Spring for Susannah (40 page)

Susannah blinked. His formal words resounded with grim finality.

“Are you saying, lad, there's naught to be done?” Mac thudded his fist against his leg. “Perhaps if I went back with you—”

“I'm afraid Bismarck's civilian population is even more mobile than the army's. Likely the trail's cold by now.” The lieutenant's sun-streaked mustache quivered. “Write to Autie. I'll brief him when I get back, but your letter will serve as a reminder, keep the situation in the forefront of his mind.”

Susannah nodded, unable to speak over the lump in her throat.

“Now, if you'll excuse us, I believe it's starting to rain.” Custer touched the brim of his hat. His invitation to Mac for a poker game drifted through the patter of sleet on the dry leaves.

He thought Jesse was dead.

Chapter 30

If You're going to rescue me, Lord—and I'm
praying You will—this would be a good time.

S
usannah had been waiting all day for the students to leave so she could pop the button on her skirt.

“Ahh.” She straightened her shoulders, threw on her coat, and dashed through the cold dusk toward the Roses' store.
Dear Jesus,
help me endure.
What kind of prayer was that, addressed to a God who made the universe? All right then.
Dear Jesus, help me
be strong.

The door opened and Mrs. Rose pulled her in. “Mrs. Mason! How kind of you to visit. I'll put tea on and you tell me how you've been feeling. When did you realize you're pregnant?”

The wild Rose boys raced through, working off whatever energy they had left after tormenting their teacher all day. Robert collided with a shelf. A box of doorknobs crashed to the floor and spiraled around. Adam took a swing at one or more brothers, knocking over a stack of bread pans and muffin tins. Susannah covered her ears. Perhaps praying for temporary deafness would be expedient.

Mrs. Rose didn't let the racket stop her recitation of symptoms. Susannah certainly would not discuss breast tenderness in front of her students. She picked out a bolt of wool and said, “Ten yards,” holding up fingers.

Suddenly the boys stopped.

Mrs. Rose gasped. The scissors slipped from her hand.

Susannah turned.

Sees-the-Tatanka stood in the doorway, wrapped in a blanket. His face seemed thinner; had the grasshoppers destroyed the Indians' crops too? He smiled at Susannah.
“Bonjour.”

“Bonjour, monsieur. Comment allez-vous?”

“Très bien, merci. Et vous?”

“Bien, aussi.”

Mrs. Rose slid to the floor.

“Un moment, s' il vous plaît.”
Susannah ran her fingers along the inside of the storekeeper's wrist, finding a rapid but regular pulse. The children scurried up the stairs. Blessed peace. If only there was some way the Indian could join her in the schoolhouse.

“Voulez-vous une tasse de thé?”
Susannah poured Mrs. Rose's brew and they sat. She inquired after the Indian's family. Sees-the-Tatanka's son was industriously training horses, trying to impress a certain young woman.

Mac had told him of Jesse's departure. The Indian assured Susannah he would search for her husband when he traveled.

“Merci beaucoup.”

Sees-the-Tatanka reported he had taught their song to everyone he met. He nodded and sang “Jesus Loves Me” in an elegant baritone. He left with a prayer for Jesse's safe return and a promise to bring a carrier for her baby.
“Au revoir.”

How did he know? Susannah rubbed the small bump of belly, then finished cutting her fabric from the bolt. “Mrs. Rose?”

The woman blinked, then sat up. “Indians! We're all going to be scalped by savages!”

“Your guest left. I gave him a cup of tea.”

Mrs. Rose pointed an accusing forefinger. “You talk Indian. Are you one of them?”

With blue eyes, skin as white as flour, and wavy hair? Susannah wouldn't dignify the question with a response. “I left payment for my fabric.”

“Did that heathen rob us?”

Susannah raised one eyebrow. The cash box was sitting on the counter, exactly where Mrs. Rose had left it.

“You were not robbed. And for your information, the Indian man is not a heathen. He is a Christian.” Susannah made her escape and left Mrs. Rose to mull over the implications.

Back in the mail shack Susannah swept the schoolhouse floor, then unrolled the burgundy wool. “Isn't this beautiful fabric?”

Jake stretched out next to the door. His ears twitched with the meager attention he gave to activities that didn't involve food. “I don't usually wear bright colors, but Jesse likes red. This is the closest Mrs. Rose had.”

She knelt at the end to align the selvages. “Betsy's crocheting the trim for me. Can you believe anyone would hurt such a sweet lady? Sounds to me like her husband is beyond redemption, but J.W. plans to pay him a visit when he preaches in Jamestown.”

Susannah climbed to the loft for her nightgown, managing the ladder with a sure-footedness generated by three weeks of practice. When she reached the floor again, she found Jake stretched across the middle of the cloth. “Apparently I should have bought dog-hair gray.”

She arranged the nightgown on the wool, using it as a pattern. “Some people call this style a ‘Mother Hubbard.' No empty cupboards here, so we'll call it a wrapper.” She picked up her scissors. “New fabric. I don't want to make a mistake and ruin the whole ten yards. But I can't wait to see how the dress will look when it's done. Fear and anticipation . . . like having a baby, or journeying out to Dakota to marry a stranger.”

Given all the effort he put into getting her to talk, Jesse would no doubt be shocked at all the time she spent conversing with a dog. But Jesse was gone, and Jake had become her constant companion.

She cut out the body of the gown, leaving generous allowances for seams and hems. “Where was I? Oh yes, J.W.” Susannah grabbed Jake by his feet and flipped him off the fabric. He stalked away and plopped down with his head facing the corner.

“Do I try to steal your coat?” Susannah unrolled another length and repositioned the nightgown. “J.W. can be a bit pompous,” she went on, “but he sure knows how to preach. The familiar message of free grace, beautifully told. Did you see how the Rose children hung on every word? No, guess you didn't. He asked you to leave. You make him sneeze.”

Susannah cut across the fabric, forming the bottom edge.

“Ivar must have done a good job translating, the way the Hansens shook his hand. Although when they offered him a beer, well, I guess we'll be hearing a lesson on temperance next.”

Adding her hand's width for gathers, she cut out the sleeves. The yoke came last.

“If only sewing were as fast.” Susannah folded the pieces and stood to stretch her back. “Did you know J.W. offered to pay for my ticket back to Michigan?”

Jake pricked up his ears and turned to stare at her.

“Guess you and I are the only ones who think Jesse's coming home. You still think so, don't you, Jake?”

The dog laid down his head and closed his eyes with a sigh.

Galloping hoofbeats crescendoed in the darkness. A dog barked. A man shouted. Susannah awoke with a start. The banker! Footsteps pounded on the porch. He pummeled the door and it gave way. He had found her, just as he threatened.

She scrambled to hide, but her legs were trapped. She rooted around the pallet, hunting for the shotgun. Her heart raced and her breath came in short gasps. The man's voice echoed, closer. He wasn't speaking English. It was Norwegian.

“Su-sah-nah!”

Light flared in the room below, then rose up the ladder held by a gloved hand. Magnar Hansen's head appeared, covered by a royal blue stocking.

“Skynde!”
he said. It was a word Susannah recognized, Sissel's after-school admonition to her sister, Disa.
Hurry
.

Magnar rattled off an incomprehensible explanation, followed by more commands in puffs of white in the cold air. She shook her head. “I don't understand.”

He disappeared for a moment, returning with a slate. He drew stick figures, labeling the two-legged one “Erik.” Pointing to the larger four-legged animal, he whinnied. For the smaller one, he snarled.

“A wild animal attacked Erik and one of the horses. I'm coming.” Susannah tried to follow Magnar down, but her shaking legs wouldn't hold her, and her feet slipped off the rungs. The Norwegian caught her and eased her to the floor. Susannah yanked on her boots and threw on her coat. She slung her father's knapsack over her shoulder, whistled for Jake, and reached for the shotgun.

“No.” Magnar held up his Winchester. He pulled her outside to the bareback stallion, mounted, then reached for her. Susannah unbuttoned the pleat of her coat. Forget propriety. A boy and a horse needed her care. She hiked her nightgown and climbed on behind him.

The jittery horse tossed his head at her weight. Magnar quieted him with a word. Using his free hand, he tugged her forward and tightened her arms around his waist. With a kick of his heels, they raced across the frozen prairie. Susannah turned her head and rested her cheek between his shoulders to shelter her face from the breath-stealing wind. Stars glittered over the coldest time of the night.

Within minutes, the effortless gallop brought them to the Hansen claim. A substantial soddy, three times the size of Jesse's, loomed before them. Shaped like a U, it boasted a window on each wing, and a window and door in the middle. The stallion stopped and they dismounted.

Mrs. Hansen brought her in to warm by the stove. The bright beam of a lamp bounced off the newly plastered walls, highlighting a boy on a stool.

Sissel told the story. “Erik took the horses to water. Big cat try to eat him.”

Erik dropped the blanket to display his emblems of bravery. Four lines of dried blood striped his back, just to the left of his spine. These were surface scratches, already cleaned.

Susannah whistled. “Hate to see your coat.”

“
Mor
says horse hurt bad.”

With a nod to Mrs. Hansen, Susannah followed the path to the stable. Magnar held the mare's halter, but she reared as soon as she saw Susannah. The young man steadied the animal with a few words, then blindfolded her with his muffler. Staying downwind, Susannah assessed the damage. Claw marks streaked the horse's left flank. A deeper wound ran from hock to fetlock on the same side. Dark circles of blood spattered the frost-hard paddock.

Mr. Hansen produced a bottle of whiskey and a bucket. Susannah shook her head. She knew a better way.

“I'll need rags and hot water.” She tried to sound confident; what she really needed was a fully qualified veterinary surgeon and an interpreter.

Magnar frowned and shook his head. He didn't understand.

Blood dripped from the wound. No time to run back to the house. Taking a surgical knife from the knapsack, she slashed across the hem of her nightgown. A hard yank peeled off a strip of flannel. She wadded it in her palm and reached for the chloroform, but changed her mind when a shiver rippled the horse's flank. The mare would freeze to death out here. Susannah jammed the stopper back into the bottle.

She pointed at the stable, then rested her cheek on her hand. “Bring her inside. I'm going to put her to sleep.”

Mr. Hansen raised a questioning eyebrow, but Magnar stepped to the mare's nose. With a constant stream of encouragement, he led her in to a bed of dry prairie hay along the back wall. The cattle stamped and lowed, agitated by the smell of blood. The stallion trumpeted his distress.

Susannah searched among the harnesses, bridles, and rope arrayed on pegs and found a feedbag. She estimated the horse's weight, poured chloroform onto the rag, and dropped it into the feedbag. The mare tossed her head and backed away. Magnar took the bag in one hand, the horse's ear in the other. Mr. Hansen mirrored him on the left. They forced her nose into the bag. She threw her shoulders sideways, slamming Magnar into the wall. Susannah winced, sure he'd be her third patient of the night, but his calm voice continued. The horse stopped fighting. Her legs buckled, her head lowered. The men eased her onto her side.