by Erica Vetsch
He grabbed her hand, his face relaxing into a grin. “All right, all right, put your weapons away, ma’am. I’m guilty.”
Savannah stilled. The same fizzy feeling she’d experienced when they’d danced together crackled through her hand and up her arm. From this close, she couldn’t help but notice his strong jaw, the sturdy column of his neck and his well-shaped lips. What would it be like to stand on tiptoe and press her lips to his, to feel the rasp of his whiskers against her skin, to feel his arms wrap around her and draw her towa— She halted that thought and stepped back. He let her hand go when she tugged.
She strove to clear her head. “When will you stop lumping me in with those other teachers? I’m nothing like them.”
“So I’m beginning to realize.” His voice had a low, husky quality she hadn’t heard before, a sound that made her heart knock against her ribs like a trapped bird. “So the last two weeks before Christmas break, I’ll teach.”
“And perhaps I will attend as a student.” She gave him a saucy grin, striving for lightness. “You can teach Norwegian history and culture and catechism, and the students and I will learn. And in exchange, I will come to your parents’ house and cook real Southern food for them.”
“You will, will you?”
“I will. And all of it will taste better than that dreadful lutefisk. That isn’t fit for man or beast.” She wrinkled her nose.
“Where will you get Southern ingredients way up here?”
“I’m resourceful, remember? My aunt Carolina has shipped me a box of staples and sent along the recipes I need. If you would ask your mother if I could come over Saturday afternoon, I’ll prepare dinner for you all.” Savannah edged around him to bank the fire for the night, and then picked up her satchel and headed for the door.
Elias went with her and helped her into her coat. When she turned around, he nudged her hands aside and fastened the top button, lifting the fur collar to surround her face. “Where did this one come from?”
“Margrethe’s mother. I told her it was too much, but she insisted.” Savannah did up the rest of the buttons. “Isn’t it fine?”
“Beautiful.”
Again that husky tone. Did he think the coat was beautiful or did he mean she was beautiful?
He tugged on his gloves, suddenly brisk and businesslike. “Next time, take your coat into the schoolroom and warm it at the stove while you finish up your paperwork. I’ll tell Ma about Saturday.”
They stepped outside, and Savannah sucked in a quick breath as a cold blast of air hit her face. She didn’t relish the walk home, though she was grateful that, since the harvest, she could tramp across the fields instead of going the long way around by road. Elias’s buckskin stood tied to the porch railing.
“Do you want a ride home? Buck can easily carry two.” Elias climbed aboard and turned the horse to stand alongside the steps. “You can ride behind.” And without waiting for her say-so, he reached down and swung her up. Her feet dangled down Buck’s left flank and her hip pressed against the cantle. “Put your arms around my waist and hold on.” Elias raised his elbows to allow her room.
She obeyed, clasping his waist. He pressed his forearms against hers to anchor her, and legged his gelding into a walk and then an easy canter. Savannah ducked her head and rested her cheek against Elias’s coat to cut the wind. She had to concentrate to keep her feet from banging against Buck’s side, but she felt quite secure. Elias’s back formed a sturdy wall and he moved rhythmically with the horse. It felt altogether too much like a dance, and it was over before Savannah was ready.
“I’ll be by to pick you up on Saturday,” he said, as he lowered her to the ground in the Halvorsons’ yard. “Stay warm.”
Oddly, Savannah was warm right through after that ride, and it had nothing to do with the temperature.
* * *
“It’s grits.” Savannah ladled up a bowl and set it before Elias.
“It looks like rommegrot.” He quirked his eyebrows and poked the steaming bowl.
“Trust me, it doesn’t taste like rommegrot.” She turned back and rescued the fried green tomatoes. Breathing a sigh, she transferred them to a platter and put them on the table, gloating silently about their golden-brown texture.
“Lass, I’ve never seen the like, though that cornbread looks mighty good.” Ian Parker tucked his napkin into his collar. “Howsabout we say grace so we can dive in?”
Savannah whipped off her apron and took her place at the Parkers’ dining table. She took Tova’s offered hand, and Ian’s, bowed her head, sending up her own prayer that everything was cooked properly and that her hosts would like it.
When she raised her head and breathed in the smells of ribs and cornbread and collard greens, she had to blink fast. All the flavors of home. The same feelings had hit her all week as she practiced in Agneta’s kitchen.
Elias dipped his spoon into his grits, lifting them to his nose and giving them a sniff.
“I like mine with butter and salt.” Savannah took a bit of butter off the beautiful mold in the center of the table. “And I mixed the cornbread with a cake recipe so it’s light and fluffy and sweet.”
“This is what you eat every day at home?” Tova asked.
Laughing, Savannah shook her head. “Not all of it. I just wanted to share as many foods as possible with you. Normally, we’d have only a third of these dishes at one meal. Or less if it was hot outside. Some days, I only eat chilled watermelon, drink iced lemonade and pray for a rainstorm.”
Elias cut a wedge of fried green tomato and held it up. “I never even heard of eating green tomatoes, much less frying them up.”
“And I never heard of eating fish rotted in lye before, either,” Savannah retorted. “I still can’t believe you goaded me into trying lutefisk. It was horrible.”
Ian laughed, making his napkin quiver. “They say of the great Norwegian migration to America that half of them came to escape lutefisk and the other half came to spread it to the world. Ask Elias how much he enjoys lutefisk and how often we have it here at the house.”
“Now, Pa, you don’t have to tell all our secrets.” Elias tasted the tomato. “Hey, this isn’t bad.”
“If he won’t tell you, I will. Elias detests lutefisk. We all do. Never have it about the place.”
Savannah glared at Elias. “You made me eat that horrible stuff and you don’t even like it? Just for that, I should make you eat...actually, there’s nothing that awful tasting in all of Southern cuisine.”
“Best spareribs I ever ate, and that’s a fact.” Ian reached for another. “You’re going to make someone a wonderful little wife someday, Savannah. Pretty as a peach, fine manners, musical, smart and you can cook. What more could a fellow want?”
“That’s most kind, but I’m not looking to get married. I’m enjoying teaching.”
“All girls say that until the right fella comes along, don’t they, Tova?” Ian clasped his wife’s hand and squeezed. “I meant to ask you, Savannah, how’d you wind up here in Minnesota? You can’t tell me there weren’t teaching positions available closer to home.”
Dabbing her lips with her napkin, Savannah scrambled for an answer. She’d told no one here about “the humiliation” and wasn’t sure she wanted to now. Was a partial truth lying?
“My father is a banker, and when he’s home, he often has business acquaintances at the house. One of them was from Minnesota, and he had a copy of the Pioneer Press that he left behind. When I read the advertisement for a teacher, I applied.” Embarrassment prickled her skin. “I had a...disappointment...in a relationship, and I needed to strike out on my own and get away from the unhappiness.”
She looked at Elias from under her lashes. The past three months had done a lot to restore her self-confidence, but she still had some tender spots.
Ian beamed. “W
e’re sure glad you answered that ad. You’ve been a blessing to the community. Tyler was at the end of his rope. Nobody wanted to come out here to a mainly Norwegian community for the little bit we could afford to pay.”
“How did there come to be such a concentration of Norwegians here?” It was something Savannah had wondered for a while.
Elias took a piece of cornbread and slathered it with butter. “How familiar are you with Minnesota history?”
“Not as much as I should be, I suppose.” She passed him the platter of fried chicken.
“Have you heard of the Dakota Uprising of ’62?”
She shook her head. “I’m afraid most of my knowledge of 1862 is centered on the South. A fair bit of history was being made in my part of the country.”
“That’s natural, I guess. Well, in this part of the state that year the Dakota Indians, who had been confined to a reservation along the Minnesota River valley south and east of here, went on the warpath. There was plenty of fault to go around and everyone has an opinion on it, but the upshot is that several hundred settlers were killed and plenty of folks taken captive. Eventually the captives were released, thirty-eight Indians executed and the Dakota run out of Minnesota.”
“That’s terrible.”
“Some of the frontier settlements in Minnesota were abandoned by their occupants. Those that weren’t abandoned got hit hard in the next decade by the Rocky Mountain locust. Year after year crops failed and people had to leave their farms.”
Ian nodded, chewing and swallowing. “Those were some tough times, all right. I was a private at Fort Ridgely during the Dakota War. After I mustered out, I went up north to see the logging camps, and right away I meet Tova in Duluth, fresh off a boat from Norway.”
“I came vid my family and many others from my town. Ve had met a...what vas he called?” She turned to Ian.
“A land speculator.”
“A land spec-u-lator in Norway dat told us of the great farmland of Minnesota dat any man could haff for free.”
Elias leaned forward. “This fellow went to Norway with a bunch of brochures and promises and convinced a hundred people from Valdres to emigrate to America. He had a ship, and he had homestead maps.”
Tova nodded. “Most people in my country are tenant farmers. Dey vork for others. The chance to own land and be free is...” She spread her hands.
Ian set down his knife and fork. “Lots of folks jumped at the chance, left everything and came to America. When I met Tova and her people, I decided to return south and take up a homestead here near Snowflake with them. We had some rough years. Those ’hoppers nearly did us in. I had to go away to find work and leave Tova and the boys here.” He shook his head, his eyes staring into the past as he stroked his beard. “We were all mighty close to giving up.”
Tova stood and put her hand on his shoulder. “Ve do the tings ve must. You are a good provider. Ve ver glad ven you came home.”
“We did fine, Pa. I’m glad we stuck it out,” Elias said. He turned to Savannah. “So that’s how there got to be so many Norwegians here in one place. They all used the same land speculator and all homesteaded here together. Some have moved on or gone back to Norway, and some new folks have come into the area, but newcomers are often Norwegian, too, because it’s easier to settle in a new place if the culture is familiar.”
Savannah pushed her collard greens around on her plate. “And yet the parents seem eager for me to teach the children to be Americans, while still having them retain their Norwegian heritage.”
“Norwegians are realists,” Elias said. “They understand that while Snowflake is 99 percent Norwegian right now, it won’t always be, and neither will all their children stay here forever. They’ll need the skills you can teach them. But they are concerned about losing their culture. That’s why they pushed so hard for the parochial school. More than anything, the parents are concerned that the children will lose their religious roots.”
Tova resumed her seat. “You see, in Norway, dere is a state religion. Religion is taught in the schools, and churches are provided. Pastors are state-trained and supplied and paid. Dat vas one of the hardest tings about living here dat I did not expect. Ve had to write home for a minister for our new little church because America government did not train pastors and send them out.”
Savannah had never considered that. In America, everyone was free to worship—or not—as they pleased, without oversight or interference from the government. A state religion was a new notion to her.
“Speaking of church,” Ian said. “Elias tells me you’re pretty good on the harp. The pastor was wondering if you’d be willing to play for us on Sunday.”
“What about Mr. Pederson? Won’t he be playing the psalmodikon?”
“He’s the one who put in the request to begin with. He heard about you playing at the school from his grandchildren, and he’d like to hear you play in church.”
Savannah’s heart lifted. “If you’re sure I won’t be intruding. I would love to play.” Here was a chance to really contribute to the worship, perhaps not be such an outsider.
Elias’s smile sent warm tingles through her, and she had to take a firm grip on herself. Thoughts of him had filled far too much of her time lately. She found herself reliving their encounters, the way his smile flashed, the strength of his hold on her as they rode double across the prairie, the easy way he had with people and animals.
Stop it, Savannah. He hasn’t changed his mind about you, and he isn’t likely to anytime soon. He still thinks you’ll run when things get tough. Concentrate on your job and stop reacting like an infatuated child.
* * *
Elias met the Halvorsons, early as usual, at the door of the church and reached up to swing Savannah down from the wagon. “Hurry inside. I got the stove going early. I’ll bring your harp.”
She did as he bade with a quick smile. Shaking his head, he hefted the case out of the back and toted it up the steps. Never would he have imagined, when he first laid eyes on her back in August, that by Thanksgiving she’d be playing her harp in church, learning Norwegian, charming the school board into accepting her gifts or wearing Norwegian winter clothing.
It would be so easy to let his guard down, to fall in love with her. She was everything he wanted in a mate—smart, sweet, kind...everything except Norwegian. But she was brave. Did she have what it might take to leave the world she’d known forever to marry a small-town sheriff and farmer?
Yesterday she’d mentioned some personal unhappiness that had sent her running from her home. What sort of disappointment could that be? He’d spent a rather wakeful night at the jail, tossing on one of the bunks in the back cell, wrestling with the notion. It surely couldn’t be anything too serious. Certainly nothing that compromised her character or reputation. It could be anything, really. A family scandal? A failed romance?
She’d clearly been uncomfortable talking about it, and it wasn’t any of his business. He had no claim on her, and she had no obligation to unburden herself further. He couldn’t pry, and yet he longed to know.
He lugged the harp up the steps, disquiet swirling in his chest. Perhaps someday she’d tell him. Perhaps someday he’d have the right to know.
She opened the harp case, cheeks pink from the cold ride to church, eyes bright. He brought a chair for her and placed it to the left of the pulpit. Lifting the harp to her lap, she took a small pitch pipe and blew on it. She plucked a single string in the middle of the harp, turning a small peg along the top with a special key.
Her fingers moved so quickly, so dexterously, like little bird wings. She was so at home with the instrument. Each string received attention, and when she strummed them all, from lowest to highest, the sound filled the nearly empty church.
Per Halvorson’s mouth opened and he breathed deeply. “More beautiful than a symphony.”
Elias translated for Savannah, and she blushed. “Ask him if there is something he would like me to play.”
He chose “Amazing Grace,” and Elias sat on the front pew, watching as first she plucked out the familiar melody, then, on the second verse, added runs and chords. Now he understood why she kept her nails so short, and saw again how she’d earned those calluses. Her body moved slightly with the music, as if she felt it as well as played it.
When the song ended, she placed her hands flat on the strings to stop their vibration.
“Vakker,” Per breathed.
Elias had to agree. She was beautiful.
The church filled up and the service began. When it came time for the first hymn, Savannah left Elias’s side and took up her harp. The congregation stood, and he craned his neck, but couldn’t see her.
Harp music welled out, and he noted several people smiling and nodded. He almost wished the congregation wasn’t singing, partially drowning out her playing.
She stayed up front during the next prayer and played during the offertory, which he liked better, since he could see her and hear her music. He didn’t recognize the song she’d chosen, but it didn’t matter.
When the preaching began and Savannah took her seat beside Elias, it was all he could do not to grasp her hand in his. She’d chosen to wear a dark blue woolen dress that made her eyes glow and her hair shine more than ever. The dress itself was plain, sewn by one of her students’ mothers, but true to Savannah, she’d embellished it with a nosegay of silk flowers at her shoulder and a froth of lace at her throat.
When she opened her Bible, a bookmark fell out. He bent quickly to retrieve it for her, but when he glanced at it his fingers froze on the pasteboard.
A little bundle of pressed violets decorated the top, and underneath, “Girard loves Savannah” was written in fancy script. She reached for the bookmark, and had to tug a couple of times to free it from Elias’s grip.
