Ripples Along the Shore (4 page)

Clearing her throat, Maren Jensen lifted a Bible off the side table and opened it. “Mother Brantenberg—” Her face pinked, and she looked at their hostess. “Apologies. Rutherford and I are not married yet. It’s too soon to call you that in public.”

“The day can’t come soon enough for me.”

“Or for me.” Maren moistened her lips. “Uh, I will share a passage that holds special meaning. I will read it.” She pulled a magnifying glass off the table and lifted the Bible to within six inches of her face.

A candle maker, Anna would deliver candles to Heinrich’s Dry Goods store, where she was able to become better acquainted with Maren. The Danish immigrant hadn’t lost a loved one in the war, but she had suffered rejection from her betrothed as a result of her waning eyesight.

“I’ll read the fourth chapter of James, tenth verse.”

Thirteen months had passed since Anna and her mother received word of Dedrick’s death in a battle. That’s how long it had been since she’d heard Scripture read aloud in her home.

Humble yourselves in the sight of the Lord, and He shall lift you up.

Maren laid the Bible on her lap, then looked up. “Each of you knows my story … a mail-order bride suddenly without a groom.”

Anna nodded with the others.

Maren looped strands of straw-blond hair behind her ear. “I had a plan. After a week in Saint Charles I was to marry. Make my own home. Having trouble was humbling.”

Anna straightened, eyeing Maren. She knew about plans being abruptly changed. Before Dedrick left with his regiment, he’d promised that upon his return, the war and all its grief would be forgotten.

Maren’s soft but sure voice pulled Anna’s attention back into the present. “Since that day, standing alone in your father’s store”—she looked at Emilie, then to Mrs. Brantenberg—“I’ve learned God had His own plan. This was to be my first home in America. You and little Gabi, my family.” She drew in a deep breath. “And Rutherford, my husband. Now, I am thankful for change.”

Caroline, on the other settee beside Jewell, slapped her booted feet together. “What I’ve heard of the cad who walked away from you … frankly, Maren, you were far better off without him. But what of us who have lost their husbands and fathers to the war?” She glanced at Mrs. Pemberton and Hattie.

The young widow’s candor startled Anna, but she knew the question wasn’t directed to Maren so much as it was to the God who allowed the war to happen. A question on Anna’s heart that she had not dared to ask since her family’s devastation in losing her brother.

Obviously nervous, Maren tucked another tuft of stray hair behind her ear and looked at Mrs. Brantenberg. When the older woman didn’t open her mouth to address Caroline’s question, the Danish immigrant took a deep breath and opened hers. “I am not a widow. Your life is not mine.” She looked at the Bible on her lap. “But God is the same in all experiences. Faithful and true. He thinks thoughts toward us of peace, not of evil, to give us an expected end.” Her blue eyes glistening, Maren caressed the onionskin pages on her lap. “God knows what we don’t know. He sees the purpose in what happens. I don’t know the good Lord’s plan for you now that Colonel Milburn is gone.”

Anna’s throat tightened as she fought the urge to cry for Caroline, herself, Mutter. For everyone in the room—and those who were not.

“But the Lord said when we call upon Him,” Maren continued, “He will hear. When we seek Him, searching with all our heart, we will find Him.”

Caroline drooped against the back of the settee.

Anna hadn’t realized she was wadding the squares on her lap until the needle pricked her fingertip.

Maren moistened her lips. “Mrs. Brantenberg taught me that when I humble myself, I step out of the way of God’s plans.”

Mrs. Brantenberg set her coffee cup in its saucer. “I didn’t find it an easy task when my Christoph died or when my Gretchen died. Or when Rutherford left me and Gabi and I feared he would never return.”

“Thank you, Maren, dear.” Mrs. Pemberton waved a scarred hand. “Elsa, the thoughts you shared with the group last fall on scraps and remnants helped me.”

Anna didn’t know Hattie’s mother well, but she was usually quiet, letting Hattie do all the talking. Now that her friend’s mother had spoken, Anna was again sorry she’d missed the past few months at the farm. She was confounded by what cloth scraps had to do with grief.

Mrs. Pemberton looked directly at Anna. “Many of us will use pieces of fabric from tired or outgrown clothes in patches or appliqués.”

Had the woman sensed her curiosity? “Yes. My mother has.” She glanced at the mound of squares on her lap. “I’m using remnants from shirts Dedrick had outgrown.”

“Another tragic loss. Dedrick was a good boy. My sympathies.” Mrs. Pemberton’s tender gaze warmed Anna’s heart.

“Thank you.”

“Last October, our faithful hostess talked about those scraps and how they are like the circumstances in our lives. Remnants to be reclaimed and used by God as He stitches our hearts together.”

Hattie lifted a corner of the Crazy Quilt spread on her lap. “A quilted heart is a transformed heart.”

“As Miss Maren said, that comes when we humble ourselves before the Lord.” Mrs. Pemberton looked at Anna. “Does that make a straight line, dear?”

Anna nodded. She’d forgotten how much she enjoyed the way Bette Pemberton turned phrases. But there were no straight lines in her life. Only jagged edges. She wanted to believe the scraps could be transformed … that her life and her faith could be restored.

After a sip of coffee, Mrs. Brantenberg returned her cup and saucer to the table and lifted the paper and pencils from her lap. “In light of the movement to the west, I propose that after today we postpone our personal projects to work on squares for two Friendship Album quilts. One quilt to remain with those who will rebuild their lives in Saint Charles, and one that will travel with those who intend to rebuild their lives out west.”

Hattie clasped her hands at her chest, her eyebrows arching above blue-gray eyes. “What a wonderful idea!”

“Let’s see who will work on each one.” Mrs. Brantenberg stood and handed a pencil and one sheet of paper to Hattie. “You said your brother talked about taking you, your mother, and your grandmother on the trail in the spring.”

“Yes, it does seem my son has his mind made up, and we’ll be going,” Mrs. Pemberton piped in.

“And others of you? Are you remaining in Saint Charles?”

“We won’t be going.” Jewell Rafferty reached for the pencil and the second sheet of paper.

Caroline’s eyebrows arched. She didn’t look as if she shared her sister’s certainty.

As Anna watched the two papers making their way around the room, she couldn’t help but wonder which she should set a pencil to. The image of Mutter and Großvater making the trip caused her to shudder, but what else was left for her to do? She could no longer bear to watch them suffer. Her only hope seemed to hinge on another change.

To a place that didn’t shout Dedrick’s name in her memories.

Four

N
ow that Rutherford had gone outside to help unhitch horses, Garrett was alone in the granary, remembering. He scooped wheat from one of several mounds and stuffed it into a sack. He’d been stuffing the memories harvested in his youth in much the same way. In the silence, the brick walls seemed to step toward him. Rutherford had told him the history of this farm. Before Mrs. Brantenberg’s husband bought the orchard, the land belonged to a man who kept slaves.

Pulling the cord tight on the linen sack, Garrett glanced at the scarred stairs in the corner. The bulk of fifty slaves had slept in the loft. Those housed on his father’s plantation in Richmond lived a similar life—impoverished and contained. Shaking his head, he added the sack to the pile headed for the flour mill tomorrow. He’d seen the tally of each year’s crop carved into the back of every step, and didn’t have to imagine the blood, sweat, and agony poured into those backbreaking years.

In contrast to those lean years for so many slaves, Garrett had enjoyed generous portions of victuals at Mrs. Brantenberg’s breakfast table less than an hour earlier. He walked past two short barrels and lifted a heavy boot onto the first of the narrow pine steps. His footfalls thunderous in his ears, he climbed each plank as if he’d packed the weight of the world on his back. He had.

Familiar but distant voices called out to him. He paused, his head just inside the opening to the loft. He’d grown up around slaves, whom he’d counted among his friends. As Garrett looked from the A-frame rafters to the floor worn smooth by bare feet and imagined row after row of woolen blankets laid out as sleeping pallets, a recurring question draped him like a suffocating cloak. What would life be like if he hadn’t been so compliant? Given the circumstances, he thought he’d done the right thing. Not according to the two men he’d tried most to please—his father and his older brother. And he would forever be a deserter or a coward, no matter his reasoning.

Garrett descended the steps. He’d tied shut another full sack when Rutherford returned to the granary wearing a smile as wide as the Missouri and probably just as deep.

“From the doe-eyed looks of you, Rutherford, I’d guess Maren rode out here for the quilting circle.”

“She did.” His voice sounded far away … as far away as Mrs. Brantenberg’s sitting room.

“You two talked about the wedding, didn’t you?”

Rutherford nodded, then removed his kepi. “Only three weeks now.”

The man may as well be marking the days off on a doorpost. Seemed all Rutherford talked about was his beloved Maren, his sweet daughter Gabi, and the day they’d officially become a family.

“You and me”—Rutherford walked toward the two short barrels—“we need to talk.”

“Sounds serious.” Garrett followed him.

Cocking an eyebrow, Rutherford sat down. “It is serious. I don’t know how you feel about weddings.”

Garrett gulped and sank onto the other barrel. “How I feel about weddings?”

“My wedding.” Rutherford hung his hat over his knee. “Why so nervous? Should we be talking about your wedding?”

Garrett’s laugh echoed off the upstairs rafters. “A guaranteed waste of time.” He met his friend’s concerned gaze. “At the very least, I’d need to have prospects in the picture. Which I don’t.”

Rutherford glanced toward the open door. “You like redheads, don’t you?”

“She’s here?”

“So, you have noticed her?”

“You’d have to be an ostrich with your head buried in the sand not to know Mrs. Milburn likes me about as much as she would a rabid skunk.”

Rutherford chuckled. “Too fiery for ya?”

“The intensity, I can handle. But she’s a recent widow.”

“You’re forgetting.” Rutherford’s eyes narrowed. “I buried my wife. I’m a widower myself, being given another chance at love.”

His stomach knotted. “Yes, and I’m thankful you are.”

“I doubt Caroline Milburn is any more content with being alone than I was.”

A good point, but not one Garrett wished to entertain. He couldn’t. Even if she did like him, no woman could care for a man like him. Not if she knew the truth.

Especially that woman.

“It’s not the same. I was her dead husband’s enemy. Thus, her enemy too.”

“Was.”
Rutherford slapped his hat onto his head. “We’re all putting our divisions behind us. Starting fresh.”

Even if that were true—

“She was looking for you.”

The message tickled Garrett’s ears. Felt good to hear it. Too good. He needed to put distance between the subject of marriage and his curiosity about Caroline Milburn. “Should I get back to work?” Garrett leaned forward, threatening to stand. “Or were we gonna talk about your wedding?”

Rutherford raised his hand as if to stop him, and nodded. “I’d be honored if you’d stand with me. In my wedding.”

His breath faltered. “I’m not the best man.”

“I didn’t say you were.” Rutherford’s wide smile returned. “But tried-and-true friends are hard to come by.”

Garrett’s throat tightened with emotion while his secret gained weight, and he looked away.

“Quaid’s brother is standing with him. I want you up there with me.”

Garrett swallowed hard. “It’d be an honor.”

An honor he didn’t deserve.

Caroline stepped outside, onto the porch with Mary. The little girl’s hand felt so small in hers. Her youngest niece had come into Mrs. Brantenberg’s sitting room crying, asking for
her mother’s help. Her siblings were apparently busy chasing the hibernating mice out of the milk cellar, but her brother hadn’t been too occupied to tell Mary that five-armed monsters lived in that dark underground place. On the ride back into town, she’d have a talk with Gilbert about his storytelling.

Stepping onto the snowy path, Caroline looked toward the barn. Jewell had asked Mary to wait, as she was nearly finished stitching the last appliqué onto her squares, but Caroline told her she’d be happy to go with Mary in her stead to rid the farm of underground monsters so Mary could use the outhouse without fear. The two women both knew the truth—Caroline hoped to see Mr. Cowlishaw. Actually, the desire to see him made as much sense to her as chasing beasts with multiple appendages, but if Garrett Cowlishaw was on the farm today, she did want to thank him again for his help on Tuesday.