Robin Lee Hatcher (16 page)

Chapter Twenty-Four

I
n the pale light of dawn that spilled through the parlor window, Karola stared at the words she had written.

Dear Father and Mother,

Jakob and I were married yesterday.

She didn’t
feel
married. She didn’t know what she felt, other than tired, but she most assuredly did
not
feel married.

She crumpled the slip of paper in her hand.

I will write to them another day.

She put away her writing materials, closed the top of the small writing desk that had once belonged to Siobhan, then rose from the chair and left the parlor. As she climbed the stairs, she listened for the voices of the children, but heard nothing. The house remained peaceful and still, all inhabitants asleep—save one.

Karola entered Jakob’s bedroom and went to stand at the foot of his bed.

Our bedroom, not Jakob’s alone. Our bed.

She toyed with the words in her mind, testing them to see if they rang true. They did not.

Jakob lay on his back. Even in sleep his face was etched with pain. He’d been restless throughout the night and had moaned softly whenever he’d sought a new position, which had been often.

Karola hadn’t slept at all.

It had been her wedding night, her first night spent in this room, and although her groom had been unaware of her presence, she’d been very much aware of his. She’d even blushed as she slipped into bed beside him last night; she’d felt the heat in her cheeks as if it were the noon sun on her face.

“You said yourself we don’t love each other.”

A wedding night with an unconscious groom who did not love her. No wonder she didn’t feel married. No wonder she wanted to cry.

Jakob shifted, groaned, then opened his eyes. She moved toward him.

“
Guten Morgen,
Jakob,” she said softly.

“What time is it?”

“Almost six.”

“Lance here yet?”

“
Nein.
Not yet. Is there something you need?”

He stared at her for several heartbeats before answering. “I need to use … the bathroom.”

Last night, Lance had assisted Jakob to the lavatory. He had also helped Jakob undress and get into his nightshirt. But Lance wasn’t here now, so it was up to Karola to take care of her husband.

That was, after all, the reason he’d married her.

“I am able to help you. Together we will get you on your feet and to the other room.”

He nodded. Sweeping the top sheet aside, he raised his left arm. “Take hold with both hands and pull slow. Let me do the rest.”

It didn’t seem the best way to Karola, but she did as he said.

She held her breath as she helped him, wincing whenever he did, hating his pain, wishing she could take it from him.

When he was at last upright on the side of the bed, she asked, “How are you doing?”

“I’ve been better.” His eyes were closed, his face pale. “Just give me a minute.”

He sounded angry, and her heart sank. Was she already failing him?

Jakob drew in a breath in that slow, careful way he’d learned since the accident. The pain in his ribs was acute. His shoulder was tender, and his head throbbed. But he didn’t feel as dizzy as he had the day before, and the nausea seemed to have lessened. He tried forming a fist with his right hand. Useless. He suspected his ankle was about the same.

He opened his eyes and looked at Karola. She wore a dressing gown of lemon yellow. Her hair was tied back from her face with a ribbon, and it had a morning-disheveled appearance that was delightfully attractive.

He was injured, not dead.

She was his wife.

And she’d married him to be his nurse, because he’d made her feel obliged to him.

If he’d had the strength, he would have sworn a blue streak.

“Are you ready?” Karola asked.

He nodded.

She stepped to his left side.

“No”—he motioned toward the pair of crutches in the corner—“ I’ll need one of those blasted things for under that arm. You’ll need to brace my right side.”

She retrieved a crutch as ordered.

His pain was increasing. He needed to use the toilet. And he felt guilty for snapping at his bride.

His bride … more like his indentured servant.

A marriage between them hadn’t seemed so wrong when Karola was in Germany. It had seemed practical and sensible. He’d been able to convince himself he was doing the right thing for all concerned because he’d had no feelings for her beyond a few fond memories.

Now that he’d come to know her anew and afresh, this marriage of convenience seemed all wrong for them both. He wanted her to see him as a man, as a husband, not as a patient. He didn’t want a nurse, and he most definitely didn’t want a wife who was with him because she had a debt to pay. He wanted to be more to her than that.

“Jakob?”

“Yeah,” he growled, gripping the crutch with his left hand.

“I’m ready.”

Karola was about ten inches shorter than he, and she probably weighed a good seventy pounds less than he did. He tried not to lean too hard on her, but his right ankle wouldn’t bear much weight at all, so he wasn’t very successful. Still, they somehow managed to reach the bathroom without either of them stumbling or falling down.

He rested his left shoulder against the doorjamb. “I can handle it from here,” he announced through clenched teeth.

She gave him a doubtful look but didn’t argue. Instead, she carefully slipped from beneath his arm and stepped backward into the hall. After Jakob moved out of the way, she closed the door.

He sagged against the wall, defeated.

He shouldn’t let himself care about Karola. He couldn’t afford to let her work her way into his mind, into his heart. There was danger in caring, danger in loving.

Too late. It’s way too late.

Chapter Twenty-Five

8 July 1908
Shadow Creek, Idaho

Dear Father and Mother,

I write to share surprising news. Jakob and I were
married three days ago.

The ceremony was officiated by Pastor Joki, the
Lutheran minister. My friend, Laura, her husband, Ian,
and her father-in-law, Tulley Gaffney, were present, as
were Lance Bishop (I wrote to you about him in a previous
letter), the pastor’s sister, and Dr. Andrew Cooper.
And the children were with us, of course.

After moving my things to the main house, I was surprised
to discover I missed my little cabin. It had become
home to me, and I am feeling unsettled. The feeling will
pass, I know. My place is with my husband and his children.

I love them all so very much.

Jakob was in an accident during the town’s celebration
of the American Independence. He was badly hurt,
but Dr. Cooper said there will be no long-lasting damage.
However, the mending is not quick enough to suit
Jakob. He is not used to being idle, and it chafes on him.

I think it strange, the winding path I took to become
Jakob’s wife. Marriage is what I wanted for so many
years, and then I did not want it when I could have it, and
then I could not have it when I wanted it again. Now, here
I am, married to the man I first fell in love with more than
a dozen years ago.

God has been kind and merciful to a daughter who has
problems with both listening and waiting.

There are many things I would ask you, Mother, if you
were here. I would be glad for your advice and I am sorry
for all the many times I rejected it in the past. At least I
have found guidance in God’s Word, and I pray I will not
make too many mistakes along the way.

One mistake I made, although I did not realize it until
today, was that I expected God to remove all storms from
my life once I gave my heart to him. Or at the very least
to take me out of any storm the moment I ask him to do
so. I am like little Aislinn, demanding my own way with
tearful cries, expecting my heavenly Father to do as I
demand, if only to stop the noise I am making.

Too many of my life storms are of my own making. That
I see now, too.

I love and miss you both. I still have not received any
letters from you, and I grow worried. Please write to me
soon.

Your loving daughter,
Karola Hirsch

Chapter Twenty-Six

I
t wasn’t nearly as difficult to milk cows as Karola expected. Lance was a patient teacher, and Karola soon felt confident enough to attempt the milking on her own.

“You need not come so early tomorrow morning,” she told Lance before he left on Thursday evening. “I can do this myself. You are already doing so much for us.”

“You sure, Karola? ’Cause I don’t mind if you need me to be here.”

“
Ja,
I am sure.”

Karola had discovered that the barn was a peaceful place at dawn. The air smelled of sweet alfalfa hay and the more pungent scent of animal dung. The quiet was disturbed only by the sound of the milk cows chewing their cud while they swatted flies with their ropelike tails.

Sitting on the stool, her head close to the cow’s warm side, Karola squeezed the cow’s udder. Milk squirted into the bucket with a steady
poosh, poosh, poosh.

Father God, what am I to do to help Jakob? He grows more
short-tempered by the day. Is it because of me? Am I doing something
wrong? I am trying hard to be a helpmeet, as your Word
says I should be, but it is difficult to know what to do for him.

I do not feel like his wife. The only time we touch is when I must
help him out of bed or to sit up so he can eat. I know he is in pain
and I know he is frustrated that he can do so little for himself.

She rested her forehead against the bovine, her hands momentarily still.

But there must be more wrong between us than that. Sometimes
I think he does not even see me. And sometimes I think he
resents me. Can it be that he feels trapped by the circumstances?
Was I wrong to suggest marriage? Did I do it not to help him but
to get what I wanted?

Karola released a deep sigh.

O God, when will I become more like Jesus? Why do I continue
to be willful and headstrong? Why do I act first and pray
later? You must grow tired of seeing me act the way I do, of hearing
me pray the same prayers time and again.

Father, I feel so helpless. Show me the way.

She hoped for a bolt of understanding to strike her, illuminating her situation and revealing exactly what she must do. None came. But she did feel more at peace by the time she finished her chores in the barn, and for that she was grateful.

On her return to the house, she heard pitiful mewling sounds coming from beneath the back porch. Bending over to peer under the steps, she discovered a small calico kitten no more than two weeks old.

“Little one”—she knelt down—“what are you doing under there alone?” Lifting the kitten, Karola pulled it to her chest, cradling it with both hands. It immediately fell silent as it searched for something to latch onto and suckle. “Where is your mother?”

She tried to see further beneath the porch but it was too dark. Silent, too. No other meows. No threatening hisses from a mother cat who feels her litter threatened.

Karola stood and glanced about the barnyard. The kitten began its mewling again, and she knew she must feed it. She couldn’t let it starve. But how on earth was she to get milk into the stomach of a tiny kitten? It wasn’t old enough to lap milk from a bowl. She could pour milk down its throat with a spoon, but she suspected that wouldn’t work.

Perhaps Jakob would know what to do.

Still holding the kitten against her chest, she hurried inside.

It was surprising how loud a creature this small could be. If Jakob was sleeping, he would certainly be awake by the time she reached the bedroom.

He was.

“What have you got there?” he asked the moment Karola stepped into the room.

As if he couldn’t tell by the sounds it made.

“It seems to be orphaned,” Karola answered. “It is hungry, but I do not know what to do.”

“An eyedropper.”

“What?”

“You can get milk into it with an eyedropper.” He motioned her closer to the bed. “Here. Give it to me. There’s an eyedropper in the cabinet in the bathroom. Top shelf. After you find it, go get some milk. Not much. It can only eat a little at a time. And the milk needs to be warm.”

Karola placed the mewling kitten into Jakob’s outstretched left hand, then turned toward the door.

“You might as well know that the chances aren’t good it’ll survive. It’ll probably be dead before the week’s out.”

She nodded but didn’t look back at him.

In the bathroom, she found the eyedropper exactly where he said she would. She placed it in the pocket of her apron, then hurried downstairs, where she warmed some milk in a saucepan.

By the time she returned to the bedroom, Maeve, Bernard, and Aislinn—awakened, no doubt, by the kitten’s cries—had joined their father on the bed. He sat upright now, his back propped with pillows, and the children were crowded around, making sounds of admiration, asking if they could hold the kitten, wanting to touch it.

“Not yet,” Jakob answered patiently. “It’s too little.”

Karola’s heart was in her throat as she observed them. She felt like an outsider, and she didn’t want to be. She longed to be part of them. Really a part of them.

Jakob looked up and saw her standing there. “Here’s Karola. Let’s get some food in this noisy thing’s belly so it’ll quiet down.”

Karola moved into the room. She set the cup of milk on the stand next to the bed, then withdrew the dropper from her apron pocket and offered it to Jakob.

He shook his head. “You’ll have to do it. My hand’s still not steady enough.” Wincing from the effort, he slid to his right. “Sit here beside me.”

“I can do it, Da,” Maeve said. “I can do it.”

“Not this time. Maybe tomorrow, if it’s doing okay. But don’t get your hopes up.”

As Karola took possession of the kitten again, she remembered something Jakob had said to her the night Woodrow Mason was killed:
“No matter how hard we try to protect them, we’re
helpless to change things. Life’s a series of loss upon loss.”

How terrible to have so little hope, so little faith, to expect disaster to strike at any moment, to await it almost as if it were his due. She could see that was how it was for him. She wished she could touch him, touch his heart, and help him find the truth. To show him there was hope. That there was a place of safety, right in the middle of any storm.

“It is going to be all right, Jakob,” she said softly. “You will see.”

There was something about the way Karola said those words that almost had Jakob believing them.

After giving her a few instructions, Jakob leaned against the pillows at his back and observed as Karola dripped warm milk down the hungry kitten’s throat. He saw her tender smile at the kitten’s eagerness and heard her soft laughter as milk dribbled down her wrist and onto her apron.

He hoped the kitten wouldn’t die, for he knew Karola would be as disappointed as his children would be. He didn’t want that. Not for any of them. He was tired of disappointment and heartache.

“Maeve,” Karola said softly, “please go and get that wicker basket on the back porch. That small yellow one. Bernard, could you go to the basement and bring up some of those rags we keep under the worktable?”

“What for?” Bernard asked, already sliding off the bed.

“She needs a place to sleep.”

“It’s a girl?” Maeve also moved to obey. “How can you tell?”

Jakob grinned. “Yes, Karola. How can you tell?” He’d bet dollars to buttons she hadn’t a clue how to tell the sex of a kitten, and even if she did, it was nigh unto impossible to tell with one this young.

If Karola knew he was teasing her, she didn’t show it. “Just look at her adorable face. She must be a girl.” Karola gave her head a firm nod for emphasis.

As soon as the two older children darted off, Jakob said, “You know she’s going to need frequent feeding. You’ve already got your hands full as it is.”

“I know.” She met his gaze. “That is why I mean to put her basket in here. Then you can see to her throughout the day.”

“Me? I’m no nursemaid for a kitten.”

Karola smiled. “You have been needing something to occupy your time.”

“Cats don’t belong in the house. They belong in the barn. We never—”

“I am sure the children will be glad to help you take care of it. Maeve can bring you the milk, and Bernard can change the rags in the basket so that it stays clean.”

“Listen, Karola. I—”

“Bitte.”

That one little word stopped his protests.
Please.
How could he deny her? She asked so little of him. He’d given her even less. “I suppose I could do it.”

“Danke!”
Her eyes were bright with joy.

Then she leaned forward and kissed him, and Jakob wasn’t sure who was more surprised—he or, from the look on her face as she pulled back, Karola herself.