Spring for Susannah (42 page)

After the meal, Disa produced a basket of yarn. “I fix teacher mittens.”

Susannah reached into her pockets and brought out her gloves and the mail. Good manners dictated that letters be read aloud or saved for when one was alone, but the rule couldn't possibly apply to this situation. Mrs. Hansen pumped away on the sewing machine. Sissel dried the dishes. The men had left for evening chores. And the next moment Susannah was alone, she'd drop off to sleep. She settled little Rolf on her lap and opened the first envelope.

It was from Reverend Webb. He had been unable to locate Susannah's or Betsy's husband in Jamestown, but would continue to search on his next visit. The village on the James River was populated with approximately two hundred souls, many employed at the fort, and all in need of clerical care. God willing, he would leave for Bismarck in the morning. He promised to inquire about Jesse, and he looked forward to seeing her on his return trip.

The next was from Ann Arbor. Reverend Mason had received a letter from a minister in the territory, one John W. Webb. Her brother-in-law expressed distress that Susannah had been reduced to teaching school in a shanty to a gang of ruffians, half of whom were heathen foreigners. She carried a gun and kept a wolf. She was in a “delicate condition” and her diet consisted entirely of potatoes. The Mason homestead, little more than an animal den, housed a woman of questionable reputation. Jesse had apparently taken leave of his senses and abandoned her. Correspondence had been initiated with the War Department; military action in the Black Hills was not expected until spring. She must remove herself from these unfavorable conditions at once, by the next train.

Heathen foreigners? Susannah glanced around the room at the loving Hansen family. Reverend Webb showed a melodramatic bent.

“Teacher?” Rolf held up three train tickets.

Susannah spread them on the table. Fourth Siding to St. Paul, St. Paul to Chicago, Chicago to Ann Arbor.

Magnar and Mr. Hansen returned on a gust of snow flurries. The tickets spun out of Susannah's reach, twirled around the room, and landed by Magnar's boots. He picked them up. His face creased into a frown as he looked from the tickets to Susannah.

“Uncle say you go train?”

Every eye in the house stared at her. She studied the plane marks on the table. Real doctors and pharmacies, coal heat, gas lights. But what if Jesse came home and she wasn't here? “I don't know.”

Norwegian fireworks erupted with a cacophony of discussion and argument.

Sissel provided the blow-by-blow interpretation. “Uncle says you are needed here, to teach and doctor horses.
Far
says you cannot stay.
Mor
says you have baby and no husband. How? You need husband to make baby.
Mor
says it is late. You sleep in my bed.”

Sissel sat next to her. “Teacher, don't go.” The rest of the children echoed her cry.

Magnar disappeared into the east alcove, jerking the curtain closed. The sound wasn't as loud as a slamming door, but the emotion came through. Why was he angry? Susannah kept her head down, careful not to make eye contact with either of the parents.

Mrs. Hansen swept the children off to bed.

Susannah pulled her washed and mended nightgown over her long underwear, then climbed in beside Sissel. What was she going to do? But as always, it seemed the decision had been made for her: she would return to civilization, stay with Matt and Ellen until the baby arrived, and hope the army would have some information about Jesse by then. The oxen and chickens were already here at the Hansens. The children adored Jake. Betsy would take the homestead. It was all settled.

But how could she move farther away from Jesse? It would be like giving up.

The stove door squeaked. A log thudded onto the coals. Nightshirt flapping around his long johns, Magnar approached the bed and motioned her to the window. “Come.”

“I'm in my nightgown,” she whispered. If he wasn't careful, he'd wake his nieces with his unseemly behavior.

“Come.”

“Well, all right, you saw it this morning.” She sidestepped around the trundle bed.

He exhaled on the middle pane and wiped it with his cuff. She didn't have to look; the glow of the night told the story. The snows had begun.

“Su-sah-nah stay.” He smiled.

When Jesse woke, a pair of moccasins sat beside his head with socks tucked inside.

Misun's little sister giggled. Jesse winked at her and she giggled some more. He pulled on the socks and thanked God he hadn't lost a toe or two. Then he opened the flap.

The draw was knee-deep in snow. Moccasins or no moccasins, he wasn't going anywhere. Perhaps for a very long time.

Chapter 31

Tell Susannah I love her, and . . . I'm sorry.

Y
ou're getting the fabric wet,” Betsy observed from the stove where she heated glue.

“Silly. I don't know what's wrong with me.” Susannah wiped her eyes with Jesse's red bandanna. Magnar had hitched up his sleigh and returned her to the homestead. She had Betsy for company. And she had the baby.

There was much to be thankful for, she knew, and yet she was barely hanging on. Constant prayer was the only thing that kept her from falling apart completely.

“My aunt boo-hooed through all eight of her confinements. I'll fix you a cup of tea.” Betsy filled the tin coffeepot from the pail of melting snow on the stove. “If it bothers you so much to cut that up—”

On the table lay Jesse's disassembled shirt. Using a dress of Sara's for a pattern, Susannah was sewing a layette from Jesse's old clothes.

“No. The fabric's still good, soft from all the washings. I just feel sorry for the baby.” She stroked her melon-shaped abdomen. “His mother can't afford new fabric for his clothes. And without a father—”

“I expect that will change soon.” Betsy filled the tea ball with leaves. The ball and curling iron were the only household implements Betsy had taken from her old home; William didn't drink tea and his hair curled on its own. “The only question is, who will the lucky bridegroom be? You pick one and I'll take the other.”

“Ridiculous thing for two married women to discuss.”

“Don't tell me you haven't thought of it.” Using a chicken feather, Betsy applied glue to the mortise and tenon, then pushed the joint back together. “When your husband smashes furniture, you learn to make repairs.”

Susannah snipped the knot and pulled out the thread holding the sleeve together. “After what you went through, I'm surprised you're not shy of men.”

“On the contrary, dear Susannah,” Betsy said with a sweeping gesture. “I'm ready to show the world what an excellent wife I really am. Prove my snake-in-the-grass husband wrong. I'm ready for someone who will cherish me, tell me I'm pretty, treat me like a lady. I want someone to look in my eyes and say I'm the best thing that ever happened to him. I'm ready for love, fairy-tale, happily-ever-after love.” She went quiet for a moment, staring off into her dream world.

Could Betsy find a beloved? Someone like Jesse, who would treat her tenderly, gently, hold her through the night? Another tear made a dark circle on the cotton.

“Now, who would make the best husband?” Betsy asked. “The Reverend or that Norwegian bachelor?”

“Can't imagine.” Susannah didn't want to imagine anyone other than Jesse walking through the door. “Dear Lord, please bring Jesse home.”

“Amen.” Betsy poured the tea. “Susannah, you're a beautiful lady, one of those enviable women who looks radiant when she's expecting. You're a survivor, fighting off that banker in Detroit. Hey, I read in the St. Paul paper that some guy posed as an insurance agent to procure young girls. Wonder if it was the same fellow.”

Telling her story to Betsy last week had drained Susannah, but it was a good fatigue, as if she had tackled some particularly onerous spring-cleaning chore and defeated it.

Betsy continued. “You're intelligent. You know everything about the Bible. No wonder Reverend Webb's interested. Married to you, he'll never have to open his concordance.”

Susannah spoke slowly, basting her thoughts together. “If it hadn't been for Jesse, no man would have looked at me twice. I don't mean just geography, bringing me out to empty Dakota. His love made me feel free to let other people know me. Because Jesse loves me, even though he knows me, I grew to believe in God's love for me.” She hid her face in the steam rising from the mug. “I'm sounding moonstruck.”

“All you talk about is Jesse,” Betsy said. “No living husband can compete with a departed saint.”

“I wish we'd had our picture taken when we were in Fargo. I'm starting to forget how he looked.”

“Your baby needs a father. So, who—”

“Shh.” Susannah lifted her head. Last night the ridge west of the soddy had echoed with two yips and a long howl. “That coyote's trying for a chicken dinner.” She grabbed the shotgun and slipped out to the gray dusk. Icy wind pelted her with tiny beads of snow, but she didn't have time to put on her coat.

By the corner of the stable, Jake and a coyote circled and growled. The wild dog stood a few inches taller but thinner than the elkhound.

“Jake, come!” Susannah could not get a clear shot unless the two separated. Instead they lunged. In the writhing mass of legs, teeth, and fur, Susannah couldn't tell which animal had the upper hand. Jake went under the coyote, reaching for the throat. The wild animal snapped at the dog's withers, twisting away with a mouthful of gray fur.

Susannah wished she had a rifle, but the shotgun was the best she could do. She aimed over them and pulled the trigger. The gun's report had no effect on the two fighters. Now she had only one shot left and her eyes watered from black powder smoke. Blood flecked the snow. Which animal?

“Hold your fire!” A blur passed on her left. Dashing into the fray, Betsy doused the animals with a bucket of melted snow. The coyote rolled off, shaking his head, backing up. Betsy flung the bucket and he skittered away. Jake regained his legs. Betsy grabbed the scruff of his neck. Scrabbling after the intruder, the dog yanked her off her feet. She hit the snow still holding on. “Oof!”

Susannah fired her last shell at the retreating coyote. A sideways jump interrupted his stride. He had run too far out of range for the shot to penetrate his winter coat.

“Are you all right? You could have been bitten.” Susannah helped Betsy to her feet, then ran her hands over Jake. No blood; the coyote had missed.

The dog shook himself, spraying them with ice droplets.

“The only thing wrong with me is I smell like wet dog. Ugh.” Betsy retrieved the bucket and the brass shells, then peeked into the shed. “You chickens go back to laying. Susannah's on guard. Let's go in; it must be ten below out here.”

“That was the most courageous—”

“No braver than marrying a man you've never met, talking French to a wild Indian, or facing down a herd of bachelors in rut.” Grinning, Betsy raised their joined hands. “Bravest women in the West!”

Susannah held the gun overhead. “Thanks be to God, yes, we are!”

“I hear sleigh bells!” Betsy danced around Susannah. “Let me take a look at you. Your wrapper is marvelous, thanks to my skill with the crochet hook. Now, don't smash your curls under your scarf.”

“And waste a sleepless night with my hair in rags?” Rubbing a porthole in the frosty window, Susannah glimpsed the Hansens' wagon, its wheels replaced by runners. She loosened the bow and strings of her violin and closed the case. “Are you packed? Can't let the horse wait in this cold. Cookies, presents, dog—”

Magnar burst through the door, gathering both women in a hearty embrace. Icicles hung from his beard and mustache. He smelled fresh, like the air after a storm.
“Gledelig Jul!”

“Merry Christmas to you!” Betsy winked at Susannah. “No wonder you weren't interested in the preacher. Look at the shoulders on this one!”