Reverend Webb recovered his pastoral self. “‘What God has joined together, let no man put asunder,’” he quoted. “‘Wives, submit to your husband as to the Lord.’” He looked down his nose at her. “Jamestown is one of my preaching points, so it is both my duty and my joy to effect a reconciliation between you and your husband. I would be honored to escort you home this week.”
“I can’t go back.”
“With God, all things are possible.”
“Possible, yes. A good idea, no.” Betsy turned her back and began to unfasten the top buttons of her dress.
“Mrs. Stapleton!” Reverend Webb gasped and averted his eyes. For someone who had been in the circus and on the boxing circuit, Susannah thought, the man shocked easily.
The morning sunlight lit Betsy’s shoulders and revealed her flesh striped with angry red welts and half-healed bruises in shades of purple and yellow.
“Reverend,” Susannah said, “you need to see this.”
Against his will he looked, then turned a shade of green that was attractive only on celery.
“Why don’t you go check the oxen?”
He bolted out before Susannah took her next breath. She eased the collar back around Betsy’s neck. “Your husband—” she began, then stopped herself. Any man who would do this didn’t deserve the title of husband. “Mr. Stapleton did this?”
Closing her eyes, Betsy nodded.
“Let’s get you cleaned up, make sure there’s no infection.”
“Please don’t trouble yourself. All I ask is that you don’t tell William you’ve seen me.”
“Of course not.” Susannah opened her trunk. Why would anyone do this to another human being, someone they pledged to love?
“What about that distinguished minister of yours?”
“I’d say you’ve given him quite the education today.” Susannah set the washbasin and clean rags on the table with a bottle of isopropyl alcohol and a jar of ointment. “He’s probably run off, trying to catch the next eastbound train.”
“I scared him that bad?”
“You and the whole uncivilized territory.” Susannah poured the warm water into the basin. What Stapleton had done to Betsy was wrong. Inexcusable. “Have a seat. How far down—?”
Betsy looked Susannah straight in the eye. “You really are going to help me.” Tension ebbed from her face, leaving a childlike openness. “Every place covered by clothes.”
Susannah bit her lip to keep from crying. “How long—?”
“Awhile. A good long while. We got married when he came home from the War.” Betsy loosened the ties of her blood-flecked chemise. Bruises, welts, and burns covered her torso and arms. She continued in a matter-of-fact tone. “After the War, he seemed all right, telling me how clean and quiet the house was after living in an army camp. He didn’t talk much, said the War was over and he had nothing to say about it. We moved to Chicago. For a better job, he said, but sometimes I think he wanted to get away from the other soldiers who’d been in his unit.”
Susannah wrung out the cloth. Jesse had been a soldier too, but he never hit her, never touched her in anger. “I’ve got to wet your chemise. It’s scabbed to your back.”
“Go ahead, whatever needs to be done.” Betsy turned her face away. “At first he enjoyed his work, making deliveries all over the city. Then there were days when he’d sit and stare, like he was in a whole different world, a horrible world. The foreman told him not to come back, seeing as how he wasn’t showing up for work more than once a week. That was the first time. He smashed the furniture and me. Next morning he was sweeter than Christmas candy. Said the city made him crazy, so we left the States and took up a homestead.”
The alcohol bottle shook in Susannah’s hands. “This might sting.”
The young woman inhaled through her teeth but motioned for Susannah to continue. “Last year didn’t go too bad. He’d slap me every once in a while if dinner wasn’t quite to his liking or some such. Then the nightmares started. Like he was fighting the War all over again. I made the mistake of buying him whiskey, thinking he’d sleep through the night. Made him worse than ever.”
Susannah warmed the ointment in the hot water and spread it with a feather. Even if Betsy had been the worst cook in the world, she didn’t deserve this.
Betsy pulled on her chemise and bodice and stepped out of her skirt and petticoats. “He said I deserved it because I wouldn’t give him children. I didn’t do anything to stop them, they just never came. Now I’m glad. Probably wouldn’t have gotten away with a baby hanging on me.”
“Doesn’t sound like he’d be a good father.” As opposed to Jesse, who would be a terrific father and had never raised a hand against her. Working her way down Betsy’s legs, Susannah blinked back tears. No one deserved this. No one.
“Do you have family, somewhere to go? Of course, you can stay here as long as you need to. It’s nothing fancy, but—”
“No, it’s a wonderful. Your spring, your garden, all those acres broke. Thank you, I’d like to stay a bit.” She inched her stockings up.
“I could leave Jake here to keep you company.” To guard you.
“He’s so attached to you.” She shook her head. “I have an aunt in St. Paul, but I’d rather be sure of my welcome before I show up.”
“I can take your letter when I go back to Worthington.”
“I’d appreciate that.” Betsy stood and stretched. Her green eyes glowed beneath long auburn lashes. “That’s much better, body and soul. It’s like a big rock rolled off me. Thank you.”
“I’d better check on your pony and bring in the Reverend before he turns into an icicle.” Susannah carried the basin of bloody water to the door. “Betsy, no matter what you’ve done or not done, you didn’t deserve this kind of treatment. No one does. He was wrong. The guilt is all his. You’re not to blame.”
Hadn’t Jesse said something like that to Susannah, about the banker?
Betsy was not to blame.
And neither was she.
Chapter 29
Jesus, why am I here?
The students had left for the day, so Susannah opened the door to sweep.
“Mrs. Mason!” Donald McFadgen headed straight for the school. “I’ve a present for you.”
A flash of alarm streaked through her. What if the hotelier, like Abner Reece, intended to court her?
He hefted a huge burlap sack onto the doorstep, then opened it, revealing a dark orange globe more than two feet in diameter.
“A pumpkin!”
“I believe you Americans have Thanksgiving next week.”
“You’re a remarkable gardener. Will this make the newspaper, like your four-and-a-half-pound cucumber?”
“The publisher was afraid these Irish had rubbed off on me, so I had to send that particular vegetable to the paper. No, Fargo isn’t sinking its teeth into this little beauty. It’s for you.”
“Why, thank you.” Susannah grabbed the stem and tipped the pumpkin toward her to estimate its weight, then ran her hands over it. Its smooth skin glistened in the amber light of the setting sun. Unblemished, no soft spots, flesh firm. “If only I had my pie plates.”
“Surely, back at the homestead—”
“I wouldn’t want to chance freezing this fine specimen.”
“You’re welcome to the loan of a pie plate.”
“That’s very kind of you, but I’d also need a rolling pin, spices—”
“I’ve got everything you’d need, but—” He peered around her, taking in the two-lid stove and army box. “Mrs. Mason, it would be the utmost in foolishness for you to attempt baking in this make-do outfit when I’ve got a fully equipped kitchen so close.”
Susannah glanced at the second-floor window above the store. Lamplight silhouetted a bobbing head at the end of a long neck. Mr. McFadgen followed her gaze. He waved and yelled, “Good evening, dearie.” Mrs. Rose vanished.
“Morrison’s over. You’ll be chaperoned. Those of us who know Jesse
wish nothing but good for you.”
Susannah returned his smile. “Let’s make some pies.”
Jake dashed along with them through drifts of leaves to the house. The windows glowed warmly in the frosty twilight.
“I’ve never been in a log cabin before.”
“You’re better off in a soddy. Cottonwood logs warp something fierce. I’m forever chinking, yet have more snow to shovel inside than out.”
She smiled at the exaggeration. “Are you certain the Irish haven’t rubbed off on you?”
“Mrs. Mason!” He grinned in return and pushed open the door. Susannah followed Jake in. The dog found plenty of interesting smells. Stacks of pelts in various stages of processing lined the walls. The odor of furs mingled with the distinct aroma of corned beef and cabbage. Susannah said a quick prayer of thanks that her pregnancy had progressed beyond the early sour-stomach stage.
Triplets of “The Irish Washerwoman” danced in the air.
“Lad. Did I not ask you to tidy up? And change the tune, before Mrs. Mason thinks you’re asking her to do laundry.”
A curly-haired musician, the man who’d played the uilleann pipes at the baby’s funeral, stood beside the stove. “Sure and I did clean. There’s enough space in here to hold a dance.”
“If you’re a leprechaun.” Mr. McFadgen turned to Susannah. “Mrs. Mason, may I present John Morrison.”
“Happy St. Patrick’s Day.” He bowed over his tin whistle.
“Closer to Bobby Burns’ birthday.” The hotelier hung Susannah’s coat on a peg as his partner started a new tune. “Now, which spices will you be needing?”
Like the pumpkin, the kitchen was on a grand scale, a holdover from the days of serving as a restaurant for the tent hotel. With Mr. McFadgen’s eager help, Susannah soon had three pies in the oven.
She stepped back from the table and wiped her hands dry. “Mr. McFadgen, I believe I’ve been hornswoggled.”
“Pardon me, Mrs. Mason, but I’m not familiar with that particular American word.” His face shone with an expression she had seen on her students when they completed an exceptionally difficult computation.
“Bamboozled, tricked.” She crossed her arms. “You brought me over here to teach you how to make pumpkin pie.”
“Well, you are the teacher.” He grinned so hard the corners of his mouth nearly reached his ears. “As an apology, please accept an invitation to supper.”
Susannah accepted gladly; her stomach had been anticipating the meal since she arrived.
After gulping down his portion, Morrison returned to his whistle. “Any requests?”
“Aye. Peace and quiet.” Mr. McFadgen cleared the table.
“Do you know ‘Monymusk’?” Susannah asked.
“Sure and it’s a fine Irish tune.”
“Nay, lad. ’Tis Scottish.”
“English,” Susannah stated.
“What?” The dueling pair gaped at her.
“Nothing like a little Anglo-Saxon interference to bring about Celtic unity.” She winked. Jesse had taught her well in the fine art of teasing. And oh, she missed him so much. She took her plate and set it in the dishpan.
“Now who’s the hornswoggler?” Mr. McFadgen chuckled. “I will not impose cleaning chores on you, especially when I’ve a professional dishwasher in my employ.” He cast a fierce look at Morrison, still piping away. “Mrs. Mason, may I escort you and your lovely pastry back to school?”
“Please call me Susannah.” She pulled on her coat and clicked her tongue for Jake.
“Susannah. You share a name with one of the finest women to walk this earth, my mother. You must call me Mac, then.”
“Thanks for the fine evening, Mac.”
“Aye, lass, you were due for one.”
She stepped out and gasped in wonder. Bright spots bracketed the moon like celestial parentheses. “Look! Moondogs!”
“A sign from God.”
Textbooks said that moondogs were an optical illusion caused by light rays bending through temperature layers in the atmosphere, but Susannah didn’t see why they couldn’t be a sign from God too.
The hotelier strolled along, balancing the pie on one palm like a waiter. “I’ve been wanting to ask a favor of you. Jesse and I had a talk about faith awhile back. I put him off. Figured there was plenty of time when I’m an old man to consider the afterlife. But with the Norwegian baby dying and Jesse disappearing—ach, now I’ve upset you.”
“No more than usual.” Susannah blinked away a tear. Even through the evening’s laughter, through the difficult days teaching, and especially through the long nights, grief held her heart. Like the wind, it never stopped, just came at her from different directions.
Mac opened the schoolhouse door for her and Jake, then set the pie on the stove. “If you’ve a moment, Susannah, would you stand in for Jesse and pray with me?”
Some word of encouragement would be appropriate here, but her throat closed. Every prayer she’d learned, every verse she’d memorized deserted her. But her heart knew, with certainty, that God existed, that He was present. She offered her gloved hands.
Mac clamped them between his mittens. “Well, God, sorry it’s taken so long. Here I am. Not much of a life. Hope You can make something of it.” He sniffed and cleared his throat. “Now, about Your Jesse Mason. Could You send him back this way? We’re missing him.”
He stopped. There was silence for a minute or two, then Mac whispered to Susannah, “I’ve no more to say.”
“In Jesus’ name, amen.”
He pulled a well-worn linen napkin from his pocket to swab his tears. “Thank you, Susannah.”
Jesse should be here, Susannah thought, to harvest the seed he planted. “You might want to speak with Reverend Webb next time he comes through. Perhaps he could get you a Bible.”
“Jesse bought me one the year he worked the railroad. You know how tightfisted he is, must have a Scot back in his family tree. Him spending money on a Bible? I couldn’t have been more surprised if Morrison stopped piping.” Mac’s face glowed in the moonlight. “Yes, it’s been a grand evening, lass.”
“Welcome to the family of God, Donald McFadgen.” And welcome back to Susannah Underhill Mason.
A quartet of men rode into the draw with a deer they’d shot. The village turned out and worked like a well-oiled machine: boys caring for the horses, girls watching the babies, women preparing the meat and cleaning the hide.
Jesse’s mouth watered as the smell of roasting meat spiraled among the tepees. He’d heard Indians lived on buffalo, but this village had been getting by on fish, waterfowl, or prairie chickens. They filled out the menu with corn, some sort of potato, and pumpkin prepared in ways he’d never imagined. Meat would taste good, real good. But one deer among fifteen tepees with an average of three people living in each? He’d better not count on it.
“Tatanka.” Misun’s mother motioned for him to put away the grinding stones.
One of the hunters spotted Jesse and yelled. Quicker than a last breath, the men fenced his throat with knives. No civilized Indians here; these were warriors. Angry warriors.
Jesse turned his palms up, hoping they got the message of surrender. “Into your hands, Jesus—”
The name of God set off a debate never heard in any Sunday school. Jesse couldn’t tell if they were for or against. Misun pushed into the circle, carrying the guitar and voicing his opinion. Jesse hoped they wouldn’t kill him as the kid watched.
With a unison grunt of assent, the men stepped back. Jesse swiped a hand across his neck. No blood. Yet. Misun shoved the guitar into his hands.
Was he supposed to sing for his supper? No, sing for his life. His hands shook as he started “Jesus Loves Me” and nodded for Misun to join in. His voice was as shaky as his fingers. Chetan arrived and made it a trio.
When they finished, the Indian men looked at the short, round-headed brave with the leathery skin, apparently the judge and jury in these parts. Shorty studied Jesse, Misun
, and Chetan without changing expression. Finally his head moved down half an inch. Misun smiled and started “Blessed Assurance.”
Jesse drew in a breath and joined him. Still alive. Alive was good. Alive meant a chance of going home. And playing guitar sure beat carrying water or grinding corn. He grinned and sang louder.
When the warriors moved away, Jesse sank on trembling knees to the cold ground. As the sun set, the temperature plunged. He drew closer to the communal fire and kept the music going until a gray-haired man brought out a drum. With a sigh of relief Jesse ceded the stage and returned to the tepee. Misun’s mother slipped him a chunk of meat, then left to watch the singers and dancers.
He tossed more dung on the tepee’s fire and propped his feet to thaw. Time was, Jesse didn’t care if he lived or died. He knew where he was going and Who was waiting for him. But now he had Susannah to go home for. Lord, show me the way.
The sergeant poked her head into the tepee and threw a pile of water skins at him.
“Madam, I sense my recital was not up to your professional standards.”
Her only response was a threatening gesture he understood all too well.
Jesse loped to the creek, filled the skins, then looked up and gasped. The moon hung low on the horizon, circled by a thin white line with bright spots at three and nine o’clock. Could Susannah see the moon tonight? Did she remember watching the northern lights with him?
The Indians noticed too and stopped dancing. He wondered if moondogs had a special meaning in their religion. Maybe God telling them to let this white man go free.
Brown cottonwood leaves skittered between Worthington’s cluster of buildings. Susannah filled two buckets at the pump, then headed back to the shack, empty at the end of the day. Evenings were a struggle. She caught herself listening for Jesse’s voice, singing as he did when work was done. She ached to talk over her students with him, to feel his strong hands rub the back of her neck, to lie close to him and feel his warmth. But she couldn’t dwell on it. Melancholy wasn’t good for the baby.
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