The song he sang was an old, traditional ballad, a love song. He sang it for Harold and Sigrün on this holy day, and he sang it for the hope reborn in his heart. He searched for and found Rose’s eyes—and he sang it to her, past caring if his yearning for her showed through.
Do you hear me, little woman? Do you hear what my heart is singing to you?
He saw her look around, puzzled. Then she sat down, out of his view.
Jan finished the song. As he did, he noticed Søren, a strange expression on his face, staring at him, but Jan shrugged. He was no longer disheartened. He had crossed a line—win or lose, he would not draw back.
Harold and Sigrün were preparing to leave, and the guests were loading their gifts into Harold’s wagon. Sigrün kissed her mother, each brother, Uli, Søren, Jan and, once again, her tearful mamma. Then Sigrün and Harold drove off to begin their lives together.
Jan, Søren, and the boys changed into their work clothes and began cleaning up. The milking and afternoon chores called to them.
Jan, Søren, and Ivan were moving bales of hay out of the barn when Jan saw Rose saying goodbye to Amalie. He watched her; as she prepared to leave, Jan left his work to hand her up to the seat. Jan could feel Søren and Ivan’s eyes on him. Apparently, Rose could, too, for she coughed in a nervous manner.
“It was a lovely wedding, Mr. Thoresen,” she remarked, and he could see she was anxious to get away. “Simply ‘grand’!”
“Ja,” he nodded.
Ja, I have set my course, little woman, he whispered to himself. Soon. Soon I will make my heart known to you.
Holding her gaze with his, he offered a cryptic remark. “Next vun better, too, ja? God-dag, Mrs. Brünlee.”
~~**~~
Chapter 42
Fickle spring! In the days following Harold and Sigrün’s wedding, temperatures plummeted and the skies poured cold, stinging rain.
The Thoresen males, clad in rain gear, herded their stock into the barn. It was early in the day, but downpours had turned the pastures into a bog and more rain was coming. The cows and steers came willingly as they were called.
One of their milkers, however, refused to move. She stood in the pre-storm mist, bawling for her calf.
“Callie’s calf has gone missing,” Arnie informed Søren. “You want Kjell and me to go look for him?”
Normally Søren would have sent them, but not today. Their northern pastures ran along the creek of his Onkel Karl’s land, and the creek was far over its banks. No, neither his father nor his tante would want the younger boys near the sodden, unpredictable banks of the creek.
“I will go, Arnie. Tell your Onkel Jan where I am, eh?”
Søren slogged through the mud toward Callie. The cow’s eyes were wide and round, her demeanor agitated.
“Ja, we’ll find your calf soon enough,” Søren muttered. The mist was beginning to freeze, stinging his face as colder air pushed in ahead of the storm. He needed to hurry; he was losing the light.
Søren headed north and crossed the fence line into the pasture, assuming the calf had become mired where the pasture sloped toward the creek. Keeping a healthy distance from the water’s edge, he walked farther from the house while scanning along the bank.
In the near-dark he saw a flash of something white. Where a young cottonwood stand usually marked the creek bank, a torrent now rushed.
Søren drew closer, mindful of his footing, until he came abreast of the white object. Shaking his head, he realized he was seeing the white flash on the calf’s face. The poor creature floated, tangled in the roots of the tree. Drowned.
Søren burst through the back door of the farmhouse on a gust of wind that rattled the windows. His slicker streamed water onto the kitchen floor. Amalie, clucking and fussing, grabbed towels to mop it up.
He went to his room and changed into dry clothes and then found Jan in the living room, warming himself in front of the stove. “We are losing the corn along the creek,” was Søren’s quiet report.
Jan nodded. “Ja. Too much rain. Never have I seen so much at one time.”
“I found Callie’s calf drowned in the cottonwoods in the north pasture. The water is flowing pretty hard through the stand of cottonwoods.”
Jan shook his head at the news.
“The bridge is almost underwater, too,” Søren added. “We may have lost part of it.” He shivered and held his hands in front of the stove. “Such an afternoon! It is so dark, I can hardly see a thing.”
Jan nodded again and moved to the living room window. He cupped his hands around his eyes and placed his forehead on the window, but could not see past the sheeting rain.
“We made a good roof for Mrs. Brownlee,” Søren commented. He figured his father was looking for a light in their neighbor’s window. Impossible. Nothing would shine through this downpour.
Uli bounced into the living room. “Søren, Onkel! Mamma says it is time to eat.”
“Thank you, little one,” Jan said smiling. He lifted her up into a bear hug and then set her down again. Uli laughed and held his hand all the way to the table.
Jan woke in the night. He had gone to bed in Søren’s room to spare himself the soaking walk to the barn; Søren was sleeping upstairs with Little Karl.
He listened. Something had disturbed his dreams, something concerning. Rain still battered the house; the wind still howled. The room was cold and he shivered.
And then he heard it again. Not the howl of the wind—a different sort of howl. He sat up in bed. There it was again.
Jan was scrambling into his clothes when he heard Søren hustling down the stairs. “What is it?” he asked his sønn.
“Sounds like an animal.” Søren lifted a shotgun from the rack above the kitchen doorway.
After donning slickers, Jan and Søren opened the kitchen door and stepped into the storm. They heard the howl again, from the direction of the barn.
Søren put his mouth close to Jan’s ear. “Does that sound like a dog?”
Jan didn’t answer. It had sounded like a dog.
It had sounded like Baron.
He ran, heedless of the rain-slick mud.
Near the chicken coops they saw a huddled form. Søren stood a ways off and leveled the gun at it. Then the form uttered a piteous yelp.
“Nei! Do not shoot!” Jan knelt next to him. “Baron! What is this?” The dog’s tail thumped once but he did not move except to release another mournful howl that ended in a whine.
“Søren, it is Baron. He is hurt, I think. Get a blanket from the barn, ja?”
Søren returned; they wrapped the dog in the blanket and carried him into the house. A stream of rain and mud followed them.
“Aunt Amalie will have a fit,” Søren muttered under his breath. And then he saw blood flowing in the trail of mud. “Pappa, look.”
Jan’s face creased into worried lines. “Get old blankets or towels. I am taking him to the living room by the stove.”
Søren ran into Amalie coming down the stairs. “What is it? I heard horrible sounds!”
“It is Baron. He is hurt and bleeding. Pappa has taken him into the living room. I am getting more old towels and rags.” He touched Amalie’s arm. “Tante, I am worried about Mrs. Brownlee.”
Amalie reached the bottom of the stairs and viewed the trail of mud and blood from the back door into the living room. Instead of wiping it up, she rushed to help Jan.
Jan was lighting lamps and bringing them close to where he had laid Baron. A look crossed between Jan and Amalie. She knelt down and opened the blanket while Jan held a lamp overhead.
As she tried to examine Baron, he whined and licked her hand. “Ach. You don’t want to bite me, do you? You just wish me to be careful and not hurt you more, eh?”
Her face paled. “Jan? Look here, ja? Is this not a gunshot?”
Jan squatted down and looked where Amalie was holding Baron’s fur apart. Blood seeped at a steady stream from a hole in his chest . . .
“Søren!”
Jan’s roar woke the house.
“Pappa?”
“Get Karl. Saddle the bays. We are crossing the creek.”
Ten minutes later they were mounted. Søren, carrying the shotgun, and Jan, with Karl riding double behind him, were searching for the best place to ford the raging creek.
Jan elected to cross where the water had flooded farthest into their fields. He held the large Morgan steady and urged him into the water. Karl clung to his back like a burr as the horse stepped into the rushing stream.
The icy water stung like fire and rose until it was chest-high on the bay. The big horse snorted and side-stepped but forged ahead. Jan knew the bottom of the creek here was smooth and that his horse would keep his footing.
A little more than halfway across, the horse picked up his pace and plunged up the opposite slope in a burst of speed. Wet and relieved, Jan turned to signal Søren, but his sønn had followed as soon as Jan’s horse was halfway across.
Søren’s horse plodded up the slope to where Jan and Little Karl waited. Jan and Søren conferred briefly.
“In this weather you or I should be able to sneak up to the house and see what is happening,” Jan spoke into Søren’s ear.
Leaving the horses near the creek with Little Karl, the two men crept toward Rose’s house. A single light glowed behind the curtains in the kitchen. Jan signaled to Søren and they made their way to the south side of the house and the steps that led up and onto the covered porch.
Because he weighed less than Jan, Søren stole up the steps. He stopped under the window where he spied a small gap in the curtains. For several minutes he peered into the house. Then he made his way back.
He did not speak and Jan’s heart began to thunder in his chest.
“Well? What did you see?” he demanded.
Søren swallowed. “I saw a man sitting in a chair with his face and arms on the table. He looked to be sleeping.”
Jan grew still. “What else?”
Søren swallowed again. “Another man, on the floor. He . . . he looks dead, Pappa.” Søren looked at Jan. “A lot of blood there is. On the man and on the floor.”
“And Fru Brünlee?” Jan steeled himself.
“I did not see her, Pappa. She is not in the house.”
Jan turned away from Søren. She is not there? How could that be? Where else would she be?
He and Søren stole away from the house, back to where Karl held the horses. Jan boosted Karl onto the broad back of his bay and then looked up at his fifteen-year-old nephew. It was perhaps an odd time to notice, but Jan, looking up at “Little” Karl, realized how much like his father the boy was becoming.
“I’m sending you to fetch help,” he told his nephew. “Bring back Brian McKennie, ja?”
“Ja, I will bring him, Onkel,” Karl assured him and walked the horse toward the road, keeping as far from the house as possible until he was out of earshot.
Jan turned to Søren. “Let us go in. We will surprise the sleeping man, ja? I will take him. You make sure the other man is . . . really dead. If he is not, you take him, eh?”
Søren nodded. They crept to the front door—The stout door I made strong and secure with my own hands! Jan realized. Taking his time, he pressed down on the latch. It was locked. He shook his head at Søren.
Like silent shadows, they made their way around to the back door. Jan, knowing that the pantry and a second door stood between them and the men inside, inserted the flat blade of his knife between the door and the lock. The lock clicked open.
Jan slowly pushed open the door, only to find that the inside door stood slightly ajar. He cautioned Søren, and then they slipped inside.
The man at the table was indeed sleeping. His soft snores were regular, his mouth slack. Both of them recognized him: Mark Grader. Søren held the shotgun on him while Jan crept toward the man lying on the floor in a pool of blood.
It was Orville Grader, and Søren had been right. The man was dead, his throat torn.
Baron! Jan concluded. But there was no sign of Rose.
Jan nodded for Søren to wake Mark Grader.
“Where is Mrs. Brownlee!” Søren demanded again, his voice a frustrated snarl. “You say she ran out the back door, but we have looked everywhere for her! Where is she? What did you do to her?”
Jan and Søren had tied Grader to a kitchen chair. For the past hour they had been alternately questioning Grader and searching the yard.
“Her dog killed m’ brother! It were her dog what done Orville in!” Grader blubbered. “But I ain’t done nuthin to Miz Brownlee, I swear! Orville . . . He, he, he’s the one who wanted t’, you know—”
Mark Grader must have seen the disbelief and rage cross Jan and Søren’s faces.
“I dunno where she went, I tell ya!” he protested in a whine. “I dunno!”
Then Jan leaned over Grader and Grader looked into Jan’s eyes—eyes that had grown cold and merciless. Grader tried to draw back, licking his lips nervously.
“Mebbe, mebbe she tried to cross the creek, git up t’ yer house,” he suggested in a weak voice.
Jan blanched. In his mind he saw Rose fleeing these men, daring the rushing torrent she so feared, but running to him for help! He saw the creek soaking and swamping her skirts and saw her struggling as the weight of them pulled her down and swept her away. His heart twisted until he could not breathe.
Søren put his hand on his father’s shoulder. “I think Karl is back.”
Jan and Søren opened the front door. Karl and Brian climbed the steps and stood on the porch next to them, draining the rain from their hats and ponchos.
“Have ye found Rose?” Brian asked immediately.
“Nei,” Søren replied, slipping into Riksmaal. “Grader says she escaped out the back door last evening. We’ve looked everywhere . . . he just now said maybe Rose tried to cross—” Søren choked and couldn’t finish his sentence.
A murderous rage, a hatred he had never known, smoldered in Jan’s breast and ignited. For the first time in his life, he desired to kill a man. He itched to place his hands about Grader’s neck and choke the life out of him. He wanted to pound his face to a bloody mass.
He threw open the door and strode back into Rose’s house.
~~**~~
Chapter 43
As Jan curled his fists and started toward him, Grader shrank in terror.
“Jan!” Brian pulled at his arm. “Jan!”
He forcibly yanked Jan around. “Be sendin’ your boys doon th’ creek on horseback, Jan. Now.”
Jan turned to Søren. His chest was heaving but he could not catch his breath. He could not wipe the image from his mind of the rushing torrent and Rose’s skirts, heavy with water, pulling her under.
“Pappa,” Søren said softly. “Little Karl and I should take the bays downstream, ja?”
Søren’s eyes were haunted. He, too, had a vivid picture in his mind, but it was the image of the drowned calf tangled in the tree roots near the creek bank. He could not help it—when he looked into his heart, it was not the calf, but Rose’s white face he saw floating in the roots of the cottonwoods.
Jan nodded. He could not think; he could not act. He could only hate.
He looked again at Grader who paled under Jan’s icy disdain. The man, struggling wildly in his bonds, began to shriek and beg for his life.
Grader’s shrieks startled Jan, and he saw himself mirrored in Grader’s fear-filled eyes. What he saw stunned him—Jan saw his own hatred.
Dear Father in heaven, Jan gasped. I am undone! I thought you had tamed my heart, but in its depths I am yet a murderer!
Jan dropped his face to his hands. He stumbled out into the yard. Peering at the sky through the downpour, he cried aloud, “Father! I am sorry! I know you hear me . . . please forgive me.”
A crack of thunder answered him. Jan dropped to his knees, sobbing.
Søren and Little Karl had been gone half an hour and early morning was changing the skies from black to a sodden gra
y when Fiona and Meg arrived. Jan shook his head at their questions and did not trust himself to speak.
Fiona was making coffee when Brian uttered an urgent exclamation, “Jan! ’Tis rememberin’ something I am! Th’ Andersons’ old soddy! We showed it t’ Rose! Coom! Help me t’ be openin’ it!”
Jan stared at Brian, not comprehending. Brian grabbed his arm and pulled him along.
The Andersons’ dugout. Of course. Of course I remember it! Jan wrenched the shovel from Brian’s hands and raced ahead of him. He reached the side of the knoll first but could not find the door—the rain had turned the hillside into a slurry of mud and grass. He drove the shovel into the hillside here! There! Again and again until—at last—it struck wood.
Jan scrabbled with his fingers for the edge of the door. He found it, jammed the shovel’s tip into it, and leaned his considerable weight on the handle. The door began to give but Jan would not wait. He simply grasped it and, straining with all his might, ripped it from its hinges and flung it aside.
He paused. The soddy was as dark as the storm-swept night had been. Within, it was as still as a tomb.
She is not here! his heart screamed.
“I’ll be fetchin’ a torch!” Brian yelled above the now drizzling rain.
Jan dropped to his knees as his strength left him. He crept forward, feeling about him with his hands. Dry, pounded earth was all his hands found.
He crawled forward, sweeping his arms across the floor in an arc. Still his hands found only hard, dry dirt.
And then. And then his left hand encountered cloth. Damp, clammy cloth. He followed the cloth until he felt a hip and then an arm. He traced his way up the arm until he touched an icy cheek. He picked up her hand—as cold as death! He could not feel her heart beating in her fingers.
“Brian! Brian McKennie! Here—she is here!”
He scooped Rose into his arms. She was as light as a feather.
O Lord! Please don’t let her spirit fly away to you!
Wild Heart on the Prairie (A Prairie Heritage, Book 2) Page 31