Spring for Susannah (21 page)

“Who has a birthday in December?”

He arched an eyebrow at her. “Whose birth do we celebrate at Christmas?”

“Oh.” She felt a flush creep up her neck. “Yes. Of course.”

Jesse kissed her forehead. “No more bolting out of bed, now. I'll sing you a lullaby. And, Susannah?” His brows drew together and he looked away, his gaze passing over the stove, the shelves, and the table before coming to rest on his shoes. His jaw clenched. “Never mind. We'll talk when you're better.”

“Much as I like spending time with you in bed,” Jesse said, “it sure is great to see you up, back to spoiling me rotten.” He bit into a Christmas cookie.

Susannah decorated the gingerbread men with raisins. Whatever he'd been worried about had been forgotten, and she'd do her best to keep it that way. “You're overdue for some pampering. I've been more of a burden than a help to you these past few weeks.”

“Never a burden, only a joy.” He wrapped an arm across her shoulders. “So, what's with all the baking?”

“I always make extra cookies for—” Susannah paused. “I guess we won't have any carolers, any company.”

“It's all right. You know I'll eat everything, and you could use the extra food.” Jesse's hands circled her waist. He reached over her shoulder for a pan, frowning at his reflection in its shiny surface. “Susannah, don't scrub the tinware. It just gets sooty again. It's not like Mrs. Child is going to show up to judge your housework. Save your energy. And sit for your baking.” He maneuvered her to the stool.

Susannah's thoughts circled the possibilities. “What if you replaced the wagon wheels with runners?”

“Sure, a sleigh would be great fun. Matched pair of horses, bells. I'd take you for a long visit with Mr. and Mrs. Rose.”

The talkative shopkeepers? Susannah groaned. “Who needs a sleigh? We're fine right here.”

Christmas morning dawned clear, a definite improvement over the murky overcast of December in Detroit. Susannah popped the corn the Volds had given them, strung it, and hung the strings from the rafters. She longed for a Christmas tree but didn't mention it. The nearest pine might be hundreds of miles away, and there was no room in the soddy anyway. After a breakfast of cinnamon pancakes, baked apples, and sausage, Jesse read the story of the first Christmas from the gospel of Luke.

When he got to the part about Mary giving birth to Jesus, Susannah struggled to maintain control.
No tears on Christmas
.

From her trunk, Susannah brought out three packages wrapped in brown paper.

“All this?” Jesse leaned over and whispered to the dog curled under the table, “Maybe she
does
like me.” He opened the first two: a red woolen stocking cap and a matching scarf. The third package contained one gray knee-length sock, a skein of matching yarn, and a pair of knitting needles.

Susannah explained, “With me getting sick and you spending so much time in the house, I didn't finish the second sock.”

Jesse's eyes twinkled. “That's a relief. Figured the first one was a pattern and you expected me to make the second—revenge for me teaching you to play by ear.”

“Since it's no longer a surprise, I can work on it now.” Susannah reached for the yarn.

“Not so fast.” Jesse kissed her hand, then slid a narrow silver band on her ring finger. “Should have given this to you sooner, but I wanted something special for our first Christmas.”

Susannah gasped. Jesse, who kept track of every penny, who wouldn't spend more on the soddy than absolutely necessary, who wore his clothes until they fell apart, had bought a wedding ring for her. Tears filled her eyes. “Thank you!”

He grinned. “One more present. Close your eyes.”

He rustled and pounded, then said, “Merry Christmas!”

Her mirror stood over the washstand on a hand-carved pine shelf. Jesse had arranged her comb and brush on either side.

“It's wonderful! Merry Christmas to you too.” She rose up on tiptoes, aiming for his cheek. He turned and caught her kiss with his lips.

“My sisters fill their houses with doodads and geegaws.” He swept the soddy with a grand gesture, almost knocking over the new shelf. “Our house is clean, and there're your trunks, but nothing else of you here. You need to leave a mark, besides the one you've left on my heart.”

“I wouldn't want to clutter—”

“Halt right there. None of this practical stuff on Christmas.” Pulling on the stocking cap, Jesse posed in front of the mirror. “I am ze famous French fur trader, Pierre Chouteau.”

“Joyeux Nöel, Monsieur Chouteau.” Susannah curtsied.

“And you are ze first woman I've seen in a decade.” He swept her into his arms.

“But, monsieur, I am married.” Susannah held up her hand, displaying her new ring.

“You are so beautiful, I cannot restrain myself.” He waggled his eyebrows.

“Monsieur!” Susannah giggled as he nuzzled her ear. “Stop! Your beard is ticklish!”

“Stop? What is ze meaning of zat word?”

Susannah dug her fingers into his ribs. Jumping back, Jesse grabbed her wrist. “Ah, I zee you are full of fire.”

“Speaking of fire, monsieur, we are nearly out of firewood.”

“So, where is zis husband of yours when ze wood bin needs filling?” He kissed the back of her wrist. “Madame, I will embrace you later.”

Susannah yanked his hat down. “If you can find me.”

“Flat.”

Susannah leaned forward, peering at the hymnal. “Where?”

“Not in the music. Your A.” Jesse plucked the note.

Susannah drew her bow across her A string.

“Not that A. The one on your E string. It's not the violin, it's you. From the beginning.” After three measures, Jesse hit another A. “Now you're sharp! Listen to what you're playing. Double stop it with your open string. Hear that? Again.”

Susannah frowned at the passage, willing it to reveal perfect pitch. These unruly high notes, always screeching. Why couldn't composers keep violin music between the lines of the treble staff?

This time Jesse stopped completely. “What's wrong with you? Can't you hear you're sharp?”

Susannah stiffened her back. “Sorry. I don't have frets like some people.”

Jesse jabbed his fingers through his hair, nearly impaling her with his elbow. “You don't have frets, but you do have ears. Don't you want to play better?”

“Certainly,” she said in the proper British tone her mother used for reprimands. “I must be ready for my Dakota Symphony Orchestra audition next week.”

Jesse glared at the rafters. A jaw muscle twitched. He swallowed. “You're right. Music is supposed to be fun. You choose the next song.”

“My choice is to listen to you.” Susannah tucked the instrument under her arm.

“Think I'd let you off the hook that easily? Come on, ‘Soldier's Joy.'”

They ran through the tune three times.

“Much better.”

“On that note, I'm done for the night.” Susannah cranked the screw on the bow, loosening the horsehair. “You should have told the Reverend to find you a wife at some music school.”

“Now that you mention it, I'm thinking of asking him to send a cellist.”

“Preferably someone who doesn't mind being yelled at.”

“You think I yelled at you?”

“I don't have to think about it.” She laid the violin in its case, snapping the latches closed. “I know when I've been yelled at.”

“I did not yell at you. You're upset with yourself for not playing well.”

“Good night.” Susannah shoved the case into the trunk. She yanked the pins out of her hair, changed into her nightgown, and flopped into bed, disappearing with a jerk of the quilts.

She tried, she really did try to please him. But all her efforts fell short. If only she hadn't lost the baby. He hadn't mentioned trying again. Maybe he planned to send her back after all.

Once, a few weeks ago, he said he loved her. And he gave her a ring. She turned it on her finger. Perhaps, in whatever remained of winter, she could become worthy of his love again.

The bed creaked under Jesse's weight. “You awake?”

“No.”

“Got it figured out.” He uncovered her head, drying her tears with the corner of the flannel sheet. “With my family, no one can hear you unless you talk loud. You're just not used to that, seeing as you're an only child. So I didn't really yell. You can stop being mad.”

Susannah opened her eyes. “Why is Jake barking?”

“Don't know.” Jesse threw on his greatcoat, slipped his feet into his boots, and grabbed the shotgun. Seconds later he returned and stowed the gun.

“What was it?”

He rolled Susannah up in the quilts and carried her outside.

“Jesse? What is it?”

The answer glowed overhead. The northern lights, a transparent curtain the color of new straw, shimmered across the heavens from east to west. They watched without speaking until the cold drove them back inside.

“I've never seen anything so beautiful,” Susannah whispered when Jesse set her back in bed.

“Just for you. To help you forget to be mad at me.”

“If you'll forget about the cello player.”

“We'll make one of our own.” He grinned and pulled her close for a kiss. “Happy New Year.”

Chapter 18

Thanks for the light show, Lord.

S
usannah glared out the window at the snow-filled draw. The vernal equinox brought low gray clouds across the prairie. As the temperature inched above freezing, icicles dripped from the edge of the roof.

It hardly seemed fair, gaining a few hours of sunlight only to have it blocked by overcast. A headache moved from her forehead to her temples. She had finished Jesse's Christmas sock weeks ago. All his clothes were mended. Her cape had been transformed into a coat. She started a letter to Ellen but set it aside since it could not be mailed for several months. Nothing to do, and nothing to be done about it.

“Just a false spring. We'll get another storm or two before we see the last of this winter.” Jesse hefted the 120-pound bag of seed wheat into the soddy.

Susannah clasped her hands around her legs. “There's nothing I can do about the weather.”

Jesse set the bag by the table. “Nothing I can do,” he repeated slowly. “Heard you say that more than once. That your philosophy of life?”

Susannah lifted a shoulder. “Philosophy? No, it's just the way life is.”

Snipping the knot, Jesse pulled the string to open the bag. “There's always something you can do about problems life throws at you.”

“For you maybe. You're a man.”

“Thanks for noticing.” His mouth twitched under his thick mustache. He spread a dipper of seeds on the oilcloth and ran his long fingers through the wheat, picking out weeds and chaff.

“Men hold the reins of power. Women have to wait for men to decide who to court, who to marry, where to live.”