Spring for Susannah (16 page)

“But I'll have to make sweaters for any we want to keep.”

Jesse hooted. “Mac's right. I am lucky. Blessed. Thanks for staying.”

Chapter 14

Man's not meant to live alone.
You're right, as usual.

A
north wind chilled their next woodcutting trip. Susannah tightened her shawl as the wagon crested the hill. “What's that?” She pointed to a smudge beneath a storm cloud.

“Dear Jesus!” Jesse snapped the reins and forced Pa Ox into a trot. “Fire! Lightning's got the grass burning.”

Susannah dug her fingers into the seat and braced against the footboard. Behind her, logs clattered as the wagon lurched and bounced. Smoke billowed white against the indigo thundercloud. Antelope streaked toward the river. A white-tailed jackrabbit zigzagged under the wagon, and flocks of goldfinches, ducks, and plovers thrashed the air. Storm and smoke raced to cover the afternoon sun.

By the time the wagon reached the soddy, smoke had won.

Jesse dashed into the shed for an empty flour sack and a pail. “Susannah!” he shouted over the bass notes of the thunder. He grabbed her elbow and pivoted her to look him straight in the eye. “Stay here! If the fire comes close, head for the creek.” He scowled at the trickle of water winding beneath the brown leaves of the thicket. “No. It's near dry. Stay inside. If you see flames, get in the root cellar. And pray.” His mouth worked as if he had more to say, but he couldn't organize his racing thoughts into sentences. Lightning streaked overhead, followed by thunder, and Jesse sprinted toward the spring.

“Jake, stay with Susannah,” he called back over his shoulder.

Susannah held the door open for him. “Come on, Jake.”

Lightning rent the cloud overhead. Thunder shook the shelves and rattled the tinware. Jake barked. Susannah scanned the ceiling, expecting to see flames curling around the rafters. The dog pushed his wet nose into her hand.

“We were told to stay.” She studied the root cellar. If she emptied out the food, she and the dog could curl into the dirt cave Jesse had dug into the hill.

Susannah peered through the window. As far as she could see, the prairie was covered with dry grass. The Volds would be hit first; Ivar would be busy trying to save his own place. The next closest neighbors, the half dozen citizens of Worthington, lived too far away to help.

A pair of foxes darted through the yard, ignoring the hens squawking behind the fragile willow fence. She thought about Ma Ox and the calves. If they hadn't run off, smoke would scorch their lungs, hot cinders would burn them. They'd be frantic.

“All right.” Susannah's words brought Jake's ears upright again. “We're the only help he's got, you and me. I'm terrified. You'll be brave enough for both of us, won't you?” The dog faced the door. “Find Ma Ox. Go!” Susannah opened the door, gathered her skirts, and raced after the dog.

The scene at the top of the hill stopped her. Flames lined the base of towering smoke clouds, miles closer than before. The smell of burning grass tinged the air. A family of ground squirrels darted and squeaked around her feet. No Jesse.

Were they all going to die?

Jake barked, commanding her to follow. Through the crackling and rumbling, a low moan rose to a screech. Ma Ox stamped in agitated circles around her calves. Susannah yanked the pin. The animals made a beeline for the shed.

Storm clouds brought an early dusk. Susannah filled buckets and wet the roof, drenching herself in the process. With each flash of lightning, she looked up, hoping.

Shouldn't Jesse be back by now?

Ash-laden air swirled through the draw. A live ember landed in the haystack, and stems began to redden and curl. Susannah swung the bucket in an arc, only to have the wind blow the water back in her face. Hot pain knifed through her shoulder blades, but she tried to ignore it as she raced up the slope to position herself behind the haystack. The second bucket hit its mark, directly in the center of the flame. The hay sizzled. But before she could celebrate her victory, opaque smoke enveloped her.

Thunder rumbled again. Flickering light encircled Susannah. It seemed as if the whole world blazed.

“Jesse?” she shouted into the wind. No response except the howling of the storm.

The wind buffeted her, first hot, peppered with sparks, then cold with rain. Fire crackled nearby, popping and snapping. Susannah grabbed the shovel and bent low, searching for breathable air.

What if he's hurt?

She shouldn't have given away the gall salve—it would soothe burns. She hadn't made butter yet, but she did have lard, a passable base for a burn ointment.
If he's alive . . .

Her feet found the strip of dirt Jesse had plowed to add on to the shed. At the far edge, the fire smoldered, burning itself out.

“Jesse?” Smoke seared her throat. She followed the furrow, stopping every few paces to scoop dirt onto stray flames.

And if he's dead? What then?

She couldn't entertain that possibility.

God? It's about Jesse. I know You're not impressed with me, but
please help me find him
.

A voice came out of nothingness. “Halt! Who goes there?”

“Jesse!”

“State name, rank, and unit, or I'll bore you full of daylight.” A soot-covered face solidified in the vapor. Jesse.

She moved within arm's reach and cleared her throat. Her voice came out in a croak. “Susannah. No rank or unit.”

“Woman on the battlefield?” Squinting, Jesse tilted his head. His smoke-darkened face creased into a smile. “Susannah?”

He remembered. She staggered under his weight as he sagged onto her shoulders.

Jesse glanced from the last vestiges of the fire, sizzling in the rain, to Susannah. He touched his fingertips to her cheek. “Yes.”

Jake appeared, bumping his master's legs.

Jesse laid his palm on the dog's head. “Yes.”

A smattering of freezing rain pelted them. She tucked her hand under Jesse's elbow. Was he all right? What happened to his bucket and flour sack? “I need help putting Pa Ox in the shed.”

He nodded. “Rain.” He took the shovel so she could raise her skirts out of the mud. Frigid gusts spewed icy water over them. Reaching the soddy, she headed for Pa Ox, still harnessed to the wagon.

“Go inside!” Jesse yelled.

And with a blast of snow, their little valley disappeared.

Susannah stirred the fire, heated milk for cocoa, and changed clothes, but her mind was on Jesse. Tuesday night, talking about the War had set off his nightmare. But today he'd talked about apples: picking with his siblings, pressing cider with his father, scorching his tongue on his mother's fresh-baked pie. Nothing about the War. Had the smoke and danger caused him to hallucinate?

Susannah draped her wet, smoky clothes over the line strung across the corner. The Late Unpleasantness, some called it. Ha. She'd seen that hollow look in her father's eyes. The same expression haunted the man with one leg who swung past the house on his crutches. She'd learned to steer clear of the group loitering outside the produce market, their tattered uniforms staving off efforts to oust them. Even Independence Day picnics and parades carried an underlying current of sadness, not just for those who would not return, but from those who had—the so-called victors.

The door blew open. Jesse stumbled in, dumping an armload of wood beside the stove. Icicles dangled from his hair.

Susannah closed the door and passed him a towel. “Maybe you should grow your beard back.”

“Guess I'll have to.” He sipped the cocoa she offered.

“Did you get any burns?”

“No, but I gave my guardian angel a good scare.”

With shaking hands, she lifted the fragile chimney to light the kerosene lamp. “Is winter always this—”

She hesitated. What could she say? Bad? No, that sounded too judgmental.

“Sometimes it hits all of a sudden, like today. Other winters hold off until October, November. Dakota gets less snow than back east, but more wind. Don't get caught out in it.” He grabbed her wrist as she dropped the spill into the stove. “You're hurt.”

“It's nothing.”

He opened her hands, and his eyes widened at the welts striping her fingers and palms. “What's this? Rope burn?”

“From the picket line.”

“And this?”

“The bucket handle.” Susannah curled her fingers. “I'm sorry. You told me to stay inside.” And pray. Had God answered her prayer, inadequate though it was?

“You saved our home.” Jesse brushed his lips over the base of her thumb. “Keep on thinking. I'm counting on you.”

Jesse lifted the lantern and searched the shed one more time. Where had that large pail run off to? He'd found the lid on the floor. Then he remembered: he'd filled it with water, taken it to the fields, beaten the flames out with a wet flour sack. He secured the door and returned to the house.

Susannah looked up from scouring the coffeepot. Never seen a woman so dedicated to cleaning something that would just be dirty tomorrow.

“I lost the large pail, the one with the locking lid.”

She nodded.

“But I lost more than a tin pail, didn't I? I lost time, went back to the War.” He sat on the trunk to take off his brogans.

She nodded again.

“Susannah, I asked you to tell me. You promised.”

“I haven't had the opportunity.”

“Well, we've got the opportunity now. What did I do?”

“The weather—” She inspected the stove, shelves, and table, but couldn't find anything else to fuss with.

Jesse grabbed her skirt and pulled her between his knees. “I know what the weather did, but I don't know what I did.”

He had her at eye level, but she still managed to find something to scrutinize in the sod bricks behind him. “You acted like you were doing sentry duty.”

Perdition
. “Did I hurt you this time?”

“No. As soon as you saw me, you came back to yourself.”

“Maybe I've been having spells all along and there's been no one here to say.” He drew her close.

“We've still got the smaller pail.”

He leaned back enough that she had to face him. “Susannah, I'm sorry.”

“You don't think I'm to blame for the incident with the banker, do you?” She swallowed hard. “I don't think you're to blame for the War.”

Jesse grinned. His wife had expressed an opinion. While looking him in the eye. Reckon that might be counted as something of a miracle.

The storm howled through the night. In Detroit, the house had creaked in the wind, shutters banged, branches screeched against the roof. Here in Dakota, the sod house held solid, with only the clanking of the stovepipe to wake Susannah. She slid out of bed, tossed another log on the coals, and plunged back under the covers.

The rope frame of the bed needed tightening, she told herself. She wasn't quite ready to admit she liked sleeping with a six-foot bed warmer. Jesse rolled over, pulling her close. The stovepipe didn't wake her again.