With every breath, she had asked God to bring her husband back. Jesse said God always listened but sometimes answered no. How could she live with that answer? A flutter stirred low within her, and Susannah put her hand over the baby. Help me be strong, Jesus.
Morning’s weak light showed a basin of steaming water and a clean cloth on the trunk. Susannah wiped her face and tried to coax her hair into some semblance of order. She put on her red dress and new boots.
When she pulled back the curtain, all conversation stopped and all eyes looked at her. She had always wanted a large family, a community of people who cared about her. Unfortunately, caring came with strong opinions. Ivar and J.W. and Magnar and Betsy all seemed to be certain they knew what was right for her, how she should live her life. Without Jesse, who would speak up for her?
And then, with a flash of insight, she knew. Knew what Jesse would say, knew what she had to do. For her own sake and the sake of his child, she had to find the courage to speak up for herself.
She straightened and stepped into the room.
“Susannah. Mrs. Mason.” Reverend Webb left the table and hurried to her side. “I must speak with you.”
But Susannah had more urgent needs than listening to him. The position of the baby made it necessary for her to get to the outhouse. Immediately. With a brief smile, Susannah hurried into her coat. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
J.W. glanced at the crowd around the table, then lowered his voice. “Let me accompany you, so we may speak in private.”
Did he really expect her to listen to him over the demands of her bladder? Susannah whipped the scarf around her head and threw his favorite word back at him. “That’s hardly appropriate,” she said.
“Given the nature of the environs, populated with wild animals and Indians, perhaps an escort is in order.”
She shoved her hands into mittens and pushed through the door. By the time he got his coat on, she’d be back. Unfortunately, she heard footsteps pounding the snow behind her.
“If you’re determined to stay in the territory—”
“Please go back inside.” She rounded the corner, heading into the teeth of the wind. “You’ll catch your death of cold.”
He took hold of her arm, and she saw that he’d snagged his coat on the way out. “How would you feel about living in Jamestown? I’ve made the case to the conference to locate there, in the middle of the territory. With the pass the railroad issued me, I can develop east and west circuits. I’ve rented a set of rooms over the furniture store. There’s an alcove with a south-facing window that could be a passable nursery.”
He continued, his words jumbled by shivering. “You could put your teaching skills to work starting Sunday schools in all the preaching points. Use your gift of music—”
She gave him the fiercest expression she’d ever used on her students. “Excuse me,” she said and bolted for the outhouse.
She completed her business and emerged from the privy to find him sheltering in the doorway of the barn, hands in his armpits and face red. Apparently he wasn’t going to quit until he had his say, even if he froze to death in the process.
“I promise to care for the child as if it were my own and never discriminate between it and children of my own issue.” A cold hand touched her cheek, trying to turn her to face him. “Marry me, Susannah. I regret the abruptness of my proposal, but the exigencies of frontier life prevent me from properly courting you. Your confinement is near, so I must speak frankly.”
She blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “But that would be bigamy!”
The minister rolled his head from side to side, his tuft of beard dragging across his chest. “If Mr. Mason were still alive.”
Susannah could take no more. She fled from him and stumbled inside.
Marta met her, taking her coat and guiding her to Mor’s chair at the head of the table. Ivar sat on one side, J.W. on the other. Would he ever let her be?
“I’m so sorry,” Betsy whispered. The rest murmured their sympathies.
Sissel filled a plate and coffee mug for her. “Mor says you eat. For baby,” she added with a raised eyebrow at J.W.
Ham, eggs, and a potato pancake. The potatoes seemed easiest to manage with a dozen pairs of eyes watching. She choked down one bite before Ivar started in.
“Yes, you think of baby. You cannot stay alone on the claim. Jesse told me what happened last winter.”
Jesse told him? She’d have the man’s hide, soon as he returned.
“I’m not alone. Betsy’s there.”
Her redheaded friend shrank behind the Reverend.
“Mrs. Stapleton also received mail,” J.W. said. “She has an offer of employment as a seamstress’s assistant in St. Paul.”
Susannah mustered a smile. “It’s the job you were hoping for. Congratulations.”
“No. I won’t leave you.”
“You can’t pass up the opportunity.”
Ivar thumped the table, earning a hiss from Marta. “Susannah, it’s too much. Chopping wood, plowing, diapers—uff da! the diapers!— cooking, mucking the ox pen, gardening. More work, less sleep, no money.”
“I exchanged the train tickets for lumber for beehives. Honey will bring in cash. There was an article in the Bismarck paper about sunflowers as a crop, so I bought sunflower seeds too.”
“You already bought seed? You half to let your fields go fallow. Susannah, you think you can do everything, but plowing is the heaviest work a farmer does all year. And it will half to be done just after the baby comes. Impossible.” He leaned closer. “Magnar wants to start a livery in Worthington. Horses and oxen. Your animal doctoring would be a big help to him.”
Susannah had felt the young man’s blue eyes watching her all morning. She met his gaze. “Good idea. Homesteaders arriving by train will need teams. This is excellent grazing land. Your biggest problem will be keeping your stock from running off. Picketing takes time and fencing takes money.”
“See. You know the business. You would be a big help to him. Teach him English too. You could live out here or build a house in town. Norwegians are good people. Dependable, treat their women well—”
The Reverend cleared his throat. “I’ve asked Mrs. Mason for her hand.”
Blood seemed to pound in her ears, but it was only Ivar pounding the table. “But Magnar wants to marry her!”
The table erupted in bilingual warfare. Sissel, who had been translating for her mother, clanged a spoon on a pot. “Mor says not good for the baby, this fighting. All men to the barn. Now.”
The Reverend, Mr. Hansen, and Magnar gathered their coats and headed out. Ivar paused next to her shoulder. “That preacher, he’d move you away from us.”
She rubbed her forehead. “When he’s around, I always say the wrong thing.”
“It’s not you. I half the same trouble. Now, Magnar, you’ll find, speaks plain.”
Susannah whispered, “We don’t even speak the same language, Ivar. I don’t know anything about him.”
“What is there to know? He’s a fine man from a good family, all fond of you, by the way. He’s strong, works hard, knows farming.”
“Sounds like I’d insult the entire Norwegian race if I turned him down.”
Ivar waved his arms. “Why say no?”
Susannah finally looked up at him. “Ivar, I can’t. Marrying again is admitting Jesse’s not coming back. I can’t believe he’s—” She couldn’t even say the word.
A warm tear slid down her cheek. He was coming. He had to be. But it was Christmas. He’d already be here if he could.
“In the States, you might wait. But here—” He hurried his words as Marta tugged him toward the door. “Susannah, be a little selfish. Baby needs father. You need husband.”
Mor rested her hand on Susannah’s shoulder. Sissel interpreted. “You are welcome to stay here. You don’t have to marry Magnar.”
“Takk.” Here? But the Hansens were already crowded. And living in close prox
imity to Magnar would be awkward, to say the least.
Betsy slid next to her. “Two proposals in one day!”
“The Reverend would marry out of a warped sense of duty. Magnar, I don’t know what he wants—free veterinary services, perhaps.” Susannah took a bite of ham. “You should snatch him up. He’d be better off with someone who thinks he makes the sun rise.”
“If only I could sew horses.” Betsy sighed, but her eyes twinkled. “You have more choices than anyone I know.”
Susannah blinked. “Strange, isn’t it? I came out here without any choices at all.”
Well, if it was her choice, she knew exactly what to do. Lord, give me wisdom, she thought. Help me do right by this new life.
“So, how long have I been here? Anyone know the date?” Jesse asked when Misun’s family gathered around the fire. “If I could just explain. I need to get home to my wife. Her name is Susannah. You’d like her. She’s—” He choked up and had to stop.
The family ignored him and continued murmuring in their language. Misun’s mother used Jesse’s knife to chop a root into the cook pot. Had Susannah found something to eat? She must be frantic with worry. Lord, give her Your daily bread.
The sun moved low along the horizon and didn’t stay up long, like maybe they were close to the solstice. Which meant he’d passed his birthday picking up horse apples. And meant today could be Jesus’ birthday. “So, how do you celebrate Christmas here?”
No answer.
How could he tell them about Christmas? All he had was his guitar. Jesse taught Misun “The First Noel.” The family was good with music, singing in tune and imitating words they didn’t understand. Jesse struggled through “Hark! the Herald Angels Sing” as memories of Susannah playing it on her violin overwhelmed him. Then, in case they were keeping him alive only until the kid finished his lessons, he added his masterpiece, an instrumental of “Greensleeves.”
The storm changed direction, blowing in a fresh batch of snow, as if they didn’t have enough already, and threatening to put out the fire. Misun’s mother adjusted the smoke hole to block the wind. Ingenious, really. Who called these people primitive?
Jesse continued, “I didn’t cook up a fancy meal, or make you cookies, or bring you any presents. But if I could, my deepest prayer, right after going home to my wife, would be to tell you about the best present of all, Jesus.”
Behind him a voice said in English, “I can tell them.”
Chapter 33
One foot in front of the other. So far to go . . .
According to the almanac, another month of winter could be expected. In defiance of that prediction, a southwesterly breeze melted the snow off the roof. The evening air beckoned with softness.
Susannah did not stop to put away the violin she’d been practicing. She climbed out of the draw, stepping on dry patches carved by the wind. Dusk found her on the ridge overlooking the Sheyenne River. From “Petronella,” a lively dance tune to celebrate a warm day in early March, she slid into the more contemplative “Skye Boat Song.” Then her fingers searched out a long-forgotten melody in a minor key. Rhythm established by the lower notes, the tune surged into passages of high notes, then ebbed back to the rumbling G string.
Jake rushed past her to greet Ivar. The neighbor strolled along, hands in the pockets of his coat. He looked her over, checking to see how she’d weathered the winter, then, satisfied, faced the sunset.
Susannah ended the lament with a double-stop.
“Sad song. What’s it called?”
“I don’t remember. Father learned several in Edinburgh, at school, but I can never match the titles to the tunes.” She tucked the violin under her right elbow. “How’s Marta? And Sara?”
“That child is running us ragged. When it warms, we’re moving her in with the dogs. And your baby?”
Susannah rubbed her belly. “No Methodist here. He’s up dancing all night.”
“I will come for you in two days. Before the next storm.”
“No hurry. The baby isn’t due for a month or so.”
“And if you need help, what? You send Jake to get me?”
“Jake, go get Ivar.”
The dog looked from one to the other, then sighed. He’d already sniffed the man. Ivar didn’t have any food on him, so he didn’t merit further consideration.
“He heard you say Sara’s going to the dogs. He doesn’t want to deal with babies any sooner than necessary.” Susannah pressed her knuckles into the small of her back, trying to ease the pulling weight.
“The Hansens half your oxen?”
“And Betsy’s pony. She doesn’t need it in St. Paul. Will your chickens mind a few guests?”
“Any that squawk, we’ll eat.” His mouth twitched behind his whiskers.
The sky changed to magenta and gold. Beneath the black lace of cottonwoods, the river lay frozen, silent, a periwinkle ribbon.
“Ivar, I think we have a sickness in this nation. A contagious disease of leaving. We leave the old country for the new, the states for the territories. Men go off to war or the gold fields. Horace Greeley advises young men to go west. But no one tells them to go home.”
“You wish for someone to tell Jesse to go home.”
The baby stretched, pushing against her ribs. “You’re right. Give me a day to pack.”
“Marta will be glad of your company.” Ivar let out his breath. “Perhaps Magnar will pay us a call.”
“He’s been a regular visitor. He brought Disa to keep me company in January, then Sissel in February.” Susannah turned the screw on the bow, loosening the horsehair. “The truth is, as fine a man as Magnar is, he’s not Jesse. Hard act to follow, that Jesse Mason.”
“Ja. True. Like a brother to me.”
She smiled at her red-cheeked neighbor. “Ivar Vold, you’ve been a brother to me these past seven months. Thank you.”
As he turned to walk back to his claim, Susannah heard him say, “A real brother would half sent you back to Michigan already.”
The English-speaking voice was Matthew, Misun’s older brother, known west of the Missouri as Mato. He had attended school at the Santee Mission and came home to find himself cast in the role of interpreter. To begin with, he informed his family the white man’s name was Jesse, not Tatanka, their word for “buffalo.” Together he and Jesse spent the winter sharing the Good News with the village. And in turn, the village educated Jesse on their history. Like white men, Sitting Bull’s Lakota wanted to provide for their families.
Today, the first break in the weather, Matthew put on his clerical garb, including a silver cross the size of his hand. “So the soldiers will hold their fire.”
“They won’t shoot a guy with red hair and beard.” Jesse turned to the family, his Indian family. “God be with you, Winona, Cansasa, Misun.”
The boy blinked away tears and handed him the canvas bag.
“When you come to the Mission, to school, little brother, I will buy you a guitar,” Matthew promised.
“Well, if you won’t take my guitar, you must take this.” Jesse pulled the eagle’s feather from his hatband. “For bravery.”
Misun smiled and, for a moment, looked him in the eye.
“Could we pray?” Jesse got nods. “Lord, thank You for sending Misun to save me from the river. Thank You for the healing care of him and Winona and—” What was the sergeant’s, er, medicine woman’s name? “And all their family. Watch over them, keep them safe, and help them tell about You to everyone they meet. And help me tell the Indians’ story to everyone I meet.”
Matthew interpreted, adding prayers for the safe return of Jesse to his wife. The family said, “Amen.”
The evangelist mounted a roan, and Jesse climbed on Misun’s gray. Or tried to. The hard winter had sapped his energy, and Misun had to give him a boost. They both laughed, and he clapped the young man on the shoulder. “Good-bye, my friend.”
He had been trying to get away all winter, and now that he was going, he had a lump in
his throat and watery eyes. Blame it on the wind.
Matthew led him on a couple hours’ fast ride, along high places the wind had cleared of snow. Good thing the old woman had kept him in camp all winter. He would have gotten lost and died in the snow. Now he was going home. Home to Susannah.
At last they came in sight of the fort, where the American flag waved in the clear sky overhead.
“They see us.” Matthew reined in, then reached toward Jesse. “God be with you.”
“And also with you, my brother.” Jesse clasped his friend’s arm, then slid to the ground. He handed the gray to the evangelist, adjusted his knapsack and guitar, then walked up the hill singing “Amazing Grace.”
Would he be welcome? Would Susannah understand why he’d been gone six, almost seven months? He’d had no way to send word; it was possible she counted him dead. He shouldn’t be surprised if she’d found another husband. He would have to set aside his selfish feelings and be glad she hadn’t been alone, but it would tear him to pieces.
By the time he reached the sentry post, a whole company of soldiers had gathered. Jesse guessed he was the first visitor of 1875, certainly the first approaching from the west. A scruffy long-legged dog ran out to sniff him.
“Good morning. I’m Jesse Mason.” This crowd had no problem maintaining eye contact.
A grinning lieutenant stepped out of the crowd and reached for his hand.
“Mr. Mason. Your wife’s looking for you.”
Chapter 34
Once again, I could use some fancy talking, Lord.
Susannah paused just outside the door, surveying the misted bubble of her world. A chickadee chirped near the creek, its voice soft in the morning fog. The wind seemed to be picking up.
Humming “Shenandoah,” she managed the morning chores: scattering wood ashes on the path, shoveling out the shed, watering and feeding the chickens. Lord, hurry spring; I’m down to the last bag of cracked corn. A search of the nesting boxes yielded a single egg, plenty for one person.
Jake padded out of the mist, sure-footed with his long toenails.
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