Sunflower (3 page)

The rain had stopped, and the house was still and dark. The familiar furnishings stood like mute ghosts around the room. Analisa wondered, as she had before, if her mother’s spirit might linger among her belongings. She wondered, too, if that ghost would be whole and lucid, or like the confused soul who had lived in her mother’s shell during the last year of her life.

An ivory-backed brush rested on the trunk near the head of Analisa’s bed. She reached for it and drew the bristles through her tangled waist-length hair. With the appearance of the strange rider, Analisa had lost her opportunity to work during the early evening hours while Kase and Opa slept. It had been nearly two years since the luxury of a full night’s sleep had been hers, but the results were more than worth her efforts. Before Kase was born, she had begun sewing for the women of Pella, at first taking in the mending and any decorative sewing they chose to let her complete. When it became apparent that Analisa had more than a little talent for sewing, the women grudgingly acknowledged it and began to trust more work to her. By experimenting on materials, which she bought with her earnings, Analisa discovered that she had a gift for copying styles from the ladies’ magazines she was able to buy at Knapp’s Dry Goods Store. Soon the women were bringing her less mending and more bolts of material, often accompanied by pictures of fashions from newspapers and magazines. Analisa was determined to turn none of them down, happy to take the money they offered for her work, and always finding a way to complete the tasks, despite the time it took for her to care for Opa, Kase, and the house and garden.

Yes, Analisa was aware that her name was well known in Pella. As she brushed out her hair she sighed, wishing with all her heart that it was not so.

Caleb tried to force his eyes open, but the burning, drumming pain behind his lids would not allow it. Someone would come along the road soon, he hoped. Someone would find him lying here baking in the relentless sun. When he had lost Scorpio he didn’t know, but he hoped the horse had made its way to water.

A coolness touched his brow, easing the pain behind his eyes for a moment. His long lashes flickered and Caleb’s eyes opened. He was surprised to discover that he was not lying out under the blistering sun, but surrounded by darkness illuminated only by moonlight filtering through a nearby window. He tried to speak and then attempted to moisten his lips with his tongue. A figure bent toward him, materializing out of the darkness. In the soft moonlight he studied the apparition, a face and shoulders leaning over him. Wisps of silver hair framed her face like a halo. Her eyes were wide and round, and Caleb realized he was disappointed at his inability to see the color of those eyes in the darkness. Dressed in white, the vision floated nearer and Caleb caught the sweet scent of her on the air. Suddenly he remembered the strange house covered with dancing flowers. Yes. Now he knew for certain. This was the fairy princess, the one his father had described in the old tale.

He was silent and let her gently raise his head and draw him near, to press the cool rim of a glass against his lips. With his eyes never wavering from hers, he drank deeply, the soothing liquid easing the fire in his throat. He licked his lips when she removed the glass and fought to keep his eyes locked on those of the fairy princess, but try as he would, Caleb failed in his attempt and drifted off as the vision continued to hold him in her arms.

Caleb Storm was certain that he was dead. Eyes open, he lay staring at the sod ceiling above him and thought for a moment that he was staring up at the inside of his own grave. Tightly packed, twisted roots of thick buffalo grass held the sod together above him. Caleb rolled his head to the left and found that his face was just inches away from more thick, grass-filled sod. Too weak to panic and too numb to really care, he had all but resigned himself to his fate when he caught a glimpse of a window frame. He slowly glanced around and discovered he was in a small but comfortable sod house, similar to others he had seen on the open prairie. How he came to be so comfortably ensconced upon the high bed in one corner of the room, he had no recollection. A faint scent of lilacs lingered on the air, nudging his memory, but nothing came to mind except a fleeting picture of a fairy princess in a tale told by his father. He dismissed the image, for it gave him no clue as to how he had arrived in these surroundings.

Except for him, the room was deserted. Caleb sat up, propping the pillows against the headboard to serve as a backrest. His clothes seemed to be missing at the moment. He was more concerned as to the whereabouts of his gun belt and weapon, but he assumed that anyone who had obviously taken such pains to care for him would cause him no harm.

Caleb ran a hand through his tousled hair and felt the matted oiliness of it. He needed a bath and a shave in the worst way. He knew for certain that before he had reached this bed, whenever that was, that he had been traveling for three days. His skin was sticky from heat and sickness. Glancing around the room again in search of his clothes, he wondered how long it would be before he could move on. Caleb had a job to do, and no matter how unpleasant the task, he knew it had to be done. The question foremost in his mind was how in hell was he supposed to get up and moving without a pair of pants.

The sod house was so tidy that Caleb was reminded of his stepmother’s home in the East. Everything seemed to be stored in its proper place or standing on display like an item in a curio shop. Blue and white dishes lined the shelves surrounding a window above a kitchen workbench. An enamel dishpan hung from a hook on the bench beside a dish towel, and on the work surface, large crocks stood in a row like soldiers against the sod wall. The table in the center of the room was uncluttered and draped with a runner. A small blue pitcher held flowers of red and yellow. Caleb stared at the flowers for a moment. They seemed to trigger something in his memory, but he knew not what.

An organ stood against one wall, the carved oak providing a stark contrast to the dark sod. Here and there around the room were small figurines or delicate hand-sewn pieces, making the small house an altogether appealing sight. He glanced out the window. The lower half of the view was blocked by a myriad of flowers and plants growing in various containers on the ledge, but above it all he could see an empty yard surrounded by a stake and wire fence with a cornfield beyond. Nothing looked familiar. The place appeared to be deserted.

Determined to find something to wear, Caleb threw aside the quilt and swung his legs over the side of the bed. When dizziness assailed him, he sat back down and braced his hands at his sides, trying to steady his shaking limbs. At the sound of movement outside and the opening of the door, Caleb turned to the intruder.

“Where are my clothes?” His voice was raspy, yet demanding, far more demanding than he had intended.

A young woman crossed the room wearing a getup the likes of which Caleb, Storm had never seen. Long, baggy-legged pants reached to a point just above her ankles where the ragged hems showed signs of wear. Black suspenders were buttoned securely to the pants. A once-white linen collarless shirt was tucked into the brown slacks, its sleeves rolled up to the elbows. The suspenders held the shirt pressed against her breasts, and a faded calico sunbonnet hid her hair. Caleb stared at the heavy wooden clogs on her feet. Dutch? he wondered.

The ragbag figure approached him before she answered. Deftly she untied the bow beneath her chin and pushed the bonnet off of her head, retying the ribbons so that the hat would hang down her back. A halo of white-blond hair surrounded a suntanned face and wide, sapphire-blue eyes. All of this Caleb took in with a glance before his eyes came to rest on her pouting lower lip, which was smooth, pink, and inviting. He watched, fascinated, as the woman began to speak. She faced him, hands on her hips.

“This is the tanks I get?” she said.

“Thanks.”

“You are welcome.”

“No—I wasn’t thanking you.” He shook his head and explained, “The word is
thanks. Th, th.”
Caleb pronounced the English digraph, emphasizing it for her, his tongue between his teeth. “The word’s not
tanks;
it’s
thanks.”

Her lush mouth hardened into a stubborn line as she stared back at him.

“This is all the
thanks
I get? I drag a stranger into my house, I save his life, I put aside my work” to help him, and he is yelling, ‘Where are my clothes?’!”

“I never yell.” He was smiling broadly now.

As if she realized suddenly what he was asking for, the girl’s complexion changed from sun-kissed pink to crimson. Without another word she spun away from him and ran toward the open door, which banged closed in her wake.

Caleb threw his head back and laughed heartily. Exhausted, he realized that he was still too weak to move. He guessed that the imp with the intriguing accent would reappear soon—with his clothes, he hoped—so he stretched out and pulled the quilt across his nakedness, intending to nap while he awaited her return.

Analisa stood immobile outside the door. She leaned against the house and put her hand on her breast where she could feel her heart beating so rapidly that she was sure it would burst.

What had she been thinking of? The man had been sitting on her bed stark naked, talking to her as if he were an English teacher in a schoolroom. The nerve of him to correct her speech! And him naked to boot! She looked around the yard. Kase and Opa were nowhere in sight, and she remembered that they were fishing at the creek. Good. She would have time to gather her wits. Analisa wasn’t quite sure what to do next, but she knew one thing for certain: She would get the man’s clothes back to him and shoo him on his way.

Somewhat calmer at last, Analisa brushed her hands on her pants and took a deep breath. The familiar smells surrounding her brought her back to reality and helped put her at ease. The herbs growing among the other plants on the windowsill next to her, the rich, warm earth, and even the farmyard scents helped calm her racing thoughts. He would soon be gone, the stranger, and Analisa could resume her normal routine.

She pushed herself away from the wall, forced by the
klompen
to walk slowly. Analisa had taken to wearing her brother Jan’s clothes when she worked in the garden. They saved her own from soil and wear, and besides, Jan would never wear them again. For a fleeting moment the memory of her older brother lying so still, drenched in his own blood, appeared vividly in her mind. Analisa shook it away. Was there nothing she could think about safely this morning?

A strong clothesline hung between two slim cottonwoods behind the house. Analisa hurriedly took down the man’s freshly laundered shirt and pants and smoothed them against her legs as she folded them. She knew she would never be able to walk back into the house with the clothes and face that man and his laughing eyes. Could she have imagined that his eyes were blue? His outward characteristics were those of a Spaniard or, at the worst, and Indian, but she would not let her mind dwell on such a thought. It was not possible that the stranger’s eyes were as blue as the summer sky.

No matter, she thought. She might never have to see him again. Perhaps he would put on his clothes and ride away. She would have her grandfather take in the clothes and give them back to the man along with his gun. Opa would not understand a word the stranger said, and the old man’s eyes were so poor that he would not wonder at the man’s appearance. Yes. That was as good a plan as any she could devise so quickly. Analisa started across the yard to find Opa and Kase.

She could hear their voices before she actually saw them. They were standing beneath the cottonwoods along the creek that meandered across the prairie a short distance from the sod house. Part of the web of tributaries running into the Skunk River, the creek provided them with bullheads and catfish in the summer, quite a welcome change from cured pork and jerky. Analisa watched and listened to the two companions before she interrupted them. She heard Kase’s high, piping child’s voice clearly, but could not always hear the words Opa used to answer him.

Kase always spoke Dutch to his great-grandfather. Although the boy had not been exposed to much English, he knew that language as well and was able to converse with Analisa when she insisted they practice together.

“Opa, tell me what the old country was like.” The boy looked up at his great-grandfather. He had asked the question many times, but Analisa knew he was always ready to listen to the stories Opa told about Holland.

“The old country was green and beautiful, Kase, not like this land.” The old man waved his hand toward the flat, wide plain before him. “We lived on an island in the North Sea and spent our days fishing. There were great cities. Everyone was Dutch.”

“Why did you leave there?” Kase looked up at the clouded blue eyes and wrinkled face of his great-grandfather and waited for a reply.

Edvard Van Meeteren sighed. Analisa watched his shoulders rise and fall with the weight of memories. She waited, like her son, for his answer, and blinked away her tears when it finally came.