The Heirloom Brides Collection

by Tracey V. Bateman

  On the enclosed back porch he found a pair of longjohns, britches, and a shirt folded and waiting. He smiled. Bless Ma’s heart. He ducked behind the changing screen in the corner and emerged in the dry, clean clothes. He entered the kitchen with his dirty items wadded in his hands.

  Ma turned from the dry sink and snatched the clothes from him. “There’s a plate of Verenike on the back of the stove, if you’re hungry.”

  He wasn’t, but he never turned down Ma’s Verenike. “Thanks.” He carried the plate to the table, where a napkin and fork waited for his use. He bowed his head to offer thanks for the food, but his prayer meandered in a different direction. God, did You bring Miss Frazier to our farm so we could give more than help on her father’s land?

  Ma poured herself a cup of coffee and sat across from him, curiosity lighting her features. “How did the day go?”

  Between bites, Titus shared what he’d accomplished during the day. He told her about the unusual pet named Rowdy, laughing at her astonishment, and listed all the good things Miss Frazier had fed him, including the strawberry preserves–laden hotcakes although he kept secret the absence of sugar in the round brown cakes. While he talked, his brothers and father wandered in and out, and by the time his plate was empty and his stomach achingly full, he and Ma were the only ones remaining in the cozy, lantern-lit kitchen.

  “So it went well, then,” Ma said with a smile.

  “Yes. But, Ma?” Titus pushed the plate aside and rested his joined hands on the table. “There’s something not quite right.”

  Ma’s forehead pinched into a series of furrows. “What do you mean?”

  How could he put his misgivings into words? There was nothing concrete on which to base his uneasiness, yet something nibbled at him. “Well, I spent my first hour over there sitting beside Mr. Frazier’s bed, just talking with him. He was so friendly, so open. He told me about his old job in Minneapolis—he was a bank accountant—and about his wife passing on when their daughter was barely out of girlhood. He talked and talked and talked.” Mostly about his Clara Rose, but for some reason he didn’t want to mention that part.

  Ma shook her head, laughing softly. “What’s wrong with talking? He’s probably lonely since he has been laid up in that bed for two weeks.”

  “But think about all the weeks before his accident.” Titus leaned in slightly, angling his head. “If he’s so friendly, why hasn’t he come in to town, become part of the community?”

  Ma shrugged. “Maybe he’s been too busy. Heaven knows that farmstead needed a lot of work.” She rose, picked up his plate, and took it to the dry sink.

  Titus followed her. “Not even stopping on Sunday to attend a service in town? He’s a believer, Ma. I’m sure of it after listening to him pray over his breakfast. I’m surprised he hasn’t tried to settle in with one of our churches.”

  Ma scrubbed his plate clean and set it aside. “Maybe you can invite him to service—when he is on his feet again, of course.” A sly smile curved her lips, and she bumped his arm with her elbow. “You have talked on and on about the father. What about the daughter?”

  Titus grimaced. “Ma…”

  “What?” Her innocent expression made her look as young as a schoolgirl. “I gather she is a decent cook and a lover of creatures. What else?”

  Realization struck with such force, Titus jerked. “That’s it!”

  Ma drew back.

  Titus slapped his thigh and repeated. “That’s it—that’s what has bothered me all day.”

  His mother’s lips formed a frustrated line. “Son, you are not making an ounce of sense.”

  He led her to the table and pressed her into a chair, then went down on one knee beside her. “Ma, Mr. Frazier is friendly as friendly can be, but his daughter… She isn’t rude to me, but she keeps her distance. She said her coyote pup is her company. A coyote pup! What kind of company is that for a young woman?”

  “Well, I—”

  Titus hurried on, speaking to himself as much as to Ma. “Mr. Frazier moved from Minneapolis, where he’d lived for Miss Frazier’s whole life, to a farm on the outskirts of a small town even though he doesn’t know the first thing about farming. And I think he did it for his daughter. But why?”

  Ma cupped her hand over Titus’s shoulder. “Do you think he’s trying to protect her from something… or someone?”

  He sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe. But I can’t imagine a friendly fellow like Mr. Frazier hiding out there away from people, and I can’t imagine a young woman like Miss Frazier spending her whole life with only a coyote as a friend.”

  “You know, Titus,” Ma said slowly, her tone thoughtful, “when folks hide away, it’s usually because of a hurt. We’ve been praying for Mr. Frazier’s leg to heal. Maybe we need to pray for God to heal whatever hurts our neighbors carry on their souls.”

  Titus gave his mother a hopeful look. “Will you pray with me now?”

  Ma smiled. She bowed her head and began. “Dear Father in heaven…”

  Chapter Six

  By the end of his first week at the Frazier farm, Titus had felled every remaining tree on the modest six-acre plot where Mr. Frazier intended to plant corn. He couldn’t deny a sense of satisfaction as he gazed across the patch of prairie. Piles of limbs at the edges of the field awaited burning when the wind died down, and the stumps of the scraggly bur oaks still needed to be pulled, but he’d require the use of a good team and a sturdy chain for that task. And maybe another pair of hands—he’d ask Pa about borrowing Andrew for a day. Or two.

  He headed for the woodshed, where he’d dragged the limbs and trunks large enough to be turned into firewood. He still had a few good hours remaining in the afternoon, and he wanted to get as much of that wood chopped and stacked as possible before he left for the weekend. Mice and other small creatures would quickly take up residence in the tumble of logs if they sat too long unattended. Miss Frazier wouldn’t welcome such pests in her yard and house. Even if they provided entertainment for her pet coyote.

  The smell of baking bread drifted past his nose, and his mouth watered in response. He’d intended to leave early this afternoon and enjoy a boisterous supper with his family, but the aroma tempted him to join Miss Frazier at her quiet table instead. For breakfast and lunch, he sat in the chair in Mr. Frazier’s room and ate with him, but each time he’d come in for supper, the man was snoozing, so he sat with Miss Frazier instead.

  He frowned, recalling his many failed attempts to engage the young woman in conversation. Miss Clara Rose Frazier puzzled him. He’d encountered snooty girls and shy girls, and he wouldn’t classify Miss Frazier as either, but neither was she openly friendly like her father. The tug he’d experienced on their first encounter remained, which led him to believe he shouldn’t give up, but she didn’t make things easy for him.

  She was talkative enough to her father, and several times he’d caught her talking to that mischievous coyote pup the way a mother spoke to her young child. But with Titus, she remained tense and distant. He squinted at the blue sky. “God, is it that she doesn’t like people, or does she only dislike me?”

  He came to a halt as an idea struck for finding out whether her dislike extended beyond him to others. The answer was more important than chopping his way through that pile of branches behind the woodshed. He changed direction and charged up to the back door, which stood open to invite in the early May breeze.

  Titus tapped on the unpainted doorjamb. “Miss Frazier?”

  She bustled over, wiping her hands on her apron. “Yes? Do you need a drink of water?”

  Damp squiggles of hair clung to her temples, and one loose molasses-colored coil trailed along her neck. Even dressed in a simple calico frock and stained full apron, with her hair a mess, she was pretty enough to set his pulse into a gallop. Please let it not be a dislike of only me…. “I’d take a drink, yes, but I also—”

  “Do I hear Titus out there?” Mr. Frazier’s voice boomed from the bedroom.

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nbsp; She whisked her face in the direction of the doorway, giving Titus a view of her sweet profile. “Yes, Papa. Did you want to talk to him?”

  “Yes.”

  She turned a hesitant look on Titus. “Go see Papa. I’ll bring you a cup of cool water.” She brushed past him and hurried toward their well.

  Titus sighed. He tapped his boots against the small stone stoop at the back door, then tromped to the farm owner’s bedroom. His aggravation faded beneath the genuine smile on Mr. Frazier’s face. “Yes, sir?”

  “I’ve been watching out the window. You’ve nearly got that field ready for seeds.”

  Titus stifled a chuckle. The man had a thing or two to learn about readying a field. Those stumps had to go, the dried weeds and old stubble burned away, and the ground turned under. Maybe twice. He’d be busy for a while yet. He shrugged. “I’ve made some progress, that’s true.”

  “Not only a good worker, but modest, too.”

  Titus scuffed the floor with the toe of his boot.

  Miss Frazier entered the room. She offered Titus a large Mason jar. Moisture dotted its sides.

  He gripped the jar between both hands. Partly because the wetness made it slick, but mostly because the cool glass felt good against his sweaty palms. He gave the young woman a wide smile. “Thank you.”

  She bobbed her head in a quick acknowledgment and hurried around the corner.

  Titus, frowning, gazed after her.

  “Titus?”

  He turned to the father. A knowing smirk curled the man’s lips. Titus braced himself for an inquiry about his feelings toward Clara Rose.

  “You seem very handy wielding that ax. Are you as competent with other woodworking tools?”

  Titus raised his eyebrows. “Woodworking tools?”

  Mr. Frazier nodded. He released a heavy sigh. “I’m weary of being in this bed. Clara Rose helps me to the chair and back once or twice a day, and of course to the… er, commode the doctor loaned us. But she doesn’t have the strength to support my weight for longer treks. Dr. Biehler said he could order crutches from a catalog, but they would take so long to arrive, I might not have need of them by the time they reached me.”

  Titus took slow sips of the water, thinking. Plotting.

  Mr. Frazier went on. “I would enjoy sitting on the porch or coming out to the table for meals. So I wondered if you might be able to craft a pair of crutches from some of the smaller, sturdy limbs on the brush pile.”

  Thank goodness he hadn’t burned those piles yet. He was sure there were some straight limbs with enough thickness to support Mr. Frazier’s weight. He shrugged. “I have to be honest. I’ve never tried making crutches, but I don’t think it would be hard. As long as you aren’t expecting something of beauty.”

  “Simple is fine.” The man laughed, shaking his head. “I spent more than thirty years working behind a desk and never found sitting all day tiresome, but sitting for two weeks in this bed has nearly driven me to distraction. It will be nice to be up and on my feet again. Thank you, Titus.”

  Titus held up one hand. “Don’t thank me yet. I haven’t made them.”

  “Oh, but you will. I have confidence in you.”

  Titus drained the jar to wash down his embarrassment. Having been raised to practice humility, he wasn’t sure how to respond to such blatant praise. So he blurted a question. “If the crutches serve you well, would you consider going farther than your front porch?”

  Mr. Frazier’s eyes twinkled. “Are you wanting me to come out and help with those stumps?”

  Titus laughed. “No, sir.” He’d intended to broach this subject with the daughter, but the father might be a better choice. He settled in the chair beside the bed and rested his elbows on his knees with the Mason jar gripped between his palms. “If you’re able to get around, it would please my family to have you and your daughter join us for church Sunday morning and then come to our place for Faspa.”

  “What is ‘faws-puh’?”

  “A cold lunch. It is traditional in our denomination so the women needn’t work preparing a big meal on the Lord’s day.” He hadn’t checked with Ma about inviting the Fraziers, but she wouldn’t fuss at him. They often had Sunday after-service visitors, and she was always prepared for extras.

  For a moment, Mr. Frazier closed his eyes and pursed his lips as if something pained him. Then he looked at Titus. He sighed. “I would like to attend a church service. Clara Rose and I read and study a lengthy passage from the Bible together each Sunday, but that isn’t the same as worshipping with a body of fellow believers.”

  Titus leaned close, eagerness thrumming through him. “Then come. I don’t know what denomination you attended in Minneapolis, but you would be welcome at our Mennonite Brethren church.”

  “If your entire congregation is as affable as you, young man, I’m certain Clara Rose and I would be welcomed with open arms. But…”

  Titus waited. When Mr. Frazier didn’t finish his sentence, he said, “All are welcome in the house of God. Can… can I tell Ma to expect you?”

  Mr. Frazier’s lips parted, but before a reply emerged, Miss Frazier darted into the room and moved between the two men. She gave Titus a glowering look and took her father’s hand. “Even if you produced crutches by this evening, Papa wouldn’t have the ability to climb into a wagon or make the long walk to town. Please don’t put unrealistic expectations on him.”

  Titus bolted upright. So she’d been listening. Maybe that was good. He looked directly into her scowling face. “I don’t think the expectation is unrealistic at all, Miss Frazier. Your wagon has a removable back gate, and with just a little help, he could slide in. My pa is fond of saying, ‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way.’ If your father wants to come to church, we can find a means of getting him there.”

  Fury snapped in her brown eyes. “Papa needs to rest now, Mr. Klaassen.”

  The good smell of fresh-baked bread, which usually evoked feelings of contentment and hominess, seemed out of place in the tense room. Titus gulped. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “I’m not offended.” Her stiff pose and unsmiling face told a different story. “But until Papa is able to walk on two good legs, he shouldn’t try to do too much. Going all the way into town would surely be too much.”

  Oddly, Titus found comfort in her reply. She wanted to avoid the town. She wanted to stay away from the church. That meant she didn’t dislike him, personally, but something made her disinclined to be around people. He couldn’t stop a smile from growing.

  Her frown deepened. “Do you find something amusing, Mr. Klaassen?”

  He took a step toward the door, shaking his head. “No, ma’am.” He gave her the empty Mason jar. “But as soon as your father is able to walk, I’ll be inviting you again.” He headed outside and made his way to the burn pile, his lips twitching with another smile. He had a month to change her mind about hiding out in this little farmhouse. That was plenty of time.

  As soon as Papa awakened from his evening nap, Clara sat on the edge of his bed and took his hand. “I’m sorry.”

  He puckered his forehead. “For what are you apologizing?”

  Guilt and embarrassment warred within her. “I heard what you told Mr. Klaassen about wanting to attend church services. I’m sorry I prevented you from going.”

  Papa patted her hand. “Now, Clara Rose…”

  Tears clouded her vision. “I guess I didn’t stop to think how being out here on our own was for you. I’m happy, so I—”

  “Are you happy, my daughter?”

  She paused for a moment. Although living in the country was very different from her former life in the city—quieter, fewer opportunities for entertainment, and more work—she liked the peacefulness of their little farmstead. True, the house was much smaller and lacked the refinement of their house in Minneapolis, but she had plans to paint the woodwork and put up cheerful wall coverings on the plain plaster walls. When she finished decorating, it would feel more like home.
She nodded. “Yes. I think I am.”

  “And you never grow lonely?”

  Clara hung her head. She was lonely in Minneapolis. All of her friends were married. Most of them already had a child or two. She didn’t fit with them anymore. And she never would, because who would try to court a woman who’d already been cast aside by two beaus? She blinked several times and gave her father a wobbly smile. “I’m less alone here than I was in the city. You don’t go away to work every day. And I have Rowdy.” She squeezed his hand. “But if you’re lonely, Papa, you should accept Mr. Klaassen’s invitation to attend church services. I’ll be fine here by myself on Sunday.”

  Papa yanked his hand free and shook his finger at her. “Oh no, young lady. If I go, you will go with me.”

  Clara made a face.

  “None of that. You aren’t the only one who made a promise to your dear mother before she stepped from this life into glory.”

  The seriousness in her father’s tone held Clara’s attention.

  “Her most fervent prayer was for you to know and serve the Lord Jesus Christ. I know you’ve accepted Him as your Savior, Clara Rose, but to grow in Him requires teaching.”

  “But you’ve—”

  He shook his head, stilling her protest. “More than reading verses and talking with me. You need real teaching from a preacher. Doesn’t the Bible instruct us to gather with fellow believers?”

  She looked away, unwilling to let her father witness the rebellion stirring in her heart.

  Papa sighed. “It’s unlikely I’ll be attending any service until my leg is out of this splint and I can walk again. So you have a little time to adjust, to think and pray. But, Clara Rose, when I’m on my feet, I want us to become part of a church family in Wilhelmina.”