“You know I will,” Greta said. “I’m almost through ironing, and if you don’t need anything else from me, I’m going to go write Bryan a letter.”
“You go ahead and do that. I think I’m going to lie down before starting supper. Between the heat and this sleepiness, my energy starts waning about this time of day. What’s Anna up to?”
Greta hung the freshly ironed frock on a hanger and put away the ironing board. “She mentioned something about going to the creek to paint, but what she really means is she’s going to go cool off in the water to get out of doing chores.”
“I can’t fault her there. I hope this dry spell breaks soon. I’m tempted to join her, but I’m too sleepy to walk anywhere at the moment.”
“Go on and rest. There’s plenty of time before we start supper.”
Catharine rubbed the small of her back. “I won’t argue with that.”
Later in the week a sudden rain hit without warning, drenching Catharine before she could reach the front porch of the house. Greta and Anna were right behind her, laughing with joy and thoroughly enjoying the pelting rain.
“Ahh . . . it smells so fresh and invigorating,” Catharine said, hugging her arms across her chest. She looked out at the rain, wondering of Peter’s whereabouts. Lately he’d been leaving right after breakfast and returning just in time for supper. She knew there was always plenty to do around the farm, so she didn’t question that he rarely came in for lunch.
She stared hard as if he might appear through the pouring rain. How foolish! He could be holed up in a line shack or under the protection of a stand of trees instead of fighting the rain just to come inside. A large clap of thunder made her jump.
Greta shrieked and ran straight for the door. “We need to get inside,” she urged, just as lightning lit up the sky and the barren field.
“I agree. Come on, Anna. Let’s go in and get out of these wet clothes. We’ll have to plant the rest of the vegetables tomorrow.” All three of them left their muddy brogans on the porch and padded inside in their socks.
“At least the rain will be good for the plants that Angelina brought,” Anna said. “I love tomatoes and those other funny plants—what did she call them?”
“Summer squash and eggplant. They’re supposed to be quite tasty, according to Angelina. She cooks them in place of meat sometimes in her dishes.”
“Humph! I can’t imagine,” Greta said as they climbed the stairs to change clothes. “I wonder if Bryan has ever eaten that.”
“You’ll have to ask him in your next letter,” Catharine said. “Why don’t we meet back downstairs and have some hot tea and cookies while we wait for the rain to stop.”
“Sure thing,” Anna agreed, moving past Greta through their bedroom door.
Catharine hurriedly slipped off her work dress, draped it across the back of a chair, and toweled herself dry. She rubbed her hair with a towel while gazing out the window. The rain was coming down in torrents. Where was Peter? Was he safe? She prayed he was, then plucked another work dress off the hanger and quickly donned it. With a swift stab of a couple of pins, she knotted her long hair into a chignon, picked up her Bible, and headed back downstairs.
Just as Peter was packing up his tools outside the dining room window, he heard the rumble of thunder. He had just enough time to store them in his canvas bag before the rain fell in sheets. Lucky I got that window sealed properly in the nick of time. The wind blew hard, and he held his hat down on his head to keep from losing it.
Lucy opened the front door, motioning with her arm for him to hurry inside. As he hesitated, she waved harder, so he went up the steps and placed his bag next to the door.
“You can’t be out in this weather, Peter. Time you took a break,” she said once he was inside. “Come on into the kitchen. I just took out apple cake. I’ll pour us some coffee.”
Peter knew it was no use protesting. Once the lightning stopped and the rain slacked, he’d be on his way home. These storms never lasted long. “The apple cake smells wonderful,” he said as he pulled out a kitchen chair.
“It was Lefty’s favorite. Not too sweet, but sweet enough.” Lucy busied herself slicing them both a huge chunk of cake, then poured two steaming cups of coffee.
“These apples from your orchard?” Peter asked, lifting a forkful of cake.
“Gracious, no. I couldn’t grow an apple tree if I tried. They’re canned by Dorothy Miller. You know her, don’t you?” Lucy took a chair across from him.
This close to her, Peter could see how much she’d aged, but she had a spark in her eyes and a lot of energy in her step. A fully alive attitude. That must be what had kept her going since her husband died. “Yes, I know her. Nice lady.” He savored the taste of the warm cake in his mouth and chased it down with the coffee.
Lucy eyed him. “That’s right . . . weren’t you two courting at one time? Seems I remember seeing you together at church.” She lifted her cup and looked at him over its brim.
Peter shifted in his chair. “We were together a lot . . . and still are friends, but no, we were never serious, much to my mother’s disappointment. But I did care for Dorothy.”
“I see. Tell me, Peter, are you happy with your bride?” Her eyes penetrated his but softened with sincerity. “What is her name again?”
“Her name is Catharine, and of course I’m happy. Why do you ask?”
Lucy lifted the coffeepot from the stove and poured them each another cup. “I’m not rightly sure, but I sense something amiss when a man married only a few months doesn’t rush home as soon as his work is done. And you don’t smile much for someone who says he’s happy. Of course, you can tell me to shut my mouth and I’ll just mind my own business. I reckon I always speak my mind.” She laughed. “Lefty always said I had the eyes of a hawk when it comes to seeing right through people.”
Peter wasn’t used to someone talking so bluntly and realized how intuitive Lucy was. He glanced up from his dessert and swallowed hard, then expelled a deep sigh. “There’s a problem with my mother . . .”
“Well, that’s not so unusual. Mothers feel like they’ve lost their sons when they get married. But I know your mother. She’ll get used to the idea, as long as you include her in your life—”
“I’m afraid it’s not that simple, Lucy. I didn’t tell her I was getting married or, for that matter, corresponding with a mail-order bride. She handpicked Dorothy for me, but she just wouldn’t listen. So I never told her about Catharine. When she found out, she was certain that Catharine was after my money, my land, and a chance to go to America.”
“Well, let her think what she wants. The truth will bear out.” Lucy wiped the crumbs from her mouth with a napkin.
“If only it were that simple. Mother hired an investigator and told me that Catharine has been married before.” Peter’s heart squeezed as he said the words out loud.
“It doesn’t make Catharine any less your wife and someone you love.” Lucy’s forehead wrinkled as she regarded him with concern.
“That’s not all the story. The investigator believes she was never divorced.” Peter spoke the word divorced so quietly that he wasn’t sure Lucy had heard him, because she didn’t react immediately.
“Oh . . . I’m so sorry. Catharine never told you any of this?” The surprise was evident in Lucy’s face.
“No, never. It’s bad enough that she kept it a secret from me, but worse if she never got a divorce in the first place.” Peter clenched his fist on the table. “Then there is no real marriage.” It was embarrassing to admit this, and now he’d be the laughingstock of Cheyenne, not to mention a lawbreaker.
Lucy reached over, taking Peter’s clenched fist in her own until his fingers relaxed. “Peter, try to remember things are not always what they seem. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from my past mistakes, it’s not to take everything at face value. I trusted no one until the good Lord came into my heart. Now I listen to His direction. Maybe Catharine is having a hard time trusting any
one completely and there’s a reason for it.” She patted his hand and leaned back in her chair. “What do you really believe? Didn’t you trust her before all this?”
Peter lifted his head to look her in the eye. “I did. I cared deeply for her and thought there were no secrets between us. We knew everything there was to know about each other.”
“Mmm . . . so you’d told her about your relationship with Dorothy then? Seems as though I remember watching Catharine from across the room at church that day when you introduced them. She seemed very surprised, almost hurt, and I could tell she thought Dorothy was competition.”
Peter jerked up in his chair. “You could tell that from a few short moments? It never entered my mind.” He was quiet for a moment. “You know, I didn’t tell her about Dorothy in our correspondence. Maybe I should have, but I never intended on marrying Dorothy.”
“But don’t you see, you held back a part of yourself—”
“That’s not a fair comparison. Catharine already being married is something altogether different!” Peter felt the heat rising up his neck in his defense.
Lucy sat quietly as he contemplated the truth. He guessed she was right. He hadn’t told Catharine about Dorothy. He had no real motive not to—he’d conveniently just omitted it.
The rain had stopped and it was time to leave. Peter reached for his hat on the chair next to him.
“I think you should go home and have a talk with your wife,” Lucy said, stacking their dishes. “Ask her about her past and tell her how you knew. Give her a chance to defend herself, and you’ll find out the truth.”
Peter stood, holding his hat in his hands. “Thanks for the cake and for your advice, even though it stings. I’ll try talking to Catharine, but it won’t be easy.”
“Swallow your pride and don’t let it come between you two. It won’t be easy, but you can’t go on this way either. You’ve already lost most of the wheat crop. Admit it, you don’t want to lose Catharine too.”
He clapped his hat on his head a little harder than he’d intended. “I reckon not, but she’s gonna have a lot of explaining to do.”
Lucy followed him to the door. “I’ll be praying.”
Peter’s shoulders drooped as he sighed. “I appreciate it, and I’m going to need it. Thanks again, Lucy. You’re a wise friend.”
Lucy smiled and waved goodbye while he strapped his canvas tool bag to the back of his horse, then headed home to Catharine.
The rain fell in steady sheets, and the wind howled about the farmhouse, but Catharine and her sisters were safely ensconced in the cozy living room with hot tea and ginger cookies. The ginger kept her queasiness under control. Please protect this child growing inside me, Lord. Catharine patted her abdomen.
Greta was working a cross-stitch sampler, and Anna was reading Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Finn.
Catharine set her cup down and picked up her Bible. “I’m glad we’re getting rain finally. Perhaps now it’ll cool down a little. But the rain makes me think of home.”
“Me too. Amsterdam had cool springtimes and summer showers.” Greta paused in her needlework. “Cooler temperatures would be nice too. I wonder if Peter is holed up somewhere in this downpour.”
“Mmm, I don’t know, but surely he would seek protection. I think the worst of it has passed now. I haven’t heard any more thunder.” Catharine smiled at her sister. “I’m glad you received a letter from Bryan. I believe that’s the reason for the perpetual smile on your face?”
Greta giggled. “It’s obvious, huh? Yes, he says he misses me. He’ll come to see me the first weekend he has free.”
“He’s more than welcome to stay with us.”
“I’m glad he’s coming. I like Bryan. I think he’ll make you a good husband,” Anna said, peering over her book.
Greta shot her a look. “He hasn’t spoken of marriage yet.” Her face colored.
“Just a matter of time, dear sis.” Anna went back to her book.
Greta turned back to her sewing and Catharine opened her Bible, but her mind wandered back to yesterday when she and Anna had driven to town to check the mail. On the way back home, she passed Lucy Hayes’s farmhouse. She spotted the attractive widow standing outside talking to Peter. Had he just stopped in to say hello?
Something was dreadfully wrong. Peter hadn’t touched Catharine since the day after the locusts came, other than a perfunctory kiss when he left after breakfast. She sighed and started reading in Matthew where she’d left off yesterday. She wanted to finish chapter ten. The first part of verse twenty-seven pricked her conscience: “What I tell you in darkness, that speak ye in light.”
You should tell Peter the truth about your past. The voice in her head was almost audible.
I know, Lord. He deserves the truth. Catharine decided to tell him tonight when they retired to their room, away from her sisters. Lord, give me the right words to say . . .
Peter braced himself for what he knew would be a difficult evening. On the way home, he decided there was no use putting off the inevitable. He would talk to Catharine right after supper. Clear the air and get it all out in the open, letting the chips fall where they may. That’s what his father always told him when he had something unpleasant to deal with. Which was most of what Lucy had said to him this afternoon.
He led Star to his stall and, after a quick rubdown, gave him some oats and fresh water. He wiped his carpentry tools and put them away. “Time I faced the problem, Star, and quit stalling for time,” he said, stopping to pat his neck affectionately before leaving. Star snorted as if in total agreement, and Peter laughed softly.
When Catharine saw him come into the kitchen, she laid the ladle down and walked up to him, giving him a kiss. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat of the stove, and as usual she wore whatever she was trying to cook on her apron. It almost made him chuckle looking at her, but he gathered his wits about him and merely squeezed her hand.
“Go wash up. Supper will be ready in about ten minutes.” She stepped back to the stove, opened the oven, and placed the rolls inside, then busied herself setting the table. “That was some kind of rain, wasn’t it?”
Was she acting different somehow, or was it because his mind was in turmoil and he was imagining it? “It wasn’t so bad. I’ve been in worse.”
She started making gravy and stirred the bubbling grease until it browned, then added the flour. She poked out her bottom lip to blow away a length of hair that fell across her eyes. She’d never looked more adorable to him than when she was attempting to whip up an entire meal by herself. Her cooking had improved with the aid of a cookbook and occasional help from him.
He wished she knew how much he loved her, but his heart wrenched in pain with the knowledge that she once loved someone enough to marry him. He wished he wasn’t jealous and confused. He wished none of this was true. He wished he could sweep her into his arms and take her to bed and cover her with his love. But he wasn’t sure of the truth now, so that wouldn’t happen. Not now. He gulped. He hoped his uncertainties wouldn’t last forever.
She turned to see him still standing there looking at her, and she gave him a lopsided smile. “You’re still here? Could you call the girls when you go wash up?”
“Sure thing.” Peter knew his voice sounded flat. She smiled, and he twirled on his boot heel, hurrying from the kitchen.
When Greta and Anna went up to their room early, Catharine knew she would have to make a move to open the conversation with Peter, who sat in his favorite overstuffed chair, flipping through the Montgomery Ward catalog. It was as though her sisters sensed she needed to be alone with him. He’d been quiet throughout supper. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but something wasn’t right. Did he already know?
Catharine took the seat closest to him and leaned over the catalog. “What are you studying so intently in the catalog?” She was close enough to smell the scent of fresh soap from his quick wash before their meal. Her hands felt clammy and she licked her lips, trying to get t
he nerve to broach the real subject on her heart.
“I was looking at all the latest farming implements. I wonder if I shouldn’t take a harder look at raising cattle after the last couple of years of locust problems.” His eyes locked onto hers.
“Next year will be better.”
“How can you possibly know?”
She smiled. “I dreamed of a beautiful field full of ripe grain ready to be harvested.”
Peter raised an eyebrow. “Is that so? I’m not sure I believe in dreams.”
“Well, it was a most pleasant dream, and I believe God speaks to us sometimes through dreams.” Catharine fingered the ring on her left hand. She wanted to tell him the rest of her dream, but her tongue felt thick.
“I’m not sure about that either. But we were invited to the Cheyenne Social Club’s annual reception.”
“I thought that was only for cattlemen.”
He continued flipping the pages of the catalog. She loved his hands and long fingers, wishing she could feel them gripping hers in love.
“I reckon they can invite anyone they want to as their guests.”
“Peter . . .” She didn’t know where to start.
“Hmm?” he said without lifting his head.
“Could you please look at me?”
“What, Catharine?” He glanced at her, then studied the images of new plows.
Catharine wanted to snatch the catalog from his hands. She moved closer, and Peter looked up with surprise. “I need you to look at me, please.”
“I’m looking. What do you wish to talk about?”
Her shoulders lifted, then sagged. “For starters, where have you been going every day after breakfast?” Catharine’s heart was in her throat as she waited for his answer. All she could think about was the lovely widow Lucy.
Peter turned in his seat to face her squarely, his eyes not revealing anything. “I guess I should have told you . . . I’ve been doing carpentry work for Lucy Hayes.”
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