Gather The Children (Chronicles of the Maca Book 2) (32 page)

Brigetta turned away from the window with a sick feeling in her stomach. Her pink cheeks had grown pinker, and her heart was heading upward to lodge somewhere in her throat. The man she'd seen had not looked particularly young. His hat was a strange, wide brimmed affair, his stride still loose and easy, but he was wearing animal skins and spewing a brown liquid at Mrs. Hoefmann's roses. Had she risked everything for this man?

She was twenty-two years old, a spinster by the standards of the day, and a recent immigrant from Germany. She stood barely five-feet tall, with a fully mature figure, pale blue eyes, and thick blonde hair braided and wrapped around her head. Her features were considered average, and her eyelashes were so blonde and skimpy it looked as if she had none. When her parents died, she was left with very little and her options were few as no suitor appeared on her doorstep. Working as a servant in a less than wealthy place did not appeal to her. Der Pastor had shown her the letter forwarded from an American Lutheran pastor. A young man, with the potential of becoming a wealthy rancher was looking for a good Lutheran wife between the ages of eighteen and twenty-four. He needed a strong worker who would raise their children in the old Lutheran doctrines, but there were none in his area. He was willing to pay for her passage if she agreed.

Brigetta had told the Pastor to write a favorable response, and she would leave immediately for the parsonage in America. She wasn't certain what was meant by the old doctrines, but she sold what few remaining household articles there were and booked passage. The journey had been horrifying days of being surrounded by heaving water, and wretched humans retching. Had there not been so many German speaking people in this huge land to direct her to Saint Louis, Missouri, she was certain she would have suffered an agonizing death, or been committed to a life of begging.

Pastor Hoefmann and Mrs. Hoefmann had welcomed her with warmth and with praise for the young man. It seemed he lived in a far place called Texas where few women lived, and fewer Lutherans unless you went to the large cities, or the farmlands of Texas. Brigetta did not understand. Was Texas a separate country? Brigetta willingly helped Mrs. Hoefmann, a small woman who chirped like a bird and bustled about accomplishing little. They assured her that her intended came from an honorable family and had forwarded money for her keep. Brigetta began to have visions of a fine home. Now all her hopes were dashed, but she had struck a bargain. She could hear the people below greeting each other, and Mrs. Hoefmann saying, “I'll call Frauline Rhineholdt for you.” Brigetta took a deep breath, directed her footsteps towards the stairs, and descended with her head held high.

Mrs. Hoefmann met her at the stairs, her brown eyes dancing, and her plump little cheeks a rosy pink. She took Brigetta's hand and said, “Frauline Rhineholdt, may I present Mr. Herman Rolfe and his son, Martin Rolfe, your intended. Mr. Rolfe and Mr. Rolfe, Frauline Rhineholdt.”

Brigetta's heart went back to her chest as Martin came forward with an extended hand. His hat was in his left hand and he was smiling. Brigetta realized this was a strong, young, bull-headed, handsome man with no tobacco stains on his teeth and no guile in his eyes, and she did not love him.

The next two days were a blur with so many details to attend to: the rings, the license, the quick ceremony by Pastor Hoefmann, the packing, and then buying tickets for a steamship. She remembered wailing, “Not another boat ride,” and the two men laughing at her. “Ach, this is a steamship. You'll enjoy it.”

They spent their wedding night at a hotel so fancy, Brigetta felt out of place. How could these plainly dressed men afford it? It was the table linen, food, and waiters that made more of an impression on Brigetta than the consummation of her wedding night. The letter had said the young man had the potential of becoming a wealthy man. When she gathered the courage to ask what the house was like, Martin shrugged. “Oh, it isn't much. Part of it is a dugout.”

Brigetta had no idea what he was talking about as their conversations were in German, and Martin used the English word dugout. The elder Rolfe said very little. He had merely fixed his hard blue eyes on her that first day and nodded his approval. Something in his demeanor (or was it the long knife he wore at his side?) told Brigetta this was a very dangerous man. When she realized that Texas meant the West and Indian country, she became certain that she would never live to an old age.

As she walked up the gangplank to the steamship, her legs almost collapsed on her, and she could see Martin frowning as he looked down at her when suddenly he brightened. Her cheeks burned red as he said in German, “Maybe you are pregnant already.”

An inspection of the cabin alleviated her fears. It was not like the steerage on the boat. “Oh, look, there's a dressing table.” She was reassured her new husband could provide for her and any children they would have, and her hopes for a good life returned.

Brigetta clung to the buckboard. Occasionally, she risked reaching up to make sure her hat was in place. Perspiration was streaming down her face and inside her clothing. Dust was billowing behind and around them, coating her heavy poplin dress, face, and hat. She had brushed and hung her one good black dress when Martin told her they were visiting the neighboring ranch to see Tante Anna and Uncle Mac. She could not imagine why they were going there first instead of into town to see his married sister and younger brother. She still hadn't recovered from the shock of the sagging roof covering a porch that stretched across a house that was a dining area and kitchen built of wood and the two bedrooms dug into the side of a cliff. Peasants didn't live that badly, did they? The pots and pans, dishware, everything was either cracked or bent. How could they have spent money on a real ring and the steamboat? Martin and the elder Mr. Rolfe, however, were oblivious to the state of the household.

Martin sat beside her, dressed in the same suit and white shirt that he'd worn on their wedding day. She knew they should have been washed and pressed, but there hadn't been time. She wasn't even sure they had laundry soap, no idea of where the tubs were, and how did one get water to the tubs? Her worst fears were coming true. Martin had warned her about snakes that had rattles on the end of their body and venom in their fangs.

Martin did not notice her distress and was in a fine mood, pointing out the good grass on either side of the dusty trail. To Brigetta the lumps, ruts, and this ground they were moving on since leaving the road heading back to Arles could not be called a road. The grass swaying toward the skyline and the distant rock and tree covered hills (that Martin called mountains) looked wilted and dry. Had she married a mad man?

They topped the rise and looked down at the MacDonald headquarters. Brigetta gasped in surprise at the sight of a two story house, a real barn and outbuildings with fences for horses and even a cow in one of the pens. A lone tree shaded a small building not far from the side of the house. She saw a rider coming from the opposite direction lift his hat and wave. Martin smiled with satisfaction. “It's my friend, Lorenz. Wait until he meets you!”

Brigetta eyed her husband with dismay. She was dusty, rumpled, hot, and completely uninterested in meeting another male in this detestable, frightening country. Martin snapped the reins and the horses broke into a brisk trot, jarring and bouncing the buckboard over the rough trail. Brigetta hung on for dear life. Within minutes, Martin drew up by the hitching rail in front of the house with a loud, “Whoa.”

She opened her eyes and saw that the figure on the horse was waiting for them, grinning and holding his hat. From the porch came the sound of a woman's voice in German. “Good day and welcome!”

“Tante Anna, I've brought my wife to meet y'all!”

Brigetta looked and gulped. The woman was almost as tall as the door and she was dressed in a plain, blue chambray dress with no collar and sleeves that ended between the shoulder and elbow. It didn't look like she was wearing the required number of petticoats. Her white hair was tied up behind her head and curls had struggled loose around her handsome face. A small girl in a short dress, holding a stuffed doll stood next to her waving at them.

Martin clambered out of the buckboard, and the young man dismounted. The two shook hands solemnly intoning, “Herr MacDonald,” “Herr Rolfe.” Both were grinning widely, and after the handshake slugged each other in the arm. The woman on the porch came striding towards them. Martin seemed to remember her and picked up the reins to tie them to the hitching rack when the other said, I'll take care of the horses.”

Martin ducked under the horses and came hurrying around to help Brigetta down. She was still flustered when her feet touched the ground, and knew her hat must be perched at an odd angle.

“Tante Anna, this is my wife, Brigetta. Brigetta, this is my honorary Tante, and this is her daughter, Wilhemina.” He smiled and added to Tante Anna, “She doesn't speak English yet.” The last sentence sounded like an apology, and Brigetta's cheeks grew brighter.

Anna took charge, speaking in German. “This is such a pleasure, Frau Rolfe.” She grasped Brigetta's arm and pulled her toward the house. “Come in, come in, where the sun won't burn your pretty face. Mina, go fetch my fan. Would you like a glass of cool water or buttermilk?”

Brigetta's eyes opened and closed as Anna led her inside out of the blinding sun, but the words cool water roused her. “You have cool water?”

Anna laughed in a low chuckle. “Ja, we have a spring. Sit in the rocker while Mina brings the fan. I'll be right back.”

Mina appeared with the fan, and Brigetta put it to good use. She heard the kitchen door close, and the horse and buggy being led away. How long, she thought, are we staying? She couldn't possibly be more uncomfortable. At least the fan helped.

Anna reappeared with a pitcher and took a glass from the cupboard. Brigetta held the glass to the side of her face and then gulped the cool liquid. How could it be cool in this heat?

“Slowly, my dear,” said Anna. “There's more. Here is a wet washcloth that I dipped in the spring. Use it on your temples.”

Brigetta did as commanded, and Anna continued speaking. “You'll need to buy some lighter material for dresses at Schmidt's Corner when you are there tomorrow. Our summers are much warmer than Germany's.” Anna stopped when she saw the stricken look on Brigetta's face.

“You don't sew?”

“Yes, but, but I couldn't ask Mr. Rolfe to spend a lot of money, and it will take so long.” She stopped in confusion when she saw the stern look on Anna's face.

“I forgot. Olga took everything with her when she married Tom Jackson. You don't have a sewing machine.” Anna stopped. “Mein Gott, you don't even have decent pots and pans, do you? What about washing tubs? Dishes?”

Misery flooded Brigetta's face and eyes, and she blinked again to keep from crying. Anna bent down and folded her hands around Brigetta's. “Mrs. Rolfe, Martin would not dream of doing his work without proper tools, and you must have yours. As for money, he still has over ten thousand dollars left from the cattle drive, even with buying you the wedding ring. There's thousands left from last year's drive. I will help you make a list.”

Brigetta sat dumbfounded. So much money? How could that be? It was only half a house, the rest a cave. The furniture, except for the table and the beautiful rosewood pump organ in one corner, was nothing more than sticks and bones held together with leather. She watched Anna move to the desk and bring a pad and pencil to the table.

“Now we start with the sewing machine.” Anna must have seen the stricken look on Brigetta's face. “Don't worry. I'll speak to Martin.”

Brigetta was fascinated. This woman was so sure, so confident. What kind of man would marry her, someone so tall and self-assured? The sound of men's voices carried into the house and the door in the kitchen could be heard opening and closing. The answer to Brigetta's unspoken question appeared, his bulk filling the doorway, and she almost fainted.

As Mrs. MacDonald had assured her, they went to Schmidt's Corner the next day. It seemed like another contradiction in reality. Small, poor buildings, certainly poor people, but there were presents and a table groaning with food.

Brigetta considered everything that happened since her arrival. She was seated beside Lorenz in the buggy as they drove home from Schmidt's Corner. How could the evening be so fair? The air so clean and sweet while the moon and stars shone so brightly and she be so miserable?

Lorenz's horse was tied to the back and Martin was wedged into the space behind the seats amid all the packages. “Sleeping it off,” was their word for it. The MacDonald's buckboard followed behind them and MacDonald was riding his huge, black animal.

“Don't vorry about Young James,” said her father-in-law as MacDonald supported Martin out of the Schmidt's home. “I'll bring him by in the morning. Du vill take care of things, ja, friend Mac.”

Brigetta could not figure out what the big man was tending. His wife was driving their wagon team while Mina slept in the back. Lorenz was driving this vehicle, and her head was hurting and her stomach protesting. The Schmidt's had served spiced laced meat dipped from an outside pit. Everyone else claimed it was marvelous, but Brigetta's tongue still burned. The store visit had been everything Mrs. MacDonald promised. The sewing machine was on order; she had new dishes, bolts of material, spools of thread, needles, tubs, pots and pans, and a new kitchen knife. She had been the center of overwhelming attention and given linens, soap, a mirror, and scissors for wedding gifts. They called it a chiveree and all sang songs and the adults joked about married life.

They pulled into the Rolfe headquarters, and everyone helped with unloading and carrying in the packages after Brigetta lit the lamp. Lorenz supported an almost awake Martin, past Olga's closed organ, into the cave bedroom and waited for her to light the lamp. He dropped Martin onto the mattress. Brigetta marveled that the young man hadn't drunk like the others.

“Y'all want me to undress him?”

She blinked her eyes stupidly, and he repeated the question in German. Brigetta reddened. She could hear the MacDonald's carrying things into the house and she stared at the handsome youth in front of her.

“It's no bother.” Lorenz began yanking the boots off. “He usually doesn't drink.” He grinned at her. “He was just trying to act like his papa.”

Brigetta fled to the front. Anna smiled at her. “It will be all right. Just don't let him drink. He's like his mother and can't drink beer. She died too soon. I'll be over in a couple of weeks to teach you how to make soap and drive a team of horses.” A brief hug and she was gone.

Brigetta sank into the chair. This was impossible. She could never live here. These people were too strong, too overwhelming: as overwhelming as the land. If only her head would quit pounding.

Lorenz emerged from the back and asked, “Are y'all all right, ma'am?” He switched to German and asked the same question.

She rose from the chair. “Yes, thank you.”

“I took off his boots, coat, and trousers. The last two things are hung on the pegs. Goodnight, Frau Rolfe.” He smiled, tipped his hat and left.

Brigetta heard the horses clomping off and closed her eyes and yawned. The dishes should be unpacked and put away, but there had been no time to scrub down the cupboard. She hung the iron pots on the nails hammered into the wall by the stove. She looked at the packages of embroidered towels, needles, and thread while her shoulders sank in weariness. She removed her hat and moved into the bedroom as tears rolled down her cheeks. Papa Rolfe had ordered them a new chest with drawers as a wedding present. What was she to do? She had no funds left. How could she leave? Where could she find the strength to live in this land? Her clothes joined Martin's on the pegs. She didn't even worry about putting her nightgown on under her clothes before removing them as Martin was snoring. She simply undressed and pulled the nightgown on. Once the lamp was out, she tried praying as she had been since childhood, but her mind was blank; as blank as a night filled with November clouds. With a start, she realized the lamp in the front room was still lit. Wearily, Brigetta rose and went back to the front. As she was about to bend over and blow out the light, she heard the sound of hoofs out front. Had the MacDonald's returned?

She straightened, uncertain, frowning a bit. If it was Papa Rolfe, he usually slept in the barn, or sometimes outside. If it was the MacDonald's, she would need her robe. She turned and started towards the bedroom when the door burst open, and from somewhere she heard herself screaming at the two men rushing towards her.

Too late she tried to run as they both grabbed at her. One man held her right hand and had his arm around her waist pulling her into him, crowing, “I gets a kiss from the bride!”

The other man held her left arm and was running his hand up and down, over her hips and legs, pulling the material upwards, now rubbing up and down the inside of her thighs. The whiskey smell and sweat were horrible, and Brigetta felt the roughness of the man's skin and teeth clash against hers.

“Doan't git greedy,” said the man rubbing her. “Her man's got to be around here. We got time to take what we want.”

The man holding her put his hands under her hips and began forcing her backwards to her knees. The other man cursed and shouted, “Yu fool! Let's get her out of here first. Then we'll give her a real Texas chiveree.”

Brigetta was screaming for Martin as the man's mouth left hers, and he pulled her upright by grabbing her arm and her right breast. Both men were laughing at her and the ease of taking her from a Yankee when Martin stumbled out of the bedroom. He was still drunk, but his rubber legs held him as he hurled himself across the room with a yell and landed on the man holding Brigetta.

The other man sidestepped and pulled out a pistol and laid it across the side of Martin's head. Martin dropped to the floor on all fours, blood pouring down his neck and ear while the two men dragged Brigetta out of the house.

“We can take her here. He ain't going to do anything.” The one holding Brigetta was impatient.

“No, that ain't our orders. We're supposed to git her away from here and naked. If she makes it back all right, fine, if not, jest one more Yankee Dutchman gone. Damn shame. She's just right fer takin' care of one, maybe both of us.”

They were dragging her towards their horses, when she heard more hoofs clattering in the night. As the one man mounted, the other started to lift her up to the man on the horse. The rifle bullet shattered his head. He fell, ripping her gown, and she fell with him, the horse's hooves barely missing her head as the other man kicked his horse into motion. Another shot felled him. She was scrabbling on the ground towards the house, stones cutting into her hands and knees, when suddenly Lorenz was beside her, lifting her up, and asking, “Are y'all all right, I mean, Frau Rolfe, are you all right.”