Spring for Susannah (41 page)

Susannah removed the feedbag and showed Magnar the faint movement of the mare's nostrils. “Sit here. Father would tell you that not only the horse's but also the veterinary surgeon's life depends on doing this job well. Sit.” She pointed by the animal's neck and slid the chloroform bottle into his coat pocket. Kneeling by the animal's back leg, Susannah assessed the damage. “I need to clean the wound.
L'eau
. No, that's French. What do the children say?
Vann
.” She turned to Mr. Hansen, gesturing for him to leave the lantern.

“Ja. Vann.”

The older man returned with a bucket, steaming in the cold air. Susannah ripped another length from her nightgown, rinsed the wounds, then completed antisepsis with Mr. Hansen's whiskey.

“Teacher?”

“Sissel. Good,” Susannah said without looking up. “I need more rags, any clean fabric will do.” Tucking her coattails under her, Susannah lifted the injured leg onto her lap. “Still asleep?” She glanced at Magnar, who nodded. Susannah probed the wound. “Intact tendons, thank the Lord. No muscle damage. Bleeding's slowed. Low temperature's in our favor, constricts her blood vessels. I've got to work fast, don't want to keep her down too long.”

The needle dropped from her slippery gloved fingers. She yanked off her gloves and tried again, but her bare hands cramped. With scissors from her father's kit, Susannah snipped the tips off the index and thumb of the right glove and pushed the knitting up to her knuckles. “Cold constricts my vessels too. Why am I talking so much? It just seems natural, I suppose. Father talked while he operated. He enjoyed teaching. I enjoyed learning. It was the only time—”

She glanced up, wondering what the Norwegian men thought about her monologue. Both were focused on the horse. She showed Mr. Hansen how to blot the wound while she joined the layers of skin. “Short stitches, easier to remove.”

The mare stirred. Magnar called out. Susannah flung herself to one side, curling to protect her abdomen. The hoof glanced off her hip.

“More chloroform, please.” Susannah pantomimed tipping the bottle into the rag and scrambled back into position. She resumed stitching.

“Rags.” Sissel set rags next to Susannah. “Jake are here.”

“Jake
is
here. Give him water. Perhaps he can lead your father to the wildcat.”

Sissel adjusted the lantern. “Sew horse?”

“I'm sewing her skin together. Not too tight or the skin will pucker. Too loose, it won't heal.” She moved up the leg. “It's like hemming in reverse. The knots and thread are on the outside.”

“Hurt?”

“No. Your uncle is keeping her asleep. I'll show him how to put medicine on it so it won't hurt when she's awake. Keep her quiet the next few days.”

A last snip of the scissors. Another dousing with whiskey. “Done.”

Magnar left his place to look at her work. “Good!”

Susannah repacked the kit, then tried to stand. Her feet had gone numb, and her legs wobbled. Magnar caught her, took the bag, and half carried her through the silvery dawn.

“I'm fine,” she told him, but he didn't understand those words either.

After the stable, the house smothered her with warmth. The short night, demanding surgery, and even more demanding baby drained her energy. Susannah leaned against the wall. Mrs. Hansen greeted her.

Susannah turned to Disa, who was busy drawing with a fingertip on the frosty window. “Please tell your mother I cannot take off my coat,” she said. “I did not have time to dress.”

Magnar lifted the hem of her greatcoat, revealing the edge of her nightgown, chopped to an indecent knee length. He held Susannah's arm up, pointing out the cut tips of her glove.

Mrs. Hansen made a clicking noise with her tongue, then guided Susannah into the west alcove, the parents' bedroom. Pulling the curtain closed behind them, Mrs. Hansen opened a large painted trunk and sorted through folded clothes. Then with motherly care she unbuttoned Susannah's coat and eased the gloves off.

Mrs. Hansen shook her head at the bloodstained nightgown and lifted it over Susannah's head. She paused to touch the curve at Susannah's waist. “Baby. Good.” She did not make eye contact as she dressed Susannah in a white blouse and blue jumper. They both knew it wasn't good, a baby on the way with her husband who knows where.

Mrs. Hansen slipped out and spoke quietly to Magnar. Susannah heard the word “baby,” the same in both languages. But
Mor
wasn't telling him anything new; Magnar had known since he'd helped her down the ladder in the early hours of this morning.

Susannah stepped into the main room. Magnar had his back to them, ladling porridge into red ceramic bowls. He turned.
“Ja!”
He reached for Susannah and escorted her to the table.

“Uncle says you look good Norwegian,” Disa reported.

“Wrong color hair.” She should have taken the time to redo her windblown, sleep-mussed braid. Too tired. She slid onto the bench at the long table, closed her eyes, and held her hands over the bowl. She could fall asleep right now, face-first into the porridge. Magnar's large hands enfolded hers, massaging the stiffness out with rose water and glycerin.

Every time he touched her, she missed Jesse more.

A clock chimed the hour.

“Thank you.
Takk
.” She pulled her hands out of the man's grasp and picked up the spoon. “I'm late.”

Rolf crawled from under the table and clambered onto her lap. “Uncle wagon to school.”

Across the table, Magnar devoured his breakfast without taking his eyes from her. What was he staring at? She was straw-dusted, smelled like a horse, and pregnant.

To avoid looking back at him, Susannah surveyed the room. The house was constructed with milled rafters instead of the peeled logs Jesse had used. The east alcove contained two beds and another brightly painted trunk. Along the west wall sat a bed with a trundle beneath it. It seemed like a lot of furniture until she remembered eight people lived here. Next to the window, Mrs. Hansen uncovered a small black appliance.

“A sewing machine!” This family was prosperous enough for horses, rafters, and a sewing machine? Susannah thought back to the vanished Irish couple with twins at Fourth Siding. Both houses were made of sod, but there the similarities ended.

“
Mor
sew for teacher.” Disa stretched to continue her artwork on the top panes. “You sew horse.
Mor
sew dress.”

“All right. After school I'll bring my fabric when I check on the mare.”

With a death grip on Jesse's ear, the sergeant dragged him into the overcast morning. The north wind sliced through his cotton shirt, and the frozen grass pricked his feet like needles.

“Ever hear of dressing for the weather?” Probably not. Blankets and moccasins seemed to be the only winter wear here.

The woman hauled him to the grassy slope by the creek. She handed him a burlap sack and pointed her whip at a pile of horse apples. Well, someone had to bring in the fuel, and he did enjoy the fire. “Don't suppose you thought to bring gloves?” he muttered.

She might not have understood his words, but she recognized stalling. Another yank on his ear put some hustle in his step. Between pickups, he sneaked a look around. Empty that direction. Same this direction. No sign of life. No sign of the river. Well, the creek probably—

There was a snap, a sting, and Jesse rubbed at his wrist. The Indian woman twitched her whip. She didn't smile, but Jesse thought he saw a contemptuous laugh in her beady eyes.

“I'm working, I'm working,” he said. But not getting paid.

What was Susannah doing for fuel? She wasn't strong enough to cut wood, but the oxen generated plenty of cow pies. He grimaced, imagining his wife's fingers picking up dung. Maybe she could wear work gloves, like she did when she dealt with the grasshoppers.

He filled the bag, but the job wasn't done. He had to empty it beside one tepee, then go back for more. At least frozen-solid horse apples didn't smell.

In camp, one of the younger women helped a pregnant girl to a tepee set by itself. The sergeant joined them.

This was his big opportunity. Jesse worked east, pausing now and then to add to the bag in case anyone watched. He inched closer to the river. Closer to Fort Lincoln. Closer to home.

One chance. If he failed, if he was caught, the tribe would torture and kill him.

He crested the slope and looked up. A huge ash-gray cloud loomed overhead, rolling toward him, already shooting downdrafts of snow.

One chance. But no chance at all.

“Go ahead.” Susannah shooed the Hansen children. “I'll be along after I check for mail.”

Sissel took the bundle of Susannah's fabric and herded her siblings toward home. By the time Susannah escaped from Mrs. Rose's dire warnings about Indians, grilling on the early morning events, and commentary on Norwegian clothing, the children were specks on the horizon. She trudged after them and glanced at the envelopes as she walked, then shoved them into her pockets. Nothing from Jesse.

Where was he?

Dusk sped into dark. The last few degrees on the thermometer vanished with the sun. The northwest wind pelted her with ice balls and fine grains of dirt. In spite of the scarf over her face, each breath ripped the inside of her nose and scraped her lungs. The cold penetrated her boots and two pairs of socks until she couldn't feel her legs.

She tried to walk faster, but her muscles were sore from riding the stallion and spasmed in protest. A hot pain clawed her side. Susannah crossed her arms, pressing a fist into her ribs. She slowed, twisting to try to ease the cramp, but the throbbing sliced down to her hip and spread to her other side. She turned her back to the wind and sank down on the frozen ground.

Please, God, the baby . .
.

“Teacher! Teacher!” Erik dashed up, followed by the other children in the buckboard with their uncle.

“Teacher hurt?” Sissel held a lantern.

“No, just tired.” Susannah struggled to stand, but Magnar scooped her off the ground and deposited her on the wagon seat. He tucked a heavy gray blanket around her legs.

“Uncle says sorry wagon late.” Rolf climbed over the backrest to snuggle against her, nudging her into Magnar. The pain loosened its grip. Susannah sighed, exhaling a white cloud.
Thank
You, Jesus
.

Magnar halted in front of the house and carried her inside.

“Put me down! I can walk! Sissel, tell him!”

The children giggled. They'd be impossible to teach after all this silliness, as naughty as the Rose children. Magnar set her on her feet at the front door. She spun away and headed for the barn.

“I need to see the horse. Sissel, please bring the lantern.”

In the stable, Mr. Hansen raised an eyebrow at his snickering offspring. The mare's eyes were calm, her stitches dry and cool. Susannah's meticulous father would have no complaints.

“Did you find the cat?” Susannah curved her hands into claws and growled. Fresh laughter erupted from the doorway. A hint of a smile crossed the face of the usually stolid Mr. Hansen. He led the group around the soddy, where Jake guarded a tawny carcass. Dark blood matted the fur between the cat's ears.

“What are you grinning about?” Susannah asked her panting dog. “You didn't bring him down.”

Susannah examined the cougar, the clouded lenses of his eyes, the gray fur sprinkling his muzzle. “He's half blind, missing three of his four canine teeth. This cat's hunting days were over. Probably thought Erik was a colt.”

Mrs. Hansen called them to the table. Like Marta,
Mor
Hansen carried herself like a queen and ruled over her family with dignified benevolence. A thick braid circled her head in a crown. But beneath her calm exterior ran a sharp mind, manifested in Sissel's wit, Disa's elaborate dreams, Erik's mischievousness. Without a doubt the children inherited equal attributes from their father, although Mr. Hansen's reserve did not invite social contact. Susannah glanced across the supper table at the quiet head of the household. Did people find her equally difficult to approach?