Spring for Susannah (2 page)

“Are you all right?” His low voice cut through the wind.

Due to the current fashion of bustles and petticoats, Susannah could fall on her backside without injury, but standing was another matter. Gathering the fragments of her dignity, she straightened her back and lifted her chin. “Have we been introduced?”

The man wiped his palms on his pants and reached for her. “Miss Susannah Underhill?”

Susannah planted her hands as far down as she could reach, trying to keep the wind from blowing her skirts over her head. She'd lived anonymously her entire life in Detroit; now all the inhabitants of Dakota Territory seemed fully informed of her identity and intentions. “How do you know my name?”

The man sat on his heels. One corner of his mouth curved as if he couldn't manage a full smile. “I'm Jesse Mason. Your husband.”

She looked up into a face that seemed oddly familiar. Then the image changed, like a stereopticon picture coming into focus. The high forehead, prominent nose, and mouth that tilted to the right were the same as his brother's, but this man was a few years older, his skin weathered. His face was rounder, the cleft in his chin more pronounced. Deep-set eyes—hazel, not blue— inspected her.

“Guess I gave you a scare. Sorry about that.” He grinned, and she was glad to see he did indeed have all his teeth.

His wide hands, clean for a farmer's, enveloped hers, and the touch of his skin reminded her she'd removed her gloves. So much for a good first impression. The only thing worse would be bursting into tears, making her nose run and her eyes red. Or losing her breakfast. She clamped her lips together, squeezed her eyes. A small hurt sound, accompanied by a tear, got away from her.

“You're crying. Hurting from your spill?”

She fumbled in her pocket, but her least dirty handkerchief was wrapped around the evidence of her poverty, and she wasn't ready for him to find out about that just yet.

He removed his neckerchief, then frowned and stuffed it in his back pocket. “Can't use a sweaty bandanna on a lady.” One warm, calloused finger skimmed her cheek. “Got you shaking like the cottontail my dog brought me last week.” The planks creaked as he sat beside her. For a moment, they were eye to eye.

Susannah wanted to say how relieved she was that he came for her, to explain she was crying from nervousness. A word scraped up her throat, past the dry lump of her breakfast. “Hotel?”

“Closest is a tent with bunks, ten miles west. Half-dollar more fare and no place for a lady. Nearest one with real rooms is fifty miles back in Fargo. You stayed there last night.” His thumbs rubbed her palms. “I got your trunks down below.”

“You live here?”

“No, I—
we—
have a house south of here a few miles.”

“You knew I'd arrive today?”

“Matt sent a telegram, and here you are, right on time! Welcome to Fourth Siding, Dakota Territory.”

“Is this the town?” Her voice betrayed her with a squeak.

“Northern Pacific built the siding this spring. Us New Yorkers want to call it Buffalo. Expect naming will have to wait until we get a few more people.”

What New Yorkers?
she wondered.

“Here, let me help you up.” He pulled her to standing, bringing her level with the tuft of brown hair curling from his collarless neckline. “Hey, you're a little bit of a thing.” He gave her an extensive perusal, a farmer inspecting livestock. She might as well have opened her mouth so he could figure her age by her teeth.

“Gets pretty cold and lonesome out here.” He shook his head, his jaw set in the “not buying” mode.

Panic shot down her spine. Was he going to send her back before he'd even given her a chance? “I brought warm clothes.” Susannah rose on tiptoes to look taller. “Ellen thought—”

But she'd already lost his attention. He squinted over her head and whispered, “Dear Lord.” In one swift move he spun away, kicked the shed door, and broke inside. He jerked the pump handle, working it furiously. Water sputtered into a bucket. “Cinder sparked the grass!”

A tiny puff of smoke spiraled alongside the tracks half a block west. “Fire! Fire!” Susannah yelled. “Where's the nearest fire department?”

“Fargo, maybe. Or St. Paul.” He grabbed the sloshing bucket and dashed off the west end of the platform. “Fill the other!”

Smoke rose above her, tainting the air. A line of flames slithered toward the platform. He swung. Water hit its target, but the fire grew, chewing through the dry grass. At this rate, the whole territory would go up within minutes, taking them with it. Susannah grabbed the pump handle.

“Hurry!”

Arms aching, she hauled the full bucket and he swapped it for the empty one. The blaze raced toward them. This time she made it to the edge of the platform before him.

“One more!”

He disappeared into grass taller than his head, then popped out nearby, both arms raised. “Hallelujah! Who needs a fire department? I got you!”

Susannah leaned against the shed, wheezing like a horse with the heaves. Her bonnet hung on her ear, her chignon drooped on her neck, and her skirt sagged with water. She had passed the glowing allotted to ladies and dripped sweat like a horse.

With one hand he vaulted onto the platform and landed with another loud thud. As their handwriting predicted, this man was nothing like his brother. In spite of the heat, a shiver ricocheted through her, shoulders to toes. “Forgive me for raising my voice.”

“Shouting is warranted when facing an inferno.” He rinsed his bandanna under the pump, wrung it out, then reached for her.

What a mess she must be. Susannah raised her hand. “It's all right. You don't have to—”

“I promised God I'd take care of you.” He moved so close she had to shut her eyes. The cool cloth brushed her forehead, wiping from hairline to jaw, then down the other side. “You shouldn't wear black in summer.”

“I'm in mourning.”

“I know,” he said, his tone patient. “But you'll melt with this sun. Take off your hat and coat.”

Undress in public? Her corset inexplicably tightened. Her heart beat against her ribs in protest. What kind of man had she married? She had kept her jacket on the entire trip, in spite of the heat, so strangers wouldn't stare.

A twitch of a smile crossed his face. “Queen Victoria will never find out. Guaranteed.”

This stranger was her husband. She'd promised to obey him. Susannah nodded. He helped her out of her redingote. She untied the ribbons from her neck and lifted off her bonnet. The breeze wove cool fingers through her hair.

“Better?”

“Fine, thank you.” Truth was, she felt exposed. Without the protection of her hat's brim, her words vanished on the wind. Her blouse flapped in an unseemly manner. She crossed her arms to maintain some particle of modesty and hide her frayed cuffs.

He looked her up and down. “Prettier than I thought.” He made a sound in the back of his throat, somewhere between a groan and a cough, then glanced at the sun. “We'd best head for home.”

Chapter 2

Help me not to judge on appearance, Lord.
I trusted You for a wife, the right wife
for me, so I'm leaning on faith here.

S
usannah considered herself far too practical to believe in love at first sight. All she wanted was a small miracle, that she would feel something other than overwhelming shyness.

Too much to hope for, she supposed. At least he didn't chew tobacco.

Jesse led her into the draw where his ox waited in the shade of the platform. He stowed her bag, then lifted her to the seat. With easy, efficient movements, Jesse swung up and took the reins. He sprawled, his knee brushing hers. She scooted to the edge and dug her fingers into the plank seat. They bumped over the tracks and headed south along two lines of bent stems.

“Guess this old wagon doesn't ride as smooth as the train.”

“It's fine.” She glanced over her shoulder as the shed disappeared behind a curtain of tall grass.

“What're you looking for?”

“Is there a grocer's?”

“General store at Fifth Siding, but we'll grow most of our food.” Jesse reached under the seat behind her feet.

Susannah flinched as an unwelcome memory surfaced, an arm clothed in finely woven wool. She pushed the image aside. The future was frightening enough without the past intruding.

He handed her a pail. “I fixed biscuits for you. Sourdough, seeing as how there's no milk or eggs. Plums from down by the crick.” He hefted an earthenware jug. “From the beautiful Sweetwater Spring. Finest-tasting water anywhere. Being first out here, I claimed the quarter section with the best spring.”

“Is there a cup?”

His shoulders drooped. “Guess I forgot how to treat a lady.”

Susannah's arms trembled under the weight of the jug. Water splashed her linen shirt. So clumsy.

“Don't worry, you'll dry off quick in this wind. It never stops. Feels good in the summer when you work up a sweat, but freezes your nose off in winter. 'Course that might be an improvement with a snout the size of mine.”

She took a tiny bite of biscuit, then realized he wasn't eating. “I'm sorry. Would you like some?”

“Nope. Ate mine watching for your train. Go ahead.”

“Did you have long to wait?”

“My fault. I left home too early. Heard some brides cash in their ticket to cheat the husband. Not that you'd do such a thing, but changing trains in Chicago isn't easy. Your luggage might be stolen. Some sharper might see a woman traveling alone and try to swindle her out of her tickets, her money, or her honor. Or maybe you'd catch the eye of a Beau Brummell who'd smooth talk you into marrying him instead of this dirt man.” He bent to retie his brogan. “Then I worried you wouldn't like me, or the house, or the territory.” He straightened. “So, what do you think of Dakota?”

Explorer Stephen Long had labeled this the Great American Desert. What could she add? “The grass is so tall. It makes me feel like planting trees.”

“Scratch a city girl, find a farmer.” He chuckled. “Yes, ma'am, we'll need a shelterbelt around our house to keep it from blowing away. And an orchard sure would be nice. Newspaper says some fellows are selling trees east of Fifth Siding. We'll see about buying a few saplings, if this harvest pays. This is real good land, the best. No stumps to plow around. No digging rocks every spring like back east. The soil here is so rich, wheat's shooting up in spite of the drought.”

Over her shoulder, the telegraph poles sank behind the swell of the land. “Do you ever get lost?”

“I steer for a spot on the horizon. See that little dip? We'll go to the right of it, then there's another spot to hunt for farther on.” A half smile twitched his mouth. “Guess this old ox could find his way home without me.”

Grass slapped against the wagon. Unlike Michigan's soft emerald lawns, it grew dusty and dry, bleached tan in places.

“How far is your”—what was the proper term?—“your claim?”

“We'll be home before dark.”

A shudder vibrated through her. No. Best not to worry about that which cannot be changed.

He shifted in the seat to face her. “Tell me about your train ride. Guess you met some interesting folks.”

Did he think she was so ill bred she'd encourage such familiarity? “No,” she said.

He took a deep breath. “All right. Five states and one territory. What's the most curious thing you saw?”

“Chicago. They've rebuilt from the fire.”

“Anything happen on your trip?”

Her mind went blank. “No.”

“Not a thing?” He drew back, shoulders drooping. He expected something from her, and she had disappointed him.

She swallowed against the constriction in her throat and hunted for something to say. “Have you seen Indians here?”

“Not a one. Army moved them west after the Sioux Uprising. The nearest post, Fort Ransom, closed last spring due to lack of hostiles.”

“The
Detroit Free Press
reported General Custer sent his wife and the other officers' wives back east from Bismarck. Does he expect trouble from the Sioux?”

“Nope. Like the rest of the territory, Bismarck suffers from a lack of accommodations. The ladies won't have anyplace to stay until Fort Abraham Lincoln is finished this fall. Say, isn't Custer from Michigan? Know him?”

“Father met him during the War.”

“Hear tell he's quite the character.” He waited for her to say something, but she couldn't imagine what. “Guess your pa had some stories about our youngest general.”

“He kept dogs in his tent.”

“So your pa was a man of few words and you take after him.” He propped his forearm on the seat back.

“I'm sorry.”

“Well then, how's my little brother?”

“Oh yes, Reverend Mason told me to give you this right away.” Susannah retrieved the marriage certificate from her pocket. “He married us before I left, by proxy, since there're so few pastors out here. I won't hold you to it if—”

“Yeah, Matt said something about this in his last letter. Hey, got a witness at my wedding I never heard of. Who's this?”

“Homer Ferguson. The organist's father.”

“All right.” He stretched, taking up most of the bench. “Since I couldn't make it to my own wedding, you tell me about it. Everything. All the details.”

“Well, the usual—”

The certificate tapped against the hand holding the reins. “Start from the beginning. You got all dressed up.”

“No, I had on my brown—no, my blue calico.”

“And you went over to the church.”

She shook her head. “Miss Ferguson was practicing the organ. Reverend Mason had us stand in his parlor.”

“He crammed everyone in his front room?”