The Heirloom Brides Collection (30 page)

Over the next week, Clara’s determination to keep the pup—as he grew, his tail lent evidence he was a coyote pup and not a fox kit—flagged. He required around-the-clock feedings, and when he wasn’t sleeping, he wanted attention. Between caring for Papa and caring for the little coyote, she’d never been so exhausted. Yet she wouldn’t wish away either responsibility. Papa had dedicated his whole life to her, even leaving his good job and their fine home in Minneapolis for this run-down farmstead and an uncertain outcome. There was nothing she wouldn’t do for her father.

As for the demanding little ball of fur, he provided what was certainly her only chance to share the maternal love pining for expression. So no matter how many times she warmed milk to drip into his greedy mouth with a bit of cloth or scrubbed up the messes he left on the pine floorboards, she wouldn’t complain. He made her laugh by scampering behind her, batting at her shoelaces or biting at her hem, and he made her sigh when he curled in her lap and gazed up at her adoringly. The joy he gave her far exceeded the weight of responsibility.

But other responsibilities weren’t so easily balanced. Milking the cow, bringing in water from the well, feeding their livestock, and cleaning the barn stalls—all things Papa had done before his accident—taxed her. Papa fretted over her working so hard, and he didn’t believe her when she assured him she could handle the tasks. She supposed her drooping shoulders and dark-smudged eyes told the truth. But not until the day she carried Papa’s ax to the field and tried to hack apart the felled tree did he become stern and demand she give up trying to do his work.

She sat on the edge of his bed and took his hand. “Papa, the field has to be cleared if we’re to put in a corn crop this year.”

He scowled at her. “And do you intend to plow the ground and plant the seeds, too? Clara Rose, I appreciate your willingness, but it’s too much for you.”

She laughed softly. “I suppose my classes at the Fenwick Finishing School for Girls didn’t prepare me for plowing and planting, but haven’t you always told me I could do anything I set my mind to if I relied on God’s strength?”

Papa leaned against the pillows and sighed. He looked so old and tired. Tears pricked Clara’s eyes. He squeezed her hand. “God can do anything, and we can do all things through Him, it’s true, but you don’t have the muscles of a man, my daughter.” He turned her hand over and used his fingers to trace the blisters forming a line across her palm. “Your mother would roll over in her grave if she saw this.”

Clara gently extracted her hand and hid it in the folds of her skirt. “I think you forget Mama’s last words, Papa. She bade me to be a loyal daughter and take good care of you. And that’s what I intend to do.”

“But at what expense, Clara Rose?” Papa’s question hung in the room.

Clara bit her lower lip, trying to forget what her loyalty to Papa had already cost her. As if sensing his mistress’s need for distraction, the little coyote pup made a clumsy dash for Clara and attacked the toe of her shoe. Laughing, Clara picked him up and put him on the bed. He bounced across Papa’s chest, releasing little yips with each ungainly leap.

Papa laughed. “What a scamp he is.” He twiddled his fingers, encouraging the pup to bat and snap at him. “Have you chosen a name for him yet?”

Clara sucked in a breath. “If I name him, I know I’ll keep him. I wasn’t sure if you…”

Her father arched an eyebrow. “Would let you keep him?”

She nodded.

“You’re twenty-four years old now. I think you’ve gained enough wisdom to know if you can handle the responsibility of a pet coyote.”

The reminder of her age pained her, but she smiled. “Then I guess I better choose a name, because I don’t want to give him up.” She tilted her head and watched the coyote pup jump and bat at Papa’s hand. “How about Russet? Or Beau—short for Beauregard?”

Papa chuckled. “Those names are too refined for a rowdy little fellow like him.”

Clara clapped her palms together. “Rowdy! That’s the perfect name, Papa.”

Papa caught the pup in both hands and held him in front of his face. “What do you think? Would you like the name Rowdy?”

The pup yipped, wriggling.

Both Clara and Papa laughed.

“All right, Rowdy it is.” Papa plopped Rowdy in Clara’s lap and then placed his hand on her knee. “With that decision made, we can turn our attention to the next important decision.”

Clara put the wiggly pup on the floor. “What’s that?”

“Who will clear the field.”

She sighed. “There really isn’t any choice, Papa. Only this morning the doctor told me your leg is healing well, but when I asked, he assured me you won’t be up and working before June. So it’s up to me to clear the field.”

Papa shook his head. “I talked to the doctor this morning, too, about the field work. He recommended hiring a local man to do the labor.”

Clara cringed. “Oh, Papa, no.”

He frowned. “Now, hear me out. We have money in the bank. We can afford to hire a hand.”

Hadn’t they sold their house in the big city and moved to this remote town to be away from others? How could Papa suggest they bring someone to the farm? “I’d rather do the work myself.”

“You have enough to do with the cleaning, cooking, laundry, gardening…” Rowdy jumped and clamped his jaw on the corner of the blanket. The pup growled and spun a slow circle. Papa chuckled deep in his throat. “And keeping up with Rowdy. It only makes sense to hire someone to do the heavy labor until I’m on my feet again and can take care of the chores myself.”

“But, Papa—”

“No arguing, Clara Rose.” Papa sent her a firm look that stilled her tongue. “Tomorrow is Saturday. First thing after breakfast, you’re to hitch Penelope to the wagon and drive to the neighboring farms. Doc Biehler said at least two of our neighbors have fine, strapping sons who are accustomed to farmwork. You’ll ask to hire one of them. And that’s final.”

A
wagon rolled up the long lane leading to the Klaassen farmstead. Titus Klaassen lifted his attention from the trio of bawling
Kose
at his feet. He shielded his eyes with his hand, ignoring the largest baby goat’s attempt to eat the cuff on his pant leg, and watched the wagon approach. Saturday was chore day in his small farming community, so visitors were usually traveling salesmen. But this was no sales wagon, the driver no salesman. In all his twenty-five years, he’d never seen a salesman wear a ruffled bonnet and flowersprigged frock the same color as the lilac blossoms budding on the bushes around the front porch. He released a short chuckle. Salesmen might be more successful if they all dressed as pretty as the
Me’jal
perched on that wagon seat.

He crouched and freed his cuff from the kid’s mouth, then held the milk-filled bottle toward the greedy little goat. While the kid tugged at the bottle nipple, Titus observed the young lady bring the wagon to a halt on the cleared ground beside the barn, set the brake, and climb down from the high seat. Slender and as graceful as willow branches swaying in a breeze, her appearance pulled at him with the same force as the hungry kid on the bottle.

The young woman paused for a moment and shook the dust from her skirt. Then she reached up and released the strings on her bonnet. She lifted the bonnet from her head, revealing a braided coil as richly brown as the maple syrup Pa boiled every spring. Recognition dawned—the Frazier daughter. Titus rose, the empty bottle in his hand and a bleating
Kos
bumping against his shin, and watched the girl climb the porch risers and knock on the screened door. Moments later, the door opened, and the girl disappeared into the house.

Worry nibbled at him, as persistent as the Kos demanding a second feeding. Just last Sunday his minister had led the congregation in praying for the elder Frazier, who’d suffered an accident on their land. Even though the Fraziers weren’t part of the local Mennonite fellowship, Titus had prayed for the newcomers every day. He hoped no other calamities had befallen the family.

Curiosity about his new neighbors trickled through him. The Fraziers kept to themselves. Not once had either of them ventured to the Klaassen farm even though Ma had delivered a loaf of her blue-ribbon pumpkin bread to welcome them to Wilhelmina. The other two of the rejected goat triplets needed to be fed, but he couldn’t resist leaving the small pen and trotting across the yard to the house to find out why Miss Frazier had come calling.

He wiped the bottoms of his boots clean on the scraper at the base of the porch—Ma always mopped first thing on Saturday, and she’d scold if he brought even a speck of dirt in—and followed the sound of women’s voices to the kitchen. Ma, ever the gracious hostess, had seated the visitor at the scarred worktable and was serving her a cup of
Koffe
as Titus stepped into the kitchen doorway.

Ma barely glanced at Titus, but he witnessed a knowing smirk crease her face as she sank onto the opposite chair and folded her hands on the table’s edge. “Now, then, Miss Frazier, what brings you out on this fine spring
Morje
?”

The girl crinkled her nose. “More-yah?”

Ma chuckled. “Forgive me. The English words so close to my old language always seem to get swallowed by our Low German. What brings you out this fine morning?”

Miss Frazier took a sip of her coffee before answering. “I wish I could say I was making a social call, because I know we—my father and I—haven’t properly thanked you for the delicious bread you brought to us last month.” Pink filled her cheeks, her expression as sheepish as a child who’d been caught with her fingers in the sugar bowl.

Ma shook her head and clicked her tongue on the roof of her mouth. “You need not worry over a delayed thank-you. I know how much work needs done at the farmstead you and your
Foda
purchased. It sat empty for two years! I am sure you have both been very busy. And even more so now with your dear father injured.” A worried frown pursed Ma’s face. “How is your father, Miss Frazier?”

“He is healing well, Dr. Biehler says.”

“Such a blessing,” Ma said, and Titus nodded in agreement.

Miss Frazier ducked her head. “But he is unable to work. In our fields.” She took another little sip of the coffee, the cup quivering in her grasp. She set the cup down and sent Ma a helpless look. “He sent me out today to inquire about hiring a farmhand. I already went to the Rempels, but they said they couldn’t spare either of their sons. Mrs. Rempel told me you have six sons. So I came here, hoping, maybe…” She bit the corner of her lip.

Ma drew back in surprise. “Miss Frazier, are you asking to hire one of my boys to work at your place?”

Her lip still caught in her teeth, Miss Frazier nodded.

Ma grimaced. “Oh, I am sorry, but—”

Titus held out his hand. “Ma, couldn’t—”

Miss Frazier sat up straight and began a rapid flow of words. “Mrs. Klaassen, please. Papa already bought seed corn, and the seeds need to go in the ground before long if we’re to have a money crop this year, but the field hadn’t been completely cleared before we bought the farm. Papa got hurt felling the largest of the trees, and now he’s unable to finish clearing. The doctor said Papa won’t be able to work for many weeks yet, and I”—she gulped—“am unable to chop up trees or break the ground. We must hire someone.”

Ma patted Miss Frazier’s hand and flicked a frown at Titus. “Please, let me finish.”

Titus bit back his own objection out of respect for his mother.

With Miss Frazier quiet, Ma offered a warm smile. “It is true the Lord blessed us with six sons. Our oldest, Jonah, is married and lives on a farm near Mountain Lake with his wife and our
Grootsän
, Little Ben. Our two youngest, Mark and Paul, have not yet finished school. But our middle boys, Titus, John, and Andrew, live here at home and help their father with our fields and livestock.

“Since they have completed their schooling, and since all of them are familiar with every part of farming, any of them could certainly see to what needs doing at your farm.”

Hope glimmered in Miss Frazier’s expression.

Titus found himself holding his breath, his heart thudding in anticipation.

“But I am so sorry, Miss Frazier. I cannot possibly hire out one of my boys.”

Miss Frazier’s chin began to tremble and plump tears winked in her eyes.

Her reaction pained Titus. He gritted his teeth and inwardly protested. How could Ma, the kindest and most giving person he’d ever known, be so callous to this neighbor in need?

“
Nä
, nä,” Ma went on, seemingly oblivious to Miss Frazier’s distress, “my Ben would say the same thing. No hiring out of our boys. But”—she held up one finger—“we could
lieen
you one of our
Säns.
” She made a face. “Lend you one of our sons.”

Titus sucked in his breath and held it.

Miss Frazier gasped. “L–lend?”

Ma nodded, her eyes sparkling. “What kind of neighbors would we be if we made you pay for such badly needed help? The Lord would frown on us, for sure. But to lend you a pair of hands until your father is able to work again? That would be our pleasure.”

Titus let out his breath in a loud
whoosh.
Both women looked at him. His face flamed, but he stepped forward—one wide stride that brought him within arm’s reach of the table. “I will help Mr. Frazier, Ma. That is…” He locked his gaze on Miss Frazier’s wide, unblinking brown eyes. “If you approve, miss.”