Blessing in Disguise (25 page)

“Yes, brother, she is legally my wife, but I thought to give her time to know me and me her. That she would come to love it here, and . . .”
Love me. I don’t just want a wife. I want her to love me as I love her. Then we will indeed be married, by ties far stronger than the vows we made and the paper we signed
. He pulled the saddle off the horse’s back and swung it over the hitching rail.

The filly shook herself, her fiery mane and tail shooting sparks in the sun.

“She cares.” Lone Pine hefted the saddle and pad and carried them back into the barn, slinging them over one of the pole braces nailed to the wall.

Kane felt like asking, “Are you sure? What makes you think so?” but he had no trouble recalling the feeling of her melting against him. So then, why did she run like that? He stared up toward the house, trying to guess what she might be doing. Fixing her hair, no doubt. How he’d wanted to run his fingers through the golden tresses. The scent of roses from her hair had teased his nostrils enough for him to want more.

He let the horses loose in the post-and-rail-enclosed small pasture and carried his saddle into the barn, looking around for Lone Pine. He came and went silent as a shadow. Shame he hadn’t left without catching their attention earlier. Then he and Augusta might—

He chopped that thought off and went to check on the pigs. Once the weather turned cold enough, they had three to butcher. The remaining fifteen head he’d sell to the army. The major was always glad to purchase both hogs and steers for the mess tent.

He found Lone Pine working with the horses they were training for the army, all of which were now broken to saddle but some so green broke they snapped like twigs at the slightest provocation. The one he was trying to mount refused to stand still. Quick as a snake, Lone Pine had a loop around the horse’s front leg and drew it up by tightening the rope around the saddle horn. Now when he tried to mount, the horse knew better than to hobble on three legs.

Lone Pine mounted and dismounted five or six times, then released the tension on the leg. With all four legs on the ground the horse stood still, his head down, sorrel shoulders darkened by sweat. He only shivered when Lone Pine mounted again and this time nudged him into a walk. Once around the corral and they stopped, starting all over again with mounting and dismounting, this time without a misstep.

“He’ll make a good mount.” Kane reached through the rails to stroke the horse’s nose and nodded up at Lone Pine.

“Yup, he’s a smart one. He don’t fight the rope like that jughead over there.” Lone Pine nodded at a horse tight tethered to a post in the center of the arena with one foot tied up, yet still he pulled against the rope that snugged him to the post. His nose and behind his ears were raw with the pulling, but he persisted.

“Might be good for nothing but horsemeat if he can’t be broke.” Kane knew that some of the wild horses never did give in. “Did you geld him?”

“No, but think we better. Might settle him down some.”

“How old do you think he is?”

“Maybe four, five. Might have had some mares of his own, then another stallion took ’em. He bears the scars of a fight or two.”

When the triangle rang for supper, they put away their saddles and headed for the bench that held steaming pitchers of water, soap, and towels. Kane looked down at his dusty pants and checked to see his shirt looked about the same.

“Think I’ll go change after I wash up.”

Lone Pine cocked an eyebrow but kept his own counsel, his stern look warning the others to do the same. Nary a snicker passed their lips as Kane made his way to the house, slapping the dust off his hat by slapping it against his thigh.

As soon as her heart quit thundering in her ears, Augusta crossed the room to the dresser that held a mirror, her brush and comb, and the small wooden box her father had carved that now held her hairpins. Taking the brush, she ambled back to the window and stood looking out as she brushed the tangles from her hair. One pin slipped forward to catch on her bosom. She watched the two men talking by the hitching rail and letting the horses out in the pasture.

All the time she called herself all kinds of names for her brazen way with Kane. While on one hand she heard,
Whatever’s got into you?
on the other hand, she knew full well. She was attracted to him—that went without saying—but until she got to Blessing, she couldn’t even consider him as a suitor. After all, she’d promised her mor to come and help out. “And she’s the one who said that once you make a promise, you have to live up to it no matter the cost.” Only the curtains heard her whisper, and while they and the breeze shared secrets, they’d never tell anyone else. She’d ask him tonight. “If only I could talk his language, it would be so much easier.”

She finished her brushing, twisted her hair into a long coil and wound it around and around at the base of her head, then tucking the ends under, jabbed a couple of hairpins in to hold it in place. If it had been in a braid, it wouldn’t have flown so freely. Before she rode next time, she’d do that.

If there will ever be a next time
. She resolutely turned from that thought and headed for the kitchen to see if she could help Morning Dove. After all, no matter what the state of
her
mind, the men would be hungry.

She and Morning Dove fell into an easy rhythm, not needing to talk as they accomplished the tasks that needed doing. Periodically Augusta would hold up a utensil, and Morning Dove would tell her what it was. Asking the woman to tell her about Kane was, of course, beyond her comprehension, but the desire only grew rather than going away.

In spite of the aprons she so carefully wore when in the kitchen, her skirt needed washing, and while she could wear the other garment, more and more she wished for her trunk or some cotton to sew another dress, one that fit. And looked nice. And had a full enough skirt to ride comfortably.

To catch Kane’s eye.

Blue would be good, a blue the color of sky—or her eyes.

She opened the oven door to check how the pies were coming.

When the men came in for supper, she used every effort of control she owned to not look into Kane’s eyes. She set the platter of fried chicken on the table, along with the mashed potatoes and gravy. Morning Dove brought the plate of sliced bread, still warm from the oven, a bowl of buttered carrots, and another of leftover baked beans.

As soon as the women slipped into their chairs, Kane bowed his head and asked the blessing on the meal. At the amen the men reached for the platter or bowl nearest them and dug in.

Augusta passed the dishes as they came her way, dished up her own food, and steadfastly kept her eyes on her plate or the person on either side, never once raising her gaze to the man at the other end of the table.

She could feel him watching her. The back of her neck grew warm, then the front, and up into her cheeks. If she’d had a fan, she’d have used it—gladly.

Later, as she and Morning Dove finished cleaning up and setting the sourdough to rise for pancakes in the morning, she heard the strains of his guitar from the other room. Removing her apron and hanging it on the nail by the stove, she brushed out her skirt and checked to make sure her hair was still snug in the coil.

Morning Dove waved good-night, her baby snugged on her back, as she went out the back door to the small house she and Lone Pine lived in just west of the main house but before the bunkhouse.

Augusta thought of taking a kerosene lamp into her room and reading, but the pleading tune he played drew her into the firelight circle. She took her chair and picked up her knitting without looking directly at him; nevertheless, she could feel his gaze burnishing her skin. When she could resist looking no longer, he’d gone back to eyes closed, letting his fingers wander out whatever notes they wanted. He segued from song to song, light to dark and back again, wooing her with melodies that sang of heartbreak, joy, and majesty. Some of them she recognized, some not, but losing herself in the magic took no effort on her part. Her heart did as it willed.

She glanced up when the last note trickled away to find him looking at her with an intensity that made her squirm.

“I . . . I have to ask you something,” she blurted before he said anything.

He shrugged.

“When are you taking me to Blessing, like you said?”

“Blessing?”

“Ja, when?”

“Blessing?”

She nodded.

The look he gave her was filled with such confusion, she clasped her hands in her lap until the knuckles turned white. He began to shake his head.

Chapter 23

St. Paul
Late September

“Didn’t her ticket say where she was going?”

“I . . . I suppose so.” The florid complexion of McDonnell, the conductor, deepened even more so, if possible. “I-I’m trying to think what it said.”

“It should have said Blessing, North Dakota.”

The man screwed his face up, obviously trying to remember, then shook his head. “I just don’t recall. If’n I’d seen that on her ticket, I would have put her off at the next stop ’cause she was on the wrong train.”

“But you think you recall a woman matching our description?” Hjelmer felt like pounding out his frustration on the man, but the wall would do.

“I sure do. You can’t miss eyes that match yours.” He held up beefy hands. “Not that I spent a whole lot of time looking into her eyes, mind you.”

“No, of course not.” Hjelmer took in a deep breath, hoping it would calm his leaping heart. Finally they had someone who remembered seeing Augusta. She really had made it as far as St. Paul. She wasn’t lost someplace east.

“Do you recall where she got off?” Henry prodded his friend’s memory.

“I think she went clear to the end of the line. Ipswich, it would be. I wasn’t paying too much mind, you know, since I’d already done her ticket and she couldn’t speak a word of English, at least not that she let on. My Norwegian is pretty sparse, you know.” He looked from Henry to Hjelmer. “She just sat in the first double seat, looking out the window and knitting away. I don’t know how women do that, knit and look at the scenery or something.”

“Well, I better go buy me a ticket to Ipswich.”

“You don’t have to hurry. That one is scheduled to leave at ten-fifteen tomorrow. You already missed today’s run.” He tucked his watch back in his breast pocket. “There’s some thought about making that an every-other-day schedule.”

Hjelmer groaned. “That means I have to spend another night here.”

“Sorry.” Henry stuck out his hand. “Thanks, McDonnell. We appreciate your help. You take care of yourself, hear?”

“Oh, that I do. Just wish I could be more specific.”

“That’s all right. We’ve at least got something to go on now.”

Hjelmer did the same, and the two of them climbed the marble steps back up to the main hall, the never-ending noise assaulting them the closer they came.

“I’ll see you soon, then,” Henry said, extending his hand to Hjelmer.

“I surely do hope so, Augusta in tow. Tell Mor what all has been going on. This news will help pick up her spirits, I’m sure.”

“I will. Seems like forever since I saw that woman.” Henry rubbed his chin with two fingers. “You get her daughter there, and then maybe she’ll give up and marry me. Leastways, my helping you can’t hurt.”

“I hope so. The better I’ve gotten to know you, the more convinced I am that you and she will be good for each other. And thank you, Henry, for all your help. Without you, we might never have realized a conductor was missing. And just the right conductor too.” He started to walk off, then turned back. “How about telling Penny that I’ll be home soon?”

“Oh, I will. There’ll be rejoicing in Blessing tonight.”

I only hope it’s not too soon
, Hjelmer thought as he pushed open the bright brass-framed glass doors leading to the streets of St. Paul. He’d spend the hours at more machinery lots, have a nice dinner, and sleep in a hotel for a change, then be ready to catch the train to Ipswich, South Dakota—wherever in the world that was.