Jody Hedlund

by A Noble Groom

  She gave a soft sigh against his hand, and an instant later the tender warmth of her lips pressed against his palm. She let the fullness of her mouth linger with a familiarity that she’d never shown before.

  The sweetness of the touch sent a shiver up his arm. Suddenly all he could think about was pulling her into his arms. The need to be near her, to hold her, to touch her overwhelmed him. He wanted to make sure she was all right.

  But his arms wouldn’t work, even though he willed them to reach for her and draw her near.

  She nuzzled her nose against his wrist. He lifted his finger and caressed her cheek, letting the cool smoothness of her skin soothe him.

  She gave a gasp and sat up.

  “Good morning.” His whisper was hoarse.

  With another sharp intake of breath she dropped his hand and shifted her eyes, but not before he caught the mortification in them. “I didn’t know you were awake.”

  “With that kind of nursing, maybe I should go back to sleep.”

  She lowered her head. Her hair hung in loose waves around her face. It was free from the usual braid and shimmered in the sunlight that cascaded through the open window.

  “How are you feeling?” She peeked at him, her eyes big and clear and full of the sky at dawn.

  Once again he was overcome by the need to pull her next to him, to feel her kisses against his hand.

  But she sat back. “I didn’t think you’d live through the night.”

  “You’re beautiful.” The words came out as a croak. He knew he shouldn’t say them, that he should stick to his resolve to maintain a platonic relationship with her, but he was too tired and his defenses too weak.

  Her eyes widened.

  He lifted his fingers—all he could manage with the little strength he had.

  She looked at his hand.

  “Kiss me again.”

  She began to shake her head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  “Please.”

  She started to bend, then paused.

  His gaze held hers, and he knew he was silently begging. And yet he didn’t care.

  With a soft sigh she moved forward until her lips made contact with his palm again. The lightness of the touch and the whisper of warmth sent a surge of renewed life through his body.

  But suddenly he was exhausted and couldn’t keep his eyes open a second longer. As he slipped back into a deep sleep, this time he knew he wasn’t in hell.

  He was on the very brink of heaven itself.

  Carl wavered in and out of sleep. Every time he awoke, Annalisa was nearby. She forced him to drink tea and sugary medicine and tried to get him to sip broth.

  He didn’t know how much time had passed, whether hours or days. All he knew was that God had spared his life. He’d survived the worst of the fever, and now he needed to get better.

  A sweet fruitiness wafted in the air, beckoning him to wakefulness. He opened his eyes and took a deep breath. His stomach rumbled with the pangs of hunger.

  A quick glance around the cabin and he found what he wanted more than anything . . .

  Annalisa.

  She hadn’t kissed him again—at least that he’d been aware of. But that hadn’t stopped him from dreaming of her lips upon his flesh and wishing he’d awaken to her kisses once more.

  He shifted so that he could watch her without her knowing it.

  She bent over the hearth and removed what appeared to be a pie. She placed it on the table, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath of the steam bubbling through slits in a golden crust.

  His mouth watered, and for the first time in days he wanted to eat, especially the pie.

  Outside, the cluck of the hens and the squeals of the piglets indicated that farm life had gone on just fine without him.

  Except . . .

  He strained to hear the familiar yip and the echoing girlish giggles that had become part of the daily noises he’d come to expect. But the sweet sounds were strangely absent.

  He pushed himself up to his elbow, and at the exertion beads of sweat formed on his forehead. “Where’s Gretchen?”

  Annalisa gave a start. The sadness that filled her eyes at the mention of Gretchen’s name sent a slice of fear through his chest.

  “Is she . . . ?” He couldn’t make himself say the word.

  “She’s gone.”

  He groaned and fell back against the straw-filled tick.

  “Nein,” Annalisa rushed to explain. “She’s not gone gone. I only meant she’s not here. She’s staying with Frau Pastor.”

  He sat back up, hardly daring to breathe. “Then she’s safe?”

  Annalisa nodded, fighting back tears. “Herr Pastor rode by several days ago to let me know she is in good health, and that besides missing us, she’s happy.”

  Missing us? The words reached out to soothe and torture him at the same time.

  “Herr Pastor said that Uri and Eleanor are doing better, but now Mutter is sick.” Annalisa turned her back to him, but not before he saw her swipe at the tears that had escaped.

  “How long have I been ill?” How long had she been forced to be away from her daughter because of him?

  “Two weeks.”

  He stifled a moan of protest. Two weeks was too long.

  They had too much work to do. What about the corn? They’d only planted half, and he needed to get up and finish the rest. How would Annalisa be able to pay off her farm loan if she only had half a corn crop?

  He swung his legs over the edge of the bedstead and hefted himself to a sitting position. “I’ve been in bed far too long. I need to get up and work.” With all the strength he could muster, he rose to his feet.

  She glanced at him and gasped. “Nein. Don’t stand!”

  But he’d already managed to stand to a wobbly and somewhat hunched position. “I’ve wasted too much time lying around.”

  “You aren’t strong enough yet.” She started toward him.

  “I’m fine.” He took a step forward. More sweat formed on his forehead and trickled down his cheek. Even though the slant of the light told him it was early morning, the cabin was still stifling.

  Two weeks meant that they were well into June and into summer. The heat certainly attested to it.

  He took another shaky step and the room began to spin. His knees buckled, and before he could catch himself, he found himself falling forward.

  She screamed and lurched for him.

  But she was too late. He slipped down, hit his head on the edge of the chair, and crashed to the floor.

  Pain seared his temple, and for a long moment he wavered on the brink of darkness. He fought off the unconsciousness. Now that he was awake and alive, he didn’t want to return to oblivion.

  In an instant she was beside him, her hands upon his face and head. Her breath came in labored gasps. “Nein, nein, nein . . .” Her fingers made contact with a painful slick spot on his forehead.

  He fought another dizzying wave.

  “Ach.” She pressed the edge of her apron against the injury and smoothed her other hand against his cheek.

  She bent close enough that her full belly pressed against him, and he could catch the sweet tangy scent of whatever fruit she’d put in her pie lingering in the homespun fabric of her dress.

  “You’re a stubborn man,” she scolded.

  Her eyes were dark with worry, and she bit her lip as she removed the bloody edge of her apron and took another look at his gash.

  “You know me.” He winced and attempted a grin. “I’ll do whatever I can to get your attention.”

  “There are much easier and safer ways to get my attention.” She pressed the apron back against his cut.

  “Well, my lady, then you must reveal your secrets.” She was only a hand’s span away from him, and her lips were close. The fullness of them taunted him.

  “If you promise to stay in bed, I’ll think about revealing my secrets.”

  He wanted to know what he could do to earn a kiss from her,
especially when her gaze collided with his. For a long, intense moment he had the feeling he could reach up and pull her down to him, and let his hungry lips get a taste of her. There was something in her eyes that said she wouldn’t stop him.

  What was he thinking? Lord, help him. Had the typhoid completely wiped away all his self-control?

  She gave a sharp gasp, sat back and put both hands on her abdomen. The muscles in her face tightened, and she gritted her teeth.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  She shook her head, breathing hard.

  Anxiety pushed him up. “Is it time to have the baby?” He could only pray it wasn’t.

  She couldn’t speak.

  He scooted himself to his elbows and watched the battle of pain wage across her delicate features.

  After several eternal seconds, she released a breath and her shoulders relaxed.

  “Looks like the baby will be coming soon,” he said.

  “These are false contractions.” She rose and helped him sit up. “They don’t mean anything yet.”

  “I don’t know much about having babies or contractions, but that looked like the real thing to me.”

  “I need the baby to wait a couple more weeks.”

  “I hope the baby cooperates.”

  “Me too.” She assisted him to his feet and back to the edge of the bed.

  He might have the periodic table memorized and understand Newton’s three laws of motion, but he didn’t know anything about babies and birthing them. And he preferred to keep it that way.

  “Have I told you that you make the best pie I’ve ever eaten?” Carl wiped his finger across the tin plate, cleaning the last bit of filling left from the rhubarb pie.

  A smile hovered over Annalisa’s lips. “Only a hundred times.”

  “Well, that’s not nearly enough.” He leaned back against the stump, where she’d helped him sit. The warm morning sunshine bathed his face, a pleasant change from the dark interior of the cabin. He’d learned his lesson after falling and gashing his head. And he’d stayed in bed several more days before attempting to get up again. “So I must tell you once again. You make the best pie.”

  She stood at the clothesline and hung the sheets she’d washed that morning. With the new lever he installed before he’d contracted the fever, the line was low enough for her to reach without straining herself. Once she was done hanging the wet items, she only needed to release the block of wood and the lever would raise the line higher to catch the breeze.

  “I think you’re just trying to get me to make you a strawberry pie.” She nodded toward the door, to the basket of strawberries she’d picked earlier that morning.

  “I’ve never had strawberry pie.” He grinned. “But it sounds delightful. How many more compliments can I give you to earn such a delicacy?”

  At his jest her lips turned up into a smile.

  A breeze tugged at her skirt, flattening it against her body, outlining her slender legs and the gentle contours of her body. Stray golden strands of her hair floated around the sun-ripened flush of her cheeks.

  What would it have been like to be her husband? To have the freedom to wrap his arms around her whenever he wanted—like at that moment?

  He glanced away and gave himself a mental slap.

  He’d worked hard over the past several days to keep his thoughts toward her sisterly. Although she was still shy and quiet, he’d found himself enjoying talking with her about farm life, listening to her opinions and dreams and plans. And he’d even found himself sharing his ideas about inventions that could make farm life easier for her.

  Even so, he needed to move back to Bernthal’s barn today, now that he could walk again. He’d spent too many days and nights in close proximity to her. Now that he was regaining his strength, it was time to get out of her house—where he’d be safe from temptation.

  And where she would be safe from him.

  He took a deep breath of the smoky air and peered into the distance. Black plumes rose up to the west in several spots, an indication that one of the neighboring farmers was clearing more land. But with the scarcity of rain so far that summer, Carl wondered at the wisdom of the burning. The farmers should know the danger of the fire spreading. The water loss and absorption wasn’t in balance, and thus the vegetation had become more flammable.

  He turned his attention to the fields, to the wilted stalks of wheat in the first field, and then beyond to the half-planted corn. At least if the fire spread, they wouldn’t have an enormous loss. According to Annalisa, with the scant rain, the crops were only half the size of where they needed to be at this time of the year.

  The tender shoots of the cornstalks had poked through the hard soil, but even his untrained eye could see they were short and stunted. “Maybe tomorrow I’ll be strong enough to finish planting the corn.”

  “Nein. Don’t think about it yet.” She finished pinning the last sheet to the line. “You must give yourself time to recover.”

  “I cannot sit around and do nothing, not when there’s so much work to be done.”

  “You’ve been busy.” She looked pointedly at the improvements he was making to her washboard sitting in the grass next to him.

  He’d needed something to tinker with, and after watching her scrub the sheets earlier and seeing the exertion each item required, he’d quickly concluded she needed another one of his inventions—anything to take some of the hard physical labor out of the washing.

  The problem was—as it had been with most of his creations on the farm—he was working with such limited supplies. At home he’d had any and every material and chemical at his fingertips. But now . . .

  He looked over at the barn, then the tiny cabin. Annalisa had very little, and he was forced to make use of scraps and anything he could find.

  Even after almost three months of living among this farming community, he still hadn’t gotten used to the deprivation. He didn’t know how one could unless one was born into it.

  Of course the experience of living and working among the peasant laborers had given him a new appreciation for their hard work and for the subsistence level at which they lived. He couldn’t keep from thinking about all the times he’d passed by the laborers working his father’s fields and how he’d never once stopped to consider the hours upon hours of toil they underwent every day.

  They’d always made the work look so easy.

  Now he realized firsthand just how difficult and deprived their lives were.

  He shifted his sore hindquarters and stared at the bent wires and levers he’d added to the washboard. Guilt whispered in his ear again.

  What if his father had been wrong in his treatment of his workers? What if he’d been calloused and uncaring? Should he have listened to the complaints and made more of an effort to improve the working conditions of the miners?

  At the clomping of hooves on the hard-packed path, Carl swiveled his head just as Annalisa had done to see who might be visiting. The white scrap of material still hung from a post near the cabin door. Visitors were rare, but the disease had isolated them even more.

  He hadn’t had to worry about Ward coming out and attempting to coerce Annalisa again. And he hadn’t had to think about her groom showing up and surprising him. But it wouldn’t be long before they’d be able to take the flag down—as long as Annalisa didn’t get sick first.

  The clatter drew nearer until they could see the form of a lone man through the covering of maples.

  Could it be her groom at last? If he’d just arrived off the steamer, then perhaps he wouldn’t know what the white flags meant and that he needed to stay away.

  Should he call to the man and warn him?

  Carl’s weak limbs shook with the effort of lifting himself to the edge of the stump. A sick weight pressed against his middle. As much as he was relishing the time alone with Annalisa, he knew he needed to move on, at the very least respond to Fritz’s letter and let him know he’d be on his way to Chicago soon.

/>   Annalisa’s face had lost its softness, replaced by a wariness, as if she was dreading the arrival of an outsider too.

  The man waved his arm in greeting.

  Annalisa waved back. “It’s only Herr Pastor.”

  As the rider drew nearer, Carl forced himself up. By the time he was standing, he was sweating and breathing hard. But he straightened his back and made himself stand tall. He needed to regain his strength, and he couldn’t do that if he kept lounging around in the grass.

  Pastor Loehe reined in his mount. He nodded first at Annalisa and then at Carl. “Frau Werner. Herr Richards. I wish I could say that it’s a good day, but it’s not.”

  Annalisa’s face paled. “Gretchen?” The word came out as a terrified whisper.

  Herr Pastor gave a sad smile and rubbed a hand across his bristly white beard. “Oh, she’s fine. Don’t worry about her. Other than missing you, she’s very happy, and so is my wife. I haven’t seen her this happy since our daughter married and moved to Iowa.”

  Carl didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath. But at the news of Gretchen’s good health, he sagged in relief.

  “No, the little darling is doing just fine.” Herr Pastor’s face drooped with the kind of weariness that said he’d seen too much sorrow recently.

  “Can you stay and have a piece of pie?” Annalisa asked.

  “No, I must be going. I only stopped to inform you . . .” His voice cracked, and he swiped his hand across his eyes. “I just came from your father’s home.” The old pastor shook his head. “And I helped to bury your mother.”

  “Nein!” Horror widened Annalisa’s eyes, and she quickly cupped a hand over her trembling lips.

  Carl took a wobbly step toward her.

  “I’m so sorry, Annalisa,” Pastor Loehe said hoarsely.

  Tight lines etched her face, outlining her shock.

  “I’ve had to bury too many of our congregants over the past couple of weeks.” Pastor Loehe again wiped a hand over his eyes brimming with tears. “And with every funeral I pray it will be the last.”