© 2013 by Jody Hedlund
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2013
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
ISBN 978-1-4412-6118-2
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
This is a work of historical reconstruction; the appearances of certain historical figures are therefore inevitable. All other characters, however, are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
The internet addresses, email addresses, and phone numbers in this book are accurate at the time of publication. They are provided as a resource. Baker Publishing Group does not endorse them or vouch for their content or permanence.
Cover design by Jennifer Parker
Cover photography by Mike Habermann Photography, LLC
To my dad, the German farmer
For all the fields you planted,
weeds you pulled, and lives you touched.
Even though you’re in heaven,
your crops are flourishing.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
Author’s Note
About the Author
Books by Jody Hedlund
Back Ads
Back Cover
Chapter
1
FALL, 1880
FORESTVILLE, MICHIGAN
Hans had stolen all the egg money—again.
Annalisa Werner’s chapped fingers trembled against the frayed edge of the apron she’d turned into a basket. The burden of walnuts stretched the thin linen so that it seemed to groan in protest.
Her husband had gone too far this time.
“I can’t bear another day of his foolishness.” In the quietness of the thick grove, her native Deutsch tongue echoed harshly. And yet the words were only a whisper compared to the clamoring inside her aching heart.
Ahead, Gretchen cocked her head, a gentle breeze teasing her silky blond hair. “Mama?” The two-year-old peered up at Annalisa with her trusting baby eyes.
“Ach, liebchen.” Annalisa forced a smile to her tired lips. “Did you find another nut for Mama?”
The little girl held out a faded green fuzzy ball.
“You are a big helper to Mama.” Annalisa took the fleshy fruit and added it to the pile in her apron. “Now can you find another?”
They would need every nut they could gather if they were to survive the harsh Michigan winter that would soon be upon them—especially since Hans had found the crock she’d hidden in the darkest corner under the bed in their small log cabin.
She shook her head, and the long braid down her back swished with all the anger that had been tightening her body since she’d learned of her husband’s latest gambling trip.
“Who’s the dummkopf now? Who?”
She was the dummkopf, that’s who. She should have known better.
She thought she’d finally found a good hiding place, somewhere she could keep their pittance of earnings safe from his wasteful ways. Besides, after gambling and drinking away much of their profit from the recent harvest, she’d hoped he’d learned his lesson.
And yet, when she’d returned from town a short while ago and pulled out the crock to add the money she’d earned from selling eggs and butter, she’d discovered that everything she’d saved over the summer was gone.
He hadn’t left a cent.
Just like the last time.
Ja, she was the dummkopf.
Dry leaves crunched under the thick calluses of her bare feet as she followed Gretchen’s dawdling footsteps. How would she be able to give her sweet little girl a better future if she couldn’t keep Hans from using up their savings?
A buried cry of distress scraped at Annalisa’s chest and pushed for release.
If only she didn’t need a husband . . .
“More, Mama.” Gretchen picked up another walnut. Its brownish-green flesh was gnawed away, revealing a rotten, empty cavern.
“That one is no good.” Annalisa shook her head. “Some wild creature has already eaten the nut.”
The October sunshine ducked through the fluttering cascade of dying leaves overhead and touched Gretchen’s hair, turning it the same soft gold as the butter Annalisa had churned early that morning.
“You have the same color hair as Rapunzel.” This time she gave her daughter a real smile, one that contained all the love that filled every crevice of her soul.
Gretchen dropped the nut and lifted her beaming face. “Story?”
Annalisa combed the loose strands of the little girl’s hair off her forehead, seeing in her daughter a miniature reflection of herself—from the smattering of freckles across her nose to the wide lilac eyes to the golden hair.
Her daughter was like her in almost every way, even in her longing for fanciful stories of princesses, knights in shining armor, and true love. The difference was Gretchen hadn’t learned yet—like she had—that fairy tales were only dreams and that there was no such thing as a happily ever after.
“Nein, liebchen. No story. Not now.” Annalisa straightened and pushed down the sudden uncomfortable wave of nausea. “Tonight. At bedtime. I’ll tell you the story about the princess who tended the geese.”
Gretchen clasped her hands together and smiled. “I like ‘The Goose Girl.’”
“I can’t think of a story you don’t like.” Annalisa tweaked the girl’s nose gently. Then she took a deep breath and caught the smokiness of burning brush.
The smoke didn’t alarm her. In fact, the billows of black clouds rising to the south of the cornfield brought nothing more than a rush of renewed anger.
At least now she knew where to find Hans—if she wanted to.
Similar to many of their immigrant friends on the adjoining farms, Hans had been spending part of his workdays clearing more land so they would have additional acreage available for planting in the spring. But of the forty acres he’d purchased on loan four years ago, he hadn’t cleared as much as their neighbors.
If only he hadn’t been so busy running off to Saxonia Hall every chance he had. If only he thought about how his wastefulness would lead to another sparse and hungry winter for her and Gretchen.
Maybe she should march over to where he was working and confront him about taking the money. She’d given up her dreams of a fairy-tale life long ago, but that didn’t mean Gretchen had to suffer, did it?
Annalisa’s fingers tightened again on the tattered edge of her apron.
Did she dare try to talk to him about her concerns? If she didn’t, how would they be able to
keep their farm? How would they survive?
“Come with Mama.” With one hand Annalisa clutched the apron full of walnuts, and with the other she reached for Gretchen, trying to keep from trembling. “Give Mama your hand and we’ll take a walk.”
Gretchen’s chubby fingers slid into hers. “Go to river?”
“Maybe later.” As much as she’d grown to despise the river that ran through the property and all the problems it had caused with E. B. Ward and with Hans’s gambling, she couldn’t deny the delight it brought to Gretchen. The river’s edge was always a restful spot, a cool retreat for her sore feet, and a place where she could escape her troubles, even if only for a moment.
“Nein, first we must go speak with your papa.” Annalisa started forward but slowed her steps to match those of the little girl. Gretchen was barefoot like her, and although the skin on their feet was thick and toughened after a summer without shoes, Annalisa chose her path carefully over the sharp twigs and through the crackling leaves that had already fallen.
“Soon we must get you shoes,” she said, not knowing how they would afford a new pair now. Hans had never provided them with essentials such as shoes. To Hans, getting the horse shod took priority over buying shoes for a mere daughter. He would only tell her a horse was more valuable to the farm than a girl.
At the edge of the clearing she stopped and took another deep breath of the smoky air. She exhaled, but a dizzying wave of nausea swept over her again.
“Ach.” She swallowed hard, fighting against the unsettling sensation, focusing on the field ahead.
They’d raised three acres of corn, which was one crop that would grow among the stumps left from the clearing. Of course, they’d lost some of the crop to the deer, raccoons, and turkeys, but they’d been able to take a good portion to the docks in Forestville to send to market in Detroit.
They’d also grown wheat and oats in the cleared land closer to the cabin and barn. The crops had been plentiful and had brought them the cash they desperately needed.
Until Hans had so foolishly gambled away the profit . . .
Pain twisted through her. She had to prepare herself for the possibility that they might end up homeless. What hope did they have of meeting their loan deadline next fall if Hans kept squandering their hard-earned money?
Maybe if she pleaded with him to stop . . .
“Let’s go find your papa.” Annalisa forced her feet forward, trembling at the intensity of her need to keep him from harming them any more than he already had.
Could she really confront her husband?
If she did, she knew she’d make him angry again. In their three years of marriage, he hadn’t used physical force against her. But he wouldn’t hesitate to punish her in other, more subtle ways—as he usually did whenever she displeased him.
Only the past evening he’d forced her to skip supper because she’d forgotten to grease one of his traps. It hadn’t mattered that she’d been busy all day, pulling up the last of the root vegetables—carrots, beets, and turnips—and covering them with sand in their shallow cellar in preparation for winter.
Her brother Uri had witnessed Hans’s discipline and had later brought her something to eat. But even so, should she risk angering Hans again?
Gretchen stumbled next to her, and Annalisa clutched her daughter to keep her from falling. Thick clods of dirt littered the ground as if trying to stop Annalisa from going to him. Dried, empty cornstalks snagged at her skirt like brittle fingernails attempting to grab her and hold her back.
“Gott, help me.” She pulled Gretchen to a stop. Why did she think Hans would care what she had to say?
“Pray, Mama?” Gretchen peered up at her.
“Ja, let’s pray.” Annalisa closed her eyes. But even as her soul cried out to Gott, her plea died on her lips. Gott wouldn’t care about the problems of a young woman on a fall afternoon—especially a poor immigrant girl like herself. If Gott were like all the other men in her life, then He was busy with more important things.
Gott was probably at the farm across the road, helping her family, especially her vater. After all, Vater was as religious as a good Lutheran could be and deserved Gott’s help.
“Look.” Gretchen tugged Annalisa’s hand. “Papa’s sleeping.”
Annalisa’s eyes flew open, and she straightened with a start. “What? Your papa? Sleeping? Impossible.”
She followed the direction of Gretchen’s finger, and the tumult in her mind came to an abrupt halt.
There, on the ground next to a pile of burning slashings, lay Hans. From the middle of the cornfield where they stood, it did indeed appear as if he’d decided to take a nap.
With the flames blazing nearby and the sparks shooting into the air, why would he do something so irresponsible?
Like all the settlers, he knew the dangers of fires fanning out of control and spreading.
“Come, liebchen.” She walked faster, and Gretchen’s short legs had to work hard to keep up. “He must be sick.”
Why would Hans waste time sleeping when he could amuse himself in more entertaining ways like playing cards and drinking?
Unless he was sick?
When she reached the edge of the cornfield, she halted with an abruptness that caused Gretchen to bump into her backside.
She eyed the bright flames dancing in the undergrowth of bushes and vines piled into a windrow. The dry burning brush popped like gunshots in the silent afternoon.
The distant scolding and chattering of a migrating flock of passenger pigeons echoed through the stillness. Otherwise, the farm was too quiet, too motionless.
“Hans?” She couldn’t bring herself to move another step toward him.
“Wake up, Papa.” Gretchen let go of her hand and skipped ahead. For as little attention as Hans gave their daughter, the girl’s love never wavered.
But even as Gretchen bent over to pat his back, wariness wormed through Annalisa’s unsettled stomach. “Don’t touch him!”
At her sharp command, Gretchen pulled her hand back as if she’d burned her fingers.
“Don’t touch,” Annalisa said again, trying to force a calmness to her voice she didn’t feel.
Gretchen stepped back, fear flittering in her widening eyes.
Annalisa forced her feet forward until she stood over her husband. “Hans? Are you sick?”
He didn’t move.
She stooped and jabbed him through the coarse linen of his homespun shirt. “If you’re not well, I’ll tend the fire for you.”
Still he didn’t respond.
Her heart thudded like a dasher beating up and down against fresh cream. Slowly she reached for his arm. At her slight nudge it fell away from his face, revealing charred skin with patches of roasted pink flesh underneath. Some places had burned away down to the white bone. Amidst the blackness, his eyes were open and stared unseeingly straight ahead.
A scream burned in her throat. “Gott, help us . . .” She stumbled backward, tripping and falling painfully to her backside, spilling the nuts they’d collected. “Oh, Gott, help us!”
Gretchen began to move forward.
“Nein!” Annalisa scrambled toward the girl, grabbed her and buried the little girl’s face into her empty apron. “Nein! Don’t look.”
What had happened to Hans?
Her body shook with sudden chills. She wanted to run away and hide, but her gaze returned to the awful sight.
Blood seeped from a deep gash near his hairline. Bright crimson smeared his sandy hair, turning it a muddy brown.
As angry as she was with Hans, as much as she despised his wayward ways, she hadn’t wanted him to die.
The truth was, she couldn’t survive without a husband. Not in this wilderness. Not as a woman alone on a forty-acre farm.
Bile rose in her throat.
A fly buzzed above the oozing and blistered flesh of his forehead.
Her stomach revolted. She turned away and retched on the hard barren ground.
“Annal
isa must have a new husband.” Vater’s voice rose above the loud deliberating that had been ongoing since the men started their meal in the log cabin farmhouse that belonged to her parents.
“We are not disagreeing with you on this, Peter.” Herr Pastor reached for another slice of the thick brown bread on the platter in the center of the table.
With a crock of butter in one hand and a coffeepot in the other, Annalisa rushed to Herr Pastor’s spot. She plopped the crock next to him.
“Thank you, Annalisa.” He smiled and held out his mug for a refill. The whiskers around his mouth were spotted with the crumbs of all he’d already eaten.
She nodded but couldn’t form her lips into a smile, not even the barest semblance of one. She hadn’t been able to smile since yesterday—not since finding Hans.
Some of the neighbors had come to the consensus that Hans had merely suffered an accident, had hit his head and fallen unconscious into hot coals. But others—including Vater—decided that the greedy businessman, E. B. Ward, had murdered Hans so that he could finally get the land and build his mill.
It was all anyone had talked about at the funeral that afternoon, and now at the meal following the service. The men crowded together on the hand-hewn benches and scant chairs around the long table.
“We don’t disagree with you,” Herr Pastor said again. “But I’m only saying we may need to consider finding a God-fearing man from outside our own people. James McCann might be an Irishman, but he’s a Protestant and a hard worker—”
“Absolutely not!” Vater slammed the table. The spoons and knives rattled. Coffee sloshed over the edges of the steins. And silence descended through the crowded room. Even the women who’d clustered near the wood-burning stove ceased their chattering.
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