Spring for Susannah (44 page)

She shook her head. “Jesse told me to wait for him.”

The ropes of the bed creaked as J.W. stood. “I have a letter for you from General Custer. I'm sorry.”

Hands trembling, he held the paper out. When she made no move to accept it, he left it on the trunk next to the candle and returned to the main room.

Susannah scanned the letter, struggling to understand it in the onrushing flood of exhaustion.
Regret to inform you . . . two
bodies, believed to be white men . . . to establish identity . . . any previous
fractures or missing teeth . . . military operations recommence in
the spring . . . father, Sergeant Major Underhill, remembered for his
humane treatment of my horses
.

No, Lord. Please, no
.

“Susannah, Mrs. Hansen fixed a bed for us. You'd better not fall asleep before you tell me what the Reverend said. Now, what's got you all weepy?”

Before Susannah could stop her, Betsy whisked the letter off to the main room. She should get up, keep her from reading it out loud, let Magnar have his room back. Her body fused into the sod wall behind her: cold, hard, immobile. She could not feel her heart beat. She did not know if she still breathed. Her eyelids outweighed her body. Only the tears slipping down her cheeks connected her with life.

Magnar entered the room and lifted her. His napped wool coat smelled faintly of horses and sweet hay.

Then the world went black.

Chapter 32

How am I supposed to tell these people about
You, Jesus, when we don't speak the same
language? And tell Susannah . . . well, I'm not
having a Merry Christmas without her.

T
he aroma of hot coffee and the rumble of male voices woke Susannah. She pried open her eyelids, stiff with dried tears.

Her mind went to the letter, to Jesse. She had never felt more alone in her life. If Jesse was gone, was God gone too?

With every breath, she had asked God to bring her husband back. Jesse said God always listened but sometimes answered no. How could she live with that answer? A flutter stirred low within her, and Susannah put her hand over the baby.
Help me be strong,
Jesus.

Morning's weak light showed a basin of steaming water and a clean cloth on the trunk. Susannah wiped her face and tried to coax her hair into some semblance of order. She put on her red dress and new boots.

When she pulled back the curtain, all conversation stopped and all eyes looked at her. She had always wanted a large family, a community of people who cared about her. Unfortunately, caring came with strong opinions. Ivar and J.W. and Magnar and Betsy all seemed to be certain they knew what was right for her, how she should live her life. Without Jesse, who would speak up for her?

And then, with a flash of insight, she knew. Knew what Jesse would say, knew what she had to do. For her own sake and the sake of his child, she had to find the courage to speak up for herself.

She straightened and stepped into the room.

“Susannah. Mrs. Mason.” Reverend Webb left the table and hurried to her side. “I must speak with you.”

But Susannah had more urgent needs than listening to him. The position of the baby made it necessary for her to get to the outhouse. Immediately. With a brief smile, Susannah hurried into her coat. “I'll be back in a moment.”

J.W. glanced at the crowd around the table, then lowered his voice. “Let me accompany you, so we may speak in private.”

Did he really expect her to listen to him over the demands of her bladder? Susannah whipped the scarf around her head and threw his favorite word back at him. “That's hardly
appropriate
,” she said.

“Given the nature of the environs, populated with wild animals and Indians, perhaps an escort is in order.”

She shoved her hands into mittens and pushed through the door. By the time he got his coat on, she'd be back. Unfortunately, she heard footsteps pounding the snow behind her.

“If you're determined to stay in the territory—”

“Please go back inside.” She rounded the corner, heading into the teeth of the wind. “You'll catch your death of cold.”

He took hold of her arm, and she saw that he'd snagged his coat on the way out. “How would you feel about living in Jamestown? I've made the case to the conference to locate there, in the middle of the territory. With the pass the railroad issued me, I can develop east and west circuits. I've rented a set of rooms over the furniture store. There's an alcove with a south-facing window that could be a passable nursery.”

He continued, his words jumbled by shivering. “You could put your teaching skills to work starting Sunday schools in all the preaching points. Use your gift of music—”

She gave him the fiercest expression she'd ever used on her students. “Excuse me,” she said and bolted for the outhouse.

She completed her business and emerged from the privy to find him sheltering in the doorway of the barn, hands in his armpits and face red. Apparently he wasn't going to quit until he had his say, even if he froze to death in the process.

“I promise to care for the child as if it were my own and never discriminate between it and children of my own issue.” A cold hand touched her cheek, trying to turn her to face him. “Marry me, Susannah. I regret the abruptness of my proposal, but the exigencies of frontier life prevent me from properly courting you. Your confinement is near, so I must speak frankly.”

She blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “But that would be bigamy!”

The minister rolled his head from side to side, his tuft of beard dragging across his chest. “If Mr. Mason were still alive.”

Susannah could take no more. She fled from him and stumbled inside.

Marta met her, taking her coat and guiding her to
Mor
's chair at the head of the table. Ivar sat on one side, J.W. on the other. Would he ever let her be?

“I'm so sorry,” Betsy whispered. The rest murmured their sympathies.

Sissel filled a plate and coffee mug for her. “
Mor
says you eat. For baby,” she added with a raised eyebrow at J.W.

Ham, eggs, and a potato pancake. The potatoes seemed easiest to manage with a dozen pairs of eyes watching. She choked down one bite before Ivar started in.

“Yes, you think of baby. You cannot stay alone on the claim. Jesse told me what happened last winter.”

Jesse told him? She'd have the man's hide, soon as he returned.

“I'm not alone. Betsy's there.”

Her redheaded friend shrank behind the Reverend.

“Mrs. Stapleton also received mail,” J.W. said. “She has an offer of employment as a seamstress's assistant in St. Paul.”

Susannah mustered a smile. “It's the job you were hoping for. Congratulations.”

“No. I won't leave you.”

“You can't pass up the opportunity.”

Ivar thumped the table, earning a hiss from Marta. “Susannah, it's too much. Chopping wood, plowing, diapers—
uff da!
the diapers!— cooking, mucking the ox pen, gardening. More work, less sleep, no money.”

“I exchanged the train tickets for lumber for beehives. Honey will bring in cash. There was an article in the Bismarck paper about sunflowers as a crop, so I bought sunflower seeds too.”

“You already bought seed? You half to let your fields go fallow. Susannah, you think you can do everything, but plowing is the heaviest work a farmer does all year. And it will half to be done just after the baby comes. Impossible.” He leaned closer. “Magnar wants to start a livery in Worthington. Horses and oxen. Your animal doctoring would be a big help to him.”

Susannah had felt the young man's blue eyes watching her all morning. She met his gaze. “Good idea. Homesteaders arriving by train will need teams. This is excellent grazing land. Your biggest problem will be keeping your stock from running off. Picketing takes time and fencing takes money.”

“See. You know the business. You would be a big help to him. Teach him English too. You could live out here or build a house in town. Norwegians are good people. Dependable, treat their women well—”

The Reverend cleared his throat. “I've asked Mrs. Mason for her hand.”

Blood seemed to pound in her ears, but it was only Ivar pounding the table. “But Magnar wants to marry her!”

The table erupted in bilingual warfare. Sissel, who had been translating for her mother, clanged a spoon on a pot. “
Mor
says not good for the baby, this fighting. All men to the barn. Now.”

The Reverend, Mr. Hansen, and Magnar gathered their coats and headed out. Ivar paused next to her shoulder. “That preacher, he'd move you away from us.”

She rubbed her forehead. “When he's around, I always say the wrong thing.”

“It's not you. I half the same trouble. Now, Magnar, you'll find, speaks plain.”

Susannah whispered, “We don't even speak the same language, Ivar. I don't know anything about him.”

“What is there to know? He's a fine man from a good family, all fond of you, by the way. He's strong, works hard, knows farming.”

“Sounds like I'd insult the entire Norwegian race if I turned him down.”

Ivar waved his arms. “Why say no?”

Susannah finally looked up at him. “Ivar, I can't. Marrying again is admitting Jesse's not coming back. I can't believe he's—” She couldn't even say the word.

A warm tear slid down her cheek. He was coming. He had to be. But it was Christmas. He'd already be here if he could.

“In the States, you might wait. But here—” He hurried his words as Marta tugged him toward the door. “Susannah, be a little selfish. Baby needs father. You need husband.”

Mor
rested her hand on Susannah's shoulder. Sissel interpreted. “You are welcome to stay here. You don't have to marry Magnar.”

“Takk.”
Here? But the Hansens were already crowded. And living in close proximity to Magnar would be awkward, to say the least.

Betsy slid next to her. “Two proposals in one day!”

“The Reverend would marry out of a warped sense of duty. Magnar, I don't know what he wants—free veterinary services, perhaps.” Susannah took a bite of ham. “You should snatch him up. He'd be better off with someone who thinks he makes the sun rise.”

“If only I could sew horses.” Betsy sighed, but her eyes twinkled. “You have more choices than anyone I know.”

Susannah blinked. “Strange, isn't it? I came out here without any choices at all.”

Well, if it was her choice, she knew exactly what to do.
Lord,
give me wisdom
, she thought.
Help me do right by this new life
.

“So, how long have I been here? Anyone know the date?” Jesse asked when Misun's family gathered around the fire. “If I could just explain. I need to get home to my wife. Her name is Susannah. You'd like her. She's—” He choked up and had to stop.

The family ignored him and continued murmuring in their language. Misun's mother used Jesse's knife to chop a root into the cook pot. Had Susannah found something to eat? She must be frantic with worry.
Lord, give her Your daily bread
.

The sun moved low along the horizon and didn't stay up long, like maybe they were close to the solstice. Which meant he'd passed his birthday picking up horse apples. And meant today could be Jesus' birthday. “So, how do you celebrate Christmas here?”

No answer.

How could he tell them about Christmas? All he had was his guitar. Jesse taught Misun “The First Noel.” The family was good with music, singing in tune and imitating words they didn't understand. Jesse struggled through “Hark! the Herald Angels Sing” as memories of Susannah playing it on her violin overwhelmed him. Then, in case they were keeping him alive only until the kid finished his lessons, he added his masterpiece, an instrumental of “Greensleeves.”

The storm changed direction, blowing in a fresh batch of snow, as if they didn't have enough already, and threatening to put out the fire. Misun's mother adjusted the smoke hole to block the wind. Ingenious, really. Who called these people primitive?

Jesse continued, “I didn't cook up a fancy meal, or make you cookies, or bring you any presents. But if I could, my deepest prayer, right after going home to my wife, would be to tell you about the best present of all, Jesus.”

Behind him a voice said in English, “I can tell them.”

Chapter 33

One foot in front of the other. So far to go . . .

A
ccording to the almanac, another month of winter could be expected. In defiance of that prediction, a southwesterly breeze melted the snow off the roof. The evening air beckoned with softness.

Susannah did not stop to put away the violin she'd been practicing. She climbed out of the draw, stepping on dry patches carved by the wind. Dusk found her on the ridge overlooking the Sheyenne River. From “Petronella,” a lively dance tune to celebrate a warm day in early March, she slid into the more contemplative “Skye Boat Song.” Then her fingers searched out a long-forgotten melody in a minor key. Rhythm established by the lower notes, the tune surged into passages of high notes, then ebbed back to the rumbling G string.