The Long Road Home Romance Collection

by Judi Ann Ehresman

  “Oh,” said Lux with a lifted brow.

  “Oh, yes,” said Oma. “Gustav has given us much good advice on this trip, hasn’t he? It was his idea to have Otto and Lucas take care of the oxen and the horse.”

  Lux looked puzzled. “Are Otto and Lucas also from the spirit world?”

  We all laughed when Oma said, “We wish!”

  Long after Lux had gone home, and all of us were placing our sleeping pallets out of doors, Vater was brought home by Fritz Haffner, a single man I had seen on our wagon train. In the dusk, as they walked down the road toward us, it was hard to identify the two men, and I knew it was Vater only because he called my name. Once clean-shaven and almost plump, Vater now wore a beard much darker than his blond hair, and he had lost so much weight that his rough, homespun trousers bunched around his belt and his shirt hung limply from his shoulders. When I hugged him, his sharp bones made him feel fragile, and when he reached to pick up Sophie, she darted away, taking time to walk a circle around him, inspecting his clothes and listening to him speak before jumping into his arms.

  Later, as we sat facing each other on the cool ground, talking into darkness after Sophie had fallen asleep, disappointment crept into bits of conversation, then finally drenched everything we said.

  That’s when I discovered that Vater had joined the group calling welcomes to the wagon train across the raging waters. But when he saw me crossing without Mutter, he had fled. Bitterly disappointed that Mutter had been left in Victoria, Vater accused me of abandoning her, pointing out that we didn’t even know if she was alive. I told him about Black Peter, the huge burial pit in Town Square, death in the air, my lack of money, my abandonment by Emil and Karl, and finally Aunt Mathilde, who encouraged me to be strong by making a decision.

  After a while, Vater sighed, muttering, “You should not have left her.”

  “But Vater,” I insisted, “Sophie and I could be dead and all the possessions I brought would have disappeared. You would have nothing.”

  His head dropped, and he seemed not to hear. I waited for him to say thank you or at least to acknowledge that he understood what I had been through.

  But there was only silence.

  A numb feeling started with my feet and moved slowly up my body until it reached my chest. Vater had changed. The brutal truth stabbed at my heart. Disappointment spilled onto everything I had done, the terrors I had overcome, the unsought weight of responsibility, the corpses I had seen, the bone-grinding fatigue I had endured, the taunting jeers about the strange girl on the stranger horse and the girl driving an oxen team, and the self-doubt and Indian fears that had engulfed me every night before I went to sleep. Foolishly I had thought my wonderful Vater would look at me like a hero, would reward me with his love and approval. I wanted to yell at him, shake him, tell him to wake up and look at what the trip had done to me. I wanted to say hurtful words.

  But the soft voice of my Mutter seemed to whisper in my ear, “Silence is golden.”

  I left Vater sitting there and took myself to bed on the pallet next to Sophie, positioning myself with my back to Vater. He had turned his back on me. I was no longer his special friend, confidant, fellow musician, and favorite daughter.

  A great ground vibration shook me awake. Around me people began to come to life. From a tent down the way emerged a large woman, who as she walked, removed her mobcap, letting her long hair tumble down over her shoulders.

  “What was that?” I called.

  “Just the wake-up cannon. Happens every morning,” she called back.

  I could see men walking down the rutted, mud street carrying buckets. They seemed not to notice us in our night clothes. Sophie and I fled to the house and got dressed. Vater had made strange-tasting coffee from parched barley. He informed us matter-of-factly that the men were going to Henry Burkhart’s slaughterhouse to claim their meat rations, and he would join them. Meat bucket in hand, he gave me another bucket with instructions to walk down to the spring for fresh water.

  In a moment he was back. “Who are these strange people parked in our side yard?” he growled.

  “That’s Oma Gunkel, who helped me on the trail. I told her she could camp with us until she gets her assignment.”

  “You did that without asking me?” Vater shouted.

  “No one could find you, Vater. Besides, I couldn’t have survived on the trail without Frau Gunkel. I’d still be sitting at McCoy’s Creek waiting for any wagon train to take me along. It was very difficult for a woman to get on a train.”

  Unexpectedly, Sophie rushed to defend me. “D-don’t be mad, V-vater. Rika was b-brave. And O-oma helped us. K-kurt, too.”

  “Yes, yes. I understand, but they can’t stay. Food is rationed. We have to carry water from the spring for ourselves and the animals. Besides, I asked Fritz Haffner to stay with us until he finds his place.”

  “Fritz from the wagon train?” I asked. “Where is he?”

  “Still sleeping over there behind the chest.”

  Fritz became a fixture behind the chest, almost always sleeping. Nothing bothered him, even the reunion the next day when Karl came shouting noisily into the house, greeting me with a hug and huge smiles. Sophie jumped into his arms, then dragged him by the hand outside to see Oma, who hugged him around his middle, the part of him she could reach. We all became giddy, trying to talk all at once, laughing at things that weren’t funny and telling things in bits and pieces until they made no sense. Even when Karl called Kurt “the little guy who helped you,” I couldn’t put a damper on my good humor, although I should have defended Kurt, who had become a good friend and so many times rescued me.

  Karl told us he excelled in the local militia, a requirement of all able-bodied men of the right age, and he described the boring odd jobs he had picked up just to make food and lodging money. When Oma asked him if he would go back to soldiering now, he told her that last night he had taken a well-paying job in a tobacco and swap shop that would be opened by a huge guy with lots of money. My eyes met Oma’s, and she asked, “Is his name Lucas Beck?”

  “How did you know?” asked Karl.

  Sophie chimed in, “R-rika l-let him h-help us on the t-trail.”

  “Helped her, yes, but she is afraid of him,” said Kurt.

  “Why?” Karl wanted to know.

  Kurt scraped his heavy boot in the dirt, looked at the ground, and said, “I don’t know, but if I were you, I’d be very careful. He and Otto are shifty and threatening.”

  “Well, Rika, what do you say about them?” asked Karl.

  “Nothing. I just don’t like them. You met them on the ship and again at Indian Point. Remember I told you then I didn’t like them?”

  “I thought the big guy looked familiar. Don’t worry, though. I doubt they would harm a soldier.”

  Karl didn’t take our concern seriously, but I dared say no more. Although the threats of Lucas and Otto kept me silent, I resolved to find the money and turn them in even if it took a long time. Only then could Sophie and I be safe.

  My resolve was tested the next day when Vater showed me the new pipe given him by a new man in town, Lucas Beck. He handed me a bag of flour sent by Lucas to me and said he had invited Lucas and Otto to eat supper with us. Most women would have been overjoyed by the gift of white flour, a scarce commodity, but with my limited ability in cooking, I didn’t know what to do with flour, and I certainly didn’t want to fix it for two thieves.

  “Please could we have them later after I learn how to cook?” I asked.

  “Don’t question me, Rika. I have already asked them.” Vater’s tone was disapproving. It was futile to argue.

  “Oma can help me cook,” I said.

  Vater became more indignant. “I told you she has to go. There are no supplies for her here, and we need the space. Fritz will help you.”

  “Vater, she can go after we have our company. She is a good woman, and Fritz is no help to anyone. He sleeps all the time. Mutter would say that his limbs are very s
tiff.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Have you forgotten the German proverb: ‘Work makes life sweet. Laziness makes your limbs stiff’? Fritz doesn’t understand the sweetness of life.”

  At the mention of his name, Fritz stirred, but he got up three hours later when he came looking for something to eat. He draped his long arm around my shoulder and asked if there was any coffee. The only romantic man in my life was Karl, and Fritz’s arm on my shoulder was repulsive. I ducked from under his arm and dashed outside to Oma.

  It seemed danger lurked everywhere in Texas, even in my own house.

  Chapter 13

  The supper wasn’t entirely a disaster, partly because Oma helped me cook on the stove that had been delivered by the Mexican driver who had named me “Baby Dragon.” When he heard that I had arrived safely, he came by to wish me well and find out if the stove still worked. Transactions were in Spanish, smiles, handshakes, German responses, curtseys, and head shakes that I hoped said “Thank you,” with a smidgeon of being a contrite dragon. The driver’s concern and friendliness encouraged me. Perhaps this place would prove better than I expected.

  The stove, a heavy cast-iron creature with a fat belly and flat surface for pots, had a side oven also heated by large amounts of burning wood. Getting the right amount of wood inside to the right place required constant trips to the woodpile outside the back door. My challenge was to learn the stoking technique while also learning how to cook anything besides the vegetable gruel, corn porridge, and tough cornbread I had mastered on the trail. In front of me was a huge hunk of beef, and next to it was a bag of white flour. Rummaging through our half-unpacked trunk, I found Mutter’s recipe packet, a few pinches of herbs in an envelope and a large, heavy skillet with an equally heavy lid. Dismayed by my ignorance, I sat staring at the pot, wondering what to do with it, when a cheery voice called from the doorway.

  “Rika, are you there?”

  Turning I saw Frau Kessler and Marie standing in the door. “Oh, wonderful! Welcome, welcome, and come in.” I hurried to clear two chairs. Marie handed me a bowl of butter.

  “Thank you. Wilma is doing well, then?” I asked.

  “Better than we are,” said Frau Kessler, holding out her dress to show she had lost weight. “Wilma has plenty of grass, good spring water, and is fat and contented, whereas I am having trouble cooking the food we have here. So much beef. Ach!”

  “And corn! Ach!” said Marie. “It’s for pigs.”

  “I have finally learned to make cornbread,” I announced, hoping they hadn’t heard that my cornbread had the reputation of rocks.

  We talked of the trip, welcoming families, strange customs, and building styles. Marie, two years younger than me, told about the school held under the seven trees. Since she spoke the Hessian dialect it was difficult to learn to always speak in the correct High German, a requirement of the schoolmaster, Herman Seele. This news excited me since I spoke High German, a product of strict upbringing and the two schools I had attended. Marie described the planks set on posts that served older students as seats and desks, all set under a cluster of trees. She told about her studies in reading, nature study, and arithmetic that had to be done in her head since she had no slate. She laughingly described interruptions to class time when the supply wagons arrived and townspeople hurried through the classroom on their way to the Verein hill, where supplies would be distributed.

  The school sounded strange, but I loved school and couldn’t wait to get started. When I asked about going with Marie, who lived only a short distance from us, Frau Kessler said I would have to pay the half-dollar tuition first. My heart sank. Money did not exist in our family.

  “Don’t worry, Rika. Something will work out,” said Frau Kessler when she read the disappointment on my face.

  “I can teach you what I learn,” suggested Marie.

  Had Marie heard of Voltaire, Goethe, Schumann, or Mozart? Had she ever composed a song? She had no idea of my superior education or talents, and I could never tell her without sounding haughty. “Thank you, Marie. It would be fun to get together. I could use some social life.”

  “There is a developing social life here,” said Marie. “You’re invited to a quilting party next week at Elissa Fink’s. It’s on Tuesday. Please say you’ll go.”

  “Yes. Yes. Yes.” The idea made my heart sing. “But I don’t know Elissa Fink.”

  “You will. She lives nearby,” said Marie. “She is a Giggle Cat, very stylish in her way, and very friendly. We helped her finish the quilt she started in Germany, and we will celebrate.”

  Long after Marie and Frau Kessler were gone, as I hustled to keep the stove stoked with wood and learn how to cook meat from Oma, happiness bubbled inside. I was invited to a party. With plenty of spring water for washing, I could see myself with shiny blond hair and a clean dress. I couldn’t wait. The invitation buoyed me through the rest of the day. Somehow in the cramped house, Oma and I got supper together and found enough pewter plates for everyone. Since we had only a plank for a table, some of us would need to eat off our laps.

  Lucas arrived on time, bringing with him a gift pouch of tobacco for Vater’s new pipe. Otto came later, bearing a gift for Sophie, folded paper strips in a small, wooden cup.

  “Sophie, these are for when you are old enough to light your father’s pipe. Meanwhile, you can lay them out on the table and use them to practice counting and addition and subtraction.” Otto beamed at Sophie. “I can’t help being a teacher,” he explained.

  “T-thank y-you,” Sophie said.

  The supper scene played itself out, looking like a happy family having company. Vater, Otto, and Lucas ate on the plank, and Oma, Kurt, Sophie, and myself perched on any available flat spot. From time to time I got up to serve more meat and dumplings or pour water, and each time, Oma rose to put herself between myself and Lucas, who watched me with satisfaction. His threats had worked, and now he had Vater admiring and thanking him. Then came the surprise.

  “I plan to hire that young carpenter, Lux, to build me a handsome house near the Comal River. I have a scenic spot and will ask him tomorrow.”

  “Oh, just too late,” chuckled Oma, reaching in front of Lucas to pour water. “I have hired him to begin work immediately on my house in Comaltown. It will take some time. In fact, we will be moving over there as soon as the ferry can take our wagon.”

  “My dear lady,” said Lucas in a condescending tone, “your little house will take no time and be nothing compared to mine. I can start later.”

  Oma held an unwavering gaze on my father. “I haven’t asked Herr Mueller for this favor, but I hope Rika can fix lunch for us every day, using my supplies, of course.”

  Vater could not refuse. After a slight pause, he said, “Er, ah, I suppose it will be all right if Rika gets her work done here at home.”

  Even with her short legs and hefty frame, the sly fox Oma could always stay six steps ahead of anyone. I dared not giggle, but it seemed to me that Gustav was laughing from under the plank table. This plump little lady we had thought crazy, who was shunned by Emil, and who had spoken out for me and helped me along the trail, had now plotted to get me out of Vater’s dark little house every day, and had saved Lux from entanglement with the dreaded team of Lucas and Otto. At least for the moment.

  But Vater would have the last word. “Rika will have a lot to do here at home. We all know the German three k requirements: Kuche, Kirche, Kinder. Kitchen, church, and children are important, but right now kitchen and home seem most important since there is so little to do with and so much to be done.”

  Otto cleared his throat, apparently gathering the courage to speak. “I watched Rika on the trail. She is a very hard-working girl. She can do home and later even have time for church and school.”

  “There will be no school for Rika. Not here.” Vater changed the subject quickly. “Here, Otto, have more dumplings.”

  Was this the same father who had encouraged me in school in Germany and had f
ervently taught me music? Was this the same man who urged his music students to higher and higher levels? What had happened to the man who shared ideas with me, the man who had urged me to do something important with my life?

  Vater had changed, and the changed man was definitely in charge.

  The next few days found me cooking on the strange black stove, unpacking the trunk, and crowding the contents of the wagon into the little house. Everything was scarce, including space. Behind the chest and always in the way was the ever-sleeping, lazy Fritz.

  By the time Sophie and I had a small bed in a corner, the house was so crowded Vater decided the leering Fritz should go to the boardinghouse. Reluctantly, Fritz gathered his belongings, and with a reminder that he would come visit me, trudged toward the boardinghouse at town square. I had dodged his advances more than once and hoped he would never come back. After all, Karl had already stolen my heart.

  Lux was another story. I caught myself thinking about how the tall, handsome stranger had helped me at the ferry in his authoritative but gentle way. He talked to me as an equal and was one of a few men who thought me courageous for surviving the trip. I hoped he never discovered how I had acted at Indian Point when, as Sophie said, I was the old “pain-in-my-neck,” and I looked forward to Tuesday, the day he came to build our table.

  Lux arrived pulling a loaded handcart from which he took sawhorses for holding lumber, a wooden tool tray heavy with tools, and lumber that he set by the back door, where he began his carpentry. I was in and out to the woodpile, so we had a chance to talk. As he worked, he told me about the cypress wood planks he was using for our tabletop, how he had cut and cured the wood, the special planes he used for smoothing the wood and the oiled finish he would use. I could tell as he spoke that he loved wood and took great care to make the furniture he built sturdy but beautiful. Each time I went outside for more wood for the stove, he added bits of information until, finally, I closed the damper on the stove, set the soup pot to the back, and just went outside to talk.