by Linda Ford
“Do you mind to lift him to my lap?”
She did so and Charlie buried his face against Anker’s chest.
“He’s overtired,” she said. “I should get him ready for bed.”
At her suggestion, Charlie turned away from her even more. “I’ll clean the kitchen first.” Maybe after a cuddle in Anker’s arms Charlie would settle down. She didn’t fancy dealing with one of the child’s tantrums.
When she returned, Charlie was practically asleep in Anker’s arms and allowed her to take him. He protested mildly as she prepared him for bed, and instead of falling asleep instantly as he normally would, he continued to fuss and sob.
Lena’s attempts to soothe him didn’t seem to help so she eventually returned to the living room and the chair by the fire. “I guess the day has upset him. He’ll just have to wear himself out.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t bring in the parcel from town. You could enjoy that new yarn.”
“It can wait until the storm ends. In the meantime, I can fix these socks.” She forced herself to meet his eyes even though she continued to feel as if her emotions had been overexposed by the events of the long day. “Thank you for the yarn. You didn’t have to buy that, you know.”
“I did it because I wanted to.”
She couldn’t tear herself from the look in his eyes nor could she escape the feeling that he sought something from her. Perhaps more agreement with his declaration that one didn’t have to do anything to earn God’s favor. Or assurance that Anker was enough for her. She ached to give him those words, but to speak them would be to put herself at his mercy. She studiously began to knit a new heel in the sock she held. “I hope the storm ends soon.”
“One thing about Dakota weather, you can never predict it, though I should have noticed the signs of the approaching storm sooner. Might have saved us—”
When he didn’t finish, she glanced at him. His expression showed no regret, only . . . She tried to think why he looked so content.
He continued. “Maybe it was worth it to realize the depth of God’s love.”
His words scratched through her thoughts. She dropped a stitch and concentrated on picking it up. How was she to endure the evening if he kept harking back to this topic? Though it certainly beat staring at each other, remembering the tender moments when he had held both her and Charlie close.
Why did her thoughts race about from one forbidden topic to another?
With a burst of gratitude, she remembered the package from Sky tucked away in her coat pocket. “I forgot about my letter.” She rushed to get it. As soon as she was settled comfortably, she smoothed the crumpled pages and read quickly.
Sky wrote several pages about the new baby born shortly after Johnson died and named John in his honor. She hadn’t realized she’d chuckled out loud until Anker said, “Sounds like a nice letter.”
“The baby is eight months old now and Sky insists he not only looks like his uncle, he—” She read a part aloud. “‘He has that stubborn streak that I’ll never forget. Do you remember the time I decided I’d had enough of living at Mrs. Miller’s and packed my bags? I was only thirteen but I thought I knew everything. Johnson stopped me before I got off the step and said I wouldn’t be going anywhere. He wouldn’t let me go even though I hit him and cried. Said he’d stand there forever if that’s what it took. I’m glad now, but I sure wasn’t at the time. And little Johnny is just like him in that regard. Since he was a few weeks old he’s been very good at letting us know what he wants and once he makes up his mind...well, I am not looking forward to the next few years as he learns he must obey his mama and papa. But don’t get me wrong, he is the joy of my life.’” Lena stopped there as Sky went on to say how much she missed her brother even though she had a good man and a lovely son.
She turned to the picture of Johnson.
“He was a good man.” Anker’s words were soft.
“I miss him.”
“Me too.”
She looked at him then. For the first time she thought about the fact that Johnson and Anker had spent a lot of time working together. Johnson had looked forward to visits from him and the men were often back and forth between the two places. She’d never before given thought to the idea that Anker had lost his best friend. She did now and the realization of a shared sorrow eased away the tension she’d felt since his confession of a special experience with God, followed by his tale of losing the love of two women.
His blue eyes revealed regret and lots more besides—determination and tenderness.
She’d seen glimpses of the latter before but this time it seemed deeper, more insistent. It called to her, asking for and seeking a response. She didn’t know what he wanted from her. Nor did she want to examine the way her heart leapt at his look.
Instead, she focused on the other emotion she’d glimpsed. She had learned about his determination before Johnson’s death. Even the ever-patient Johnson had commented on it, alternately admiring what he called the man’s grit, or being annoyed at the man’s stubbornness. Since Johnson’s death and Anker’s foolish promise to take care of Lena and Charlie, she had dealt with it on a more personal level. Once Anker decided he was going to help her with something, he found a way. At times, she was reluctantly grateful. Like the day he’d found her trying to cut the hay with a scythe while Charlie napped on a grassy spot nearby. Only Charlie had wakened . . . She owed him Charlie’s life.
“I don’t think I ever thanked you for rescuing Charlie that day.”
Chapter 9
He knew what day she meant. It was forever branded into his brain. “You were tired and frightened.” It was the first time she’d given in to him without an argument. Only because she was so shaken.
He had ridden over to start the haying for her. As he approached the farm, he saw her struggling to swing a scythe. She had already made two swaths around the field. His first thought had been anger that she couldn’t wait for help. His second had been amusement. The swaths were scattered and bunched. He could picture her faltering efforts as she tried to get the feel of swinging the big blade and letting it cut through the grass.
The next thought still sent his lungs into spasms. He’d glanced around to see what she’d done with Charlie. He saw a rumpled quilt at the edge of the field. But no small boy. The child had only started to walk and had a sweet little stagger. He couldn’t have gone far. Anker’s heart had practically jumped from his chest when he saw the bobbing head of black hair headed toward his mama—straight into the path of the wicked metal blade she swung. He’d kicked his horse and raced across the field, praying the animal wouldn’t step into a badger hole and praying he would make it in time.
He shuddered as he recalled the sweep of that blade, moments after he’d scooped up Charlie. “It’s a miracle I got to him in time.”
“I know. You have to believe I thought he was asleep.”
“But you couldn’t be waiting for me to help. You had to prove you could do it on your own. Your hands were blistered and bleeding. You were hot and thirsty, but would you stop? No. Not until I made you.” It still filled him with helpless frustration when he recalled the evidence of uncharacteristic tears on her dusty face, saw her oozing palms, and held a hot, fussy baby who had barely escaped being hacked by his own mother.
She glanced away then looked at him with a hungry desperation. “I can’t depend on you for everything. It makes me feel . . . well, like I did back in Mrs. Miller’s house. I don’t like the feeling.” She swallowed loudly.
“My helping doesn’t carry a price.” Just as he had tried to persuade her that God’s love was full and free.
“I don’t know how to be any other way. You talk about how we need only trust God and accept His love. I don’t know how to do that either. All my life, love has had a cost. Help has a price.”
“Even with Johnson.”
He could tell his question troubled her.
“It was different with Johnson. We were partners. Equal.”<
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He understood what she did not say. She was comfortable with the idea of sharing equally. But even with Johnson she couldn’t accept the idea of taking something offered out of love. He wondered how he could make her see it without offending her love for her husband. “Johnson understood you. He knew you had to give for every get. He let you do that. Is not always possible though.”
Her face registered surprise and then acknowledgement, and he knew his words hit a mark.
Then her expression hardened. “Of course it’s possible.”
He chuckled at the idea. “What do you think you can do to repay God? He created a universe we can’t begin to imagine or understand. He gave His Son. I think I can only offer my love and gratitude in return.”
She got the stubborn look he so often saw and knew she wasn’t convinced. She glanced at the window. “I wish this storm would stop.” Suddenly she seemed to remember something of importance, for she jerked her attention back to him, her mouth puckered with worry. “What if it lasts all night, even a couple of days? You can’t go out in the storm again with your feet like that. I’ll have to do the chores for you.” She looked pleased with the idea.
“You think that will balance the ledger between us or maybe tip it a little in your favor?”
Something dark flickered through her eyes as if signaling a small victory, but she shook her head. “Of course not.”
He grinned at her denial. “Sorry. I have ruined your chance. I know enough not to expect a Dakota storm to end until it is ready. So I put out enough feed for three days. If it hasn’t ended then—” He shrugged to indicate they would deal with that possibility when the time arose. His other cows were sheltered in a grove of trees and would be safe.
“If it lasts that long, I’ll do the chores.” She announced it with the sureness of one who had fought many battles with stubbornness as her only weapon.
He smiled. But he had no intention of letting her venture out into the storm so long as he could put one foot in front of the other, no matter how much it hurt. And his feet did hurt. “We’ll see.”
She stared at him, silently arguing. It surprised him she didn’t voice her arguments. Slowly, she rolled up her knitting and set it aside in the little box she’d found. “It’s time for bed. Perhaps the storm will be ended in the morning.”
“Perhaps. Could you hand me the Bible?”
She did so and opened it at the bookmark. He enjoyed this special time of togetherness. She never argued with the Scripture and seemed not to mind as he stumbled through the translation. He’d restricted himself to reading the Psalms as they proved more flexible with his awkward reading. Tonight he wanted to read something special—something to reflect the enormity of the truth he’d discovered in the storm. He sifted through his meager knowledge of the scriptures for something suitable and wished he could consult his grandfather. Praying for wisdom and guidance, he flipped to the New Testament. The pages fell open to Ephesians. Thank you, God. This is what we both need to hear. He read the entire second chapter, emphasizing the ninth verse, “Not of works, lest any man should boast.” He finished the chapter and closed the book.
She took the Bible without comment and put it back on the shelf, then picked up the lamp and headed for the bedroom. Halfway across the room, she stopped and returned to his side. “Can I help you to bed?”
“I think I can manage.” To prove it to them both, he grabbed the second lamp and hobbled to the ladder. The pressure of each rung against his tender feet felt like being branded with a hot iron, but he made it to the top without grunting aloud, and turned to smile victoriously at her.
“Good night,” she murmured. She went to the bedroom, where she closed the door quietly and maybe a bit firmly.
He stared at the door a few minutes.
He ached at her uncertainty about freely accepting God’s love.
A few minutes later, he lay on his mattress. He hadn’t meant to tell her of Stina’s and Celia’s rejection of him. Although it had hurt terribly at the time, he’d promised himself to forget it and do his best to live a good life.
Perhaps someday he would be enough for a woman to love.
He struggled from sleep a few hours later to Charlie crying, a sharp sound that scraped along the inside of his head. When he stirred in bed, he was pointedly reminded of his frost-burned feet and left hand. After the pain subsided he managed a prayer of gratitude for one hand that didn’t hurt and the knowledge that his burns weren’t as bad as they might have been.
He lay listening to Charlie cry and Lena’s soft soothing tones as she tried to settle him. He shifted to a more comfortable position. Charlie usually slept well, seldom waking in the night. He’d no doubt be back asleep in a few minutes, but Charlie’s wails did not cease. In fact, either Anker’s ears grew more tender or Charlie’s cries intensified. What could be wrong? Abandoning his warm bed, he managed to pull on his trousers and climb down the ladder. He went to the bedroom door and knocked. “Is he sick?”
“I don’t think so. He isn’t fevered.” Lena’s words carried a sharp edge as if she were both worried and frustrated.
“Bring him out and I’ll see if I can settle him.”
A moment of silence and then, “Give me a minute.” Did she sound relieved?
She emerged, wrapped in a dressing gown that had been in the parcel from the Hamptons. Her hair hung down her back in a thick mink-colored braid. Loose strands fanned around her face, catching the light, reminding him of the crown she’d worn at the wedding party at the Nilssons’. She struggled to contain Charlie, who threw himself backward and screamed.
Ignoring his painful hand, he took the boy and held him firmly as he shuffled on sore feet to the most comfortable chair.
Lena hurried ahead and threw more coal on the fire. “I can’t imagine what’s wrong with him.”
“Hold the lamp close.”
She did so and he lifted Charlie’s shirt to check for a rash. Nothing. He studied the child’s face and could see nothing amiss. He ran his hand over each limb but could find no sign of tenderness or swelling. “I see nothing.”
She captured Charlie’s chin so she could look him in the eyes. “Charlie, baby, do you hurt?”
He jerked away and wailed.
She caught his chin again. “Show mama where you hurt.”
He screamed, but his tone wasn’t angry as much as pain-filled.
Anker indicated she should again hold the lamp close, and he carefully examined each hand and foot. “I thought he might have frostbite, but I see nothing. Maybe he’s simply overtired.”
“Maybe.” Lena sat down opposite him, leaning close to pat Charlie’s back.
Anker made hushing noises and rocked back and forth, but neither his mother’s voice nor Anker’s efforts did anything to comfort the small boy.
Anker sang lullabies from his childhood. He didn’t bother trying to translate. He hoped the sound of his voice would calm Charlie. The little man settled a bit, but continued to cry. Just when Anker thought he had won the battle, Charlie threw himself backward again and screamed.
“He must have a tummy ache.” Lena rubbed her forehead. “I’m getting worried. There must be something very wrong. If I had some of my sarsaparilla concoction…but it’s gone along with everything else. How does your family treat such upsets?”
Anker remembered only one situation similar to this and it didn’t bear speaking to Lena of. Cousin Sigurd had been four when he cried and cried with a bellyache. Every aunt offered a cure. But Sigurd had died screaming with pain. Anker shut his eyes in a futile attempt to block that dreadful memory. He often wondered if the so-called cures had killed his cousin, and he’d vowed to let nature run its course with illness as much as possible. “I won’t give him anything when I don’t know what’s wrong. A person can do more harm than good.” He reached for Lena’s hand. “Instead, we will pray.”
She hesitated, her eyes full of argument, then she let him take her hand as he prayed, lifting his vo
ice to be heard above Charlie’s crying.
“Father God, we don’t know what’s wrong with this little man and so we look to You for guidance. Please to make him better. Show us if there be anything we can do. We trust Your great love. Amen.”
He continued to hold Lena’s hand, waiting for her to look at him, but she kept her head down. He wondered if trusting God proved too much of a challenge for her. He squeezed her hand. “God loves us. He will do what is best.”
Slowly her head came up, her eyes dark and filled with uncertainty. “I know you are probably right, but I have a hard time believing it was His love that left me stranded in Mrs. Miller’s care. Or that took Johnson in that accident.” He felt her trembling. “And where was His great love when my house burned down?”
“I cannot answer that. I can only trust.” His experience out in the snow, fearing he would perish in the cold, and the blessed assurance of God’s protective, all-surrounding love, was still fresh in his mind. “All I know is God loves me and that is enough.”
She shook her head. “I just don’t see it that way.”
“I know, but it’s fine. God doesn’t need your love to reveal His.” He wished he could share some of his peace about Charlie. “Charlie is in God’s hands.”
Lena pulled her mouth into a tight line. “If God spares my son’s life, I might be able to believe He loves me.”
Anker didn’t say anything more, but turned his attention to comforting Charlie. He knew love that only trusted in good times wasn’t love at all. Didn’t love continue through good and bad, richer and poorer, sickness and health? And if that described human love, how much more without measure was God’s love? But God would show Lena His love in His way just as He had with Anker. Of that he had no doubt.
Charlie refused to be comforted. His continued distress made Anker’s insides tight. Lena brought a cloth and wiped Charlie’s face. “Poor baby, tell Mama what’s wrong.”
But Charlie didn’t want attention. Anker wondered if he even wanted to be held, but the idea of letting the child cry alone on his bed didn’t sit well with him. So he held Charlie as the night slipped by, unheeded by the two adults hovering over the little boy.