Dakota Dusk (8 page)

“You’ll see.” The older woman packed the last box into the wagon. “Are you riding with me or walking?” she asked as she climbed up on the seat of the wagon.

“I’m coming,” said Rebekka as she stepped up and pulled herself onto the wagon seat. When the horse started off, she looked over her shoulder to the schoolhouse, gleaming faintly in the dusk.

“Thank You, Lord,” she whispered.

“What’s that?”

“Just happy, that’s all.”

“That’s enough.”

“You want me to take the horse back?” Rebekka asked when they pulled to a halt at the boardinghouse.

“That would be nice, dear. Then I can get these things put away. When you get back I have something to tell you.” The Widow Sampson stepped to the ground and tied the horse to the fence. Together, the two women unloaded the wagon, carrying baskets and tubs to the back porch.

“I wouldn’t mind if you told me now.” Rebekka paused before returning to the horse.

“Just hurry back. I hate to see you out after dark.”

Rebekka hummed along with the horse’s
clip-clop, clip-clop
trot back to the livery. Since no one answered her call, she tied the horse to the hitching post in front and swung off back to the widow’s house. As she walked the quiet streets, lights glowed from windows, a dog barked, and another answered. Since it was Sunday night, the saloon was closed and dark.

But there were plenty of lights at Widow Sampson’s boardinghouse and Rebekka looked across the yard in surprise. She’d have thought Mrs. Knutson would have gone up to her room and Mrs. Sampson would be finishing up in the kitchen. The gate creaked as she opened it; a horse nickered from somewhere out in the pasture.

Rebekka froze. Who’s horse was out there? Had an animal gotten loose and found its way to their pasture? She locked the gate behind her and strode up the walk. Surely she wouldn’t have to take a strange animal back tonight.

At the sound of voices, she paused on the back porch. One voice was a man’s. Perhaps someone had come for his horse. She breathed a sigh of relief, opened the back door, and crossed through the pantry to the kitchen.

“What?” she said as she saw the stranger, sitting perfectly at ease at the table in Mrs. Sampson’s kitchen.

“Rebekka Stenesrude, I’d like you to meet our new boarder, Jude Weinlander.” Mrs. Sampson shot Rebekka a look of apology.

“Miss Stenesrude.” Jude rose to his feet and tipped his head in the time-honored greeting of male to female.

“Mr. Weinlander.” Rebekka knew her manners. What she didn’t understand was how one man’s eyes could look so . . . so . . . sad wasn’t nearly strong enough. Not blank, not dead, just filled with deep-down, soul-searching sorrow. Whatever had happened in his life to bring that darkness to eyes that should have sparkled like the sun, dappling a Minnesota lake in the summer?

Again the slash of silver in his dark blond hair caught her attention. Did he ever smile? What would it take to make a smile light his eyes and crease his face?
Silly,
she chided herself.
He’s a drifter: He’ll be here and gone before you know it.

“Mr. Weinlander will be working for Lars,” Mrs. Sampson said as she reached for the coffeepot on the stove. “Would you like a cup before you retire?”

Rebekka shook her head. “No, thanks. I think I’ll go on up.”

The usual camaraderie seemed to have fled the kitchen. Would things ever be the same?

Jude watched her leave the room, her back straight, her head high. He wondered how she could hold her head so straight with that thick braided coil at her neck. It looked heavy enough to tip her all the way over. Tonight she wasn’t smiling. In fact, the temperature had dropped ten degrees in the room when they’d been introduced. But he’d seen her smile at the children today. And all the others helping at the school. She had a wonderful, heart-catching smile when she allowed it out to play. Must have something to do with being a schoolmarm.

He picked up the cup of coffee set before him and sipped. No matter. He wouldn’t be here long enough to get to know her anyway.

Mrs. Sampson sat down across from him and, with a sigh, stretched her shoulders and leaned back in the chair. “This has certainly been a busy two days. Glad we don’t have doings like this too often.”

Jude set his cup down and ran a calloused fingertip around the edge of the mug. He could feel a war going on inside him. Why in the world did he have this desire to tell the woman across from him his life’s story? Surely if she knew, she would send him packing in an instant. He cleared his throat. He could hear footsteps overhead.

That must be Rebekka’s room. Why in the world was he thinking of her as Rebekka? Miss Stenesrude.

He took another swallow of coffee. “I need to tell you some things.”

Mrs. Sampson studied him across the top of her cup. “Not if you don’t want to, you don’t.”

Jude pulled at the collar of his shirt. “It’s been awhile since I told anyone—in fact, I never have.”
Why do you want to do this?
his mind cautioned. What is there about this woman that invites you to tell all? He looked across the table into the most compassionate eyes he’d ever seen.

“You don’t need to do this.”

“Ja, I guess I do.” He took a deep breath and began. “I been a no-good all my life, deviling my older brother and making life miserable for my wife and mother. But I can’t make my wife and my mother sad anymore because they are dead and it’s all my fault.” He continued with his story without a break. “And now you know. So if you want me to leave, I’ll understand.”

“Do you play an instrument?”

The question surprised him. “What?”

“I asked if you played an instrument.”

“I know what you said. I heard you.” He stared at the woman across the table. Her smile warmed him clear down to his ankles. He shook his head, feeling a laugh starting down in his middle. “Yes, I play, if you call a mouth organ an instrument.”

“Good. That means we’ll have nearly an orchestra right here. Miss Stenesrude plays the organ and piano, Mrs. Knutson the fiddle, and I do a fair-to-middlin’ job on the gutbucket . . . banjo some, too. I think we’ll have some real high times, come winter.” She pushed herself to her feet. “More coffee?”

Jude shook his head. “No, thanks.” He stared at the woman who had just given him his life back. “Is that all you have to say?”

She poured her coffee and turned to look at him. “No. There’ll be no smoking or drinking or playing cards in my house!” Then her eyebrows raised in question.

“Of course not.”

“And it’s high time you understand that God forgives us when we ask . . . and even before. You need to plug into that. Breakfast is at seven, earlier if you need, I make your dinner bucket, and supper is served at six o’clock sharp. You needn’t worry that I’ll tell tales on you. Your life is safe with me.” She walked over to the sink and set her cup into the dishpan. “I’ll show you to your room.” She picked up the kerosene lamp and led the way up the stairs.

Rebekka heard them come up the stairs. What on earth had they been talking about all this while? She turned over and thumped her pillow. She missed sitting in the kitchen discussing the day with Widow Sampson. Why had he come along and ruined everything? Now this house that had felt like home felt more like just a place to live.

Everywhere Rebekka went, Jude was there.

“Howdy, Miss Stenesrude,” said Johnny J., her oldest pupil, as he waved at her from his painting ladder when she approached the school on Monday morning. “Sure is looking good, wouldn’t you say?”

“I certainly would.” Rebekka stopped to admire the sparkling white paint. “You’re doing a fine job.” She opened the door to find Jude nailing up the thin boards and the chicken wire for the plasterers who were coming next. “Mr. Weinlander,” she said as she tipped her head in acknowledgment.

“Miss Stenesrude.” Jude continued nailing, the hammer ringing in perfect rhythm.

Now he was here, ruining her joy in the new building. How could anyone else be happy when he stared out at them with such sad eyes? She slanted a peek in his direction. There was no indication he cared whether she was in the room or not; he just continued with his work.

Rebekka paced the room, picturing the blackboards for the wall, where her desk would go, and if she would change the configuration of the children’s desks. She’d seen a school building with movable desks, and since the school was also used as the town’s meeting hall, theater, and dance hall, movable desks would be a decided advantage.

She took a paper and pencil from her bag and began a list of supplies, including the changes she would like to make. But where could they get the money? She’d have to talk with Mr. Larson to see if there was any left from the bank loan. As she paced, she tapped the pencil end against her teeth.

When finished, she put the things back in her bag and walked toward the door. “Good day, Mr. Weinlander.” She kept her voice cool and terribly proper.

“Ummm.” The hammering continued without a break.

As she stalked the path homeward, she fumed at the snub. Didn’t he even have the grace to be polite?

After having talked with Mr. Larson and called on two families who had recently moved to the area, she walked into the boardinghouse and found him sitting at the table drinking a cup of coffee.

“Supper in half an hour,” Mrs. Sampson said as she turned from the pot she was stirring on the stove and smiled at Rebekka. “There’s a letter for you on the entry table. And a box arrived. Must be books, it’s so heavy. Jonathan brought it over from the train station.”

“Wonderful. Thank you.” Rebekka crossed through the kitchen and went out without looking that man in the face. Two could play at his game. She stopped at the oak secretary to pick up scissors and knelt by the box. As she cut the strings, she read the address.

“Who are they from?” Mrs. Sampson followed her into the sitting room.

“A school in Fargo.” Rebekka folded back the top of the box and peered inside. “Arithmetic, history, reading,” she said as she shuffled through the books, setting them outside the box as she dug deeper. “What a gift. This gives me at least something to start with.” She opened a letter taped to the inside of the box top.

She read aloud, “Dear Teacher, We are sorry these aren’t brand-new, but we planned on sending these to the Indian Reservation after we received new textbooks. Please send them on when you are finished with them. Please accept our sympathy on the burning of your school.” Rebekka looked up to Mrs. Sampson. “Isn’t that wonderful?”

Jude, who was standing behind Mrs. Sampson, saw Rebekka’s shining eyes and felt like a mule had kicked him in the gut. Why, she wasn’t plain at all, like he’d first thought. When she smiled like that, her eyes could teach the sun something about shining. And all it took was a box of hand-me-down books for her school, no less.

Jude turned and left the two women talking. He needed to wash before supper anyway. As he pumped a bucket of water at the outside well, he thought back to the school in Soldahl. They had plenty of books. There was even a library in town, at the school, of course. And Mrs. Norgaard had a whole room full of books.

But was he ready to write to them? He sluiced water over his head and shoulders and scrubbed with the bar of homemade soap left on the bench beside the bucket. As he rinsed again, he shook his head. “How can I ask them for something when they’ve already given me so much? And all I ever did for them was cause trouble.”

But this wasn’t asking for something for himself, his argument continued. Rebekka’s, Miss Stenesrude’s—he even caught himself correcting his thoughts—happiness wasn’t for herself either. What she needed was books and supplies for her school so she could teach the kids who would be coming to her. Cute kids like the little girl with the lisp . . . and the two young lovebirds.

Jude dried himself with the towel Mrs. Sampson had hung on a nail above the wash bench. He would write the letter tonight. It was for the children of Willowford, after all.

After repacking her box of books, Rebekka sat down in the sitting room to read the letter from her aunt. What a joy it was to have family again. She who had felt alone for so long. She smiled at the news that one of her cousins was getting married, a second was increasing her family, and her grandmother wished Rebekka could come for another visit soon.

Rebekka tucked the letter back into its envelope. Maybe she could go see them for Christmas. What would it be like to spend Christmas with people who were her real family, not only friends, but related? Her mother said they’d had Christmas with her mother and father, back when Rebekka was little, but Rebekka couldn’t remember them. Most of her memories were not worth dragging out.

“I’ll carry that over to the school for you on Friday,” Jude said as he stopped in the arched doorway. “Should be done with the walls by then.”

Rebekka started. She hadn’t heard him walk across the floor. “Why . . . why, thank you.” She looked up in time to catch a fleeting glimpse of something lighten his eyes. No, she’d been mistaken . . . only the dark remained. But she couldn’t pull her gaze away. Such deep, dark eyes. All she could call it was sadness.

“Supper’s ready,” Mrs. Sampson called from the kitchen.

Rebekka let the conversation between the two widows flow around her, answering only when asked a question. She concentrated fully on each bite, but if someone had asked her what she was eating, she couldn’t have said. She didn’t dare look up for Jude sat right across the round oak table from her, and she knew for certain that if she looked into his eyes again, she would blush enough to light up the room.

“Please pass the bread.” His voice, deep and rich like maple syrup flowing over steaming pancakes in the morning, played bass to the women’s soprano.

At the sudden silence, Rebekka looked up. “Oh.” She passed the bread plate that had been sitting directly in front of her. But she didn’t look across the table. No, sirree. She only looked to Mrs. Knutson, who sat on her right and who passed the plate to Jude.

But his hand caught Rebekka’s eye . . . tanned, long, blunt fingers. She forced her gaze back to her plate. What was the matter with her?

When she finally escaped to her room, Rebekka gave herself a good talking to. She tried to sit down at the table beside the window to write her letter but instead ended up pacing the floor.
You ninny. You are the schoolteacher, remember? You can’t talk to anyone. You have a respected position in this town and that man is only a drifter. Besides that, he doesn’t care a bit for you and you don’t want him to.

She kept her shoulders back and her spine straight. When she felt she’d said and heard enough, she sat herself back down in the chair and took out paper and pen and uncapped the inkwell. She dipped the pen and began, “Dear Aunt Sofie . . .”

Her mind floated down the stairs and into the sitting room, where she could hear Mrs. Sampson and Mrs. Knutson and Mr. Weinlander talking. A black blot spread across the white paper. “
Uff da
.” Here she was the schoolteacher, who was supposed to teach penmanship, and she’d blotted the paper.

Only women’s laughter drifted up the stairway. Did that man have a personal law against laughing?

Rebekka took another sheet of paper from her packet and began to write again but stopped when she heard the stairs creak under a heavier tread.

Then she stared down at the newly spreading black smear and wrinkled the page, dropping it next to its mate in the wastebasket by the table. Now she’d not only not finished the letter, but she had wasted two sheets of paper. And paper costs money.

After asking for paper and a pen, Jude climbed the stairs to his room. He sat down at the table by the window and after uncapping the ink, wrote in a bold, firm hand to his brother, Dag. He pictured his brother reading the letter aloud at the supper table in the big house in Soldahl. They would all be sitting at the long oak table in the dining room—Dag, Clara, Mrs. Norgaard, and Mrs. Hanson, who would be jumping up to serve. Gaslight from the chandelier above the table would bring a brilliance to the room, impossible with kerosene lamps like the one sitting on the edge of the table.

The house was grand, for certain. And his brother had grown into the grandness himself, changing from the shy, filthy blacksmith to one of the leading businessmen of the town, even though he was still the blacksmith. Jude chewed on the end of the pen. Where was the anger and jealousy he’d felt all these years? There was Dag with all the trappings Jude had dreamed of and here he was, a drifter in a town far from anywhere, and he . . . he didn’t hate anymore. Had it, too, been burned away?

He finished the letter and addressed the envelope. He’d pick up a stamp and . . . he shook his head. He couldn’t even buy a stamp until payday. How could he ask for one more thing from Mrs. Sampson? He put the envelope aside. He’d mail it next week.

As he closed his eyes in bed, his mind flitted back to the sitting room and Rebekka. He gave up. He couldn’t call her Miss Stenesrude in his mind any longer. Rebekka, kneeling in front of the box of books. Rebekka, with such joy and delight, he’d almost smiled at her. Almost—until he caught himself.

He turned over and folded the pillow under his head. He’d ask for a stamp in the morning. After all, it was only three days until payday.

By the end of the week, Rebekka had collected two more boxes of books from people in the community. On Friday, while she sorted her papers and books into the desk the doctor in town had loaned the school, she heard a team draw up by the school.

“Hello, Miss Stenesrude,” a male voice paged her from outside. Rebekka pushed back her chair and crossed to the window. Jonathan Ingmar, the stationmaster, tied his team to the hitching post planted to the side of the schoolhouse and walked to the rear of his wagon. A flat, wooden crate lay in the wagon bed.

“I’ll be right there to help you,” Rebekka told him from the open window then dashed out the door and around the corner. But Jude got there first, and the two men were lifting the crate out by the time she arrived.

“That must be the blackboard. I can’t believe it got here so quickly.” Rebekka walked beside them, ready to lend a hand if the tall, skinny crate leaned too far to the side. The two men carried it to the front of the room and set it on the floor, leaning against the desk.

“I’ll get my hammer,” Jude said as he strode across the room and out the door.

“I need to get home to my dinner,” Mr. Ingmar said. “You need anything else, Miss Stenesrude?”

“No, Mr. Ingmar, and thank you so much for delivering this.”

“No trouble. I brought my team in for a shoeing this morning.” He cast a glance out the door. “You’re sure you’re all right with . . . ?”

Rebekka caught his meaning. “Nothing to worry about. Mr. Weinlander and the others are finishing up the school building. Mr. Larson went on home and—” She felt like she was blathering. “So, thank you again.” She walked him out to his wagon and waved him off.

When she reentered the school, she heard the screech of nails being pulled. Jude picked up the top section of the crate and put it off to the side as she reached him.

“Brand-new. Can you beat that? I’ll be the first person to write on the new blackboard.” Rebekka squatted down and ran her fingers over the dusty black surface. When she looked up at Jude, she thought she caught a smile . . . almost. At least his right cheek had pulled back a mite. She was sure it had. She smiled in return—just in case.

“If you give me a hand, we can lift it out right now or wait until the others return.”

“Let’s do it now. I can’t wait to see it on the wall.” She paused. “Shouldn’t the wall be painted first?”

“We can take it down again. Might not get at the painting until a cold snap anyway.”

“All right.” Together they lifted the blackboard out and stood it against the wall. “It’s heavy.”

Jude removed his yellow measuring stick and unfolded it to measure the height and length of the blackboard. Then he measured down from the ceiling and marked on the plastered wall. Lightly tapping with his hammer, he located the studs and drove home the nails needed to hold the heavy blackboard.

Rebekka watched as he accomplished each task with an economy of movement and the sureness that comes with practice and pride in his work. She wanted to offer to help but had no idea how.

“Ready?” He shoved his hammer back into his belt and leaned over to pick up the blackboard. “This’ll be heavy.”

“I know.” Rebekka prepared herself and, with one eye on Jude and the other on the blackboard, hoisted it up and set the back of the frame over the line of nail heads. When it was in place, she gave the oak frame a pat and turned to smile at Jude.

“Thank you. Oh, that’s wonderful.” With a swirl of her skirts, she spun back and stroked her hand down the frame again.

The smile she gave him lit up the room . . . and his heart. Jude felt like clutching his chest. What could one do with a smile like that but treasure it and keep it safe? Keep it to take out again on a cold winter’s night and warm himself when he was far away down the road.

“You’re welcome.” He forced the words past a lump in his throat. When she turned back, he had his usual expression in place. But he could literally feel his face cracking.

He picked up the pieces of the crate. “If you need anything else, just holler.” Crate pieces on his shoulder, he strode out the door.