Spring for Susannah (38 page)

Susannah suspected the Reverend referred to the grasshoppers and Jesse's departure, but she applied his story differently. Her veterinary training, a liability in Detroit, became an asset on the frontier. She'd spoken more French with Sees-the-Tatanka than she had since graduation. She'd played her violin in church. “Yes. Dakota requires everything of you—all your talents, all your skills, all your knowledge.” Would the Reverend be up to such a difficult life?

Jake returned. The minister inched forward, keeping his distance. The wind ruffled his peculiar whiskers, reminiscent of a goat's beard. Perhaps it hid a goiter or a prominent Adam's apple. “This country—”

“Awe inspiring, isn't it? In Detroit, between buildings, trees, and smoke, I never saw the sky.” She tipped her head back. “It's more beautiful than anything man-made. Sometimes there's lightning like the world's coming to an end, clouds like marble castles, and the stars! It's amazing, Reverend, just amazing.”

He gave her a relaxed, almost boyish smile. “My friends call me J.W.”

“Call me Susannah.” The wagon bumped over a dry creek bed. She braced against the footboard.

“Last night we spoke of the inhabitants of Worthington. This morning I've droned on about myself. Now I'd like to hear about you.”

“Our claim starts about here. This is our wheat field, the firebreak—” An animal moved through the tall grass. “That's not a deer, it's a horse!” A dun-colored pony grazed northeast of the soddy. Pulse racing, Susannah snapped the reins.
Please, Lord, let it
be Jesse, let him be home
.

Susannah halted the oxen by the creek. Piles of hay, Mr. Reece's contribution, loomed behind the stable. Magnar had stacked firewood in front. Otherwise the homestead appeared unchanged.

“Jake.” Susannah made a circular motion, sending the dog on a reconnaissance of the yard. Reverend Webb marched up and knocked. The door remained closed with the latch string pulled in. One of the curtains was missing, so Susannah cupped a hand around her face and leaned against the glass. The white fabric lay on the table, but the rest of the room was lost in shadows.

“Hello!” she called. “I don't mind your using my house, but I hope you'll let us come in and warm up.”

The door opened a crack, and with a flash of bright red hair a young woman peered out. “You're Susannah?” She pointed to the weathered note tacked to the jamb.

“Yes. And this is Jake.” The dog pushed past to check out the house. No one could hide from his nose.

“That's Jesse?” The woman nodded at the minister.

The Reverend introduced himself, balancing the laundry bundle under one arm. “May we come in? This wind is mighty fierce.”

The woman opened the door wider, then eased onto the stool. She moved carefully, as if recovering from an injury. Jake returned to Susannah's side, his inspection complete.

“Moving will warm you up.” Susannah handed the coffee grinder to the shivering minister, then adjusted the stovepipe damper and set water on to heat. She turned to the woman. “I'm sorry I wasn't here when you arrived.”

“I don't mind.” She resumed stitching the curtain. Something was amiss; the woman still had not introduced herself.

“I don't recall seeing you before. Do you live around here?”

“Other side of the river a bit.”

“What store do you use?” Not the Worthington one, or Mrs. Rose would have told her all about this lady.

“Haven't done much shopping lately, on account of the grasshoppers.”

“What brings you out this way?”

“I was heading for Fargo when my pony tuckered out.”

“I'll have a look at him after I start the washing.” Susannah leaned closer. “What are you working on?”

“I hope you don't mind.” She held up the curtain. “I stitched the grasshopper holes into a design using white work. My husband never let me do fancy—” She pressed her lips together.

“You're Betsy Stapleton of Jamestown.”

The woman jerked as if she'd been shot.

“Your husband took out an advertisement for you in the Fargo paper.”

“Oh no.” Betsy seemed to shrink within herself.

Susannah softened her voice. “I remember the ad, because I'm in a similar situation as Mr. Stapleton.”

The woman flashed a skeptical glance. “Your husband ran off?”

“Not exactly, but I don't know where he is or when he'll return.” Susannah paced the room, stopping to trace the carving on the mirror stand, his gift on their first and only Christmas together. “Not a day, not an hour goes by that I don't think of him, wondering if he's all right, if he's alive. I can't tell you how bad it hurts.” Susannah faced the woman with her tears. “Do you suppose your husband is in such pain?”

Reverend Webb recovered his pastoral self. “‘What God has joined together, let no man put asunder,'” he quoted. “‘Wives, submit to your husband as to the Lord.'” He looked down his nose at her. “Jamestown is one of my preaching points, so it is both my duty and my joy to effect a reconciliation between you and your husband. I would be honored to escort you home this week.”

“I can't go back.”

“With God, all things are possible.”

“Possible, yes. A good idea, no.” Betsy turned her back and began to unfasten the top buttons of her dress.

“Mrs. Stapleton!” Reverend Webb gasped and averted his eyes. For someone who had been in the circus and on the boxing circuit, Susannah thought, the man shocked easily.

The morning sunlight lit Betsy's shoulders and revealed her flesh striped with angry red welts and half-healed bruises in shades of purple and yellow.

“Reverend,” Susannah said, “you need to see this.”

Against his will he looked, then turned a shade of green that was attractive only on celery.

“Why don't you go check the oxen?”

He bolted out before Susannah took her next breath. She eased the collar back around Betsy's neck. “Your husband—” she began, then stopped herself. Any man who would do this didn't deserve the title of
husband
. “Mr. Stapleton did this?”

Closing her eyes, Betsy nodded.

“Let's get you cleaned up, make sure there's no infection.”

“Please don't trouble yourself. All I ask is that you don't tell William you've seen me.”

“Of course not.” Susannah opened her trunk. Why would anyone do this to another human being, someone they pledged to love?

“What about that distinguished minister of yours?”

“I'd say you've given him quite the education today.” Susannah set the washbasin and clean rags on the table with a bottle of isopropyl alcohol and a jar of ointment. “He's probably run off, trying to catch the next eastbound train.”

“I scared him that bad?”

“You and the whole uncivilized territory.” Susannah poured the warm water into the basin. What Stapleton had done to Betsy was wrong. Inexcusable. “Have a seat. How far down—?”

Betsy looked Susannah straight in the eye. “You really are going to help me.” Tension ebbed from her face, leaving a childlike openness. “Every place covered by clothes.”

Susannah bit her lip to keep from crying. “How long—?”

“Awhile. A good long while. We got married when he came home from the War.” Betsy loosened the ties of her blood-flecked chemise. Bruises, welts, and burns covered her torso and arms. She continued in a matter-of-fact tone. “After the War, he seemed all right, telling me how clean and quiet the house was after living in an army camp. He didn't talk much, said the War was over and he had nothing to say about it. We moved to Chicago. For a better job, he said, but sometimes I think he wanted to get away from the other soldiers who'd been in his unit.”

Susannah wrung out the cloth. Jesse had been a soldier too, but he never hit her, never touched her in anger. “I've got to wet your chemise. It's scabbed to your back.”

“Go ahead, whatever needs to be done.” Betsy turned her face away. “At first he enjoyed his work, making deliveries all over the city. Then there were days when he'd sit and stare, like he was in a whole different world, a horrible world. The foreman told him not to come back, seeing as how he wasn't showing up for work more than once a week. That was the first time. He smashed the furniture and me. Next morning he was sweeter than Christmas candy. Said the city made him crazy, so we left the States and took up a homestead.”

The alcohol bottle shook in Susannah's hands. “This might sting.”

The young woman inhaled through her teeth but motioned for Susannah to continue. “Last year didn't go too bad. He'd slap me every once in a while if dinner wasn't quite to his liking or some such. Then the nightmares started. Like he was fighting the War all over again. I made the mistake of buying him whiskey, thinking he'd sleep through the night. Made him worse than ever.”

Susannah warmed the ointment in the hot water and spread it with a feather. Even if Betsy had been the worst cook in the world, she didn't deserve this.

Betsy pulled on her chemise and bodice and stepped out of her skirt and petticoats. “He said I deserved it because I wouldn't give him children. I didn't do anything to stop them, they just never came. Now I'm glad. Probably wouldn't have gotten away with a baby hanging on me.”

“Doesn't sound like he'd be a good father.” As opposed to Jesse, who would be a terrific father and had never raised a hand against her. Working her way down Betsy's legs, Susannah blinked back tears. No one deserved this. No one.

“Do you have family, somewhere to go? Of course, you can stay here as long as you need to. It's nothing fancy, but—”

“No, it's a wonderful. Your spring, your garden, all those acres broke. Thank you, I'd like to stay a bit.” She inched her stockings up.

“I could leave Jake here to keep you company.”
To guard you.

“He's so attached to you.” She shook her head. “I have an aunt in St. Paul, but I'd rather be sure of my welcome before I show up.”

“I can take your letter when I go back to Worthington.”

“I'd appreciate that.” Betsy stood and stretched. Her green eyes glowed beneath long auburn lashes. “That's much better, body and soul. It's like a big rock rolled off me. Thank you.”

“I'd better check on your pony and bring in the Reverend before he turns into an icicle.” Susannah carried the basin of bloody water to the door. “Betsy, no matter what you've done or not done, you didn't deserve this kind of treatment. No one does. He was wrong. The guilt is all his. You're not to blame.”

Hadn't Jesse said something like that to Susannah, about the banker?

Betsy was not to blame.

And neither was she.

Chapter 29

Jesus, why am I here?

T
he students had left for the day, so Susannah opened the door to sweep.

“Mrs. Mason!” Donald McFadgen headed straight for the school. “I've a present for you.”

A flash of alarm streaked through her. What if the hotelier, like Abner Reece, intended to court her?

He hefted a huge burlap sack onto the doorstep, then opened it, revealing a dark orange globe more than two feet in diameter.

“A pumpkin!”

“I believe you Americans have Thanksgiving next week.”

“You're a remarkable gardener. Will this make the newspaper, like your four-and-a-half-pound cucumber?”

“The publisher was afraid these Irish had rubbed off on me, so I had to send that particular vegetable to the paper. No, Fargo isn't sinking its teeth into this little beauty. It's for you.”

“Why, thank you.” Susannah grabbed the stem and tipped the pumpkin toward her to estimate its weight, then ran her hands over it. Its smooth skin glistened in the amber light of the setting sun. Unblemished, no soft spots, flesh firm. “If only I had my pie plates.”

“Surely, back at the homestead—”

“I wouldn't want to chance freezing this fine specimen.”

“You're welcome to the loan of a pie plate.”

“That's very kind of you, but I'd also need a rolling pin, spices—”

“I've got everything you'd need, but—” He peered around her, taking in the two-lid stove and army box. “Mrs. Mason, it would be the utmost in foolishness for you to attempt baking in this make-do outfit when I've got a fully equipped kitchen so close.”

Susannah glanced at the second-floor window above the store. Lamplight silhouetted a bobbing head at the end of a long neck. Mr. McFadgen followed her gaze. He waved and yelled, “Good evening, dearie.” Mrs. Rose vanished.

“Morrison's over. You'll be chaperoned. Those of us who know Jesse wish nothing but good for you.”

Susannah returned his smile. “Let's make some pies.”

Jake dashed along with them through drifts of leaves to the house. The windows glowed warmly in the frosty twilight.

“I've never been in a log cabin before.”

“You're better off in a soddy. Cottonwood logs warp something fierce. I'm forever chinking, yet have more snow to shovel inside than out.”

She smiled at the exaggeration. “Are you certain the Irish haven't rubbed off on you?”

“Mrs. Mason!” He grinned in return and pushed open the door. Susannah followed Jake in. The dog found plenty of interesting smells. Stacks of pelts in various stages of processing lined the walls. The odor of furs mingled with the distinct aroma of corned beef and cabbage. Susannah said a quick prayer of thanks that her pregnancy had progressed beyond the early sour-stomach stage.

Triplets of “The Irish Washerwoman” danced in the air.

“Lad. Did I not ask you to tidy up? And change the tune, before Mrs. Mason thinks you're asking her to do laundry.”

A curly-haired musician, the man who'd played the uilleann pipes at the baby's funeral, stood beside the stove. “Sure and I did clean. There's enough space in here to hold a dance.”