Spring for Susannah (45 page)

Jake rushed past her to greet Ivar. The neighbor strolled along, hands in the pockets of his coat. He looked her over, checking to see how she'd weathered the winter, then, satisfied, faced the sunset.

Susannah ended the lament with a double-stop.

“Sad song. What's it called?”

“I don't remember. Father learned several in Edinburgh, at school, but I can never match the titles to the tunes.” She tucked the violin under her right elbow. “How's Marta? And Sara?”

“That child is running us ragged. When it warms, we're moving her in with the dogs. And your baby?”

Susannah rubbed her belly. “No Methodist here. He's up dancing all night.”

“I will come for you in two days. Before the next storm.”

“No hurry. The baby isn't due for a month or so.”

“And if you need help, what? You send Jake to get me?”

“Jake, go get Ivar.”

The dog looked from one to the other, then sighed. He'd already sniffed the man. Ivar didn't have any food on him, so he didn't merit further consideration.

“He heard you say Sara's going to the dogs. He doesn't want to deal with babies any sooner than necessary.” Susannah pressed her knuckles into the small of her back, trying to ease the pulling weight.

“The Hansens half your oxen?”

“And Betsy's pony. She doesn't need it in St. Paul. Will your chickens mind a few guests?”

“Any that squawk, we'll eat.” His mouth twitched behind his whiskers.

The sky changed to magenta and gold. Beneath the black lace of cottonwoods, the river lay frozen, silent, a periwinkle ribbon.

“Ivar, I think we have a sickness in this nation. A contagious disease of leaving. We leave the old country for the new, the states for the territories. Men go off to war or the gold fields. Horace Greeley advises young men to go west. But no one tells them to go home.”

“You wish for someone to tell Jesse to go home.”

The baby stretched, pushing against her ribs. “You're right. Give me a day to pack.”

“Marta will be glad of your company.” Ivar let out his breath. “Perhaps Magnar will pay us a call.”

“He's been a regular visitor. He brought Disa to keep me company in January, then Sissel in February.” Susannah turned the screw on the bow, loosening the horsehair. “The truth is, as fine a man as Magnar is, he's not Jesse. Hard act to follow, that Jesse Mason.”

“
Ja
. True. Like a brother to me.”

She smiled at her red-cheeked neighbor. “Ivar Vold, you've been a brother to me these past seven months. Thank you.”

As he turned to walk back to his claim, Susannah heard him say, “A real brother would half sent you back to Michigan already.”

The English-speaking voice was Matthew, Misun's older brother, known west of the Missouri as Mato. He had attended school at the Santee Mission and came home to find himself cast in the role of interpreter. To begin with, he informed his family the white man's name was Jesse, not Tatanka, their word for “buffalo.” Together he and Jesse spent the winter sharing the Good News with the village. And in turn, the village educated Jesse on their history. Like white men, Sitting Bull's Lakota wanted to provide for their families.

Today, the first break in the weather, Matthew put on his clerical garb, including a silver cross the size of his hand. “So the soldiers will hold their fire.”

“They won't shoot a guy with red hair and beard.” Jesse turned to the family, his Indian family. “God be with you, Winona, Cansasa, Misun.”

The boy blinked away tears and handed him the canvas bag.

“When you come to the Mission, to school, little brother, I will buy you a guitar,” Matthew promised.

“Well, if you won't take my guitar, you must take this.” Jesse pulled the eagle's feather from his hatband. “For bravery.”

Misun smiled and, for a moment, looked him in the eye.

“Could we pray?” Jesse got nods. “Lord, thank You for sending Misun to save me from the river. Thank You for the healing care of him and Winona and—” What was the sergeant's, er, medicine woman's name? “And all their family. Watch over them, keep them safe, and help them tell about You to everyone they meet. And help me tell the Indians' story to everyone I meet.”

Matthew interpreted, adding prayers for the safe return of Jesse to his wife. The family said, “Amen.”

The evangelist mounted a roan, and Jesse climbed on Misun's gray. Or tried to. The hard winter had sapped his energy, and Misun had to give him a boost. They both laughed, and he clapped the young man on the shoulder. “Good-bye, my friend.”

He had been trying to get away all winter, and now that he was going, he had a lump in his throat and watery eyes. Blame it on the wind.

Matthew led him on a couple hours' fast ride, along high places the wind had cleared of snow. Good thing the old woman had kept him in camp all winter. He would have gotten lost and died in the snow. Now he was going home. Home to Susannah.

At last they came in sight of the fort, where the American flag waved in the clear sky overhead.

“They see us.” Matthew reined in, then reached toward Jesse. “God be with you.”

“And also with you, my brother.” Jesse clasped his friend's arm, then slid to the ground. He handed the gray to the evangelist, adjusted his knapsack and guitar, then walked up the hill singing “Amazing Grace.”

Would he be welcome? Would Susannah understand why he'd been gone six, almost seven months? He'd had no way to send word; it was possible she counted him dead. He shouldn't be surprised if she'd found another husband. He would have to set aside his selfish feelings and be glad she hadn't been alone, but it would tear him to pieces.

By the time he reached the sentry post, a whole company of soldiers had gathered. Jesse guessed he was the first visitor of 1875, certainly the first approaching from the west. A scruffy long-legged dog ran out to sniff him.

“Good morning. I'm Jesse Mason.” This crowd had no problem maintaining eye contact.

A grinning lieutenant stepped out of the crowd and reached for his hand.

“Mr. Mason. Your wife's looking for you.”

Chapter 34

Once again, I could use some fancy talking, Lord.

S
usannah paused just outside the door, surveying the misted bubble of her world. A chickadee chirped near the creek, its voice soft in the morning fog. The wind seemed to be picking up.

Humming “Shenandoah,” she managed the morning chores: scattering wood ashes on the path, shoveling out the shed, watering and feeding the chickens.
Lord, hurry spring; I'm down to the last
bag of cracked corn
. A search of the nesting boxes yielded a single egg, plenty for one person.

Jake padded out of the mist, sure-footed with his long toenails.

“Always in time for breakfast. After you, my dear.” Susannah let him inside. The dog dined on pork scraps while his mistress ate fried potatoes.

After breakfast, Susannah sorted through the provisions for her move to the Volds'. Bless Ivar and Marta for their gift of cocoa. She opened the tin. Enough for a small chocolate cake. Perfect use for the egg.

“We're low on wood. Come on, Jake. I don't trust you alone with cake batter.”

Always jumpy around wood chopping, the dog disappeared immediately. A brisk southern wind shredded the fog, allowing the sunlight to nudge its way to earth. Ice turned to slush.

After a noon meal, with warm chocolate cake as the highlight, Susannah curled up for a nap. The somersaulting baby woke her moments later. “Yes, yes.” She patted her belly. “Back to work.”

Susannah pushed the wheelbarrow to the garden. “Pumpkins, watermelons, cucumbers, potatoes.” With each shovelful of manure, she planned the layout and prayed:
Lord, hurry spring; I'm ready to
plant
. She rubbed her taut belly.
Ready to burst
.

Despite Ivar's concern, she felt strong, sure of her body. She started to return to the soddy, then headed the other direction, up to the ridge. Ivar's footprints from yesterday melted deeper into the snow. The ratio of open land to covered tilted slightly in favor of open. Fog hid the riverbed. Travel would be risky.

What was she thinking? Was she worried about Ivar coming tomorrow? No, it was hope, the painful hope that had been with her every day since the day Jesse left. Would she ever stop watching for him, missing him, longing for him?

Jake leaned into her leg and Susannah bent over the best she could to scratch his ears. With one last look westward, she followed the dog down the slope. In a sun-warmed spot beside the spring, a pasqueflower sent up a purple bud. Even the land was ready for winter's end.

At dusk, the sun surrendered to the fog and the chickens returned to their roost. Susannah ate potato soup by lamplight. The kerosene was running low; she dimmed the lamp to stretch the supply. For her last night of privacy, she heated water for a bath. Then she dragged the remaining potatoes from the root cellar to sort for planting. If she was going to bathe, she might as well be good and dirty.

Jake paced, stopped to listen, then gave his sharp “out” bark.

“All right. Just remember, no porcupines, no skunks.”

The dog's ears twitched with impatience. He dashed out at a full gallop. All four legs slid in different directions. He skidded, then disappeared into the fog.

“Silly dog.”

Susannah returned to the table. The stool sank under her weight. A couple of weeks ago Betsy's repair of the rungs had loosened. “Watch over her, Lord.” All the nails and glue had been used to build beehives, so Susannah had tried to hold it together with rope. The makeshift repair stretched, lowering the seat until she was eye to eye with the potatoes.

Eyes. She thought about the sky-blue of Magnar Hansen's eyes, the pale blue-gray of J.W. Webb's. What should she do? Was last fall's teaching job God's way of preparing her to start Sunday schools? But four weeks in the classroom hadn't wiped out a lifelong desire to care for animals. Jamestown had a school. Would Worthington have one by the time her baby was ready? Sissel would be old enough to teach by then. The girl adored her uncle. He was gentle and playful with all the children. J.W. would be stricter, more serious. If a man knew a child from birth, gave him his name, would he accept him as his own?

What name would Jesse choose?

Absently rubbing her abdomen, she tried to imagine herself repeating marriage vows to Magnar. No, not possible. Could she see herself moving to Jamestown as the Reverend Mrs. Webb? Even more unlikely.

She looked up at the rafters.
I'm listening. I know You hear me.
Just help me know what to do. I know You love the baby and me. I know
You're working for good in our lives
.

The wind shifted. The roof creaked. Four winters without sags or gaps. Jesse had built a sturdy house. It held heat in winter and stayed cooler in summer than frame houses. The windows and doors fit snugly. The garden, the fields, the freshwater spring: all of this was home. How could she leave?

Something scraped out in the yard, loud in the fog-hushed darkness. Susannah froze, listening hard. The sound repeated. Ivar? No, not after sunset. Jake? Susannah placed her palms on the table to push herself up.

The door opened an inch. A man. A jolt shot through her.

She should have barred the door. Instead she had let a man walk in, just like in Detroit. Only now there was no Ellen, no one to hear her scream.

The door swung wide, bringing her a whiff of wild animal pelts. Not smelly enough or large enough to be Abner Reece. The man stepped across the threshold. Beads and quills decorated his shirt. Fringe dangled from his buckskins. An Indian! Indians walked into people's houses without knocking.

And slit their throats.

He stepped between her and the shotgun. Maybe he just wanted food. She'd give him the rest of the cake. And anything else he wanted. Anything, as long as the baby was safe.