Spring for Susannah (9 page)

Morning found Susannah face-to-face with a snoring man.
Husband
, she corrected, as if the word might offer some comfort. Why did this man affect her so? Jesse had an aura of command, perhaps from his time in the army. He took charge, issued orders, while his brother let life unfold around him. He had an edge to him, a wildness absent in the civilized Reverend. Where the minister saw good, this man seemed too aware of the dark side of people, including herself. His critical eyes could pierce any armor. She had the feeling he could see beyond her mask of respectability to her worst self, the self she couldn't face, and it terrified her.

Susannah had once called on Ellen and happened upon the Reverend Mason. He had fallen asleep stretched out on the braided rug in the parlor, the baby napping on his chest. His expression had relaxed and, except for the full mustache, he looked like a larger version of the little boy.

Here in Dakota, the sleeper on the other side of the bed was no little boy. He had a rugged face, with a nose that ran straight down from his wide forehead; deep eye sockets, high cheekbones, jutting chin. Even a big smile. Smile? How long had he been awake?

“What's good for the gander . . .” His early morning voice rumbled. “I've been studying you enough, you're welcome to take a peek at me.”

“I'm sorry.” She attempted to roll away, but her muscles cramped in protest.

“You're hurting. Lie on your stomach and I'll rub your back.” He tried to look innocent, businesslike. The attempt was only partially successful.

She eased upright. “I'll be fine once I get moving.”

“You should have soaked in the tub longer.” Jesse clamped a warm hand on her shoulder, kneading the base of her neck, loosening each knot of pain. It felt entirely too good. “Where are you going? I'm not done yet.”

Susannah slipped off the bed. “Thank you. I feel much better, but I must—”

“The outhouse. Have to figure that out before winter hits.”

“Pardon me?”

“When it's bad, I use a bucket. Not comfortable for you.”

“I'm used to cold weather.”

“Not this cold. When the wind kicks up you won't be able to find the outhouse. It's all I can do to get to the stable and back. We'll buy a chamber pot when we're in town.”

“Where—?” Susannah glanced around the soddy.

Jesse sat up and rubbed his chin. “Good question. We could tie a clothesline between the rafters, hang a sheet over it.”

Susannah hurried out. How would she manage, cooped up with this man for months on end? How did anyone survive out here? And how would she get even a tiny portion of the privacy she craved?

Marta. She would ask Marta.

Only another woman would know how to endure winter with a husband. Only another woman would be able to answer her questions.

“Ahh, just what these sourdoughs have been crying for.” Jesse spooned plum jam onto a biscuit. “Until I tasted this, I used to think apple butter was—” He frowned. “Susannah!”

“What's wrong?” She smoothed the bombazine dress. Had she spilled on her skirt, missed a button on her basque?

Jesse shoved the spoon into the jam, tipping the jar. “Black? You're wearing black?”

“This has been my Sunday dress since my mother's death.”

“I hoped celebrating our marriage would outweigh mourning your folks.”

The hurt in his voice pierced though her social conventions. “I'll change.”

“Appreciate it.” He touched a work-roughened finger to her cheek. The door closed with a soft click.

Susannah pulled on her dark red dress and buttoned it. When would she learn how to please him?

Chapter 8

Susannah is a new song in my heart.
Teach me to sing her.

D
o you know anything about this church?” Susannah asked Jake as she packed dinner into the basket. “They're not going to ask for a testimony, are they?”

The dog tipped his head to one side, then the other. He was a wonderful listener, but he didn't have many answers.

Jesse stuck his head through the doorway. “Ready, Susannah?” He nodded his approval and came to her to touch the lace decorating her neckline. “Oh yes. Very nice. Prettier than ever in red.”

Morning sun heated their shoulders as they crossed the wheat field and plunged into the prairie. Big bluestem grass shimmered silver overhead. Insects scattered before them. Hindered by her petticoats, Susannah stopped to shift the basket and pull her skirts close. When she looked up, she was alone.

“Jesse?”

He couldn't be far ahead. She took a step forward. Wait a minute. Which way was forward? She ought to see a path, a line of bent stalks, but the grass grew equally dense in every direction. Susannah stood on tiptoes but saw only seed heads vibrating above her. She was lost. No, not quite lost. She could return to the wheat field. Except . . .

She couldn't tell which way they'd come.

Her mouth went dry. They'd been heading west. The sun shone almost directly above her. No help there. Wind whipped the stems, slapping her face. She turned, but the grass beat her from a different direction. Flowered spikelets pressed close, shutting off the air. What was that rustling noise?

The sound moved closer. A snake? Her heart raced. Or a fox or a badger? With a gasp, she pulled her skirts higher. She whirled right. No escape. It could be a wolf, inches away, watching, waiting for an opportunity to pounce. Or an Indian.

“Jesse?” Her voice quavered.

He emerged on her left. “Yes?”

Her knees buckled and she almost threw herself into his arms. She swallowed hard. “I was wondering . . . what sort of animals live in this grass.”

He shifted the guitar to his other shoulder, then brushed a bead of perspiration from her temple. “The big-eared sort. They heard us and are miles away by now.” He took the food basket from her, then hiked on, whistling “The Campbells Are Coming.”

With hands free, Susannah managed to keep Jesse in sight. Thank God he'd come back for her. Could she thank God for Jesse?

The land ascended to the west, opening to a valley cut more than a hundred feet into the plain. Hills and draws rippled along the bluffs. A stream flowed south through a ravine filled with cottonwoods, elms, box elders, willows, and scrub oaks.

“The Sheyenne River.” Jesse pointed.

“Trees,” Susannah sighed. After six days of nothing but grass, the wooded slopes seemed like a paradise.

“This is where we get our firewood.”

“Why don't you live here?”

“Our claim's got the best spring in the territory. Soil's not so good here.” His boot scraped at a patch of gravel between clumps of grass. He glanced from her face back to the valley. “I suppose we could build our real house here.”

Jesse headed for the nearest cottonwood where two people sat on a blanket. Susannah tucked a stray lock of hair under her hat and brushed seeds off her skirt. What if Marta didn't like her? What if she thought Susannah's worries were foolish?

“You're looking mighty fine.” He tucked her hand onto his arm.

“Jesse!” A stocky man jumped up and sprinted toward them.

“You old dog! You half a wife and not tell us!” His accent sounded German—no, Jesse said they were Norwegian. He hugged Jesse, pounding him on the back, then held him at arm's length. “Look at you! No beard. You shave now you half a wife?”

“Sure! Don't want to scratch when I kiss her. And by the way, this is no half-wife. You won't believe all she can do.”

Ivar faced her. “He's always making fun of how I speak. All his fault; he taught me English.” Susannah stepped back, but to her horror, he lifted her. “I don't know, Jesse. She may be half-wife if you don't start feeding her.”

When her feet reached the ground, Susannah stumbled. Jesse steadied her with an arm around her shoulders. “Susannah, this is our neighbor, Ivar Vold. Ivar, my wife, Susannah Mason.”

How odd to be introduced as a wife, with a new last name. Ivar pumped her hand. Strawlike hair stuck out from his hat and the lower half of his apple-cheeked face. She glanced at Jesse. His neck and jaw were a shade lighter than the rest of his face.

Ivar motioned toward the blanket. “This is Marta and our baby, Sara.”

A woman with a thick braid of light brown hair sat cross-legged, nursing a baby. To Susannah's surprise, she showed no sign of embarrassment. Ellen had nursed her own infants, but Susannah had never seen her do so in mixed company.

Ivar addressed his wife in Norwegian, and Susannah's heart sank. Marta didn't know English. Susannah turned away and pretended to cough, struggling to compose her face.

Marta spoke.

“She says, will you help her learn English?”

Susannah blinked. “Oh. Yes, of course. I would be glad to.”

Marta returned her smile.

“Good news!” Jesse tuned his guitar. “Susannah brought a copy of Fanny Crosby's brand-new hymn. We'll have a new song this morning.”

“But I was just learning your old song.” Ivar winked.

Jesse passed the magazine to Ivar, who sat by Marta and interpreted. Their voices joined together in “Blessed Assurance.” In her good-sized Detroit congregation, no one noticed if Susannah sang or not. On the banks of the Sheyenne, she comprised the entire alto section.

“Marta says she is thinking of the book of Ruth,” Ivar began, pausing for his wife's words. “Like Ruth, Susannah has traveled far to marry a man she did not know. Like Ruth, may you find great joy in your new family.”

Blinking away tears, Susannah extended her hand to Marta.

“I am thinking of the first man, Adam.” Ivar opened his Bible to the beginning. “He walked and talked with God, yet he was lonely. God saw this and made Eve. Susannah, your husband walks and talks with God, but he has been lonely. So God brought you here. Genesis says, ‘A man shall leave his father and mother and cleave to his wife, and they shall be one flesh.'”

Susannah felt the heat rise to her face and looked down at her hands. She was a married woman; she shouldn't blush.

“I cannot say welcome to Paradise,” Ivar continued. “I don't think it snowed much in the Garden of Eden. So I say welcome to Dakota. I hope you and Jesse will be as blessed as Marta and me.” He smiled at the baby sleeping in his wife's lap.

There was an interminable pause. Susannah stared at her clenched hands, afraid to look up. Was she expected to say something? She'd never spoken in church. Throughout years of Sunday school, her sole contribution was reading a lesson. Itinerant evangelists, with their habit of calling on the congregation for testimonies, struck fear in her heart. She always hid in the pew behind the large Goodman family, each child an advertisement for their father's confectionery.

“Thank you.” Jesse nodded at the Volds. “Susannah's folks recently passed on. She's left her home and friends to come out here. This song, from Psalm 30, is for you, Susannah.

“‘Thou hast turned my mourning into dancing for me—'”

Sunlight flickered through the cottonwood leaves, the same sun that glistened through the stained glass windows at Lafayette Avenue Church. Susannah could almost hear Miss Ferguson embellishing the final chords of the postlude with glissandos. She could see Reverend Mason bent over Mrs. Griswold's hand, inquiring about the health of her cats. The congregation, their escape blocked, would mill helplessly around as Ellen homed in on a soloist for the next service, an assistant for the boys' Sunday school class, someone to sit with Susannah's mother.

No longer . . .

“‘Oh Lord my God, I will give thanks unto Thee forever.'” Jesse finished the song and strummed the final chord.

“Your husband half a song for everything,” Ivar said. “And a prayer.”

They joined hands and Jesse began, “Dear God, thank You for friends, old and new.” He squeezed Susannah's fingers. “Watch over us during this harvest season. Grant us fair weather and good health. Forgive our sins and help us grow. All these things we ask in Your name. Amen.”

“Does he do as good a job as his brother?” Ivar asked.

“He doesn't take as long,” Susannah blurted. Jesse grinned and seemed to take no offense.

After dinner, Marta settled her sleeping baby on a blanket and stood. With a graceful turn of her wrist, she beckoned Susannah to follow. Arm in arm they strolled the riverbank, collecting plums. Marta pointed out canes of wild raspberry bushes and vines of other fruits, next summer's harvest.

Marta didn't walk, she glided. She had wide cornflower blue eyes like her husband, but instead of his ruddy complexion, Marta's skin was smooth and white like the inside of an oyster shell. She wore an embroidered bodice and white blouse over a sapphire blue skirt. The Norwegian style seemed more feminine than the fitted basques and unwieldy bustles in fashion of late, and more comfortable too.