Spring for Susannah (18 page)

The absence of light at the windows gave no clue to the hour. Susannah inhaled the scent of roast goose.

“Must be working you too hard,” Jesse said from the stove. “You've been sleeping like Rip Van Winkle. Ready for supper?”

“Supper? I'm sorry. I didn't get anything done today. And I slept through your cocoa.” She splashed her face with ice-cold water from the ewer. “I don't usually take naps. Maybe the change of weather tired me.”

Fatigue caught up with her again during Jesse's nightly music session. Susannah struggled to keep her eyes open long enough to knit a stocking.

“You're not going to finish that tonight.”

“I've only got a few more rows.”

Jesse put away his guitar, then undid Susannah's braid. “My first horse, a bay mare, was this same color. Of course, you're a lot softer.”

“Bet she couldn't knit.”

“No, but she did like to be curried.” He ran the brush through her hair.

Susannah closed her eyes. Warm finger strokes alternated with skimming bristles. Deep inside, a knot loosened in her tightly knit self. With each pass of the brush she unwound, slowly at first, stitch by stitch, then rapidly until her body vibrated with the raveling. Without thinking she said, “I suppose this means you're interested in a little horsing around?”

Jesse's voice rose with surprise and delight. “Giddyup.”

By morning the storm subsided, but Susannah's stomach worsened. Queasiness ripened into nausea as she fried the side pork. She opened the door a crack and gulped arctic air to settle her insides, but the sizzle of the eggs brought on the first spasm. She bolted for the corner, spattering the curtain as she wrenched it aside. She knelt on the dirt floor, chamber pot between her knees, as her stomach wrung itself out.

Don't let Jesse see me
.

Sweat dripped from her forehead. Another convulsion rolled up her gut to her throat. She braced against the sod wall, the cold invading her body. The curtain pulled back, bringing welcome fresh air and an unwelcome man. “Go away. Please.”

“Here, lean against me.” He shifted her away from the cold wall, and she slumped against him. “Why didn't you say you had the pukes? And don't you dare apologize.” He dried her face with his bandanna. “Maybe it's seasoning fever.”

“Your water never bothered me before. Uh-oh. Go. Quick. Please.”

He held her head through the next surge. “You don't seem feverish. You ought to be pretty well cleaned out by now.” He brought her water and had her spit in the pot. “Hey, you didn't bring up much. I knew some guys in the army who could—” He paused. “Well, best skip that story and put you to bed. The objective here is to gain weight so you'll be warm for the winter, remember? You rest.”

He lifted her, maneuvering slowly, then set her down on the bed and loosened her dress. “Didn't get any on you. You'll be all right while I go spill out this pot. See if you can sleep it off.” He tucked the covers around her, stroking her cheek.

Susannah closed her eyes. She couldn't remember the last time she had been sick to her stomach.

Oh yes, she could . . .

One June day when Susannah was four, she had gotten into the neighbor's strawberry patch. Mother sent her to bed early, as punishment more than for illness. Susannah climbed out of bed, pulled to the window by sounds of children. She parted the lace drapery and looked into the yard next door.

The family played, enjoying the extended evening of summer solstice. The father patted his children's shoulders, ruffled their hair, gave rides on his back. He swung the girls in a circle when he tagged them. He tossed the littlest one overhead. Words of caution drifted from the back porch steps where the mother sat, admiring the fireflies her children captured.

Gravel crunched below, signaling the arrival of Susannah's father. The roof of the kitchen cut off her view of the carriage house. Susannah listened, visualizing him unharnessing the gelding, currying him, and feeding him a measure of oats. Father would bring his veterinary bag into the office to replenish his supplies, then come upstairs to say good night.

The footsteps on the stairs were not Father's.

“What are you doing out of bed, young lady? It's an hour past your bedtime.” Mother slammed the window, cutting off fresh air and the sound of laughter from next door.

Susannah scrambled back under the sheets.

The little girl forestalled sleep as long as she could, but her father did not come.

Light reflecting off the snow outside awoke Susannah. Jesse sat on the edge of the bed, his hair a ragged nimbus of copper. She had the uncomfortable feeling he had been watching her for some time. His smile widened into a grin.

“You look like a Cheshire cat.”

“Welcome to Wonderland, Alice. Have a cracker.”

Susannah rolled upright. “Since when are crackers the cure for the grippe?”

“It's not the flu.” Jesse could contain himself no longer. He tossed the almanac in the air. “We're going to have a baby!”

“What? A baby?”

Jesse plopped on the bed and scooped her into his lap. “Sleeping a lot, cranky stomach, no poorlies this month. All points to the same thing: hit the bull's-eye on the first shot! Hallelujah!”

Jesse danced a jig around the room and bumped his head on a rafter.

“How did you know?”

“A large family is a schoolhouse for life. Eat up, Ma.” He plopped down.

Susannah nibbled a corner of the cracker. “You look awfully proud of yourself.”

“And why not? What names do you like?” He grabbed her hands and closed his eyes. “Dear Lord, grant us a good crop next year so our baby can grow up in a real house.”

“Jesse,” she whispered. “You can't just ask God for things like that.”

“And thank You for our baby.”

“Besides, Ivar and Marta are raising Sara in their soddy. She's fine.”

“And, Jesus, watch over Susannah, keep her healthy. Help us become the parents You want us to be. In Your name, amen.”

“You pray like you know God personally.”

“No putting on airs for Someone who knows me inside out.”

Susannah leaned against the headboard and finished the cracker. “How did you get to know Him so well? You didn't attend seminary.”

“I spend time with Him, talking, listening. Like getting to know you.”

Her hands clenched involuntarily, and Jesse noticed. He enclosed her fists in his, stroking her palms with his thumbs. He uncurled her fingers one by one and traced the red marks left by the bucket handle. “I wonder if you open up to God any better than you open up to me.” Jesse's look probed her soul. Susannah wanted to hide herself under the covers, except he sat on them. “If I can figure out that you're mad at God, don't you think He knows it too?”

She turned sideways, tilting her head so Jesse couldn't see her face. “I'm not mad at God.”

“Maybe
mad
isn't the right word. Disappointed, let down.” He brushed her hair behind her ear. “When my brother died, I spit nails at God. How dare He take away the brain, the leader of the family? That made me the oldest. I did my best to show God what a mistake He'd made.” He shook his head, the muscles tight in his jaw. “As many times as I'd heard about Jonah and the whale, you'd think I'd know better. God can find us anywhere.”

“Even in Dakota Territory?”

His expression softened. “Go ahead and be mad at God, Susannah. He's big enough to take it. Just don't turn your back on Him, don't cut Him out of your life.”

Susannah swallowed down a different sort of nausea. She might as well admit it; Jesse saw right through her. “You wrote your brother for a Christian wife and all you got is a spiritual mouse.”

“How much faith does a spiritual mouse have? Mustard seed size?” When he kissed her palms, the beginnings of a beard tickled her. He reached for his boots.

“Where are you going?”

“Back to the shed. I've got a cradle to build.”

“You've got”—Susannah counted—“eight months. Until June.”

He rooted under the bed for his toolbox. “Enough time to do a real fine job. No reason for you to get out of bed.”

Susannah tied her apron behind her back. “Since I'm not sick, I may as well get some work done.”

“Loosen your waistbands! Knit booties! And little hats!” He pulled her into his arms for a big kiss.

“Are you going to act like this the whole time?”

He grinned. “Nope. I'll probably get worse.”

“That's what I'm afraid of.” She returned his smile and pushed him out the door. Her hands settled on her abdomen. A baby. She was having a baby!

Chapter 16

Our baby . . .

S
usannah rinsed Ma Ox's udder with warm water, then scooted the stool close and began the rolling motion with her fingers. The milk squirted into the bucket with a satisfying rattle. This breed wasn't known for high production, just enough for two people. More importantly, this cow milked easily without kicking, butting, or sidestepping.

“Hey, you're pretty good at that.” Jesse shoveled manure out of the bull's stall.

“Father always owned a cow. He had seen too many diseased cattle in commercial dairies.”

He paused, leaning on the long handle of the shovel. “What do you think about Mormons?”

His mercurial thought processes continued to unnerve her. “Are you considering polygamy?”

“Can't afford another train ticket.”

“What?” Susannah leaned back. He widened his eyes, then grinned. Ah, teasing again. She shot a squirt of milk toward his boot.

He stepped out of range. “I understand they baptize on behalf of their ancestors. Where do you stand on baptism?”

“What do you mean?”

“All the controversies: infant or adult, immersion or sprinkling. We're starting a family. Got to figure this out.”

“Whatever you decide is fine.”

“I'm asking your
opinion
.” The shovel clanked on the wheelbarrow.

Susannah rested her forehead against the warm flank of the ox. Except for the domestic sphere of menus, clothing, and household furnishings, women weren't supposed to have opinions, much less express them. “I suppose it depends on when a minister comes through and what he believes.”

“We could do it ourselves, like our wedding, and have Matt send the certificate. Should I say, ‘In Jesus' name,' or ‘In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit'?”

“Whatever you think is best.” Susannah grabbed the milking pail and hurried out into the snowy day.

After the milk had been skimmed and the cream poured into the churn, Jesse caught up with her. He slid onto the trunk, trapping her in the corner. While she pumped the dasher in the stone crock, Jesse launched into a discourse on mankind's efforts to communicate with God, including Mormons and speaking in tongues. When Susannah responded noncommittally, he switched sides, elucidating the opposing viewpoint. “Come on, argue with me.” He tickled Susannah's neck with the end of her braid.