Dakota Dusk (4 page)

“I . . . I never thought, I mean—I thought you’d have room for another. Are your rooms full, then?” Rebekka’s heart took up that erratic thumping again. What would she do if . . . ?

“Now, now, just don’t you worry yourself none. I got a room for you. Why, Mr. Prescott moved out just two days ago. I cleaned it all right nice again, so you can see, it’s just waiting for you. Nice corner room it is, too.”

Rebekka inhaled a sigh of pure relief At least something was going right. She wiggled her feet in the wool socks, scooting them back and forth on the floor and then wrapping them together under the chair. She brushed an errant tear from the corner of her eye. Why had this happened to her?

“Well, as I started to say,” and the words drifted off as her mind returned to the farmhouse. She clamped her jaw against the fury she could feel exploding in her chest. “He attacked me! That . . . that—” She couldn’t think of any words bad enough. “And he thought I was funny. He was laughing. Until he rushed me and I hit him.”

“You hit him?”

“With the pitcher from the commode. When he crashed to the floor, I grabbed my clothes and ran out the door.” She continued with her story, not leaving out any details.

“Well, I never.”

“I never either. And now I don’t know what to do. Can I please stay here until I talk with Mr. Larson, the superintendent? I . . . I can pay.” She could feel her mouth drop open. “At least, I can if I can get my things from their house. But I have money in the bank, too . . . some.” She raised her gaze from studying her clenched fists.

“Now, don’t you worry. Why, when we tell Lars what happened, he’ll go out there personally and whip that young pup. Surely the sheriff could do something about this.”

“No!”

“No?”

“Don’t you see, I can’t tell anyone. If this story gets around, I’ll lose my position. Teachers are fired for a lot less reason than this.”

“But it wasn’t your fault.” The words exploded from the widow’s lips. She caught herself. “I know. I know. The snickers. The men will all get together and say you enticed him. That’s what Adolph’ll tell anyone who asks.”

“I know. And those who don’t. What can I do?”

“Let me think on this, child. You go on and get a good night’s sleep and we’ll let the good Lord tell us what to do. He never makes mistakes.” The older woman sighed and shook her head.

“You . . . you believe me, don’t you?” Rebekka pushed her cuticle back with a trembling finger. She looked up to see Mrs. Sampson smiling at her.

“Yes. Have no doubts in your mind about me. And God, who knows your heart, will work this out. God has a plan in mind, you can be sure of that.”

“I know . . . I think.” Rebekka caught herself on a yawn. She pushed herself to her feet. “And you . . . you won’t tell anyone? Not ever?”

“Come along, my dear. That question don’t even bear an answer.” Mrs. Sampson picked up the kerosene lamp and led the way up the stairs. She opened the second door on the right. “The bed’s all made up. I’ll bring up warm water in the morning, but usually my guests come downstairs for their own. Breakfast will be at seven, prompt. Mrs. Knutson has to open her shop at eight.” She set the lamp down on the five-drawer oak dresser and dug a spill from the drawer to light the room’s lamp from the one she brought in.

Rebekka stared around in delight as the warm glow of the kerosene lamp brought to life the rainbow colors in the log cabin patchwork quilt on the spindle bed. A hand-crocheted doily kept the matching pitcher and bowl from scratching the top of the commode; a braided rag rug lay by the bed, ready to keep feet off the cold floor on a winter morning.

“Oh, this is beautiful.” She looked around to find brass hooks on the back of the door and hung up her dress.

“I have an armoire in the storage room that I could bring in here for you to hang up your clothes. If you decide to stay, that is.”

She chuckled at the sight of the younger woman trying to disguise another yawn. “You go on to sleep now. Nothing can hurt you here.” She picked up her lamp and closed the door behind her with a quiet click.

Rebekka felt the bottom of her night dress and realized it was damp. But, she had nothing else in which to sleep. She’d just pulled back the covers when she heard a tap on the door. “Yes?”

Mrs. Sampson peaked through the crack in the door and held out a faded flannel nightgown. “Here, yours is still damp, I’m sure. Don’t want to take a chance on you coming down with something.”

“Thank you.” Rebekka crossed the room and accepted the offering. “You are so kind.”

“Ja, well you need some kindness right now.” She harrumphed her way back out the door.

“Oh, Lord above, what am I going to do?” Rebekka either prayed or pleaded, she wasn’t sure which, after she snuggled down under the crisp sheets. If she told Mr. Larson exactly what had happened, would he believe her or throw her out? If she didn’t tell him, how would she explain the need to leave the Strand farm before the school year was up? Where would she go? She allowed her gaze to drift around the peaceful room, where the moon cast bright spots upon the waxed floor and the sheer curtains fluttered in the night breeze. She gulped back a leftover sob. Resolutely, she climbed from the bed and knelt on the rug.

“Heavenly Father, I have to leave this in Your hands. I don’t know what to do. I thank You for sending Your angels to protect me.” She shuddered again at the memory. “Please, if it be Your will, I would be pleased to stay in Willowford. Thank You again. Amen.” She rose to her feet and slipped back into the cooling bed. The idea of closing her eyes and letting the memories surge back was about as frightening as the actual event.

She rubbed her cold feet together and then snuggled them up into the folds of the nightgown. Warmth stole around her, rich and comforting, like the sense of peace that crept along into her heart. On a gentle sigh, her eyelids drifted closed. When they fluttered open one last time, she smiled at the thought. There were two smiling angels sitting at the foot of her bed. What a wondrous dream.

She greeted the morning cockcrow with a catlike stretch, starting with her arms and working down clear to her toes. “Thank You, Father,” she breathed at the thought of the restful sleep she’d had—no nightmares…no memories. She sat straight up. But what about the angels? She chuckled as she left the bed and went to stand in front of the window.

Dawn had bowed out, giving way to sunrise and the glorious birdsongs greeting the new day. The aromas of freshly turned earth and the green shoots sprouting up to meet the sun drifted in on a teasing breeze.

A tap at the door caught her attention. “Just your warm water, dear.” The cheery voice brought a smile to Rebekka’s face.

“Come in, Mrs. Sampson.” Rebekka hurried across the floor to open the door. “Thank you so much.” She stepped back to let the bustling housekeeper in.

“And how did you sleep? Was the bed all right?” She set the pitcher in the bowl on the oak stand and placed the towel draped over her arm beside the bowl. “There’s soap there. I made it myself. I add rose petals for the fragrance.” She peered into her guest’s face. “You look rested, in spite of all you went through.” She patted Rebekka’s arm. “Breakfast in half an hour.” And out the door she went.

Rebekka clapped her mouth closed, sure now that she understood how one felt after being whirled around in one of the summer tornadoes. Then she took her white blouse and dark skirt down from their hook and shook them to dislodge both horsehair and wrinkles. After laying them across the bed, she poured water into the bowl. As she picked up the soap, she inhaled its faint fragrance. What a luxury after the lye soap she’d been forced to use on the Strand farm.

After washing, Rebekka stared from her nightgown to her skirt and blouse, then to her feet. She had no underthings and no shoes. How could she call on Mr. Larson like this?

She combed her fingers through her hair and wished for the brush and comb sitting on her dresser at the farm. All of her things. She had to retrieve them, but how?

Teeth clenched against the surging anger, she pulled the nightgown back over her head and picked up the white blouse. Noticing smudges on the front and sleeves, she took the garment over to the washstand and applied the soap and water and some hard scrubbing to remove the stains. She dried the blouse as much as possible and smoothed the damp surface with her fingers. All the while doing this, she brooded over the injustice of it all.

It wasn’t her fault! But if it wasn’t, why did she feel so guilty? Why did she feel like she should wash again and keep on scrubbing?

She shoved her arms into the sleeves and buttoned the pearl buttons, then put on her walnut brown serge skirt. Standing in front of the mirror, she finger-combed her hair again and braided it, clamping the end with her fingertips until she could ask Mrs. Sampson for some pins.

As she made her way down the stairs, she could hear two women’s voices coming from the kitchen. A canary trilled when they laughed, adding his music to the homey scene. Rebekka paused in the doorway.

The round table was now set for three, a pot with bobbing pink cabbage roses set between the cut-glass salt and pepper shakers and a gleaming golden mold of butter.

The gold-and-black canary hopped about his cage in the front of the window, pipping his song as if he were responsible for the coming of the new day.

Rebekka cleared her throat. “All, good morning.”

“Oh, there you are.” Widow Sampson turned from stirring her kettle on the gleaming black stove. “Mrs. Knutson, you know Rebekka Stenesrude, the schoolmarm, don’t you?”

A diminutive woman, as slim as Widow Sampson was round, nodded and smiled at the same time. “Of course. I . . . ah—” She ducked her chin and made as if to sit down then paused from fussing with the chair. “If there’s anything you need . . .”

Rebekka tore her gaze from the other boarder to stare helplessly at Mrs. Sampson. When the older woman barely shook her head, Rebekka breathed again. Thankfully, she hadn’t told the secret.

“I mean, Alma said you had to leave your things. Whatever I have that you can use, you are welcome to it.” Her voice faded into a whisper. “I don’t want to be presumptuous . . . or anything.”

Rebekka felt like circling the table and wrapping the bitty bird of a woman in her arms. Instead, she clamped her fingers over the back of the chair in front of her. “Thank you.” She picked up the end of her braid. “You wouldn’t by any chance have extra hairpins, would you?”

“Oh, yes.” A bright smile lighting her face, the little woman darted out the door and up the stairs.

“Never worry, your secret is safe with me, but I had to tell her something.” Mrs. Sampson placed a filled bowl of oatmeal at each place. “I have a plan. We’ll talk when she leaves for her shop.”

Abigail Knutson returned and placed pins and a comb and brush by Rebekka’s place. “There, and now, let’s eat. I mustn’t be late.”

After grace, the three women chatted happily while eating their biscuits and jam besides the oatmeal and coffee. Rebekka wiped her mouth with the napkin she’d spread on her lap and tucked it back into the carved wooden napkin ring. “Thank you. I haven’t enjoyed breakfast like this in a long time.” She raised a hand and shook her head when Mrs. Sampson tried to refill the coffee cup.

Mrs. Knutson left immediately after placing her breakfast things in the sink. “Now you remember, if I can help with anything, you be sure to tell me.”

Rebekka nodded and rose to take her things to the sink, also.

“Now.” Mrs. Sampson sat back down after the front door closed. She lifted her coffee cup to her mouth and, after a sip, she pointed to the other chair. “Sit down and I’ll tell you my plan.”

“Well, what do we do?” Rebekka asked.

Mrs. Sampson took another sip of her coffee and smiled at Rebekka over the rim. “First of all, we take a buggy out to the Strand farm, return the horse, and pick up your things.”

“But what about Adolph?”

“By the time we get out there, he should be out in the fields with spring planting. When did you say Mr. and Mrs. Strand are coming back?”

“Tomorrow, Sunday, on the evening train. And you’re right. Adolph is behind in his work, so he’ll be pushing hard.” Rebekka raised stricken eyes to her benefactress. “I don’t ever want to see him again.”

“I know, my dear.” Mrs. Sampson patted Rebekka’s hands, clenched on the tablecloth. “That’s the beauty of my idea. This way you can return the horse. Adolph is such that he’d probably turn you in for stealing the animal.”

“Oh, no. He wouldn’t.” Rebekka shoved herself to her feet with such fury, the chair rocked behind her. She stormed across the kitchen and back. “Yes, he would. Let’s go. I need my shoes and other things so I can go talk with Mr. Larson.”

“And I’ll be right behind you. You won’t get any resistance from him with me along. I know a thing or two about what’s going on in this town that just might come in handy right about now.”

Rebekka whirled from her pacing and stopped at Mrs. Sampson’s side. “You are a jewel among thousands. I can’t wait to begin.”

“Well, you wash up those dishes while I go get a team at the livery. Then we’ll be on our way.” Mrs. Sampson paused at the door. “And Rebekka, remember, I’m behind you all the way.”

The young woman tried to smile through the film that suddenly covered her eyes but sniffed instead.

The drive out to the Strand farm passed quickly as the two women used the time to get to know each other better. Instead of a wagon, they rode in the comfort of a well-sprung buggy with a flashy chestnut horse trotting between the shafts. The horse that had brought Rebekka to town kept pace behind the buggy, shaking its head now and again at the lead rope.

As they drew nearer, Rebekka slipped into silence. The sight of the house in the distance sent terror coursing from her toes to the top of her head and back down again at breakneck speed. She could feel the fear gnawing at her stomach. What if he was up at the house? She couldn’t even bear to use his name.

Mrs. Sampson kept the reins in one hand and used the other to pat Rebekka on the knee. “Now, now. This’ll be all over in just a few minutes. There’s no need to be afraid. I just know our Father will make this go easy.”

Rebekka couldn’t force an answer from her dry throat if her life depended upon it.

But for the creaking of the windmill above the well house, the farm lay silent in the sunshine. Rebekka watched the windows carefully to see if the dog’s barking brought anyone to peer out. As soon as the dog realized that Rebekka rode in the buggy, he yipped and leaped in apology.
At least the dog likes me,
Rebekka thought, bringing a smile to her quivering lips.

Liking you is just the problem,
her inner voice remonstrated with her other thoughts.
If he hadn’t liked you so much . . .
Rebekka turned to Mrs. Sampson. “Why don’t we pull up at the barn and I’ll take the horse inside. Then we can go to the house.”

Ten minutes later they were out the door and trotting back down the lane. Rebekka allowed herself both a prayer and a sigh of relief. With her personal items stuffed into a carpetbag and her school things in a box she found on the back porch, she dared breathe in a breath of freedom.

“Maybe I should have left them a letter or something.” She looked over her shoulder at the slumbering farm.

“You can always mail them one.” Mrs. Sampson flicked the reins over the chestnut’s back and he picked up the pace. “I know what I’d like to tell them.”

“Ja, I know.”

“I just wish there were some way to . . . to . . .”

“Get even?”

“No, I mean, yes.” Rebekka paused and drew in a deep breath. “I mean, there should be some way to punish him for what he did and to keep him from doing so again.”

“I learned a long time ago that the best revenge is letting God handle the situation. There’s a verse, ‘Vengeance is mine . . . saith the Lord,’ and since He sees more than we do, I’d kinda rather let Him dole out the punishment.”

Rebekka thought awhile on the widow’s words. “But it seems He takes so long to go about it.”

“That’s true.” Widow Sampson flicked the reins again. “Git up there now. We got plenty important business to tend to.”

Widow Sampson looped the reins around the whip pole and descended to the ground in time to lift the box out of the back of the buggy. After tying the horse, the women made their way into the boardinghouse and carried Rebekka’s things upstairs to her room.

Rebekka felt herself smiling at the curtains billowing in the fresh breeze. I
already think of this as my room,
she thought in amazement. After two years of moving from home to home, she hadn’t thought of any place as her own in a long time.

Mrs. Sampson bustled back out of the room and left Rebekka to redress and redo her hair. Staring in the mirror, Rebekka let her mind wander. Not since she was little had she had a room of her own. After her father started drowning his sorrows in the bottle at the local saloon, she and her mother had been moved from pillar to post with never a place to call their own. And rarely a moment’s peace.

But at one time, she’d had a room with a quilt and rug and bright white curtains and a picture of Jesus on the wall. Jesus with the lambs. Rebekka laid her brush back on the dresser. Back at her grandmother’s house, she’d had a real home. Back in her grandmother’s house, life had been altogether different.

She wound the braid into a scroll at the base of her skull and pushed in the pins to secure it. After dampening a finger, she smoothed back the tendrils about her face that resisted confinement. Now she must present herself to Mr. Larson as her true self.

The old-maid schoolteacher who couldn’t
—she amended the thought,
wouldn’t stay with the Strands any longer.
And she wouldn’t, nay, couldn’t tell him why.

The two women climbed back up in the buggy with nary a word between them. Mrs. Sampson slapped the reins over the horse’s back and clucked him forward. They turned right on Main Street and trotted past the mercantile, the Lutheran church, and the doctor’s dispensary. Mr. Larson lived up on the bluff overlooking the Missouri River. The horse dug in its feet to gain footing on the grade.

“He should be home for dinner about now. Good a time as any to be the bearer of good news.”

“Good news?”

“Ja, you’re still here.” Mrs. Sampson tightened the reins and tied them around the whipstock as soon as the horse stopped. “And you’re only asking for a permanent place to live. Not too big a request, considering.”

“But . . . but, I can’t tell him what really happened.”

“No need. Just tell him what you want.” She climbed down from the buggy and tied the horse to the rail fence. An apple tree in full bloom filled the air with the fragrance of spring and spread protective arms over the rope swing hung from its branch. A rag doll leaned against the trunk as if comforted by the support.

Rebekka paused at the picket gate. Two of the Larson children attended her school and she knew there were two more at home. How could she talk to the father with his children around?

Mrs. Sampson took Rebekka’s arm and led her up to the steps. “Don’t be afraid. You have nothing to fear.”

Ja, sure. Rebekka felt like ripping her arm from the firm clasp and running back down the road. What would she say if he asked her why? She’d never learned to lie. It was a sin, remember. Her mother had sent her to bed without any supper when she told just a little white fib. What would she say?

She tucked a stray wisp of hair back into the severe coil and squared her shoulders. After one last glance at the woman beside her, Rebekka raised her hand and tapped on the door.

The door opened and Mrs. Larson greeted them with a wide smile. “Come in, come in. Why, if I’d knowed you were coming, we could have set another two places at the table for dinner.” She wiped her hands on her skirt-length white apron and gestured them toward the sitting room. “Can I get you some coffee? We’ll be having dessert in just a minute. Lars, look who’s here, Miss Stenesrude and Widow Sampson.”

After exchanging a conspiratorial glance, Rebekka and Mrs. Sampson followed their hostess. Nothing had changed. Give Mrs. Larson a moment and look out. When she started talking it took stronger hearts than theirs to stop her.

She bustled them into sitting on the horsehair sofa in the sitting room and met herself going out again.

“I . . . I need to talk with Mr. Larson,” Rebekka called to the retreating back. The woman bustled on.

“Whew,” Mrs. Sampson drew the back of her hand across her forehead as if to wipe away a flood of perspiration. She leaned back against the stiff sofa and turned to warm Rebekka with a smile. “Can’t say as I ever am prepared when I see Elmira after a time. She talks faster than a tornado spins.” She kept her voice to a whisper.

Rebekka clamped her bottom lip between her teeth and forced herself to sit perfectly erect, her feet primly together, her shoulders back and chin high. That was the only way to keep from turning into a mound of mush. Surely this couldn’t be worse than facing a class of twenty brand-new students, ranging in age from five to fifteen. She bit her lip. Yes, it could. What if she had to lie? Why, oh, why couldn’t Adolph keep his hands and lascivious thoughts to himself? Only with sternest self-control did she keep herself from shuddering.

Mr. Lars Larson sported the sunburned face and pure white forehead of a man who spent his days in the blazing Dakota sunshine. No ruler could have drawn a more perfect line than the one his hatband had done, dividing his face. He wore the sober look of a proper Norwegian upon learning that women were calling upon him in his professional capacity as school superintendent.

“Now, what can I do for you ladies?” he asked after all the proper greetings were exchanged.

A movement at the door caught Rebekka’s attention. Two shining faces with smiles fit to crack a rock, peered around the corner. The girl, braids pulling her hair into some semblance of order, waved and then hid her giggle behind her hands.

“Come, children, say hello to your teacher and then go about your chores.” Mr. Larson shot an apologetic glance at the women sitting on his sofa and beckoned the children. Two smaller replicas tagged behind the boy and girl who were her students.

“Hello, Inga and Ernie.” Rebekka reached out her hands to clasp those of the towheaded children and draw them to her side. “Maybe you could introduce me to your brother and sister.”

“This is Mary and Johnny. They’re twins.” Inga took over as the oldest.

“They’re babies. They don’t go to school like us big kids.” Ernie puffed out his skinny chest, visible under the straps of his faded overalls.

The two little ones clung to the chair where their father sat. When Rebekka greeted them, they each stuck one finger in their mouths and ducked their heads in perfect unison.

“They always do everything the same.” Ernie turned his serious blue-eyed gaze on his teacher. “Ma says that’s ‘cause they was borned at the same time.”

Rebekka nodded. She dredged up every bit of schoolmarm control to keep from ordering the children out to play so the adults could talk.

Mr. Larson must have sensed her feelings for he patted the twins on the bottom of their matching overalls and sent them out of the room. “Inga, Ernie, enough now. You go help your ma.”

The children filed out of the room, sending smiles over their shoulders.

Mr. Larson turned as they left. “And Inga, close the door behind you.”

Rebekka breathed a sigh of relief at his consideration. All of a sudden, the coming interview didn’t seem quite as frightening. Surely a man as considerate of his children as this would be sympathetic to her plight.

“Now, you want to talk with me. How can I help you?” He looked from Rebekka to Mrs. Sampson and back.

The silence deepened as the discomfort level in the room rose. Rebekka looked toward Mrs. Sampson and received a nod of encouragement. “I . . . I—” She pictured herself in front of a classroom of students and took a deep breath. “I cannot remain at the Strands’ any longer. The situation there is totally untenable and I must have another place to live.” The words gained strength and purpose as they followed one another, starting at a stagger and ending in a march.

Mr. Larson leaned back in his chair, rubbing the line of demarcation between summer and winter on his forehead. “Well, you know, we’ve always done things for the schoolteacher this way. He or she, you in this case, moves from home to home throughout the school year. We excuse those folks who absolutely can’t afford to feed the teacher or who don’t have room for one.”

“I know.” Rebekka lifted her chin a mite higher.

“What else can we do? Now, if you were married, you’d be living in your husband’s house and then there wouldn’t be no problem.”

Rebekka bit her lip on a retort to that nugget of information.

“Just what’s the problem with finishing out your stay at the Strands’?”

Rebekka refused to cringe at the blunt question. Instead, she looked Mr. Larson straight in the face and answered, “I’d rather not say.” Now she knew what a witness must feel like in court.

Out of the corner of her eye Rebekka could see Mrs. Sampson straighten herself, an act that reminded her of a hen all fluffed up and ready to attack anyone who disturbs her chicks.

Mr. Larson raised a hand. “Please don’t think I’m not concerned about this. I am only trying to get to the bottom of a problem.” Mrs. Sampson cleared her throat.

Rebekka felt a burst of strength, as if she were inhaling confidence. “We have worked together now for the good of Willowford’s children for nearly two years. Wouldn’t you agree that it’s been a productive two years, Mr. Larson?”

“Well, of course.”

“Wouldn’t you like to continue the progress that we’ve made?” Without giving him time for a response, she sailed on. “At this time, we have all the school-age children in the district enrolled in school and two of our eldest are preparing for college. Now, wouldn’t you say those are major accomplishments?”