A Promise for Miriam (11 page)

The snow continued to pile up outside until she had trouble even seeing the broken fence that bordered the pasture where the grumpy old bull was supposed to stay.

In some ways she understood how he must feel. She could sympathize, another new word they had learned in school. He was so big and had so much energy. It must be hard to be told to stay in one place. She wasn’t big, but her feet were restless. They tapped a rhythm on the wooden floor as she drew the final details onto her drawing of the picture outside the window.

Turning the page, she considered starting another picture, but her hand was a bit sore from clutching the pencil. She thought she should take a break. Looking around the kitchen, she wondered what she would do if her mom were here. Probably they would be baking cookies or making bread. She needed to learn to do such things, but her dad was too busy to teach her. And besides, his cooking experiments didn’t turn out so well.

She walked over to the stove and picked up the pan he’d set on the back corner of the stove, away from the warmth of the fire. The grease had chilled and hardened.

It looked icky.

She stuck a finger in it and stirred. It didn’t look like something you would want to eat. She knew when you put it into some foods it added flavor. Grace had watched her
mammi
Sarah do that when she cooked back at their old house.

But she didn’t know if she could figure out how to do such things. She had helped to separate beans before, looking for the occasional bad one and scooping the rest into the pan. The kitchen had been full of people and the oven full of good things to eat.
Mammi
Sarah had set her in front of the beans and shown her what to do. When she’d finished, the beans had gone on the back of the stove in a pot filled with water.

Grace didn’t know how to soak beans. How long did you keep them in the water? Did you put some of the grease in while they were soaking? Did you add salt or pepper to the water before they started to cook? Maybe she could ask Miriam for a book that would explain such things. Her reading was much better now than when she’d left Indiana.

Maybe Miriam’s mother, Abigail, would have time to show her a few simple dishes.

Taking her breakfast plate to the sink, she washed it clean and placed it on the drain board. She had to stand on the stool her dad had made to help her reach the faucet handle, and the water that came out was ice-cold. She knew it was better to use hot water, but she didn’t know about boiling water on the stove and then carrying it to the sink. Instead, she had scrubbed the plate extra hard.

Even so, when she was done it hadn’t taken much time. She walked back to the window and peered outside. Nothing had changed, except maybe there was more snow. She wasn’t sure.

Snow or more snow. It all looked the same.

She pressed her face to the window and noticed how her breath fogged the glass.

Last year she’d gone outside in the snow and made angels with her cousins. They’d even had a sled that they’d ridden down the hill over and over again.

With her finger, she drew a hill on the frosty window and set a sled halfway down it.

What had her dad told her?

To stay in the kitchen where it was warm and to follow the rope if she needed to go to the outhouse.

She didn’t need to use the outhouse again. It was a funny place, not at all like their bathroom at their old house.

But if she did have to go, she could walk in the snow, and maybe play in it just a little.

The idea made her feel less sad. Which was a good thing, because sometimes the sadness felt very, very big.

Grace knew when it felt like that she needed to do something or pretty soon she’d be in her bed crying like a baby, and she was
not
a baby.

So she went into the mudroom, which was little more than a back porch, but she liked the word “mudroom” better. After glancing around, she pulled on her boots and coat and scarf and mittens.

And that was when she saw Stanley’s box.

She opened the top and inspected Stanley’s world. The mouse squinted back at her, his little nose twitching. He ran down one side of the box and then turned and ran up the other.

Grace began to laugh, and her sad feelings slid away like snow melting on a sunny morning.

Tugging off one of her mittens, she ran her finger down Stanley’s back. He wasn’t as soft as Miriam’s kitten, but he was very funny. His whiskers tickled her skin, and then he was off again, burrowing under the pile of hay she’d placed in the corner.

As she started to close the lid, Stanley poked his nose out, his tiny dark eyes staring up at her, and it seemed as though he was pleading with her.

She could almost hear him.

What if he wants to talk but can’t? What if he wants to go with me?

“You can come.” Grace’s voice was a croak. It was scratchy and tickled a little.

Stanley didn’t look scared like her
dat
did that last time she had made a sound—the time they’d had an argument and she tried to speak. Stanley didn’t even seem surprised at the sound of her voice. He only twitched his nose and waited.

So she reached into the box. Her mouse hopped onto her outstretched hand and let her put him in her pocket. Grace forgot about how her voice sounded. She forgot about the fact that she’d even talked. All she could think about was the snow outside and playing and Stanley.

She even forgot about how she was supposed to stay inside the house.

Chapter 12

B
y the time Gabe stopped for lunch, large drifts of snow completely covered his path back to the house. Visibility was worse, and there was no sign the storm was lessening. But all wasn’t lost. The barn was in slightly better condition. At least he thought the animals would survive the night. God willing and if the snow would let up.

If the rest of the roof would hold.

Too many ifs.

Now it was well past lunchtime. He knew that and felt bad about it. Breakfast hadn’t been nearly enough, though Grace had eaten it like the tough little gal she was. Not one to complain, his Grace.

Once again, he reminded himself she hadn’t complained because she couldn’t—correction,
didn’t
—talk. His irritation with Miriam King flared again like a fire that had received a burst of wind. He’d not questioned the way he was raising his daughter until the teacher had made her opinions known.

Knocking the snow off his boots, he opened the back door and trudged into the mudroom.

His hand froze on the door, still holding it open.

Something looked wrong. What was it?

Then he spotted it.

One of Grace’s mittens was lying on the floor. He picked it up and stuffed it into his coat pocket.

Okay. She usually put her things in her cubby. Actually, she was very careful about it, but maybe she’d gone to the outhouse. Maybe she hadn’t noticed she’d dropped one. He scanned the room and then noted that her coat, scarf, boots, and other mitten were gone.

Inside or out?

He hadn’t seen any tracks in the snow, so she must be inside.

“Grace? Are you in here? I found your—” The word “mitten” died on his lips. The kitchen was empty. Had been empty for some time by the looks of things. He turned around and retraced his steps through the mudroom to the back door.

Only one set of prints were in the snow, and those were his.

Hurrying back through the house, he called her name again, checking each room quickly, but those rooms were dark and cold. The only light was the one he had left burning in the kitchen, and she wasn’t there. Her drawing tablet and pencils were on the table.

So where was she?

He forced down the panic, though it wanted to claw up and out of his throat. His heart was beating faster than if he’d run from the pasture. Looking out the kitchen window, he tried to see what she would have seen, but the snow was falling so hard he couldn’t even make out the fence.

He closed his eyes and prayed for guidance, for God to protect his child, for forgiveness. This was his fault.

When he opened his eyes, he looked out the window once more and saw what she had smudged there with her fingers.

What was it?

A hill? And a sled? Had she been remembering the area behind his parents’ house? There was a small hill there where the children used to play.

Had she gone out to play?

Anger sprouted like corn in the summer fields and fought with his panic, but he tamped them both down.

She wouldn’t disobey him that way.

Grace was a good girl. He’d told her to only go to the outhouse. Could she be out there? Could she be stuck in the small building? Stuck in the snow?

This time he didn’t pause as he rushed back through the mudroom and out into the storm. The guide rope he’d fastened was still in place and still led to the outhouse. He could barely see the outline of the structure through the snow that was now falling even harder than it had been ten minutes earlier. He called her name as he went, the wind whipping the words away as soon as he spoke them. Stealing the words as each second that passed stole the hope from his heart.

He yanked open the door to the outhouse, but he knew before he did that she wasn’t there. In fact, he had trouble opening it, the drifts were so high. He had to dig the snow away with his hands, calling out to her the entire time.

There was no answer. But how would she answer him?

The question was agony in his heart, sending pain so deep that he had to stop and rub at his chest. Was this what it felt like to have a heart attack? But he was too young, and God wasn’t through punishing him yet. First his wife. Then this travesty of a farm. Now his daughter. What had he ever done to God to deserve this?

He stood in the doorway of the outhouse as the wind bit at his cheeks and the snow continued to fall.

Why had he left her alone?

Hadn’t he realized the danger to her, how badly the snow had piled up between the house and the privy?

Had she come looking for him?

He walked back outside the outhouse, not thinking to shut the door behind him. It knocked against the doorjamb.

Bending into the wind, he made his way through the blizzard, and it was a blizzard now, he admitted to himself. Probably had become a blizzard hours ago when he was tucked inside the barn.

Gabe stood on the back steps and studied his farm. How late was it? Two o’clock? Three? Realizing that each second he hesitated meant one more second Grace spent in the freezing weather, he walked inside and stared at the clock. Three twenty in the afternoon. It seemed impossible. But the old clock over the sink, the clock his dad had made, didn’t lie.

How many hours had she been out there? Two? Three? More?

He was wasting time.

Walking back outside, he scanned from right to left. He would search each building. He would find her.

Half an hour later Gabe had been through every building, and most of the day’s meager light was gone. Panic consumed him, sending sweat down his back and causing his heart to hammer in his chest.

Should he keep looking? Should he go for help? Was he too late?

Hurrying to the barn, he pulled Chance from his stall. The gelding was the best thing he’d bought since coming to Wisconsin. At fifteen and a half hands high, the dark bay with white tips was a beauty. Gabe didn’t take the time to harness him to a buggy. Instead, he threw on the Western saddle which had been part of the purchase, led him out of the barn, and carefully fastened the door.

Though it pained him to do so, he galloped to the house, secured the horse to the porch rail, and ran inside long enough to leave Grace a note.

He also pumped up the lantern so that it would shine brightly. He set it on the hook over the kitchen table, near the window she looked out of most often.

Maybe she would see the light. Maybe she would find her way home.

And maybe she wouldn’t.

Outside, he murmured once to Chance and swung up in the saddle. The horse seemed eager to run and he was grateful for that. He didn’t know his neighbors well. He hadn’t wanted to know them well. Certainly he had no idea what to say when he showed up on their front step.

What he did know, what he was now convinced of, was that he couldn’t find Grace alone.

Chapter 13

M
iriam stirred the stew. It smelled heavenly—a rich dark broth, seasoned with herbs they had dried just a few months ago and flavored with vegetables she’d helped to can.

“Should we put the cornbread in now?”

“
Ya
. I think your
bruder
and
dat
will be ready for it. They’ll be mighty cold when they come in.” Abigail whacked her piecrust with the rolling pin and reached for the jar of apple preserves at the same time.

When Miriam first heard the banging outside, she thought it was her mother thumping the dough into submission. Then she realized, at the same moment Abigail did, that the sound was coming from the front door.