Fields of Grace (37 page)

He rose, brushed the crust of packed snow from his knees, and turned toward the sod house. A tiny trail of white smoke rose from the chimney, spiraling against a pale blue sky. The dark sod stood out against the carpet of white like a welcoming beacon, and his heart twisted as he considered the lack of welcome waiting within the thick walls.

The joined houses once held peace and contentment, but now tension and anger encased the cramped space. Even Joseph suffered. How many times had Eli awakened, stretched out on Henrik’s bed, and heard the boy crying softly into his pillow? As often as the sound of Lillian’s nighttime weeping had carried to his ears. Too many times.

He set his feet in motion, plodding slowly across the soft snow. Somehow they must repair all that had been broken between them. But how? Lillian would hardly look at Eli, let alone speak to him. And without communication, there could be no reconciliation. His foot scuffed on something hard, nearly tripping him. He stopped and looked down. His boot had encountered a stone the size of a loaf of bread.

Blowing out a breath of annoyance, Eli crouched down and tried to pry the stone from the hard ground. In his plowing, he had discovered that the land was littered with large stones. The troublesome rocks worked their way to the surface, dulling or even chipping a plow’s blade.

He almost fell on his backside when the stone came loose, but he caught his balance and rose, lifting the rock with him. He carried it to the nearest of the four piles of fieldstones that stood around the plowed field. The largest pile measured almost as high as Eli’s head and was as big around as the small sod house. Underhanded, he heaved the rock toward the top of the pile, watching it hit and then tumble until it caught between several others halfway down the miniature mountain. Whisking his hands together, he started to turn away, but then he spun to face the rock pile.

An idea formed rapidly, his heart beating against his ribs. He had promised Lillian a house—a sturdy house with many rooms. Without a harvest, he couldn’t buy wood for such an undertaking, but what if he built a house of rock? Hadn’t he told Lillian that God provided all they needed on this land? Their need for food had been met. Now he saw how a shelter—a permanent shelter—could be constructed from resources available right here on this land.

It would take many rocks and much work to build a house, but what else did he have to do until the others came and he purchased seed for a crop? Yes, he would build a house for Lillian. He would keep his promise, even if he did not move into it with her. Sorrow wrenched his heart as he considered remaining estranged for the rest of his life from the woman he loved. Could he stay on this land, living separately, now that he knew the ecstasy of being her beloved?

“I promised to care for Lillian.” He spoke aloud, his voice echoing across the rolling prairie. “We are bound to one another, and I will see to her needs, even if . . .” Resolve lit a fire in his soul. Balling his hands into fists, he raised his face to the sky and vowed, “Even if she never accepts me again, I will fulfill my obligations to her, Father. I will love her unconditionally, just as You have always loved me.”

His arms pumping, he headed for the house to fetch Joseph. He could use the boy’s help.

Lillian sat in front of the fireplace, angling the fabric and needle toward the blaze to catch the light. Her stitches, usually straight and perfectly balanced, appeared jagged and uneven. With a huff of displeasure, she crumpled the patchwork quilt in her lap. How could she do anything correctly in this dark, shadowy hole?

She closed her eyes, battling an attack of tears. Oh, how she wished for sunshine pouring through windows, painting a yellow path across the floor! The sod house, with its solid walls and tightly closed door, felt like an animal burrow. How had she lived for so many months in this dirt hovel without losing her mind? Surely living in constant shadow contributed to the state of despondency she now experienced.

Setting the unfinished quilt aside, she crossed to the door and cracked it open. Cold air whisked inside, making the fire dance. She hugged herself and peered out through the narrow opening, basking in the thin band of sunlight, even though it carried little warmth. Her gaze roved the snow-covered ground, noticing the trails of boot prints—the larger ones left by Eli’s feet and the smaller ones, Joseph’s. One set remained conspicuously missing: Henrik’s.

A knot of anger clogged her throat, and she slammed the door. She stomped to the discarded quilt and snatched it up, crushing it to her aching chest. If only she could hold her absent sons the way she held this quilt, her heart would be soothed.

Sinking onto the stool beside the fire, she smoothed the quilt across her knees. She touched each patch in turn with her fingertips, her lips trembling as she battled another wave of tears. This quilt—her remembrance quilt—had been formed from Jakob’s little shirts and those Henrik had left behind. As she’d cut into the clothing, turning finished items into squares, she had wept, feeling as though she cut into her own soul. But putting the squares together, arranging the plaids and solid colors into a pleasing design, had brought a small measure of comfort.

When she finished this quilt, she could wrap herself in memories of her sons. The thought sent her hands scurrying to retrieve the needle and resume stitching. She longed for the comfort the quilt would bring. Nothing else provided comfort. Not Eli. And not God.

Anger—a too-familiar companion—once more assailed her. Eli should have gone after Henrik. He should not have given Henrik money and sent him out into the cold. How could she trust a man who cared so little for her feelings? All of the intimate moments they had shared now tortured her. She wove the needle in and out, in and out, while her thoughts continued to tumble.

Where was Henrik now? The not knowing nearly drove her mad. Was he warm? Well fed? Ill or mistreated? Her hands trembled, skipping a stitch as the unknowns ate at her insides. Every day in his morning prayers, Eli asked God to keep Henrik safe and guide his footsteps. She would have no peace until Henrik’s footsteps led him back to her—and she would hold herself aloof from Eli—and God—until Henrik was safe in her arms again.

Lillian sat bolt upright as crunching footsteps approached. Her hand pressed to her chest as the door swung open. But Joseph, not Henrik, entered the room.

Joseph stepped just inside the sod house. He rubbed his mittened hands together while globs of snow dropped from his boots. In the past, Lillian would have teasingly scolded him to remove his boots and come to the fire. But, too weary to speak, she simply sent him an unsmiling look.

“Pa says to tell you we will not be in for lunch. He is hitching up the oxen, and we are taking the wagon down-creek for more rocks.”

The lack of enthusiasm in Joseph’s voice sent a twinge through Lillian’s middle. Her cheery, energetic son—the one who’d blossomed on American soil—had retreated into the quiet boy of Gnadenfeld again. And she had no more means of restoring him than she had of returning Jakob to life or bringing Henrik home.

“Do you want some bread and butter, then, to take with you?”

He gave her a hesitant nod. Slowly, feeling like a creaky old woman, Lillian set the quilt aside and retrieved a loaf from the crock in the corner. She broke it in half, slathered the exposed middle with butter, and wrapped the pieces in a length of toweling. With a sigh, she placed the bundle into Joseph’s waiting hands. “
Nä-jo
, tell Eli I will keep a soup pot warm for when you are ready for something more.”

The boy slipped back out without a word. She shook her head. So this is what she and Eli had resorted to: using Joseph as a go-between. Remembering the days when Eli would have found any excuse to return to the sod house, when he would kiss her lips or nuzzle her neck and whisper in her ear, a spiral of longing tried to overpower her. But she pushed it away.

That part of their kinship was dead. Thinking of what used to be only increased her dissatisfaction with the now. Determinedly, she returned to the quilt. She must stay busy with something concrete, useful, mindless. . . . When she finished this quilt, she intended to make a similar one for Joseph out of Reinhardt’s shirts. The boy continued to call Eli “Pa,” stinging Lillian’s soul with every usage. Eli had made a mockery of the name. A true pa would have fathered Henrik, too. Reinhardt would not have given Henrik a fistful of cash and sent him alone into an unknown world. Reinhardt had always protected his sons, kept them close and safe. But Eli . . .

The needle jabbed her finger. She gasped, jerking her hand from beneath the folds of fabric. A bubble of blood rose from the tiny wound. She sucked on her throbbing finger, and the pain abated. If only the gaping hole in her heart could be so easily repaired.

With a huff of annoyance, she rolled the quilt into a ball and carried it to Reinhardt’s trunk. When she lifted the lid, her gaze fell upon the black leather Bible. Another wave of longing nearly drove her to her knees. Her comfort in God’s presence had slipped away the day Eli sent Henrik from their sod house.

Tears flooded her eyes. She closed the trunk and sank onto its lid, pressing both palms to the trunk’s sturdy surface, envisioning the book trapped inside. Her heart begged her to pray—to call out for God’s arms to draw her close and whisper peace into her soul. But her heart, withered and sore, couldn’t find the means to open.

God had taken Reinhardt and Jakob home to Him long before she was ready to bid them farewell. He had given her a taste of security here on the prairie with Eli and her remaining sons but then callously snatched that away, too. Knowing all she had lost, God should have prevented Henrik from leaving. He should have prompted Eli to keep Henrik close.

Shaking her head, she acknowledged the truth. She would be denied peace as long as she was denied the presence of her oldest son.

“Pa?” Joseph grunted the name as he heaved a rock into the back of the wagon.

Eli paused in prying loose a gray stone from the hard soil. “
Jo
, son?”

“Do you think Ma will like the new house?”

The hopeful note in Joseph’s voice pierced Eli. Could Lillian not see the harm she inflicted on Joseph with her continued withdrawal? Was Henrik the only important one now?

He forced a smile to his face. “For sure your mother will appreciate having a big kitchen, and separate rooms for sleeping and sitting. This rock house will be fine house, and every time she looks at it, she will remember how hard you worked to build it for her.”

“You work hard, too.” The boy sounded defensive.

Eli’s heart turned over. It would be easy for Joseph to pull away from Eli to show loyalty to his mother, but he had not forsaken the one he called Pa. Although Eli disliked that Joseph was forced to choose sides, he couldn’t help but rejoice in the continued closeness he and his stepson shared. He considered it a precious gift, and he would not treat it lightly.

“
Jo
, we work together. You are a fine worker, and you make both your mother and me proud.” A crooked grin tipped up Joseph’s chapped lips. Eli jerked the shovel’s blade, popping the stone loose. “Come now—get this one and put it in the wagon.”

Joseph obediently lifted the stone, grunting with the effort. He walked straddle-legged and hefted the rock over the side of the wagon. Slapping his hands against his thighs, he said, “How many more stones do we need, Pa?”

Eli scratched his chin. They had used all of those from his four rock piles to lay the foundation and build the first layers of the walls. It pleased him to walk the circumference, to envision doorways and windows and rooms inside. Had he not chosen to make the house so large, the walls would already be higher. But he had promised Lillian a big house, and he would build her a big house.

“We will need many, many stones, Joseph,” he answered, “but this land has plenty. We will keep collecting until the walls are as high as my arms held over my head. Then we will know we are done.”

Joseph followed Eli, placing his feet into the larger tracks left in the thin coating of snow. “When you finish the outside, will you use stones to build Ma’s
Spoaheat
?”