Dakota Dusk (11 page)

“Obviously they didn’t,” a jocular voice called from the back.

“But fair’s fair. You go with the partner who paid for your box.”

“Easy for you to say, Jameson,” Jude called back. “You peeked.”

Laughter floated around the room.

“I have a suggestion,” Jude gathered the three of them together. “Why don’t we all go outside and eat together? That way we’ll all get extra helpings.”

The two young people grinned at each other and at Jude. Rebekka’s shiver changed to a warm spot. What a thoughtful thing for him to do.

On the other hand, it would have been nice to share a box, just the two of them.
Don’t be silly,
she scolded herself.
Put a smile on your face and have a good time.
“Let’s go,” she said as she picked up one box and handed it to John while Jude lifted the other. “I’m starved. And if we don’t hurry, the dancing will start before we’re finished.”

She followed Jude out the door. Barn lanterns hung from poles around an open area cleared for dancing. She stopped so quickly, Elizabeth ran into the back of her. “A piano,” she said, staring at the wagon off to the side. It’s load—a piano. “Where did it come from?” She looked from Jude to the wagon and back.

“Well, Nels over at the saloon wanted to give something to the party, so a bunch of men loaded it up and drove it out here,” Jude said.

Rebekka stopped like she’d been slugged. “From the saloon? I certainly hope that’s all he donated for the night’s entertainment.”

“Now, Rebekka. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. You wanted a piano, you got one. Now, come on, let’s eat.”

Rebekka looked around for John and Elizabeth.

“I thought they’d rather be alone. I remember what it was like to be young and in love,” Jude shrugged. “So arrest me, I gave them the right box.”

The warm spot in her middle melted and flowed out to her fingers and her toes.

The box could have been packed with sawdust for all the attention Rebekka paid to it. What she really wanted was to make Jude laugh. But, a smile would do.

Jude did a respectable job of demolishing the contents, all the while exchanging remarks with Rebekka about the evening, the people present, and the amount of money earned. What he wanted to say, he couldn’t, and a sincere “Thank you” had to suffice. He just wanted her to keep laughing. The rich contralto joy that flowed through the music of her laugh warmed him clear down to the icy spot that hadn’t melted in two years.

He watched a dimple come and go on the right side of her wide mouth. He didn’t, no, couldn’t deserve her. Slowly, carefully, he drew his cloak of guilt back around him and shut her out.

Rebekka watched him pull back. There would be no smile this night. What had happened to him that . . . ?

“Time for the music to start,” Mrs. Sampson announced, appearing out of the circle of light. “You two ready?”

Rebekka nodded. At least this way she could contribute something to the evening herself. And she didn’t want to dance anyway. Earlier she’d been looking forward to whirling around the packed-dirt dance floor. But in her dream Jude had been her partner. Something told her for sure that wouldn’t happen now.

They played jigs, reels, and hoedowns, sprinkled with waltzes and a square dance or two. They’d just swung into a Virginia reel when a gunshot split the air.

Rebekka crashed the chords.

“Call the doctor!” The shout came from behind the schoolhouse.

“What’s going on? What’s happened?” someone screamed.

Pandemonium broke loose with children crying, men shouting, the sound of a fight, fists thudding on flesh. A crash, the sound of a table or some such shattering under the force of a falling body.

Rebekka sprung to her feet and jumped down from the wagon. Lars Larson grabbed her arm. “Get back up there and start playing again. We’ll do a square dance, ‘Texas Star.’ I’ll call.”

Rebekka, torn between going to see what was happening and listening to the wisdom of Mr. Larson, nodded. She accepted Jude’s hand to pull her back up on the wagon bed. After sitting back down on the piano stool, she looked over the heads of the teeming crowd. The doctor with his black bag in hand disappeared behind the building.

“Please God, protect my school. Please don’t let them break up what we’ve worked so hard to replace,” she murmured under her breath as she sounded the opening chords. Then, aghast at her concern for the school and not the men involved, she amended her prayer. “And please take care of those who are hurting.”

But if they’ve been drinking
. . . She didn’t finish the thought, trying instead to think back over the evening. Had men been sneaking out back for a snort or two? She couldn’t be sure. She’d been too busy playing and helping all the dancers have a good time.

“We can do this,” Mrs. Sampson said over the twang of her banjo. “Jude, you take the melody.”

Mr. Larson joined them in the wagon bed. “All right folks, form your squares. Partners ready?”

At their assent, he swung into the call. “Alamen left with your right hand . . .”

Rebekka followed the words, her mind anywhere but on the tune. At least her fingers knew what to do.

“Now, bow to your partner . . .”

What was happening behind the school?

The dance whirled to a close. Applause followed the final chord and Mr. Larson raised his voice again. “Last waltz, folks. Find that special partner for the last waltz.” He turned to the musicians. “Choose what you will. I’ll go see what’s happening and be right back.”

Mrs. Sampson took the lead. At her nod, they joined in and played through the tune. After the applause, Mr. Larson again took over.

“That’s it and thank you all for coming. Remember to take your lantern or you won’t have anything to light your barn with in the morning. Thank you for supporting our school.” He waved his arm and the musicians swung into “Good night, ladies, good night, gentlemen . . .”

Rebekka sang along with the others. At the close, she shut the cover over the keyboard and spun the top of the stool around. “Now, Mr. Larson, what happened back there?”

“A couple of young bucks got into it. Nothing serious.”

“And the shot fired?”

“Just a flesh wound. Doc took care of it. Now, now, I know what you’re thinking. We couldn’t search everyone who came tonight. Yes, they brought booze with them. And yes, they’d been drinking.”

Rebekka clamped her jaw shut. She could feel the sparks shooting right off her hair she was so furious. If she said anything, it would be too much. Men and their booze. Couldn’t they live without it?

Jude watched her burn. The fire flashing from her eyes threatened to scorch anyone and anything in its path. In his other life, he would have been right back there, carousing with the drinkers, making a joke out of anyone who tried to force them to stop.

Now he was on the other side. Now he wanted a life not dependent upon booze to have a good time. He’d been having a great time this evening and he’d felt a part of a group bent on making other people have a good time. But what had it cost to change him?

He hitched the livery team to the wagon and turned around in the schoolyard. “Ladies,” he pulled up even with the two widows and Rebekka. “Can I give you a ride home?”

Without looking at him, the three boosted themselves up onto the back of the wagon bed and sat with their feet hanging over the edge. He could barely hear their discussion over the groaning of the wagon wheels under the weight of the piano, but he knew he didn’t really want to know what they were saying.

He stopped at the gate to the boardinghouse and let them off. Their “Thanks” came in unison, but no smiles accompanied the word. Instead, they continued their discussion on up the walk and into the house. Jude flicked the reins and the horses walked on. After telling Nels thanks for the loan of the piano, he left the loaded wagon in front of the saloon and trotted the team back to the livery.

While he had a gentle hand on the reins, he kept a tight hand on his thoughts. Too many memories clamored to come forward and be recognized.

Playing the organ in church the next morning kept Rebekka’s mind occupied because she had to read the music. When her fingers faltered, she commanded them to find the right keys. When her feet failed to pump the correct pedal, she ordered them on. But the Scripture, the sermon, and the prayers went right over her head.

She’d seen Jude saddle his horse and ride out first thing this morning. Where was he going? He couldn’t be working on Sunday because Mr. Larson felt strongly about honoring the Sabbath. He and his family lined the second pew on the right. Didn’t the man believe in going to church? It wasn’t like other towns where the pastor had just the one church. Willowford had church only every other Sunday because they were part of a two-point parish. Reverend Haugen lived in St. John, where the other church was located, and he traveled to Willowford.

Right now, she would have liked to travel someplace. Anyplace would do, just away. What were they going to do? She played the closing hymn and continued with a postlude. How could they get the women together? Other than sewing or quilting bees, the women let the men lead. And look where it had gotten them—someone shot in a fight at a fund-raiser and party for the schoolchildren.

She pushed in all the stops on the organ and tucked the sheet music inside the bench. She really needed to practice more if she was to be the church organist, but right now she didn’t even want to be that. Why hadn’t God taken better care of the evening? After all, she’d asked Him to.

By Monday morning a plan had begun to form in Rebekka’s mind.

“You look like the cat that ate the cream,” Mrs. Sampson commented when Rebekka sat down at the breakfast table.

“I’ll tell you about it when I finish thinking it through,” Rebekka promised.

A blustery wind buffeted her and her escort all the way to the school.
At least winter held off until after our party,
she thought as they crossed the bridge. Dry leaves blew before them, the trees denuded by the storm that had sprung up during the night. Rebekka shivered and walked faster.

“We have to get the stove started and the room warmed before the children get here.” She looked up to the gray clouds scudding across the sky. “It could even snow.”

“My pa says winter’s come. He had to break up ice on the stock tank this morning,” John said, his nose matching the red of his stocking cap.

Rebekka looked up again. The roof of the schoolhouse caught her attention. Smoke rose from the chimney and blew away on the wind. When they opened the door, warmth flowed outside and invited them in.

Rebekka hung her coat in the cloakroom. “Were you already here?” she asked.

John shook his head. “I bet Jude—ah, Mr. Weinlander, did this.”

Rebekka nodded. He’d said he’d take care of the fire in the mornings. A little nettle of guilt stung her mind. And here she’d been downright rude to the man ever since the dance. And all because he was a man. He’d had nothing to do with the fight or the drinking. All he’d done was be male.

She rubbed her hands together over the warmth of the stove. Now she had time to work on her lesson plan. Christmas would be here before they knew it, and what should they do for a pageant this year? But who wanted to have another celebration anyway?

Snowflakes drifted down like lace doilies when Rebekka and John left the schoolhouse that afternoon. Huge, wet flakes clung to their clothes and even their eyelashes.

“You hurry on home,” she said as she turned into the street along the boardinghouse. “And thank you for all your help, John. You have no idea how much I appreciate it.”

“I don’t mind. And thanks for the book.” He raised a hand in farewell, his treasured book tucked under his jacket so it wouldn’t get wet.

Rebekka nodded. The extra time with John was paying off in more ways than one. He’d become a reader for sure, if she had anything to say about it. And his requesting to borrow a book was certainly a step in the right direction.

She shook the snow off her coat and hat, unwinding the scarf around her neck as she kicked off her boots at the doorsill. After hanging her things up on the back porch, she walked into the kitchen, redolent with the aromas of baking chicken and its dressing. Her stomach growled in anticipation.

“And hello to you, too,” Mrs. Sampson said with a laugh at Rebekka’s consternation.

“Pardon me.” The young woman laughed along with her friend. “Mrs. Knutson home yet?”

“No, and neither is Jude.” She peered out the window. “Looks like it’s coming down harder.”

“Good thing they got the roof on the Jameson house,” Rebekka remarked as she went to the sink and washed her hands. When she got the dishes out of the glass-faced cupboard to set the table, they heard boots being kicked against the doorstop on the back porch.

“Well, at least Mrs. Knutson is home safe.”

The sparrow-like woman flitted in, still brushing snow from her hair. “Even my hat didn’t suffice,” she said as she smoothed her hair back up into the pompadour that crowned her head, adding an inch or two more to her meager height. “What a day! Seemed everyone in the county needed something before the snow fell. As if they haven’t known it was coming for weeks now.” She set her bag of tatting in the dining room. “Three dress orders for Isabel. I think she must be planning a trip or something.”

While they discussed the happenings of the day, Rebekka divided her attention between the conversation and the back door where, to her relief, she again heard the thump of boots on the step.

“Good, Jude’s here, and supper’s ready soon as he gets a chance to wash up. Bet he’s near froze after that long ride in. I don’t doubt they stay out there during the week if the weather stays bad.”

“Sorry I’m late,” Jude called as he hung up his things. He stopped at the stove to rub his hands in the rising heat. “Brrrr. When winter comes around here, it doesn’t just pretend. This is the real thing. Evenin’ everybody.”

Heat poured into the room when Mrs. Sampson opened the oven door to remove the roasting pan. Jude leaned over and inhaled the rich aroma of baked chicken. “Now, that alone is worth the cold ride. Gimme five minutes, all right?” He opened the lid on the reservoir and dipped hot water into the pitcher waiting on the counter. Pitcher in hand, he left the kitchen.

“Oh, Rebekka. I almost forgot. There’s a letter for you on the hall table,” Mrs. Sampson said, brushing back a lock of hair with the back of her hand.

“Thanks,” Rebekka said, then went to get it. Compared to the kitchen, the rest of the house felt chilly; perhaps the coal furnace needed stoking. She picked up her letter and ambled back to the warm kitchen. Sitting down at her place, she slashed the envelope with her dinner knife and started reading, mumbling softly. “Dear Rebekka,” her aunt wrote in a firm hand. “We are all fine here, but I thought I’d better get our invitation out early. We would love to have you come for Christmas and stay until after the New Year. Grandma especially asked me to invite you.”

Rebekka raised her gaze to find Mrs. Sampson watching her. “Is everything all right?” She set the platter of sliced roast chicken on the table.

“They want me to come for Christmas.” Rebekka felt a lump form in her throat. She hadn’t celebrated a holiday with family in ten years.

“Are you going?” Mrs. Knutson brought the stuffing bowl.

“I don’t know.”

“Going where?” Jude entered the kitchen in his stockinged feet so no one had heard him coming.

“To Minneapolis . . . for Christmas with my family.”

“Sounds wonderful.” He pulled out his chair and sat down. “When will you leave?”

But I don’t want to leave this family either,
Rebekka thought as she looked around the table at the dear faces, these people who were becoming so much more than just friends. This was her family, too. “I don’t know.” She folded the letter and replaced it into the envelope.
Please ask me to stay here.
She bit her tongue to keep the words from tumbling out. What in the world was she thinking? Of course she wanted to spend Christmas with her relatives, really she did.

But when she went to bed that night, she wondered whom she was trying to convince. Especially since they’d had another musical evening.

She was prepared to wake up to a dark and blustery day, but instead, the rising sun reflected off the crystallized world outside. The elm tree outside the window wore frosting branches and the spirea bushes laid down under their pristine blanket. By the time she and John followed the already-made tracks across the bridge, the sun was glinting off the snow, hurting their eyes. Rebekka looked thoughtfully at a drift off to the side. She hadn’t made snow angels for a long time. Perhaps they could do that during recess.

That afternoon, the stationmaster delivered three boxes to the school. “You boys come on and help me,” Jonathan Ingmar said as he lugged one box in and set it down by the stove, where everyone was gathered to eat their dinner. Two of the big boys followed him out the door and returned with two more boxes that they set down by the first.

“Who are they from? What are they? Can we open them now?”

The questions flew fast and furious.

Rebekka retrieved her scissors from a desk drawer and handed them to one of the newer children. “Go ahead, cut the twine.”

His grin didn’t need an interpretation. As he cut the strings binding the boxes, the other children ripped off the wrapping.