“Your baby needs a father. So, who—”
“Shh.” Susannah lifted her head. Last night the ridge west of the soddy had echoed with two yips and a long howl. “That coyote’s trying for a chicken dinner.” She grabbed the shotgun and slipped out to the gray dusk. Icy wind pelted her with tiny beads of snow, but she didn’t have time to put on her coat.
By the corner of the stable, Jake and a coyote circled and growled. The wild dog stood a few inches taller but thinner than the elkhound.
“Jake, come!” Susannah could not get a clear shot unless the two separated. Instead they lunged. In the writhing mass of legs, teeth, and fur, Susannah couldn’t tell which animal had the upper hand. Jake went under the coyote, reaching for the throat. The wild animal snapped at the dog’s withers, twisting away with a mouthful of gray fur.
Susannah wished she had a rifle, but the shotgun was the best she could do. She aimed over them and pulled the trigger. The gun’s report had no effect on the two fighters. Now she had only one shot left and her eyes watered from black powder smoke. Blood flecked the snow. Which animal?
“Hold your fire!” A blur passed on her left. Dashing into the fray, Betsy doused the animals with a bucket of melted snow. The coyote rolled off, shaking his head, backing up. Betsy flung the bucket and he skittered away. Jake regained his legs. Betsy grabbed the scruff of his neck. Scrabbling after the intruder, the dog yanked her off her feet. She hit the snow still holding on. “Oof!”
Susannah fired her last shell at the retreating coyote. A sideways jump interrupted his stride. He had run too far out of range for the shot to penetrate his winter coat.
“Are you all right? You could have been bitten.” Susannah helped Betsy to her feet, then ran her hands over Jake. No blood; the coyote had missed.
The dog shook himself, spraying them with ice droplets.
“The only thing wrong with me is I smell like wet dog. Ugh.” Betsy retrieved the bucket and the brass shells, then peeked into the shed. “You chickens go back to laying. Susannah’s on guard. Let’s go in; it must be ten below out here.”
“That was the most courageous—”
“No braver than marrying a man you’ve never met, talking French to a wild Indian, or facing down a herd of bachelors in rut.” Grinning, Betsy raised their joined hands. “Bravest women in the West!”
Susannah held the gun overhead. “Thanks be to God, yes, we are!”
“I hear sleigh bells!” Betsy danced around Susannah. “Let me take a look at you. Your wrapper is marvelous, thanks to my skill with the crochet hook. Now, don’t smash your curls under your scarf.”
“And waste a sleepless night with my hair in rags?” Rubbing a porthole in the frosty window, Susannah glimpsed the Hansens’ wagon, its wheels replaced by runners. She loosened the bow and strings of her violin and closed the case. “Are you packed? Can’t let the horse wait in this cold. Cookies, presents, dog—”
Magnar burst through the door, gathering both women in a hearty embrace. Icicles hung from his beard and mustache. He smelled fresh, like the air after a storm. “Gledelig Jul!”
“Merry Christmas to you!” Betsy winked at Susannah. “No wonder you weren’t interested in the preacher. Look at the shoulders on this one!”
“Betsy!” She blushed. “Please give him the last cup of coffee.”
“His dimples could cure frostbite.”
“Honestly. I’ll hitch your pony, if you’ll bank the fire. Where’s the note for Jesse?”
“Dear heart. Do you really think he’ll come home in winter?”
Susannah rubbed the silver band on her finger, holding last Christmas close. “I don’t think anymore, just pray.”
“Jingle bells, jingle bells,” Betsy sang. “Come on, my friend, every soprano needs her alto.” She prodded Susannah with an elbow.
“Ha. I can’t feel your pointy elbows through all these layers.” Susannah burrowed under the pile of blankets in the wagon box. “It’s far too cold to sing.”
“Cold? It must be nearly 20 degrees, positively balmy, and sunny too.” Betsy flapped a mitten at the feeble sun.
From the driver’s seat, Magnar started a song. He faced the wind without shivering, his ruddy cheeks the only indication of the low temperature.
“Ooh, he sings like an angel. Very smooth and on key. Imagine waking up every morning to that voice.”
“Jesse’s a baritone.”
“Don’t start getting all gushy-slushy on me. Tears will freeze on your face. The next song will be sung by the Sweet Springs Duet, on their first tour of Dakota Territory.”
“Why do I put up with her?” Susannah asked Jake, who lay panting at their feet.
“So you won’t have to squeeze in with the neighbors. Although I wouldn’t mind squeezing in with this one.” Betsy flashed a smile in Magnar’s direction.
“You are incorrigible.”
“Me, incorrigible? Why, I didn’t even finish school. Our turn. Jingle bells, jingle bells . . .”
Betsy’s shaggy pony cantered behind them, his nostrils frosted, head bobbing. Seeming to enjoy his release from the confines of the shed, he kept the pace set by the longer-legged stallion.
The solstice sun, low in the pale sky, washed the snow with indigo shadows. The northwest wind polished away the lines of the runners, as if offended by marks other than its own. At some point the train tracks passed beneath them, unrecognizable in the drifts. The prairie stretched lifeless in all directions, except for a flock of birds circling on the northern horizon. The chirping sparrows were attracted to the sheaf of wheat fastened to the ridgepole of the Hansens’ house.
“Gledelig Jul! God Jul!”
Susannah greeted the Hansens and the Volds and introduced Betsy. The Norwegians had not absorbed the American prohibition against mentioning pregnancy. Expressions of concern for her health mixed with comments on her shape and correlative speculation as to the gender of the child.
Betsy reassured them of the adequacy of their diet and divulged that the baby had begun to kick. To escape from their palpations, Susannah slid onto the bench at the candlelit table. She pulled Sara onto her lap and Rolf wiggled in next to her. Just as deliberately it seemed, Betsy positioned herself at Magnar’s side.
Erik strode into the house, followed by John W. Webb. “Look!”
“Just in time to say blessing.” Sissel set another place.
“Bag any wayward husbands, Reverend?” Betsy asked.
“Not this trip.” He frowned at Susannah. “Why aren’t you in Michigan?”
“In Norway we half peace on Christmas Eve.” Ivar helped him out of his coat. “You’ll half to save your fight for another day.”
“There’s a seat here, Reverend.” Betsy patted the bench to her right.
When the blessing was finished, Mrs. Hansen sent bowls of rice porridge down the table.
“We hide a nut in one to bring good luck for the next year.”
Betsy swirled her spoon through the preacher’s bowl. “You don’t need luck. You’ve got God.”
Susannah tensed for a sermon on the presence of God within each of us or a lecture on appropriate conduct for married women, but J.W. laughed, charmed out of his bad mood by Christmas personified in her green dress and red curls. The children had also dressed for the holiday in brightly patterned sweaters. Straw figures hung from the rafters, dancing on air.
Susannah asked Sissel, “Who made the decorations?”
“Disa. I wash house, wash people, make cookies.”
“Betsy and I baked too.”
“Cookies? How many?”
“Four different kinds.”
“And the ten Mor make is fourteen. We’ll all have good luck this year.”
Erik pulled an almond from his bowl. “Look!” Had he learned only one word in four weeks of school?
“Apparently I’m sitting with the wrong man.” Betsy batted her lashes at the boy, sending giggles around the table.
Betsy had drawn all the men in the room into her
orbit by the time Mrs. Hansen served the fish. When Susannah was in school, it seemed every year one girl developed an entourage through quick wit and a crystal-bell laugh. Susannah had coveted the part but never attained it. Twenty years and a thousand miles later, she accepted that the limelight would always belong to someone else. Tonight Betsy held the role, with all its attendant accolades.
“Would you like some help?” Susannah asked Rolf. She put her hands over his to cut the pork.
“You eat now.” Marta transferred Sara from Susannah to her husband.
“She needs to practice holding a squirmy baby during meals,” Ivar said.
Marta patted Susannah’s belly. “No room.”
“Say, Susannah.” Ivar fed Sara a bite of his meat. “Magnar half a plan for you.”
“Oooh?” Betsy hooted. Susannah concentrated on serving mashed potatoes to Rolf and refused to look in her direction.
“It’s about your yearlings. He half offer to buy them.”
“Splendid. You’ll have money for train fare,” J.W. said.
Susannah wouldn’t look at him either. “Buy? The Hansens have earned them after boarding them all winter.”
“He says you’re paid up, because of—what’s this about his horse?” Negotiations were postponed for the telling of the cougar story.
Now the attention swung her way and Susannah squirmed. “Please tell Magnar that Milking Devons are usually fertile, but the female of any twin set might be sterile. I’ve examined her, and—”
J.W. choked, turned red, and sprayed coffee down his white shirt. Betsy fussed over him, patting him on the back.
“I’d like to see your sewing job, Susannah.” Ivar stood. “Shall we wish the animals good yule?”
Herded by Jake, the entire group bundled up and trooped to the barn. Mr. Hansen raised the lantern, and Magnar parted the mare’s winter coat so all could see the flat white lines of scar tissue. The Norwegians were unanimous in their praise of Susannah’s work.
“Amazing . . . stitching on a live animal, in the dark and cold. All that blood,” Betsy whispered.
J.W. frowned. “How dreadful for a lady like yourself to be exposed to such—”
“Reverend, you’re a bit green around the gills.” Betsy took his arm and led the group inside.
The preacher recovered quickly and read the Christmas story as they thawed with hot cocoa. Closing his Bible after the angels and shepherds, J.W. produced an envelope of peppermint sticks for the children. From Ellen’s latest book box, Susannah handed out Norwegian-English dictionaries to the Hansens and Volds, Little Women to Sissel, and picture books for the rest of the children. She gave Betsy a paper of needles and five spools of colored thread. She and Betsy had knitted J.W. a muffler and mittens in a clerical shade of medium blue. The Volds presented Susannah with a tin of cocoa; apparently Jesse had told them of her love of chocolate.
Magnar arranged the Hansen children around Susannah. What was he up to? And could she stop him from making a scene?
“Look!” Erik held up a pair of boots made of fur the color of clover honey.
“For teacher!”
“From the cougar!”
“Try them on!”
Magnar knelt by the bench, unlaced her worn black boots, and slid the new ones on. He tied the royal blue braiding just below her knees. Susannah pressed her petticoats down in a futile attempt to maintain modesty.
“Doesn’t this remind you of Cinderella and the prince, Reverend?” Betsy asked. “Will Susannah turn into a princess?”
“A Norwegian,” Ivar suggested with a sly grin.
“A woman with warm feet,” Susannah corrected, although how much warmth came from the soft rabbit-fur lining and how much from Magnar’s attention, she could not say. “Takk. Thank you for this most wonderful gift.”
Magnar, still kneeling at her feet, whispered something, but his words were lost in the chatter of the children.
Disa set the violin case on the table, opened it, and traced the instrument’s shape with her finger. Susannah propped the hymnbook against chunks of firewood and tuned the strings. Where was Jesse tonight? He should be here to lead the music. If he were here, Magnar would stop giving her so much unwelcome attention, the Reverend wouldn’t send her back, and Ivar wouldn’t try to move her off the homestead.
“Betsy, you have perfect pitch. Sing me an A.”
Next to Betsy, J.W. sat with the shocked expression of someone who’d had a snowball dropped down his pants.
“Would you lead the singing, Reverend Webb? I think everyone knows ‘Adeste Fidelis.’”
J.W. snapped back into his ministerial mode. English carols alternated with Norwegian hymns. Some, like “Silent Night,” had words in both languages. Others were unfamiliar and Susannah labored to follow the tune.
As the children dropped off to sleep, they were rolled into blankets and nestled into the straw. The clock chimed midnight. The Norwegian men left for a last check of the stock. Blinking with fatigue, Susannah returned the violin to its case.
“I must speak with you.” Carrying a candle, J.W. directed her into the east alcove, out of earshot of the women washing dishes at the table. “You’ve done so well with Mrs. Stapleton. She seems completely recovered.”
“The credit goes to your spiritual guidance. I merely provided Betsy with a place to stay while she healed.” Susannah stepped around him to the window, shivering in the chill this far from the stove. “She’s been a good friend.”
“I’d hoped Reverend Mason would send train tickets for you.”
“Please, J.W., I’m too tired to argue.” Her back ached, her eyes felt parched. Susannah polished the frost from the pane. Stars glittered in the still night. The temperature would drop far below zero. “The snow came.”
“There’s a stage to Fargo. Surely the Roses told you.” He sat on the edge of Magnar’s bed, leaning forward with his large hands pressed together. “If you wait much longer, it will be inadvisable for you to travel.”
A star guided the wise men to Bethlehem. Could God send a star to guide Jesse? But no, she thought. He doesn’t need a star. He knows the way home.
J.W. cleared his throat. “If you feel the need for an escort, I’d be glad to serve in that capacity.”
Jesse knew the way, so why wasn’t he here?
“Susannah.” The small increase in volume required no effort for a voice trained in preaching. She turned to face him. Candlelight showed new lines around his eyes. White-knuckled hands clasped his knees. “The living conditions here are so harsh, you’ll be old before your time. You’ll work yourself to the bone.”
“Old? I’m seventeen years younger than you.” She caught his wince and apologized. “Last winter I tried to talk Jesse into leaving. Not anymore. I’ve grown to cherish the freedom, the openness of this land, the wall I plastered, the trees I planted. I can see God using me. Homesteading, building a community with people I care about—people you’ve labeled as heathens. What basis do you have for that judgment? And telling Reverend Mason I live in a cave—”
He had the decency to look embarrassed. “You’d be more comfortable in Michigan.”
Susannah leaned on the trunk opposite him, tracing the bird design painted on the lid. “You know how meager clerical salaries are. You know what a burden another person—soon two extra people—would be to Reverend Mason.”
“He’d gladly welcome you.”
“I’ve no doubt of his hospitality. He’s obligated. But I want to be more than someone’s obligation, an added number the food must be divided by, the reason his children have to share a bedroom.”
“You could teach in Michigan.”
“With a child? Without a teaching certificate? No. I won’t even be able to teach here once the Territorial government gets organized.” She rubbed her head, determined to break through to him. “There are so few veterinary surgeons—”
“That’s hardly work for a lady.”
“Don’t you feel called to preach?
”
“You feel called to doctor animals?”
“Maybe not a calling like yours, but it’s what I know, what I’m good at. It’s a way I can help.”
He dismissed her comments with a wave of his hand. “What about Mr. Mason’s family in New York?”
She shook her head. “Jesse told me to wait for him.”
The ropes of the bed creaked as J.W. stood. “I have a letter for you from General Custer. I’m sorry.”
Hands trembling, he held the paper out. When she made no move to accept it, he left it on the trunk next to the candle and returned to the main room.
Susannah scanned the letter, struggling to understand it in the onrushing flood of exhaustion. Regret to inform you . . . two bodies, believed to be white men . . . to establish identity . . . any previous fractures or missing teeth . . . military operations recommence in the spring . . . father, Sergeant Major Underhill, remembered for his humane treatment of my horses.
No, Lord. Please, no.
“Susannah, Mrs. Hansen fixed a bed for us. You’d better not fall asleep before you tell me what the Reverend said. Now, what’s got you all weepy?”
Before Susannah could stop her, Betsy whisked the letter off to the main room. She should get up, keep her from reading it out loud, let Magnar have his room back. Her body fused into the sod wall behind her: cold, hard, immobile. She could not feel her heart beat. She did not know if she still breathed. Her eyelids outweighed her body. Only the tears slipping down her cheeks connected her with life.
Magnar entered the room and lifted her. His napped wool coat smelled faintly of horses and sweet hay.
Then the world went black.
Chapter 32
How am I supposed to tell these people about
You, Jesus, when we don’t speak the same
language? And tell Susannah . . . well, I’m not
having a Merry Christmas without her.
The aroma of hot coffee and the rumble of male voices woke Susannah. She pried open her eyelids, stiff with dried tears.
Her mind went to the letter, to Jesse. She had never felt more alone in her life. If Jesse was gone, was God gone too?
Spring for Susannah Page 29