Sunflower

by Jill Marie Landis

  “Please bring the lamp, Opa,” she called over, her shoulder.

  The old man rose from his straight-back chair and shuffled around the table, his tall frame stooped with the burden of age, his once-bright eyes searching the dim light to see what manner of stranger his granddaughter had pulled into the house. The boy walked behind him, his dark hair and complexion so unlike the white hair and fair skin of his great-grandfather. Kase peered around Opa’s legs, using them as a shield against the stranger’s sickness. The man lay as still as death on the smooth dirt floor, surrounded by three figures staring silently down at him.

  Ignoring Opa and Kase, Analisa raised her hand for the lamp her grandfather held, and he handed it to her without comment. She placed it on the floor near the stranger’s head. Kneeling next to his shoulder, she reached across the prone figure for the dish towel hanging nearby and used it to mop away the rain from his face and push his hair back off of his forehead. For the first time she studied his strong features, noting the square jawline, the high, sharp cheekbones, and the straight, aristocratic nose. His brows were raven’s wings arched above his eyes, and his hair, gloss-black and waving above his forehead, was neatly trimmed around his ears and gently curled around the nape of his neck. Analisa stared down at him and felt her hands trembling slightly. He could not be an Indian, she thought, not dressed so well and traveling alone toward Pella. Perhaps he was one of the Spanish from the south, from Mexico. Quickly she unfastened his gun belt and carefully untied the leather cord that held the holster tight against his hard thigh. Then she slowly slid the belt from beneath the stranger, expecting him to wake at any moment.

  She glanced up quickly at Opa, who was beginning to ask questions, which she chose to ignore for the time being. Kase was staring down at the man who had dark hair so like his own. It was not often that the child saw anyone with such black hair, even when they went to the village.

  Looking at her small son, with his straight, blue-black hair cut neatly into bangs across his forehead and bowl-shaped around his head, she had a sudden intuition as to the man’s illness and began to pull the stranger’s shirttail out of his trousers. Quickly, she unfastened the brass buttons and opened his double-breasted shirt. She noted with an expert’s eye that it was tailored much like the shirts worn by the United States Army’s soldiers. She wondered briefly at this choice of style, for although the shirt was similar to the uniforms, it was black instead of navy and devoid of any bar or buttons marked with the army’s insignia.

  Just as she suspected, Analisa saw that the man’s stomach was aflame with a raised, mottled rash. She lifted his head and arms and wrestled with the shirt in order to pull it off of him. The insides of his arms were red as well. Analisa tried to ignore the otherwise cinnamon bronze tint of his upper body. She knew without looking that the rest of him would be of the same hue.

  “What is wrong with the man, Analisa? Do you know?” Opa asked the question for the fourth time while Kase stood silent, hanging on to his great-grandfather’s pantleg.

  “Ja.I’m almost certain he has the measles, same as Kase had when he was so sick.”

  “A grown man fainting from the measles? You think so?”

  “Please help me lift him, Opa,” she spoke quickly, standing and moving the lamp to the table in the center of the room. “We’ll put him on my bed.” Analisa crossed the room and folded back the quilt arid comforter, smoothing the clean sheet with her hand before she returned to her grandfather’s side.

  “Kase, put his hat on the chair and get back out of the way. There’s no need to worry now, for you have already had the measles. You will not be sick again.” With a quick, reassuring touch, she smoothed her son’s silky hair and smiled into his china-blue eyes, a mirror image of her own and always startling in his brown face.

  “What about his gun?” the boy asked.

  Analisa carried the gun belt to the trunk beside her bed. She opened the lid of the chest and dropped the gun and holster inside, where they rested on her neatly folded clothes. She then returned to where Opa and Kase stood near the stranger.

  “Come, Opa, take his feet,” she instructed as she again lifted the man’s shoulders to spare her grandfather the full weight. They carried the stranger a few feet before lowering him to the dirt floor again. Breathing heavily, Opa rested while Analisa waited, and in a few moments the pair lifted their burden once more. Walking with quick, short steps, they reached her bed and studied its height.

  “I’ll swing his shoulders up and you shove him onto the bed.” Panting with exertion, Analisa swung the man’s solid weight onto the bed. As momentum sent her sprawling across his broad chest, she struggled to pull her arms from beneath him while her head rested near his shoulder. Something froze inside her at the forced contact with the man’s smooth, warm skin. Quickly, she twisted away from him and pulled her arms free. Her grandfather shoved the man’s feet and legs up a second later, and Analisa, freed from the weight of the stranger’s upper body, shoved his hips up and over the edge of the bed.

  For a moment Analisa and her grandfather stood panting, trying to catch their breath while they watched the unconscious man. He did not stir.

  “Thank you, Opa. Somehow we did it!” She smiled for the first time that evening, a glowing smile of accomplishment that lit her eyes and showed her even white teeth. A blush of color like that of a smooth, ripe peach warmed her cheeks, but Analisa gave no thought to her appearance as she turned to be sure the stranger was at ease. The knot atop her head forgotten, most of her thick hair had tumbled around her shoulders, the darker, honey-gold tresses hidden by the sun-bleached top layers, which fell from a natural center part. Droplets of sweat covered her brow and upper lip. She wiped them away with the back of her forearm. As Analisa walked toward the kitchen bench, she turned to her grandfather.

  “Opa, I will pour you some clover tea, and then you should go to bed. It’s getting late.” She was anxious to tend to the man’s needs without her grandfather’s interference.

  “Me, too?” Kase asked without taking his eyes off the strange dark man whose tall body lay stretched across his mother’s bed.

  “One cup, yes, with Opa, and then you will have to sleep. I’ll sleep in your bed with you tonight. Sit at the table and I will get your tea.”

  Carefully, Analisa poured the tea into delicate porcelain cups that seemed quite out of place in the house made of sod. The tea had been brewed yesterday, for today they had managed with cold meals in order to avoid heating the iron stove. While the old man and the boy sat at the long table waiting for her to serve them, she placed blue and white teacups, saucers, and bread plates before them. Analisa worked with swift efficiency, moving as if her life had not just been interrupted by a man dropping on her doorstep. She served them slices of golden cake, fresh two days ago, and taking nothing for herself, filled a tall jar with water from the crockery pitcher on the bench and returned to the half-naked man stretched out on her bed.

  The man was beginning to stir. He was uncomfortable, she knew. His head rolled from side to side as he mumbled unintelligibly. She tried to capture his head in the crook of her arm and force water between his lips, but her attempts failed. The dish towel lay nearby, forgotten in their haste to move the man to the bed. She moistened the end of the cloth with the tepid water and smoothed it across his lips and brow. Analisa repeated the movements until he quieted some and then returned to her grandfather’s side.

  It was late into the night before Analisa was finally able to slip her soft lawn nightgown over her head and roll the long sleeves up to her elbows. She tied the ribbon below the prim round neckline. The lace-edged collar and smocked bib front broke the severity of the white gown.

  After sending Opa and Kase to bed, she had wrestled with the stranger’s boots and finally succeeded in pulling them off. When she unbuttoned the waistband of his trousers, Analisa had discovered to her chagrin that the man was nude beneath the dark material. After a moment’s hesitation, she had covered him
with the lightweight tulip-patterned quilt and drawn his pants down by tugging at them with her hands beneath the cover. The task complete, Analisa had smiled at him, pleased at her own ingenuity. Once the man was settled, with a cool compress on his forehead, Analisa had seen to his horse.

  Kase, she noticed, was sleeping soundly, his nightshirt twisted up around his short legs, the white material a contrast against his brown skin even in the dark. The boy’s pallet had been pulled out from beneath her bed, and since the stranger had usurped her place, Analisa would either have to share the pallet with Kase or sleep in the rocking chair. Not wishing to disturb the boy on such a hot night, Analisa chose the rocker.

  The rain had stopped, and the house was still and dark. The familiar furnishings stood like mute ghosts around the room. Analisa wondered, as she had before, if her mother’s spirit might linger among her belongings. She wondered, too, if that ghost would be whole and lucid, or like the confused soul who had lived in her mother’s shell during the last year of her life.

  An ivory-backed brush rested on the trunk near the head of Analisa’s bed. She reached for it and drew the bristles through her tangled waist-length hair. With the appearance of the strange rider, Analisa had lost her opportunity to work during the early evening hours while Kase and Opa slept. It had been nearly two years since the luxury of a full night’s sleep had been hers, but the results were more than worth her efforts. Before Kase was born, she had begun sewing for the women of Pella, at first taking in the mending and any decorative sewing they chose to let her complete. When it became apparent that Analisa had more than a little talent for sewing, the women grudgingly acknowledged it and began to trust more work to her. By experimenting on materials, which she bought with her earnings, Analisa discovered that she had a gift for copying styles from the ladies’ magazines she was able to buy at Knapp’s Dry Goods Store. Soon the women were bringing her less mending and more bolts of material, often accompanied by pictures of fashions from newspapers and magazines. Analisa was determined to turn none of them down, happy to take the money they offered for her work, and always finding a way to complete the tasks, despite the time it took for her to care for Opa, Kase, and the house and garden.

  Yes, Analisa was aware that her name was well known in Pella. As she brushed out her hair she sighed, wishing with all her heart that it was not so.

  Caleb tried to force his eyes open, but the burning, drumming pain behind his lids would not allow it. Someone would come along the road soon, he hoped. Someone would find him lying here baking in the relentless sun. When he had lost Scorpio he didn’t know, but he hoped the horse had made its way to water.

  A coolness touched his brow, easing the pain behind his eyes for a moment. His long lashes flickered and Caleb’s eyes opened. He was surprised to discover that he was not lying out under the blistering sun, but surrounded by darkness illuminated only by moonlight filtering through a nearby window. He tried to speak and then attempted to moisten his lips with his tongue. A figure bent toward him, materializing out of the darkness. In the soft moonlight he studied the apparition, a face and shoulders leaning over him. Wisps of silver hair framed her face like a halo. Her eyes were wide and round, and Caleb realized he was disappointed at his inability to see the color of those eyes in the darkness. Dressed in white, the vision floated nearer and Caleb caught the sweet scent of her on the air. Suddenly he remembered the strange house covered with dancing flowers. Yes. Now he knew for certain. This was the fairy princess, the one his father had described in the old tale.

  He was silent and let her gently raise his head and draw him near, to press the cool rim of a glass against his lips. With his eyes never wavering from hers, he drank deeply, the soothing liquid easing the fire in his throat. He licked his lips when she removed the glass and fought to keep his eyes locked on those of the fairy princess, but try as he would, Caleb failed in his attempt and drifted off as the vision continued to hold him in her arms.

  Chapter Two

  Caleb Storm was certain that he was dead. Eyes open, he lay staring at the sod ceiling above him and thought for a moment that he was staring up at the inside of his own grave. Tightly packed, twisted roots of thick buffalo grass held the sod together above him. Caleb rolled his head to the left and found that his face was just inches away from more thick, grass-filled sod. Too weak to panic and too numb to really care, he had all but resigned himself to his fate when he caught a glimpse of a window frame. He slowly glanced around and discovered he was in a small but comfortable sod house, similar to others he had seen on the open prairie. How he came to be so comfortably ensconced upon the high bed in one corner of the room, he had no recollection. A faint scent of lilacs lingered on the air, nudging his memory, but nothing came to mind except a fleeting picture of a fairy princess in a tale told by his father. He dismissed the image, for it gave him no clue as to how he had arrived in these surroundings.

  Except for him, the room was deserted. Caleb sat up, propping the pillows against the headboard to serve as a backrest. His clothes seemed to be missing at the moment. He was more concerned as to the whereabouts of his gun belt and weapon, but he assumed that anyone who had obviously taken such pains to care for him would cause him no harm.

  Caleb ran a hand through his tousled hair and felt the matted oiliness of it. He needed a bath and a shave in the worst way. He knew for certain that before he had reached this bed, whenever that was, that he had been traveling for three days. His skin was sticky from heat and sickness. Glancing around the room again in search of his clothes, he wondered how long it would be before he could move on. Caleb had a job to do, and no matter how unpleasant the task, he knew it had to be done. The question foremost in his mind was how in hell was he supposed to get up and moving without a pair of pants.

  The sod house was so tidy that Caleb was reminded of his stepmother’s home in the East. Everything seemed to be stored in its proper place or standing on display like an item in a curio shop. Blue and white dishes lined the shelves surrounding a window above a kitchen workbench. An enamel dishpan hung from a hook on the bench beside a dish towel, and on the work surface, large crocks stood in a row like soldiers against the sod wall. The table in the center of the room was uncluttered and draped with a runner. A small blue pitcher held flowers of red and yellow. Caleb stared at the flowers for a moment. They seemed to trigger something in his memory, but he knew not what.

  An organ stood against one wall, the carved oak providing a stark contrast to the dark sod. Here and there around the room were small figurines or delicate hand-sewn pieces, making the small house an altogether appealing sight. He glanced out the window. The lower half of the view was blocked by a myriad of flowers and plants growing in various containers on the ledge, but above it all he could see an empty yard surrounded by a stake and wire fence with a cornfield beyond. Nothing looked familiar. The place appeared to be deserted.

  Determined to find something to wear, Caleb threw aside the quilt and swung his legs over the side of the bed. When dizziness assailed him, he sat back down and braced his hands at his sides, trying to steady his shaking limbs. At the sound of movement outside and the opening of the door, Caleb turned to the intruder.

  “Where are my clothes?” His voice was raspy, yet demanding, far more demanding than he had intended.

  A young woman crossed the room wearing a getup the likes of which Caleb, Storm had never seen. Long, baggy-legged pants reached to a point just above her ankles where the ragged hems showed signs of wear. Black suspenders were buttoned securely to the pants. A once-white linen collarless shirt was tucked into the brown slacks, its sleeves rolled up to the elbows. The suspenders held the shirt pressed against her breasts, and a faded calico sunbonnet hid her hair. Caleb stared at the heavy wooden clogs on her feet. Dutch? he wondered.

  The ragbag figure approached him before she answered. Deftly she untied the bow beneath her chin and pushed the bonnet off of her head, retying the ribbons so that the hat would hang down h
er back. A halo of white-blond hair surrounded a suntanned face and wide, sapphire-blue eyes. All of this Caleb took in with a glance before his eyes came to rest on her pouting lower lip, which was smooth, pink, and inviting. He watched, fascinated, as the woman began to speak. She faced him, hands on her hips.

  “This is the tanks I get?” she said.

  “Thanks.”

  “You are welcome.”

  “No—I wasn’t thanking you.” He shook his head and explained, “The word is thanks. Th, th.” Caleb pronounced the English digraph, emphasizing it for her, his tongue between his teeth. “The word’s not tanks; it’s thanks.”

  Her lush mouth hardened into a stubborn line as she stared back at him.

  “This is all the thanks I get? I drag a stranger into my house, I save his life, I put aside my work” to help him, and he is yelling, ‘Where are my clothes?’!”

  “I never yell.” He was smiling broadly now.

  As if she realized suddenly what he was asking for, the girl’s complexion changed from sun-kissed pink to crimson. Without another word she spun away from him and ran toward the open door, which banged closed in her wake.

  Caleb threw his head back and laughed heartily. Exhausted, he realized that he was still too weak to move. He guessed that the imp with the intriguing accent would reappear soon—with his clothes, he hoped—so he stretched out and pulled the quilt across his nakedness, intending to nap while he awaited her return.

  Analisa stood immobile outside the door. She leaned against the house and put her hand on her breast where she could feel her heart beating so rapidly that she was sure it would burst.

  What had she been thinking of? The man had been sitting on her bed stark naked, talking to her as if he were an English teacher in a schoolroom. The nerve of him to correct her speech! And him naked to boot! She looked around the yard. Kase and Opa were nowhere in sight, and she remembered that they were fishing at the creek. Good. She would have time to gather her wits. Analisa wasn’t quite sure what to do next, but she knew one thing for certain: She would get the man’s clothes back to him and shoo him on his way.