“I shot these for you.” Uri dropped the squirrels at Annalisa’s feet. The pup immediately stuck his nose into one of the stiff carcasses. Uri booted the dog and sent it scampering with a yelp.
Gretchen gave a cry of protest.
“You need to train your dog,” Uri admonished the girl.
Annalisa grabbed the squirrels before Snowdrop could investigate further and tossed them by their tails over her shoulder as if flinging around dead squirrels was an everyday occurrence. Then she slid a towel off the basket, lifted out a jug, and handed it to Carl.
Too tired and thirsty to resist, he raised it to his parched lips. The cool well water was a blessed relief. After guzzling more than his fair share, he passed the jug to Uri.
Carl nodded at Annalisa and wiped his arm across his mouth. “Thank you.”
She held out two thick slices of brown bread with a piece of cheese wedged between. “For your midday meal.”
Gratefulness swelled in his chest. “You’re an angel.”
Pink blossomed in her cheeks.
He took a ravenous bite and was surprised that something so simple could be so tasty. “It’s very good. Just what I needed.”
At his words she lifted her head almost as if she couldn’t resist looking at him anymore. In the sunshine, her eyes reflected the clear blue sky overhead. Wonder mingled with a thousand questions in the wide expanse of her gaze.
Did she sense he wasn’t who he claimed to be? Was she wondering—like Uri—why he was so weak and a complete imbecile in farming matters?
He took another bite of the bread and cheese and glanced away, to the far fields that were still dotted with stumps.
Lord help him. What could he tell her? He swallowed through a tight throat.
The best course of action was to keep his distance from her and not allow himself to become overly friendly. Maybe then she wouldn’t ask too many questions.
Forcing his aching muscles to perform, he lowered himself to his knees next to Gretchen, making sure to turn his back on Annalisa. “How would you like a story, princess?”
The little girl nodded eagerly.
He held out his hand to her. “Your mama isn’t the only one who knows stories.”
She looked at Annalisa with wide, pleading eyes.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Annalisa nodding.
Gretchen smiled and drew closer, placing her tiny fingers into his.
He nodded at the stumps in the distance. “You know what those stumps remind me of?”
She shook her head.
“Trolls. They look like fat, grumpy trolls.” He pulled her onto his lap and was surprised when she cuddled against his chest. “I’ll tell you the story about three billy goats and a troll that lived under a bridge.”
Gretchen peered up at him with her beautiful baby eyes.
He smiled.
Maybe he could survive his time in Michigan after all. How hard could it be to make it through a couple more weeks?
Carl tossed one more pitchfork full of hay into the horse stall regardless of the scant amount that actually made it to the floor.
His eyes burned from the effort of keeping them open. He couldn’t feel his limbs. And he didn’t know if he’d ever be able to straighten his back again.
But he’d lived through his first day of farm life.
Of course, Uri had to show him how to unhook the plow and how to care for the horses. Carl had never been more disgusted with a chore than he was at shoveling horse droppings out of the stall. Uri had assured him the job needed to be done on a daily basis, along with replacing the soiled hay with a fresh covering.
Carl stood back and surveyed his attempts. He’d spilled hay everywhere, stepped in manure, and sloshed most of the water out of the pail before he’d been able to dump it into the watering trough. But otherwise he’d managed to complete the work—albeit more work in one day than any sane man should complete in a year.
“I think you feel the same way,” Carl said to Old Red, who’d paused in his munching to stare at him, as if he too were baffled by Carl’s ineptness. “No creature—man or beast—should ever have to do this much work in one day.”
With a weary sigh Carl shuffled toward the door, giving the horse one last glare. “I don’t suppose you have a cane you could spare?”
The steady chop of an ax out in the barnyard beckoned him. Was Uri still working?
Carl shook his head. Did these people ever stop and rest?
He pushed his way out the door, letting the freezing wind bathe his face and wake him.
Through the growing darkness of the early evening, a single lantern hung from the clothesline and spilled light across the barnyard, illuminating the steel of the double-bitted ax as it swung through the air. The blade made contact with the cordwood, followed by the swift crunch of splitting maple.
“Uri, my boy,” he called. “Are you planning to work all night?”
Carl hobbled forward, wishing he didn’t have to hike back to the Bernthals’ and could drop into the hay in Annalisa’s barn instead.
Uri paused in his chopping and turned. Only the rounded abdomen and gentle curves didn’t belong to Uri.
“Annalisa?” Carl straightened and rushed forward, his feet moving at a surprising speed in spite of how tired he was.
She flipped her long braid over her shoulder and watched him approach.
“You shouldn’t be out here chopping wood,” he said, reaching for her ax. “Not in your condition. It cannot be safe for you or your baby.”
She didn’t resist as he took the ax from her. She cocked her head. “It’s no trouble for me,” she said. “I’ve always done the chopping, even when my husband was alive.”
Carl shook his head. “How chivalrous of him.” He mentally measured the length of cordwood that remained near the stump she was using for the splitting. Then he studied the edge of the ax, which didn’t look sharp enough to cut through much of anything.
But what did he know?
If Annalisa could slice the maple without much effort, he could take over the task for her. How hard could it be?
“From now on I’ll chop the wood for you.” He puffed out his chest and gauged the distance between the blade and the wood, along with the velocity he would need for a sufficient impact.
She stood back, giving him plenty of room.
He swung the ax through the air and had to bite back a cry as his aching muscles protested against more work. The blade nicked the bark and sent a piece flying into the air.
It landed in the mud near their feet.
Maybe chopping wood wasn’t quite as easy as Annalisa had made it look. But certainly he could do it if he aimed more carefully.
He steadied the cord of maple. “The wind threw me off.”
In the flickering light of the lantern, Annalisa’s brow lifted but she didn’t say anything.
He wrenched the ax over his aching shoulder, focused on the center of the cordwood, and swung the blade down.
Again he managed to chip off a corner of the wood. But that was it. The rest toppled from the stump.
He let the heavy head of the ax drop to the ground, leaned his weight upon it, and stared at the obstinate piece of wood.
Was he to be incompetent even at something as simple as chopping wood?
He couldn’t look at Annalisa, couldn’t imagine what she must think of him now. After how little he’d accomplished all day, she must wonder who he really was and why he knew so little about simple chores her people took for granted.
“I guess you’d probably like the wood chopped a little bit bigger than that.” He forced a grin and nudged with his foot one of the chips he’d managed to take off.
She nodded. “Yes. A bit bigger would be helpful.”
Only then did he chance a glance at her. She seemed to be fighting back a smile.
“Go ahead. Laugh.” His grin widened. “I deserve it. I can admit—I’m a complete imbecile.”
Her smi
le broke free. And even though she didn’t laugh, he could see the hint of laughter dancing in her eyes.
He had the feeling she wasn’t used to smiling, much less laughing.
“I suppose after my performance today, you’d like to hand me back over to the duke?”
“Maybe I will.” As soon as her return jest was out, she ducked her head, almost as if she feared his response.
Couldn’t she see how much he enjoyed bantering with her? “If you must return me to the duke,” he persisted, “then at least persuade him not to put me back in the dungeon.”
Her gaze jerked up, and her smile faded. “You were in a dungeon?”
“Yes. And only hours away from losing my head.”
“How horrible.”
He rubbed his blistered fingers against the grimy skin of his neck. The thought of how close he’d come to dying sobered him. He ought to be thankful God had spared his life, even if the current conditions were less than ideal.
He was alive. Couldn’t he make the best of the rudimentary living situation for a short time?
The cool evening air, the endless canopy of stars overhead, the strong earthy scent of freshly plowed soil infused his weary body and breathed fresh energy into him. The gentle strength of the woman standing before him spread into him too.
The unasked questions radiated from her eyes, but there was also something else. Deeply ingrained reservations about the roles between men and women? Perhaps fear of retribution? Whatever it was, he knew she wouldn’t pry into his life.
She wouldn’t ask him about his past, or why he couldn’t do the simple things that most people knew how to do. No matter how much she might want to question him, she wouldn’t.
“I hope you’ll forgive me for my bumbling efforts today,” he said softly. “I may not be the best help, but I assure you I’ll work my hardest.”
Through the increasing dusk she gave him a tentative smile. “That’s all I could ask for.”
Her words were meant to reassure him. But suddenly all he could think about was how she deserved to know the truth, even if she wouldn’t ask.
Chapter
6
Someone had been tampering with the land along Mill Creek.
Annalisa let the quail carcass slip off her shoulder and fall to the ground with a thud. She bent to examine the stones along the water’s edge.
Ja, someone had been there. Several of the large ones that she and Gretchen liked to sit on had been moved.
“Take off shoes?” Gretchen asked, pointing to the recently thawed water near the bank.
“Nein, liebchen.” Annalisa’s voice was sharp, causing Gretchen to cease from tugging off her boot. “It’s much too cold.” In fact, in some places—particularly around the center island—drifts of snow and ice still lingered.
But it wouldn’t be long before all the ice was gone. With the thaw, the logs from the lumber camps farther inland would soon cover the river, from bank to bank. The river drivers, with their spiked caulk boots, would be hard at work, doing the dangerous job of pushing the logs along, breaking up jams, and steering the logs with the current until they reached the sawmills in Forestville on Lake Huron. From there, the cut boards and shingles would be loaded onto steamboats, eventually to be delivered to southern ports in Detroit.
Annalisa studied a boot print, fresh in the mud, tracing it with her fingers. Was it Ward’s?
She followed the man-sized footprints to the water’s edge, where they disappeared among tangled branches and dead leaves that had become snagged among larger branches and rocks. The damp, moldy scent of the ground mingled with the muddy odor of the swollen creek, which overflowed its banks and poured over the natural fall with the steady rushing and crashing she usually found so soothing.
But not today.
A frigid gust of wind slipped under her thin coat and climbed up her back, pushing her to her full height. She glanced around, clutching her rifle in fingers stiff with cold, readying it, aiming it at the unseen enemy.
But the shrubs didn’t move, except to sway with the spring breeze and bend under the drizzle of icy rain. The dismal layers of clouds overhead reminded her of winter, and she’d been hoping all morning they wouldn’t have a spring snowstorm. Even though Carl had plowed all week, he’d made slow progress, and snow would slow him down even more and delay the planting of the spring wheat.
“Another quail, Mama?” Gretchen eyed the overgrown brush, where Annalisa had trained her rifle.
“Nein. We have all we need today.” Annalisa scanned the waterfront, taking in the few large oaks and willows that Jacob Buel hadn’t cleared when he’d first purchased the land years ago. Like many in the lumber industry, he’d cut down the profitable white pine. Once he’d gotten what he needed, he parceled out the land and sold it to the immigrants for farming.
The tangle of brush and sticks and windfall lay in piles among the stumps still waiting for the burning that would eventually free her forty acres for full-scale farming.
“Shoot squirrel?” Gretchen asked, watching Annalisa’s face. Her eyes were wide and questioning as if sensing Annalisa’s unease.
Annalisa gave the gray, leafless foliage a last scouring. Whoever had been there earlier was either good at hiding or long gone.
She lowered her rifle, picked up the quail by the legs, and slung it across her shoulder. After the long winter the quail wasn’t as plump as the one she’d shot in the fall, but it would fill their bellies nevertheless.
“Time for us to head back.” She tucked the rifle under her arm and held out a hand to Gretchen. Carl would be ready for his midday meal soon. And if she hoped to have the quail ready for his supper, she would need to make fast work of the plucking and dressing.
A movement on the strip of land in the middle of the creek caught her attention and stopped her. She narrowed her eyes and examined the island from its wider western end to the eastern tip. It was covered with an overgrowth of brush and several tall beech trees.
She held her breath and resisted the urge to lift her rifle, even as she had the chilling sensation that someone was on the island, watching her. Yet the only movement was the red flash of a cardinal and the lighter brown of his mate as they fluttered to a lower branch, likely building their nest.
As much as she loved the creek and its beauty, she’d grown to despise the fact that their farmland bordered it. If only Hans had chosen land somewhere else, how different things might have been. The day Ward had approached him about buying the land for the sawmill, Hans had started down the path of destruction. All he’d seen was the opportunity to build the mill himself and become rich through it.
That’s when he’d started taking their hard-earned cash over to Saxonia Hall and gambling. He’d hoped to earn a quick profit off the money so he could begin purchasing the supplies needed to construct the mill.
But all Hans had done was squander their money. And instead of having more to invest in the mill, they chanced losing the land altogether. He’d lost his own life as a result of his foolishness, and now he put hers and Gretchen’s in danger as well.
Annalisa stared hard at the island for a long moment. She stifled another shiver and then tugged Gretchen forward by her hand. “Come with Mama.”
“Another story?” Gretchen skipped to match Annalisa’s pace.
Even though Annalisa couldn’t keep from tossing glances over her shoulder during the walk back to the cabin, she managed to tell Gretchen a story. When she passed by the east field where Carl had been plowing that morning and saw that he’d finally finished, she gave a silent prayer of thanksgiving. But her prayer stuck in her throat when she saw the door of the cabin ajar.
What was he doing inside? What could he possibly need in the cabin?
What if he found her crock with her savings in it? He wouldn’t steal it, would he?
Her mind told her Carl had proven he wasn’t like Hans—not in any way—at least so far. Still, her heartbeat pattered with fear.
“
Quickly, liebchen!” She tugged Gretchen faster over the uneven ground, dodging mud puddles and fighting against the wind and drizzle. With each step Annalisa imagined looking into the interior of her clay crock and seeing only dark emptiness. She pictured herself turning it over and nothing falling out. She imagined the past months of savings being gone, of having to start over as she’d had to do whenever Hans had taken the money.
By the time she reached the cabin door and wrenched it open, her breath came in gasps. All the past disappointments poured through the cracks in her heart and pooled there, weighing her down, making her chest ache as it had so many times before with Hans.
Carl was kneeling in front of the fire and looked up at her with guilt upon his features. “I hope you don’t mind I collected your sap.”
The wooden bucket she used to collect sap sat on the floor next to him and was empty.
“I decided to boil it down for you.” He turned back to the fire. He’d taken off his hat, and dark strands of his damp hair stuck to his forehead. He’d also shed his coat and rolled up his sleeves.
Instead of the usual kettle, he’d poured the sap into the rectangular pan she used in butchering. He’d placed the ends of the pan on even stones and had raked the hottest coals from the fire underneath the pan. He’d also made a contraption of some kind that was fanning the fire.
For a long moment, she could only stare at him. That he’d collected sap and carried the heavy load back to the cabin for her was unusual enough. But to begin boiling it for her? Why would he do such a thing?
Of course, the sap wasn’t flowing as much as it had in the beginning. But still, the collecting and boiling had kept her busy in her spare moments.
“Having the heat spread over the larger surface area will speed the evaporation process,” he said, sitting back on his heels and watching the steam rising in a steady white cloud up the chimney.
Gretchen, with Snowdrop in tow, crossed the room to investigate the new boiling method.
Jody Hedlund Page 9