Dandelions on the Wind (9 page)

As he climbed the ladder to the loft, new memories swirled about him. Maren on the ladder that first day of his return, her wielding the shovel like a weapon when she thought him a threat, her cradling and comforting his daughter like a mother would. Her quiet faith ran deep and her wisdom wide.

After Maren and Gabi had retired for the night, he’d lingered in the kitchen with Mother Brantenberg. She’d taken his hands in hers and shared with him what Maren had said to her on Sunday that had awakened her heart and pushed her up the stairs to retrieve his zither.

Grace cannot be earned, only given
.

She pulled him into an embrace and kissed his cheek.

His soul feeling quenched, Rutherford sank onto his cot and unbuttoned his shirt. Now, he couldn’t help but think how good it would feel to have Maren rubbing mint poultice on his aching shoulder.

Like a wife would.

Eleven

O
n the last day of August, the wheat harvest completed, Rutherford couldn’t help but smile walking hand in hand with Gabi from the livery up to Main Street, then north to Gut’s Saddlery and Harness shop. Two old harnesses draped his shoulder and slapped his back with every step while Gabi hummed a happy song. His daughter’s warm love was more than he’d dared dream of when he’d made the long trek back to Missouri from Arizona Territory. Yet, Gabi and Mother Brantenberg had given him a far warmer reception than he deserved. And Maren, well, she was a true marvel. Her music. Her hard work. Her heart and soul. The way her mouth curved into a captivating smile that made him want to say yes to the spark of hope burning inside him.

Could Maren ever trust him with her heart? Was he a fool to daydream that the four of them could one day become a real family? That he and Maren could ever live as man and wife?

“PaPa, do you see the horse?”

His gaze followed Gabi’s pointed finger to the shop across the street. A mounted white horse stood in full harness on the sidewalk in front of the saddlery.

“It isn’t a real horse, Gabi.”

Letting go of his hand, she looked up at him. “It is real. Oma told me the old horse died and they stuffed it.”

“Oma is right, little one.” Only four years old, his daughter had already learned so much, and he’d forfeited the joy of teaching her. Rutherford tamped down the regret threatening to topple him, remembering that grace was a gift … one he was still having trouble accepting. “It is a real horse, but not a live one.”

Nodding, Gabi bounced the brown curls framing her blue eyes. “It was big like Boone and Duden. Too big for me. I need a pony.”

His daughter’s matter-of-fact statement tickled him, and he couldn’t help but chuckle as he reached for the door. The shop smelled of freshly tanned leather and he paused to breathe it in. Gabi darted to the displayed saddles in the front window.

“I like this one, PaPa.” She brushed the saddle seat as if it were a horse’s back.

Rutherford studied the finely tooled leather. “It’s a fine saddle, for certain.” He was a long way from affording a saddle, let alone a pony.

“Those harnesses a decoration, or you need help with ’em?”

Rutherford turned to face the deeply creased features of the owner, a man known by most folks as Old Man Gut.

Bushy white eyebrows waggled in recognition. “Woolly Wainwright, if you ain’t a sight for weary eyes.” Edward Gut slapped him on the shoulder. “When’d you get back, son?”

“Last Wednesday. Finished out my enlistment in Arizona Territory.”

“The Indian troubles.” Edward shook his head, causing his bowler to shift. “With you survivin’ not one, but two wars, the good Lord must have somethin’ more for you to do.”

He knew what he wanted to do—take care of Gabi, Maren, and Mother Brantenberg—but he wouldn’t guess why God had spared him while hundreds of thousands of other men and women serving in the wars perished.

Edward pulled a peppermint stick from a pocket on his leather apron and smiled at Gabi.

“This can’t be the toddling baby I seen with your mother-in-law. Has it been that long?”

Rutherford patted Gabi’s soft curls. “Yes, this is Gabrielle … Gabi. She took to being four in April.” He wouldn’t believe his daughter could be that old either if he hadn’t been marking off the months on the butt of his rifle since May of ’61 when he’d left home.

“Gabi, this is my friend Mr. Gut. Your grandfather and I bought our saddles here.”

Edward bent to her level and held the candy stick out to her.

When Rutherford nodded, Gabi reached for the treat. “Danke,” she said.

“
Willkommen
. You’re welcome, little lady.” Edward looked at him and scrubbed his fuzzy cheek. “You’re a lucky man. My daughter is all grown up—has the Queensware shop next door.” He nodded then grabbed the straps of the harnesses Rutherford carried. “Now about these.”

“These are the ones me and Christoph bought from you years ago. They’re both in bad need of stitching.”

“She brought ’em in last year. I could not do the work.” His lack of eye contact told the same story Rutherford had heard at the lumber mill.

Rutherford reached into his pocket and pulled out some of the bills he just got from selling the sacks of grain at the mill. “I can settle the account.”

Meeting his gaze, Edward took the harnesses from him. “I didn’t want to turn her away, but I had to—”

“I understand.” Rutherford glanced at Gabi, who was busy stroking the saddle and licking her candy stick. “The war was hard on everyone.”

The man nodded, his shoulders lifting a little bit. “Real good to see you made it through, and that things are getting better for Mrs. Brantenberg.”

“Thank you. Good to be back.” Doing something worthwhile for his family.

“If you’re in town for a while, I can have Peter stitch these and have ’em ready for you by noon.”

“Hadn’t expected to get ’em back today. But thank you. We’ll see you this afternoon.” He waved and led Gabi out the door.

“He was a nice man.” Gabi quickly returned her attention to the peppermint stick.

Up past the candlemaker’s house, he guided his daughter across the mismatched stones in front of the Old Capitol Building and Heinrich’s Dry Goods and Grocery.

***

Maren had been waiting for the day when she could act upon her decision. It came on Wednesday, after the completion of the week of harvest, when Mrs. Brantenberg chose to take the wagon into town for supplies. Rutherford sat at the reins and stopped to let her and Mrs. Brantenberg out of the wagon on Main Street. Gabi stayed behind with her father while Mrs. Brantenberg went to visit her friend. Using an umbrella as a walking stick, Maren carefully maneuvered the uneven limestone walk in front of the Old Capitol Building. The bottom floor housed Heinrich’s Dry Goods and Grocery.

Maren breathed a prayer for God’s provision and opened the door, jangling the bell overhead.

“Good morning, Miss Maren.”

Blinking against the dim lighting, Maren turned toward the wooden counter where Mr. Heinrich folded and stacked men’s blouses, his spectacles low on his nose. “Good morning to you too, Mr. Heinrich.”

“Emilie will be sorry she missed you. She went to Lindenwood for her examinations today.” She nodded.

He looked past her. “You came into town alone?”

“No sir. Mrs. Brantenberg will be along shortly.”

He pushed the spectacles higher on his nose. “I have new cloth to show her,” he said. “And the little one?”

“Gabi is with her PaPa.”

“Ah yes. Woolly was in last week. A joyous sight!” He studied Maren. “And you, are you well?”

“Yes. Thank you.” Maren glanced toward the door, then at the various people milling about the store.

“Can I help you find something?”

Satisfied that no one she knew was within earshot, she stepped up to the counter. “You were so kind to recommend me to help Mrs. Brantenberg out at the farm, and I—”

“You need a different job?”

“Yes sir. And a place to live.”

Leaning forward, Mr. Heinrich removed his spectacles. “It is because Rutherford is back on the farm?”

She nodded, her cheeks growing warm at the mention of his name. “Yes. Now that he is home, I can think about returning home … to my own family.” Her hand rested on the chain lying just below her lace collar. She drew in a fortifying breath. “I wondered if perhaps you and Emilie could use my help.”

He returned the spectacles to his nose and lifted the stack of men’s blouses off the counter. “The good Lord works in mysterious ways. And even secretive ways. Why, just the other day, I mentioned to Emilie that I wanted to hire someone to help out here.”

“I cannot see well enough to do bookwork, but I could stock shelves and help customers.”

“Yes. We could most certainly use your help with the customer orders and stocking.” Mr. Heinrich tugged on the points of his vest. “We’ll need to fix up the basement some. You can move in next Saturday and start work that next Monday … a week and a half from now?”

“Next Saturday.” Maren moved her hand to her skirt pocket. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Does Mrs. Brantenberg know you’re planning to leave the farm?”

“I wanted to talk to you first.”

He rested his hand on hers. “Dear, Saint Charles has become your home. Are you sure you want to leave?”

“It is the right thing.”

She had been sure of it, and not all that long ago. Before Woolly startled her in the barn a mere three weeks ago. Before she’d begun to see the four of them as a family.

***

The bell on the door was still jangling when Gabi darted toward the counter, holding up a peppermint stick. “Miss Maren!”

Maren turned toward Gabi and her father, her expression more serious than usual. Gabi fairly jumped into Maren’s arms—the way he’d picture her doing with her mother.

Maren stroked Gabi’s cheek. “You have candy?”

“The fuzzy man in the horse shop gave it to me.”

Maren’s eyebrows arched. “The horse shop?”

“The saddler,” Rutherford said, drawing her attention momentarily.

“Ah yes, the one with the horse out front.”

Gabi nodded, bobbing her curls. “This time I got to go in there, and I found a saddle for my pony.”

Maren’s solemn blue eyes widened. “Her pony?”

“The one she dreams of someday owning.”

“Oh.” Maren’s mouth formed the word perfectly.

Johann cleared his throat, looking rather serious himself. “Woolly, you’re already lookin’ better than the hungry fox you were the last time you were in.”

“Feelin’ much better too. Thank you.”

“Nothin’ like good home cooking to add meat to a man’s weary bones.”

“True enough. Between Mother Brantenberg’s German onion cake and Maren’s Danish meatballs, I’m surely enjoying some fine cooking.” He looked at the list in Maren’s hand.

“I have yet to start on the list.”

Rutherford reached for the list. “I can help.”

“Why don’t you two work on it together while Gabi and I see what trouble we can find.” A wily grin didn’t quite reach the corners of Johann’s gray eyes.

While the shopkeeper entertained Gabi with a woolen sheep puppet, Rutherford seized the opportunity to spend a little time with Maren. He added a pair of sheepskin gloves to a stack on the end of the counter, then looked into her eyes. If not for the sack of salt she held between them, he would’ve been tempted to reach for her hand. “Maren—”

Her eyes widening, she glanced toward Gabi, then looked up at him. “I asked Mr. Heinrich for a job, and he hired me.”

Feeling gut-punched, Rutherford stepped backward. “You what? Why?”

He followed her to the far end of the store, where she stopped in front of a dangle of beaver traps. Drawing a deep breath, she looked at him. “I need to work in town, Rutherford.”

“I thought the farm was your home.” He’d looked up at her bedchamber that night outside the barn. She’d noticed his attentions. Did she have feelings for him too? Is that why she couldn’t stay? “You were comfortable on the farm before I arrived. It’s because I’m there, isn’t it?” Leaning forward, he lowered his voice. “But I’m not living in the house.”

Her face pinked, and she studied the traps, as if they were something she had any use for.

If they married, he could live in the house … they all could. And Maren could remain there without feeling she was doing something improper. So, why couldn’t he say as much?

“Working here, I can earn the money I need to go home.”

“To Denmark?” He hadn’t meant to blurt out the question, but it seemed an absurd idea.

She flinched. “Yes. Denmark. I want to be with my family.”

Another gut punch.

“You’re back on the farm now … working. Mrs. Brantenberg doesn’t need my help.”

He shrugged. “It’s not about that.”
Tell her why you don’t want her to leave
.

But she didn’t want to stay.

“Miss Maren!” Gabi skipped toward them, her face beaming with a smile that, as soon as she knew what was happening, would quickly fade. “Mr. Johann has a dollhouse. Come see.”

Maren looked at Rutherford, her brow creased.

Against his will, he nodded. After a quick glance at the list in his hand, Rutherford turned toward the barrels at the front window while the hope he’d entertained earlier sank like dead weight.

Twelve

H
er entrance examination complete, Emilie Heinrich rushed past a gaggle of chattering girls and out the door of Sibley Hall. She pulled her shawl tight against a bothersome wind. Most of the students at Lindenwood Female College planned to take their boarding on the campus, but she wasn’t one of them. Not with a father who needed her.

Her unladylike dash up the path and out of the iron gate would surely earn her at least a frown from the faculty and possibly a denial of her application. It seemed most young women in the city had nothing better to do than to fuss over deportment and elocution. She was probably the only one who had a dry goods and grocery store to manage. And now, thanks to some wild notion that had settled on her PaPa, she’d been forced to concern herself with higher education
and
the family business. All for the sake of a future she wasn’t sure she wanted.