Where the Heart Leads

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Thomas thought his heart might break at his father’s distress.

  How could he tell this man he loved and admired that, even if the mill was still in operation, he might not stay? The mill was everything to Pa—sharing it with Thomas had been his dream.

  Thomas couldn’t shatter his father by telling him his heart was calling him far from the prairie.

  “Pa . . .” Thomas licked his lips, considering his words carefully. “You don’t need to worry about me. I’m a grown man now. I . . . I can see to my own needs.”

  Unexpectedly Pa threw his arms around Thomas and tugged him close, banging his big hand on Thomas’s back. “Ach, you are a man grown, for sure, but you are still my boy—mein eensje Sän. I cannot help but feel concern for you.”

  Thomas returned Pa’s embrace with something akin to desperation. Pa’s words, “my only son,” pierced Thomas like a sword. For the first time since the day they laid the tiny body of his baby brother in the ground, Thomas wished he wasn’t the only son. Then he wouldn’t have to carry so much . . . responsibility.

  Pa released Thomas and drew his hand down his beard, removing all evidence of sadness and smiling broadly. “Well, now we go in and see what Summer has cooked for our dinner.” He slapped his belly and chuckled. “Always ready to eat, I am.”

  Thomas forced a light laugh and clapped his hand on his father’s shoulder, and they headed into the house together.

  After dinner, Thomas retreated to his little room and picked up the letter from Daphne. He traced his finger over the words, My father has several positions at the Boston Beacon for which you would be qualified.

  The murmur of his parents’ voices carried from the kitchen, where Pa dried the dishes Summer washed. He could walk out there, show them the letter, and bring an end to his inner turmoil. He groaned. That action would mean the beginning of his father’s turmoil.

  He folded the page into a square, jammed it into his shirt pocket, and jolted from the bed, remembering to keep his head low until he cleared the sloping beams. “Pa. Summer,” he said as he entered the kitchen, “I’m going for a walk.”

  Summer reached for the last of the dirty plates. “Would you go to the post office and check our box? It’s been almost three weeks since I’ve heard from Nadine. I expect news from her soon.”

  “Of course.” He turned toward the back door. Just as his hand closed on the doorknob, he heard a clatter of footsteps behind him. Abby and Gussie careened into the kitchen, followed by Lena, who was slowed by the blanket she dragged.

  Gussie caught his hand and suspended herself from it. “Where are you goin’, Thomas?”

  “To the post office.”

  “Oh! May I go, too? Please? Please?” Gussie begged, and both Abby and Lena took up the cry.

  Thomas had originally wanted to go alone, but looking into his sisters’ hopeful faces—and realizing he might not have much more time with them—he relented. “All right. But Lena will have to leave her blanket behind.” He hid his smile when she promptly dropped the rumpled square of faded blue wool. “And all of you will have to stay with me.” He coupled the warning with a stern look at Gussie. Her adventurous nature made her the most inclined to run ahead.

  Gussie put on an innocent look. “I’ll stay with you.”

  He swallowed his smirk. “Then let’s go.”

  They set out together, Lena’s moist hand tucked securely in Thomas’s grasp and the older two girls skipping in front of him.

  Abby and Gussie swung their clasped hands between them and sang a children’s rhyme called Rea, rea Jrettje. Listening to their high-pitched voices transported Thomas to his own childhood. In his memory he heard his dear great-grandmother’s voice reciting the rhyme, followed by her sweet laughter as he threw his hands in the air and repeated the final line, “Diesem riet de Kopp auf, onn schmeit’m wie!”

  Suddenly Gussie whirled and raced to his side, grabbing his free hand. “Thomas, how come in the song they give some children porridge but tear one’s head off and throw it away?”

  Thomas snorted a laugh. To him, the rhyme had just been nonsense. But Gussie’s serious face told him she weighed the meaning of each word. He supposed the thought of stirring porridge and sharing it with some, but throwing away one child’s head rather than feeding him could be frightening to a little girl—especially since her mother put porridge on the breakfast table at least twice a week.

  He asked, “Are you worried it might be your head that gets thrown away?”

  Gussie stared at him with wide blue eyes. “It won’t happen . . . will it?”

  Thomas tapped the end of her nose with his finger. “It only happens to little girls who don’t clean up their porridge bowls, so as long as you eat all your porridge, you’ll be safe.”

  A bright smile burst across Gussie’s face. “Thank you, Thomas!” She dashed ahead to join Abby once more.

  Thomas chuckled and peered down at Lena. “Your sister is silly.”

  Lena blinked in response, her baby face so sweet and innocent, Thomas couldn’t resist picking her up and carrying her the remainder of the distance. They retrieved a single letter from their box at the post office—from Nadine, as Summer had anticipated—and Thomas experienced a brief stab of regret that Daphne hadn’t written again. But, he reminded himself, why should she? He hadn’t yet replied to her first letter.

  He frowned as he left the post office and aimed the girls toward home, putting Lena back down to walk. Her short legs slowed the process, and by the time they reached their yard, the house’s shadow stretched clear to the street. “Go on in and give this letter to your mama,” Thomas instructed, placing the letter in Abby’s waiting hand. “And, Gussie, you tell Papa I’ll be back a little later.” When Lena dawdled, he gave her a little pat on the bottom to hurry her along.

  As soon as the three girls were safely inside, he set off again, this time alone so he could collect his thoughts and finally find a way to break the news to Pa about a job waiting in Boston. With his hand pressed to the pocket where Daphne’s letter was stashed, he kept his eyes on his feet. Dust scuffed up with each step.

  His head down, he didn’t see the person step into his pathway until it was too late. A quick glimpse of a blue skirt and the pointed toe of a black lace-up shoe brought him to an abrupt halt. He reared back, catching the back of his heel on the edge of the slightly raised sidewalk. Before he could catch himself, he sat down in someone’s yard. The force of his backside hitting the ground sent the air from his lungs in an audible whoosh!

  His gaze bounced from the shoes to the woman’s face. Belinda Schmidt held both hands over her mouth. Her blue eyes—round and horrified—probably mirrored his own expression, and despite himself, he laughed.

  At his laughter, she lowered her hands, and a sheepish look crept over her face. “I’m so very sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

  He shrugged, pushing to his feet and dusting off the seat of his pants. “No harm done. I did little more than dent my pride.”

  She giggled, and the light-hearted sound sent a spiral of satisfaction through his chest. He added, “Besides, it was as much my fault as yours. I wasn’t watching where I was going, either.”

  Belinda tipped her head, one gold strand of hair slipping free of its bun and curving along her cheek. “Lost in thought?”

  Thomas hadn’t had enough time alone to thoroughly lose himself in thought. “I—” He noticed the wooden wagon in the street beside her. The bed of the wagon was heaped with thick bundles wrapped in brown paper and tied with white string. He pointed. “You’ve got quite a load there.”

  Belinda glanced at the wagon and chuckled. “Yes, but I’ll empty it soon.” He sent her a puzzled look, and she said, “I do ironing for the laundress in town. I’m delivering today’s load.”

  “So you need to hurry on.” Thomas couldn’t decide if he was disappointed or relieved at the prospect.

  “No, not particularly. To be honest,” she said, the sheepis
h look returning, “it’s nice just to stand and brisle with someone for a little while.”

  Thomas would never understand females and their need to talk. “You work all day in the merchandise store, you come home to a mother and sister . . . Don’t you get enough chatting?”

  Belinda’s face clouded, and Thomas regretted the question. He started to apologize, but she answered in a solemn tone. “I very rarely chat just for the sake of chatting, except with your stepmother. Or your father. They’re very kind and always have time for me.”

  So that was why she showed up at his house so regularly. Still, it seemed odd that someone Belinda’s age would spend more time with his folks than with anyone else. Curiosity made him ask, “Don’t you spend time with the young people in town? Quite a few of our Gaeddert classmates now live in Hillsboro.”

  The corners of Belinda’s lips tipped downward. “Thomas, you well know I didn’t endear myself to others when we were children. Now that we’re grown, the friendships are already formed, and they don’t have room for someone else—especially when their memories of that ‘someone else’ aren’t pleasant.”

  Thomas grunted in irritation, refusing to acknowledge he’d felt the same way about Belinda when he’d first returned to town. “That seems je’rinj to me.”

  Belinda offered a sad shrug. “It may be petty, but I don’t blame them. Besides, I don’t have much time for brisling. Not with Mama and Malinda needing my attention.”

  Thomas thought about Belinda’s day—filled with work at the merchandise store, caring for her mother’s home, and then ironing in the evenings. Little wonder she seemed to carry an aura of sadness. When did she find time for something fun? Without stopping to think about the possible ramifications, he said, “Independence Day is this coming Monday. Does your family have plans?”

  Belinda’s eyes flew wide. “N-no. The store will be closed in celebration of the holiday, but . . . I’ll probably catch up on our family laundry or bake bread.”

  Thomas made a face. “That doesn’t sound like much of a celebration. Pa and Summer are planning a picnic. Why don’t you come?”

  For long moments Belinda stood in silence, the lashes of her unblinking eyes throwing a shadow across her cheeks. Finally she said, “Are you sure? Mama . . . and Malinda . . .”

  At that moment Thomas wasn’t altogether sure he wanted the company of the sour-faced Schmidt women, but he couldn’t turn back now. “All of you. It should be fun. Lots of food, games for the kids, and Pa even squandered some of his hard-earned money and ordered Roman candles to shoot off after the sun goes down.”

  Belinda’s mouth dropped open. “Fireworks? I . . . I’ve never seen fireworks.”

  “Well, then you have to come.”

  She sucked in her lips, clearly uncertain.

  Thomas stepped forward and touched her hand. “Belinda, you and your family would be very welcome. Will you come?”

  Why it meant so much to him to bring a little joy into Belinda’s life he wasn’t sure. He only knew she needed it and he wanted to provide it. Finally she gave a little nod. “Yes. Thank you. I’ll . . . I’ll talk to Mama.”

  “Good.” He leaned over and picked up the knotted end of the rope attached to the wagon. “Now, where does that laundress who’s waiting for the ironing live?”

  She reached for the rope, her cheeks stained with pink. “I can take it.”

  He shook his head. “It’s getting dark, and you shouldn’t wander the streets alone. I’ll go with you and then walk you home.”

  The pink in her cheeks brightened to red. Heat in his own face told him he was blushing, too, but he wouldn’t leave a woman alone on the streets at dusk. Not even Belinda Schmidt.

  10

  MOST OF THE HOUSE was dark by the time Thomas returned from delivering Belinda’s ironing and then walking her home, but a yellow glow in the kitchen window indicated someone was still up. When he stepped through the back door, he found Summer surrounded by three iron tubs of water and a towering mound of dirty clothes.

  She greeted him with a mock scowl. “There you are. This night-wandering must be a habit you acquired in Boston. You were always early to bed when you were a boy.” She lifted one of Pa’s shirts from a pile on the floor. “Your father waited for you. He had some news concerning a job. But it can wait until morning, I suppose.”

  Thomas crossed to the crock that served as a cookie jar and removed the lid. “I would have been back sooner, but I ran into Belinda Schmidt”—he grinned, realizing his words were literal rather than figurative—“and helped her deliver a wagonful of ironing.” He fished two fat ammonia cookies from the crock and replaced the lid with a soft clank.

  Summer shook her head and dropped a shirt into the tub closest to her knees. “Ironing yet . . . That girl is going to work herself to death.” A puzzled look crossed her face. “I’ve not been able to determine why Belinda is working at all. Her family seemed well-to-do when her father was alive, but since his death, it’s as though they’re impoverished.” Then she raised her shoulders and added, “But I suppose that isn’t my business. I do admire Belinda for being willing to support her mother and sister. I only wish her sister would help by at least taking over the housework. And I worry about her. I’m afraid she’ll spend her whole life tending to Frau Schmidt and Malinda.”

  Thomas finished the first cookie and brushed crumbs from his shirtfront. “I invited her family to our picnic on the Fourth. Is that all right?”

  Summer separated Pa’s pants from the girls’ dresses. “I discussed the picnic with her mother over a week ago and encouraged her to come with Belinda and Malinda.”

  Thomas scowled. “Belinda knew nothing about it.”

  With a soft huff of displeasure, Summer shook her head. “I should have known to mention it to Belinda. I’m glad you said something.”

  “I feel sorry for her.” Thomas examined the remaining cookie in his hand but saw only Belinda’s sad eyes. He glanced up to find Summer fixing him with a speculative look. “What’s the matter?”

  She just smiled. “Nothing.” She returned to sorting, placing each item into its appropriate tub to soak. “I hope they’ll come. They could all benefit from taking a break from mourning.” Then she put her hands on her hips and assumed a stern air. “But right now, young man, I need your dirty clothes. I didn’t want to invade your privacy by going into your room and seeking them out myself. So would you please retrieve whatever items need to be washed?” With an arched brow, she let her gaze rove from his head to his toes and back. “Which includes the pants and shirt you’re wearing.”

  Thomas popped the last bite of cookie into his mouth and grinned. “Yes, ma’am.” And while they were alone, perhaps they could discuss Boston.

  He quickly changed into his nightshirt and robe, then gathered up all of his dirty clothes. Heat filled his face as he stepped back into the kitchen with his hairy legs and bare feet sticking out from beneath the hem of the nightshirt. His stepmother had seen him in his nightclothes many times when he was a boy, yet he felt somehow exposed standing before her now in such informal attire.

  But she simply took the items from his hands and said, “Thank you. Now schlop die gesunt, son.”

  That was his cue to go to bed. Maybe that was best. Summer looked tired.

  Thomas awakened to the sound of his father whistling. He cocked his head, straining to determine whether anyone else was up with Pa. He detected no other voices.

  Throwing back the light cover, he shimmied into a pair of pants, tugged on a shirt, and headed to the kitchen. He spotted Pa leaning over one of the tubs of water, preparing to lift it. Thomas dashed forward. “Here, Pa. Let me help.”

  “Dank.” Pa stepped to one side of the tub and took hold of the handle. “The load is easier with two backs instead of one.”

  He and Thomas carried all three tubs to the backyard, where Summer would do her scrubbing later in the morning. Thomas brushed his hands together, looking at the contents of the tub
s. He shook his head. “What a task to wash all this!”

  Pa chuckled. “Ja, and it is more with you here. We both are so big—our clothes are bigger, so a third tub she uses now.”

  Thomas glanced into the tub holding his father’s shirts and pants. He glimpsed his own clothes tangled up with Pa’s, and his heart gave a leap. He slapped his shirt where the breast pocket would be and sucked in a sharp breath.

  Pa stared at him in concern. “Son?”

  Thomas plunged his hands into the tub, digging out the shirt he’d worn yesterday. He grimaced when he located the letter from Daphne, still folded in the pocket, but now soggy from its overnight soak in the tub. Would it dry out and still be readable? He tried to unfold it but only managed to tear the paper.

  Pa stepped forward, his fingers pinching his beard. “This is something important?”

  Thomas nodded, but he didn’t elaborate. He pressed the square against his leg, absorbing some of the moisture with the fabric of his pants.

  Pa held out his hand, and Thomas plopped the paper onto his father’s palm. They both stood, staring at the crumpled wad. “Maybe . . .” Pa worked his jaw back and forth, squinting. “Maybe when it is dry, you can unfold it.”

  Thomas gritted his teeth. “Unfolding it won’t fix it. Look at it—it’s all stained and blotchy. The ink ran.” He looked into the tub again. “I hope the ink didn’t transfer to your clothes. If it did, I’ll replace everything.”

  “That is not needed,” Pa said, rotating his palm slightly to turn the paper to receive the sun’s rays. “Work clothes have stains—a few more will not matter.”

  “I suppose.”

  “So what is this important paper I hold?” Pa searched Thomas’s face.

  At last—his chance. Taking a deep breath of fortification, Thomas readied his thoughts.

  “Oh, good!” Summer’s cheerful voice cut in before Thomas could form a word. She stepped through the back door into the yard, her gaze drifting across the waiting tubs. “Thank you for getting those out of the way so I can fix breakfast.” She slipped beneath Pa’s arm and smiled up at him. “Panküake this morning?”