The Heirloom Brides Collection (31 page)

“I tried, Papa, honestly I did.” Clara petted Rowdy, who napped in her lap while Papa ate lunch. “But Mrs. Klaassen was very stubborn—or
stoakoppijch
, as she put it. She said the only way she would let one of her sons come help is if we ‘borrowed’ him rather than ‘bought’ him. I didn’t know what else to do except agree. Especially since Mrs. Rempel said they couldn’t spare one of their boys to work for us.”

Papa sighed and toyed with his fork instead of eating. “It hurts my pride to have someone labor on my property without pay, but I was told that the Mennonite farmers around Wilhelmina were staunch in faith and work ethic. I imagine you’re correct in calling them stubborn. I don’t doubt you did your best.”

Clara chewed her lower lip. If she’d had her way, she would have borrowed the younger of the two Klaassen sons who entered the kitchen during her visit. Both possessed wide shoulders and thick hands clearly capable of hard work, but the younger one, Andrew, just out of school and caught in the gawky stage between youth and manhood, was much less intimidating than the one who promised to come early Monday morning and get started hacking the fallen tree into firewood.

An image of Titus Klaassen—tall, with a thickly muscled neck and a firm, square jaw that spoke of strength, and sky-blue eyes, full pink lips, and wavy blond hair that spoke of something soft and gentle—filled her mind. Not a trace of youthful awkwardness lingered in this one. More handsome than either of the beaus she’d left behind in Minneapolis and so sweetly eager to ease her burdens, he might prove to be a greater distraction than even Rowdy.

“Did you convince the Klaassens to allow the son to take his meals with us, at least?” Papa’s query pulled Clara from her musing.

She nodded so emphatically, Rowdy stirred. She scratched his silky ears, and he returned to snoozing. “I told Mrs. Klaassen we would serve him breakfast, lunch, and dinner, too, if he stays past five o’clock.”

Papa finally carried a forkful of peas to his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “And snacks both morning and afternoon?”

Would Papa deliver the snacks to Titus and spare her the discomfort? Of course not. Clara cringed. “Um…”

“A man working hard all day needs snacks, too.”

Something pinched her chest, making it hard to breathe, but she forced a reply. “All right, Papa. Snacks, too.”

Finally, her father smiled. “Good. And we might find some other ways to repay him for his kindness.” He closed his eyes and sighed, his plate of food seemingly forgotten. “What a blessing to have such good-hearted neighbors. The Lord is taking care of us, Clara Rose.” He drifted off to sleep.

Clara settled Rowdy on the bed next to her father and carried the plate out of the room. At the dry sink, she scraped the leftover food into a little bowl for Rowdy and set it aside. Then she stood staring at the small stack of dirty dishes, imagining adding one more plate, bowl, cup, and set of cutlery to the pile. The additional items didn’t trouble her. If she’d accepted Brant’s or Clifford’s proposal for marriage, she would have washed more dishes every day. She’d so looked forward to tending to a husband—mending his clothes, cooking his meals, keeping his house neat and tidy, raising his children….

But after losing not one but two beaus because of her dedication to her father, she’d packaged her dreams for marriage in a box and hid it away in the farthest corner of her mind. She didn’t dare hope that another man would find her pleasing, because a third rejection would surely shatter her. Titus Klaassen’s rugged, handsome appearance and kind nature appealed to her. He seemed exactly the kind of man any woman would want to claim as a beau.

She set her hands to work cleaning the dishes, and as she worked, a prayer formed and winged its way heavenward.
Lord, having our young, handsome neighbor in close proximity for weeks on end will surely wreak havoc on my old-maid heart. Please heal Papa quickly so we can send our borrowed hand back to his own work.

E
arly Monday morning, when the sun was only a sliver of red on the horizon, Titus saddled the oldest of his family’s horses and set off for the Frazier farm. Unlike Andrew and Mark, who had to be coaxed out of bed each morning with the promise of bacon and eggs, Titus enjoyed rising when the moon still hung heavy and a few stars bravely winked from a gray sky. The world was peaceful, and a man could think without any other distraction than birdsong or a whispering breeze—if one could consider such beautiful sounds distracting.

He breathed in the cool morning air and hummed one of the hymns from yesterday’s worship service, inspired by the rhythm of Petunia’s steady
clop-clop
of hooves against the road. Quickly the tune gave way to boisterous words in his parents’ native tongue.
“Lobe den Herren, den mächtigen König der Ehren!”

Petunia snorted and shook her head, making her thick mane flop.

Titus laughed. He gave the horse’s tawny neck a pat. “Oh, please excuse me, old girl, I forget you are an American horse.” He sang the line in English.
“‘Praise to the Lord, the Almighty, the King of creation!’”
He glanced at the sky, its blooming pink hue chasing away the remaining stars but bringing into view purplish streaks of clouds. “And such a creation He made, Petunia. Loveliness everywhere.”

Including on the face of Miss Frazier.

Titus chuckled self-consciously. Ma was getting older, gray winding its way through her hair and lines creasing her face, but she was just as wise as she’d always been. She’d listened to his reasons why he should be the one to work at the Frazier place—as the oldest of the boys still at home he had the most experience, he was the earliest riser, so he could be to the neighboring farm by breakfast time, and he was the reigning fall festival log-splitting contest winner, so he possessed the know-how and strength to clear that field in short order.

When he finished his list, she nodded and added another reason. “And Miss Frazier’s heart-shaped face and eyes as brown as a pecan shell are more pleasant to look upon than your brothers’ square jaws and Klaassen blue eyes, yes?”

Sheepishly, Titus agreed. Then Ma had given him a caution, which he took to heart. “She is a comely young woman, my son, and you are at an age to take a wife. But before you allow yourself to be drawn to her, make sure she is a woman of faith. It would not bide well for you to be yoked unequally.”

Titus pondered anew Ma’s serious words as he guided Petunia up the short, rocky lane to the neglected little house where Miss Frazier and her father lived. He’d prayed for years for God to lead him to the woman meant to be his helpmeet. None of the young women of Wilhelmina or any he’d encountered from nearby communities had stirred his heart the way Miss Frazier had when she looked beseechingly across the table at Ma and asked to hire one of the Klaassen sons. But despite the strange yet intriguing pull inside of him, he would heed his mother’s wise advice.

He reined Petunia to a stop at the edge of the unpainted porch railing and braced himself to swing down. As he did, the door opened and golden light spilled across the dingy boards. Standing in the flow of gold, Miss Frazier gave the appearance of an angel. Titus sank back into the squeaky saddle seat. His heart caught.

If she wasn’t already a woman of faith, he’d do more than chores on her farmstead. He would introduce her to the Savior. Because as sure as his ma made the best pumpkin bread in Cottonwood County, Miss Frazier was destined to become Mrs. Titus Klaassen.

Clara opened her mouth to offer a greeting to her hired hand, but the words refused to form. How could the Klaassen son be so alert and spry this early in the morning? Papa never spoke a coherent sentence until he’d enjoyed his second cup of coffee, and her thoughts were cloudy until the breakfast dishes were clean and put away on the shelf. But this man sitting erect in the saddle with spine straight, eyes shining, and cheek dimpling with a cheerful grin appeared to pulsate with energy. Maybe he’d already had breakfast and coffee.

He swung down from the saddle, looped the horse’s reins over the sagging porch rail, then stepped onto the porch in one lithe leap. “Good morning, Miss Frazier.”

Clara willed her stubborn tongue to function. “G–good morning, Mr. Klaassen. You’re bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this morning.” Heat seared her cheeks. Had she really just called him bushy-tailed? Perhaps she’d be wise to not speak at all.

He laughed, the sound so spontaneous and natural, an answering smile toyed at the corners of her lips. He pulled in a deep breath, his nostrils flaring, then blew it out slowly. “Early morning is my favorite part of the day. The air smells so clean and fresh. Slugabeds don’t know what they miss by lazing beneath the covers until midmorning.”

Clara had never lazed until midmorning unless she was ailing. She locked her hands behind her back and searched for a proper way of inviting him in.

His blue eyes narrowed, and he sniffed the air the way Rowdy did when he played in the grass behind the small chicken coop. “Miss Frazier, I think something is… scorched.”

With a frantic intake of breath, Clara whirled and darted inside. Thin spirals of smoke rose from the frying pan on the iron stove. The three hotcakes she’d poured just before opening the door were now blackened and shriveled. Using her apron to protect her hand, she grabbed the handle and shifted the pan to the cooler side of the stove. The awful smell of burnt batter made her wrinkle her nose. She gazed in disgust at the ruined cakes.

“Clara Rose?” Papa called from his bedroom. “Is everything all right out there? I smell smoke.”

“All’s well, Papa.” All was not well. She’d just ruined breakfast, and their hired hand had witnessed it.

“Then why do I smell smoke?”

Clara sighed. She scurried to Papa’s doorway. “I burned the hotcakes.”

“Well, make some more.”

She resisted emitting a huff of annoyance and turned toward the stove. Mr. Klaassen stood on the little throw rug just inside the door, glancing around at the room that served as sitting room, dining room, and kitchen. Embarrassment smote her again. Images of his family’s decorated parlor and neat kitchen paraded through her memory. Although she’d done her best to make this little house feel like home by grouping the fine belongings they’d brought from Minneapolis in comfortable settings and keeping everything clean, how dismal the room must appear in comparison to his home.

He shifted his gaze and caught her watching him. Another smile formed. “Would your father mind if I…” He gestured toward Papa’s open door.

Papa’s voice blared from the bedroom. “Please, come in. We can become acquainted while Clara Rose fries a new batch of hotcakes.”

He dipped his head in a slight nod as he passed Clara, and she hurried to mix more batter. While she worked, Rowdy awakened and toddled from his little basket behind the stove. He pawed at her foot, whimpering.

Clara frowned. “I suppose you need to be let out, hm?”

He swished his tail like a whirligig and bounced on his front feet.

His antics usually brought a smile, but the humiliation of her first few minutes with a hired hand on the property was too raw. She scooped him up and clomped to the door. “Hurry, now. I need to get breakfast finished before the morning gets away from us.”

She left the door standing ajar and returned to the stove, trusting the coyote pup to come back in when he’d finished his morning exploration. He would want his breakfast. She’d recently begun serving him their leftovers, and he always waited under the table while they ate, bumping his nose against her leg as if encouraging her to hurry up and feed him. She supposed she was spoiling him, but Papa didn’t seem to mind, and no one else was there to complain. She frowned, shooting a glance at Papa’s open doorway. Would Mr. Klaassen find Rowdy’s presence distasteful? And why should she care if he did? Giving herself a little shake, she set her attention on the hotcakes.

With Papa’s and Mr. Klaassen’s voices and occasional bursts of laughter—Papa had never been so merry before breakfast—spurring her to action, she fried several batches of nicely browned cakes. They didn’t rise as much as usual, but she blamed the breeze whisking through the kitchen. With the hotcakes tucked in the warming hob, she scrambled a half-dozen eggs and fried slices of ham. She’d already set the table for her and Mr. Klaassen, but it seemed as though both men were enjoying their chat, so she filled two plates and carried them to the bedroom.

“Ah!” Papa aimed a beaming smile at her and pushed himself higher against the tall walnut headboard. “Here’s our breakfast now. Just wait, Titus, until you taste Clara Rose’s hotcakes. So tasty you don’t need syrup or sorghum, and so light they melt in your mouth.”

Clara scowled at her father, her cheeks flaming as hot as the grease in the frying pan. “Papa, really. It isn’t becoming to brag.”

Mr. Klaassen had leaped from the straight-backed chair beside the bed when she entered, but he sank back onto the seat as he took the plate Clara offered. “You can’t fault a father’s pride in his daughter. If half of what he told me about you is true, he has good reason to brag.” His eyes crinkled with his grin.