Spring for Susannah (17 page)

In the morning, Jesse stomped out to tend the animals. He returned just as Susannah removed oat scones from the oven.

“How is it?” She couldn't tell if it was still snowing or if the flakes shooting horizontally across the window had fallen yesterday.

“As mean as it sounds. Good thing we've already been to the store.” He grinned. “Guess what I found stuck in the brush by the spring? The pail! God's looking out for us.”

Susannah had figured they'd never find it. Could God care enough to blow it back to them?

After breakfast, Jesse brought out his hymnbook, Bible, and guitar.

Fixing her eyes on her folded hands, Susannah took a deep breath. He had been so kind, waiting through half of August and all of September for her, yet she hadn't thanked him for his forbearance. “Before we start, I want to say how much I appreciate your patience with regard to my . . . wifely duties.”

Jesse stopped tuning and stared at her. “Wifely duties? You mean it's just a
duty
to you?”

“A wife should—”

“Not another
should
. I know what we're going to study this morning.” He laid the guitar on the table. “Go sit on the bed and get comfortable. This could take awhile.”

“Pardon me?” She'd hoped for a simple acceptance of her apology. This subject carried enough anxieties without Jesse taking it on another tangent.

“Today's lesson is from the Song of Solomon. I suppose you've heard of the guy.”

Nervousness added a vibrato to her voice. “Son of David, known for wisdom.”

“Very good. And what do you know about his Song of Songs?” He unfastened her shoes, dropping them off the side of the bed.

“Not much.” Truth be told, she'd only read a few verses. It seemed too fleshly, maybe even naughty, to be included in the Bible. Figuring she must be misinterpreting it, she moved on to the equally incomprehensible but less sensual prophets. “Some say it's an allegory of Christ and the church.”

Jesse snorted. “Is that what my brother teaches? Let's see if we get something else out of it.” He placed the open book in her lap and draped an arm over her shoulders. “Aloud, please, Mrs. Mason.”

“‘Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth—'” Her cheeks burned.

“Go on.”

“‘For thy love is better than wine.'”

Several pages later Susannah closed the Bible, placing it on the shelf. Without meeting his eye, she reached up and unbuttoned Jesse's shirt.

He smiled. “My hot-blooded woman.”

Susannah wrinkled her nose, tickled by the curly hair on her husband's chest. She slid down a couple of inches to his belly, where his hair lay flat, mink brown against his ivory skin. Her body stretched across his, as liquid and lazy as the Sheyenne River. “What are you doing to me, Jesse Mason?” she murmured.

His hands continued their circuit down her vertebrae, up her ribs, his fingers pulsing in the motion she recognized as guitar playing. “Rubbing your back. Can't you tell?”

“No, I mean, I feel so . . .”

“Soft, like Jake's ears.”

Susannah smiled, hearing the playfulness in his voice. “Are you comparing me to a dog?”

He scratched behind her ears, slowing the motion to massage her scalp. “Maybe you should've married Robert Burns. ‘My love is like a red, red rose.'” Jesse pulled her up within kissing range.

“He passed away.”

“Ah. Wouldn't be quite so much fun.” He nudged her forehead with his chin, trying to turn her face to his. “And you
are
having fun.”

If she didn't look at him, perhaps she could maintain this state of relaxation a little longer. She nestled her cheek into the curve of his shoulder and completed the quote. “‘My love is like a melody, sweetly played in tune.'”

Chapter 15

Lord, did You have this much fun
making the universe?

F
or all its noise, the storm left behind only an inch of snow. Monday's sun brought melting and the Volds.

“Looks like you make it through the fire about as well as we did.” Ivar vaulted off his wagon.

“Thanks to Susannah.” Jesse reached for baby Sara. “C'mon in. Coffee's hot.”

Susannah had been afraid she wouldn't see her friend for six months. She hurried forward, then stopped. Did Norwegians hug? Susannah backed off and squeezed Marta's hand.

Jesse told a highly embellished story of Susannah saving the homestead, complete with an exhibit of her sore palms. Susannah fidgeted and blushed. How was she supposed to respond to his accolades? Father had never bragged about, praised, or even commented on anything Mother did.

“Half I not said you need a wife? Was I not right?”

“She's the answer to my prayers.” Jesse winked.

“Your brother knew you need smart woman to keep your
rumpe
from trouble.” As he tipped his head to drain his mug, Ivar noticed the package on the shelf. “Should half known you wouldn't buy enough plaster for the whole house, Jesse Tightfist.”

“We won't be living here much longer; no sense wasting greenbacks to fix it up.”

“Marta brought her plastering tools.”

After a discussion on the best use of the small amount, Jesse chose the upper half of the east wall. The men moved the table against the door. Marta directed Susannah in adding water to the powder and mixing it to a pasty consistency. Susannah bit her lip. She had wanted to do this on her own, to make her contribution to the home. But she was grateful for Marta's help.

“We can still reach the coffee.” Ivar refilled his mug.

Jesse grabbed a stack of newspapers and sat crosswise on the bed, leaning against the west wall. “Keep drinking that stuff and you'll be needing to reach the outhouse.”

“Work fast, girls.”

Marta paused in the wetting of the wall and flicked her damp paintbrush at Ivar.

“She says with plaster, fast is the only speed.” Ivar joined Jesse, fencing the baby with their legs.

“Hey, good news for a change. Congress says we can file on another section if we plant trees.” Jesse read and Ivar translated a month's worth of the
Bismarck Tribune, Fargo Express
, and
Minnesota
Pioneer
. Susannah listened while she troweled.

The Dakota papers were weeklies of four pages each. A farmer near Fargo harvested corn twelve feet high. Apparently corn grew in these dry conditions. Would Jesse mind if she planted a few rows? Construction had begun on a schoolhouse and a Methodist church in Moorhead, just across the river from Fargo. How long before civilization reached Worthington?

The front page of the St. Paul paper carried stories from New York City, Washington DC, and Europe. Fire had destroyed parts of Chicago and Philadelphia. Although their prairie fire probably covered more acres, all it did was scorch forage for a half dozen cattle—not important enough to be considered news.

Stories of big business, politics, and royalty seemed as far away as the back side of the moon. Nothing happening in the States could affect this insignificant scattering of dirt houses, far from any path, beaten or unbeaten. Not even reports of the Modoc War alarmed Susannah; she had seen no Indians here, hostile or friendly.

Jesse folded the last issue. Marta, smoothing the topcoat from rafters to chair rail level, asked a question. Ivar translated.

“
Ja
. We missed your lesson yesterday. What did you talk about?”

“Song of Solomon.”

Susannah concentrated on cleaning the trowel. Just this once, could the man
not
say what was on his mind?

Ivar interpreted for Marta, the tone of his voice indicating he had a good idea the direction Jesse had taken the lesson. “Sorry we missed it.”

“I'm not.” Jesse bounded off the bed and stretched on a rafter, looking terribly pleased with himself.

“Here, half your wife take Sara while we move the table back. She needs to get in practice.”

Susannah held her arms rigid as Jesse handed her the squirming infant. Sara wiggled, off balance, top heavy. Any moment she might sense Susannah's inexperience and bawl.

“Relax,” Jesse whispered. He adjusted her hold to support the child's head.

Ivar stepped back from the table he moved without Jesse's help. “Well, Marta and I will go. You two want to do more Bible study, or is it baby study?”

Jesse looped his neighbor's scarf around his neck, pretending to strangle him. “Next Sunday, your place.”

Ivar raised a bushy eyebrow. “If you don't show, I'll know where to find you.”

Although humid, vinegary air filled the soddy, the plaster coating worked the way Susannah hoped, multiplying the evening sun and kerosene light.

Jesse returned from milking and nuzzled Susannah's neck to warm his face.

“You're still shaving.”

“I'm off on another exploration. Marco Polo to China.”

“Marco Polo was clean-shaven?”

He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed each fingertip before answering. “Marco who?” He went back over her fingers again with his tongue. “Which felt better, dry or wet?”

He expected her not only to tolerate his caresses but to talk about the experience too. Her knees trembled.

“Best try again. This time, shut your eyes so you can concentrate.”

His lips brushed the ends of her fingers, thumb to pinkie, then back again, this time with a gentle nibbling. Her mind went blank. On the third pass, his tongue flicked each pad. The experience sent her insides into a frenzy.

He steadied her and asked, “Wet or dry?”

Her voice responded before her mind could engage.

“Both.”

Toward dawn the wind shifted, enveloping the prairie in fog. On their woodcutting trip, the sun broke through, revealing an iridescent fairyland. Glittering white crystals furred every blade of grass and each branch in the plum and chokecherry thicket. Susannah expected an enchanted castle with wizards, elves, and unicorns to materialize on the plains. Overhead, thousands of migrating waterfowl honked and flapped their way south with a singularity of purpose. Best of all, the cold put an end to the torment of mosquitoes and flies.

All week the firewood stacks grew until they completely covered the front and sides of the soddy. Friday, winter returned with another blizzard.

Susannah yawned. “All this darkness makes me feel like hibernating.”

“Good idea. Go climb in bed and I'll fix you some cocoa.” Jesse adjusted the damper on the stovepipe.

“But I should start the mending—”

“You've got all winter. Go on.”