Joseph clomped into the room, sat on his bed, and leaned against the sod wall. “Henrik, bring the lantern over here.” He patted the top of the trunk separating their beds. “I want to work on my whistle, and I cannot see well enough.”
Henrik carried the lantern over and set it on the trunk. “Are you whittling again?” Eli had given Joseph a penknife for his birthday. Joseph worked diligently, attempting to turn twigs into usable objects, but in Henrik’s opinion, it was a waste of time.
“I like whittling.” Joseph hummed tunelessly as he flicked curls of wood onto the floor.
Henrik pointed. “You will clean up after yourself. I do not wish to get a sliver in my foot.”
Joseph scowled at him. “Then put on your boots. You sound like Ma when she scolds about leaving socks on the floor. Let me be.”
With a grunt, Henrik stomped to the smaller trunk and removed the history textbook. He flumped onto his bed and opened the well-worn book, but he couldn’t focus. What were Ma and Eli doing over on their side of the sod house? On previous Sunday afternoons, he, Joseph, and Ma had rested in their sod house while Eli stayed alone in his. But yesterday evening they had put the roof on the connecting hallway, and Eli had given permission for them to use a portion of the Lord’s day to move their belongings. Father would have insisted they wait until Monday rather than do any semblance of work on the Sabbath, but in many ways, Eli differed from Father. Sometimes Henrik appreciated the differences, but this time he wasn’t so sure. Eli’s hurry to get the boys’ things moved seemed to indicate an eagerness to be alone with Ma.
He ruffled the pages of his book, frowning toward the doorway. Maybe he should go check on Ma—make sure she was all right. She had grown accustomed to his and Joseph’s presence; she might be feeling uneasy, too. He set the book down and started to rise, but just then Eli’s voice called from the hallway.
“Boys, may I come into your room?”
Joseph lowered his penknife. “Come in, Pa!”
Eli filled the doorway. A folded piece of canvas lay over his arm. He looked around the room, then smiled in turn at Henrik and Joseph. “I see you have everything put away.”
“Jo.” Joseph flicked another bit of wood from the smooth stick. “I like having our own room.” He wrinkled his nose. “Except Henrik acts like Ma, telling me to clean up after myself.”
Eli chuckled, but then he pointed his finger at Joseph. “You listen to your brother. He must share this space, and he has a say in how the room is kept.”
Joseph made another face, but he shrugged and returned to whittling.
Eli held up the canvas. “Would you like me to hang this over the doorway to give you privacy?”
Henrik’s senses went on alert. The canvas would form a partition to keep Joseph and Henrik separated from Ma and Eli. In their house in Gnadenfeld, Henrik and his brothers had shared the loft. No door closed on the opening at the top of the stairs. Knowing Ma and Father slept directly beneath the loft, with no door creating a barrier, had given him a sense of security as a child.
“Will that prevent the heat from entering our room?” There was a note of suspicion in his tone.
Eli rubbed the underside of his nose with one finger as he seemed to consider this. “Ach, we will fold it aside at night when the fireplace burns. I only thought you would like having the choice to close yourselves away once in a while.”
Henrik examined Eli’s face for signs of hidden motives. He saw none, yet he shook his head anyway. “Joseph and I are used to open doors. The canvas is not necessary.”
Eli shrugged. “Nä-jo.” He gave a quick nod. “Enjoy your restful afternoon. Take a nap before supper. Tomorrow we have much work to do.” He turned and left.
Henrik waited a moment, then rose and crossed to the opening. At the opposite end of the hallway, a strip of canvas hung, sealing off the main room where Ma and Eli were now alone.
The uncomfortable feeling returned.
“Are the boys resting?”
Eli sat next to Lillian on the trunk, drawing her snug against his side. How wonderful, the freedom to touch her whenever he wished. Each time she stepped willingly—even eagerly—into his arms, joy rolled through him. Once more he winged a silent prayer of thanks to the Lord for the gift of love from this woman.
“Joseph is whittling, and Henrik has a book open.”
She nestled her head on his shoulder and sighed. “So they are fine?”
“They are fine.”
“Good.”
Sitting with Lillian on the trunk, Eli wished for a sawdust-stuffed sofa or cushioned settee. The trunk was not a comfortable seat, but the only other place to sit together was on Lillian’s feather bed. That would not do should one of the boys venture into the room. So regardless of comfort, he would sit here on the trunk. The pleasant company made sitting on the hard surface worthwhile.
He drew lazy curlicues on her arm with his thumb and rested his cheek against her hair. “When we harvest the wheat, I will buy furniture.” His breath stirred an errant curl, and he shifted to tuck the strand behind her ear before pulling her close again.
“But you must buy lumber for our house.” She tipped her head slightly to peer into his face. “Will there be enough money for both?”
Eli smiled. “This land, Lillian . . . so rich and dark the soil. If our wheat grows as tall and thick as the grasses, I will have a better crop than even the ones we raised in Molotschna.” He sat up, angling his body to face her. “The man who owns the grain elevator in McPherson Town wrote down the price of wheat for me, and I memorized it.”
Excitement rose within him as he considered the wealth waiting to be claimed. “Last year’s crop brought one dollar and five cents per bushel.”
Her eyebrows shot upward. Although she hadn’t yet learned the American denominations, she understood how many supplies had been purchased in the store for that amount.
“How many bushels will you raise per acre?”
Her genuine interest increased his enthusiasm. All the years he farmed alone, no one cared enough to ask what he grew or what his crop yielded. He took great pleasure in answering Lillian’s question. “I purchased two hundred forty acres from the land developers, and I planted about one hundred eighty acres.”
“Why not plant it all?”
“It is best to leave some land to go to hay for animal feed.”
She nodded, her smile affirming his decision.
“In Gnadenfeld I yielded twenty-five bushels per acre. I expect a better yield here. But even if it turns out to be twenty-five bushels per acre, we could earn close to four thousand dollars for our crop.”
Lillian’s eyes flew wide. “Four thousand!”
He laughed. “Jo, I know! It is a goodly amount.” Quirking his lips to the side, he admitted, “It will cost some to ship it to market— maybe six or eight cents per bushel . . . but even then, we stand to gain a great deal. It will meet our needs . . . and beyond.”
Remembering that he’d promised Henrik a quarter of the harvest’s gain, he quickly inserted, “I promised Henrik he would have money for schooling, so that will come out first.” Another thought followed that one. “We have no church.”
“Jo, this I know. . . .”
“Nä, nä, I am thinking tithe. How can we tithe without a church?” Eli tapped his lips with one finger. “We must give back a portion of what we receive. But how?”
The softness in her expression robbed him of breath. She took his hands, giving them a gentle squeeze. “Eli, what a good man you are.”
Ah, to hear those words of praise while her fingers were laced between his was beyond pleasure. He chuckled self-consciously. “It is not goodness that leads me to tithe, but gratitude.”
Lillian nibbled her lower lip, a pensive frown creasing her forehead. Then she brightened. “You can set the money aside. Then, when the others come and we are ready to build a church for our village, you can give the money to the minister.”
“A fine idea!”
Eli leaned forward and planted a kiss on her lips. “You have a good head on your shoulders, Frü Bornholdt.”
She snuggled herself beneath his arm. With her head nestled against his shoulder, she said, “And my good head, along with the rest of me, wishes to take a nap.”
“Then nap.” He kissed the top of her head, wrapping his arms more securely around her waist. “I will not let you fall.” Although the seat was uncomfortable, and although he longed to nap, too, he sat very still and alert, holding tight so his Lillian could rest.
As November drifted away beneath cloudless skies painted a dull blue-gray, making Lillian happy became Eli’s new pastime. He sought little ways to win a smile—bringing her unexpected gifts like a brown stone with a glittery gold stripe, smooth from years in the creek, or a bright bird feather in lieu of the flowers that no longer bloomed with fall slipping into winter. The sod house, with its dirt walls and simple furnishings, lacked color, and his token offerings always brought a smile, a kiss, and a whispered thankyou.
They discovered other pleasures, too, after supper when Henrik and Joseph slept in their half of the sod house. Although Eli had often wondered what it would be like to lie with a woman, to offer himself to the one he loved, his imagining had fallen far short of the reality. Never had he felt so accepted, so desired, so beloved. Daily his heart expanded, Lillian’s love satisfying every longing he had ever possessed.
The days grew shorter, the sun sinking into the horizon before the day’s work could be completed. The wind carried a bite, and Lillian expressed gratitude that she need not cook in the fire pit outside anymore. Eli preferred to have Joseph spend part of his day studying, yet more often than not the boy ended up working side by side with Eli and Henrik, chopping branches from trees to build a bigger fence to enclose the animals or cutting grass for fuel and winter feed. The labor was backbreaking, yet Eli felt rewarded as he watched the mound of hay behind the three-sided barn grow. His animals would not go hungry, and his family would not freeze.
Each morning after milking the female ox, whose belly rounded with the promise of a calf, Henrik set out with the rifle in hand. Some days he returned with a fat rabbit, other days a pair of squirrels or a speckled prairie chicken. His skill provided them with fresh meat so they needn’t exhaust the supply of dried deer meat that would sustain them through the months when game was scarce.
Joseph grew taller by the day, and on a day in late November Eli realized with shock that the boy’s britches no longer stayed tucked into his boot tops. Although he hadn’t intended to venture into McPherson Town until spring, he wondered if he should plan one more trip to buy Joseph new britches. His old ones would not last him through the winter. He approached Lillian with the matter.
She paused in sorting clean clothes into piles. “You would buy new ones?”
He tapped the end of her nose. “They do not sell old ones. So jo, I would buy new.” Her worried expression raised his concern. “Lillian, what is wrong?”
Without replying, she moved into the hallway. Eli followed, watching as she stopped and placed her hands flat on the lid of Reinhardt’s trunk. She angled her chin to meet his gaze, and twin tears glistened in her eyes.
“We need not buy new. There are several pairs of good britches in here. With a little tailoring, I can make them fit Henrik, and Henrik can pass his britches to Joseph. They should fit him fine.”
Her tone sounded even, unruffled, yet Eli sensed she’d kept the statement deliberately unemotional to hide her true feelings. Only twice since they’d arrived in Kansas had Lillian opened Reinhardt’s trunk—first to retrieve the rifle and then to remove Reinhardt’s Bible. Other than that, the trunk’s contents had remained undisturbed.
He rubbed her upper arms with his palms. “I can buy a pair of britches for Joseph. You do not have to use Reinhardt’s.” How odd it felt to speak the name of his foster brother. Had his days with Reinhardt existed in reality? Surely his life began the day his heart became joined with Lillian’s.
She shrugged free and curled her fingers beneath the lid. “Nä. It is silly to have these things and not use them. Even Reinhardt would scold if he knew his clothing languished in this trunk. I . . . I will fetch his trousers and . . .” Her words faded away, her chin trembling. Suddenly, she released the lid. It fell with a thud as she covered her face with her hands. Silent sobs shook her frame.
Eli took her by the shoulders and turned her into his embrace. He held her against his chest, his heart thudding with both sympathy and apprehension. Lillian rarely cried. For her to do so now told him she needed release. But uncertainty at the cause of the tears brought apprehension. As soon as she pulled away to wipe her eyes on her apron skirt, he took her face in his hands. “My Lillian, why do you cry? Are you sure you do not wish to leave Reinhardt’s things undisturbed?”
She shook her head, stepping away from his touch and reaching once more for the lid. She hefted it open, then stood staring at the neatly stacked contents. Her hands shot forward, and she lifted out two pairs of tan trousers. With a quick flip of her wrist, she lowered the lid, then turned and perched on its edge, cradling the pants in her lap. A sad smile curved her lips when she looked up at him.
“Do not look so worried, Eli. Sometimes . . . women cry. And these tears were necessary. They helped me say good-bye to Reinhardt.”
Had she not already made her good-byes on the ship when Reinhardt was lowered into the sea? She must have sensed his confusion, because she patted the spot beside her. Eli sat, and she placed her hand over his knee.
“These past weeks, as we have grown . . . closer . . .” Pink stained her cheeks, and her gaze danced away briefly before returning to his face. “There have been times when Reinhardt intruded in my thoughts.”
Eli’s gut clutched. Her thoughts had been on another man while lying with him?
“I loved Reinhardt, Eli, and I know he loved me. We married when we were very young, we were together for many years, and our union created three healthy sons. We shared much.”
With effort, Eli maintained a calm demeanor, although his pulse galloped like a runaway horse.
“For a while, I wrestled guilt. Was loving you a betrayal of Reinhardt’s memory? Especially when . . . with you . . . the loving was so sweet, so sincere . . .” Her gaze skittered away again, the pink blush deepening to a fiery red. Her voice lowered to a whisper. “Although Reinhardt and I shared much, somehow— with you—all of me reaches out. Even the deep, hidden parts of me. Nothing is withheld.”
Eli swallowed, unable to respond.
She turned her head slowly until her clear blue eyes met his. “What we have is beautiful, Eli—and full. I have often prayed for God to ease my conscience, to allow me to move without reservation into a future with you.” A leftover tear that had quivered on her lower lashes broke free and ran past her smile. “And I know now I am ready. If I can reach into this trunk and make use of these things that Reinhardt will never use again on this earth, then I know I have said my final good-bye.”
She drew in a shuddering breath, her sweet face expressing an acceptance and confidence that put a lump in Eli’s throat. “Nothing—no bitter memory, no misplaced guilt, no whispers of used-to-be—stands in the way. I am fully yours.”
Overwhelmed with emotion, Eli could not speak. Tenderly, he gathered Lillian close, pressing his cheek to her warm hair. If memories of Reinhardt could not tug her heart from him, surely nothing ever would.
29
Lillian crossed her finger over the calendar box that represented the last day of December 1872 and released a sigh. So quickly the year had flown . . . and so much life had been packed into twelve scant months.
LThis same calendar had hung on the wall of her house in Gnadenfeld. It had traveled across the ocean to be placed on a wire hook and used to count the days lived in a new country. For a moment she considered leaving it—no other pictures or ornaments decorated the sod walls—but practicality won. The year was complete. The calendar shou
ld come down.
She plucked the calendar from the wire and held it in both hands. As she stared down at the blocks that signified days spent, tears pricked behind her nose. Although she had considered carrying it to the outhouse where it could serve a useful purpose, she decided to put the calendar in one of the trunks. 1872 had been a year of many challenges and changes. This calendar would help her remember all they had faced . . . and weathered.
Joseph looked up as she crossed the floor and opened her trunk. “You are keeping the old calendar?”
“Jo.” Lillian tucked it into the bottom of the trunk, beneath her clothes. Although she knew Joseph wondered why she would choose to save something that had always been discarded in the past, she offered no explanation.
After a moment, Joseph returned his focus to the arithmetic book opened on the trunk top, and Lillian moved to the fireplace to check the pot hanging over the fire. The lard bubbled, sending up a rich aroma. Her stomach growled as she anticipated biting into a fresh Portselkje. The fried fritters, laden with raisins, had always comprised their New Year’s Eve supper in Russia. Lillian was determined the tradition would be carried over in their new country.
The door opened, and Eli entered with Henrik close on his heels. A blast of cold air accompanied them. Lillian crisscrossed her arms over her chest. “Ach, it feels like schnee! Close the door f lucks!”
Eli latched the door quickly, as commanded, and removed his hat and scarf. He shook his head. “It is high time for snow. Not more than a spatter of snowflakes have we seen—and my wheat needs a blanket.”
Lillian scurried across the short expanse of floor and tucked herself along his side. Cold seeped from his jacket, causing her to shiver, but she made no effort to retreat. Eli’s arms had become her favorite refuge.
Henrik sent Eli a worried look. “Will the wheat die if snow doesn’t come?”
Fields of Grace Page 23