A Promise to Love (4 page)

Joshua managed to get all the children fed, heard their prayers, and tucked each girl into bed. Now he had to get their clothing ready for the inquest tomorrow. Earlier in the day, Agnes had taken the clean clothes off the line, sprinkled water on them, rolled each piece up tight, and then put everything into a laundry basket to await ironing.

He folded a small dish towel into a palm-sized pad, used it to grab the hot flatiron from on top of the woodstove, and spit on it. It sizzled, so he knew the iron was hot enough. He laid Ellie's church dress on the ironing table and pressed the hot iron onto it. His girls needed to look nice for the inquest tomorrow.

As he ironed, his mind fell back into the well-worn path of trying to figure out, yet again, why Diantha had died. It was the strangest thing he had ever experienced. She had been healthy, strong, and in a better mood than usual when she fixed breakfast for them that morning. A few hours later—he was building a coffin.

No wonder people were talking.

He carefully laid Ellie's little dress over the back of a chair, sat the cooled flatiron back on the stove, grabbed the second iron which had been heating, and began pressing out the wrinkles in Trudy's dress. His ironing would not come up to a woman's standards, but it was as good as he knew how to do. The trick was getting the wrinkles out without scorching the material.

“Pa?”

He glanced up. A small face looked down at him from the top steps. Ellie was the one who looked the most like Diantha. Dark hair, dark eyes, pretty little face. Trudy, on the other hand, looked more like his father's mother, who had been blonde. Polly was a combination, a mixture of both his and Diantha's families. And Agnes was at that age where she was all knees, elbows, and freckles. She was either going to be odd-looking when she grew up or a real beauty. Regardless, whoever married her would be getting a prize—as long as he didn't mind complete honesty.

“Yes, Ellie.”

“Is Mama looking down at us from heaven?”

“I suppose. Why?”

“Because she told us that if anything ever happened to her she would be looking down at us from heaven.”

Joshua paused in his ironing. “When did she tell you this?”

“Right before she went away.”

This struck him as exceedingly strange. Diantha was not given to conversations like this with her children. “Why do you suppose she told you this?”

“I dunno.” Ellie shrugged.

“Go to sleep now,” he said. “It's going to be an early morning tomorrow.”

As he listened to Ellie's footsteps pitter-pattering back to bed, he wished he could ask Diantha why she had said such a thing to a small child. Had she received a premonition about her own death? If so, why hadn't she told him? Or was there a deeper meaning behind her words?

“What did you do, Diantha?” he whispered. “Did you leave us on purpose?”

A noise on his front porch startled him. It was much too late for a visit. He grabbed his gun from above the door frame, blew out the wick of the oil lamp, unlatched the door, and eased it open. No one was there now, but someone
had
been there. On his porch, illuminated by starlight, lay a neat bundle of twigs bound together with string.

He kicked it as far off his porch as possible. Never had he expected to see such a message left upon his own property!

Men in this area didn't put up with someone who abused or neglected his family. They gave the man one warning, and one warning only—a bundle of twigs left on his porch late at night. It meant, treat your wife and children right, or we—the men of the community—will give you the beating of your life.

The message was so ominous that he had seen the presence of that bundle of twigs alone sober old Fred Jones right up last year. A coward at heart, Fred had turned into a model citizen overnight.

There was no call to leave such a message on Joshua's porch. He was not a drinking man. He had always treated his family with as much love and respect as he knew how. There was no call for this . . .

Unless . . .

Someone else, someone besides Millicent Bowers, thought he was responsible for Diantha's death. Maybe even a great many people. Either that, or Virgie had decided to play a cruel trick on him. It didn't take a man's hands to make a bundle of twigs.

A smell of scorched fabric wafted to him as he stood on the porch with his gun in his hand. He rushed back inside and jerked the heavy iron off of the fabric. His heart sank. Sure enough, there was the vivid imprint of a flatiron on the back of Trudy's best dress.

It was going to be a very long night.

 3 

“The inquest starts in an hour.”

Ingrid sat up and saw Hazel's head sticking up through the opening in the floor of the loft. “You don't want to miss it. This is the most excitement we've had around here in ages.” Her expression grew thoughtful. “Frankly, it's the most excitement I've seen here since the last Indian uprising, and that's a very long time.” Then her head disappeared again.

Ingrid blinked at the sunshine streaming through the little window. She hadn't slept this long in ages. Her first thought the moment she had opened her eyes this morning was fear that Millicent would be angry that she had not brought her morning tea on time. Then she realized, with an enormous sense of relief, that she was no longer living beneath Millicent's roof.

“I got some coffee boiling on the fire and flapjacks on the table. You were dead to the world, so I let you sleep, but now you got to hurry if we're gonna get a good seat.”

Ingrid tumbled out of bed and trotted downstairs. With only Hazel and She-Wolf there, it wouldn't matter that she was still in her nightgown.

Upon the table were two plates of the flat, round cakes that were called flapjacks here. Hazel seated herself across from her, said a brief prayer of thanksgiving, and then, after pouring warm sorghum over their flapjacks, they both dug in.

“Thank you much.” Ingrid had eaten better, but she had never appreciated a meal more.

“No thanks needed. It's nice seeing another face across the table from me for a change.” Hazel tossed a buttered flapjack to the great dog sitting on guard beside her. “Begging the pardon of She-Wolf here, of course.”

She-Wolf's teeth snapped as she caught the flapjack in the air and consumed it in one gulp. Ingrid caught a flash of gleaming teeth that made her shiver.

“Gonna do some fishing this evening.” The old woman slathered more butter and sorghum on her flapjacks. “You ever seen my boat?”

“No.” Ingrid shook her head. “I have not.”

“Her name is
Wind Dancer
. She's a sweetly balanced little twenty-foot dory who rides the waves like a cork. She's no young thing, but
Wind Dancer
is still seaworthy and remembers where all the good fishing spots are. Kinda like me. My husband bought her from an old trapper, and we had a high old time exploring the shoreline together. Many a night we roasted fresh perch on a beach somewhere and ate like royalty.”

Ingrid was impressed. “Such a good life you and husband have.”

“A life worth living is built on good friends and good choices. I've made a whole lot of both. As long as it wasn't against the Holy Scriptures, I've done what I thought best, instead of doing what people told me I oughta do.”

Ingrid pondered this. There had been many people back in her village who had told Hans and her that they were foolish to spend every penny they had on a boat ticket. She had to admit, it had felt like stepping off the edge of a cliff with nothing to catch them except faith in God, faith in each other, and a dream of a better life.

Then the Lord gave her the gift of this kind woman who had offered her food and shelter. Coming here had been a good choice, and she had a feeling that being friends with Hazel was another one. Now, if only she had her beloved twin at her side! Hans would love Hazel.

“You about done with breakfast?” Hazel said. “There won't be much room over at the Rogerses' house if we don't get there early.”

It didn't take long for Ingrid to throw on her dress and braid her hair. Her hair needed washing, but it had been awhile since Millicent had allowed her the luxury of preparing a bath for herself. The woman had, instead, told her that she could use the leftover water from
her
bath. Ingrid balked at that. She would rather go dirty than allow her body to touch water in which Millicent had bathed.

“Is that all you got to wear, girl?” Hazel said when Ingrid came back downstairs.

“Ja.”

“I'm sure not a woman who needs fancy clothes,” Hazel said, “but that dress looks like you've been wearing it ever since you left Sweden.”

“Ja.”

“What? You only own one dress?”

“Two.” She held up two fingers. “I make many pretty dresses for new life in America.” Ingrid shook her head sadly. “All gone.”

“What happened?”

“Ship crew leave trunk behind. It was accident.” Ingrid shrugged. “I have one dress in handbag, one dress on Ingrid, one nightgown, and one pair shoes. Soles wear out. Millicent give me George old shoes.”

“Oh, you poor child,” Hazel said. “We'll have to do something about that, but you'll do for now. Come on. I don't want to be late.”

White Rock was too small to warrant a courthouse. Instead, their local justice of the peace, A.J. Rogers, had made his own front room available for the proceedings. By the time Hazel, She-Wolf, and Ingrid arrived, several horses were already tied to the various trees and fence posts surrounding the Rogerses' home. A few hard-looking men lounged on the porch. The women present had dressed as though for church. A handful of children played hide-and-seek.

Hazel led Ingrid over to where one of the tough-looking men was lounging and struck up a conversation.

“Is the judge here yet, Paul?” Hazel asked.

“Rode in about an hour ago,” he said. “They should be starting soon.”

“Is Diantha's mama and daddy or Joshua here?” Hazel asked.

Paul jerked his head toward the door. “Virgie is sitting in there right now, front and center, ready to hang Josh from what I hear.”

Hazel frowned. “Last I heard, he hadn't been formally accused of anything.”

“He will be after that mother-in-law of his has her say. She's mad as a hornet.”

“It ain't fair.” Hazel shook her head with regret. “I'd stake my life that Josh had nothing to do with Diantha's death.”

“I would too,” Paul said.

Hazel nodded toward the other men sitting, leaning, and standing on the porch. “I never seen these fellows before,” Hazel said. “You know them?”

“Know them?” Paul gave a mirthless laugh. “I know them, ate with them, fought with them, and pulled them out from under their horses when they fell. These men are some of what's left of those of us who served with Captain Hunter. Word got out about what was being said about him, and we know it's a pack of lies. If ever there was a man who loved his wife, it was Joshua Hunter. These men rode a far piece today to give him their support. Some of us wouldn't be alive today if weren't for Captain Hunter.”

“Virgie is after his scalp,” Hazel said. “That poor woman has been through too much, and she's bent on blaming it on Josh. There's no telling what she might say.”

Paul's gaze traveled to Ingrid. “Who's this 'un you got with you?”

“Ingrid Larsen. Until yesterday, she was the Bowerses' hired girl.”

Paul looked her up and down with a friendly sort of interest. His eyes lingered on her feet.

“It looks like the job didn't turn out so well for you, did it, girlie?”

Ingrid glanced down, embarrassed. Not only was her dress practically worn out, she was wearing cast-off boots that had belonged to Mr. Bowers. He was not a large man, and she had had to cut slits into the boots so her feet would fit. She had hoped no one would notice her at all, let alone look her over so closely.

“No. Not good,” Ingrid said.

“I can see that.” Paul's voice was kind. “Seems to me like a shopkeeper could manage to keep his hired girl in shoes. Business must be real poorly, or else he's a stingier son of a gun than I thought.”

“George is all right,” Hazel said, “except when he's trying to keep Millicent happy.”

The sound of a wagon rattling over rutted ground interrupted them. She-Wolf pressed protectively against Hazel. Paul and the others lost interest in everything except the appearance of Joshua Hunter and his four little girls.

Ingrid caught her breath at the sight of him and his family. The children were as handsome as their father and as polished as it was possible for young children to be. The girls' braids were neat and their hair still bore the traces of a comb in the wet furrows of their part. Their hair ribbons matched their dresses, and their clothes were neatly pressed.

Joshua Hunter wore a freshly pressed white shirt with navy blue pants that looked as though they had once been part of a military uniform. He was clean shaven and sat erect on the seat of the farm wagon. His eyes, as they surveyed the group of people in the yard, were steely.

Mr. Hunter had been a sweaty, unshaven farmer yesterday when she first laid eyes on him, but the man who rode into A.J. Rogers's yard was no farmer. This was a soldier going into battle. Ingrid felt her pulse quicken at the sight of him.

He climbed down out of the wagon, and then his oldest daughter handed down his littlest girl, dressed in a light blue dress. Holding her in his arms, he walked toward the men clustered around the porch. The other three girls clambered out of the wagon and followed close behind him.

To her surprise, Paul left off leaning against the porch railing, took his hat off, and stood up straight. “It's good to see you, sir.”

The other men who had been lounging on the porch did the same. “We're here if you need us, Hunter,” one of them said.

“I'll take care of your horse and wagon, sir,” another man said.

“Thank you.” There was deep gratitude in Mr. Hunter's voice. “You men didn't have to come today, but I appreciate the fact that you did.”

“We wanted to,” Paul said.

Mr. Hunter caught sight of Ingrid standing beside Hazel and Paul.

“Are you all right now, miss?” His blue eyes drilled into her as though he actually cared about her well-being.

Joshua Hunter, in his semi-uniform, clean shaven, standing so tall, with that darling little girl in his arms, was a picture that made Ingrid's heart do a flip-flop in her chest—and then she completely forgot how to speak English.

Hazel came to her rescue. “She's doing just fine. The girl had the good sense to come to me after what Millicent done. I'll see to it that she don't never have to go back.”

“Good.” He nodded his approval. “I'm glad you got away from that woman, miss.”

As he walked on into the makeshift courtroom, Ingrid saw several men give each other meaningful looks, and then they closed ranks behind him.

Something deep and permanent happened in Ingrid's heart as Joshua Hunter strode into the courtroom. Something that she knew would never, ever go away. This man had stopped, on this day of all days, when he had so much else to worry about—and he had noticed her.

“So there goes Captain Joshua Hunter.” Hazel's voice was as proud as if he were her own son. “One of the bravest men ever to ride with the Michigan First Cavalry. He stood with General Custer at Gettysburg against Jeb Stuart. That thin line of our Michigan boys held their own against the superior numbers of Jeb Stuart's Southern cavalry and kept them from coming to the rescue of the Confederates. If Joshua and his men had given way, we would have lost the battle.”

Ingrid had little understanding of the war these Americans had fought with themselves a few years back—but she liked hearing how brave Joshua had been.

“Those men would walk through fire for him, but walking through fire won't shut up a few yappy-mouthed women. His mother-in-law seems bent on getting that man hung if she can. She's got her sister, Almeida, all up in arms over this too, and now Millicent is flapping her lips. I hope the judge has enough sense to see through all that fiddle-faddle.”

“I never see a man I want to marry . . . until I see him,” Ingrid whispered.

“Don't get your hopes up,” Hazel said. “He was awful in love with that pretty little wife of his. I'm afraid it might be a long time before he has the heart to go courting again—which is a shame because those children surely do need a mama.”