Love Inspired Historical November 2017 Box Set

by Karen Kirst

  “Tough time of year for this to happen,” George Frankel said, stuffing his hands in his pockets and rocking on his boots. George had a farm a quarter mile to the south and a houseful of children, twelve at the last count. He was an easygoing—some said lazy—fellow who always had big plans but never seemed to accomplish any of them. He liked to chew the fat, and Oscar avoided him whenever possible.

  “Any time of year is a tough time for this to happen.” Oscar stroked his dog’s broad black-and-white head. “It’s good they weren’t home.” The flames were no longer roaring. Instead, they crackled and popped like a campfire. The wind carried most of the smoke to the north, away from where the handful of people milled and shuffled, but occasionally a gust would drift toward them, stinging eyes and clogging throats.

  “Course, if they were home, it probably wouldn’t have happened. They could’ve put it out before it spread.” George shrugged, sneezed and dug in his pocket for a huge, wrinkled handkerchief.

  Or they might have been in bed and trapped by the fire or overcome with smoke. George had a way of speaking his thoughts that assumed there was no other way of looking at things than his, and he loved to argue. Oscar wondered how soon he could get away. If he had known there was no danger to the family and that so many people would come, he would’ve stayed home.

  Neighbors drifted by the Amakers, shaking Martin’s hand, hugging the old woman and the younger one…what was her name? Kathy? No, that wasn’t it. But something like that.

  She was small—shorter than his wife had been—with dark brown hair. What had surprised him as he’d lifted her down from the wagon was that her eyes were blue. The clear blue of a summer sky. He wasn’t used to looking into blue eyes. Gaelle’s eyes had been brown, brown like Liesl’s, brown like his.

  Mrs. Hale, the shopkeeper’s wife, bustled around, talking nineteen to the dozen. Another person Oscar avoided if he could. She was a do-gooder, but she never seemed to act out of true kindness. More like she wanted everyone to know she was doing good, as if someone was keeping a scorecard and she wanted to make sure she got full credit for her charity. Whatever she was saying to the younger Mrs. Amaker wasn’t going down too well.

  Good for young Mrs. Amaker. Someone should stand up to the old biddy’s interfering ways.

  “The question is, what are they going to do now?” George blew his nose, honking like a southbound goose. “I’d have them to my place, but we’re cheek-by-jowl now.”

  And you have never gotten around to adding onto your house, though you’ve talked about it for ages…half a dozen kids ago.

  Per Schmidt edged over, his whitish-blond hair bright in the glow of the fire. “I vish I could take zem in, but zere is no room at my house. My brother und his family haf come from de Old Country to live vid me und Gretel.” His accent was so thick Oscar wished he’d just go ahead and speak German, which was as commonly heard in Berne, Minnesota, as English. But Per was proud of his English, proud to be an American now.

  Martin Amaker, a tall, spare man, looked stooped and sort of caved in upon himself. He drew off his hat and ran his gnarled hand through his thin, white hair, staring at the destruction where his home used to be.

  Oscar felt for the old man. With winter coming, two women dependent upon him and his house gone up in a shower of sparks, he had to be feeling bludgeoned. Oscar patted his hip pocket, feeling the small lump of his wallet. Hopefully the community would take up a collection so Oscar could contribute. He didn’t want to just walk up and offer Martin money. That would be unbearable for both of them. No, a collection would be best. Oscar didn’t mind giving money toward a good cause, mostly because it was anonymous and simple.

  Another buggy rolled into the yard, the snazzy chestnut pulling it stomping and blowing, tossing her head. Ah, here was just the man to start passing the hat. The preacher levered his bulk out of the buggy, setting the conveyance to rocking. His tiny wife took his hand, looking like a child next to her giant of a husband. They both went right to the Amakers, heads bent in empathy.

  They spoke, and Mr. Amaker shook his head, shrugging. Pastor Tipford scanned the crowd of neighbors who were already filtering toward their wagons, and his eyes came to rest on Oscar. An uncomfortable feeling skittered across Oscar’s chest. Pastor Tipford visited Oscar regularly, trying to get him to come back to church, trying to get him involved in the community again. But Oscar wasn’t ready for that. He still felt too raw inside to endure the company of well-meaning church folk.

  He motioned for Oscar to come over.

  “Looks like the pastor wants you.” George sniffed again. “Rotten cold I’ve got. Passed it around the house like candy, we did. Every last kid sneezing and coughing and dripping. Not even the baby escaped.”

  Oscar stepped back. The last thing he wanted was to pick up George’s cold and risk passing it on to Liesl.

  Pastor Tipford motioned again.

  “You better see vat he vants.” Per hitched up his pants. “I vill be going now. Nothing to do here anyway. The house is gone.” He went to his wagon, and climbed aboard. “Gute Nacht… I mean, good night.”

  Oscar checked on Liesl once more, told the dog to stay and waited for Per’s wagon to roll past him and down the drive before heading toward Pastor Tipford and the Amakers. He braced himself for the sorrow in their eyes, tucking his hands into his coat pockets, taking a deep breath. Other people’s grief always made his own more acute.

  “Ah, just the man we need.” Pastor Tipford clapped him on the shoulder, a hefty blow.

  “Pastor.” He nodded. “Mr. Amaker, I’m sorry about your house. I wish we could have saved it.”

  Martin Amaker looked at him, but he didn’t really seem to see. His eyes behind his spectacles were unfocused and blank.

  Shock.

  The elder Mrs. Amaker trembled, twisting her fingers in the fringe of her shawl. The knot on the kerchief under her chin wobbled. The pastor’s wife hugged her again, rubbing her arms as if trying to restore warmth.

  But it was the younger Mrs. Amaker that drew Oscar’s attention. She stood a little apart, her face golden in the reflection of the lowering flames. Her eyes were wide, and she huddled into the coat that was too large for her. It looked like a man’s garment. Her dead husband’s perhaps?

  They had that in common, he realized. The loss of a spouse. He could understand her desire to keep her husband’s memory close. She must really be missing him now.

  God, you exact too high a price. What did she do to deserve this? First her husband and now her home? For that matter, what did I do to deserve to lose Gaelle? Or Liesl her mother?

  “Oscar, the Amakers need a place to stay for the night.” Pastor Tipford spoke in his most “let’s all be reasonable” tone. “Your place would be perfect. You have the room, and you’re right next door, so tending to the chores tomorrow would be simpler for everyone.”

  His place?

  No.

  He hadn’t offered hospitality in years. Not since…

  Everyone looked at the pastor. “The Frankels are too crowded, and anyway, there’s been sickness there. And the parsonage is tiny,” he pointed out. “You can help out, can’t you, Oscar?”

  Mrs. Tipford spoke up. “Of course he will. And I’m sure Liesl will love having some company.” She gave Mrs. Amaker another reassuring squeeze. “It’s all going to be all right, my dear. You can rebuild a house. We’re just thankful that no lives were lost. Now, it’s late, and it’s chilly, and there’s nothing more we can do here. Everything will look better in the morning.” She turned Mrs. Amaker toward the wagon, still whispering in her ear.

  Without so much as a nod from him that it was all right. Women could be like that…tornadoes in petticoats, pushing the world around to suit themselves, and in such a nice way that men hardly protested.

  But Oscar was going to protest. His home
wasn’t open for visitors, even for a night. There had to be another option, something that didn’t involve strangers invading his peace.

  “Come along, Kate,” Mrs. Tipford called over her shoulder. “You shouldn’t be out in this night air any longer.”

  Kate. So that was young Mrs. Amaker’s name. Pretty name.

  She reached up with both hands to tuck stray tendrils of hair off her face and her coat fell open.

  Oscar felt as if he’d been punched in the gut.

  She was pregnant.

  He turned away, but the image was seared on his brain, and he was jerked right back to the center of his own grief. He’d lost his wife in childbirth two years ago come this Christmas. Having a woman in the family way around his house, even for one night, was going to rip open all the old wounds.

  He couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t do it. Pastor Tipford would have to find someone else.

  A hand touched his arm. He looked down into Kate Amaker’s face. Her cheeks were gently rounded and looked so soft. How long had it been since he’d stood this close to a woman? Oscar sucked in a breath and smelled lavender mixed with wood smoke.

  “Thank you.” She bit her lip for a moment, her eyes looking suspiciously moist.

  His muscles tensed. He hated to see any woman cry, even Liesl. It made him feel so helpless.

  “It’s kind of you to put us up. I don’t know what we would do, where else we would go.” She blinked hard, lifting her chin, her shoulders rising and falling as she breathed rapidly, staring at the glowing embers. “I…it’s just…gone.” Her pretty eyes met his once more.

  And just like that, Oscar had houseguests.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Everything…gone. Kate could hardly wrap her mind around the fact. Her clothes reeked of smoke, and if she closed her eyes, she could still see the merciless flames, the showers of skyward-rushing sparks, hear the crackle and roar. It was so hard to believe.

  Away from the fire, the night was black and cold, the moon barely a sliver and the stars remote. The wagon rattled up the drive toward Oscar Rabb’s house, and Kate kept her arm around Grossmutter. Neither had said a word since climbing onto the high seat. What was there to say? Words weren’t enough to describe her sense of loss.

  Oscar’s house sat atop a small hill, facing south. Two-storied, white clapboard, with lots of windows. A porch stretched along the front. The overall design was more compact and less flamboyant than the house Johann had built, but the porch was similar. How many evenings had Kate and Grossmutter sat on the porch shelling peas, snapping beans, while Grossvater and Johann had sat on the steps, talking over the day’s work, planning for the future? A hard lump formed in Kate’s throat.

  Oscar Rabb’s house, porch notwithstanding, looked dark and forbidding with not a single light shining from any of the windows.

  Ahead of them, Oscar drove his wagon down the slope behind the house toward his barn. Kate knew Oscar hadn’t wanted to offer hospitality, that he’d been on the verge of refusing, but he had been too well-mannered. And Mrs. Tipford had practically coerced him into it. Well, they didn’t want to have to accept hospitality, either, but what else was there? Pastor Tipford had been right. Oscar’s place was the logical, if reluctantly given, choice.

  Grossvater directed the horses, Schwarz und Grau—Black and Gray—after Oscar’s wagon, drawing up in front of the immense red barn with its gambrel roof and sliding doors.

  A large dog leaped from the bed of Oscar’s wagon, his tail a bushy plume and his breast glowing white in the darkness. Every bone ached as Kate forced herself to stand and climb down over the wagon wheel. The dog came over, friendly and sniffing, nudging her hand with his broad head for a pat.

  “Rolf, come.” Oscar snapped his fingers, and the big dog bounded to his side. “He can be a nuisance sometimes.”

  Kate and Grossmutter stood out of the way as the horses were unhitched and turned out into a small pen. Oscar forked some hay over the fence and then went to his wagon. He scooped up a blanket-wrapped bundle, holding it to his shoulder. Kate spied small, stocking-clad feet peeping from under the hem of the blanket.

  This must be Oscar’s daughter. Liesl, wasn’t it? Kate’s mind was so muddled she hadn’t even thought to wonder where the child had been during the fire.

  “This way.” Oscar led the way up the curved path to the back of the house. “Watch your step.”

  “You go ahead. I’ll follow.” Kate let Grossvater take Grossmutter’s arm and fell in behind them, lifting her skirt and the hem of Johann’s heavy coat, weary beyond words. All she wanted was a quiet, warm bed, some place to curl up and sleep…to forget what had happened for a while.

  They gained the porch, and Oscar held the door open. “I’ll light a lamp.”

  He laid his daughter down on a bench beside the door and rattled the matchbox on the wall. A scritch, and light flared, illuminating his face. He touched the match to the wick of a glass kerosene lamp on the table and replaced the chimney. Light hovered around the table and picked out objects around the edges of the large room.

  He’d brought them into the kitchen rather than through the front door, but the room seemed to have a dual purpose, one end for cooking and eating, while the other, through open pocket doors, appeared to be the sitting room. Chairs and a settee grouped around a massive fireplace. In the kitchen, beautiful wooden furniture filled the room—a sideboard, a bench, a table and chairs, all decorated with intricate carving. Oscar Rabb must be better off than most of the farmers around Berne if he could afford such fine furnishings.

  The dog’s nails clicked on the hardwood floor as he went to his water dish, lapping noisily and scattering droplets when he raised his head.

  Upon closer inspection, the large room was…rather untidy. Not filthy, but definitely cluttered. Boots and shoes were piled by the door, and it appeared someone had taken apart some harness on the table. Straps and buckles and bits lay everywhere. At least there weren’t dirty dishes, but Kate could tell it had been a long time since the room had received a thorough scrubbing.

  Battered children’s books and blocks lay on the rug in front of the settee, a rocking horse stood in one corner and what looked like a pinafore hung from his ear. A stack of newspapers stood beside a large wooden rocker. Was that where Oscar sat each night, reading while Liesl played? She categorized what she saw without really caring, observing only, too tired to do much else.

  Oscar shifted his weight, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Bedrooms are upstairs. I can carry some water up for you as soon as I get Liesl settled. I imagine you want to wash some of the smoke off.”

  Kate wrinkled her nose. Her coat—Johann’s coat—reeked of the fire, and she knew her hair did, too. She’d love a hot bath, but she’d settle for a cold basin of water and a bit of soap.

  Their host shucked his black, wool coat and tossed it over the back of a chair. He lifted his daughter into his arms, cradling her head against his chest. Kate spied glossy, dark hair, and rounded, sleep-flushed cheeks. Long lashes, limp hands, a pale nightgown. Her heart constricted. There was something so sweet about a sleeping child, especially one held in a parent’s embrace. Her hand went to her own baby, sleeping there under her heart.

  “If you’ll get the lamp?” Oscar looked at Kate and inclined his head.

  She lifted the glass lamp and followed him toward the staircase. Grossmutter and Grossvater followed behind. At the top of the stairs, a hallway bisected the house. Four doors, evenly spaced, two on each side of the carpeted runner, and a window let a small amount of light in at the far end.

  “You can sleep in here. And the older folks across the hall. Liesl’s room is next to yours, and mine’s across from hers.” Oscar opened the first door on the right. A stale, closed-up smell rolled out. Starlight hovered near the windows, and the lamp lit only half the room as she stepp
ed inside. The bare mattress on the bedstead had been rolled up and tied, and a sheet draped over what looked to be a chair. “There’s sheets in the bureau. Sorry the bed isn’t made.”

  He really hadn’t been expecting company. Kate pushed a stray lock of hair off her forehead, forcing down a weary sigh. “It’s fine. We’ll take care of things.” She set the lamp on the bureau, found another lamp there and lit it for her in-laws. “Get your daughter settled back into bed. We’re sorry to inconvenience you like this.” She was barely hanging on, willing herself not to cry. How soon could she be alone?

  Grossvater took the second lamp. “Come, Inge. We will get some rest. As Mrs. Tipford said, perhaps things will look better in the morning. Thank you, Oscar, for a place to stay tonight.” He put his arm around his wife and led her across the hall.

  Oscar stood in the doorway, frowning. He lifted Liesl a bit higher in his arms, appeared about to say something and then shrugged. Finally, he turned away. “I’ll be back with that water.”

  Kate left her coat on. She was chilly, though she wasn’t sure if it was because the house was cold or from shock.

  The rope binding the mattress roll was rough on her hands, but the knots came loose easily enough. With a couple of tugs, the feather-tick flopped open. She nudged it square on the bed frame. Searching the bureau—another hand-carved beauty—she found a set of sheets and a pair of pillows in the deep drawers.

  Across the hall, she heard some rustling and bumping. Peeking through her door, she saw Grossvater spreading a sheet across a wide bed while Grossmutter slid a pillow into a case. They were speaking to each other in German, soft, gentle tones. Kate smiled as Grossvater called his wife “liebchen.” There was so much love and affection in his tone it made Kate’s heart hurt. In spite of all they had lost, they still had each other.