The Heirloom Brides Collection (38 page)

Titus and Ma burst into laughter.

Mrs. Zemke frowned at them. “What is so funny?”

“Nuscht.” Ma hugged the other woman again. “We are just happy.”

“Nä-jo, well, get this wagon unloaded so I can get back to the store before closing time. Then my Ike will be happy, too.”

After breakfast Saturday morning, Clara took the broom and headed for the front porch. Dirt and tiny bits of blackened grass littered the entire expanse, and she and Papa had carried the sooty mess into the house on their feet each day. It was time to get rid of it for good. Rowdy trotted along beside her as she propped the door open and stepped outside. The coyote darted to the edge of the porch, pointed his nose in the air, and released a series of shrill barks.

Clara recognized the sound as his warning barks. She marveled that even living with humans, away from a pack of creatures like himself, he still knew how to behave like a coyote. She reached down and gave his neck a little scratch. “It’s all right, boy. We’re safe.”

Rowdy growled low in his throat and slunk back inside.

Puzzled, Clara scanned the surrounding area for anything that might speak danger to the pup. A cloud of dust far up the road caught her attention. She frowned for a moment, and then understanding dawned. Hadn’t Titus Klaassen warned them a group would come paint the house today? When he’d departed early yesterday, she presumed he’d finished his work and had no need to return. Apparently, she’d been wrong.

She angled a glance over her shoulder through the open doorway. “Papa?” She turned her attention back to the cloud, which drew nearer with each passing second.

The
clomp-clomp
of crutches against the floor let her know her father was coming. He stopped beside her. “It must be the painters Titus promised us.”

She couldn’t determine from his even tone whether he was pleased or resigned. She flicked a look at him and noted the slight upturn of his lips.

The small smile disappeared when he turned and met her gaze. “Would you bring out a chair, please, so I can greet everyone when they arrive and visit with them as they work?” He didn’t ask if she intended to stay inside or come out and visit with the workers, but she glimpsed the question in his eyes.

“Of course, Papa. I’ll be right back.” She hurried inside, grabbed one of the chairs from the table, and carried it to the porch.

A trio of wagons approached, each with two people on the seat and several more in the beds. Both men and women, judging by their headwear. Clara paused with the chair in her hands, a spiral of longing finding its way through her center. Yesterday being greeted by townsfolk had been so pleasant. Should she stay out here with Papa?

Rowdy crept behind her, his fur ruffled and his lip curled back to show his teeth. She’d never seen the pup behave so fiercely. She couldn’t leave him out here with Papa.

She put the chair down and scooped up Rowdy. “Papa, we’re going inside.”

He nodded, and although not a hint of disappointment colored his expression, regret stung her. He raised his hand in a wave, and several people in the wagons waved back. Many of them called greetings. Before they could approach the house and address her directly, she hurried inside with the growling coyote in her arms.

Clara spent the morning comforting Rowdy, who alternately growled, whined, and yip-yipped in protest at the intrusion of humans in his territory. Shortly before noon, the little creature crawled under her bed, curled into a ball with his tail over his face, and fell asleep. With him quiet, she could have gone outside, but fear Rowdy would awaken and be frightened kept her indoors.

She couldn’t stay away from the windows, however. She moved from room to room, awed by the busyness she witnessed in every direction. In the cleared area behind the house, a half-dozen women swarmed her vegetable garden, planting the seedlings in neat rows with sticks and string separating the plants. Two men clambered on the barn’s roof, hammering wood shingles into place. Two more men carried posts and railings behind the barn. She couldn’t see what they were doing, but she could guess. They’d have a pen for their piglet by sundown.

Several times she stepped up to a window only to have someone look in, paintbrush in his hand and a smile on his face. Although she always gave a little start of surprise, she managed to offer a smile and little wave before turning and scurrying to a different window. Until she looked out from Papa’s window and discovered Titus Klaassen on the other side of the glass. Then she froze as stiff as if she’d been caught in a blizzard and stared, wide eyed and unblinking, into his sky-blue eyes while he stood equally still and stared back.

She had no idea how many minutes passed with the two of them gazing at each other, not smiling yet not frowning, their lips parted as if words were trying to escape, her pulse pounding with as much force as the hammers coming down on nails. Then someone must have called his name, because he jerked his face to the left, appeared to listen, nodded, and started to turn back.

In those brief seconds of separation, her limbs thawed enough to move. She darted away from the window and around the corner. Ridiculous though it was, she pressed herself to the wall and leaned into the doorway just enough to peek with one eye at the window. There he was, hands cupped beside his face, peering in.

Heat exploded through her face and all the way into her chest. She bolted out of sight, then she dashed around, whisking the curtains closed at every window except the one where she’d exchanged the lengthy, nonverbal staring match with Titus Klaassen. Instead, her head low, breath caught in her lungs, and gaze aimed at the floor, she stepped into Papa’s doorway, grabbed the door handle, and gave his door a quick yank that sealed the room away.

She sagged against the sturdy door and released her breath in a long, slow exhale that calmed her thundering pulse. The patter of feet and mumble of voices on the porch caught her attention. She inched to the front window, lifted the corner of the curtain, and peeked outside. Two women were spreading blankets on the ground in front of the house. Other women arranged platters and plates and jugs on the edge of the porch floor. Mrs. Klaassen and Papa engaged in what appeared to be a lighthearted exchange. Desire to join them nearly twisted her heart into a knot.

Mr. Klaassen ambled near. Clara felt like a voyeur as she watched him move beside his mother, plant a kiss on her cheek, then snatch up one of the odd rolls that looked something like a snowman and carry it to his mouth. He handed one of the rolls to Papa, and his face shifted in her direction. She ducked out of sight, then scurried to the table. She clung to the back of one of the chairs, a wild battle raging inside of her.

Go out.
The voice inside her head was more demanding than any she’d heard before. Should she heed it? If she went out, she’d please Papa. She could talk to Mrs. Klaassen, which would please her. She could tell Mr. Klaassen thank you for bringing these workers to their place. Even if their presence frightened Rowdy and intimidated her, she was still grateful for their thoughtfulness.

One of the scriptures she and Papa studied last week tiptoed through her memory. “
In every thing give thanks: for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you.
” When Papa shared the verse from 1 Thessalonians, he’d indicated it instructed believers to thank God for everything they encountered, whether good or bad, because all things served a purpose. But she knew God wanted His followers to treat others the way they wanted to be treated. If she worked hard for someone else, she’d appreciate being thanked. Thanking them would please her Father.

She straightened her shoulders and turned toward the door. They were all gathering to eat their lunch. She could tell everyone thank you at once. She lifted her foot to take a step.

Whines erupted from beneath her bed—Rowdy awake, fearful, and probably hungry.

Clara hurried to tend to her pet.

T
he last wagon, driven by Titus Klaassen, rolled from the yard. Clara watched from the window until it disappeared over the gentle rise in the road, then she stuck her head out the door and addressed her father, who stood at the edge of the porch. “Are you ready to come in now? Supper is waiting.”

Papa eased to the porch stairs and aimed a grin over his shoulder. “Supper can wait. Come with me.”

Clara held her breath as Papa descended the two steps to the yard, wavering on the crutches. When he reached the bottom, she emptied her lungs in one
whoosh
and scurried after him.

“Don’t look at the house until I tell you,” Papa warned.

Temptation to sneak peeks tormented her as she moved alongside him to the middle of the yard, but she kept her gaze forward until Papa stopped.

“All right. You may look.”

Clara turned slowly, and when she got a view of the house, she clapped her hands to her cheeks and gasped. “Oh, Papa! It looks… It looks…” She couldn’t find appropriate words.

The old gray weathered siding bore a coat of crisp white paint. The shutters, which once hung crooked and bore stains from mud dauber nests, lay square against the house and glistened in a vibrant, deep green. The porch railings and posts were white like the house, but someone had taken the care to add green bands on the carved turnings on the posts.

At the base of the porch, freshly turned ground held dozens of flower seedlings. Within weeks, the whole patch would be ablaze with color and laden with scent.

Papa chuckled. “Did you know our little house could be so pretty?”

Clara shook her head, marveling. “It’s grand, Papa. So very grand.”

Papa set the crutches in motion. “Come with me.”

She followed him to the backyard, where he pointed out the white paint on the sides of the chicken coop and the outhouse as proudly as if he had wielded the paintbrush himself. Then he led her to the garden. A short fence built from unpainted pickets and mesh wire circled the large plot of rich soil dotted with tiny green sprouts.

Papa tapped the fence with the tip of one crutch. “There’s no gate, so you’ll have to step over the fence. Mind you lift your skirt when you do so it doesn’t catch on the wire. As Titus told me, the fence isn’t the best, but it should keep rabbits at bay.”

“That is what matters,” Clara said, and she meant it. This fence looked nothing at all like the delicate fence constructed of lattice that housed Mama’s garden in Minneapolis, but she liked it even better than the fence from Minneapolis. It wasn’t as pretty, but it had been constructed by people with giving hearts.

“I won’t take you to the pigpen.” Papa grinned. “Before long, you’ll be able to follow your nose and find it. I requested two pigs from the Klaassens’ litter.”

“Two?” Clara couldn’t imagine them needing the meat from two hogs.

“Yes. There are some folks in town who don’t raise animals. They buy meat from area farmers. So if we butcher—”

Clara clutched her bodice. We? Did Papa expect her to help?

“—two hogs, then we can sell some of the meat. Or maybe, if there’s a family in need, we can share with them.”

Her heart melted. “Papa, that’s a wonderful idea. Everyone has been so kind to us. We should do something kind for someone in return.”

“I think so, too.”

Rowdy had followed Clara out of the house, and he darted around the yard, nose to the ground, fur bristling. Clara smiled at the pup. “Poor Rowdy… He didn’t like having so much company today. Do you think he’ll bother the piglets when they come?”

Papa didn’t answer, and she looked at him. He was watching Rowdy, and lines of worry marred his forehead.

Concern rose in her chest. “What’s wrong?”

Papa shook his head, as if dislodging a troubling thought. “My leg is tired. Let’s go back inside. Come, Rowdy.” Without a moment’s pause, Rowdy gave up his sniffing and trotted to Papa’s side. To her relief, her father’s expression cleared. He began making his way to the back door. “We’ll enjoy our supper, and then—” He stopped and turned a questioning look on Clara. “When we moved from Minneapolis, did we bring the wicker chair and rocker that sat in the screened-in porch?”

Clara nodded. “Yes. They’re in the barn loft, remember? You put the chairs up there and wrapped them in burlap in the hopes no mice would chew on them.”

“Ah, that’s right. On Monday, remind me to ask Titus to climb up and bring those down. We’ll put them on our grand front porch. Then you needn’t carry out a dining chair for me when I want to sit outside.”

“Will he come again on Monday?”

“Yes. The ground field still requires tilling, and then he’ll plant the corn.”

Clara lightly gripped Papa’s elbow and escorted him across the yard. “Well, I will remind you on Monday if you forget to tell him tomorrow.”

Papa stopped again. “Tomorrow?”

Clara put her hands on her hips. “If you can make it all the way across the yard and up and down steps on your crutches, I imagine you can get yourself into the back of the wagon for a ride to church.”

Papa angled his head, peering at her from the corner of his eyes. “Church?”