With Love from Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #2) (17 page)

W
hat a hodgepodge they were, what a conglomeration of nationalities. From most corners of the world they came—all seeking a homestead.

“Keep Canada British” was the cry. But the gates were open, and like a mighty, rushing stream, they could not be stanched. Wanted or not, welcome or not—they came.

English settlers were pursued with some vigor. Contacted through a London office, every adult over twenty-one who signed on for western Canada was paid a bonus. Bonuses were also paid to Frenchmen, Dutchmen, Belgians, Scandinavians, and Germans.

Not so blessed, not so sought after—the Hungarians, Russians, Ukrainians, Poles. But they came. They took what was left, whether it was poplar or swamp, paid their ten dollar filing fee, got in their buggies, and drove the muddy roads to 160 acres that they could call their own. And, most generally, made a go of it. “Foreigners,” they were called, while the favored races were termed “white.” Their arrival by the thousands caused bitter debate in Parliament. “Canada is a dumping ground for the refuse of every country in the world,” one member was reported to have said rashly. But they were a quiet and industrious people. They were a hardworking people. Freedom was a prize to be treasured. Independence was a goal to be gained. They would, literally, earn the respect of their neighbors and the world in general, becoming Canadians along the way.

Before the railway, these settlers, choosing the Northwest, were outfitted in Red River and trailed in by cart, by boat, or by portage. Luxuries were not feasible to transport, and most homesteaders suffered unspeakable deprivation, simply “making do” on what the land provided.

On the open plains, unless lumber could be brought in, a soddy—turves from their own land, cut and piled, bricklike—was the only alternative for a home. Many people had a great aversion to them because it was generally thought they attracted fleas and bedbugs; certainly they were a plague to be reckoned with. In the sod hut’s favor—warm in winter, cool in summer, or at least warmer and cooler than a tar paper shack on the open prairie. For those who sought out the bush and accepted the backbreaking task of clearing five acres a year for three years, a log cabin, chinked and sealed, would be home.

The bush wasn’t friendly, it didn’t give ground easily. On the prairie it was just plow, and sow, perhaps chop a few willow roots; in the bush it was chop and cut all day, and for many days out of the year. In spite of that, there were those who rejected the prairie with its unending horizon and terrifying loneliness and chose the green and near-impenetrable bush. But prairie or bush, the land was pocked with sloughs, sloughs, and more sloughs, and overhead was a sky whose vastness was beyond expressing or grasping. Prairie or bush—the venturesome and visionary dared; the stubborn and desperate endured.

Connor Dougal had chosen the bush. Five years of backbreaking toil had seen the clearing of twenty acres for planting; another dozen acres cleared for pasture but with their stumps not yet grubbed out; a garden spot, a farmyard dotted with several small buildings, and a house that was little more than a cabin. Connor Dougal was a landowner, a man contented with his accomplishments thus far and with a dream and a plan to bring it to fruition.

Gregor Slovinski, his neighbor in one direction, though older than Connor, was more lately come. His bush was giving way, slowly but surely, under the mighty swings of his axe. For pure physical accomplishments, no one could compete with the mountainous “foreigner.” He was too good-natured to create trouble or to react with violence to teasing—most of it being in fun anyway. And he was too big and strong to be picked on seriously.

Between the neighbors, a bond of friendship had developed. Both were bachelors, both were homesteaders and were clean-living, clean-talking males. Both were believers, having been brought to salvation in Jesus Christ by the young, green, but earnest pastor, Parker Jones.

Parker Jones had been in Bliss two years. But in that time, a remarkable change had taken place in two of the district’s most eligible bachelors—Gregor Slovinski and Connor Dougal. Steady, dependable Connor, and powerful Gregor—an unlikely pair but brothers in Christ. They found occasions to help one another, to eat together, to travel to town together, to attend church services in Bliss together. To pray together.

As for marriage—perhaps because of their new faith and the principles each was attempting to live by—their contemplation of it was cautious, careful, Christian.

They discussed it at times, and usually in the presence of their minister and friend, Parker Jones, who was himself unmarried. Each man usually had advice to give the others, less eager to take advice himself. A good deal of teasing, chaffing, and kidding marked their times together.

Many a lonely evening was passed in what each thought was good company.

“You, at least,” Connor Dougal pointed out to his pastor one evening after chores as the three sat around his table, discussing this ever-interesting topic and sipping coffee as black as the
inside of the pot from which it was poured, “have hopes in that direction. You nabbed onto the best prospect in the district.”

“Nabbed is hardly the word,” Parker Jones amended with a smile. “But you’re right about one thing—Molly is the best.”

“Then why, for heaven’s sake, are you skirmishing around about marriage and settling down? You might consider being a better example to us, right, Gregor?”

“Yah. You bedder vatch out, my frien’. Here you haff two poor bohunks who iss looking for such a vun as Miss Molly Morrison,” rumbled Gregor, giving Parker Jones a sly poke in the ribs that almost toppled him from his chair.

“I’m praying about it, you two! There’s a time and a season for all things—”

“Yah, yah, ve know—a time to be born, a time to plant, a time to laugh, a time to luff, a time to hate—vy does it say dere’s a time to hate, Parker? Issen dat a bad ting?”

“How about,” added Connor, “‘whosoever hateth his brother is a murderer’?”

As so often happened when these three got together, a discussion broke out. This time it was over “hating” and its meaning, as opposed to “esteem less,” which Parker Jones brought forward as a better rendering of the passage that says if a man comes to Christ, he cannot be a disciple unless he hates his father, mother, brethren, sisters, and even his own life.

“Esteem less, eh? That makes sense. You see why we need you, Gregor and I? But, Parker—this talk of quitting the church, now where did that come from? And how about Molly? What does she think of this? And how does she fit into this picture—would she be happy away from Bliss and her family? Her old Mam—her grandmother—is not long for this world.”

Parker Jones sighed. In need of a confidant, he had shared, in a dark moment, his feelings of insecurity regarding his call to the ministry, the size of the task, and his poor showing (he thought) as a pastor. The recent death of Henley Baldwin, for instance, had shaken him considerably. Not that Henley, a believer, hadn’t made it to heaven and his eternal rest, but that he, as pastor, hadn’t made Henley’s apparently miserable life easier, happier.

“It would have taken a miracle for that,” Connor Dougal said. “The odds were against his happiness, what with Della’s personality and all. What a brabbler!”

“Now vait a minute,” Gregor said. “Brabbler? Vos iss? Maybe she vas yust sick to det’ of the homesteat. Ve know dat many vomen break down, some die even, and many yust fade avay. She’s a mighty . . . ah, spiff voman.”

“Spiff! That’s a new one. I’m not sure Della’d go for that,” laughed Connor, while Gregor puffed and huffed until the color of his cheeks was almost one with his cinnamon-tinted hair and beard.

“She needs our understanding, I’m sure of that,” the pastor said, wondering at the same time if he could practice what he preached.

“That poor kid Dudley. He’s stuck here for sure.” A concerned Connor shook his head. “I think, from what I can make out, Tilda Hooper has made the decision to look elsewhere. That puts one more back on the list of available females, Gregor. It’s a mighty skimpy list—Molly already spoken for, Matilda looking the Felker lad’s way, and Gramma Jurgenson.”

All three bachelors grinned, though it was a serious topic.

“You forgot one, Connor. And dat’s Della Baldwin.”

“A fate worse than death,” muttered Connor Dougal.

The three men, bachelors all and wishing otherwise, gloomily contemplated their options and, except for Parker Jones, found the future hopeless insofar as marriage was concerned.

“Ah well,” Connor said, “let’s be grateful for small blessings—anyone want more coffee?”

His compatriots groaned and extended their cups.

F
ranny’s cheeks had gone from blazing red to chalk white, all within a few moments after the reading of a letter.

Ever since Fanny had revealed her “secret” to Kerry, her plans had been an open book, and she had shared any correspondence with her freely, with excitement. Proud, she was, proud of her spirit of independence, proud of her ability to make and carry out her plans, proud of the surge of strength that came with each day’s challenge. And proud of the connection with the good-looking man in the small photo.

She had been waiting impatiently for Connor Dougal’s response to her letter telling him that she was prepared to make the trip to Saskatchewan. He would not only confirm her decision as being right and proper but would give instructions about just what day of the week would be best to arrive and where she should disembark. Her supposition was that Prince Albert was the nearest station; Bliss, she understood, for all its beauty and promise, was not on the railway line. He would have looked into accommodations for her, whether in the more distant Prince Albert or in the hamlet of Bliss, where she would be comfortable until their plans could be finalized and, glory be! the wedding take place. Yes, it was important to hear from Connor Dougal.

Franny and Kerry were together in Franny’s room, repacking for the umpteenth time, rearranging, removing the questionable, adding anything that had been purchased lately and deemed to be indispensable to life in the bush, on a homestead, in a log house. Connor Dougal, Franny said, had written descriptively of his bush home. That letter had been one of several she had happily shared with Kerry.

My house has become my pride and joy, as it is one of the finest in the community. Much thought has gone into making it comfortable, as well as pleasing to the eye. Most homes here are of log, rather crude and even makeshift, certainly not to be considered a long-term dwelling. And certainly not proper for a lady! It is set in a grove of poplars, yet with enough clearing so that it is filled with light. It has been my pleasure to add plenty of windows, something that is often lacking in hastily built shacks. You, if you care to, may want to add rugs to the floor in place of the huge bear skin that is currently before the fireplace. It makes for comfortable, casual lolling about of an evening. As I relax there and dream, after a long day’s work, it is of having you at my side, the firelight on your face and bringing a gleam into your eyes that only I can satisfy.

Franny read in a low voice, coloring daintily before the final sentence was through. Folding the letter again, she clasped it to her breast, and her eyes did indeed, even now, have an unaccustomed gleam in them.

Kerry wanted to cry out to her, “Franny, how can you be sure he’s telling the truth? How do you know he isn’t a charlatan after your money?” Wanting to cry out, she kept silent; the days of questions, reproach, and warning were all in the past. Franny had defended Connor Dougal staunchly and had insisted, moreover, on her right to make her own decisions.
“After all,” she said, “I’m twenty-four years old, an adult by anybody’s reckoning.”

“Yes, but love is blind, Franny! How can you love someone you haven’t even seen, haven’t talked to—”

“I’ve ‘talked’ to him, Kerry. By mail and more intimately than I’ve ever talked to anyone. Except you,” she amended hastily, seeing the reproach in Kerry’s eyes. “But,” she added, “it’s on a different level . . . it’s different altogether, Kerry, when your heart is involved. It’s a sort of . . . sweet intimacy.” Franny dropped her eyes as she hesitated over the final revelation.