Waiting for Summer's Return (21 page)

It felt good to give it to God—to trust Him to meet her needs. She rested her head against the padded back of the chair and closed her eyes. A soft snore came from Thomas’s bedroom, and she smiled. “
Schlop die gesunt,
Thomas,” she whispered. “And
schlop die gesunt,
Mr. Ollenburger, wherever you are.”

24

S
UMMER WOKE WITH
a jerk. The half-empty mug in her lap tipped, spilling the remainder of the coffee across her dress and the blanket. She grabbed the cup and sucked in her breath as the cold liquid soaked through to her skin. Morning sunlight backlit the thick swirling feathers of frost on the window, the bright white stabbing her eyes. A dull pain throbbed in the back of her skull. She released a light moan as she struggled out of the chair and deposited the cup on the table.

Squinting against the light, one hand pressed to her temple and the other holding her wet skirt away from her thighs, she approached the window. Thomas’s peephole was completely sealed over, the frost layer there less thick than elsewhere on the window. She scraped that area clean again and peered outside.

The bright sun made her grimace as the throbbing in her temples increased in intensity. The snowfall had stopped, but the fiercely blowing wind whipped snow into little cyclones of white crystals. Steep drifts that resembled raging ocean waves slanted against the sides of buildings and appeared to climb tree trunks. Although it hurt to look out into the overwhelming brightness of sun on snow, she forced herself to search for some evidence of life.

But there was no wagon, no oxen. No big bear of a man.

She sighed, turning from the window, and rubbed both temples.

Thomas appeared in his doorway, hugging himself, hunched forward. “Morning, Summer.” His voice sounded raspy from sleep. “Has the snow stopped?”

“It’s stopped coming down,” she answered, “but it’s still blowing. I’ve never seen so much snow. Take a look.”

Thomas tiptoed across the cold floor and peeked out the hole. He spun, turning to her with excited eyes. “I bet it’s higher than my head in some places! Pa and me could build a really good snow cave.” Then his expression clouded over. “Except Pa’s not here, is he?”

Summer squeezed his shoulder. “Not yet. But since the snow has stopped falling, he should be able to come home now.”

“How?” Thomas pointed out the window. “Look at all that! Roth and Gaert can’t pull the wagon through it. Wherever he is, he’s stuck, for sure.”

“Well, then, we’ll just have to pray for the snow to melt so he can come home,” she said firmly. “Should we do that before or after we get dressed for the day and start breakfast?”

“Let’s pray first.” He clasped his hands beneath his chin, closed his eyes, and dove directly into a prayer. “Dear God, Pa’s stuck away from us, and we miss him. I don’t see how he can get through that snow. There’s sure a lot of it. Would you please make enough of it go away for Pa to get home? Thanks, God. Amen.”

The innocence of children, Summer thought. “That was a perfect prayer, Thomas. Now, put on your warmest pants and shirt. Then we’ll see what we can scrounge up for breakfast. Cornmeal mush, probably, since I won’t have to go to the henhouse for eggs to make it.”

“And some fried potatoes?” The boy looked hopeful. “Pa likes fried potatoes and onions for breakfast. We should have it ready for him.”

Summer nodded, even though she was afraid it would be well past breakfast before the man arrived. Cold fried potatoes and onions didn’t seem appealing, but if it would make Thomas feel better, she would fry a panful. “Of course. Now get dressed.”

He padded back to his bedroom as the grandmother entered the kitchen, her shawl held around her shoulders. She pointed at Summer’s coffee-stained clothes, her eyebrows raised high in question. Summer nodded, acknowledging she knew she should change her dress. First, though, she took time to stoke the fire.

When Summer returned to the kitchen after changing her clothes,
Grossmutter
was picking potatoes from the bin in the corner. Summer gave the old woman a smile as she took the potatoes and began scrubbing them for frying. As she worked, her thoughts drifted outside. How had the hens fared against last night’s storm? And Thomas’s poor Daisy. She would need to be fed and watered. Thomas couldn’t see to those chores—the last time he’d gotten chilled, he’d become ill. Mr. Ollenburger would probably not be back until late. The only person left to see to the animals was her.

Well,
she told herself firmly as she thumped the scrubbed potatoes into a bowl,
if I’m going to live on this prairie from now on, I’ve got to learn to take care of things for myself. Now is as good a time to learn as any
.

What had she heard about precautions for snowstorms? Rope … Rope leading from the house to outbuildings.

“Thomas! Might there be a length of rope in this cellar of yours?”

“
Herr
Gaeddert, to home I must go. My boy, he will be very much worried about me.”

By the time Peter’s oxen had managed to pull the Schmidts’ horse and buggy from the snowbank, the storm
Frau
Nickels’s knee had predicted had struck with force, preventing Peter from going home. He appreciated Heinrich Gaeddert’s kindness in putting him up for the night, but he did not wish to remain any longer than necessary. He paced across the sitting room of
Herr
Gaeddert’s home, his hands deep in his pockets for lack of something better to do with them. Always his hands were busy—they were working hands—and idleness was not easy to bear.

“Now, Peter, I understand you do not want to worry your boy, but you said yourself the boy’s great-grandmother and the Steadman woman are with him. He is cared for. Going out in that snow would be foolhardy at best.”

Herr
Gaeddert’s calm voice did nothing to alleviate Peter’s worry. It was not only the boy that concerned him, although Thomas was first on his list. There were the animals, the woodbox, the water bucket. So many things he saw to each day.

“Sit down here, Peter, and let us look at this map of Gaeddert land holdings.” Heinrich held up a roll of parchment as he gestured to the sofa. “If the Steadman woman plans to purchase a plot, I need to make sure I understand which plot.”

Peter blew out his breath. He reminded himself this was an errand he needed to complete. If he could not make it home right away, at least he could do this for the woman. “All right,
Herr
Gaeddert. I show you where the graves are found.” Peter traced the Cottonwood River to the location of the Steadman gravesites. The two men drew a box on the map that would include the graves and one more plot, giving the woman enough space for a house, a garden, and a henhouse, as well as a small barn. Peter was glad the plot was near the river. Water would not be difficult to find, and perhaps it could even be pumped to the house to make things easier for her. A woman faring alone would need as many conveniences as possible.

“Now, this I must ask you,” Heinrich said when the land decisions had been made, “does the woman intend to become a member of
Kleine Gemeinde
?”

Peter nodded solemnly. “She has prayed the prayer of accepting salvation. I have seen evidence of it. She will be baptized and ask to be admitted as member.”

Heinrich leaned back and stroked his graying beard. “This is good. It was important to my father that Gaeddert be a haven for our people. He would not welcome outsiders with new ideas. If she is willing to accept our values and our doctrine, then I do not see that my brother Bernard would argue against it.”

“Then you will sell the woman this land?” Peter wanted a clear answer.

“
Ja,
I think we will.” Heinrich rolled the map and put it on the desk that stood in the corner of the room. “How will she care for herself there? There is not enough land to farm. Does she have other skills?”

“A good teacher she is,” Peter said, “and she sews. We are praying she will find the means to support herself. She is strong woman—stronger than she looks. God will make a way for her, for sure.” He rose and went back to the window. He slid his hands back into his pockets. “And I must trust God to make a way home for me. Very soon.”

Summer’s ears had stung so much for the first half hour she thought she might cry out. But now they were numb, like her hands, which made it hard to finish her tasks. She set her jaw, prayed for strength, and continued. Daisy had plenty of fresh water and hay, the chickens were fed and watered, and she had even laid out hay in the oxen’s stalls to save Mr. Ollenburger the trouble when he finally returned.

The rope Thomas had retrieved from the cellar proved to be too short to reach clear to the barn, but she found a full bale of rope in the barn and rolled it out to meet the shorter piece, tying the ends together in a clumsy knot she prayed would hold. She looped the rope behind the henhouse so a person could follow it to both outbuildings. She smiled with pride at her ingenuity.

After caring for the animals, she carried in the essentials. Her fingers, layered in Thomas’s gloves under her mittens, were uncooperative, and it took much longer than she wanted, but it had to be done. Thomas had found two extra buckets in the cellar, and she filled them with water from the well. Then she hauled in firewood—three to four pieces at a time—until the woodbox heaped once more. Only one thing left to do.

“Thomas, fetch the chamber pots, please.”

The boy handed them to her with his face puckered in distaste. She wasn’t keen on this task, either, but who else would do it? She trudged through the snow, following the trail she had already broken to get to the barn, then broke fresh ground to the outhouse.

Her thighs burned with the effort it took to create a pathway. The wind came in bursts, stealing her breath. Her arms ached with the effort of holding the pots away from her body—she did not want to spill any of the contents on her clothing! The snow reached her hips at times. Her dragging skirts made progress nearly impossible.

Panting with exertion, her body screaming in protest at what she forced it to do, she considered just tossing the vile contents onto the snow. Her stomach turned in revulsion. No! She would dump it down the outhouse portal no matter how hard it was to get there. Her skirts caught again, and she put down the pots long enough to tug the tangled fabric free.

She groaned. “Maybe I should have borrowed some of Mr. Ollenburger’s pants.” Then she laughed, imagining trying to keep the pants up. The laughter, in an odd way, revived her.

Gritting her teeth, she forced her numb feet to carry her the last twenty feet. Planting her shoulder against the outhouse door, she forced it open and stumbled through. With a huge sigh of relief, she disposed of both pots’ contents.

She dropped the pots and sank onto the outhouse seat to catch her breath. But after only a few minutes the cold encouraged her to get back to the house and warmth. Besides, the sun was waning—nightfall would soon be upon her. She had no desire to be in the snow-covered yard in the dark.

When she tried to pick up the pots by their handles, she discovered her numb fingers wouldn’t grasp the handles anymore. Fear gripped her—were her fingers frozen? Surely they would unstiffen once they were warm again. She bent her elbows and looped a pot over each arm. They banged against her hips as she struggled back to the house.

The door opened as she heaved herself onto the stoop, and Thomas reached for her. She gave him the pots, then fell through the door in a flurry of snow and sodden clothing. She sat on the floor, her back against the wall, and huffed for several minutes while Grandmother hovered, watching her with wide, worried eyes.

Thomas crouched beside her. “Are you okay?”

“I’ll be fine. It was just harder moving through the snow than I expected. But everything is taken care of for today.” She managed a weak laugh. “If I have to do this year after year, I’m going to purchase some sturdy work pants. Long skirts catch the snow and bring it with you.” To her amazement, steam rose off her snow-coated skirt. She needed to get out of these clothes, but at the moment it felt good to sit still and rest.

Grossmutter
scuttled to the stove and poured a cup of coffee. Summer tried to remove her mittens and found her fingers still wouldn’t work. Thomas tugged her mittens free, pulling the gloves underneath off at the same time. She scowled at her own hands. Her fingers looked strange—blotched with pink and white. Bloodless. They didn’t bend at all, and when
Grossmutter
placed the hot mug between her palms, they stung with such intensity Summer cried out.

Thomas took the cup and reared backward, spattering coffee across her crusty skirts. They hissed as steam rose

She cradled her hands against her chest. “It hurt.” Her fingers pricked as if stung by dozens of bees.

Grossmutter
reached toward Summer, her voice wavering as she spoke.

“What is she saying?” Summer asked Thomas.

“She says you must warm your hands slowly,” he translated.

Summer nodded. Her head felt weighted. She looked again at her hands, scowling as she tried to decide what to do next.

“How can I help?” the boy asked.

She looked into Thomas’s frightened face. Summer remembered that same question asked by another child, Vincent, kneeling beside his father’s sleeping mat, his face white with worry.
“How can I help, Mama?”
She’d been helpless then. She wouldn’t be helpless this time.

“I’ve got to get into dry clothes and warm myself. I don’t know, but I might have frostbite. Your grandmother is right. I seem to remember reading that frozen limbs need to be warmed slowly.” She rolled onto one hip and, with some difficulty, got to her feet. Clumps of snow fell from her clothing as she made her way to the bedroom.

“Do you … do you need my help with …” Thomas paused beside the bedroom door. His fingers twitched on her arm.
Grossmutter
stood behind him, and her pale blue eyes never wavered from Summer’s face.

She managed a small smile although it hurt her dry lips. “No thank you, Thomas.
Grossmutter
can help me.”

Sealed inside the bedroom with the old woman, she prayed for strength as she fought her way out of the snow-encrusted dress.
Grossmutter
murmured softly, clucking her tongue against her teeth, as she painstakingly fastened the buttons on Summer’s dry dress with gnarled fingers. When the last button was hooked, Summer turned and offered the old woman a grateful smile. The grandmother touched Summer’s cheek and smiled back. How wonderful that gentle touch felt. It warmed her from the inside out.