Blessing in Disguise (5 page)

“I could ask her if she’s back.”

“Where did she go?”

“To visit some of her family.” Penny studied her mother-in-law’s face again. “I think you better ask Olaf.”

“Hjelmer said he’d do it.”

“Sure, but who do most of the people around here go to with a toothache? You have any whiskey? That would help deaden the pain.”

“I don’t drink that stuff. Tastes vile.”

“No, just to rub it on the gum. Ingeborg taught me that. They use it for the babies sometimes when a tooth won’t come in.” She rolled her lips together and tried to look innocent. “Of course, we all know that imbibing makes for no pain too.”

“Ja, and a hangover like some of those men have had.” Bridget shook her head and flinched at the movement. “Go ask Olaf. Maybe he can do it right away before I talk myself out of it.”

“All right. Then I need to get back to the store. Do you have any whiskey?”

Bridget responded with the smallest of headshakes and sat with her eyes closed. She knew if she looked as bad as she felt, she’d even scare the grandchildren away. “All this bother over a toothache. Uff da.”

“Olaf will bring some.”

As soon as Penny left, Goodie arrived with Hans in tow. “Ach, you look terrible. I brought Hans to chop wood for a while. What with the washing, Lemuel can’t seem to keep up. I told them if they chop a big stack, they can go fishing this afternoon.”

“Maybe we can have fresh fish for supper. That would be a good change.” Bridget spoke around the two cloves she now had clamped on her aching tooth. The gum around the offending tooth seemed to have grown twice in size overnight.

“That’s what I thought. Eulah has three chickens ready for the oven. We better let a couple of those hens set so we have some more fryers. Unless Kaaren has extra. If Baptiste or Thorliff would bag a deer . . .” As she spoke, Goodie, her stomach now extending with the babe she was carrying, bustled about the kitchen. While Ilse had cleaned up the breakfast things, they had to get going on dinner.

When Olaf knocked at the back door, Bridget waved him in.

“Out here could be a mite cooler,” he suggested. “There’s a breeze yet.”

“You go on and take care of that tooth, then have a bit of a liedown,” Goodie said. “We’ll manage things here.”

Bridget wanted to argue but no longer had the energy. How could a bad tooth take so much out of one? She took the cup of hot water Goodie handed her, along with some clean cotton for packing, and headed for the back porch.

“I cleaned these pliers up real good.” Olaf, still slender in spite of Goodie’s fine cooking, held the instrument in the air, as well as a bottle of brown liquid. “This stuff is strong enough to clean pliers. No wonder it deadens pain.” He pulled the cork with his teeth and poured a couple of glugs in her cup. “Drink that.”

Bridget shuddered as the liquor bit its way down to her belly. Tears pooled in her eyes, and she sniffed, blinking and swallowing again. “Ugh.”

“Okay, now put this against that tooth and bite down for a minute or so.” He handed her a folded square of cotton he’d soaked with the vile brown stuff.

Bridget closed her eyes and did as he told her, leaning back in her rocker and trying to ignore the fire ignited in her mouth.

“Ready?”

She nodded and opened her mouth wide.

Olaf applied the pliers with a twist of the wrist and a steady pull. The sound of the tooth cracking made him flinch. “Sorry about that.” One by one he picked the pieces out and dropped them into the empty cup. “Now rinse your mouth out with this.” He handed her a cup of cold water. “And bite down on this. It will help stop the bleeding.”

Bridget did as he told her. “Mange takk.” She spoke without moving her jaw.

“Maybe I should give up furniture making and the sack house and become a dentist.”

Bridget shuddered and shook her head. The world tipped and took her stomach with it. Before she could protest, between Olaf and Goodie, they half carried her into her bedroom off the kitchen and tucked her up in bed with a bit of ice in a wet cloth pressed against her face.

She didn’t argue.

“Those clouds look like they might do more than just pass overhead.” Reverend John Solberg took off his hat and wiped his beaded forehead with the handkerchief he’d pulled from his back pocket. He swiped the thinning sandy hair back and resettled his fedora. Today he looked more like a farmer than a pastor, wearing overalls like his neighbors and a sweat-darkened long-sleeved shirt with the arms rolled up. His forehead now had the demarcation line of one who spent hours in the sun, hat securely in place.

“How do they look different than the ones we’ve had almost every day?” His wife, Mary Martha, tipped her sunbonnet-shaded face up to catch the breeze. Together they watched as their niece, Manda MacCallister, worked with one of the young horses she was breaking in the corral.

“Maybe just wishful thinking. We need rain so badly, and yet right now would be a terrible time for a thunderstorm, what with the wheat about ready to cut.” He leaned his arms on the top rail of the corral and set one foot on the bottom rail. While he didn’t have any wheat planted and his acres of oats weren’t ready to harvest, his parishioners all depended on the wheat harvest for most of their income. With the drought, the wheat looked to be stunted already. Beaten to the ground, it would be hard to cut.

Manda snubbed the horse to the solid post in the center of the corral, and after stroking the animal’s shoulder and rubbing its ears, she strode over to the fence, where she had a saddle ready.

“I brought some lemonade.” Mary Martha picked up the jug at her feet. “Surely you can take a break now.”

Manda nodded and set the saddle back on the rail. “Where’s Deborah? She was here a minute ago.”

“Gone to pick the eggs. She’ll be right back.” Mary Martha poured the liquid in the four cups she’d brought along and handed them out. “Let’s sit in the barn shade. Got to be cooler there.”

Solberg fetched a stool from the barn. “Here, sit on this. It will make getting up easier.”

“I’m not an invalid, you know.” Mary Martha shook her head, her laugh infectious. “Just because we’re having a baby.”

Manda sank down against the wall. “Don’t hurt to be careful.” She took off her well-ventilated fedora. While they’d given her a widebrimmed straw hat for her birthday, she insisted on the ancient felt, more faded than true brown. It was the last thing she owned of her father’s.

“Ma.” Seven-year-old Deborah came around the corner of the barn holding the back of her hand to her mouth. “That durn ol’ hen pecked me again.”

“Don’t talk like that!” Manda snapped her order before Mary Martha could open her mouth.

“You said ‘that durn horse.’ If you can, why can’t I?”

Manda picked at a blade of dried grass. “Just ’cause.”

Mary Martha exchanged a look with her husband. They both knew it was the “ma” not the “durn” that irritated Manda. She’d just gotten used to calling Katy “Ma” when Katy died in childbirth, just like Manda’s real mother had. And while she called Zeb MacCallister “Pa,” it hadn’t kept him from disappearing after his wife’s death. He’d gone back to South Dakota to see to the homestead rights of the girls, but he couldn’t bear living on the ranch yet.

Knowing her brother as she did, Mary Martha had a good idea he was back out in Montana searching out that valley he’d dreamed of and filing for homestead rights. She figured any day now he’d ride in with a herd of horses ready to break, then take his girls and head west. But until he returned, she and John had moved from the parsonage soddy by the school to the MacCallister farm, keeping it up and caring for the girls.

“When Pa comes back . . .”

“He ain’t comin’ back!” Manda whirled on her sister like an attacking badger.

“Manda MacCallister, he ith too.” Deborah sometimes had a lisp since she’d lost her two front teeth. Her straw-colored pigtails slapped her chin as she shook her head. “You just . . .”

“All right, girls. That’s enough.” While John spoke gently, there was no ignoring his command.
Father God, please keep Zeb safe. Heal his grief and bring him back to these two who so dearly need to see prayers answered.
To lose two mothers, one father, and now maybe another one, besides the two stillborn babies, is beyond what anyone should bear, let alone those so young. It breaks my heart, and I’m the pastor, not the parent
.

But John knew that if called to be, he would gladly adopt these two. Maybe that would be best if Zeb wrote and asked them to do so. He knew Mary Martha already acted more like a mother than an aunt.

Zeb can’t write if he’s dead
. The thought had plagued him more than once. A man by himself—anything could happen.

“Come on, Deborah, you said you’d ride for me today.”

“I will.” Both girls handed back their cups and climbed the rails to drop into the corral.

Heat lightning flared against the dark thunderheads. The wind picked up, bending the oat field like waves on the sea.

Mary Martha and John stood and faced the west, grateful for the cooling wind.

“It does smell like rain.”

“Lightning too.” Mary Martha looped her hand around John’s elbow and leaned her cheek against his shoulder. “I better get the chickens in.”

“I’ll go for the cows.” John turned and whistled for the cow dog. “Manda, you better put that horse away in case we get lightning strikes.” He watched for a moment as Manda led the now docile horse around the corral. She had such a gift with animals, it was a shame she didn’t use it with humans too.

“Manda.” He raised his voice to be heard above the wind.

“I will.”

John whistled again and waved the mottled cow dog out to round up the cows. Again, it was thanks to Manda’s training that he didn’t have to go out and get the creatures himself.

Even though it was not yet three o’clock, the sky darkened so that it seemed like night. Rain came in sheets across the prairie and struck with a downpour instead of warning drops. John was the last to leap up on the porch without being soaked. The four of them, dog at their feet, watched the ground spring out in puddles as if a heavenly bucket had just been overturned above them.

Mary Martha stood near the step, her face raised to catch the drifting mist. She spun in a flash, grabbed the girls’ hands, circled behind John, and together the three ran out into the deluge.

Drops the size of teacups pounded them and the earth. Within a breath, they were soaked, hair stringing down their faces and into their open, laughing mouths. Manda chased Deborah through a puddle, stamping her foot so the water splashed them both.

The dog yipped at their heels, jumping to catch the splash.

Mary Martha raised her arms above her head and spun in a tight circle, her sodden skirts sticking to her ankles. “I know what.” She pulled the pins from her hair and let the mass fall down her back. “Get the soap,” she called to John, who watched them from the porch.

“The soap?” John had to shout to be heard.

“Yes, we can wash our hair.”

John brought the soap, and they took turns scrubbing one another’s hair, then raising their faces to let the rain rinse them clean.

Lightning flared, thunder boomed and crashed, trees bent over before the wind, and they finally sat down on the benches on the porch. Mary Martha brought out towels so they could dry their hair and the brush and comb to fix it again.

“I ain’t never done nothing like that in my whole life.” Manda sat shaking her head. She sniffed, and a smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “The air smells so clean again. You think heaven smells pure like this?”

John cleared his throat, stunned at the question and the questioner. Manda had been insisting that God wasn’t there, “ ’Cause if He
is
there, then why are such terrible things happening?” She’d said such more than once and in several ways. But this glimpse into her heart reassured him. And the smile he’d glimpsed reminded him that in spite of her grown-up ways, Manda Norton MacCallister was still a little girl who needed a father.

“I think it must.” He moved closer to her and, with a gentle arm, pulled her to rest against his side. With the four of them crowded on one bench, they watched the storm let up and continue east, leaving the trees and roof dripping.

“Oh, looky.” Deborah pointed to the sky. “A rainbow.” She looked up at Mary Martha. “Katy Ma said one time that babies in heaven get to play on the rainbow. You think that’s true?”

“I most surely do.” Mary Martha kissed the little girl’s upturned nose.

“Then our babies are up there, huh? And maybe my two mas are sittin’ visitin’ and watching them play.”

Mary Martha laid a hand on her own belly, where a new baby grew, and hugged the little girl close to her side. “I surely do hope so, Deborah. Such a lovely picture you’ve given us.” She sniffed for a second time and heard John do the same. “I’ll never look at a rainbow the same again.”

“Me neither.”

She turned to see the love shining from her husband’s eyes. And to think she’d heard that Norwegian men were cold and unfeeling. Whoever started such a rumor didn’t know her husband, that was for certain sure.