A Touch of Grace

by Lauraine Snelling

  A yawn caught him and nearly cracked his jaw. Writing a letter right now seemed beyond the realm of physical possibilities, but he knew if he didn’t do so immediately it might be days before he could find the time. They were to start the actual threshing in the morning.

  He’d finished his letter the night before, but the next morning he awoke at dawn, wondering if there was a better way to say what he had written. Taking letter in hand, he stood again at the window; this time watching the rising sun set the tops of the shocks on fire and throw shadows behind them. What critters had taken up residence in the ready-made houses during the night and would later startle those pitching the bundles up on the wagon? Ignorance might be bliss, as the old saying went, but he’d learned quickly that in working with animals and machinery, it might also be dangerous.

  He reread his letter, one ear listening to the clanking of stove lids and the murmur of feminine voices. Did the women ever sleep? Feeling uncomfortable at his less than charitable thoughts regarding his own mother and the things she called tiring, he put that thinking aside and sat back down to rewrite his letter. He even thought of tearing the last part of the letter off and signing his name small, but that might let his father know he’d been editing. Senior Gould was a master at reading between the lines and reading people.

  He copied the first section of his letter, where he’d shared the general news and the events around Blessing, and then rewrote the final paragraph. He crumpled up the original, which would make Mrs. Bjorklund shudder at the waste.

  I have some serious things to discuss with you when I come home, and I look forward to hearing your opinions. In the meantime I have another favor to ask. Since all the cattle were destroyed around here, would several head of milk cows and a bull be an adequate gift for my months of living with the Bjorklunds? I tried to refuse payment when Haakan was handing out wages, since I thought the agreement was that I would work for my room and board. But he was adamant, and it would have been churlish to refuse, so I will add what I have earned to the cost of the cattle.

  With gratitude,

  Your son Jonathan

  This time he slipped the folded sheet into the envelope and addressed it. Perhaps if Astrid was going in to town, she would mail it for him. He finished dressing, picked up the crumpled paper, and headed downstairs, lifting the lid on the stove to drop the paper into the flames.

  After another long, sweaty, itchy day of harvesting, it was finally time to start threshing. Jonathan finished helping unload the first of the wagons carrying wheat bundles and then stood by the spout and watched golden kernels of wheat flow into a gunnysack. As soon as the sack was full, Andrew pulled it to the side and Haakan slid an empty sack into its place. Andrew used a needle and hemp line to whipstitch the sack closed. When finished, he knotted the thread, cut it, stuck the needle into a pouch, and swung the completed sack up into a waiting wagon.

  They didn’t spill a kernel.

  “Care to try this?” Haakan asked, indicating his position.

  “Think I’ll stick with pitching, at least for now.”

  “This is easier on the back.”

  “Could be, but not on the mind. I’d hate to spill and waste any of this precious gold that we’ve worked so hard to get to this point. I will never look at bread the same way again.”

  “Have you ever been through a flour mill?”

  “I walked through the mill with Garth one day, and he explained the principles. He promised me a full tour if it opens before I leave.” Jonathan turned back to take out the wagon just emptying. They were running three wagons, with Knute and Gus Baard helping them.

  When the triangle rang at noon, the silence after Lars shut off the roaring steam engine kissed the ears. Lars squirted oil in several orifices of the monster before climbing down and wiping his hands with a rag he kept in his back pocket. He wiped his forehead with the back of his arm.

  “Shame we can’t save some of that heat for the winter.” He motioned toward the engine that turned the long belt that made the separator blow chaff out one pipe and pour cleaned wheat down into the waiting sacks. The straw stack was already several feet high, with Samuel spreading the straw evenly, as they had the haystacks of haying season. The stacks were leftover hay that wouldn’t fit in the barns.

  “You know how pa was so tough about being careful around the belt, especially with all that machinery?” Andrew kept step with Jonathan. “Well, Mr. Valders lost the lower part of his arm one year when his sleeve caught on something and he got drug into the blade. Pa said that one time a belt broke and a man lost his head—cut it right off. That’s why we are all so careful.”

  Jonathan stared at him. “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope, not a bit. I was there when it happened to Valders. I had to go throw up in the bushes. Mor spent days doctoring him so he wouldn’t die.”

  That explains a lot about Mrs. Valders and Toby too. The pain and bitterness must have affected the whole family.

  “Guess I’ll stay on the wagon end of the process. Most I could do is stab myself in the leg with the pitchfork or fall off the wagon.”

  “Or get snake bit.”

  “Andrew, you are just a barrel of comfort today. Remind me to come and talk with you when I need a dose of encouragement.”

  “At your service.” Andrew sketched a bow. “How long until you have to leave?”

  “Not long enough.”

  Andrew paused in midstep and stared at Cityboy, as he had called him at first, but the name never stuck. “Are you serious?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “Well, I’ll be—”

  “You’ll be what?” Samuel stopped beside him. “A slowpoke.”

  Jonathan laughed and ran on ahead until Andrew’s hand caught his shoulder.

  “What do you want to do?”

  “What do I want to do, or what do I have to do?” Jonathan started walking toward the house again.

  “I take it they are not the same?”

  “Not in a lifetime.” Jonathan and Andrew waited in line to get to the washbasins. “I don’t want to attend Princeton, even though I argued to go there over Harvard. My father’s selection was Harvard, and I was accepted there first. But now I’ve decided I want to go to the college in Grand Forks and learn all I can about farming.”

  Andrew whistled under his breath. “And …” He drew the word out and studied Andrew’s face, the pause stretching like the belt that connected the engine and the machine. “And what will your father say about that?”

  Jonathan shook his head and stepped up to pour clean water into a now empty basin. He scrubbed his face and hands without answering. He had no answer, only a suspicion that he was sure was right. Never in a million years might be along the lines of his father’s opinion.

  WHY IS HE SO NICE TO ME?

  Grace stared after the broad-shouldered young man who had just presented her with a yellow rose bud. She sniffed the flower in her hand absently, concentrating more on her thoughts than her senses. She knew he’d picked the rose from the bush at Tante Ingeborg’s, and that meant he’d gone out of his way to bring it to her. He’d also broken off all the thorns.

  Grace mounted the back steps and ambled into the kitchen, sniffing the rose all the while. Such a rich, fruity scent, with petals like the finest velvet. She’d touched some like it on the trim of one of Elizabeth’s hats. Were roses edible? Not wanting to spoil the petals by taking a nip out of one, she found a small glass, filled it with water, and put the rose in it, the emerald sepals setting the yellow to gleaming.

  “How lovely.” Her mother bent to sniff. “Ah, that rose has always smelled so sweet. I don’t know why I don’t go over and pick a bouquet now and then.”

  “Jonathan brought it to me.” And he must have come very early.

  “How nice. He is such a considerate young man.”

  “But why bring it to me?”

  “Because he likes you, and he realizes how much you enjoy things that smell good.”r />
  “Nobody ever brought me a flower before.” Did Toby take flowers to Grafton for his girlfriend? Whoever she was?

  “Your father brought me a bouquet of bluebells once. I nearly cried I was so happy.”

  I should bring my mother more flowers. Next year I’m going to plant more flowers in the garden. They don’t take up that much room, and with all the space we have, we could surely afford a few rows of flowers. She sniffed the rose again and set the glass on a table in the parlor, resolving to take it upstairs with her the next time she went up. In the meantime she needed to be picking beans again. She’d lost count of how many jars they’d canned so far, but the shelves in the cellar were filling up. And they’d already finished two boiler loads today. Beans took a long time in the boiling water bath.

  As she went down the row picking beans, she wished she still had the britches she and Astrid had made, but her mother made her take hers apart and make a skirt again. Although both she and Tante Ingeborg thought it was a good idea, Kaaren had explained, “As teachers, we cannot create dispute.” The baking sun made rivulets of perspiration run down her cheeks in spite of the sunbonnet or maybe because of it. No breeze, if there was any, could get to her face around the wide brim. At least the smell had become more tolerable, and her nausea had stopped. She finished one row and started down the next. The way the beans were still blooming, she’d be picking a long time yet. She sat back on her heels to watch a yellow and black butterfly taste the bean blossoms then try the pumpkin, creeping halfway into the orange trumpet. Her knees ached from kneeling in the rocklike dirt.

  They needed rain for the garden but were praying for the rain to hold off until after harvest. The community couldn’t handle another crisis. The pain over the livestock was dulled but not spent. She could smell the smoke from the coal fire that kept the steam engine blazing. Usually it bothered her too, but this time it was a relief. Probably in two or three more days, they would move the whole rig over to the Baards’. In less than two weeks Jonathan would be returning to New York. She would miss him, she realized. He always managed to make her smile, even now. She couldn’t take her pain from Toby’s rejection out on Jonathan. If Astrid was right and he did like her, she wouldn’t treat him as harshly as Toby had her. Somehow she would just be a friend and not encourage any other possible ideas. Was that what Toby had been trying to do to her all summer? A tear slid down her cheek.

  That was either one of the good things or the bad things about picking beans. There was too much time to think.

  Sitting on the porch snapping beans held the same difficulty. The need of brain power was negligible. Her mother and Ilse were in the hot kitchen cooking for the threshing crew, as were Ingeborg and Astrid. Feeding the workers three full meals and two lunches a day took a cooking crew. This year Mrs. Geddick and her daughter would run the cook shack that traveled with the threshing crew, same as last year.

  Again Grace’s mind flitted back to Toby. On Sunday Pastor Solberg had preached on the verses about taking every thought captive to the Word of God. He’d said that worry was a sin, which didn’t sit well with some of the congregation. But when he explained that worry was lack of trust in our heavenly Father, it made sense to her. So she wasn’t worrying exactly, but her thoughts had a habit of becoming unruly. After all, what good did thinking about Toby do her? Other than to make her sad. Take every thought captive. He’d said use the name of Jesus, that the mind, like everything on earth, will bow at the name of Jesus.

  Jesus, I don’t want to think about Toby anymore. But if only I could talk to him one more time, perhaps I could make him understand that what I feel is more than friendship and that I thought he felt the same way. Maybe he just thinks he’s in love, but if he knew how I really feel …

  She glanced up when she felt the floorboards resonate with someone coming and smiled at her mother.

  “So here you are. Want some help?”

  “Of course. And it is cooler out here than in the kitchen, that is for sure. Not as steamy either.”

  Kaaren sank into a rocking chair and fanned herself with her apron. “Uff da. I don’t know how the men keep going, hot as it is.”

  “Pa says this is good threshing weather.”

  “I know. Maybe we should take him up on his offer to hire someone to help around here.” She reached for the basket and, using both hands, dumped a pile of beans into her lap.

  “Who would we hire?”

  “That’s the problem. All the girls are helping at home. We need more people to move into Blessing. But until we can replace the live-stock, many things will need to wait.”

  “Thorliff said he was going to write an article for a Minneapolis paper about the booming town of Blessing.”

  “Well, the ad for a manager for the mill brought a mighty fine man here.”

  “I haven’t seen Sophie since before harvest started.”

  “I know. But things will settle down again when they move on from here.”

  “Mor, has Pa said anything about buying more cows?”

  “No, but if we don’t get some livestock, I don’t know what we’ll eat all winter. You can’t live on rabbit or we won’t have any of them either.”

  “Two of the hens are broody again.”

  “Good thing. Rabbit and chicken. I’m going to have to buy a side of beef from the east to feed the students when school starts—once it is cold enough. It is amazing to me that, thanks to refrigerated train cars, we can buy beef that way now.”

  “I miss the calves in the pasture, and I even miss milking. I never thought that would happen.”

  “We’re out of butter; Ingeborg is almost out too. And we won’t have lard much longer. I need to go to Garrisons’ Groceries to buy those things. I have never in my life bought lard in a bucket.

  They snapped beans in silence for a minute.

  “Go tell Ilse to bring some lemonade out and come sit here with us for a bit.” When Grace rose, Kaaren said with a smile. “Thank you, Grace. You are always so helpful.”

  Why did the word always seem to chew on something inside her? “Always Grace.” Now there’s a nickname. Even from her own mor.

  The first night they left the steam engine and threshing machine at the Baards’, Jonathan rode home in the wagon with Lars. With Samuel and Trygve dangling their feet at the rear, he had some time to talk with Grace’s father. Ask him. The little voice inside had prompted him before, but for a change he had the opportunity. What do I say?

  “Ah, Mr. Knutson.”

  Lars looked at him. “You sound mighty serious.”

  “This is.” Jonathan sucked in a deep breath. “I want to ask your permission to court your daughter.” The words came out in a rush, but at least he’d said them.

  Lars stared out across the backs of the two teams pulling the wagon, his arms resting on his upper legs, hands easy on the reins. “Does Grace know about this?”

  “No. I knew I had to ask you first.”

  “You think she will agree?”

  “I don’t know. I know she has cared for someone else, but I’m hoping that is over.”

  “Toby Valders?”

  “How did you know? She said she’d always kept her feelings a secret.”

  “I may be getting a mite creaky in the joints, but I’m not blind.” He turned to look at Jonathan. “I suspect she thinks we wouldn’t approve, and that’s why she’s tried to keep it a secret.”

  “I suspect so too.”

  “Toby’s made some mistakes, but he’s a good man.”

  What could he say to that? He wasn’t here on Toby’s behalf, so he kept quiet.

  “But that’s neither here nor there regarding your question. As far as I’m concerned, if Grace is willing, I am, and I’m sure I can speak for her mother too. You are a fine young man. Our only problem is that you would be taking Grace so far away. Your big problem would be whether Grace can accept the way you live your life. I don’t want her to be hurt.” He looked Jonathan in the eyes, as if peerin
g into a deep pool to try to see the bottom. “I can’t abide the thought that moving east would cause her pain.”

  Jonathan took in another deep breath and let it out. “What if she didn’t have to move away?”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I want to go to agricultural school in Grand Forks and become a farmer—like you.”

  “My land, boy, have you talked with your father yet?”

  “No, sir. But I will as soon as I get home.”

  “Well, I never.” Lars chuckled softly. “You have my permission to court Grace, but I have me a feeling this will be a long courtship since you have a lot of school ahead of you.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” He felt like jumping out of the wagon and dancing all the way back to the farm. “I want you to know that I did, on my father’s suggestion, invite Grace to go to New York. There is an excellent school there for the deaf. Perhaps she might want to go there for a time and learn some new things to help with the school here.”

  “I see you’ve been doing some serious thinking on all this.”

  “Yes, sir, I have.”

  Lars extended his hand. “My best to you, son. You’ve cut yourself a deep furrow.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Jonathan thought to ask him exactly what he meant by that, but he got the gist of it. His plans and dreams most likely would not come easy. He leaped off the wagon at the bottom of the lane to the Bjorklund house and waved good-bye as he trotted the track. He had permission to court Grace! Another thought sobered him. How to convince Grace?

  I cannot ask his mother about him. Heaven forbid. Grace thought some more. Nor wait for him in front of the flour mill. But I need to try to talk to Toby at least one more time.