Perhaps even today, Jan hoped with an inward grin. It has been a few weeks, after all!
He saw Mary Bailey approach Rose and growled his frustration. Amalie hadn’t been quick enough! Someone else was tendering an invite.
But no, Mrs. Bailey was handing Fru Brünlee a telegram.
Telegrams were always bad news.
Skirting the knots of people visiting in the churchyard, Jan found an unobstructed view as she tore open the paper. Her expression told him what he’d feared. Something bad had happened.
“Søren!” Jan called. His sønn waved to him. Jan gestured him over and glanced back toward Fru Brünlee. It could not be good—her face had crumpled.
He grabbed Søren by the arm and dragged him to their neighbor. “Ask what we can do,” Jan directed.
Søren and Fru Brünlee spoke for just a moment before she turned away, covering her eyes with her hand. Søren whispered to his father, “Pappa, she has heard bad news. Her mother has died.”
Jan thought for a moment. “Will she go? Ask her, please.”
Søren approached their neighbor again and gently asked the question. He looked toward Jan and nodded. Jan drew near and instructed Søren, “Tell her we will take care of her home and animals and take her to the train. Ask her when she will leave.”
“Tomorrow, Pappa.”
Jan nodded. “Tell her we will come and take her in the morning.”
The train, in a hail of cinders, steamed away from the RiverBend siding. Jan stared after it. She has gone. Gone to mourn her mother. Gone back to her family.
All he could think or imagine was how easy it would be for her to never return to her little house across the fields and creek from him. That single thought dug an ache in his chest he did not know how to address.
Nearly three weeks later, Jan, Amalie, and Uli were waiting and watching for the arrival of the train. Vera Medford had assured Jan that Rose was, indeed, returning. The train slowed and, with a release of steam, stopped.
Then Uli let out a whoop and raced down the siding. “Mrs. Brownlee! Mrs. Brownlee!”
Their neighbor scooped Uli up and smothered her round cheeks with kisses; Uli squeezed Fru Brünlee’s neck and matched her kiss for kiss. Jan stood stock still, mesmerized, until Amalie dragged him along. She, too, wrapped her arms around their neighbor, talking all the while.
Jan stood back, calm enough, although he wondered, for the briefest moment, how it might feel to wrap his arms around—
Finally when he had an opportunity to greet her, he took her hand and said, “Velcome home,” something he’d practiced often in the last twenty-four hours.
Jan could not keep up with the chatter flowing among Amalie, Uli, and Fru Brünlee, so he focused only on Fru Brünlee’s replies.
“And Baron? How is Baron?” she questioned.
Jan snorted and he told Uli, “Tell Fru Brünlee that her dog is fine—even if we did give up trying to keep him at our house.”
Uli added, “He chewed through the ropes and went back home, so we just let him stay there. He’s waiting for you right now.”
Fru Brünlee smiled, and Jan clucked his tongue in mock disapproval.
“Dog ver gud now, eh?” he commented wryly. She just smiled larger.
She has come back! She does not intend to leave but to stay!
Those words rang within him and, like a bellows fans an ember to life, her return blew fresh hope into his heart. A question burned in there, demanding an answer.
I must know the answer! his heart insisted.
So, Lord, he prayed, I wish to test the water with Fru Brünlee. Will you help me?
He practiced what he would do, what he would say, rehearsing the shape and sound of strange English words until he could not sleep without them intruding on his dreams.
He dressed himself with care and polished the leather of the buggy to a high shine, all as inconspicuously as possible. He did not want to draw Søren’s or the boys’ attention to what he was doing, and he did not want to field any questions!
Without a word he drove away from his farm.
“Mr. Thoresen, hello!”
Fru Brünlee seemed glad to see him.
Ja, god-dag,” he greeted her. “You please to take ride?” He indicated his buggy in the yard.
“Yes, yes!” Fru Brünlee rushed away to gather her coat and mittens, and Jan took a deep breath, the first hurdle overcome. He fingered the dear object in his coat pocket.
They drove through the spring snow, a cool breeze whipping their cheeks. His neighbor sighed and closed her eyes in bliss.
“Day to ride—not to house, ja?” Jan offered, using his best conversation starter.
She nodded and smiled. “I’m glad you came.”
She is glad I came!
Across the snow-clad plain on little-used roads and tracks the bays charged. After a while Jan spoke, loud enough to be heard over the swish of the wheels and the wind whistling by, “Ve go, look river. Ver big now. Ver grand.”
He pulled up on the team as they approached the brow of the overlook. He laid the buggy alongside the edge. Below, running from north to south, was the same creek that divided their properties.
It was wider and deeper here where it emptied into the river. Snow covered the banks of the creek and hung over the sides of the small torrent. Jan relished the view. From here they could see the creek pouring into the river—and beyond that the prairie stretched far into the distance, more beautiful than any winter portrait.
All was silent save for the shifting of the team . . . so he pulled the object from his pocket. In the palm of his hand he held the only image of Elli he owned, a tiny tintype set inside a hinged, leather-bound case. He snapped it open and looked at her face.
What would his neighbor see? Jan peered again at Elli’s likeness, so familiar to him.
“Fru Brünlee, please to look at picture? Is mine vife. Name vas Elli. Vas gud, best, and kind woman.”
Jan was not encouraged. His neighbor was staring at the river and had grown still. She seemed distant and disturbed. Then she stirred.
“Who . . .?” She looked up, inquiring, and Jan realized she had not heard what he’d said.
“Mine vife, Elli.” He repeated patiently. With dogged determination he continued. “Fever, ver bad come. Our datter Kristen, mine brot’er Karl, and mine Elli die. Go to God. Many years now.”
His neighbor took the picture into her hand and studied it. He saw tears spring to her eyes.
“I haf much luf for Elli. Ver hard life vit no Elli,” Jan added slowly.
Oh, Lord, help me, Jan prayed. He had practiced these words so many times, and yet they were flying straight out of his head!
He swallowed. “You luf, too. Your man?” Softly he added, “He die, too, ja?”
She shivered and her voice shook. As though he had ripped a scab from a mortal wound, her answer bled pain rather than blood. “Yes, he died. And my children, my sweet little ones.”
She gestured at the water. “Our carriage slid into a frozen river like this one. They all died. They all drowned. Except for me.”
And then she was weeping uncontrollably and Jan knew. He knew she was in much more pain than he had realized. She was not ready to hear such words from him.
He slapped the reins once and the buggy pulled away from the high bank. Making a wide circle, he turned in the direction of her home.
As he drove he prayed for her. Ah, Lord. A husband! And her little ones! To lose one’s children in icy water? No one can prepare for such a horror. What a brave soul this woman has. Please help her! Please give me words of comfort!
As they flew over the crusty roads her weeping subsided. Soon Jan could feel that she was calmer. She was, he thought, about to speak, so Jan pulled on the reins and brought the team to a gradual stop. He turned and faced her in the seat.
She was embarrassed. “Mr. Thoresen, I’m very sorry for my behavior . . . I didn’t mean . . .”
Jan shook his head.
“Nei. I sorry! Not know for (he searched for the word) river?”
How could I have chosen a worse place to take you? his heart groaned.
She acknowledged this and he tentatively continued. “Mrs. Brünlee, vas Mr. Brünlee Christian?”
She nodded.
Jan was remembering staring into Elli’s face after she passed. He could still recall, vividly, the peace that washed over him when he realized . . . her body no longer held her spirit.
How could he convey this great truth to her? He opened himself to her, speaking from deep within his soul. “Mrs. Brünlee, ven trust Jesus, not gone alvays, now only. I tell you trut’, little woman, God never gone, alvays vit you. As Christian brot’er I promise you, God vill help.”
The gratitude he saw in her eyes nearly undid him, and yet he required himself to face reality . . . Ja, I have my answer, eh, Lord? She is not ready. He called to the horses and neither spoke again until they reached her home.
Still silent, he helped her down and walked her to the front door. Of course Fru Brünlee’s dog—the one I insisted she have, he sneered—jumped up in happy greeting, nearly overturning her, while alternately growling and baring his teeth to Jan.
Jan had had enough. “Down!” Thunder and frustration rolled in his voice. The dog dropped to the floor of the porch.
“Gud dog,” Jan managed to say. He took a deep breath. “And denk you, Mrs. Brünlee. Ride vas ver nice.” He opened the door, holding it for her and closing it after she passed through.
He did not return home right away. Instead he drove out onto the prairie, following a faint track. As he drove he worked to quell any hope he’d had. Ja, I am just an old farmer. I must not wish for what cannot be mine. I must no longer think on these things. Ja, just so.
These were the stern commands he issued to his heart and his head. These were the words he repeated to himself in the weeks following.
A tentative spring arrived. In typical prairie fashion, the weather could not be trusted: One day promised glorious sunshine and warming temperatures; the next day dashed those promises with freezing rain and late snows.
The second school term ended and so did Mr. Letoire’s stay with the Thoresens. He departed the community for a visit back East until the next term began in late fall.
Harold Kalbørg had courted Sigrün through the winter, and Jan had watched as Sigrün’s demeanor toward Harold grew from shy and blushing, to confident and hopeful, and finally to love-struck. Still, Jan needed to know how Harold would deal with Sigrün’s inability to speak. Would he truly love her regardless?
As Jan observed them together, Harold behaved as though no impediment to their conversation existed: While he talked, the young man watched Sigrün’s face and responded to a simple nod, smile, or shake of the head.
When the day arrived and Harold asked to speak privately with him, Jan had not been surprised. He had already discussed Harold’s suit with Amalie.
“Søster,” he said gently, “This man is in love with your datter, and she is in love with him, nei? But you have the final say. If he is not the best for her and you say no, then when he asks, I will say no.”
But Amalie could not refuse Harold’s suit. Harold was a fine man and it would be a good match. Even more, it was what Sigrün wanted. So when Harold had asked Jan for Sigrün’s hand, Jan, grudgingly, had given his blessing.
Jan sighed. He could not believe Sigrün was marrying, that she would be leaving their home, never to live with them again. He knew Amalie was struggling with the same emotions. Amid all the happy preparations for the wedding, they occasionally caught sight of each other and recognized the grief the other was feeling.
My Kristen was two years older than Sigrün, Jan pondered with sad wonder. Likely we would have already celebrated her marriage to some nice young man.
Now that Sigrün and Harold were promised to each other, Jan would do all he could to give Sigrün the wedding she wanted—the wedding he knew Karl would have given her.
The morning of Harold and Sigrün’s wedding, Jan, Søren, and the boys milked the cows, did their other chores, and then emptied the barn and swept its floor. They hauled in bales of sweet-smelling hay and arranged them in rows for seating down the length of the barn.
They lined one wall with tables for food. At one end of the barn Jan and Søren placed a table and laid a white cloth upon it; here Harold and Sigrün would say their vows.
The morning flew by; Jan changed into the new suit he had bought especially for Sigrün’s wedding. All the while, like a soft melody playing in the background, Jan’s heart chanted . . . Fru Brünlee will be coming soon.
When Amalie had told him that their neighbor would be cutting all of her beautiful roses for Sigrün’s wedding Jan had been struck by the selflessness of the gesture. But you must not think it means anything for you, the voice of reason warned him.
Friends and neighbors arrived to decorate the barn. They hung evergreen boughs from the loft, twined flowers about the posts, and draped rugs and shawls over the hay bales. As the preparations progressed, Jan kept one eye on the road, watching for his neighbor’s buggy.
Stop this! he chided himself. You are done with such futile daydreams.
When guests began to arrive, he found himself anxiously looking for her. You must stop this nonsense, he remonstrated, but he could not prevent his heart from looking toward her arrival.
There. He saw her climb down from the buggy, her face flushed with excitement and pleasure. She was wearing a dress he had not seen before, a gown the color of dusty pink roses trimmed in cream and burgundy. She lifted a box from the buggy and made her way toward the barn.
Jan’s pulse quickened even as he pulled himself up. Do not torment yourself, his mind hissed. From a discreet distance he observed as she opened the box and arranged the roses she had brought with her, twisting and tying the strands of climber roses to the altar legs and placing a branch of blooms across the altar.
Then the ceremony began and Jan was walking Sigrün down the aisle toward the altar. As though drawn by a magnet, his eyes found Rose—Fru Brünlee! his conscience corrected—and she smiled at him.
A jolt ran down his spine as their eyes met.
After the ceremony, friends moved the bales of hay to the outside of the floor so the feasting and dancing could begin. Jan checked with Amalie.
“Everything is perfect, Jan,” she said, grateful for his oversight. “I thank you for such a beautiful wedding for my datter!”
At last Jan felt he could relax. Immediately he looked for Rose—Nei! Fru Brünlee! his conscience jeered again. He caught sight of her leaving the barn; he followed her to her buggy, where she was removing a small guitar case.
“I carry for you,” he stated, reaching for the case.
“Thank you,” she answered, clearly surprised.
“I vant do,” Jan replied.
They walked toward the barn, but when Rose tried to take back her guitar, Jan—shutting off the warning voices in his head—would not release it.
“Please, ve dance first?” At that moment he cared little what the voice of reason shouted.
“Oh, Mr. Thoresen, no, no, thank you. I don’t, I mean I haven’t danced in a long time. Thank you, no.” But as she reached for her guitar, Jan held it away.
“No. Ve dance now, please.” He smiled and his eyes sparkled with merriment.
“Mr. Thoresen! I really don’t think . . .”
Jan teased her until she smiled and nodded. Taking her hand, he led her out to dance and, a moment later, they were whirling across the floor. When the song ended, Jan could not bear releasing her. He called loudly for another tune, and he twirled her away.
When the song ended, his neighbor collapsed, laughing, on a bale now pushed up against the barn wall. Jan loved watching her enjoy herself but Søren called him away at that moment. “Scuse, please,” he said.
Jan took care of several decisions and stopped to thank friends for coming. He had been gone from R
ose’s side for more than half an hour when Søren, with Ivan at his shoulder, interrupted Jan’s conversation with a guest.
“Pappa.” Something about the single clipped word caused Jan to excuse himself. He followed Søren and Ivan to the edge of the dance floor and saw Rose Brownlee in Mark Grader’s arms.
Grader tightened his grip and pulled Rose closer, but she struggled against him. Jan could see her embarrassment—and fear.
I have never seen her afraid, Jan realized, and he did not like it.
With Søren and Ivan close behind him, he crossed the dance floor and tapped Grader on the shoulder. Grader stopped short and eyed Jan.
“Oh, thank you, God!” Jan heard Fru Brünlee breathe. Her anxious eyes begged for his help.
“What you want, Thoresen?” Grader snarled. “You’re interruptin’ our dance.”
Jan’s mouth curved in a slight smile. “’Scuse, Mr. Grader. Ve need talk now. Ver important. Out dere.” He waved toward the barn door.
“I’m busy. Now get out of my way.”
When Grader’s hand came up to push Jan aside, Jan was ready. He grabbed and twisted Grader’s arm behind his back. The man flinched, but Jan kept his hold.
“Out dere, please,” he repeated softly.
He saw Grader’s hold on Rose relax; Søren and Ivan each grabbed an arm and hustled Grader out. In the same moment, Jan stepped in and began dancing with his neighbor as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
Jan could feel Fru Brünlee trembling in his arms.
“Better, ja?” Jan asked, but tears threatened to spill from her eyes. Jan shook his head once and clucked his tongue, then spun her gently across the floor.
What would it be like? he asked himself. What would it be like if this woman I am holding belonged to me?
He smiled softly and glanced down. Fru Brünlee’s color was settling. He could sense she was recovering from the unhappy incident. When the dancing ended and the singing commenced, he deposited her with Fiona McKennie and, bowing, left them.
Perhaps he was still in the thrall of saving Rose from Mark Grader; perhaps this happy day and its attending celebration overrode his doubts and fears, but later, when the singing was nearly over, Jan stood to sing the last song.
Wild Heart on the Prairie (A Prairie Heritage, Book 2) Page 30