Wild Heart on the Prairie (A Prairie Heritage, Book 2) (31 page)

As Jan curled his fists and started toward him, Grader
shrank in terror.

“Jan!” Brian pulled at his arm. “
Jan!
”

He forcibly yanked Jan around. “Be sendin’ your boys doon
th’ creek on horseback, Jan. Now.”

Jan turned to Søren. His chest was heaving but he could not
catch his breath. He could not wipe the image from his mind of the rushing
torrent and Rose’s skirts, heavy with water, pulling her under.

“
Pappa
,” Søren said softly. “Little Karl and I should
take the bays downstream,
ja
?”

Søren’s eyes were haunted. He, too, had a vivid picture in
his mind, but it was the image of the drowned calf tangled in the tree roots
near the creek bank. He could not help it—when he looked into his heart, it was
not the calf, but Rose’s white face he saw floating in the roots of the
cottonwoods.

Jan nodded. He could not think; he could not act.
He
could only hate
.

He looked again at Grader who paled under Jan’s icy disdain.
The man, struggling wildly in his bonds, began to shriek and beg for his life.

Grader’s shrieks startled Jan, and he saw himself mirrored
in Grader’s fear-filled eyes. What he saw stunned him—Jan saw his own hatred.

Dear Father in heaven
, Jan gasped.
I am undone! I
thought you had tamed my heart, but in its depths I am yet a murderer!

Jan dropped his face to his hands. He stumbled out into the
yard. Peering at the sky through the downpour, he cried aloud, “Father! I am
sorry! I know you hear me . . . please forgive me.”

A crack of thunder answered him. Jan dropped to his knees,
sobbing.

Søren and Little Karl had been gone half an hour and early
morning was changing the skies from black to a sodden gray when Fiona and Meg
arrived. Jan shook his head at their questions and did not trust himself to
speak.

Fiona was making coffee when Brian uttered an urgent
exclamation, “Jan! ’Tis rememberin’ something I am! Th’ Andersons’ old soddy! We
showed it t’ Rose! Coom! Help me t’ be openin’ it!”

Jan stared at Brian, not comprehending. Brian grabbed his
arm and pulled him along.

The Andersons’ dugout. Of course. Of course I remember
it!
Jan wrenched the shovel from Brian’s hands and raced ahead of him. He reached
the side of the knoll first but could not find the door—the rain had turned the
hillside into a slurry of mud and grass. He drove the shovel into the hillside here!
There! Again and again until—at last—it struck wood.

Jan scrabbled with his fingers for the edge of the door. He found
it, jammed the shovel’s tip into it, and leaned his considerable weight on the
handle. The door began to give but Jan would not wait. He simply grasped it and,
straining with all his might, ripped it from its hinges and flung it aside.

He paused. The soddy was as dark as the storm-swept night
had been. Within, it was as still as a tomb.

She is not here!
his heart screamed.

“I’ll be fetchin’ a torch!” Brian yelled above the now
drizzling rain.

Jan dropped to his knees as his strength left him. He crept
forward, feeling about him with his hands. Dry, pounded earth was all his hands
found.

He crawled forward, sweeping his arms across the floor in an
arc. Still his hands found only hard, dry dirt.

And then.
And then his left hand encountered cloth. Damp,
clammy cloth. He followed the cloth until he felt a hip and then an arm. He
traced his way up the arm until he touched an icy cheek. He picked up her hand—as
cold as death! He could not feel her heart beating in her fingers.

“Brian! Brian McKennie!
Here—she is here!”

He scooped Rose into his
arms. She was as light as a feather.

O Lord! Please don’t let
her spirit fly away to you
!

“Rose!” Jan choked on
his words and his love poured out. He could not stop—he babbled words of
endearment in his native tongue, not knowing if she could hear them, knowing she
could not understand them.

“Rose! Little Rose!” he called
her urgently.

In his arms, her body
shuddered. “Help me,” she moaned.

Alive! O thank you, God,
she is alive!

She moaned again and her
head twisted against his chest. “Please! Don’t let me fall in the river . . .”

“
Nei
, Rose, I not
let you fall,” he murmured and pressed her closer to his chest so his warmth
would comfort her.

Forever,
he cried to God.
This is what I want, Lord!
To forever hold her and comfort her!

Brian appeared with a
torch. In the light Jan looked down on Rose’s face to assure himself that she
was truly alive. Her face was so cold that her cheekbones shone like polished
white marble in the flickering light. Jan carried her across the yard and into
the house, surrendering her to Fiona and Meg.

They were ready with
towels, dry clothes, and hot bricks to tuck into the bed. Fiona, her face sober
with worry, gently shooed him away.

Jan stepped into the
other part of the house and saw Grader, his arms and legs still tied to a chair.
The man watched Jan with anxious eyes.

Jan’s chin dropped to
his chest and he prayed.
O Lord, I surrender this unruly heart to you.
Totally. I hold nothing back
.

He looked at Grader
again. The man was terrified for his life.

Jan began to string halting
words together in English. “I sorry,” was his first quiet, awkward sentence.

He wanted to say,
I
was wrong! It is not my place to condemn!
but “Please to forgiving me,” was
as close as he could manage.

Grader’s mouth opened a
little. He did not answer.

Jan licked his lips, searching
and desperate for right words. “I forgiving it to you,” he said, meeting
Grader’s gaze.

Jan swallowed hard.
“You.” He pointed at Grader, who flinched. “You asking da Lord Jesus. He
forgiving it to you, too.”

Grader stared at Jan,
perplexed. Jan wasn’t surprised—he knew how pathetic his attempt to tell him
that Jesus would forgive him had been! But perhaps Grader would, somehow,
understand.

And then . . .
Grader’s eyes misted over. He dropped his gaze to the floor and a sob caught in
his throat.

Jan nodded and started toward the door.
Tusen takk, Lord
.

He closed the door behind him.

~~**~~

Jan wandered through the barn and out into the acres of young,
green cornstalks.
O Lord, how in the world did I get here? How did I manage
to fall in love with this woman—and I cannot even have a conversation with her,
let alone tell her all that is in my heart! I am a pathetic fool, Lord.

It had been days since he had spoken to his neighbor. He
stopped walking and stared across the corn and across the creek.
But, O Father,
how I need her! She is like a cool, soaking rain on my dry, parched heart. She
is like your grace when I am weak.

A desire deeper than any he’d ever known gripped him.
O God,
I need your wisdom. I need your help.

He saw his son stride across the barnyard, his long legs
eating up the distance, a youthful “bounce” in his walk.
Ah, to be young
again with so much energy!
Jan chuckled.

No sooner had the thought passed through his mind than
another obstacle raised its head. Jan grabbed his head with both hands.
Ach!
And she is so much younger than me!
What could she possibly see in me?
I’m almost old and used up.

He listed all the reasons Rose could not return his love:
There were such vast differences in their backgrounds and language! She was
wealthy and cultured; he was, well,
only a farmer!
She was young and
lovely;
he was at least twenty years her senior!

Jan wondered, not for the first time, how he could discover Rose’s
age. Was there ever any good way to ask a woman how old she was? Jan ran his
hand through his hair in frustration—again.

I’m not getting any work done today, Lord,
he
groused.
How can I work when I feel that my future is in that little house
over there and I cannot reach out and talk to her?

Jan saw Søren take the steps to the kitchen two at a time. He
smiled.
Oh, if I had only applied myself to learn English like Søren had
years ago . . . If only I could speak it as naturally as he can!
If only—

No.

An implausible idea crept into his head.
A daring idea
.
Jan turned it over and considered it from all sides.

But Søren would never . . . would he?

Jan heard the kitchen door slam all the way across the cornfield.
Søren bounded down the steps toward the barn.

Jan’s eyes narrowed. He was halfway to the barn before he
realized he’d made up his mind. He didn’t care what Søren felt! He would harden
his heart against Søren’s protests and his
sønn
would obey him in this.

“Søren!” Jan shouted the name. “
Søren!
”

“Yes,
Pappa
. What is it?” Søren was mucking out the
milking stations. Karl, Arnie, and Kjell, each busy with their own chores,
stuck their heads out curiously.

“Come. You and I will take a bath. Clean clothes.”

Søren gaped as though his
far
had grown a second
head. “
Pappa?
It is only Tuesday. We bathed already this week,
ja
?”
Karl, Arnie, and Kjell, hearing the word
bath
, scattered.

“We will bathe again. Now. In one hour we will be clean and
ready.” Jan turned away without further explanation.

“But
Pappa
? Where are we going?” Søren was talking to
Jan’s back—he was already halfway to the house.

Amalie!
Jan nearly panicked.
Amalie will want to
know what I am doing!

Then Jan remembered.
Ah, yes! Amalie and Uli are at a
quilting. Good!
His sister-in-law would not be asking any questions.

Jan put two large pans on the stove, filled them with water,
and built up the fire. He was dragging out the heavy hip bath when Søren, still
baffled, dragged himself through the back door.

“Go. Fetch clean clothes,” Jan said, ignoring Søren’s
questions. While Søren was in his room, Jan ran to his room in the barn to lay out
his own clothes but halted, caught momentarily in a conundrum.

Should he wear his suit? Wouldn’t that be most appropriate?
Jan’s hands trembled as he reached for it. Sweat was already beading on his
forehead. He was suddenly anxious!

This is madness!
he thought, almost talking himself
out of the whole thing. Then he thought of Rose and he could not bear another
night of wondering, of aching.

He looked again at the suit. No. He was already nervous
enough. Just ordinary clothes, but clean and fresh smelling.

Forty-five minutes later, with both of them clean and
dressed, Jan sat Søren down at the kitchen table and told him. There would be
no turning back now.

“
Sønn
, in a few minutes we are going to
Fru
Brünlee’s
. I will ask her . . .
to marry me.”

Jan couldn’t believe the words had come from his mouth, but Søren
jumped out of his chair. “I knew it! I
knew
it! I knew there was
something going on!” He grinned at his father and punched him in the arm.
“She’s great,
Pappa
. I am so happy for you!”

Jan stared steadily at Søren. He would not allow his
nervousness to show. “Just so. I am glad you approve.”

“So what do you need me for? You don’t want me there,
messing up your big moment!” Søren, still grinning, babbled on. “You know, Ivan
and I thought something was up at Sigrün and Harold’s wedding, especially when
you were singing and—” He frowned. “Say, why did
I
need to take a bath
and clean up, anyway?”

“Sit down,
Sønn
,” Jan commanded. When Søren sank onto
his chair, Jan leaned over the table and looked him in the eye.

“I do not speak the English well, do I?”

Søren shook his head. “No, but I’m sure you and Mrs.
Brownlee will—”

“—And I have not the way of flowery speech, have I?” Jan
pressed, waving him off.

“Yes, but—”

“—And you speak the English just like an American, eh? Even
just as well as
Fru Brünlee
,
ja
?” Jan’s eyes bored into Søren’s.

“Well, of course, but I—” Søren stopped. He stared back at
his father, the worst possible thought popping into his head. His eyes widened.

“No,
nei, nei, nei, Pappa!
You could not want me to,
you don’t mean—”

“—Søren, you will help me in this,
ja
? I need you to
do this important thing for me.”

Søren was shaking his head. “
But Pappa!
” He was almost
whining.

Jan ignored him. “Søren, you will tell her,
Fru Brünlee
,
I am speaking for my father
. You will say,
Please do not think of me;
only listen to my words as the words my father says to you
. You will say
exactly what I say to her and tell me exactly what she tells me back. You will
do this for me.”

Søren, his mouth an incredulous “o,” wagged his head back
and forth in protest. Jan skewered him with relentless eyes. “You will do this
for me,” he repeated.

When Jan could be put off no more, he and Søren set out across
the young cornfield toward the creek. Søren dragged his feet and muttered dark
things under his breath.

Jan ignored him. He was giddy—no; flushed with fear! Then
almost sick with worry—then elated. His hands felt clammy, his throat tight,
closed off.

Rose was watering her flowers and saw them coming; Jan’s
breath caught as she raised her hand in happy greeting.

Rose! You are so beautiful!
he marveled.

She welcomed them, and Søren managed a choked “hello,” but
Jan could not squeeze a sound out.
O Lord, I am a pathetic man!
he moaned
within himself.

Neither Jan nor Søren offered
a reason for their visit, and Søren looked everywhere but at their neighbor.
Eventually she invited them inside and put on a pot of coffee.

Jan sat down and folded
his arms—to keep her from seeing his hands shake! He schooled his face. Søren, growing
more distressed as the coffee perked, said as little as possible.

Rose cleared her throat.
“Amalie is fine?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Søren
managed.

“Has anyone seen Harold
and Sigrün recently?”

Søren nodded, choking on
something unintelligible. Rose gave him a sharp look.

She asked a few more
questions; Jan caught just two or three words every sentence. When she turned
her back for a second, Søren sent a pleading glance toward Jan. Jan frowned
back and jerked his chin in Rose’s direction. She was saying something . . .

“. . . sometimes
watch the calves playing in the morning. They are so frisky . . .”
Her hands trembled as she placed cups and
saucers on the table.

Søren stared at his feet
and Jan stared at Rose.
Ach! I have made her nervous! Is she frightened?
He
frowned.
Lord, that is not my intention!
O Father! I need your help!

Jan could not move. He
was frozen. Then Rose glanced from Søren to Jan and Jan watched her, hoping for
a sign. She set out the cream and sugar, poured the coffee, and pulled her
chair up to the table.

With as much calm as he
could muster, Jan sugared his coffee. Sugar, no cream. When he finished
stirring it he spoke to his son. “Please begin,
Sønn
.”

Søren sat up straight
and ran his hand through his hair in distraction. Rose smiled fondly at Søren.

Ja, she likes my
family well enough, doesn’t she, Lord?
Jan thought.

But Søren looked like
his stomach hurt, and Jan saw Rose shoot him a quizzical look.

“Ah, Mrs. Brownlee, I,
ah . . .” He turned pleading eyes on Jan who stared back.

“As we discussed,
Søren,” Jan insisted. He took a sip of his coffee.

“Mrs. Brownlee,” Søren
began again, “I am here as my father’s, ah, spokesperson. He wants to talk to
you and is making me, I mean
using
me to translate.” He sighed again.
“I’m sorry—this isn’t very comfortable for me, but, well anyway . . .
you understand.”

But Jan saw that Rose
did
not
understand!

“
Sønn
, you are
confusing
Fru Brünlee
!” Jan hissed. “Sit up straight as we discussed,
ja
?”

Søren straightened and
repeated formally, “From now on, please disregard me. I’ll be saying what my
father says, and you may answer him through me.”

Fru Brünlee
nodded, but she was obviously perplexed.

“Mrs. Brownlee, (this is
my father speaking), the first time I saw you in church, I realized you were
different from other women I knew. You had a hunger for God on your face. You
were searching for him with all your heart.”

Rose startled and she shifted
her gaze to Jan. Their eyes locked and Jan, for the first time, spoke his heart
directly to her as Søren translated his words.

“You were also grieving.
I knew that because I, too, have grieved for loved ones. I saw it in you and I
prayed for you. When we came to work on your house I saw you had character,
determination, and a dream. You worked hard for your aspirations. You wanted to
be the whole woman God created you to be, and I admired you for that. I tried
to help you any way I could. I wanted to be your friend.”

Jan paused. Søren
paused. His neighbor, her face inscrutable, waited.

“Are we friends?” Jan asked,
daring to hope for more.

“Why, yes. Yes, of
course,” she stammered.

“Gud,” Jan replied.
“Mrs. Brownlee, I have been alone for a long time now. The Bible says it is not
good for a man to be alone—”

Jan frowned as Søren
choked on the translation of his words. “I think it is not good for a woman
either.”

Are you hearing my
heart, dear woman? Can you see my love for you?
Jan could scarcely breathe as his eyes sought
hers again.

“Once before I tried to
speak of what is in my heart, the day at the river. But I blundered and you
were still hurting and couldn’t hear. Then when we couldn’t find you the night Baron
came to us for help, I knew, I knew then that we must come to an understanding.

“I am your friend, but
now—” Again Søren stumbled as he translated the intimate words. “But now I want
to have you as my most precious friend. I must know if you could find that
possible.”

Unflinching, Jan’s gaze
held hers. And he waited, hoping against hope. Several minutes passed during
which Jan died a thousand deaths.

And then
Fru Brünlee
frowned
and looked away.

Jan swallowed.
She
does not feel the same as I do! O Lord, please help me if I must live without
her!

Still turned away, Rose sighed,
and Jan hardened himself against the rejection he knew was coming. With his
last vestige of self-control, he held himself still, impassive.

She frowned again and
whispered, “Søren. Would you please leave us? And thank you.”

Søren fled the house
without a backwards glance. Rose got up and went to the stove, lifted down
another cup, and filled it with fresh coffee. And still she did not speak, did
not look at him!

Jan waited. She seated
herself and stirred cream into it, but she would not look at him. As though
ignoring him, she quietly sipped it.

Minutes passed; her
coffee was gone. Still she sat, waiting.

Could she be waiting
for him? Waiting for him to speak . . . directly to her?