Spring for Susannah (34 page)

Donald McFadgen drew a line in the gravel with the toe of his shoe. “Sorry about Jesse. Had I wind of his plans, I'd have appointed myself sheriff and jailed him until he thought better of it.”

The music droned to an end. Ivar stepped to the edge of the freshly dug hole and read a psalm. Susannah let the Norwegian words ripple over her while she scanned the mourners behind him. Marta supported a sobbing woman, the mother. The grim-faced man beside her must be the father. The younger man from the tent, who now placed the crate in the ground, would be, perhaps, the baby's uncle. The stair-step children hovering solemnly behind were the baby's brothers and sisters. The family was dressed in new clothes and shoes. The mother and two oldest girls wore gloves. Why would people with money come here?

Ivar concluded and led the congregation in a hymn. The railroad men filled the grave. Susannah turned to a touch at her elbow. Mrs. Rose stood behind her, accompanied by her flock, each hair slicked down, each mouth quiet.

Susannah braced for the onslaught, but the storekeeper drew from a previously untapped well of decorum. “Mrs. Mason, I've got to get back to my store. If you would be so kind as to bring my soup kettle once it's empty.” She nodded at the pot over the campfire, then placed a sack in Susannah's free arm. “Here's some bread and cookies for the young'uns.”

“I'll have Mrs. Vold tell them it's from you.”

Susannah lost track of Marta in the flow of people down the hill. A competent-looking older girl took charge of Sara. Susannah stationed herself at the open fire. Through cow chip smoke, she ladled soup to a blur of faces while mediating the battle between the fire, the wind, and her skirts.

Ivar's familiar voice cut through the hubbub. “Eat. Before it's gone. They can serve themselves.”

Susannah filled a bowl, grabbed a chunk of bread, and followed him to a seat on the grass next to the uncle.

“Susannah, the Hansens need to get their soddy up, and quick. It's a wonder it hasn't snowed already. Could they use Jesse's cutting plow?”

“Of course.”

“They won't be able to pay rent until their wheat comes in next summer.”

“That's hardly necessary.”

“Jesse isn't the only man with pride around here.”

Susannah contemplated the Hansen man through the steam of her soup. The firm set of his mouth, broad shoulders, eyes that would not meet hers for more than a second. Yes, considerable pride there. “I'll need to board the stock, if I'm to teach. And I could use some help with firewood.”

After a quick consultation, Ivar told her, “We'll divide up your stock. He will cut your wood. Saturday next.”

“I'm coming back up tomorrow to teach school at the depot. I'll bring the plow then.”

A flicker of amusement crossed Mr. Hansen's face. Ivar snorted. “He asks if you are Freya, the Norse goddess, that you can load a plow by yourself.”

Susannah closed her eyes. Every day, every conversation brought continued reminders of Jesse's absence. “I haven't thought this through. I'll need help with my trunk too.”

This time they pulled the father into the conference.

“Here's what we're going to do. Magnar”—Ivar pointed to the uncle—“and
Mor
Hansen and her little girl will go back to your claim tonight. In the morning, you and Magnar and the plow will come back.
Mor
will stay and take care of your stock.”

“But, Ivar, it's just a soddy and a long ways away. Will she be all right out there?”

“It's away from that.” Ivar nodded at the grave atop the windswept knoll. “Just what she needs.”

Despite the frost, Susannah propped the door open. Fresh morning air cleared the soddy of the smells of too many people. Mrs. Hansen and the three-year-old had slept in the bed with Susannah. The uncle had flipped the table upside down onto her trunk and spread his bedroll on the floor.

Why had the uncle come? Maybe the father had stayed to comfort the other children. Or the parents weren't getting along. Or the uncle was in charge of building the Hansen soddy. This morning he'd studied the house and shed. Susannah had shown him Jesse's trick, using a rope with twelve evenly spaced knots to square the corners. She'd written out a list of supplies he'd need from the store. Then he'd left to load the cutting plow.

Mrs. Hansen had taken the little girl, Tove, to do the milking, giving Susannah a welcome moment of solitude. She packed Jesse's army chest with potatoes and a few kitchen supplies. Then she opened her trunks to sort through her clothes. She set aside her father's cavalry knapsack; the medicines and surgical instruments were irreplaceable. Better take long underwear and flannel petticoats.

Her hand paused over a drawstring bag filled with bird's-eye and outing flannel rags. Frowning, she went to the almanac.

What day was today? Not yet this month. Not last month. How could that be? She turned the pages, back before the grasshoppers. Her jaw dropped. “I'm pregnant,” she whispered and sank to the bed. “All this queasiness, sleeping so much, bursting out of my clothes. A baby.”

When the supply of condoms had run out, she and Jesse had tried one of the other methods. The doctor had said fertility increased closer to menses, so they used days in the middle of her month. And now she was pregnant. Having a baby. “Oh, Lord, thank You.”

Her trembling fingers set the almanac in its place under the Bible. She leaned on the doorpost, facing west. “Jesse, you've got to come home. Oh, God, please bring him back.” She laced her fingers over her abdomen. “Please, please let me keep this one.”

Jake herded Tove back to the soddy. Time to pack for teaching, not think of a baby in front of a woman who had just lost hers.

Chapter 26

Lord, I thought I was doing all right in the faith and
trust department. But this is beyond all my efforts.

M
agnar swung the wagon around the north side of the army shanty. The ride from the claim had been one long English lesson, with no time to worry about the baby, Jesse, winter, or anything else. The big Norwegian handed her off the seat.

“Takk,”
Susannah said.

His eyebrows shot up. “T'ank you,” he answered with a quick smile. Then he climbed into the wagon box for her luggage.

“Mrs. Mason!” A small-framed man hustled across the grass from the store.

“Mr. Rose, you're back already.”

“Who's this?”

Susannah made the introduction and the two men shook hands. “Mr. Hansen will be over soon to purchase supplies.”

Mr. Rose waited until the Norwegian man entered the shanty.

“Do you have news for me?”

“Sorry, no. Government's not letting anyone into the Black Hills. General Sheridan's orders.”

“Did you see Jesse?”

The older man shook his head. “Asked around town, every business and bystander, and over to the fort. No one's seen him. I'm afraid he's gone prospecting.”

Susannah slumped onto the steps and closed her eyes. A door creaked and banged shut; Mr. Rose entered his store. Susannah leaned forward and willed herself to breathe. This was no time to cry. There was a job to be done, a baby to think of. But the tears would not be held back.

She did not hear Magnar Hansen step out of the shanty and sit beside her. He pressed a handkerchief into her fist and spoke gentle Norwegian words. She cried harder. His hand cupped her shoulder, slid across her back to her other shoulder, pulled her to his chest. She leaned into him, gathering strength from his warmth, until the storm subsided.

Suddenly she realized she was sitting in public, in broad daylight, in the arms of a man who was not her husband. She got up and stumbled away without thanking him, without even daring to look at him.

“I'm a married woman,” she mumbled. He couldn't understand most of the words, but she was saying them as much for her own benefit as for his. “You must not touch me. People will gossip.” She headed for the pump to wash her face. “Please send the children to school.”

Chetan saw Medicine Mother first and raced off to hide behind Hehaka's tepee. But Misun was studying the white man's wood beaver and did not see Medicine Mother until she grabbed his ear.

“Misun. I talk to you about your captive.” She lifted her chin at the tepee behind him.

The boy focused on her Peace Medal and bent to keep from losing his ear. “Yes, Grandmother. Winona has done as you told her. She pushed food into his mouth and washed his blanket.”

“Yet he continues to sleep. He smells like a skunk.”

“He opened his eyes yesterday.”

“It has been forty-two days.”

“And he no longer coughs.” Did that mean he was dying or healing? Misun did not have the makings of a medicine man.

“He is a lazy, worthless dog.”

And everyone knew what happened to lazy, worthless dogs. “He does not eat much.”

“None of us eats much.”

“But he said ‘Tatanka.' He has an eagle feather.”

Medicine Mother had refuted this argument when Misun first brought the white stranger home. She narrowed her eyes and the boy braced to be hit by lightning. “Misun, you should be out hunting and fishing with the men. Instead you waste time waiting for this dog to arise.”

“Please, Grandmother. He will wake, teach me to use the wood beaver, then—” Then what? If Misun took him to the fort, he would be shot by the soldiers. Sitting Bull had forbidden any contact with the Standing Rock Agency, so Misun could not take him there. Maybe a trader would come by. Or a boat—except boats did not come until spring filled the river.

“You have until the full moon.”

Susannah adjusted the pillow under her head, aligning the knothole in the gable with a star in the southwest sky. “Well, Jesse, you talked to me before I came out here. I guess I can talk to you now. Please come home. Or write. Let me know you're safe in Bismarck or wherever you are. Even if you haven't found work. Just don't go down to the Black Hills, don't go looking for gold.”

She steadied herself. She couldn't afford to cry; her tears would freeze. “I found some verses for you and turned them into a prayer. Psalm 91. Lord, because Jesse loves You, please deliver him. When he calls You, please answer him. Be with him in trouble and save him. Amen.”

Susannah pulled the quilt under her chin. “I hope you're warm. Living in this shanty makes me appreciate your sod house. Every morning the students bring bags of cow chips and twists of cordgrass for the stove, but the water in the bucket still freezes overnight. The wind finds every crack in the walls, all the gaps between the boards, every knothole. For such a little building, it sure can creak and rattle. Last night I dreamed you were singing to me, but it was only the stovepipe. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if Jake were here, but he's guarding Mrs. Hansen, Tove, and the animals on the claim.”

Swallowing back the lump in her throat, she touched her finger to the icy hole. “You once asked if I thought of you as a handsome prince on a white horse. Tonight I wish you'd dash up on that black steed, the Northern Pacific Railroad, and slay this dragon of a teaching job. Who would have thought eight students could be so difficult? Four don't speak English, the other four can't sit for more than a minute, and none has ever attended school. All I've got is one McGuffey second reader, three slate pencils, and a stack of broken slates. No parsing sentences or spelling bees for this group. Most of my first week's pay has already been spent trying to make this building into a schoolhouse.”