The Heirloom Brides Collection (34 page)

As soon as Papa awakened from his evening nap, Clara sat on the edge of his bed and took his hand. “I’m sorry.”

He puckered his forehead. “For what are you apologizing?”

Guilt and embarrassment warred within her. “I heard what you told Mr. Klaassen about wanting to attend church services. I’m sorry I prevented you from going.”

Papa patted her hand. “Now, Clara Rose…”

Tears clouded her vision. “I guess I didn’t stop to think how being out here on our own was for you. I’m happy, so I—”

“Are you happy, my daughter?”

She paused for a moment. Although living in the country was very different from her former life in the city—quieter, fewer opportunities for entertainment, and more work—she liked the peacefulness of their little farmstead. True, the house was much smaller and lacked the refinement of their house in Minneapolis, but she had plans to paint the woodwork and put up cheerful wall coverings on the plain plaster walls. When she finished decorating, it would feel more like home. She nodded. “Yes. I think I am.”

“And you never grow lonely?”

Clara hung her head. She was lonely in Minneapolis. All of her friends were married. Most of them already had a child or two. She didn’t fit with them anymore. And she never would, because who would try to court a woman who’d already been cast aside by two beaus? She blinked several times and gave her father a wobbly smile. “I’m less alone here than I was in the city. You don’t go away to work every day. And I have Rowdy.” She squeezed his hand. “But if you’re lonely, Papa, you should accept Mr. Klaassen’s invitation to attend church services. I’ll be fine here by myself on Sunday.”

Papa yanked his hand free and shook his finger at her. “Oh no, young lady. If I go, you will go with me.”

Clara made a face.

“None of that. You aren’t the only one who made a promise to your dear mother before she stepped from this life into glory.”

The seriousness in her father’s tone held Clara’s attention.

“Her most fervent prayer was for you to know and serve the Lord Jesus Christ. I know you’ve accepted Him as your Savior, Clara Rose, but to grow in Him requires teaching.”

“But you’ve—”

He shook his head, stilling her protest. “More than reading verses and talking with me. You need real teaching from a preacher. Doesn’t the Bible instruct us to gather with fellow believers?”

She looked away, unwilling to let her father witness the rebellion stirring in her heart.

Papa sighed. “It’s unlikely I’ll be attending any service until my leg is out of this splint and I can walk again. So you have a little time to adjust, to think and pray. But, Clara Rose, when I’m on my feet, I want us to become part of a church family in Wilhelmina.”

She chewed her lip, her gaze aimed to the side.

He tugged her hand. “Clara Rose?”

Finally, she faced him. The pleading in his eyes stung, but she couldn’t agree with him. Not when it meant witnessing young, happy husbands and wives. It would hurt too much. When she was much older—old enough to be considered an honorary auntie like the old maids from her church in Minneapolis—she would go to church again. But she would explain all that to Papa when he wasn’t laid up in bed like an invalid.

She forced a smile. “I’ll pray about it, Papa.” Papa leaned back with a satisfied smile, and Clara left his room. She’d do as she’d promised—she would pray—but she held little confidence that her feelings would change. Not even God could change her from a young “old maid” to an old one in the space of four weeks.

F
riday’s stout breezes brought in a gentle, overnight shower that lulled Clara into deep, restful sleep, and Saturday dawned clear and sunny. She spent the morning giving their little house a thorough scrubbing. Rowdy helped by chasing the mop head across the floor and battling the small rag rug in front of the door into submission. Both Clara and Papa laughed at the growing pup’s antics, and the morning passed quickly.

After a simple lunch of bread, cheese, and dried apples, Clara carried a pair of dining-room chairs to the porch. With Papa leaning heavily on her for support, she escorted him outside. She might not be able to accompany him to church as he wanted, but she could at least help him enjoy a bit of the pleasant spring weather.

He sat in one chair and propped up his legs on the other. He pulled in a deep breath and released it on a sigh. “Ahhh, this is perfect.”

Clara lifted Rowdy onto his lap, and the coyote curled into a ball with his tail covering his nose. She smiled at the contented pup and her contented father. “Will you be all right for a little while? I have some more cleaning to do.”

“I’m as right as rain.” Papa shifted a bit, leaning the back of his head on the chair’s high ladder back and linked his hands around the snoozing coyote. “Leave the door open. If I need something, I’ll holler.”

She deposited a kiss on his cheek, then hurried inside. She stripped her father’s bed and remade it with clean sheets, dusted the furniture, and swept the floor. She also gave the commode Dr. Biehler had lent them a good washing. A distasteful task, but necessary. As grateful as she was for the wooden box equipped with a removable chamber pot so she didn’t have to transport Papa all the way to the outhouse, she wouldn’t be unhappy to see the spare piece of furniture go. Having a commode lurking in the corner of one’s bedroom was indecorous in her opinion. She’d much rather tuck the pot under the bed, out of sight.

With Papa’s room clean and smelling fresh, she gave her own bedroom a cleaning. As she worked, she mentally composed a shopping list. She hadn’t been to town for supplies for more than two weeks, and many basic items were running low. As much as she hated the idea of depending even more on Titus Klaassen, she hoped she might prevail upon him to visit the local general-goods store and pick up some things for her. Papa already had established an account, so at least she wouldn’t have to worry about him paying for her supplies.

She carried the rug that lay beside her bed to the backyard and tossed it over the clothesline. As she returned to the house for the rug beater, the rattle of wagon wheels caught her attention. Dr. Biehler must have decided to check on Papa today since he hadn’t made it out on Friday. She rounded the house, ready to greet the helpful veterinarian, but to her surprise, Titus Klaassen and his mother shared the seat on the approaching wagon.

Mr. Klaassen drew the horses to a stop near the porch. He braced one hand on the wagon’s edge and leaped to the ground. He gave each horse a quick rub on the nose as he hurried around the wagon, and then he helped Mrs. Klaassen down. They both turned toward the house with bright smiles. Mr. Klaassen lifted his hand in a wave. “Good afternoon, Mr. Frazier. It’s good to see you out enjoying this fine spring day. I hope you don’t mind some visitors arriving uninvited.”

“Not at all.” Papa spoke with such joviality, Clara experienced an unexpected stab of guilt. Rowdy awoke, so Papa put him on the porch. He lifted his chin and bellowed, “Clara Rose!”

Clara stepped from the corner of the house. “I’m right here, Papa.”

He gestured her forward, his face alight. “We have visitors. Put on the teakettle.”

“Oh, no.” Mrs. Klaassen caught hold of Clara’s arm. “We don’t want to trouble you. Titus finished the pair of crutches last night and wanted to deliver them. And I thought, as long as we’re bringing those crutches, why not bring a few more things you likely need?”

Clara frowned, confused.

Mrs. Klaassen laughed. The ease with which her levity flowed reminded Clara of her son. “Come with me, young lady, and I’ll show you what I mean. Titus, lower the gate, please.”

Clara trailed her to the rear of the wagon. Mr. Klaassen released the pins holding the gate in place and brought it downward. Three wooden crates waited in the wagon bed, along with the most ungainly set of crutches Clara had ever seen. Mr. Klaassen grabbed the crutches and took off toward the porch, and Mrs. Klaassen slid one of the crates to the edge of the bed.

“Now, Miss Frazier, I know you have been too busy caring for your father to make the trip to town for groceries and such. With Titus eating here every day, I presumed you might be running low on a few things. So when I did my shopping yesterday, I filled a few boxes for you, too.”

Clara stared at the woman with her mouth hanging open. Had Mrs. Klaassen somehow read her thoughts?

“I asked Ira—Ira Voth is the grocer—to check his records for what you purchased in the past. I hope we brought what you need. If anything does not suit, no worries. Mr. Voth said we could return it, and he would credit it back on your account.”

Clara managed to close her mouth. She shook her head slowly, touching the various items in the closest box. “It looks as if you’ve brought exactly what I would have chosen. Thank you, ma’am.”

Her warm smile crinkled her eyes. She put her arm around Clara and gave a little squeeze. “You’re very welcome, Miss Frazier.”

A burst of laughter interrupted them. Both women peeked around the wagon, and Clara clapped her hand over her mouth at the sight. She darted toward the porch.

“Papa, be careful!”

Papa grinned at her even as he swayed on the crutches crafted from crooked twigs lashed together at the base and topped by a short, smooth piece of lumber. “Don’t fret, Clara Rose. Oh my, it’s dandy to be upright on my own!” He took two wobbly steps while Rowdy bounced along beside him and Clara held her breath. He stopped and sent a beaming smile to Mr. Klaassen. “You did a fine job, Titus. Just fine.” He winced. “Of course, I might have to ask Clara Rose to put some padding on these pieces under my arms. That oak you carved for the support brace is pretty hard. But they hold me up just fine. Yes, sir, these are a real blessing.”

Mrs. Klaassen folded her arms and chuckled. “When Titus showed those things to me this morning, I thought of the rhyme about the old man who walked a crooked mile. These crooked crutches would be a good fit for that fellow, I believe.”

“I’d say not.” Papa’s eyes twinkled with teasing. “These are mine. That old crooked man will have to find his own set.”

Both Mrs. Klaassen and her son laughed. Clara couldn’t resist smiling. Papa looked so proud of himself, standing on those ridiculous crutches. She touched Mr. Klaassen’s elbow. “Thank you for making them so quickly.”

The look he turned on her—appreciation, admiration, and something deeper—sent her skittering to the rear of the wagon again. She grabbed the box waiting at the bed’s end.

Mrs. Klaassen hurried over, tsk-tsking. “Now, let me help you. Those boxes are heavy.” She took one side, Clara took the other, and they carried the box inside. As they placed it on the table, Mr. Klaassen entered with a second box. She marveled at the ease with which he carried the heavy crate. Clara had shared the task, and her muscles complained.

“I’ll get the last one, Ma. And then”—his blue-eyed gaze fell on Clara—“if you have some cotton batting or some old toweling, I’ll pad the crutch braces for your father.”

He’d already done enough. “I can do that for him.”

He grinned. “He wants to take a little walk right now—try them out. It might be better if we pad them before he goes very far so he doesn’t hurt his underarms.”

“All right, then.” Clara eased toward her bedroom. Anything to separate herself from Titus Klaassen. His penetrating, attentive gaze was making her stomach dance, and she couldn’t decide if she was flattered or frightened. “I’m sure I have something.”

By the time she found scraps of soft worsted large enough to cover the arm braces, Mr. Klaassen had carried in the third crate and Mrs. Klaassen had the contents of the first two crates organized on the table. Clara handed Mr. Klaassen the fabric without quite meeting the young man’s gaze—why did such a nice man intimidate her so?—and turned her attention to putting away the supplies.

“I appreciate you thinking to bring canned goods.” Clara stacked the cans of tomatoes, corn, beans, and peas on a shelf above the dry sink. “I’ll be canning my own vegetables after I put in a garden, but that’s a few months away yet.”

“I prefer home-canned, but I’m grateful for these factory-canned vegetables when we’re between seasons.” Mrs. Klaassen slowly emptied the bag of flour into its drawer in the possum-belly cabinet. Despite her care, fine dust rose in the air. Clara would need to sweep again. The woman sent Clara a speculative look. “Have you raised vegetables before, Miss Frazier?”

“Please call me Clara.” Now why had she made such a request? Besides Papa, only her closest friends called her by her given name.

The woman smiled, clearly touched. “Why, thank you. If you like, you may call me Maria. And”—impishness twinkled in her eyes—“Titus wouldn’t mind if you followed your father’s example and called him by his Christian name. He said hearing you call him Mr. Klaassen makes him feel old and feeble.”

Heat filled Clara’s face. How disconcerting to know their hired helper spoke of them to his family. And she couldn’t imagine calling the son or his mother by their first names. “My mother taught me to be courteous and address people by their surnames. Especially gentlemen or my elders.”

“It sounds as though your mother was a very well-mannered woman.”

Clara sighed. “Mama was a saint. I miss her terribly, just as Papa does. But we know we’ll see her again someday. She waits in heaven for us.”

The woman’s eyebrows rose. “You are a sinner saved by grace, Clara?”

There were many uncertainties in life, but when it came to her salvation, she held no hesitation. “Yes, ma’am.”

“That is good. That is very, very good.” Mrs. Klaassen rolled up the empty flour sack and placed it in the bottom of one of the crates. She took the broom from the corner and began sweeping up the powdery white dust dotting the floor. “I think you’ll discover in time, Clara, that we are less formal here in Wilhelmina than in the larger cities. The familiarity comes from knowing one another well. I wouldn’t consider it discourteous for you to call me Maria, but if you are more comfortable with Mrs. Klaassen, I respect your choice.”

Clara returned to the table for another armful of cans. “Mama taught me more than etiquette and to trust in Jesus. Even though we could purchase fresh vegetables at the market, Mama always kept a small garden behind our house. She especially enjoyed growing tomatoes and strawberries. I loved helping her.”