Spring for Susannah (43 page)

“Betsy!” She blushed. “Please give him the last cup of coffee.”

“His dimples could cure frostbite.”

“Honestly. I'll hitch your pony, if you'll bank the fire. Where's the note for Jesse?”

“Dear heart. Do you really think he'll come home in winter?”

Susannah rubbed the silver band on her finger, holding last Christmas close. “I don't think anymore, just pray.”

“Jingle bells, jingle bells,” Betsy sang. “Come on, my friend, every soprano needs her alto.” She prodded Susannah with an elbow.

“Ha. I can't feel your pointy elbows through all these layers.” Susannah burrowed under the pile of blankets in the wagon box. “It's far too cold to sing.”

“Cold? It must be nearly 20 degrees, positively balmy, and sunny too.” Betsy flapped a mitten at the feeble sun.

From the driver's seat, Magnar started a song. He faced the wind without shivering, his ruddy cheeks the only indication of the low temperature.

“Ooh, he sings like an angel. Very smooth and on key. Imagine waking up every morning to that voice.”

“Jesse's a baritone.”

“Don't start getting all gushy-slushy on me. Tears will freeze on your face. The next song will be sung by the Sweet Springs Duet, on their first tour of Dakota Territory.”

“Why do I put up with her?” Susannah asked Jake, who lay panting at their feet.

“So you won't have to squeeze in with the neighbors. Although I wouldn't mind squeezing in with this one.” Betsy flashed a smile in Magnar's direction.

“You are incorrigible.”

“Me, incorrigible? Why, I didn't even finish school. Our turn. Jingle bells, jingle bells . . .”

Betsy's shaggy pony cantered behind them, his nostrils frosted, head bobbing. Seeming to enjoy his release from the confines of the shed, he kept the pace set by the longer-legged stallion.

The solstice sun, low in the pale sky, washed the snow with indigo shadows. The northwest wind polished away the lines of the runners, as if offended by marks other than its own. At some point the train tracks passed beneath them, unrecognizable in the drifts. The prairie stretched lifeless in all directions, except for a flock of birds circling on the northern horizon. The chirping sparrows were attracted to the sheaf of wheat fastened to the ridgepole of the Hansens' house.

“Gledelig Jul! God Jul!”

Susannah greeted the Hansens and the Volds and introduced Betsy. The Norwegians had not absorbed the American prohibition against mentioning pregnancy. Expressions of concern for her health mixed with comments on her shape and correlative speculation as to the gender of the child.

Betsy reassured them of the adequacy of their diet and divulged that the baby had begun to kick. To escape from their palpations, Susannah slid onto the bench at the candlelit table. She pulled Sara onto her lap and Rolf wiggled in next to her. Just as deliberately it seemed, Betsy positioned herself at Magnar's side.

Erik strode into the house, followed by John W. Webb. “Look!”

“Just in time to say blessing.” Sissel set another place.

“Bag any wayward husbands, Reverend?” Betsy asked.

“Not this trip.” He frowned at Susannah. “Why aren't you in Michigan?”

“In Norway we half peace on Christmas Eve.” Ivar helped him out of his coat. “You'll half to save your fight for another day.”

“There's a seat here, Reverend.” Betsy patted the bench to her right.

When the blessing was finished, Mrs. Hansen sent bowls of rice porridge down the table.

“We hide a nut in one to bring good luck for the next year.”

Betsy swirled her spoon through the preacher's bowl. “You don't need luck. You've got God.”

Susannah tensed for a sermon on the presence of God within each of us or a lecture on appropriate conduct for married women, but J.W. laughed, charmed out of his bad mood by Christmas personified in her green dress and red curls. The children had also dressed for the holiday in brightly patterned sweaters. Straw figures hung from the rafters, dancing on air.

Susannah asked Sissel, “Who made the decorations?”

“Disa. I wash house, wash people, make cookies.”

“Betsy and I baked too.”

“Cookies? How many?”

“Four different kinds.”

“And the ten
Mor
make is fourteen. We'll all have good luck this year.”

Erik pulled an almond from his bowl. “Look!” Had he learned only one word in four weeks of school?

“Apparently I'm sitting with the wrong man.” Betsy batted her lashes at the boy, sending giggles around the table.

Betsy had drawn all the men in the room into her orbit by the time Mrs. Hansen served the fish. When Susannah was in school, it seemed every year one girl developed an entourage through quick wit and a crystal-bell laugh. Susannah had coveted the part but never attained it. Twenty years and a thousand miles later, she accepted that the limelight would always belong to someone else. Tonight Betsy held the role, with all its attendant accolades.

“Would you like some help?” Susannah asked Rolf. She put her hands over his to cut the pork.

“You eat now.” Marta transferred Sara from Susannah to her husband.

“She needs to practice holding a squirmy baby during meals,” Ivar said.

Marta patted Susannah's belly. “No room.”

“Say, Susannah.” Ivar fed Sara a bite of his meat. “Magnar half a plan for you.”

“Oooh?” Betsy hooted. Susannah concentrated on serving mashed potatoes to Rolf and refused to look in her direction.

“It's about your yearlings. He half offer to buy them.”

“Splendid. You'll have money for train fare,” J.W. said.

Susannah wouldn't look at him either. “Buy? The Hansens have earned them after boarding them all winter.”

“He says you're paid up, because of—what's this about his horse?” Negotiations were postponed for the telling of the cougar story.

Now the attention swung her way and Susannah squirmed. “Please tell Magnar that Milking Devons are usually fertile, but the female of any twin set might be sterile. I've examined her, and—”

J.W. choked, turned red, and sprayed coffee down his white shirt. Betsy fussed over him, patting him on the back.

“I'd like to see your sewing job, Susannah.” Ivar stood. “Shall we wish the animals good yule?”

Herded by Jake, the entire group bundled up and trooped to the barn. Mr. Hansen raised the lantern, and Magnar parted the mare's winter coat so all could see the flat white lines of scar tissue. The Norwegians were unanimous in their praise of Susannah's work.

“Amazing . . . stitching on a live animal, in the dark and cold. All that blood,” Betsy whispered.

J.W. frowned. “How dreadful for a lady like yourself to be exposed to such—”

“Reverend, you're a bit green around the gills.” Betsy took his arm and led the group inside.

The preacher recovered quickly and read the Christmas story as they thawed with hot cocoa. Closing his Bible after the angels and shepherds, J.W. produced an envelope of peppermint sticks for the children. From Ellen's latest book box, Susannah handed out Norwegian-English dictionaries to the Hansens and Volds,
Little
Women
to Sissel, and picture books for the rest of the children. She gave Betsy a paper of needles and five spools of colored thread. She and Betsy had knitted J.W. a muffler and mittens in a clerical shade of medium blue. The Volds presented Susannah with a tin of cocoa; apparently Jesse had told them of her love of chocolate.

Magnar arranged the Hansen children around Susannah. What was he up to? And could she stop him from making a scene?

“Look!” Erik held up a pair of boots made of fur the color of clover honey.

“For teacher!”

“From the cougar!”

“Try them on!”

Magnar knelt by the bench, unlaced her worn black boots, and slid the new ones on. He tied the royal blue braiding just below her knees. Susannah pressed her petticoats down in a futile attempt to maintain modesty.

“Doesn't this remind you of Cinderella and the prince, Reverend?” Betsy asked. “Will Susannah turn into a princess?”

“A Norwegian,” Ivar suggested with a sly grin.

“A woman with warm feet,” Susannah corrected, although how much warmth came from the soft rabbit-fur lining and how much from Magnar's attention, she could not say. “
Takk
. Thank you for this most wonderful gift.”

Magnar, still kneeling at her feet, whispered something, but his words were lost in the chatter of the children.

Disa set the violin case on the table, opened it, and traced the instrument's shape with her finger. Susannah propped the hymnbook against chunks of firewood and tuned the strings. Where was Jesse tonight? He should be here to lead the music. If he were here, Magnar would stop giving her so much unwelcome attention, the Reverend wouldn't send her back, and Ivar wouldn't try to move her off the homestead.

“Betsy, you have perfect pitch. Sing me an A.”

Next to Betsy, J.W. sat with the shocked expression of someone who'd had a snowball dropped down his pants.

“Would you lead the singing, Reverend Webb? I think everyone knows ‘Adeste Fidelis.'”

J.W. snapped back into his ministerial mode. English carols alternated with Norwegian hymns. Some, like “Silent Night,” had words in both languages. Others were unfamiliar and Susannah labored to follow the tune.

As the children dropped off to sleep, they were rolled into blankets and nestled into the straw. The clock chimed midnight. The Norwegian men left for a last check of the stock. Blinking with fatigue, Susannah returned the violin to its case.

“I must speak with you.” Carrying a candle, J.W. directed her into the east alcove, out of earshot of the women washing dishes at the table. “You've done so well with Mrs. Stapleton. She seems completely recovered.”

“The credit goes to your spiritual guidance. I merely provided Betsy with a place to stay while she healed.” Susannah stepped around him to the window, shivering in the chill this far from the stove. “She's been a good friend.”

“I'd hoped Reverend Mason would send train tickets for you.”

“Please, J.W., I'm too tired to argue.” Her back ached, her eyes felt parched. Susannah polished the frost from the pane. Stars glittered in the still night. The temperature would drop far below zero. “The snow came.”

“There's a stage to Fargo. Surely the Roses told you.” He sat on the edge of Magnar's bed, leaning forward with his large hands pressed together. “If you wait much longer, it will be inadvisable for you to travel.”

A star guided the wise men to Bethlehem. Could God send a star to guide Jesse?
But no,
she thought.
He doesn't need a star. He
knows the way home.

J.W. cleared his throat. “If you feel the need for an escort, I'd be glad to serve in that capacity.”

Jesse knew the way, so why wasn't he here?

“Susannah.” The small increase in volume required no effort for a voice trained in preaching. She turned to face him. Candlelight showed new lines around his eyes. White-knuckled hands clasped his knees. “The living conditions here are so harsh, you'll be old before your time. You'll work yourself to the bone.”

“Old? I'm seventeen years younger than you.” She caught his wince and apologized. “Last winter I tried to talk Jesse into leaving. Not anymore. I've grown to cherish the freedom, the openness of this land, the wall I plastered, the trees I planted. I can see God using me. Homesteading, building a community with people I care about—people you've labeled as heathens. What basis do you have for that judgment? And telling Reverend Mason I live in a cave—”

He had the decency to look embarrassed. “You'd be more comfortable in Michigan.”

Susannah leaned on the trunk opposite him, tracing the bird design painted on the lid. “You know how meager clerical salaries are. You know what a burden another person—soon two extra people—would be to Reverend Mason.”

“He'd gladly welcome you.”

“I've no doubt of his hospitality. He's obligated. But I want to be more than someone's obligation, an added number the food must be divided by, the reason his children have to share a bedroom.”

“You could teach in Michigan.”

“With a child? Without a teaching certificate? No. I won't even be able to teach here once the Territorial government gets organized.” She rubbed her head, determined to break through to him. “There are so few veterinary surgeons—”

“That's hardly work for a lady.”

“Don't you feel called to preach?”

“You feel
called
to doctor animals?”

“Maybe not a calling like yours, but it's what I know, what I'm good at. It's a way I can help.”

He dismissed her comments with a wave of his hand. “What about Mr. Mason's family in New York?”