by Linda Ford
After a bit, the three of them sat in front of the barn. He couldn’t make out what they were doing though it seemed to involve picking long strands of grass from around the barn. Neither of the boys acted as if they were being kept there against their will. Ward knew he should relax.
Hadn’t Freyda shown concern on behalf of his sons when he had left the house in such a hurry? With a smile, he acknowledged it had been sweet to share good memories with them.
And hadn’t she brushed his arm simply to show concern?
He tried not to think how his nerves had lurched at her touch. How a bit of warmth remained at that very spot. Apart from guiding the horses up and down the field, Ward had nothing to do during the long spring afternoon but think. His thoughts carried him along paths of regret. His past had not given him much regard for women. A cruel aunt. A weak and demanding wife. Instinctively, he knew Freyda did not fit into either of those categories, but he could not decide where she did fit.
At the end of the field, he stopped to give the horses a breather and retrieved his canteen of water from a nearby grassy spot. He drank, then capped the canteen. Kit screamed and Ward jerked around. He took a step toward the house before he realized it was laughter he heard, not fear or pain, and he returned to the horses. He paused to listen and heard Milo laughing and another voice. Freyda laughing.
At least the boys were safe. He could not ask for more.
Nor, he informed himself several times, did he want more.
The sun dipped toward the west and his stomach growled loudly. Would she come soon and tell him supper was ready?
But he’d told her he wanted to work until dark…a choice he now regretted.
He could go in now. Say the horses were worn out. Say he needed more seed. Say he was hungry. But he would not. There was no need to change his mind.
He stayed the course until the shadows lengthened. It was time to take the horses in and care for them.
As he approached the house, he saw Freyda and the boys sitting on the step. An unfamiliar response bounced about in his heart. Were they waiting for him? He grinned and waved to them.
The boys ran out to join him.
Freyda followed. “Do you mind if I watch what you do with the horses so I can learn?”
“Not at all.” But his movements felt stiff and uncoordinated as he removed the harnesses. The boys sat on the nearby stall and watched.
“Explain everything you are doing.”
He glanced over his shoulder to her. “Don’t you know anything about horses?”
“Not much. Anker, my brother, helped my father with the horses. My sister, Signe, helped Mor with the cattle. Everyone said I was too young to help. And then I was old enough to take care of little cousins and that became my job.” She shrugged, though he thought it signaled resignation rather than unconcern. “I seemed to be always stuck in the middle. Too young for half the things. Too old for the other half.” She chuckled. “They didn’t believe I would come to America and take over the homestead.”
“I can understand their concern. A young woman with no experience—”
She jammed her fists to her hips. “How do you get experience other than by doing? I will learn. If you don’t want to help me, just say so.”
She took three steps toward the door.
Two little boys watched them with wide-eyed interest.
Even without the need to assure his sons he wouldn’t be so unkind as to say no to the woman, he would have called her back. “Freyda, wait. I don’t mind showing you what I’m doing.”
She turned slowly and returned. “Thank you.”
So he explained every aspect of caring for the harnesses and the horses. The boys listened raptly. They would benefit from his teaching too.
“You are a good teacher,” she said, as they headed for the house.
He opened the door. The smells of cooked meat and apple pie greeted him. “You’re a good cook,” he said.
They grinned at each other and something tenuous came to life inside him. He couldn’t say what it was and would have dismissed it immediately if not for the way his stomach rumbled.
She laughed. “We already ate. I would have put the boys to bed, but they insisted they would wait for you.” She pulled a plate loaded with food from the warming oven. “Go ahead and eat. Would you like coffee?”
“Yes. Thanks.”
The boys crowded to either side of him as he ate. They both talked, often at the same time. They had spent the afternoon escaping bad guys and braiding grass ropes. They showed him.
He laughed often at their excitement. Each time, he met Freyda’s eyes, saw what he thought was real enjoyment at their tales. Each time, something happened to his insides—and it had nothing to do with the warm satisfying food that pleasured his stomach.
He cleaned his plate and she put a generous slice of apple pie before him. “Where did you get the apples?”
“Someone—perhaps Mrs. Wright—left several jars of pie filling.”
“How nice of her.” He laughed because the woman who had been so unkind to his boys had left something good behind. And because it simply felt good and right to enjoy it with his sons and his neighbor.
She washed up his dishes and hung the tea towel to dry. “It’s time for me to leave. I’ll take Boots and Boss.”
He pushed his chair back. “We’ll walk you home.”
She waved aside his offer. “That’s not necessary. It’s not far. You stay and put the boys to bed. I’ll be back in the morning.”
He followed her, the boys in his wake. “I’ll feel better knowing you are home safe and sound and, like you said, it isn’t far. Right, boys?”
“Yes, Papa,” they said together.
She put the lead ropes on the horses’ halters and they set off down the trail. He led Boss. She led Boots. Milo and Kit ran ahead.
He thought of what she’d said about not being allowed to learn things and wanted to make her feel better. “Baruk would be pleased that you are keeping the homestead.”
“He should have let me come with him. It really hurt that he wouldn’t let me, but the worst thing was I thought he saw me differently than my family did. We’d talked about our dream to move to America. He said he was pleased that I was willing to embark on such an adventure. But in the end, he treated me like a baby, just like everyone else.”
Ward knew what it was like to believe one thing about a person and learn it wasn’t true. “You were disappointed in Baruk much as I was disappointed in Dorothy. I guess we’ve both learned that you can’t trust what your eyes and heart tell you about a person.”
They reached her place and he helped her put the horses in the pasture and made sure the gate was secure.
“Goodnight,” he said, and he and the boys returned home.
As he helped them prepare for bed, Kit showed him one of his treasures—a gnarly piece of wood sitting on the windowsill.
“It’s a wild cat.” He gave a roar that sounded more like a little boy than a fierce cat. “It keeps away people who want to hurt us.”
Ward’s heart sank. His boys were afraid, and all because of the way housekeepers had treated them. He must make sure it never happened again. “You are safe with me,” he assured the boys.
“And Mrs. Haevre,” Kit said. “She beat off the bad guys.”
Milo watched Ward for his reaction. Milo nodded.
Ward was at a loss to explain that the bad guys they meant were imaginary, and Mrs. Haevre had yet to prove if she would show any ability to confront real danger. Both boys waited. He knew he must give them some kind of reassurance. “I’m glad you like her.”
“Don’t you?” Milo asked.
He should have known Milo would demand more but what could he say? That he wasn’t about to trust any woman? “She sure is a good cook.”
“Papa,” Milo persisted. “Why don’t you like her?”
“I didn’t say I didn’t.”
“But do you?”
W
ard nodded slowly. “I suppose I do.” And it frightened him so much his breath stuck halfway to his lungs.
He heard the boys’ prayers and tucked them into bed then went to his room where he lay staring up at the dark ceiling trying to sort out his confusion. He’d get the crop seeded as fast as he could—his and Freyda’s—and then they would go back to being neighbors.
He would not worry about what he was going to do with the boys nor would he concern himself with whether or not she could manage the farm on her own. After all, wasn’t that the whole point of her coming to America—to prove she could?
Telling himself was one thing. Making himself believe it was quite another.
Over the following days, they slipped into a routine. She came in the morning. He and the boys walked her home toward dark. He worked the field. She looked after the boys and made the meals. Life couldn’t have been simpler.
Or so one would think.
But she wanted to know how to handle the horses and he had agreed to teach her, so every day she came out and watched him put the animals into harness until, after three days, she said, “Will you let me try?”
He handed her the reins and stood at her elbow as she prepared for the horses to back up to the seeder. She knew their names—Tiny and Buster—and called them.
The horses backed up. She pulled one rein too much and Tiny backed up more. She squealed. “What did I do wrong?”
The boys observed from nearby.
He stood behind Freyda, reaching around to guide her hands. For a moment, he couldn’t remember what he meant to do. Which rein to pull. How to correct the horses. All he could think was how she fit perfectly into his arms, as if they had been made for each other. His heart hammered against his ribs until he feared she would notice.
He somehow managed to get the horses straight then stepped away and hurried to hook up the seeder.
“I will learn,” she said. “Come on, boys. We have work to do.” The three of them marched away.
“You did good,” he called after her.
She lifted a hand in acknowledgment without turning to him.
He ground his teeth hard. Either she’d been aware of his reaction to holding her, or taken offense at him touching her like that.
The morning slipped by far too quickly as he tried to think how he could undo the damage he’d done. Should he mention it and apologize? Or pretend nothing had happened?
By noon, when she waved at him from the house to come for dinner, he hadn’t decided and took his time taking care of the horses.
Freyda waited at the stove when he finally went to the house. Milo and Kit sat at the table.
“Sorry I took so long,” he murmured as he took his place.
“I knew you had to tend to the horses.” She put the food on the table and sat down to his left where she’d sat every day for the past week. A week. That made this Saturday. He asked the blessing and passed the food around, helping fill Kit’s plate.
Dorothy wanted to go town every Saturday even when he was far too busy to stop work.
“I just realized what day it is. Do you want to go to town? If so, I can look after the boys.”
She stopped eating and looked at him, puzzlement in her face. “Is it a special day?”
“It’s Saturday.”
“Yes, I know. There’s a Saturday in every week.”
He answer surprised him and he chuckled. “Seems to me there’s a Sunday and Monday too.”
“So is this a special Saturday?”
“No, but I wondered if you wanted to go to town?”
She still looked puzzled. “Is it something I’m expected to do? If so, I need to know why.”
“Most women like to go to town to shop and socialize.” He waited to see if she would understand his meaning.
She looked about the room. “You appear to have enough supplies to last another week or more. My own pantry is full and will feed the four of us for as long as it takes to put in my crop. I know no one in Grassy Plains, though perhaps my brother Anker and his wife, Lena, might have cause to go to town. As to socializing, I have lots of company right here in this house.” She smiled at Milo and Kit and they glowed with pleasure.
She turned to Ward. “So if you don’t mind, I’ll stay here.”
Mind? He certainly didn’t, but it was his turn to be puzzled. Freyda did not fit into any of the slots he had for how women acted. Was it because she was Norwegian? Or because she was different?
Freyda took the boys outside after the dinner dishes were done. She left a stew simmering on the back of the stove. Her gaze went to where Ward worked. His field looked to be about half done. That meant one more week at his place and then they would go to hers.
She watched him, glad of a chance to do so unobserved. Had he wanted her to leave for the afternoon? Perhaps he grew weary of her constant presence, even following him to the field. She’d tried to back the horses up this morning and had done it wrong, forcing him to reach around and guide her hands. It had been an awkward moment though she had to admit she liked the feel of his arms around her.
He looked toward the house and she jerked her attention to the boys. It was a hot day and she hadn’t forgotten her promise to let them play in the creek. She helped them get ready, then they walked to the creek, carrying towels for them to dry on and a blanket for her to sit on. Today was too nice to spoil with regrets and worries.
The boys shed their clothes down to the pants she had found for them. They were cotton and worn out. She had ripped off the legs. They waded into the water, squealing it was cold. But they were soon wet from head to toe and splashing about with abandon.
They dug in the bed of the creek, looking for more treasure.
She sat back on the blanket, reveling in the warm sun, and watched the boys play. Over the past few days she noticed less and less of the dark anger in Milo’s eyes and had the pleasure of hearing him laugh more often. She had grown to love the two of them. At least they lived close enough she could see them often even after she and Ward were finished with this agreement.
After her crop was in the ground, she must learn to do things on her own, though occasional neighborly visits between her and Ward might be okay.
She let the boys play most of the afternoon then called them to join her. She rubbed them dry, enjoying the opportunity to tickle them and hold them. Kit welcomed her hugs, but this was her first real chance to hug Milo. He leaned into her for a moment before he pulled away.
“Sit on the blanket until you’re dry then put your clothes on,” she said. They did so, both pressing close to her, bringing a swell of joy to her heart.
“Tell us stories about Norway,” Milo said. He had grown to enjoy the things she shared. So she told him a few more stories about life in Norway.
“I wish I grew up there,” he said.
“Why is that?”
“Because it is a happy place.”
“That was true for my family but not necessarily for all families. Even in Norway, parents sometimes die when their children are little. And some people are unkind to each other.”
“Not your family.”
She nodded, letting him believe her family was ideal. Not that she had any cause for complaint. Even leaving her out of many activities had been an attempt to protect her as much as to avoid having her slow down the older ones.
Milo leaned against her. “I wish I had your family.”
“It’s pretty loud. You might find it scary.”
“No, I wouldn’t. Besides, you’d be there to make sure I was okay.”
She hugged Milo. She couldn’t help herself. “Yes, I would be.”
She was rewarded by having him put his arms around her and remain there several seconds before he withdrew. “I think you’re both dry enough to get dressed.”
They had barely returned to the house when she heard Ward bringing in the horses. Fearing something had gone wrong, she dashed outside.
“It’s Saturday,” he said.
He chuckled. “So we did. That makes tomorrow Sunday.”
“Every week, it’s the same.” The man left her confused at times.
“Sunday I don’t work. Saturday night we have baths. So I will stop early.”
“Oh. Then I shall go home.”
“Not before we eat. I’ll be in after I’ve taken care of the horses.”
Freyda returned inside and put a fourth plate on the table. “Your papa will be here for supper.”
“Good,” Kit said.
“Ahh.” Milo’s answer was not one of anticipation.
She stared at Milo. “You sound disappointed.”
He ducked his head. “I liked having just us. You talk a lot more and tell us stories when Papa isn’t here.”
“I like being with you too, but your papa wants to be with you as well. Maybe you should ask him to tell you stories.” She hoped if Milo asked him that Ward would comply and fill the boy’s mind with happy thoughts of his father’s life.
“He won’t tell me stories like yours.”
“Milo, you don’t know if you don’t ask.” She would find a way to draw memories from Ward just as she had a few days ago.
Ward strode into the house and hung his hat on the hook by the door. “Boys, it’s Saturday.” He seemed awfully happy about the fact.
Again, Freyda wondered if she missed some special meaning to the day.
“Bath night.”
Milo groaned. “We don’t need baths. We spent the afternoon in the creek.”
“Is that a fact?” Ward looked to Freyda.
“It is as much a fact as today being Saturday. They soaked until they grew as wrinkled as hundred-year-old men.” She bent over and sniffed them. “They smell fresh and clean. However, if you want to heat the water for them to bathe and haul it in and out…” She grinned at him.
“Huh. Well, maybe I’ll take a trip down to the creek too, rather than haul all that water in and out.”
Her cheeks grew warm at the teasing look he gave her. “Supper is ready.” She scurried around serving up the stew.