Waiting for Summer's Return (13 page)

Peter leaned over to remove the package from the seat, gesturing with his hand for her to make herself comfortable. With a girlish giggle, she turned and lowered herself into the padded seat. Draping her hands over the armrests, she leaned her head back, closed her eyes, and released a satisfied sigh.

“Does it sit good?” Thomas asked.

Her eyes opened, a smile crinkling their corners. “Does it sit
well,
” she corrected. “Oh yes. It sits perfectly.” She peered up at Peter with an expression of great appreciation. “It’s a beautiful gift. I thank you.”

Peter did not believe he had ever pleased someone as much as he had just pleased this woman. What a change the smile made in her appearance! His stomach felt fluttery, and he swallowed hard before speaking. “I promised you a chair so you need not always sit on the bed. I keep my promises.”

Her eyes remained pinned to his. “Yes, you do. You are a good man.”

The simple words sent another shot of warmth through his middle. This woman did not deserve the unkindness bestowed upon her by the townspeople. Somehow he must make them see the neediness, the loneliness that existed within her heart. Then maybe they would reach out to her instead of shunning her.

All during the butchering he had tried to tell them she was no threat to their humble existence, but they had not trusted his words. He must find some way to bring them together so the fear and worry could be set aside.

“Pa, aren’t you going to give her the other present?” Thomas’s words jarred their gazes apart.

The woman’s face flooded with color, and she gripped the armrests. “Oh, please, the chair is present enough.”

Peter had no choice but to give it to her. With awkward motions, he thrust the package at her. “You are the only one who can make use of this,” he insisted when she didn’t lift her hands to take it. “Please,
Frau
Steadman.”

With a slight frown, the woman reached out her hands. When Peter released the package, her hands slipped downward, as if surprised by the weightiness. She placed the package in her lap and removed the string tie, then folded back the paper. A leather-covered book came into view. The black cover of the book was the same velvety color as the dress the woman wore.

“Holy Bible,” she read aloud.

“Heilige Bibel,” Grossmutter
echoed, nodding her head.

Frau
Steadman glanced up, acknowledging the woman’s words, then touched the curling gold letters on the cover. Though she was still looking down, Peter heard her whisper, “Thank you, Mr. Ollenburger.”

He knelt next to the chair, his big hand on the armrest beside her elbow. “This morning in
Kleine Gemeinde,
you could not know the lesson because you could not understand the language. I keep the verses our Reverend Enns spoke in here.” He tapped his forehead. “I will write down where to find them, and Thomas will tell you in English. I do not know the English spelling.” He regretted that so many steps were necessary for this woman to receive the message. “Then you read the verses in your English. We can talk about them afterward.”

To his great relief, the woman did not push the Bible back at him. Her chin raised and lowered in a gentle nod of agreement.

He rose to his feet, clapped his hands, and then rubbed his palms together. “And there is no better time to start than now. Thomas, get my tablet and inkpot, please. Before my mind forgets, I must to write down the verses for our
Frau
Steadman.”

14

O
UR FRAU STEADMAN
…” Often over the next week, the impulsively spoken words came back to haunt Peter. Why had he let those words slip out? He had been feeling tender because he knew he,
Grossmutter,
and Thomas were her only friends. But the word
our
spoke of possession. He did not want to give her the wrong idea.

Yet, there were two things he did each day that were only for the woman. Every afternoon, while Thomas washed lunch dishes and
Grossmutter
napped, he took her to visit the little spot where her family was buried. Every evening after supper, with heads together and Bibles open, he spent an hour with her in study. It was a peaceful time for Peter, a pleasant end to the day.

During the past week they had moved beyond the preacher’s sermon to other parts of the Bible. Peter tried to stay in the New Testament, turning the woman’s attention to others who had suffered so she would know she was not alone. Tonight, as he sat across the table and guided the woman in reading about the apostle Paul, he felt her quizzical expression, and he squirmed in his seat.

Her eyes seemed to ask of things that went beyond the subject they studied, and his foolish words
“our Frau Steadman”
tickled his mind. Thank goodness for Thomas’s presence at the table and
Grossmutter
’s chaperonage from her chair in the corner.

“Philippians, chapter four, verse eleven.” Thomas glanced at the verse his father indicated. “I know that one by memory. ‘Not that I speak in respect of want: for I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content.’”

Frau
Steadman’s dark-eyed gaze turned toward Thomas. Peter noticed that the woman’s eyes had lost their haggard look. Eating regularly had done her some good. And, he admitted to himself, it did not hurt that much of the time she ate her own cooking rather than his attempts. They were all eating flavorful meals thanks to the woman’s willingness to assume the cooking chores.

“Thomas, how did you learn all of these verses?” she asked. “This is the third time this week you’ve quoted a verse from memory.”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Things just stick with me. Especially things I like. And I like that verse. It helps me remember that even though I don’t have all the things I want, I can still be happy.”

Peter tousled the boy’s hair. “And what do you want that you do not already have?”

“A bicycle.”

The answer came so quickly that both Peter and
Frau
Steadman released a laugh. How good it was to hear laughter from her lips.

“
Ach,
boy, I think you misunderstand. When Paul writes these words, he is in much physical discomfort. In prison, alone, and far from everyone he holds dear. Yet he found contentment in the knowledge of God’s presence. I do not think Paul was meaning bicycles.”

The boy shrugged. “Oh, I know. Bicycles hadn’t been invented yet.” He turned to the woman. “But it still reminds me to be happy with what I have, and I think Paul might have meant that, too.”

“Yes, I suppose he could have.” The woman closed her Bible. “Mr. Ollenburger, you have a commendable grasp of Scripture. You obviously paid attention in church all of your growing-up years.”

A warmth flooded Peter’s chest as he remembered the church of his childhood. “
Ach, ja
. A treat it was each Sunday to put on my nicest clothes, to smell the chicken simmering in the pot. My belly would growl at the good smell. Then I walk with
Vater, Mutter,
and
Grossvater
to
Kleine Gemeinde
. The singing, the preaching …
Ja,
it was good feeling, but mostly I think of that chicken waiting at home for me to eat it.”

He pinched his brows as other memories crowded in. “Then, later, we are told we cannot gather to worship. We must to go somewhere else if we wish to meet together and learn from Scripture. So we go. And when we meet again, I never take lightly listening to the Word. I think less of the good chicken dinner and more of the food of the spirit. I listen close. I remember. I hide the words in my heart.” He rested his hand against his chest. The familiar rhythm of his heartbeat served as a reminder of the knowledge of his faith.

A pained expression crossed the woman’s face. He smiled to reassure her. “But here in America, no one comes and says you cannot study—you cannot learn. Still I listen. I feel glad that I can listen.”

To Peter’s amazement, tears appeared in her eyes. Then she blinked rapidly, and the tears disappeared. She rose. “I believe I’m ready to turn in.”

He stood, too. “Then I will walk you to
shariah
.” He reached for her coat, and a sudden whistling blast shook the windows in the house. “Hear the wind! Winter is upon us when we hear the howl.”

He held her coat for her, then put on his own coat, buttoning it to the collar before opening the door. The sharp wind nearly took his breath away, and worry struck. “A storm must be brewing. We go quickly.”

Neither spoke as he guided her with a hand on her back to the
shariah
and helped her inside. It felt good to close the door on the wind, but the tiny abode was far from warm. He lit her stove. “You get another blanket from the chest tonight. This shelter is not airtight. I—” He scratched his beard. He wished he had more to offer her than this flimsy shelter.

“I’ll pile the blankets on my bed. I’ll be fine.” She stood, her fingers woven together and pressed to her stomach. “You go ahead and return to your home before the wind gets any stronger.”

Summer nearly wilted with relief when he finally stepped out of the shanty. For days, his offhanded wording, calling her
“our Frau Steadman,”
had niggled in the back of her mind, teasing her dreams and worrying her heart. Did he truly see her as “their”
Frau
Steadman? It was much too early for her to become involved with someone. Rodney had only been gone four months. The convention of mourning dictated at least a year must pass.

Summer had heard that on the prairie, convention was often replaced with practicality, survival dependent upon having a partner with whom to share the work load. But Mr. Ollenburger had already proven he was capable of caring for himself and his son with the help of the grandmother. He obviously didn’t
need
a wife.

But did she need a husband? She nibbled her lower lip and contemplated that question. The town might view her more favorably if she became Mrs. Peter Ollenburger, and it would certainly solve her problem of not having a permanent home. It would ensure her placement in Gaeddert, near her children’s graves. Yet she had no desire to engage herself in a marriage of convenience.

Her marriage to Rodney, she admitted with a deep regret, had not been the result of steadfast love. She had married him for security, and she suspected he chose her to spite his father, who had wanted him to marry into a family equal to theirs in wealth and social status. How Summer had longed for Rodney to cherish her. But when he seemed to care about other things more than he cared about her, she had shut him away—sealed her emotions tight to protect herself. And, she knew, had not allowed herself to truly love him.

Mr. Ollenburger’s words, spoken at the gravesite, came back:
“My Elsa …”
The tenderness in his voice and his eyes as he’d spoken those words had brought tears to Summer’s eyes. Would anyone ever look at her and say with such tender feeling, “My Summer …”? Would she ever care for someone else in that same way?

Another gust of wind shook the entire shack, and small particles of grit blew between the planks of the north wall. She hurried to the blanket chest and retrieved the last two blankets. She spread the blankets on the bed and, fully dressed, slipped beneath them. But sleep eluded her.

While shadows danced on the beamed ceiling, the wind howled, and bits of grit sifted onto her blanket, she thought about the passage she and Mr. Ollenburger had studied this evening. Throwing back the covers, she reached for the Bible she had placed on top of the little crate. Perched on the edge of the bed, she turned the pages toward the stove for light, searching the Scriptures until she located the fourth chapter of Philippians again.

In verses six and seven she found the reference she wanted:
“Be careful for nothing; but in every thing by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known unto God. And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.”
She read the verses twice, leaning over the Bible with great concentration. She underlined a few words with her finger:
“… let your requests be made known unto God…. The peace of God … shall keep your hearts and minds …”

Straightening, she remembered something Mr. Ollenburger had said when at the graves of her family.
“God is a God who knows.”
She shivered as the wind took up a howl that threatened to pierce her eardrums. She hugged herself, the words of her host echoing like a chorus with the wind.

Did God know her secret longing? Did He recognize the coldness of her heart? Did He know how to melt the icy exterior and bring warmth to her soul? She set the Bible aside and leaped to her feet, walking to the center of the floor. There she stopped, her arms held tight across her middle, her heart pounding with the desire for God to make Himself known to her in a way she couldn’t misunderstand. How she needed peace for her heart! She strained, listening, waiting for a voice from above to allay her fears and insecurities and give her the peace she’d seen in Mr. Ollenburger’s eyes.

Wind. Only wind.

Her head dropped, disappointment sagging her shoulders. What did she think would happen? Love would strike like a bolt of lightning from the sky? The only people who had truly loved her were her children, and they were dead. Summer’s heart had died with them. Her ability to love had died with them. Her heart was surely a shriveled thing, incapable of offering anything of value to anyone.

Which must make her valueless to anyone else, as well.

She raised her chin, determination straightening her spine. Valueless, perhaps, to all but one: Thomas. He needed her—at least until winter’s end. And if she were to be her best for him, she needed rest. She set the Bible on the crate and climbed back into her bed.

With a deep sigh, she pulled the blankets to her chin, hugging herself for warmth. The wind continued to howl. Her thoughts continued to tumble. But eventually, despite the noise of the wind, she fell into a restless, dreamless sleep.

A fierce, relentless howl pushed aside the curtain of sleep, forcing Summer’s eyes open. She squinted into the dark, scowling. Would the wind never cease? She closed her eyes again, determined to ignore the wind, but a mighty gust yanked her into full wakefulness. Only a feeble orange glow of coals showed in the belly of the stove.

Perhaps the wind waking her was a blessing. The stove needed wood. She crept from beneath the covers, shivering from the cold. She crossed her arms over her chest as she moved stiffly to the woodbox. As she turned toward the stove, two logs in her arms, she heard a creaking noise.

Her heart pounded as an unnamed fear took hold. She stared in horror as the frame of the
shariah
seemed to lean, the shuddering sound increasing as boards groaned in protest against the force of the wind. Realization struck, and she broke out in a sweat despite the frigid room.

With a gasp, she threw the logs aside, snatched up her Bible, and dove under the bed. She had barely pulled her feet under when the shack gave way, pressed beyond its limits by the wind. Summer hugged the Bible, her eyes squinted tight, as the roof folded in on itself and fell across the pit with a resounding crash. Dust filled the air. She choked, her nose burning. She curled tighter, pressing her face into the crook of her elbow. Would she be buried alive?

At least,
came the fleeting thought,
I will once more be with my children
.