Courting Miss Amsel (19 page)

But then she spotted Johnny and Robert’s blond heads bobbing in the back of the wagon. Reality crashed down around her. Forming a relationship with Joel Townsend would only lead to heartache for both of them. She didn’t want the encumbrance his nephews represented, and he needed more than she was able to give.

Cold air whisked around the schoolhouse, rustling her skirts and sending shivers down her spine. She scurried inside and closed the door against the biting wind. But she couldn’t close away the unsettling feeling that she was making a dreadful mistake.

Chapter
TWENTY-SEVEN

Edythe folded her taffeta suit and laid it carefully in her valise. The crisp taffeta in a deep shade of crimson was her favorite dress, and she intended to wear it to the North Fork city hall the evening of Miss Anthony’s presentation. Excitement fluttered in her chest. She hoped she’d be able to sleep tonight. Preparing for the trip had taken more effort than she’d imagined. But she was ready.

Detailed lesson plans for Mrs. Sterbinz waited on her desk at school. Her bag contained everything she would need for a two-day journey. She’d tucked the stage tickets and a small roll of paper money in a secret pocket in her reticule. In the morning, she’d add her brush and toiletries to the valise, and then she would be ready.

Snapping the bag closed, she looked across the small room at Missy, who searched through the bureau drawers. “Haven’t you decided what you want to wear yet?” she asked her sister. She wanted to choose Missy’s clothes for her to speed the process, but Missy hadn’t willingly accepted Edythe’s suggestions when she was three years old; she’d certainly reject her sister’s assistance at fourteen.

“I’m wearing my brown calico for travel and taking the green worsted for the meeting, since it’s my most grown-up dress.” Missy continued to root through the drawer. “But I want my matching hair ribbon for the green worsted, and I can’t find it.”

“Perhaps because you didn’t put your ribbons in the drawer the last time you used them.” Edythe lifted the snarl of ribbons from the corner of the dry sink and held them aloft.

Missy dashed around the end of the bed and snatched the ribbons from Edythe’s hands. “There they are!” She tossed the colorful lengths of grosgrain across the bed and began untangling them.

Edythe slid her valise under the bed and then sat on the edge of the mattress and assisted Missy. “You do realize if you’d roll your ribbons and place them in the drawer after using them, they’d always be easily found and ready to wear.”

Missy flashed a sour look. “I know.”

“Knowing isn’t enough, Missy. You also need to
do
.”

Missy grabbed the ribbons, pulled the green one from the bundle, and tossed the others into the drawer. She released a huff as she jammed the green ribbon into her bag. “Stop being my teacher or my mother, Edie, all right?”

Edythe, surprised by the vehemence in Missy’s voice, stared at her sister in silence.

“You always treat me like I’m still a baby who can’t think for herself. I’m not a baby anymore. Can’t you stop telling me what to do and just be my sister?”

No, I can’t
. The words winged through Edythe’s mind, but she kept them from escaping her lips. Yet she recognized the truth of her inner thought. She was the only mother Missy had – she’d always taken the role seriously. Now, with Missy sitting in a desk in her classroom, she had no choice but to treat Missy like any of the other students under her care. She couldn’t simply remove those titles and close them in a drawer at night – she was, and would continue to be, Missy’s mother and teacher.

Missy flopped facedown across the bed, propped her chin in her hand, and frowned at Edythe. “Do you know what I’d really like? For us to be like Patience and Sophie, or like Mary and Josephine. I watch them on the play yard or in the schoolroom during breaks, and they have such fun. Even though there are other kids around, they still like to be together.” The frown slipped away, and a pained look crossed Missy’s face. “Why can’t we have fun, Edythe?”

The question stung. Edythe fiddled with a loose thread on the quilt rather than looking at her sister. “We have fun.”

A mirthless laugh burst from Missy as she rolled to her back. “Not like the Ellsworth or Jeffers girls. They have fun without one of them always tellin’ the other one what to do.”

Edythe could have argued that twelve-year-old Sophie often bossed her younger sister. But she thought she understood what Missy meant. She tried a gentle explanation. “Our relationship isn’t the same as the Ellsworth or Jeffers girls, Missy. I’m so much older than you. And since Mama wasn’t there to take care of us, I’ve needed to be a mother to you rather than a friend or . . . or sister.”

Missy rolled to her side, resting her head in the bend of her elbow. “But I’m grown up now. I don’t
need
a mother.”

I still need a mother
. Before Edythe could voice her thought, Missy continued.

“And even though you have to be my teacher when we’re at school, couldn’t you stop trying to teach me when we’re here? Couldn’t you talk to me like – well, like you talk to Mrs. Kinsley? Or even Mr. Townsend?”

Edythe jerked, yanking the thread from the quilt. “Mr. Townsend?” Simply mentioning the man’s name sent a rush of heat through her chest.

“You don’t talk to him very often, but when you do, I can tell you’re friends. Your voice sounds different, and you seem happier.” She sat up, her eyes beseeching. “That’s what I want, Edie. For you to be my
friend
. Can’t you try?”

Edythe nibbled her lower lip and considered Missy’s question. At fourteen, Missy wasn’t as grown up as she thought she was. Becoming friends meant releasing her responsibility for her sister. Ceasing to guide and direct. She didn’t believe Missy was ready to forge forward without guidance. The fact that she’d fled Omaha and traveled alone across the state proved her lack of common sense. Yet looking into her sister’s imploring eyes, she couldn’t find the words to deny her request.

“I can try, but it will be hard.”

“Why?” The simple query held no resentment, only a desire to understand.

“Because I’ve been your mother since you were a very small baby. Being a good mother for you as well as for Justus, Albert, Frances, and Loren was important to me. I worked hard at it. I know I didn’t always succeed . . .” She paused, hoping Missy might argue, but her sister sat silently, listening with wide eyes. Edythe swallowed her disappointment. “But I did my best. And since being your mother has been so much a part of who I am, it’s hard to let it go.”

“But you don’t tell Justus or . . . or any of the others what to do anymore. Just me!” A hint of petulance crept into Missy’s tone.

Edythe laughed softly, hoping to waylay any further rebellion. “Maybe because you’re the only one who’s still living with me?”

Missy sighed. “I know it isn’t your fault you had to be a mother to me. If Mama hadn’t died, then we’d just be sisters.”

Many other things would be different, too, but Edythe chose not to pursue that topic.

“But I still wish we could be friends. I wish we could have
fun
together.”

Edythe pushed off the bed and crossed to the bureau to retrieve her nightclothes. “Maybe this trip will give us a chance to have fun together as sisters. I’ll try not to be bossy, and you try not to give me a reason to tell you what to do.” She smiled as she finished the statement so Missy would know she wasn’t scolding.

Missy crawled under the covers. “I’ll do my best.”

“That’s all any of us can promise.” Edythe hoped Missy understood she included herself in the statement.

Missy wriggled onto her side, pulling the covers up to her ear. “ ’Night, Edie.”

Edythe dressed in her nightgown, brushed out her hair, and then started to blow out the lamp. But her gaze fell on the Bible lying on the table beside the bed. She and Missy had come upstairs after cleaning the kitchen, so she hadn’t read the Bible yet this evening. Now it was time for sleep. Yet the Bible seemed to tug at her.

She’d promised Luthenia she would read the book every day. She climbed into bed, careful not to jostle the mattress too much, and leaned against the iron headboard. Shifting the Bible to her lap, she opened it to the book of Acts. Luthenia had recommended starting in the part called the New Testament rather than at the beginning, and Edythe had followed her suggestion. Over the past weeks, she’d read Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, which had seemed to repeat some pieces of information. She wondered, as she began Acts, if the Bible would tell about someone other than Jesus.

She read while Missy slept, her sister’s soft snuffles and the occasional squeak of a bedspring the only intrusions. She came to a block of text, purportedly previously stated by another man named David, and she read slowly, her lips forming the words.

“ ‘I foresaw the Lord always before me, for he is on my right hand, that I should not be moved. Therefore did my heart rejoice and my tongue was glad; moreover my flesh shall rest in hope: because thou wilt not leave my soul . . . ’ ”
She yawned, tiredness trying to take hold. The words seemed to dance beneath her bleary eyes. Determinedly, she went back and read the text a second time.

According to the writer of Acts, David was speaking of Jesus. Obviously David and Jesus were very close – so close David believed he would never be abandoned by Him. In all of Edythe’s life, she’d never met anyone she’d trusted to always be there. What would it be like, she wondered, to have such a friend?

The Bible slid from her sleepy fingers. She jerked, catching it before it fell off the edge of the bed. Very carefully, she closed the Bible and set it aside. She’d read more tomorrow. She blew out the lamp and then curled on her side. But instead of closing her eyes, she stared at the dark rectangle of the Bible on the side table.

Thou wilt not leave my soul
. . . The words repeated themselves in her mind. For so long, she’d felt empty. And alone, even though Missy slept on the other side of the bed. Tears stung behind her nose, and she sniffed hard. What would it take to remove the emptiness that held her captive?

She fell asleep with the unanswered question hovering on her heart.

Chapter
TWENTY-EIGHT

The rattle of the windows startled Joel out of a sound sleep. He opened his eyes to total blackness. So black he wondered if he’d fallen into a hole during the night. He searched the darkness for even a sliver of light. Nothing.

He reached out tentatively and located the table that stood beside his bed. After pawing around, his fingers found a tin of matches. Peering into the dark nothingness made him dizzy, and his hands trembled as he went through the steps of popping the top on the tin, withdrawing a match, and striking it on the underside of the table.

The sudden flare of the match hurt his eyes, and he winced. By squinting, he managed to light the lamp. With the lamp in hand, he padded to the window in his bedroom and pushed aside the curtains to peer out. Once again, he had the sensation of being in a hole. He saw nothing more than a wall of bluish white. Snow. So thick it blocked the moon. Or the sun. He couldn’t guess the time.

He set the lamp on the table and scrambled into his clothes. He could already tell the boys wouldn’t be going to school today, so he’d let them sleep as late as they wanted to while he saw to the animals. He’d had the good sense to string a rope from the corner of the house to the barn door back in early November just in case a blizzard struck. He sure hoped his neighbors had done the same.

The windup clock on the fireplace mantel showed five ten – still early, which explained some of the dark. Joel combated the shadows by lighting all three oil lamps. He couldn’t ever remember being so extravagant in the past, but he found the total blackness unsettling. He tiptoed around, determined not to rouse the boys, and bundled himself against the storm.

When he stepped out the door, the cold hit him as hard as if he’d run into a wall at full tilt. He gasped. The frigid air whisked into his lungs, stinging him from the inside out. His gloved hands turned uncooperative, but with clumsy movements he adjusted his scarf to cover his face up to his eyes. With his nose and mouth protected by the thickly woven scarf, he could breathe more easily.

Keep me safe in this storm, Lord
. Pressing his shoulder against the side of the house, he bounced his way to the corner, then felt up and down until his hand bumped into the rope that stretched from the house to the barn. He took a firm grip and stepped off the porch and into several feet of snow. The wind roared, filling his ears with its fury. Snowflakes pelted his face, and he squinted against the onslaught. Tiny pieces of ice clung to his eyelashes, further hindering his vision. Unable to see more than six inches in any direction, he felt completely alone in the world. His heart pounded with fear, and the swirl of the snow made him dizzy.

He planted his feet, trying to gain a sense of direction. Should he forge on to the barn or return to the house? Every bit of him wanted to turn around and seek the safety of his log house, but the animals required care. He had to go on. Whispering another prayer for protection, he curled his left hand more firmly around the rope, stuck his right hand straight out in front of him to keep from walking smack into the barn, and stumbled through the drifts of snow.

The barn was roughly ninety feet from the house – thirty wide strides. He tried counting his steps to get an idea of when he might reach the enclosure, but the snow would not allow him to take long strides. Instead, he shuffled with painstakingly slow steps as he forced a path through the heavy snow, his balance precarious in his blindness. He counted thirty steps, then fifty, and he still hadn’t reached the barn.

A sudden worry brought him to a halt. If the boys awakened, Robert would be scared. He’d never liked storms. When the boys couldn’t find their uncle in the house, would they search for him? Two steps off the porch, and they’d be lost. He should go back, wake them, and let them know to stay put. Joel tried to turn around, but the sensation of spinning returned. He froze in place, his heart trying to pound itself right out of his chest.

His hands felt numb from the cold. Would he even know if the rope slipped free of his grasp? A bitter taste filled his mouth – the flavor of fear.
Go . . . get to shelter.
Hand outstretched, Joel propelled himself forward. He hit the side of the barn so hard it jarred his wrist and bounced him backward. He lost his grip on the rope and landed on his backside. A panic unlike anything he’d ever experienced struck. Flailing both arms in the air, he searched for the rope but came up empty. The wind screeched like a wild animal determined to tear him limb from limb. His mouth went dry. His eyeballs burned.

He pawed the space around him, his hands churning up snow, trying to get his bearings. But the roaring wind and blinding snow confused his senses. His shoulders heaved with frantic breaths. Gooseflesh broke out all over his body.
Dear Lord in heaven, where is the barn?

The storm awakened Edythe before she heard the stove lids clang – Luthenia was up.

She glanced at the top of Missy’s head poking out of the covers. Her sister lay very still, the quilts rising and falling with her deep, even breaths. Tenderness welled in Edythe’s breast. How Missy could sleep so soundly with the wind howling like a chorus of angry wolves, Edythe couldn’t fathom, but at least the storm hadn’t disturbed her.

Edythe considered snuggling back under the covers and trying to drift back to sleep. Then a duller clank – the stove door – sounded from the kitchen. Luthenia was getting the fire started. She’d have water on to boil soon. Tea sounded good, so Edythe crept out of bed, shoved her arms into her mother’s robe, and padded downstairs.

Luthenia knelt on the kitchen floor, layering wood into the stove’s belly. Her gray hair stuck out wildly around her thin face.

“Good morning,” Edythe greeted. Her throat sounded croaky, so she cleared it and tried again. “The storm woke me.”

“Me too.” Luthenia pushed to her feet, her movements slow and jerky. “It’s early to be up, but that wind . . . sets my teeth on edge. Who could sleep through it?”

Edythe laughed softly. “Missy could. She didn’t even stir when I got out of bed.”

“I’m glad. Somebody might as well be restin’.” Luthenia tipped her head toward the window. “Can’t see a thing out there, snow’s blowin’ so thick.” Her face pinched into a pout of sympathy. “Reckon we’ll have to cancel the trip.”

Disappointment fell over Edythe. She’d looked so forward to hearing Miss Anthony’s speech. Hope flickered in the center of her heart – perhaps the storm would blow through quickly. If so, they might still be able to reach North Fork in time. She scurried to the window and looked out in a world of . . . nothing. An odd feeling struck – as if the house had been picked up during the night and deposited inside a dark bubble.

A chill shook her frame. Such thick, heavy snow and powerful winds. Even if the storm stopped immediately, drifts would block the roads. The flicker of hope died, bringing the sting of frustrated tears. Common sense told her no one should go out in this blizzard.

She spun to face Luthenia, panic rising within her. “Will any of the children try to get to school this morning?”

Luthenia dipped water from the reservoir into a teakettle. “ ’Course not. Folks know to keep their young’uns home on a day like this.” She placed the filled kettle on one of the round stove lids, then glanced at Edythe’s bare feet. “Your toes’ll freeze if you don’t get ’em covered. Fetch a pair of slippers from my bedroom. Then we can sit here, sip tea, an’ stay warm while the storm blows itself out.” Looking toward the window, she shook her head. “Hope it’s soon. Poor ol’ Gertie out there’ll need water. I can’t get to her ’til things calm down.”

Edythe hurried to Luthenia’s room and selected a pair of heavy, knitted slippers from a basket on the floor beside the plain wardrobe. Luthenia had knitted enough pairs to accommodate a centipede – the woman’s hands never stilled. With her feet considerably warmer, Edythe returned to the kitchen and huddled close to the stove.

Luthenia stood at the window, scowling out at the storm. “I don’t mind tellin’ you, I find this downright disquietin’. Been through storms before – even ones as fierce as this – but I’ve never cared much for feelin’ all hemmed in.” She sighed, her breath steaming the window. “But I’m mighty thankful it hit when it did.”

Edythe spun from the warmth of the stove. “Thankful?” When she considered her carefully laid plans to attend the meeting in North Fork, gratitude didn’t come to mind. Couldn’t the storm have waited?

Luthenia pulled a chair up to the stove and sat. “What if this’d hit when we was halfway to North Fork? Why, chances are good we’d’ve froze solid right in the stagecoach. The good Lord knew what He was doin’, sendin’ it in the night so we’d all stay home where it’s safe.”

Edythe scowled. “If the ‘good Lord’ had kept the storm from coming at all, we could be on our way to North Fork without any worries.”

To Edythe’s consternation, Luthenia chuckled. “Telling God what He should or shouldn’t’ve done is plenty foolish. His ways are beyond what our human minds can understand.” She raised her eyebrows and gave Edythe a pointed look. “It’s better to trust He knows best an’ leave it at that.”

The water burbled inside the kettle. Luthenia rose to pour steaming water into two cups.

Edythe sank into a chair and considered the older woman’s statement. How did one trust without understanding? Trusting without seeing would be like stepping out into that storm – foolhardy. The empty ache from last night returned, making her feel hollow and needy. She hugged herself, battling the urge to cry.

Luthenia shuffled to the table with the tea, and Edythe curled her hands around her cup, absorbing its warmth. The wind increased in volume, its shriek raising the fine hairs on the back of Edythe’s neck. If she found the storm this unsettling while snug inside Luthenia’s little home, how would she feel if she were out in it?

Joel collapsed against the ground, his chest heaving painfully. He had two choices – press his face into the snow and freeze to death, or try once more to find the barn. He couldn’t give up without a fight. Robert and Johnny depended on him.
God, help me. I can do it with Your help – just get me up.
His muscles screamed in protest, but he pushed to his knees.

The impression of spinning returned, making him sick to his stomach. He fought down the wave of nausea and swung his arms up and down. No rope. Shifting his position slightly, he tried again. Still no rope.

The fierce wind robbed him of breath. A thousand needles repeatedly stabbed his ears. His eyes burned with the effort to see something . . . anything . . . that would give him a sense of location. Despair tried to crumple him once more, but he gritted his teeth, shuffled on his knees to turn his body a few more inches, and forced his arms into one more swing. His fingertips brushed against something.

The rope!
He tipped his body forward and waved again, slowly, determinedly. His palm connected with the rope, and he groaned as he grasped the length of twisted hemp in his cold-stiffened fingers. Still on his knees, he clung with both hands and let his head hang low for a few moments, his chest heaving from the exertion.

When he’d gathered enough strength, he began shuffling on his knees, forcing himself through the accumulated snow. He twisted his head this way and that, unable to ascertain his location but trusting the rope would lead him to shelter. His elbow bumped into something hard and immovable – a wall. Holding tight to the rope with his left hand, he uncurled his right hand and extended it toward the wall. With his palm pressed flat against the sturdy surface, he summoned the courage to release the rope completely. The moment the rope slipped free, he experienced a sense of falling, and he had to swallow bile that rose in his throat.

God, You brought me this far. Don’t leave me now.

Knowing he’d tied the rope to the right-hand side of the barn’s double doors, he inched his way to the left. But instead of finding the crack between the two doors, he found the corner of a building. Confusion struck, making his head spin. Then he realized he’d returned to the house. The animals would have to wait – he couldn’t make the trek to the barn. His chest aching, more exhausted than he could ever remember being, he forced his numb knees to once again shuffle, this time to the right.