeared, allowing the oxen to drink.
When she returned to the soddy, she opened the door to find Jesse sitting at the table staring at the kerosene lamp. He seemed to have aged ten years in the past two days. New wrinkles cut a path down the side of his face.
Spring for Susannah Page 19