Forevermore (8 page)

Konrad nodded curtly. “Thanks. If you go to Jakob Stauffer’s farm, be sure to tell my Annie I miss her. When do you leave?”

“Day after tomorrow . . . but don’t worry, I’ll be sure to tell everyone at home that you’re coming to Sunday supper.”

Konrad watched Volkner ride off. The exchange went as well as it could, considering everything. It wouldn’t be hard to make up a story or two about Annie and Jakob’s kid. In fact, Konrad considered himself a skilled storyteller. So what if his words were lies?

He looked down at the envelope and opened it with one savage rip. Cash slid out. Five dollars. Five paltry dollars a month. That’s what Jakob sent to keep him away. It wasn’t enough, but Konrad couldn’t leave now. He had no one to mind his crops.

Rage filled him as he strode toward the house. Konrad was the one who had worked the land these last six years, toiled under the scorching sun to bring in each crop. That, and he’d married Stauffer’s mousy daughter. Everything had been going according to his plan until two years ago, when the old man died. Oh, Konrad planned on his dying. In fact, Annie babied the old goat and kept him alive far past what anyone expected. Konrad played his part well, too. More than once, the old man had said he was just like a son. In the end, it was all easy enough. He’d sent Annie to bed and done away with the old man by simply holding a pillow over his face. No one ever suspected anything, and Konrad knew all he’d ever wanted now belonged to him.

Or so he had thought.

A son ought to inherit—but after the funeral, at the reading of the will, Konrad learned he’d been cheated out of everything he’d planned on, sweated for, and expected. The house should have been willed to him, but Annie’s father hadn’t bothered to see the attorney and change the paper work. His will left the farm to be split evenly between his sons—but with Bartholomew dead, that meant Jakob inherited everything. Everything—the house, the barn, the animals, the land—all went to the sole surviving son.

Jakob didn’t need it; he had a farm of his own. Even more, Jakob didn’t deserve it. But Jakob wielded his ownership of the farm in a way Konrad never anticipated.

Jakob unexpectedly whisked Annie away one afternoon. Left on the table was a scrawled note. The words burned in Konrad’s memory and soul:
Work the land. Keep the profit, but stay away from my sister
.

He’d dared to leave such an order—as if Konrad was still a hired hand instead of the man of the house and the one who ran things.

A wry smile twisted Konrad’s mouth. He refused to stand for such an order. The money in his hand proved he’d fought back and won. He’d fired off a letter that resulted in Jakob sending funds each month.

Now Konrad wished he’d demanded more money. A farmer earned about twenty dollars a month, a hired hand got about ten. Women weren’t worth as much as men, but Stauffer might have paid another dollar each month. Maybe even two.

Women tended the garden and put up food—but Annie wasn’t here. That forced Konrad to buy expensive canned goods at the mercantile. If Annie were here like a good wife would be, he wouldn’t be dealing with that problem. She had no business leaving him. Jakob shouldn’t have taken her away. A woman belonged with her husband. Belonged
to
her husband. Yet for seven months now, Jakob had been benefiting from her labors.

The five dollars crinkled in Konrad’s fist. Annie owed him her labor and care, yet she’d abandoned him. And why? He was a good husband to her. Far better than she deserved.

Her thoughtlessness provoked him. She’d deserved his irritation and earned his anger, but he was sorry for having been stern with her on occasion. To his credit, each time after he’d had to discipline her, he always went out of his way to be kind. Unfortunately, Annie was slow to learn, and she’d inevitably do things wrong and earn his wrath yet again.

Hadn’t he told her repeatedly not to starch the collar of his Sunday-best shirt so much? And when they ran low on raisins, she’d put a stingy scoop of them in his oatmeal—then had some herself. Annie should have planned better and deserved to go without until she got to the mercantile to buy more. Well, she’d learned. After that episode, she always gave him plenty of raisins and ate her own oatmeal plain.

She’d gone to town without once asking permission. Even spent the egg money on buttons for a dress for herself. He’d made her take them back and give him the money. She’d vowed to honor and obey him the day she became his wife; she’d done neither. He’d had to train her, and after a year he still found her sadly lacking.

Nevertheless, he needed her. A few weeks more—then he’d get her. Once he brought in the wheat, Konrad decided, he’d go south and fetch his wife. He’d say whatever was needed to convince Jakob that Annie belonged alongside her husband.

Only Jakob was a stubborn man.

Konrad slowly fingered the bills as he considered the problem and concocted a plan. The best way would be to show up on Sunday and say something in the churchyard after the service about how he’d tried to be understanding all this time, but the Bible said no man should pull asunder what God had joined together. Folks would side with him.

Of course, he’d also say that he’d missed his darling Annie, but they’d chosen to be apart this long because Jakob promised to sign over the deed so they’d be able to call the land their very own. Yes, that’s what would happen. Annie was so mealymouthed and mousy, she wouldn’t dare tell a single soul that it was all a lie. A smirk tilted Konrad’s mouth. Jakob wouldn’t like it, but he’d sign the deed—otherwise he’d be branded a liar and cheat.

The thought of that victory calmed Konrad. Annie would be a better wife, now that she missed him. She’d come home and behave. Even give him sons. Yes, several sons. Sons to work by his side and make him both rich and proud. Strapping ones who would inherit the land and take care of him in his old age. But first things first. He’d bring in the harvest. Then he’d get his wife and farm.

Seven

H
ope cast a look at the bushel baskets she’d set at the end of every other row in the garden. Placed on the far side of the garden, those baskets weren’t visible from the house or the path toward the outhouse. She made a habit of traversing a different row each time she went outside for something. As she passed through, she’d harvest the ripe vegetables into the skirt of her apron, then slip them into a basket. Mrs. Erickson didn’t know, and Hope wanted it to stay that way.

Carrying a large crock to the back porch, she called out, “Emmy-Lou, please open the door.”

Little feet pattered, and the door burst open. “What’re we gonna do now?”

“We’re gonna fill this here crock with watermelon pickles.”

“My brother . . . ” Mrs. Erickson sounded almost apologetic. “He likes the pickles made of the fruit itself and dill.”

“So do I!” Hope grinned. “We’ll pickle the fruit with dill and the rind with sugar, cinnamon, cloves and vinegar. That way, nothing goes to waste. Does that sound about right to you, Mrs. Erickson?”

“Ja.” Mrs. Erickson gave her a timid smile. “I call you Hope. You should call me Annie.”

Knowing Annie was as timid as could be, Hope acknowledged her act of friendship without making a to-do about it. “Well, then, Annie, we’ll be gettin’ a lot done here, won’t we?”

Annie looked concerned as she set aside the sock she’d been darning. “I should have cleaned the crocks.”

“Of course you could have, but them socks there would still need darnin’. I’m fixin’ to tote in a passel of melons. If’n you finish the socks, might be good for you to slice up a few cabbages. We could salt the shreds and start up a batch of sauerkraut.”

Much later, when the men came in for supper, Emmy-Lou galloped over to her father as he stopped at the washstand. Straddling the broom, she giggled. “Daddy, watch me! I’m riding a horsey, and my horsey is cleaning the floor.”

“Too bad her horse can’t pull a load.” Phineas waited for his boss to use the pitcher and bowl first.

A grimace creased Mr. Stauffer’s face.

Hope wiped her hands on the hem of her apron. “Something happen to one of your beasts?”

“Josephine is fine, but Nicodemus took exception to something and kicked in his stall. Didn’t break anything, but I mudded and wrapped his leg. The last thing I need is a lame horse at harvest.”

“What’s the first thing you need, Daddy?”

He rinsed his hands, then knelt by Emmy-Lou as he dried them. “I got you, so I can’t complain.”

“Hattie and Josephine are of a size.” Hope turned back to the stove and opened the warmer up top to take out a big bowl of macaroni and cheese. The sharp, creamy fragrance filled the air. “Wouldn’t be the first time Hattie worked with a horse.”

“You wouldn’t mind?”

Hope gave her boss a startled look. “Why? That would make me like a dog with a stranger.”

“I think you mean dog in a manger,” Phineas said as he washed up.

“You got things turnt about. ’Twas Jesus in the manger. A dog with a stranger—there’s a critter what ain’t sure he wants to allow anyone near his property.” She turned her focus on her boss. “Well, we ain’t strangers, and I wouldn’t mind a bit. Josephine’s been weanin’ her foal. Since he’s been keepin’ Hattie company out in the pasture, he’s carried her scent back to his mama. I reckon all it’d take is bribin’ them with half a peach in the mornin’, and they’d stand for bein’ harnessed together.”

“I’m obliged.” Mr. Stauffer inhaled appreciatively as he moved so she could set the hot bowl on the table. “Does Hattie prefer right or left side?”

“Left, but she’ll do right if you need her to.”

Mr. Stauffer’s shoulders eased down a bit more. “Left is good. Josephine—she likes the right. Emmy-Lou, your hands are dirty.”

“I’ll see to her.” Annie scurried over.

Emmy-Lou yanked on the broomstick and did a little sideways hop. “Whoa, horsey!” She lost her balance, and her father caught her, but the broom went the other way. The tip of the handle struck the sampler, which in turn jarred the photograph. Hope watched, helpless to stop the Stauffers’ wedding picture as it slid down the wall and crashed, shattering glass all about.

Emmy-Lou let out a shriek; then only her sniffles broke the ominous silence.

“I’m sorry.” Annie bowed her head and whispered, “I shouldn’t have let her play like that.” She tugged Emmy-Lou over and sidled in front of the child. Annie turned into a magpie all of a sudden. “I’ll sweep this up. I will. Right away. You men go ahead and eat while supper’s hot. Emmy-Lou—”

“I’ll help her wash her hands.” Phineas picked up the child.

Mr. Stauffer had gone pale beneath his tan. Glass crunched beneath his boots as he stepped forward. “It was an accident.” His voice sounded just as brittle and gritty as the broken glass. “I-I’ll clean it up,” Annie insisted.

“No.” He cleared his throat, then said in a measured, almost soothing tone, “Sit down, Annie. Eat your supper.”

“He’s right, Annie. I’m cleanin’ it, and that’s that.” Hope bustled over. “What’s a housekeeper for? All ya’ll go take the load off and dig in.” She grabbed the broom and reached for the broken frame.

Mr. Stauffer’s hand closed over it first. The corner of the picture bent inward, hiding the image of Mrs. Stauffer’s face. With exacting care, Jakob’s big thumb lifted the flap. A crease now marred the photograph—it angled right through his wife’s hair.

Reverently, he grazed the likeness of his wife, almost as if the touch would erase the crease in the same way it would coax back an errant wisp of hair—but it didn’t repair the damage. An impossibly long, utterly silent sigh slid from between his taut lips. Anguish turned his eyes the same shade as pewter. For just an instant, he closed them.

Lord, this man’s a-hurtin’ something fierce. Could you comfort him?

Mr. Stauffer opened his eyes. He said nothing, but straightened up and carried the picture upstairs. Each step he took echoed with grief; then his bedroom door shut. The oh-so-quiet click was the final, lonely sound she heard.

“Mr. Stauffer?”

Jakob didn’t turn around. Instead, he stood by the barn stall and murmured under his breath to Josephine. He’d been silent at supper. What happened was an accident. That didn’t change the pain wrenching his heart.

Jakob cherished that picture. On their wedding trip, they’d dressed up in their wedding finery and gone to a photographer. The photographer kept trying to get Naomi to face forward, but she’d insisted she couldn’t take her eyes off her handsome husband.

Now the picture was ruined. A white line creased the corner, angling through Naomi’s hair. Reason told him the photograph wasn’t destroyed and anyone else would consider the damage inconsequential, but all the logic in the world didn’t erase the savage stab of grief that blindsided him. Hoping to minimize the fold, Jakob had carefully placed the photograph between the pages of his Bible—but when he’d opened his Bible, it had fallen open to Proverbs Thirty-one. Of all the passages, why that one? It described the attributes of a good wife. No other passage could have left him feeling more desolate.

He’d come out here to be alone, to have a chance to grieve. Phineas was smart enough to leave him alone. The last thing Jakob wanted was to talk with Hope.

“Ain’t that something?” Oblivious to the fact that he hadn’t even turned to acknowledge her, Hope approached the stall. “You done a smart thing, puttin’ Hattie and Jo as neighbors tonight. Let ’em get better acquainted.”

He grunted.

Cocking her head to the side, Hope studied Nicodemus. “How’s your gelding?”

Realizing she wasn’t going away, Jakob grudgingly replied, “I expect he’ll be better in a few days.”

“Like you said the day I drove up, you take good care of your livestock. Been right nice to my mule, too. She’s gotta memory long as her ears. Come mornin’, you’ll find her eager to show her appreciation.”

He made no reply as he checked the bolt to be sure Josephine wouldn’t get out of her stall. She seemed to have a talent for that. About once a week she’d be out of her stall and visiting one of the other beasts when Jakob opened the barn door. In times past, he’d thought Naomi or Phineas was playing a joke on him, but they weren’t.