Spring for Susannah (30 page)
Pa Ox took the opportunity to sneeze on her.
“That's not what I had in mind.” She shoved his nose away and rotated her right arm. Nothing broken. Manure caked her skirts and saturated her petticoats; she had slipped on a cow pie.
“Well, oxen, you know where the water is. Go on.”
She scrambled to her feet and slapped them on the flanks, then glared at the watching dog. “Next time you unhitch, and I'll sit and laugh.”
He wagged his tail.
The land west of Worthington was as empty as Jesse's pockets. The farther the train went, the shorter the grass grew. Homesteading out here would be nigh impossible. Not that it was easy along the Sheyenne. Rotten, stinking grasshoppers.
He got off at Jamestown and waved good-bye to the half dozen greenhorn soldiers heading to Fort Lincoln. “God be with you,” he muttered, “because He surely isn't billeting with me.”
Whoa. Where'd that thought come from?
Sorry, God. I know
You're here. Somewhere .
. .
He swabbed the sweat from his forehead. Now, something for this dry throat.
“Hey!” A man in dire need of a barber crawled out from under the platform. “You seen my wife?”
“No, sir. Just off the train.” Jamestown was a handful of buildings facing the tracks. Not many places to hole up.
“You sure?” The man staggered close, bringing with him the familiar miasma of sweated rotgut. No wonder his wife had gone into hiding. “Betsy's her name. Stands 'bout this high.” He held up a hand. “Red hair, like yours. You related?”
“No Betsys in my family. If I see her, who should I say is looking for her?” Who should she run from?
“William Stapleton. Her husband.” He pointed to a single-story building at the end of the row, almost losing his balance in the effort. “Say, how about a drink?”
“They have coffee? Easier to find her when you're sober.”
Stapleton's hands clenched into fists but wouldn't stay closed long enough to throw a punch. “Ya don't know nuthin'.”
“I know Who can help you stop drinking.”
“No call for that.” Stapleton lurched toward the saloon, yelling, “Betsy!” in a tone that would make hogs run and glass break.
Jesse hefted his guitar onto one shoulder and his knapsack to the other. He crossed the stage road and passed a few log buildings at the base of the hill, the start of the fort, then began the long climb in the hot sun.
William Stapleton. What a mess. A real familiar mess. Maybe even a warning sign from God? He paused to drain his canteen. Warm water never tasted so good.
Thank You, Lord
. Now all he needed was work.
A scrawny kid with a carbine stepped out of the guardhouse. “Halt!” he said, his voice breaking.
Jesse held the Winchester so the boy could see it wasn't loaded and introduced himself. “Captain Bates around?”
“Probably in the company office.” The boy pointed. “Or officers' quarters.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The kid startled. Guess no one had ever called him sir.
Jesse crossed the parade grounds under the snapping flag. He'd hate to pull sentry duty out here in the winter. He'd be gone by then, back to Susannah. He hoped.
Jesse knocked on the office door.
The captain held an official-looking correspondence up to the window. “Enter. Double time if you're selling spectacles.”
“Sold my last pair to your sentry when he shot me for a hostile.”
The captain dropped the letter and smiled. “Mason. You finally decided to accept my invitation. Welcome to Fort Seward.”
“Good to see you.” Jesse pumped his sweating hand. “I was afraid you'd finished your enlistment or headed for a warmer post.”
“It wouldn't be the army if it wasn't awful. What do you think of my new quarters? Drop your load behind my desk and I'll give you a tour.” Bates led him out onto the veranda. “How about this view? Miles of nothing.”
The land dropped away south to the tracks, east to the James River, west to Pipestem Creek. “No one can sneak up on you.”
“But every stick of firewood has to be hauled up the hill,” Bates said with a wry smile. “The men often speak of you, the only settler between Ransom and here.” Several greeted them as the captain toured Jesse past the barracks, laundresses' quarters, kitchen, mess room, storeroom, washroom, and hospital. The buildings were frame, with tarred paper lining the clapboard and paper plastering boards on the interior. The way Jesse would build for Susannah. If he ever had money.
The place seemed sparsely populated, plenty of room for an extra carpenter. “How many men you got?”
“Fifty-six enlisted and three officers. We have an eight-acre garden on the bottom land. Hunting and grazing are poor, so meat's shipped in. Speaking of which, how about some chow?”
The meal featured corn grown at the fort. “As good as yours?” Bates asked.
“The grasshoppers loved it.”
The captain winced. “No way to bell that cat.”
Jesse figured he might as well get to the point. “So I'm looking for work.”
“Sorry to say, there's no work and no money to pay you if we did. I hear Bismarck's booming. Custer's building his kingdom at Fort Lincoln.”
Jesse looked at his plate. He should eat. Who knew when he'd have another meal like this?
Bates slapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, you brought your guitar. Let's have some music this evening, then pass the hat.”
That night Jesse sang every song he knew and several he didn't. The hat yielded a brass button, an eagle's feather, and a little over nine dollars, five of which had been provided by Captain Bates.
Nowhere near enough.
Susannah washed the dishes from her first meal alone, yesterday's cornbread and a slice of salt pork. Cooking for one was hardly worth the effort, especially when her shoulder and ear were still sore from the yoke.
As the light changed outside, it threw rose-colored trapeziums on the plastered east wall and blue shadows along the creek. Susannah followed the sunbeam to the rise behind the soddy. The stratus layer pulled away from the western horizon, and the sun painted a band of honey-colored light between the deep violet sky and navy land. It reminded Susannah of the theater, the stage lights glowing beneath the curtain.
If she were onstage, Susannah wished the Playwright would give her a look at the script.
Jesus, I thought I understood Your plan.
Doesn't make any sense to give me a wife, then
take away my means to provide for her.
S
usannah pushed the quilts back. Last night sleep had rolled over her like a locomotive, heavy and unstoppable. She dreamed of warm, calloused fingers working through the layers of her clothes, caressing her tender places. An hour before dawn the wind banged the stovepipe, jerking her awake and reminding her Jesse was gone.
Heartache fought fatigue and won.
“Guess that's enough pretending to sleep. How about you?” she asked Jake. Susannah had brought him inside for company. Talking to him seemed slightly more sane than talking to herself.
Jake's triangular ears twitched at her words. He had spent the week on full alert, pacing, listening for his master, following at Susannah's heels even on trips to the outhouse. Now he laid his head on his paws and sighed.
Susannah shuffled to the stove. The empty wood box, evidence of her lethargy, stared back at her. “Jesse's job,” she mumbled. Anger stabbed through her sadness.
Susannah tossed a shawl around her shoulders and wandered out to the depleted woodpile. She inhaled fresh air. The rain had dissipated the grasshopper stench. Or maybe she'd just gotten used to it.
Any minute now Jesse would come striding down the ridge, wind billowing the sky blue shirt she'd sewn for him. She'd run to meet him and he'd catch her up, spinning her in a circle. He would have found a good job, earned enough, and headed for home, never to leave again.
Any minute now . . .
No, probably later in the day. The eastbound train arrived late afternoon, and it would take him hours to walk home, unless he borrowed a horse. But if he was detained by Mrs. Rose, then he mightâ
Jake pushed his wet nose into her palm. “Yes, I'm at it again, after I promised you I'd stop mooning about.” She gathered an armload of sticks, then paused with her hand on the door latch. Jesse would be sitting at the table, an apology and a smile on his lips. But the door swung into an empty room.
“Jake, Sunday morning breakfast should be pancakes and coffee.” She poured water into the iron saucepan. “As long as you don't tell anyone, I'm having toast and tea.”
Susannah found her shoes in the pile of dirty laundry under the bed. Mixed with the usual smells of perspiration and animal muck was a faint odor of kerosene. “Let's do laundry tomorrow, before these clothes catch fire. That would make a nice blaze, wouldn't it? Throw in the bedding, the bed if I can get it apart, the guitarâ” Susannah turned in a circle. “Where is Jesse's guitar? Did he take it with him?”
Jake leaned against her and she rubbed his ears. “No, burning would be wasteful. Jesse built this house and this furniture. I'll take good care of it.”
Boiling water burbled in the pan. She poured it over the tea, adding a pinch of ginger, and slid a slice of bread onto the oven grate.
What if he took the guitar intending to earn money with his music? What if he went to a saloon and started drinking? He could be passed out in an alley again. What if he saw all the soldiers from the fort and thought he was back in the War?
She wrenched herself out of the downward spiral and dried her face on her apron.
“So, Jake, what shall we plan for dinner?” she asked with as much cheerfulness as she could muster. “What do you want? What do I want? Jake, do you realize this is the first time in my whole well-ordered life that I've been alone? No parents, no pastor, no husband to tell me what to do? I can do what I want. So, what do I want?”
Sunrise lit up the bed, fortified with her coat to compensate for the loss of Jesse's warmth. His pillow sat in the middle, wadded up where Susannah had held it through the night. “Jesse. That's what I want.”
She took the toast from the oven, left half on the table, and joined Jake on the sunny threshold. The first bite formed a pasty lump in her throat. She passed the rest to the dog, who swallowed it in one gulp.
“In stories, the heroine always has some feeling about the hero when he's away. She knows if he's in danger, if he's dead or alive.” Susannah gazed out over the yard, past the creek to the horizon, already shimmering with heat waves from the barren fields. “About Jesse, I feel nothing, absolutely nothing. I have no sense of where he is or how he is, if he's eaten breakfast or gone hungry. Maybe we haven't known each other long enough to be connected in that way. Maybeâ”
She sipped the tea; the warm liquid slid past the heavy spot in her throat. “Will I ever know him? I've been letting Jesse do the praying for both of us. But he's gone, so here I am, Lord. Please bring himâ”
Something rustled and scratched behind herâa mouse! She grabbed the broom and swept it out the door with Jake in hot pursuit.
As Susannah crouched by the shelves to assess the damage to her meager food supplies, she heard a soft plop on the table. She turned and looked straight into a pair of tiny black eyes attached to a long green body.
Susannah jumped, crashed into the stove, and ran out the door. Then she stopped. If she wanted this snake out, if she didn't want him slithering into her bed, she had to do it herself. And quickly, or he'd hide and she'd be up all night hunting him.
“Lord, please give me courage.” She took a couple of deep breaths, then went back into the soddy and stretched out the end of the broom toward the table. The snake obligingly wrapped its two-foot length around the tree branch handle. Its tongue flicked and its head swiveled.