Spring for Susannah (4 page)

“Do you know how?” He twisted the dish towel. “I mean, you probably had a cook.”

“She quit at the beginning of the War. I can prepare meals.”

“Well, supper's about ready. You can start tomorrow. Here's the fixin's: baking powder, cinnamon, cocoa, salt, and—” His brain gave out. “Sally Ann, the other salty stuff.”

“Sodium bicarbonate? Saleratus?”

“Yep, that's it.” He tried to focus. “Next shelf: coffee grinder, mixing bowl, colander, cook pot. There's salt pork in the barrel, molasses in the firkin, cornmeal in the sack, and that bag hanging from the ceiling is a side of bacon. Root cellar in the back corner. Guess it's not as fancy as you're used to.”

“It's fine.” She nodded at the shelves. “We never kept much food in the house.”

“What was your pa's rank?”

“Sergeant Major.”

“Seventy-five dollars a month.”

“No, it wasn't—” She stopped suddenly and bit her lip as if she'd said something inappropriate.

“Seventy-five. I was paymaster for a time. From the shock on your face, I'd guess not much of that made it home.”

“It was just Mother and me. We didn't need much.”

“You're not used to fancy living. Reckon that's a good thing for being out here.” He served the side pork and biscuits. “We'll use your trunk as a chair for now.”

Susannah perched on the edge and looked around. “You don't have room for more furniture.” She stopped and gave him a nervous look. “Sorry.”

Well, she was right. Jesse had never really noticed how small the place was; now he bumped her legs when he settled on the stool.

He reached across the table and she shrank back.
Patience,
he told himself. “In my family, we hold hands when we ask blessing.”

Susannah hesitated and then at last extended a hand in his direction. He caught hold of her cold fingers. “Thank You, Lord, for answering my prayer for a wife, for bringing Susannah home safe, and for this food. Amen.”

She pulled away and stared down at her plate, avoiding his eyes.

Now what? When he'd thought about taking a wife, he imagined they'd have enough to say to each other that they wouldn't run out of words until 1875 or so. Instead, here she was, silent as a stone, and he had to carry the conversation. “Got to get back to the wheat in the morning.”

She picked at her food. “What do you want me to do?”

“Whatever you'd be doing back in the States.”

“Laundry.”

She must have gotten a whiff of the mess under the bed. “Diving right in to heavy work. I haven't had time to wash in ages. It'll probably take a couple days. I'll fill the tub in the morning.”

That gave him an idea. He straightened and grinned. “I know what you'd like after all that train riding—a bath!”

She choked. “Heating the water's so much trouble—”

“Not at all. You saw that black barrel on the roof? The sun does the work. It's great!” He brought in the washtub, set it under the pipe running down the back wall, and pulled the bung. Water gurgled into the tub. “I built this out of stuff the railroad threw away. Hop in and enjoy!”

She stared at her half-eaten food and didn't move.

Jesse could have kicked himself. Did he expect Susannah to drop her drawers right here and now? He was an idiot. “I'll go check the oxen,” he said. “Yell when you're done.”

The door slammed behind him.

Susannah stared at the tub. Actually, she'd love a bath but wasn't about to bathe in front of him. No one had seen her undressed since she learned to wash herself at the age of four. She glanced at the dusty windows but saw only the reflection of the lantern's flame. She'd have to make curtains as soon as possible.

She dimmed the wick, dropped her clothes, and folded herself into the tub with a sigh. The unscented soap lifted away the sticky layer of perspiration and coal dust, and the warm water helped take the knots out of her sore, tense muscles. For a while she drifted, and her memory brought up an image of Ellen Mason's boy, racing around the kitchen table, dripping wet and giggling. His equally naked little brother toddled after him. Ellen chased the little ones and ordered the girls out of the bathtub.

This girl needed to get out of the tub too. Before
he
returned.

She stood and squeezed the water from her hair. Since she'd started wearing it up half a lifetime ago, no man had seen it loose. Not that it was much to see—dirt brown, with enough wave to keep it from being silky, but not enough curl to hold a style without a dozen hairpins. She slipped on her muslin nightdress, tied the ribbons at her neck, wrapped a shawl around her shoulders.

At the door, she hesitated. She had written “Dear Mr. Mason” on her two letters, but that greeting sounded even more stilted aloud. Using his first name seemed presumptuous. Finally she announced, “I'm done.” He bounded in from the direction of the stable.

“You smell sweet as an apple blossom.”

She wove her fingers through the fringe of the shawl. “I feel cleaner. Thank you.”

“Water's still warm. I'll take one too.”

“I'll wait outside.”

“No. Your wet hair will call all the mosquitoes in the territory.” He shut the door, closing off her escape. “Susannah, I'm your husband,” he said in a low voice. The lamp flame cast deep shadows on the planes of his face. He unbuttoned his shirt.

Susannah sank onto the stool with her back to him and brushed her hair. Two splashes. He must be in the tub. She needed to think about something, something besides the fact that a man was bathing in the same room. Her head bobbed, heavy and dull, unable to catch thoughts hovering at the edge of the light.

“Let me help you.”

Susannah jerked upright and stared at this stranger who was her husband. She must have dozed. He was done with his bath and stood over her wearing only a nightshirt.

What did he want? To consummate the marriage, of course. It was to be expected. She had hoped fatigue would dull her senses for the procedure, but his touch affected her in the opposite direction.

“You were asleep! Susannah, you're all played out.” He took the brush and worked at the tangles. “What a week you've had, leaving your old stompin' ground, riding the train a thousand miles, getting married, new home. It's enough to—”

He stopped and raised the wick in the lamp. “What's this?”

“Nothing.” She covered her neck with her shaking hands.

“Looks like someone tried to strangle you.” He pried her fingers away. His face darkened. “What happened? Who did this?”

Her heart gave a feeble flop, and a chill frosted her all the way to her bones. She should have explained, should have told him when she first got off the train.

Through her fingers, she watched him take two steps to the door, turn, and pace back, clenching his fists and exhaling with each step, a bull in a stall. At last he sat on the trunk, scowling out the window. Susannah remained frozen in place. A sign from the Wells Fargo shipping office hung in her mind: “Damaged Goods Returned upon Receipt.” He had every right to put her out right now, in the dark of night. After several minutes, he gave a deep sigh and crossed the room. With an unsteady breath, he went down on one knee beside her.

“Tell me.”

Air caught in her chest. She choked out, “He said he was from the bank. He said Father owed money, a dreadful amount. Unless I—” She couldn't say it. She couldn't think it, even. “He grabbed the yoke of my apron. I fainted. Ellen struck him with the fireplace poker and he ran away.”

“My sister-in-law was your guardian angel? Did he . . . hurt you . . . anywhere else?”

“No.” She was crying in earnest now. Where was her handkerchief? “It's my fault. I didn't lock the door when I brought in the mail.”

“Only one person's to blame. And you're not him.” He wiped her tears away with a work-calloused thumb.

“I'm so sorry. All I've brought you is a ruined reputation.”

“Reputation? Who's out here to gossip? I found a fresh start here and you will too.”

“He threatened me. The Reverend said it wasn't safe to stay in Detroit.”

“So that's why you came out here so suddenly.” He squeezed her hand again and gave her a crooked grin. “I thought it was all those fancy letters I wrote.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Stop apologizing. I'm glad I know. Explains why you're so skittish.” He exhaled heavily. “Susannah, you're my wife. God put you in my care. I would never hurt you. And I'm not going to rush you into something you don't want. You let me know when you're ready.”

Was he offering a reprieve or looking for a way to send her back? She pulled in a breath. “Best just get it over with.”

“Susannah, Susannah.” His words came out soft and slow. “It's not a tooth-pulling.”

“There's only one bed.”

“I'll build you a fence.” He made a barrier with a quilt, then steered her to the bed. “Get some sleep now,” he whispered. “I've got to . . . check the oxen.”

Dirt walls. Dakota Territory. Her . . . husband, Jesse, snored inches away on the other side of the rolled quilt. He hadn't woken her, and neither had the nightmares. Maybe the doctor had been right, the change of scenery would do her good. This marriage, on the other hand . . .

Sunrise showed a house about the size of her parents' parlor, dug into the hillside and finished with sod bricks. Loosely woven branches webbed with the roots of prairie grass formed the ceiling. She bit her lip. Best not to look up there. It was probably home to several dozen species of insects and spiders.

Susannah had never shared a bedroom, much less a bed, with anyone. What was proper: to arise and start breakfast or wait for him to wake up? Mother always dressed before leaving her room. The way Susannah's luck ran, he would rouse while she was changing. If she slid forward—

The rhythmic breathing ended with a snort and the mattress shifted, setting off an odd vibration in her midriff.

“Good morning, Mrs. Mason.” Propped up on one elbow, he peered over her shoulder. “You have a line of freckles running just below your eyelashes and across your nose.”

She pulled the corner of the sheet up to her shoulders. “I should have worn a sunbonnet yesterday.”

“Susannah.”

Here it comes
. She braced.

“Guess I acted like a big galoot last night. I'd been praying for your safety on the trip, never thinking anyone would assault you in your own home. Scum, attacking a helpless woman. I should have gone back east to get you, if I could have sprung for train fare.” His fingers curled into a powerful fist.

“There's nothing you can do; best to put it out of your mind.” She clung to the bed frame to keep from sliding closer.

“No, I don't suppose there's anything I can do about him.” He opened his hand and laid it on her hip. “The question is, what can I do about you?” He gave her a little shake, breaking her stiffness.

“I don't know.” Was he considering sending her back and wanted her to broach the subject?

He flung off the quilts and clambered over the footboard. His arms spanned the width of the bed when he stretched. This was the first time she had seen him in daylight without a hat. Dark copper waves rambled back from his broad forehead and straggled around his ears.

“You have red hair,” she blurted out. The words came out blunt and harsh, in her mother's critical tone. “Uh, I mean—red hair is fine. It's handsome.”

“Hope our children look like you.” With a grin, he slid his feet into moccasins and headed out. “Be right back.”

“You're going outside in your nightshirt?”

“Don't tell anybody.” He winked.

Susannah raced into her navy calico. As she fastened her boots, the moccasins reappeared in the doorway. And stayed.

“Forgive me for staring, but you—you're like a bur oak in a field of big bluestem. A much welcome sight.”