Spring for Susannah (39 page)

“If you're a leprechaun.” Mr. McFadgen turned to Susannah. “Mrs. Mason, may I present John Morrison.”

“Happy St. Patrick's Day.” He bowed over his tin whistle.

“Closer to Bobby Burns' birthday.” The hotelier hung Susannah's coat on a peg as his partner started a new tune. “Now, which spices will you be needing?”

Like the pumpkin, the kitchen was on a grand scale, a holdover from the days of serving as a restaurant for the tent hotel. With Mr. McFadgen's eager help, Susannah soon had three pies in the oven.

She stepped back from the table and wiped her hands dry. “Mr. McFadgen, I believe I've been hornswoggled.”

“Pardon me, Mrs. Mason, but I'm not familiar with that particular American word.” His face shone with an expression she had seen on her students when they completed an exceptionally difficult computation.

“Bamboozled, tricked.” She crossed her arms. “You brought me over here to teach you how to make pumpkin pie.”

“Well, you are the teacher.” He grinned so hard the corners of his mouth nearly reached his ears. “As an apology, please accept an invitation to supper.”

Susannah accepted gladly; her stomach had been anticipating the meal since she arrived.

After gulping down his portion, Morrison returned to his whistle. “Any requests?”

“Aye. Peace and quiet.” Mr. McFadgen cleared the table.

“Do you know ‘Monymusk'?” Susannah asked.

“Sure and it's a fine Irish tune.”

“Nay, lad. 'Tis Scottish.”

“English,” Susannah stated.

“What?” The dueling pair gaped at her.

“Nothing like a little Anglo-Saxon interference to bring about Celtic unity.” She winked. Jesse had taught her well in the fine art of teasing. And oh, she missed him so much. She took her plate and set it in the dishpan.

“Now who's the hornswoggler?” Mr. McFadgen chuckled. “I will not impose cleaning chores on you, especially when I've a professional dishwasher in my employ.” He cast a fierce look at Morrison, still piping away. “Mrs. Mason, may I escort you and your lovely pastry back to school?”

“Please call me Susannah.” She pulled on her coat and clicked her tongue for Jake.

“Susannah. You share a name with one of the finest women to walk this earth, my mother. You must call me Mac, then.”

“Thanks for the fine evening, Mac.”

“Aye, lass, you were due for one.”

She stepped out and gasped in wonder. Bright spots bracketed the moon like celestial parentheses. “Look! Moondogs!”

“A sign from God.”

Textbooks said that moondogs were an optical illusion caused by light rays bending through temperature layers in the atmosphere, but Susannah didn't see why they couldn't be a sign from God too.

The hotelier strolled along, balancing the pie on one palm like a waiter. “I've been wanting to ask a favor of you. Jesse and I had a talk about faith awhile back. I put him off. Figured there was plenty of time when I'm an old man to consider the afterlife. But with the Norwegian baby dying and Jesse disappearing—ach, now I've upset you.”

“No more than usual.” Susannah blinked away a tear. Even through the evening's laughter, through the difficult days teaching, and especially through the long nights, grief held her heart. Like the wind, it never stopped, just came at her from different directions.

Mac opened the schoolhouse door for her and Jake, then set the pie on the stove. “If you've a moment, Susannah, would you stand in for Jesse and pray with me?”

Some word of encouragement would be appropriate here, but her throat closed. Every prayer she'd learned, every verse she'd memorized deserted her. But her heart knew, with certainty, that God existed, that He was present. She offered her gloved hands.

Mac clamped them between his mittens. “Well, God, sorry it's taken so long. Here I am. Not much of a life. Hope You can make something of it.” He sniffed and cleared his throat. “Now, about Your Jesse Mason. Could You send him back this way? We're missing him.”

He stopped. There was silence for a minute or two, then Mac whispered to Susannah, “I've no more to say.”

“In Jesus' name, amen.”

He pulled a well-worn linen napkin from his pocket to swab his tears. “Thank you, Susannah.”

Jesse should be here,
Susannah thought,
to harvest the seed he
planted.
“You might want to speak with Reverend Webb next time he comes through. Perhaps he could get you a Bible.”

“Jesse bought me one the year he worked the railroad. You know how tightfisted he is, must have a Scot back in his family tree. Him spending money on a Bible? I couldn't have been more surprised if Morrison stopped piping.” Mac's face glowed in the moonlight. “Yes, it's been a grand evening, lass.”

“Welcome to the family of God, Donald McFadgen.”
And welcome
back to Susannah Underhill Mason
.

A quartet of men rode into the draw with a deer they'd shot. The village turned out and worked like a well-oiled machine: boys caring for the horses, girls watching the babies, women preparing the meat and cleaning the hide.

Jesse's mouth watered as the smell of roasting meat spiraled among the tepees. He'd heard Indians lived on buffalo, but this village had been getting by on fish, waterfowl, or prairie chickens. They filled out the menu with corn, some sort of potato, and pumpkin prepared in ways he'd never imagined. Meat would taste good, real good. But one deer among fifteen tepees with an average of three people living in each? He'd better not count on it.

“Tatanka.” Misun's mother motioned for him to put away the grinding stones.

One of the hunters spotted Jesse and yelled. Quicker than a last breath, the men fenced his throat with knives. No civilized Indians here; these were warriors. Angry warriors.

Jesse turned his palms up, hoping they got the message of surrender. “Into your hands, Jesus—”

The name of God set off a debate never heard in any Sunday school. Jesse couldn't tell if they were for or against. Misun pushed into the circle, carrying the guitar and voicing his opinion. Jesse hoped they wouldn't kill him as the kid watched.

With a unison grunt of assent, the men stepped back. Jesse swiped a hand across his neck. No blood. Yet. Misun shoved the guitar into his hands.

Was he supposed to sing for his supper? No, sing for his life. His hands shook as he started “Jesus Loves Me” and nodded for Misun to join in. His voice was as shaky as his fingers. Chetan arrived and made it a trio.

When they finished, the Indian men looked at the short, round-headed brave with the leathery skin, apparently the judge and jury in these parts. Shorty studied Jesse, Misun, and Chetan without changing expression. Finally his head moved down half an inch. Misun smiled and started “Blessed Assurance.”

Jesse drew in a breath and joined him. Still alive. Alive was good. Alive meant a chance of going home. And playing guitar sure beat carrying water or grinding corn. He grinned and sang louder.

When the warriors moved away, Jesse sank on trembling knees to the cold ground. As the sun set, the temperature plunged. He drew closer to the communal fire and kept the music going until a gray-haired man brought out a drum. With a sigh of relief Jesse ceded the stage and returned to the tepee. Misun's mother slipped him a chunk of meat, then left to watch the singers and dancers.

He tossed more dung on the tepee's fire and propped his feet to thaw. Time was, Jesse didn't care if he lived or died. He knew where he was going and Who was waiting for him. But now he had Susannah to go home for.
Lord, show me the way
.

The sergeant poked her head into the tepee and threw a pile of water skins at him.

“Madam, I sense my recital was not up to your professional standards.”

Her only response was a threatening gesture he understood all too well.

Jesse loped to the creek, filled the skins, then looked up and gasped. The moon hung low on the horizon, circled by a thin white line with bright spots at three and nine o'clock. Could Susannah see the moon tonight? Did she remember watching the northern lights with him?

The Indians noticed too and stopped dancing. He wondered if moondogs had a special meaning in their religion. Maybe God telling them to let this white man go free.

Brown cottonwood leaves skittered between Worthington's cluster of buildings. Susannah filled two buckets at the pump, then headed back to the shack, empty at the end of the day. Evenings were a struggle. She caught herself listening for Jesse's voice, singing as he did when work was done. She ached to talk over her students with him, to feel his strong hands rub the back of her neck, to lie close to him and feel his warmth. But she couldn't dwell on it. Melancholy wasn't good for the baby.

Ahead of her, Jake raced off to intercept two men leaving the section house. The first, Donald McFadgen, was familiar, so the dog concentrated his efforts on the stranger. An army officer. Susannah groaned. Would he shut the school down just when her students had started to progress?

The man in the cavalry uniform bent for a closer look at the dog. “Fine-looking fellow.” Jake, intent on sniffing, circled. The officer followed, man and animal doing a dance in their efforts to investigate each other. “Yes, a lot to smell on me: horses, saddles, Autie's hounds.”

Autie?
Wasn't that the nickname of—

“Susannah.” Mac took a bucket from her. “May I present Lieutenant Tom Custer, Company L, United States Seventh Cavalry at Fort Abraham Lincoln. He's visiting his old war buddy, Mr. Flood. Mrs. Susannah Mason.”

His attention drawn from the dog at last, the officer snapped into a full salute. Susannah's breath caught. She'd seen numerous pictures of his celebrated brother, General George Armstrong Custer, especially during the War. Before her stood a variation on the theme of spare frame, fair skin, and prominent cheekbones.

His hair, light brown instead of his brother's famous strawberry blond, showed the distinctive Custer tendency to curl.

Recovering from the salute, he reached as if to shake her hand but grasped the bucket instead. Mac stepped forward to relieve him of the burden only to have the lieutenant take possession of both pails. He marched to the mail shack, setting them neatly on the threshold.

Susannah bit her lip. So. The army had found out about the school and sent the lieutenant to evict her. “I'm sorry, but the mail shack was vacant, and we have no other structure suitable for a school.”

Custer did a sharp about-face, turning his back to the building. “Mail shack? Don't believe I recall such a place.” Below the tilted brim of his campaign hat, a blue eye winked. “Is this your dog?”

Jake's nose traced the yellow line up the side of Custer's pants.

“Yes, I'm sorry. He's usually not so poorly mannered. Jake!” Susannah clapped her gloved hands. The dog sneezed on the lieutenant's polished riding boots, then reluctantly sidled to Susannah. At least he obeyed. He'd been cantankerous since their move to Worthington.

“Autie has thirty or forty dogs but none this well suited for Dakota. Could use one like him at Lincoln.”

“He's a Norwegian elkhound. Great for hunting, herding, and guarding. He sheds a lot, especially in the spring. Ivar Vold raises them on his homestead south of here.”

“I'd pay handsomely for first pick of the next litter.”

“I'll let him know.”

Mac cleared his throat. “If you're through swapping dog stories—”

Custer moved from “at ease” to “attention.” “Yes, madam. About your husband—”

Susannah glanced at Mac. “Mr. Mason didn't know about General Sheridan's order closing the Black Hills.”

The lieutenant took her hands in his. “I'm deeply sorry for your plight. Please understand, the army is doing everything in its power to protect the civilian population of the territory.”