Waiting for Summer's Return (5 page)

Summer gasped.

“So not even a grave do we have to visit.” He turned, his gaze settling on the headstones. “My Elsa had been with me my whole life. All of my memories from little boy up to full-grown man have her in them. Very hard it was to say good-bye. Very hard for her
Grossmutter,
too, who had raised her since she was little girl. But …” He rested a large hand against the front of his sheep wool jacket, facing Summer again. “I visit her in my heart. And I talk to the God with whom she now lives. That is where I find my comfort.” He shrugged, his huge shoulders bunching his jacket around his bearded chin. “But time it took to find my comfort. It will take time for you, too.”

He stepped closer, his expression serious. “Do not say God is not there or is uncaring. Our God is a God who knows. He knows your pain of loss. He has felt it Himself as His Son died and He must to turn away. He knows what is found in our future, and He knows what is best for us. We must trust that He knows.”

Summer turned back to the graves. “I’m glad you found your comfort, Mr. Ollenburger. But this is what
I
know—my husband believed God would take us safely to Oklahoma. God didn’t. Now here I am with no husband, no children, and nothing to remind me of them. It’s all … burnt up.” Tears pricked behind her lids as she spit the words through clenched teeth. “And my joy is burnt up, too.”

At that moment two curled bits of soot rose, lifted by the wind, and danced away on the breeze. Summer watched them go, the pressure in her chest increasing as they disappeared in the treetops. “My joy is now ashes, Mr. Ollenburger, and as you can plainly see, ashes cannot be put back together again.”

He seemed to search for those two bits of soot, his brows pulled down.

She waited for him to refute her bitter words.

He reached inside his jacket and withdrew a rumpled piece of paper with seared edges. He looked at it for a moment, his lips pressed together so tightly his whiskers stuck out. “I found this in the bushes beside the river. I do not know, but—” He held it out to her. “It looks to be one little piece from your ashes.”

When she didn’t reach for it, he clasped her wrist and lifted her hand to meet the paper. “Take it with you,
Frau
Steadman. One day, it will bring you joy to have it.”

He walked away, leaving her holding the shred of brittle scorched paper. Tears flooded her eyes as she recognized a page from Rodney’s Bible—the page on which the births of their children had been recorded. One corner was completely burned away, and three of the four sides were singed from the flame, but each name and date was still intact, penned in Rodney’s neat script.

A part of her heart ached with desire to give thanks to God for the miracle of this little scrap surviving the fire that destroyed everything else. But she hardened herself against it. If God was able to keep this piece of paper from burning up, He should have been able to save her children. She started to crumple it into a wad, but something stopped her. Instead, she folded it with great care and placed it in her pocket.

Mr. Ollenburger waited beside the oxen, his large hand resting on the shoulder of one sturdy beast. With a sigh, she pushed her feet into motion. She had made a deal with this man to teach his son, and she would honor it. Never, though, would she believe in his God.

5

M
R. OLLENBURGER STOPPED
the wagon in front of the house. He turned to Summer and spoke the first words since they had left the gravesite. “I go now to clean out the
shariah
and build your bed. I will also go to town and find a stove so you will have heat. Even a small one would be plenty big enough.”

Summer allowed him to grasp her hands and help her over the edge of the wagon. It seemed to take no effort for him to lift her down. She shielded her eyes from the sun with her hand as she peered up at him. “Do you need some money?”

“Nein.”
His chin thrust out in stubbornness, the curled whiskers bristling. “It is my
shariah
. I will provide the heating for it.”

“If you’re sure …” Wind zipped around the house and tossed a strand of hair across her cheek. She tucked it behind her ear.

“I am sure. You spend day with the boy, get to know each other.” With a push of his foot, he released the brake. “Do not expect me until suppertime.”

Summer watched the wagon lumber away before she crossed to the house. Standing on the small stoop, she raised her hand and knocked. The door swung open, and Thomas stepped out beside her.

“Where is Pa going?”

“To do some chores.” Summer watched the wind tousle the boy’s hair. Her fingers ached to smooth the locks back into place. “He said we were to spend the day getting acquainted.”

Thomas looked up at her with unblinking eyes. He seemed to be taking stock of her, and she felt a blush filling her cheeks. Finally he shrugged. “I could show you around the place. If you’re going to live here, you might want to know where everything is.”

“That-that’s fine.” Summer tried to smile, but her lips felt stiff, as if smiling would never again be possible.

“I’ll get my jacket.” The boy went back into the house and returned a few minutes later, a brown woolen jacket tugged over his overalls.

“Don’t you need a hat?” Her maternal worry came naturally, making her heart beat faster.

“Nah. I’ll be fine.”

Summer looked at the closed door. Was the old woman still sitting at the table? “Is it all right for us to leave your grandmother unattended?”

“Oh sure. She likes having time to herself.” He scratched his head. “So … do you want to see everything now?”

She remembered Mr. Ollenburger’s warning to keep the boy’s activity limited. “If you’re going to show me around, we will walk sedately.” She bent her left arm at the elbow. “Position your arm like this.”

The boy stuck out his right arm.

“No, your left arm.”

With a frown, he switched arms.

Summer slipped her right hand through his elbow. “Now you may lead me around your property. Save your favorite place for last.”

The boy’s eyes lit with eagerness. “That would be the gristmill.”

Summer nodded. “Very well. Show me everything of importance on the way. But as I said, walk sedately.”

She made sure Thomas learned the meaning of “walk sedately” as they strolled around the house and headed toward the northeast corner of the Ollenburgers’ property. When Thomas pointed out the barn, his horse, Daisy, pawed the ground and snuffled a greeting from a small enclosure attached to the large log building. Behind the barn were the henhouse and pigpens. Summer needed no verbal introduction to the latter location; her nose recognized it well in advance.

Thomas pointed to the outhouse. “There’s the necessary. Reckon that’s good to know even though there’s one behind the
shariah,
too.”

Summer was sure her face glowed a brilliant pink at the boy’s blithe comment—she had already made acquaintance with the necessary behind the
shariah
that morning, but she wouldn’t have admitted it to Thomas!

“And over there,” the boy said, pride in his voice, “is our gristmill. My pa’s the only miller in Gaeddert.”

That was the gristmill? Summer lifted her hand once more to shield her eyes, certain she had missed something. She saw only a large windmill that sat atop a high wooden platform supported by massive wood beams.

Thomas tugged at her arm. “My great-grandfather and my grandfather were millers. Pa started milling before he was my age. My grandfather’s gristmill was powered by water. When Pa settled in Kansas, he thought he’d build a water-powered gristmill, too. That’s why he chose land near the Cottonwood River. But he found out the river moves too slow.”

The boy led her around the windmill, which towered more than thirty feet in the air, including the four-foot-high platform. The blades nearly touched the ground. Summer marveled at the immense size of the windmill.

“So he had to find a different way to power it,” he went on. “Pa figured, wind’s usually blowing here. Why not do like the Dutch and use wind to power the mill?”

“Very clever of him.” She tipped her head back to view the entire mill. “Why did he not build it on the ground? Why up on top of that platform?”

The boy kept his right arm tucked tight against his side as he released a light laugh. “Well, the wind blows almost every day, but it doesn’t always blow from the same direction.” He led her to the opposite side. “Look—by hitching the oxen to the beams, Pa can turn the mill so it faces the wind. That way, no matter what direction the wind is from, the mill can keep working.” His chest puffed out. “My pa’s the smartest man I know.”

Summer had to concede, the engineering was clearly the work of an intelligent mind. Mr. Ollenburger’s large size, his humble speech, and even the simple construction of the
shariah
could lead one to believe otherwise. What had he said of the shack? It was not a masterpiece of carpentry. Well, this gristmill certainly was that. She hoped his son proved to be as quick-witted. If so, it would be as pleasant to work with him as it had been to work with Vincent.

That thought brought to her to an abrupt halt. Vincent was gone. He would no longer sit at her feet, looking up with rapt attention as she read to him from Byron or Longfellow. Tears threatened, and she turned away from Thomas lest he see them and question her. She couldn’t bear to speak of Vincent—not to this boy who might have been his friend.

“This-this is a wonderful gristmill, Thomas. I see why you have chosen this as your favorite spot.” Her words sounded stilted, even to her ears. But the boy didn’t seem to recognize her change in demeanor.

“It’s my favorite spot when the harvest is done, for sure.” His smile was bright. “I like listening to the grain go through the grinder. It rumbles and makes your tummy feel like it’s growling from hunger. Then puffs of flour come out around the spout when it’s filling the sacks. Goes right up your nose and makes you sneeze!”

He offered another controlled laugh, and Summer’s lips twitched as they fought to respond with an answering smile.

“Pa ground the last of the wheat from around here only last week. He’s all done now for the winter.” He heaved a sigh, as if disappointed, but then with a quicksilver change, brightened again. “When I grow up, I’m going to be a miller, just like Pa.”

Summer nodded. Didn’t most boys want to be just like their fathers? Vincent had always said he would be a banker, like Rodney. Rose had wanted to be an artist. Little Tod had made her laugh with his declaration that he would be a cowboy—he had been most excited about the journey to Oklahoma, where he might meet real Indians. And dimpled Tillie had been too young to make plans. How sad to die before reaching an age to even make plans. Anger pressed at Summer’s heart. It was so unfair that her children’s dreams would never see fulfillment.

“Mrs. Steadman?”

Thomas’s voice brought her back to reality. She looked at the boy, who squinted against the sun that tipped his wheat colored hair with golden highlights.

“Sun’s straight overhead. Should we go get some lunch now?”

Summer looked skyward, confirming the boy’s observation. “Now that you’ve shown me the property, we’ll get lunch fixed right away.”

Though she had no desire to eat, this boy must be fed. He must be fed and kept healthy so at least
his
dreams would one day become reality.

Why’d Pa bring home such a sour-faced lady?
Thomas wondered as he chewed bread slathered with butter and honey. He knew Pa was worried about him falling behind on schoolwork—lessons were important to Pa. Hadn’t he been telling Thomas since he was little that he should learn all he could? He understood Pa wanted someone around who would help him keep up with studies, but why this lady?

Thomas watched out of the corner of his eye as Mrs. Steadman pushed the carrots back and forth on her plate with a fork. Even though she looked real hungry, she didn’t eat. He couldn’t imagine someone not eating—he liked to eat. He reached for another piece of bread and the butter knife. Everybody he knew liked to eat. This lady was different from everyone else he knew.

And it wasn’t just the eating. She wore her hair different, her voice sounded different when she talked, she never smiled. Of course, Thomas admitted, grumpy
Frau
Schmidt in town never smiled, either. This woman Pa had brought home didn’t seem grumpy, but she sure didn’t seem happy. Thomas scrunched his forehead. Was she sad? Mad? He wasn’t sure.

He glanced at Grandmother. She sat at the table, and she wasn’t eating much, either. She had a funny look in her eyes, like she was afraid something bad was about to happen. It made Thomas’s heart skip a beat. Was she afraid of this lady? He sat up, resolve straightening his spine. Well, Grandmother didn’t need to worry. He would make sure this stranger didn’t bother Grandmother. He’d keep watch over her. Grandmother had nothing to worry about.

Peter slapped Roth’s hindquarters as he left the ox chewing contentedly in his stall with his mate. He swung the barn door shut behind him and trudged across the yard, his feet stirring dust as his heels dragged. He released a heavy sigh—what a long day it had been. But all the tasks he’d set for himself had been completed.

Sturdy planks covered the
shariah’s
steps. The shelter held a new rope bed with a freshly stuffed straw mattress. The tinners’ stove from Nickels’ Dry Goods sent forth its warmth, and a full woodbox promised the warmth would continue. Boxes and barrels were now stored safely in the loft. Peter rubbed his hips, grimacing with the memory of carrying so many loads up the loft ladder. Out of consideration for the woman’s needs, he had left a small crate beside the bed to hold a lantern, and the large blanket chest still stood in the corner to hold her belongings.

When he allowed himself a sigh of satisfaction, his breath hung in the evening air. Stars glimmered in a sky of deep blue tinged with pink at the horizon. His feet stilled, and he tilted his head back to search for the North Star as his own father had done at day’s end. He remembered standing on the deck of the ship, his arm snug around Elsa’s waist, the two of them looking upward at the polestar. It had given him pleasure to think of the star as a link between his old country and his new country. Now, knowing the same star had shone for his father and his father’s father, he felt connected with those who had gone before—and with those who were yet to come.

He smiled at the sky and then turned toward the house. The lamp glow in the windows beckoned. He pushed his tired feet to move again. When he opened the door, the aromatic smells of ham and cabbage and bread filled his nostrils, making his stomach turn over in readiness. But the sight of
Frau
Steadman, with a wooden spoon in her hand and Elsa’s apron wrapped around her waist, gave him pause. He remained in the doorway as an odd feeling gripped him. How long it had been since any woman besides
Grossmutter
had stood at his cookstove?

He turned to find his wife’s grandmother in her chair in the corner also watching the woman.
Grossmutter
’s eyes, which had faded in color with age and were now a pale blue, seemed watchful, wary. Peter crossed to the old woman and placed a kiss on her wrinkled cheek by way of greeting. She nodded at him, a brief smile tipping up her lips before her attention went back to the woman.

“Hi, Pa.” Thomas rose from the table and set his slate aside. “Did you get everything done?”

“
Ja,
all is finished.” Peter removed his cap and coat and hung them on wooden pegs beside the door. He glanced again at the woman. Her attention seemed to be on the wooden spoon that she dragged through the simmering pot. He addressed Thomas. “
Frau
Steadman will not sleep on the floor of a cold shelter tonight, or slide on steps of dirt.” The woman glanced in his direction, but she didn’t speak. He cleared his throat. “Son, did you have
gut
day?”

Thomas nodded, his hair flopping. “Yes, Pa. I showed Mrs. Steadman the gristmill.” He leaned forward, dropping his voice to a whisper and slipping into German. “Clever she thought it was.”

Peter’s eyebrows shot up. “She said this?” He, too, lowered his voice and used his familiar language.

“By the way she looked, I could tell.”

Well, the boy was prideful, Peter thought. He would read things in the woman’s eyes that were not truly there. He glanced again at
Frau
Steadman and saw her lift the pot, using the apron to protect her hands from its hot handles. Elsa’s apron in the woman’s slender hands constricted his chest. He spun from the sight, concerned how
Grossmutter
would feel about the woman using Elsa’s things. But the old woman was no longer in her chair.

“Son, where has
Grossmutter
gone?”

Thomas looked over his shoulder, as if surprised, then stretched on his toes to whisper again. “Hiding from Mrs. Steadman, probably. Her eyes snapped all afternoon.”

This news made Peter feel unsettled. Two spatting women would be an unpleasant thing to deal with each day. But he only smiled and tousled Thomas’s hair, slipping back into English. “Set the table, son. It seems
Frau
Steadman is ready for us to partake of the fine meal she has made.”

Frau
Steadman placed the pot in the center of the table. Thomas set out crockery bowls, plates, and spoons while
Frau
Steadman turned a crusty loaf of bread into thick slices with several strokes of Peter’s best knife. Peter washed his hands, then poured milk into tin cups, imagining how good it would taste to dip chunks of bread into the milk. It was a cozy feeling, working together with his son and the woman to put the meal on the table.