Sunflower

by Jill Marie Landis

  A large vegetable garden, meticulously weeded and neatly laid out in rows, occupied the southwest corner of the yard. He guessed that Analisa spent many hours, dressed in her strange ragged pants, suspenders, and faded bonnet, tending the garden. Good, he thought, smiling to himself. That meant he would have the pleasure of seeing her in those trousers again.

  Caleb was somewhat surprised but also pleased to see that the Van Meeterens had the convenient luxury of a windmill in the yard. It would ensure them of a water supply when the dry season parched the land. Many settlers relied solely on rain barrels or nearby watering holes or creeks, which served only as long as there was rain. As he had traveled west, he’d been surprised at first to see windmills dotting the prairie landscape, but he had soon learned that the much needed devices could be purchased through farm journal advertisements and assembled at the site. Those farmers who could not afford to buy such luxuries sometimes built their own mills for a fraction of the cost by following instructions printed in the publications.

  A splash of gold against the sky caught Caleb’s attention. He lifted his gaze skyward and shielded his eyes against the sun’s glare as he stared at the roof of the sod house. Sunflowers stood at various heights above the building, growing out of the roof. It was a sight the likes of which he had never seen, and as he took notice, Caleb saw that flowers surrounded the ground near the walls of the house as well. He had a sudden recollection of having seen the house covered with sunflowers before, and realized it must have been the night he arrived.

  Kase called to him, impatient to resume his guided tour, and Caleb responded to his shout. After visiting the wooden water closet, Caleb stood near the fence at the south end of the yard while he waited for Kase. About a half-mile across the vast open grassland beyond the fence, he could see a stand of cotton woods, and he assumed they were growing along a stream. At the thought of the clear, fresh running water, Caleb became aware of the uncomfortable itching of his skin and his scalp. He raked his fingers through the tangled mass of black hair, then rubbed the back of his neck with the palm of his hand.

  “Kase?” He called the boy’s name over his shoulder, and within seconds, Kase appeared eagerly at his side.

  “What do you say we go for a swim in that creek over there?”

  The boy looked up at him earnestly, his eyes wide. “I can’t swim.”

  “Well, I need a bath in the worst way, so maybe you’d like to come along and make sure no one steals my boots.” They’re welcome to the nightshirt, he thought.

  “Should I go and tell Mama?”

  “No, you don’t need to. We’ll be back in a few minutes. Besides, I have a feeling she would object to my getting wet. Women have some strange ideas, Kase.” Caleb opened the back gate and carefully looped the wire catch behind them. “Some of them are convinced that if you have any sort of sickness at all; a little water will put you right into your grave.”

  “We never bathe in the creek. We fish there, though.”

  “Where do you bathe?”

  “I get into the big wooden tub behind the house, in the summer. In the winter I wash by the stove. Mama and Opa, too. But they never get in the big tub outside.”

  While the boy chatted, Caleb glanced across the prairie, surveying every direction for signs of riders. The area had been settled for nearly twenty years, but away from the small prairie towns, homesteads were miles apart. Roving bands of renegades from the reservations were not unheard of. And here you are, Storm, he thought, ambling through the buffalo grass, hatless, gunless, and dressed in a damned nightshirt. He decided his bath would be brief.

  Large pieces of fabric, bits of knotted string, and odd-shaped papers littered the top of the table. Mevrou Heusinkveld’s dress was beginning to take shape. Just as Analisa took precious time away from her task to wonder why Kase and Caleb Storm had failed to return, the boy ran into the house. She smiled at his urgency as he tried to explain his mission. His English was rapidly improving, now that he had a reason to use it, but he stumbled over unfamiliar words.

  “Mr. Storm need a ... a vatenwasbak.” He pointed to the dishpan hanging near his head.

  “Dishpan.”

  “Ja. A dishpan. He wants to make a soapy water for taking the hair off his face.”

  “To shave.”

  “Ja. He wants to shave, and so told me to get the pan, please. You should see, Mama, he has everything he needs in the bags in the shed, the ones that were strapped to his horse. What are they called? Can I take the pan?”

  “Yes, you may take the pan, and I don’t know what to call the bags. Ask Mr. Storm.”

  “Mama, do you know that Mr. Storm goes into the creek naked? I got to watch his boots for him while he washed himself.”

  The door closed on the image of her son struggling with the dishpan nearly as large as he was. Intent once more, Analisa carefully slid the scissors along the paper outline as she cut out the emerald cloth. Suddenly, she slammed her scissors down on the table and stared at the closed door. Just what had the boy been talking about? Caleb Storm had a problem keeping his clothes on, it seemed, and Analisa decided she need not put up with it any longer.

  Furious, she charged out of the soddie and across the yard, dust flying up from beneath her pounding klompen. Chickens squawked and ran out of the way as her skirts swished around her ankles. She stopped short when she nearly collided with Caleb, who stood near the back wall of the house. He had balanced a small round mirror on the edge of an uneven sod block, and he was expertly plying a long, lethal straight-edge razor over the planes of his face, half of which was well lathered with soap.

  “Analisa. Is something the matter?”

  Her stormy expression told Caleb she was angry, but for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why she stood glaring at him, hands on hips, her eyes shooting sparks of blue fire,

  “Don’t call me that, Mr. Storm.”

  “What?”

  “Analisa!” The order sounded ridiculous, even to her ears, and yet she could not seem to check her anger. The man had provoked her ever since he had fallen at her feet.

  “Pardon me. I didn’t realize it offended you, Miss Van Meeteren.”

  “It is bad enough that you sit naked and embarrass me this morning, but I want to know what gives you the right to expose yourself to my son and to take him to the creep without my permission.”

  “Creek.” He tried to sort out her jumbled accusations. Had Analisa known Caleb Storm well, she would have noticed the tightening of his lips and the slight stiffening of his spine, but she did not know him at all and so provoked his rage.

  “Listen here, Miss Van Meeteren, I’m sorry to have upset your tender sensibilities, but I don’t like what you’re hinting at. I needed to bathe. That’s it. This kid’s been my shadow since I woke up, so I let him tag after me. If you’ve got something against him seeing a man’s body, then that boy is gonna have big problems later on.” His eyes narrowed to slits as he leaned nearer to Analisa, his soft voice pressing the point home. She was reminded of a wild animal hunting down its prey. “Now I know why you’ve been avoiding me since I woke up. It must have set you off when you burst in on me this morning. Don’t tell me you’ve never seen a man naked before, Miss Van Meeteren. This boy didn’t just spring up out of the ground.” He flung a hand toward Kase, who gawked at the pair as they faced each other down.

  Analisa stood as if turned to stone while Caleb railed on, unaware that his words fell like a blacksmith’s hammer against the fragile wall she’d erected around her emotions.

  “You might be able to push an old man and a little boy around this place, lady, but don’t try it on me.”

  Run, Analisa’s mind commanded, but her will won out over emotion. She faced him squarely, unaware of how ridiculous they appeared. Caleb, almost a head taller, wearing the baggy nightshirt and boots, half of his face caked with drying soap while the other was smooth-shaven, stared at Analisa. She in turn refused to back down. With that lock of loose ha
ir brushing against her cheek, her hands clenched defiantly against her sides, she reminded Caleb of a ruffled mother hen.

  “I want you out of here.” She tried to match his tone, low and calm, not wild and angry as her own had been earlier. What was it he had said? “I never yell.” She realized he didn’t have to. His words were like sharp, silent knives. They cut deep, without a sound. Analisa spared him not a glance but turned, head held high. With determination in her stride, she left Caleb staring after her.

  As his anger ebbed, the pain behind his eyes returned and his head ached. He regretted his harsh words, but he regretted even more the look he saw in Kase’s eyes before the boy cast his gaze toward the ground. Silently, Kase walked past Caleb, his small shoulders slumped, his head bowed, unwilling to meet the man’s eyes as his feet scuffed the dirt.

  “Listen, Kase—damn!” The boy had disappeared around the corner of the house, and Caleb Storm, his anger spent, was left to finish his shave, no longer feeling quite as tall as he had moments before.

  Inside, Analisa tried to ignore Kase, who sulked in the rocker. She took up her scissors and ruthlessly cut into Clara Heusinkveld’s emerald cloth with a vengeance, wishing the fabric were Caleb Storm’s hide or, better yet, his heart. She was convinced that would break the scissors, for his heart was surely made of stone. Analisa soon realized that in such an agitated state she might ruin the cloth beyond repair. Carefully, she put down her scissors and began to fold the pieces of cloth. She started with the larger sections of material, taking care not to dislodge the paper pattern pinned to the silk. It had taken the better part of the afternoon to sketch the pieces and then enlarge them in proportion to Clara Heusinkveld’s size. Tomorrow would be a better time to cut out the rest of the material, she decided, after he was gone and she was in control of her anger.

  First she folded the large panels that would be sewn together to form the skirt. Then she placed the smaller pattern pieces —the bodice, sleeves, collar, and cuffs—together and wrapped them inside the large uncut portion of material. She rewrapped the entire stack in butcher’s paper to keep it clean and placed the bundle carefully on top of the organ. Behind her, the door opened and closed. Analisa stiffened, somehow knowing it was not Opa who entered, but him. Caleb Storm.

  She kept her back to him and listened to the sound of his movements. He apparently chose to ignore her, and Kase as well. When the sound of his footsteps ceased, Analisa turned around slowly. Caleb stood beside her bed, his folded clothes in his hands as he stared out the window into the late afternoon light.

  “I’m sorry about what I said out there.” His words were clipped and awkward, as if the apology did not come easily. When she failed to answer him, he turned to face her. A darkness shadowed his eyes as they met Analisa’s. He glanced at Kase. The boy was watching him silently from the rocker, his knees drawn protectively against his chest. His high-top laced boots, scuffed and covered with dust, rested on the oak seat of the chair, an offense Caleb knew Analisa would not tolerate in other circumstances.

  “Go outside for a few minutes, Kase. I’d like to talk to your mama alone.”

  The child looked to his mother for permission. At her slight nod, Kase stood up. He slipped from the room while Caleb and Analisa faced each other silently.

  “I meant what I said,” Caleb began again, stepping toward Analisa, her look of discomfort checking his movement. “I’m sorry if I upset you. I had no reason to talk that way in front of the boy. It isn’t the way I wanted to repay you for your kindness. You didn’t have to save my life, but you did. Everything I own was on that horse when I rode in—my rifle, savings, clothes, everything. You could have robbed me, left me to die ... but you didn’t.”

  She opened her mouth to protest, but Caleb ignored her. “I’d like to stay for a while and help around here, to pay you back for your kindness. There’s plenty of repair work to be done, chores that your grandfather can’t handle. I’d like to leave knowing I’ve been able to help you in some way.”

  “Mr. Storm, I really don’t think—”

  “I’ll be on my best behavior, Miss Van Meeteren. I promise to keep my clothes on, too.” A slow smile spread across his face, erasing the concern she had seen shadowing his eyes. Clean-shaven, with his thick hair still damp and swept back away from his face at forehead and temples, Caleb Storm’s rugged handsomeness was suddenly all too apparent to Analisa. She realized as she stood gauging the depth of his sincerity, that she had not thought of him as handsome, at least not in the way she judged other men. Caleb Storm’s dark hair and the cinnamon cast of his skin only enhanced his strong features. His deep blue eyes added mystery to the man. People would always wonder what manner of a man he was, where he was from. He was so very unlike the other handsome men Analisa had known—the blond, ruddy-skinned Dutchmen of her family, and the other immigrants who had traveled with them on the journey west. Although Caleb Storm was the opposite of those men, she was drawn to him, to this shadowy stranger who’d ridden into her life as storm clouds gathered.

  Hypnotized by his steady blue stare, Analisa relaxed her guard slightly, shining her weight as she placed one hand on the organ.

  “I don’t often apologize.” He smiled again and waited for her response.

  “I can tell that you don’t, Mr. Storm. It seems a very hard thing for you to do.” She took a deep breath and continued, “So it seems to me that I must apologize also. I did not mean to accuse you unjustly about ... about undressing in front of my son.” She felt her face flame and fought the urge to cover her cheeks with her palms. “But he is so innocent, so trusting. I’m afraid life will not be easy for Kase.”

  “You can’t protect him forever, Analisa. You may do him more harm than good.”

  “I will try to protect him for as long as I can.” When she looked away, lost in thought, Caleb moved toward the door.

  “I’ll change into my clothes in the cow shed. I assume you’ve accepted my apology and my offer to help out?”

  “Ja —yes,” she said, immediately correcting herself. “The next two weeks will be busy for me, with Mevrou Heusinkveld’s dress to complete. Your help and your apology are accepted, Mr. Storm.”

  “I’d like it if you would call me Caleb.”

  She nodded, watching as Caleb Storm stepped out into the yard. As she went across the room to fill the stove with buffalo chips and scraps of wood, Analisa hoped she was not making a mistake.

  Stars peppered the sky from horizon to horizon, some clustered together, others hanging alone, all sending their fiery light from distances Caleb knew he could never fathom. His mother’s people told stories about the stars, stories as old as time, as old perhaps as the stars themselves. Someday he would write the stories down, translate them from the language of the Sioux into English so as to save them for the day when the Sioux were no more. If he had the time.

  He shook his head, chiding himself as he lay on the ground, his head resting on the smooth, worn leather of his saddle. He was two weeks behind schedule already, and still he stayed at the Van Meeteren home, mending fences, rebuilding the henhouse, repairing the small wagon that was little more than a cart. With each task he completed, he told himself it was time to leave, but when he tried to say good-bye to Analisa, her cornflower-blue eyes stopped him. Instead of leaving, he would hear himself telling her what project he intended to take on next.

  At first Caleb had told himself he was only biding his time until he recovered from the measles, but the illness was far behind him now. Caleb knew that if he didn’t send word to Parker within a month or two, the man might become alarmed and send someone out in search of him. Soon, Caleb reminded himself for the hundredth time, he would have to move on.

  The embers of the dying fire near his bedroll pulsed with what little life remained in them. Caleb watched the coals glowing red against the white ash and let his mind drift over the weeks he’d been helping Analisa. An awkward truce had existed between them during the first few days of his stay, but
Caleb could sense Analisa’s increasing gratitude as he worked with Opa and Kase. He had kept the old man and the boy occupied while Analisa worked from dawn until far into the night on the green satin gown. The dress had been ready when the pompous Clara Heusinkveld arrived to pick it up. Caleb had spent the day fishing at the creek with Kase and Edvard in order to avoid the woman’s scrutiny and to spare Analisa embarrassment.

  He watched a shooting star as it fell from the heavens. Behind him, the water in the creek splashed softly over the rocks and lulled him into a peaceful contentment. Caleb had been sleeping beside the stream under the cottonwoods since the day Analisa agreed he could stay to help out. He recalled their conversation after he had finally changed into his own clothes and returned to the house. When he handed the folded nightshirt to Analisa, Caleb had become aware of her scrutiny. She seemed surprised by his appearance, in a way almost wary of him. He sensed that it would be best to move out of the soddie and put her mind at ease. Now that he was up and dressed, their roles had changed. Analisa was no longer completely in control, and rather than unnerve her any further, Caleb felt it was best that he move out.

  “I’ll be sleeping outdoors now. I’m sure you need the space, anyway.” He looked around for his hat and found it hanging on the wall near the window. “Where does the boy sleep?”

  “He has a pallet under the bed; I pull it out at night for him.”

  “So you did give up your bed for me?”

  He turned and caught her glance before she lowered her lashes and studied her hands, hiding the thoughts he tried to read in her eyes.