Spring for Susannah (35 page)
She slid her hands to the curve of her abdomen. “I'll need to buy ten yards of wool to make a wrapper. I've let out my waistbands as far as possible. This child of yours is growing like wheat in a spring rain.” She turned her head a fraction of an inch to follow the star's path through the night. “If only I could feel your arms around me. Come home, Jesse.”
The flap of the tepee opened, admitting the sergeant with the gray braids. She launched into her usual harangue, whipped off Jesse's blanket, and flailed him with something that felt like a porcupine. “Ow. Ow! There are more efficient ways to kill people,” he croaked out. “I'd prefer to be shot. Where's my rifle?” The memory returned in a rush. His rifle had sunk to the bottom of the Missouri. Wonder if those two ferrymen made it. No sign of them.
When the beating was finished, the old woman propped him upright on a frame. The tepee swung around and grayed at the edges. Jesse closed his eyes and gulped a breath. A handful of slumgullion filled his mouth.
“Mmph.”
The woman held a bowl up. The expression on her face let him know, in no uncertain terms, he would be eating its contents. His taste buds voted no but were overruled by his stomach and the old woman. He reached for the bowl. What was this? Something runny and brown with a bitter taste. Like army food. Better off not knowing. The sergeant continued her lecture until he finished. She yanked the bowl away and gave him a dipper of water. One swallow later, she dragged him out the door. A cold wind sliced whatever skin he had left.
“You, my dear, are no Florence Nightingale.”
And she didn't care. She was a head shorter than he, but somehow she managed to get him standing. The ground circled and the world started to go black, but she slapped him a good one and hauled him to the latrine. She waited while he did his business, then dragged his wheezing carcass back to the front of the tepee. “And you're not Clara Barton either.”
He ought to worry about being naked, but he was more afraid he'd freeze to death. The old woman, paragon of kindness that she was, threw a blanket at him. When she bent to give him another piece of her mindâhow much did she have left?âJesse got a look at the medal hanging from her neck: Jefferson on one side, clasped hands on the other.
Lewis and Clark had given her a Peace Medal? She looked old enough.
With a final warning that left him wondering what other tortures she might have up her buckskin sleeve, she left.
Jesse looked around and tried to focus. Tepees. More than a dozen, tucked into a fold of a bluff. The grass rippled yellow and brown. He'd been sick a long time. Was he a captive, a slave? Newspapers said they kept women and children but tortured and killed men. With his red-brown hair and light skin, it wasn't like he'd blend in here.
“Anyone here speak English?” he asked. But the wind blew away his feeble voice.
Between the nearest tepees, a woman stretched out a pelt. Another woman pounded grain. She stood, her silhouette showing she was in the family way.
Susannah, I miss our little one
. But what if he had a third mouth he couldn't feed? A trio of small children played in the dirt farther on. A yellow dog nosed through a pile of debris.
No warriors, no guards, no men at all. Even the sergeant had left him alone. He could walk east until he found the river, turn north until he came to Fort Lincoln, borrow clothes and train fare, and go home. Jesse gathered the blanket, brought his feet under himself, and stood. The world around him spun, and he sat down again before he could fall. No need for a prison other than his own body.
Please, God, I've got to get home to Susannah. I promised I' d
take care of her
.
Grasshoppers, no work, near drowning, and now captivity. Was there some lesson God was trying to drill through his hard head?
The old woman brought a bucket of corn to pound. Jesse picked up the grinding rock.
Lord, You are my rock, my fortress, my
hiding place
.
“Tatanka!” A boy strode toward him carrying his guitar. Something besides him had survived the river. The kid tapped his chest. “Misun.”
“Misun? Is that your name?”
An older boy followed, introducing himself as Chetan.
“I need to go home,” Jesse told them. “My wife will be worried about me.”
The boys responded with a barrage in their language.
God,
about that Tower of Babel, different languages thing. Shouldn't we be
over that by now?
Misun passed him the guitar. The back was warped. The glue had loosened in several places. But none of the strings had broken and they all went back in tune, for the moment.
The younger Indian peppered him with questions. “Guitar,” Jesse said, touching his instrument. The Indian repeated the word.
“Tuning.” Jesse showed him. “Note. Chords. Songs.” Jesse tried the first line of the only hymn he could recall, “Jesus Loves Me.” His voice came out as a rasp, and the guitar had a rattle to match. Exhaustion slammed him and his hands dropped limp.
As Jesse sank into sleep, Misun took the guitar, and he and Chetan sang the rest of the verse. In English.
No. He must be dreaming.
The tune of the final hymn sounded familiar, perhaps Martin Luther's, but the lyrics were sung in Norwegian and Susannah could not recall the English words. Jesse would know. He'd keep time and tune with his guitar.
Ivar conducted the Sunday service, roped into it after preaching at the burial, he'd grumbled to Susannah. The youngest Rose had stuck his head in at the beginning, then realized the proceedings were conducted in Norwegian and made his escape. Susannah had wanted to follow, but she had nowhere else to go.
Warmed by the sun and the ten people crowding the shanty, she hid a yawn behind her hand. Long fingers reached for her wrist and turned up her palm. It was blistered by the saw handle. Magnar held his up next to hers, a matched set of wounds.
She inched away from him, then smiled at the Hansen children on the adjacent bench. They had transformed yesterday's woodcutting trip into a picnic. They caught fish in a woven willow basket and roasted them over a fire, raced for the wagon with armloads of kindling, sang high harmonies on the return trip. A giant yellow lampshade seemed to cover the sun, turning everything it touched to gold: the noisy yellow cottonwood leaves, the russet stemmed grass, the blond hair of the children.
Her initial impression of Sissel as a typically responsible oldest daughter melted under the girl's fiery sense of humor, usually expressed in a practical joke on her uncle. Disa, the nine-year-old, daydreamed at play just as she did at school. Erik, the rough-and-tumble seven-year-old, wavered between helping his adored Uncle Magnar and scaring the girls with his Indian act. Then there was Rolf, at five her youngest pupil, always looking for a lap to climb into. He'd found Susannah's again today.
Their shyness had vanished. They brought her a bird's nest, wrote their names, last week's lesson, in the packed mud of the riverbank, and hollered, “Teacher!” Magnar echoed their call and brought her a wildflower that had somehow survived the frost. She made the startling discovery that this placid man had dimples when he smiled. This morning he had managed to sit next to her. She wished she could accept his friendship, but all this attention made her uneasy. Hadn't Ivar told him she was married?
He wouldn't be sitting next to her if Jesse were here. But if Jesse were here, she wouldn't have needed Magnar's help.
Lord, bring
him home. Soon
.
The song ended. Marta and Mrs. Hansen huddled deep in con versation over the food basket. The two Hansen men and Ivar deliberated some serious matter in the corner. Swallowing a wave of jealousy mixed with loneliness, Susannah picked up the water bucket and followed the children outside.
When she returned from the pump, Magnar took the heavy bucket from her.
“Ask one of the children to do that,” Ivar admonished in the parental tone he'd used since Jesse left.
She wouldn't apologize. “I'm just getting some fresh air.”
“What did Mr. Rose say?”
Susannah glanced at Magnar. What had he told Ivar? The younger man studied a loose floorboard. “Nothing new. The government's not allowing anyone into the Black Hills.”
“Then where is Jesse?”
“I don't know.” Susannah stiffened her spine. She would not break down in front of all these people, especially her students. “Excuse me. I need to help with dinner.” She slid between the men.
“Mrs. Hansen said you had a visitor. A large, dirty man who spits. He brought a load of hay, read the note you tacked on the door, and left.”
She should have warned Mrs. Hansen. “Abner Reece.”
Ivar wound up for another swearing session. A hiss from Marta cut him short. He scowled. “Why didn't you tell me?”
“He wants eggs.”
“Eggs? For cutting your hay, that's all he wants?”
“It's all he's going to get.”
The Hansens left. Susannah had a moment alone with Marta.
“Good news!” She caught her friend's hand, placing it on her waist. “Baby!”
Marta's eyes glistened and she hugged Susannah.
Ivar returned from loading the wagon. “The Hansens half toâ”
Susannah shook her head at Marta. Ivar had been in such a foul mood since Jesse left, she couldn't guess how he'd take this news. But Marta missed her cue and revealed the secret. Well, as fast as this baby was growing, the whole territory would know soon.
Ivar lifted Susannah in a bear hug, then set her down gently. “Jesse. Dear Godâ”
Marta pressed fingertips to his mouth.
“You were alone last week. What if something goes bad, like before? What's the name of that doctor? I half to get you to Fargo.”
“Ivar.”
He stomped around the shack, boots echoing off the plank walls. “I do not know how those men in Utah stand it, halfing more than one woman to worry about.”
“Ivar, I am not your second wife and you are not to worry about me.” Three days of teaching had developed her command voice. “I am an adult. I will take care of myself.”
“What ifâ”
“What if I die?” Susannah completed his thought. “I'd rather be out on the claim, in my own home, than in some town where I don't know anyone except that pitiful excuse for a doctor.” She looked down at her hands. “I'd give anything for a healthy baby, including seeing that charlatan if I thought it would help. But even the best doctor in the States can't do much for me or this baby. It's up to God.”
Marta gave her another hug.
“Stubborn enough to be Norwegian.” Ivar glared at her. “Try to stay out of trouble this week.”
Dear Jesus, keep Susannah company. Don't
let her be alone or want for anything.
M
rs. Mason!” Mrs. Rose burst into the school as the children were dismissed. “You have mail from Bismarck, but it's not from Mr. Mason.”
