by Linda Byler
The auctioneer’s face took on a purple hue. “Here we have a new group of cattle. Young, good-looking stuff that’ll increase the likability of your own herd. Says here they’re from the Bar S. I’d say them folks know a thing or two about cattle raising.”
Hannah’s hands went to her mouth to stop its trembling. She was ashamed of the quick tears that rose to her eyes. Knew a thing or two about cattle raising? She thought of all the mistakes, all they’d been through to get started, the harsh winter, the anxiety, the wolves. No, they didn’t know much at all.
“Whaddaya gimme for these excellent, top o’ the line cattle?”
Hannah held her breath as the bidding floundered, slow to start. Folks buying cattle knew the Klassermans but were unsure about the Bar S.
Down to twenty-five cents a pound.
Hannah couldn’t breathe. She felt as if she was suffocating.
And then it started. Yup! Yup!
The man taking the bids yelled out, waved his arms and hopped like a banty rooster.
All the way up over a dollar a pound. A dollar ten. Fifteen. Hannah was crying now, she could do nothing about the emotions that came from good fortune, from relief after having suffered so much.
The cattle were sold for the unbelievable sum of a dollar thirty-nine, way over anything Hannah had expected.
She swiped fiercely at her eyes, looked at Sarah, who gave her a wide smile through misty eyes. “We’re on our way, Hannah,” she mouthed.
Hannah didn’t know what love felt like, one way or another, but she figured this was about the closest thing to it.
She wouldn’t have gone with Jerry if Clay wouldn’t have made her so angry, parading around with the red-haired Jennifer in jeans. Imagine! Right in front of her, he tried to buy that palomino horse from Jerry for Jennifer, his girlfriend. He knew full well how that would rankle, bargaining with an arm draped across Jennifer’s shoulders.
So, after that scene played out, she looked straight at Jerry and told him she’d changed her mind. She’d ride home with him, even smiled into his astonished eyes, for Clay’s benefit.
The rest of her family rode home with Hod. Manny looked puzzled, but then shrugged his shoulders, having given up a long time ago trying to figure Hannah out.
When it was time to go, Jerry silently handed her a pair of his old trousers. She took them, turned her back, and pulled them on. She looked over the amount of items tied on the horses’ backs. Bedrolls, knapsacks, everything looked in order.
Well, this was something, now wasn’t it?
Jerry asked if she wanted to go someplace to eat before they started off. Hannah didn’t know what he meant, so she said no, not wanting to enter some stranger’s house and sit at their table.
“Well, there’s a great place to eat just outside of town. Their steaks and potatoes are unlike anything I’ve ever eaten. You sure you won’t come?”
“If it’s a café or restaurant, then yes, I will.”
So that was how she found herself in that intimate setting with Jerry, his dark eyes watching her beneath the canopy of dark hair, cut exactly right, not too long and not too short.
She had never eaten inside a restaurant before except for her humiliating encounter with the fiery-haired Betsy, an episode she’d just as soon forget.
She looked around, took in the boards with dark knotholes, the red Formica-topped tables, the scattering of ranchers and wives or girlfriends decked out in gaily printed dresses, some of them dressed like men, in shirts and jeans. The trousers for women that Sylvia Klasserman called dungarees.
Instinctively, she pulled her own legs under her chair, hoping no one would notice the men’s trouser legs sticking out from beneath her skirt.
She hated being in public dressed in her Amish clothes. Half-Amish, the way she refused to wear the required white head covering. The thing about adhering to a belief, being born into a way of life, wearing clothes meant to convey modesty, a conservative lifestyle, was that people stared.
The ordinary, English people. They looked at you, a certain changing of the eyes, an expression of surprise, another look, the rearranging of their features, usually followed by a half-smile or a sliding away from any eye contact.
So often, Hannah only wanted to fit into the mainstream, be out in public looking like everyone else, unnoticed, unseen. The blending in she longed for.
If she was going to cross over, forget about obedience, now would be the time to do it, before her grandfather arrived, before more people flocked in like unwanted crows, and they ordained the inevitable minister.
As if Jerry was reading her mind, those intent brown eyes on her face, he asked, “Why don’t you wear your covering?”
Hannah shrugged, lowered her eyes. When she looked up, he was still waiting for her answer.
“It’s unhandy. Gets awfully dirty working at the hay and in the barn.”
Evidently that answer didn’t suit him, the way the corners of his mouth dipped down.
“You’re still thinking of leaving the Amish? I know you were seriously considering it at one time. Why?”
Hannah’s eyes flashed. “You know, if you’re going to sit there asking me all these nosy questions, I’m not riding home with you.”
Jerry realized his mistake the minute he saw the irritation flicker in those large, secretive pools of black. So much like a colt. So much like an unbroken horse. He could be patient, but if he was wasting his time and would only be hurt in the end, there was no sense in putting himself through this.
When the food arrived, Hannah ate very little, too preoccupied with the daunting reality of having someone seated across the table who possessed the backbone to bark out those personal questions like that.
She was in no position to take his questions into consideration, the truth being that she simply didn’t know the answers. To admit this would be a serious failure on her part, like walking ahead of him on a narrow trail above a precipice, losing her footing and hurling down the side, complete with pebbles rattling and dust rolling. She had to be very careful, always alert, so he would never be able to decipher the code to her locked away fears and insecurities.
They rode along, side by side, Hannah astride the palomino, pensively mulling over the idea of a name for this beautiful creature.
Goldie?
Honey?
Creamy?
All of them feminine, childish. This was a gelding, after all, one that needed a strong name like “Buck” or “Freedom” or maybe “Roger.”
The late evening air held the promise of frost, the sun sliding toward the horizon, painting the prairie with reddish hues. Hannah loved this time of year, the autumnal splendor, the invigorating wind that played among the grasses, so she was content riding along on the smooth-gaited palomino, sneaking furtive glances at her companion, who rode along as quiet and unobtrusive as if he was alone.
When dusk fell with the softness of the plains, Hannah glanced at the twin bedrolls, then felt a warm blush suffuse her face. She certainly hoped that one thin roll of blanket would be enough to keep the chill of night away.
Suddenly, she wanted to be at home, safe in her bedroom, with Mam banking the fire, getting the little ones off to bed.
What was she doing out here in the middle of nowhere with the arrogant Jerry Riehl?
She sniffed, blinked, and looked long and hard at the thin blanket. Then she said that she hoped that blanket was warmer than it looked.
Jerry reached back to adjust it, as if to reassure himself. “You’ll be warm.”
“Well, just so you know that if I get cold, I don’t expect to sleep anywhere near you. You’ll have to keep the fire going, because I won’t do it.” She figured that would put him in his place.
He acted as if he never heard what she said, just pointed across the waving grass and said that bunch of cottonwoods looked suitable and would she be willing to stop for the night?
“You heard what I said about that thin bedroll.”
“
I heard.”
He expertly tethered the horses, the hobbles keeping them close, cropping grass with a satisfying sound of their teeth tearing at the wet growth, grinding it in their back molars.
Jerry started a fire, just as expertly as he did everything else, his movements calculated, sparse. When the dry grass and twigs were cheerfully burning, he added heavier dead growth from the trees, filled a small granite coffee pot with water from a metal flask, threw in a scoop of coffee, arranged it on an iron grate, then stretched out with his back to his bedroll, his hands crossed in front of his stomach.
All this time Hannah stood like an unnecessary fence post, feeling about as useful and attractive, wishing he’d ask her to help, to do something with her hands.
He looked up at her as if remembering her presence. “Sit down, Hannah.”
“I will if I want to.”
He grinned unexpectedly. “Or, you can stand there all night. Do whatever you want. Makes no difference to me.”
Hannah’s face flamed. “You know, if you wanted my company, you’re not very appreciative.”
“Sure I am. I appreciate the fact that you’re standing there.” He laughed, a short, hard sound.
“I won’t sit with you until you promise not to ask me any questions that are none of your business.”
He didn’t reply, just took the toe of his boot and stirred up the fire, sending a spray of sparks up toward the gray, early night sky.
“Sit down,” he said, finally. She sat.
“Look, I meant well in asking you to accompany me, thinking you’d be happy to go on this adventure since having to give up the cattle drive. But if you’re going to be as soft and welcoming as a cactus, you may as well get on that horse and ride on home.”
Hannah didn’t say anything, merely drew up her knees, smoothed her skirt down over her feet, rested her chin on her knees, her arms around her legs, and stared darkly into the fire.
A night owl screeched its high trilling note, sending shivers up and down her spine. The grass around them waved, rattling the night song of the plains, a constant rustling, like waves of water.
“So stop asking me stuff I don’t like to answer.”
“All right. What do you want to talk about?”
“Nothing. Drink coffee. Listen to the owls.”
He poured her a cup of bitter, boiling hot coffee, strong enough to make her splutter. “This stuff is horrible!”
“You think?”
“I can’t drink it.”
“Sure you can. Want me to add some water?”
When she nodded, he got to his feet, tipped the metal flask and dribbled a few splashes of cooling water into her cup. She watched his hands, brown and calloused, the nails rounded and clean, the fingers long and tapered. He had nice hands. They were very close to her own. She’d just have to lift a finger to touch his knuckle.
For a wild instant, she wanted to do just that.
He moved away. She felt his absence like an ever-widening chasm.
“Tell me about you, Hannah. Tell me about your life. What makes you the way you are?” He settled back against the cushioning of his bedroll, his eyes squinting in the firelight. “I was hoping if I’d be alone with you, I could uncover some of the barriers, the many layers of protection you seem to wear.”
“What for?”
He grimaced, swallowed his anger. So blunt, so forthright, always jousting, her sword of defense held aloft. He decided to meet her with a sword of his own.
“You fascinate me.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“What I said.”
“How could I fascinate anyone?”
Jerry believed this statement was real. Had she no idea of her own beauty, her own allure, the captivating eyes and the mouth that smiled only on occasion, like a rare flower that only showed its face for a day, then wilted away? The fiery temperament, the joy she had shown at her success today?
He sighed and watched her face. “Well for one thing, not too many girls would have returned to North Dakota after all you experienced. You rose from the ashes, literally. You made it through the worst winter in a decade, your cows intact.”
“We lost one.”
“Right. But today you showed your dreams are now reality. Your cows are on the way to turning a profit. It’s quite amazing.”
“You think? Mam says it was the grace of God alone.”
“You believe that?”
“Of course. I was raised a God-fearing young Amish child.”
“You will remain?”
“Why are you so intent on my answering that question?”
“Your …” Here Jerry waved a hand along the back of his head, his eyes squinting, as if trying to gauge her response before he aired his opinion. “Your covering, or absence of it.”
“You want to know why I never wear one? I’ll tell you. It’s because the strings get in the way. It gets dirty, it wasn’t made for ranch work, and there is no bishop or minister to come tell me what I can do and what I can’t. This little triangle of a handkerchief suits me just fine.”
Jerry nodded. “Okay.”
“I’m Amish.”
“Then come to church.”
“If I come to church, everyone will think I approve of them. It will be like telling them it’s all right that they rode that train out here to our North Dakota, our prairie. They’re going to keep coming until we have a regular old settlement like the one we left. We’ll be right back into it—neighbors, gossip, scrambling to make money, all of it. I don’t like people. They give me a headache.”
Jerry listened, said, “Like your father.”
Hannah nodded, then shook her head back and forth, correcting the nod. “I’m not like him. You should know that.”
“You’re a loner like he was.”
“Well, maybe. But there it stops.”
“Tell me about your childhood.”
“Why would I? There’s nothing to tell.” But she did. She told him about the farm causing her father’s worry, the money never quite reaching to cover the bills, her mother’s absolute devotion, her backbone like jelly, always submitting.
“Dat could do no wrong,” Hannah said. “That was nice, for us as children. Our home was secure, a warm place filled with the smell of baking bread, the odor of ironed linen and cotton, wooden spools to make towers, cracked linoleum, and the smell of Lava soap. Mam was an excellent housekeeper, taught us well, allowed us to have baby kittens and piglets, lambs and baby goats in cardboard boxes behind the stove when they were newborn.
Hannah hesitated. “The hard part began when we lost the farm. My father did a very foolish, untrustworthy thing, and we left. We left amid horrible rumors and shame on our heads like rain. It hurt a lot. I was about ready to start my rumschpringa, so naturally I felt the cruelty of our downfall. I resented my father a lot. Anger built up inside of me, I suppose.”
She spread her hands, shrugged, her face pale in the glowing coals of the fire. “So now you know why I’m, well … the way I am.”
“It was your father’s downfall,” Jerry said quietly.
“I don’t know. I guess. I didn’t like the men who came to our house to help. They made Mam cry. Dat was quiet, brooding. Everything, my whole world, changed after we lost the farm.”
“You weren’t the only ones. Many families lost everything. City people, English businessmen, thousands of ordinary wage workers. It was not unusual to not meet your mortgage payments.”
“I know. But when it happens to your own family, it doesn’t make it any easier.”
Jerry nodded. “You know, I came out here with my horses to get away from Lancaster County, just like you. I loved the idea of starting a new settlement. The thrill of trying to make it. You should see what we did to that old wreck of a house. We’re just getting started, and we’re doing it as cheaply as possible, but you should absolutely come over and look at it.”
Why was she disappointed that he didn’t say he came out h
ere for her? Hadn’t he said that once?
She should not think these thoughts, ever. She was failing her own resolve to stay single, untroubled by thoughts of love, a genuine slippery slope into unhappiness and betrayal.
But his face had an arresting quality. She couldn’t seem to stop herself from watching him, the way his chin jutted a bit, the cleft in it just made for a fingertip to touch. His dark eyes, so often half-closed with his heavy eyelids, or squinting in the firelight or sunlight. His nose was wide at the top, stubby at the bottom, with perfectly formed nostrils.
Well, she could think these thoughts, then hide them away. He’d never have to know.
Jerry admired her ability to remain quiet, to spend long minutes in restful silence. The first time he met her, this had caught his attention. He would pursue her further, unafraid, if it wouldn’t be for the fact that she was not devoted to her faith, her birthright, her culture.
His peace lay in the love of the brotherhood, the rightness of it. How could he love God if he could not love the brethren? He was steadfast in his baptismal vows, living his life as defined by the will of God and the acceptance of the blood of the Lord Jesus.
He could not be certain that Hannah wanted to share his beliefs. But this, this evening by the fire, on the prairie, was something. She had spoken far more than he had allowed himself to hope.
Suddenly, she got to her feet, turned her back and rid herself of the cumbersome trousers, kicked them into the grass, returned to the fire, and began to unroll her blanket. She stood, hands on her hips, her head to one side, considering. “No pillow?” she asked.
“Your saddle.”
“It’s getting awful cold.”
“That blanket is one hundred percent wool. You won’t be cold.” He got to his feet, brought her saddle over, and stood by her bedroll with a question in his eyes.
“Two people together are much warmer than one,” he said, his eyes warm with humor.
All she said, with the coolness of an icicle was, “You think?” Then promptly wrapped her coat tighter around her slim form, slid into her blanket and, knocking her head up and down on the saddle a few times, grimaced, and complained, “I won’t sleep a wink. To use a saddle for a pillow can only be comfortable for giraffes. My neck should be about three times longer. It stinks. It smells like horses. Why couldn’t you bring at least a small pillow?