Waiting for Summer's Return (3 page)

Mr. Ollenburger needed a teacher for his son. It would be a way to fill these endlessly empty days. Her days, before leaving Boston, had been so full. Caring for the children, keeping house, preparing meals—she had insisted on doing these things herself rather than relying on servants to care for her most precious possessions. Even on the trail, as the wagon had made its plodding progress through unfamiliar cities and across varying landscapes, her time had been filled with incessant tasks. But here, in this room, there was nothing to do except remember what used to be.

She allowed her gaze to drift around the room—the bare walls, the absence of personal effects, the
lifelessness
of the room. Did she want to remain here, even if she could afford it? She had no idea what waited in the
shariah,
but whatever it was, it couldn’t possibly be worse than the hollow, aching emptiness of this room. She sighed. There really was no other choice.

Summer pushed herself to her feet and crossed to the door, opening it once more. All three men turned toward her, their conversation halting. Mr. Ollenburger’s fist tightened around the ridiculous little hat.

“Mr. Ollenburger, I will accompany you to your home, but first I would appreciate being taken to my wagon to collect the remainder of my belongings.”

3

I
WILL READY YOUR BILL.
” The hotel clerk scurried down the hallway. The other two men exchanged quick nervous glances.

Summer’s heart skipped a beat. “Is something wrong?” The doctor cleared his throat. “It is evening…. The ride to Peter’s is long….”

Something was amiss, but suddenly she had no desire to explore it. “That’s fine, then. I’ll return later. I’ll gather my things.” Summer stepped back behind the door. It only took a few moments to prepare to leave, and she joined the men at the clerk’s desk without delay. She placed the necessary bills and coins in the clerk’s hand, tightened the pull string on her reticule, and turned to Mr. Ollenburger. “I’m ready.”

He took her bag and gestured toward the door. Less than five minutes later she sat on a wooden buckboard bench next to her benefactor, looking down on the rumps of a pair of enormous beasts with massive chests and short horns.

Mr. Ollenburger called, “Giddap!” The animals heaved into lumbering motion.

She pointed at the pair. “Oxen?”

He nodded. “They are named Gaert and Roth.” The oxen snorted, tossing their heads, and the man chuckled. “
Ja, ja,
I speak of you.” He looked briefly in her direction. “Roth means red-haired, so the red and white one is Roth. Gaert, then, is the brown and white one. Gaert means strong. They are both sturdy, reliable beasts. We have a horse—Thomas’s Daisy—but she is more pet than working animal.”

“And what is your work, Mr. Ollenburger?”

The man’s chest seemed to expand. “I am a miller. I grind the grain into flour.
Broot schleit den hunga doot
.” He chuckled. “I say, ‘Bread kills hunger.’ What is a meal without bread,
ja
?”

Summer peeked sideways at the man’s profile. His voice rumbled like distant thunder and carried a heavy accent. Somehow its timbre was soothing. “Tell me about your son, please.”

A smile broke across his wide face, crinkling his eyes. “Ah, my Thomas, my son … Of course he is a bright and handsome lad. Sturdy like the oxen. Dependable, too. A wonderful boy. You will see.”

The man obviously idolized the boy. She must remember this—should there come a time when reprimands were necessary, she would tread with care. “He has a horse for a pet. What else interests him?”

“Interests him? You must explain this.”

Did she sense shame in his question? “Interests … things he likes.”

Mr. Ollenburger pursed his lips as he twisted a whip in his hand. “Interests of Thomas … Well, he likes to read. It was the reading that got him hurt.”

“Oh?” Summer raised her brows.

A chuckle sounded from the other side of the bench. “Oh,
ja
. He was up in a tree, book in one hand and apple in the other. He went to turn a page and down he came. He hit hard on a branch before falling to the ground. The branch broke his ribs.”

“My goodness!” Summer placed her hand against her bodice, imagining how the fall must have hurt.

Mr. Ollenburger sent a knowing look in her direction. “He is lucky boy that the rib did not poke his lung. He has been slow moving for many weeks.” He shook his head. “
Ja,
the good Lord was watching him for sure that day.”

Summer set her jaw to hold back the bitter words that pressed against her tongue. Where was this “good Lord” the days her children died? Why hadn’t he saved her children? She forced the thoughts away and looked at Mr. Ollenburger’s profile. “How old is Thomas?”

The man’s lips tipped into a warm smile. “He will be ten in January.”

Summer jerked her eyes forward. Ten in January. The same age as her Vincent. Would this Thomas and Vincent have been friends if given the opportunity to meet? It didn’t matter now, yet she wondered…. “A fine age.”

“
Ja
. Still a boy, but now and then I glimpse of the man to come.” Summer had seen glimpses of the man to come in her Vincent, too. He had been so brave, standing beside his father’s new grave, his chin thrust out, hands clasped behind his back. After the minister and gravediggers had gone, the youngster had taken her hand and promised, “I’ll help take care of you and the children, Mama. Don’t worry.”
Oh, Vincent, my dear son, what a good man you would have become
.

Summer held tight to the seat, blinking back tears, as the uneven road caused the wagon to jolt. She asked no more questions, and Mr. Ollenburger remained silent, too, encouraging the oxen with lowtoned commands and flicks of the whip over their broad backs.

Dusk had fallen by the time the wagon finally rolled to a stop in front of a simple wood-framed house. Gray smoke lifted from the chimney, and soft yellow light shone behind two-over-two pane windows. Mr. Ollenburger hopped over the side of the seat, then looked up at her.

“Remain here,
Frau
Steadman. I check on Thomas and
Grossmutter,
and then I will take you to the
shariah
.” His long-legged stride carried him across the ground quickly. He disappeared inside the house while Summer shivered on the seat. In a few minutes the door swung open again and Mr. Ollenburger stepped out, followed by a smaller replica of himself.

Summer noticed a shadowy figure, stooped over and leaning on a cane, hovering in the doorway. She assumed this was the grandmother of whom Mr. Ollenburger had spoken. She squinted into the waning light, attempting to see the woman’s face, but Mr. Ollenburger and the boy stopped beside the wagon, and his voice pulled her attention away from the older woman.

“
Frau
Steadman, this is my son, Thomas. Thomas, say hello to
Frau
Steadman.”

“Hello, Mrs. Steadman.”

Summer’s lips trembled as she peered down at Thomas. Mr. Ollenburger had said the youngster was sturdy and dependable, bright and handsome. Just one look at him proved the father had spoken the truth. Thomas was as stocky as her Vincent had been slender, as blond as her son had been dark-haired. But in his eyes she saw the same light of intelligence that had brightened Vincent’s serious face.
Oh, Vincent, I miss you, son! It isn’t fair that you’re gone and …

The door clicked, and Summer glanced at the house. The woman had gone back inside without a word. How odd that the older woman had not greeted her the way the boy had.

“I take
Frau
Steadman to the
shariah
.” Mr. Ollenburger placed a wide hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I must take the wagon so I can move out some barrels and boxes, or she will not have room to turn around in there.”

Thomas’s face lit up. “May I help you, Pa?”

“
Nein,
son. Doctor said no lifting yet.”

The boy’s eagerness wilted. “Yes, sir.”

“But would you fix
Frau
Steadman some bread with jam and bring it to the
shariah
?”

“Yes, sir!” He spun toward the door.

“Verlangsamen sie!”

Mr. Ollenburger’s order resulted in Thomas slowing his pace. The big man heaved himself back onto the wagon seat as his son stepped onto the stoop.

The boy waved. “I will bring that bread quickly, Pa.”

“You do not run when you bring the bread.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you, Thomas.” Summer forced a smile while her heart cried.
What a nice boy. What a good friend he would have been for my Vincent
.

With firm calls to “gee,” the oxen were coaxed into turning the wagon, and Summer waited until they were in motion before speaking again. “He seems to be a fine boy.” Her throat felt tight.

“Oh,
ja,
a very fine boy. He should give you no trouble. But if he does, you tell me. I will deal with him.”

“I’m sure we’ll get along well.”

“He will be hard to hold down. Poor
Grossmutter
has had a time holding him down. It is good he will have something to fill his days, that he’ll be able to study again.” He angled his face sideways to look at her. “The boy is tired of the sitting still. But he must. The ribs must fully heal.”

Summer recognized the warning tone. She nodded. Nothing would happen to this boy. The image of the old woman in the doorway flitted through her mind. “Mr. Ollenburger, your grandmother …”

He released a heavy sigh. “
Ja, Grossmutter
… A blessing she has been to Thomas and me. And a blessing we have been to her, for sure. She has had much sickness in past years, and things have become hard for her. Her hands”—he held up one of his own hands, seeming to examine it with sorrow—“are much bent from … I think you call it arthritis, but she does what she can. She wishes to be useful still. The English language she cannot speak. When first we came, she refused to try. And now? I think she believes that saying of old dogs cannot learn new tricks.”

He sighed again, and his tone took the quality of one speaking more to himself. “Not much does she speak even in our language anymore—not to me. She does speak yet to Thomas. He is her light….” Then he straightened, shooting her a quick glance. “Do not take offense if she does not speak to you.”

Summer thought about spending the day inside that house with the old woman watching. Silently watching. She shivered again. “Are we almost to the
shariah
?”

He pointed with a thick finger. “It is right there.”

Summer saw, through the murky light, a triangular-shaped dwelling about fourteen feet across on its bottom and ten feet to its tip. It appeared to be only the roof of a house, with its walls swallowed by the ground.

Mr. Ollenburger called, “Whoa,” and the oxen obediently halted. The man hopped down, his heavy boots thumping against the hard ground. “I will light a lantern and then take you in.” He strode to the unusual structure and ducked into what seemed to be a narrow tunnel attached to one side of the triangle. Moments later he reappeared, a lantern in his hand giving off a cheery yellow circle of light.

He set the lantern on the ground beside the wagon, the yellow circle shrinking until it barely touched his feet. She placed her hands in his and allowed him to help her down. The moment her feet touched the hard ground, he released her to reach into the back of the wagon and retrieve her carpetbag. “Come.” He lifted the lantern and led her to the tunnel. “Watch your step,
Frau
Steadman. Only dirt makes the stairs. You could slip. I will cut some planks to make them safer for you tomorrow.”

She realized as she stepped into the tunnel that the triangular building was like a wooden tent placed over a pit. He handed her the lantern and began shoving crates and barrels aside to make room in the center of the floor.

She raised the lantern and looked around, her heart falling in dismay as she saw what she had chosen over the hotel room.
Shariah
certainly could not mean “house”—it must mean “hovel.” The entire dwelling was no more than twelve by fourteen feet—smaller than the parlor in her Boston home. Simple wood beams held up a slanted ceiling of wide planks that met at a peak in the center. Each end of the building was also constructed of planks standing up and down. Only the center part of the shelter was fully serviceable since the side walls were a scant three feet high. No windows existed in the little hut, and since the foundation was simply hard-packed dirt, it felt cool and smelled dank. Another shiver shook her frame.

Mr. Ollenburger paused in his shifting of boxes to give her a worried look. “You are cold,
Frau
Steadman. A way to bring heat here for you I must find.” He scratched his chin. “When we moved into the house, we took the cookstove with us. But there is still a vent hole for a stovepipe, which I covered with a tin can pounded flat. This keeps the rain out. I will see what I can rig for you tomorrow. I must also fix a bed.”

“I would appreciate a source of heat,” Summer inserted, “but you needn’t fix a bed. I have a bedstead in my wagon.”

Mr. Ollenburger looked at her for several quiet seconds, pursing his lips, which caused his chin whiskers to splay forward. He cleared his throat. “
Ja,
well, tonight you must make a pallet on the floor—there are many blankets here.” He moved to a trunk in the corner, ducking to avoid hitting his head on the slanting ceiling. When he raised the lid, Summer saw a stack of thick woven blankets. He looked at her, an apology in his eyes. “It is not much….”

He was right. It certainly was not much. But what else did she have to look forward to? She forced a light tone. “Remember, Mr. Ollenburger, I have spent many weeks in a wagon or a tent pitched outside. It is a treat to have a roof over my head again.”

Her words must have been convincing, because his face relaxed into a smile. He moved to the center of the room, straightening his back and looking upward. “
Ja,
it is a roof. It is no masterpiece of carpentry, but it will shelter you.”

She let her gaze drift around the small space. “When these boxes have been removed and my own belongings have been brought in, it will feel more like a home. I’ll be fine.”

His brows came down into a worried scowl. He fiddled with his hat, his ears glowing bright pink. Something was clearly wrong. Just as she opened her mouth to question him, Thomas entered through the tunnel, a paper-wrapped package in his hands. He offered the package to Summer with a shy smile.

“Here is your sandwich, Mrs. Steadman. Strawberry jam on wheat bread. Pa bought the bread from the restaurant in Gaeddert. If it was bread Pa made, you wouldn’t be able to eat it.”

Peter gave his son a playful cuff on the back of his head, chuckling. “
Ja,
the boy is right, for sure. My baking is not so good, but you see we have not starved.” He clamped a hand on Thomas’s shoulder. “Remember, son, this is now
Frau
Steadman’s home. You must knock before you come in next time.”

The boy nodded, sending Summer a sheepish look. “I’ll remember.”

Peter strode to the door. “I will take out a few of these boxes to give you moving around room. The rest can wait until morning light. Thomas and I will leave you to your sandwich and bed.” He picked up the nearest box and stepped through the tunnel with it, Thomas on his heels.

Summer sank down on a short barrel, placed the packet of bread with jam in her lap, and looked once more at the dismal little dwelling that was her new home.