“Thomas, fetch the chamber pots, please.”
The boy handed them to her with his face puckered in distaste. She wasn’t keen on this task, either, but who else would do it? She trudged through the snow, following the trail she had already broken to get to the barn, then broke fresh ground to the outhouse.
Her thighs burned with the effort it took to create a pathway. The wind came in bursts, stealing her breath. Her arms ached with the effort of holding the pots away from her body—she did not want to spill any of the contents on her clothing! The snow reached her hips at times. Her dragging skirts made progress nearly impossible.
Panting with exertion, her body screaming in protest at what she forced it to do, she considered just tossing the vile contents onto the snow. Her stomach turned in revulsion. No! She would dump it down the outhouse portal no matter how hard it was to get there. Her skirts caught again, and she put down the pots long enough to tug the tangled fabric free.
She groaned. “Maybe I should have borrowed some of Mr. Ollenburger’s pants.” Then she laughed, imagining trying to keep the pants up. The laughter, in an odd way, revived her.
Gritting her teeth, she forced her numb feet to carry her the last twenty feet. Planting her shoulder against the outhouse door, she forced it open and stumbled through. With a huge sigh of relief, she disposed of both pots’ contents.
She dropped the pots and sank onto the outhouse seat to catch her breath. But after only a few minutes the cold encouraged her to get back to the house and warmth. Besides, the sun was waning—nightfall would soon be upon her. She had no desire to be in the snow-covered yard in the dark.
When she tried to pick up the pots by their handles, she discovered her numb fingers wouldn’t grasp the handles anymore. Fear gripped her—were her fingers frozen? Surely they would unstiffen once they were warm again. She bent her elbows and looped a pot over each arm. They banged against her hips as she struggled back to the house.
The door opened as she heaved herself onto the stoop, and Thomas reached for her. She gave him the pots, then fell through the door in a flurry of snow and sodden clothing. She sat on the floor, her back against the wall, and huffed for several minutes while Grandmother hovered, watching her with wide, worried eyes.
Thomas crouched beside her. “Are you okay?”
“I’ll be fine. It was just harder moving through the snow than I expected. But everything is taken care of for today.” She managed a weak laugh. “If I have to do this year after year, I’m going to purchase some sturdy work pants. Long skirts catch the snow and bring it with you.” To her amazement, steam rose off her snow-coated skirt. She needed to get out of these clothes, but at the moment it felt good to sit still and rest.
Grossmutter scuttled to the stove and poured a cup of coffee. Summer tried to remove her mittens and found her fingers still wouldn’t work. Thomas tugged her mittens free, pulling the gloves underneath off at the same time. She scowled at her own hands. Her fingers looked strange—blotched with pink and white. Bloodless. They didn’t bend at all, and when Grossmutter placed the hot mug between her palms, they stung with such intensity Summer cried out.
Thomas took the cup and reared backward, spattering coffee across her crusty skirts. They hissed as steam rose
She cradled her hands against her chest. “It hurt.” Her fingers pricked as if stung by dozens of bees.
Grossmutter reached toward Summer, her voice wavering as she spoke.
“What is she saying?” Summer asked Thomas.
“She says you must warm your hands slowly,” he translated.
Summer nodded. Her head felt weighted. She looked again at her hands, scowling as she tried to decide what to do next.
“How can I help?” the boy asked.
She looked into Thomas’s frightened face. Summer remembered that same question asked by another child, Vincent, kneeling beside his father’s sleeping mat, his face white with worry. “How can I help, Mama?” She’d been helpless then. She wouldn’t be helpless this time.
“I’ve got to get into dry clothes and warm myself. I don’t know, but I might have frostbite. Your grandmother is right. I seem to remember reading that frozen limbs need to be warmed slowly.” She rolled onto one hip and, with some difficulty, got to her feet. Clumps of snow fell from her clothing as she made her way to the bedroom.
“Do you … do you need my help with …” Thomas paused beside the bedroom door. His fingers twitched on her arm. Grossmutter stood behind him, and her pale blue eyes never wavered from Summer’s face.
She managed a small smile although it hurt her dry lips. “No thank you, Thomas. Grossmutter can help me.”
Sealed inside the bedroom with the old woman, she prayed for strength as she fought her way out of the snow-encrusted dress. Grossmutter murmured softly, clucking her tongue against her teeth, as she painstakingly fastened the buttons on Summer’s dry dress with gnarled fingers. When the last button was hooked, Summer turned and offered the old woman a grateful smile. The grandmother touched Summer’s cheek and smiled back. How wonderful that gentle touch felt. It warmed her from the inside out.
“Come,” Summer said, although she knew the woman didn’t understand. “Let’s go back to the fire.”
Together they stepped out of the bedroom and found Thomas waiting, his hands pushed inside the bib of his overalls. “What can I do for you?”
Summer checked the stove, where the wood she had hauled in lay in a disorderly heap. Mr. Ollenburger would not be pleased with the appearance of his usually organized woodbox. “Thomas, perhaps you could—”
Her words were interrupted by a mighty crash. It took Summer a moment to recognize the sound—the door banging against the wall. The wind must have blown it open. Cold air slammed through the room, and Thomas shrank back, wrapping his arms around Summer.
Summer took hold of the boy’s arms. “Close the door again, Thomas!”
“Woman, please do not shut me out.” The deep voice carried over the whine of the wind. Although weaker than she’d ever heard it, the voice was easily recognized. Peter was home!
25
STUNNED, SUMMER FROZE in place as Thomas stumbled across the floor. She watched the snow-covered man push the door closed and turn with opened arms.
“Pa! We were so worried!” Thomas sobbed against his father’s coat while the man’s great paws stroked the boy’s hair.
“I worried, too,” the man admitted. “This was a storm the likes of which I have not seen since leaving Russia.”
“Where have you been?”
“I will answer your question, boy, but I am dripping on the clean floor.” The calm tone seemed to pacify Thomas. The boy released his hold, and his father moved away from the door, removing his jacket. Foot-sized puddles of melting snow marked his pathway. “Sorry for the mess, I am, Frau Steadman.”
What was one more mess when her heart pounded so hard it could surely be seen? He was here. How heart lifting to know prayers sometimes were answered with a yes—even her prayers. They had prayed for him to come, and he was here.
And he’d arrived right after she had finished all his chores.
“Now you come.” Summer laughed with the irony of the situation. “Peter Ollenburger, couldn’t you have been just a few hours sooner? You could have saved me trekking all over the place out there, taking care of your duties!”
His red-rimmed eyes sparkled. “So that was your little pathway all over my yard? I wondered who … And you put out the rope?”
She nodded. “Just in case it snowed again, I wanted to be able to find my way to the outbuildings and back again.”
“That was very wise thing to do.”
“I think it would have been wiser to trust our prayers that you would return and leave the work for you!” Such pleasure she found in sparring with him. The twinkle in his eyes and the playful grin that twitched his cheeks took her mind off the needles shooting through her hands, feet, and ears.
Suddenly he scowled.
“How long were you out in the cold?”
She shrugged. “I’m really not sure.”
“How long, boy?” Peter glared down at Thomas.
The boy shrugged, too, his eyes wide. “I don’t know, Pa. She went out after we cleaned up from lunch, and the sun was setting when she came back in.”
Peter stomped across the floor. “Let me see your hands.”
She held up her hands, too surprised to do otherwise.
“Do you feel pain in them?”
She cringed. His large fingers pressing her flesh created a new rush of discomfort. “Oh, yes. In my feet and ears, too.”
He cupped her cheeks and tipped her head, looking at her ears, then guided her to the table. He placed her in a chair and lifted her feet in turn. Finally he sat back on his haunches and grinned at her. “You will be in world of hurt, but that is good thing. The pain tells you nothing will be lost.” He shook his head. “You are amazing woman, Summer Steadman.”
Despite her discomfort, Summer couldn’t stop smiling as she looked at the gentle bear of a man.
Peter had expected to return to three people fretting and wringing their hands in worry. Instead, he came home to no chores, a woman’s laugh, and an aromatic pot bubbling on the stove. This woman was full of surprises. And now he held a surprise for her.
He rose. “I must change. Summer Steadman, you stay away from the stove. Too close to the heat is not good for you as your skin thaws out. Thomas can stir whatever it is that smells so good on the stove.”
“Leftover soup,” she reported.
“Surprise soup,” Thomas added.
Peter’s eyebrows rose. “Surprise soup?” It seemed there were many surprises in this room.
“We’ll explain later,” the woman said. “You go get changed.”
He dressed quickly, then sat at the table and let Thomas bring him a cup of strong coffee while Grossmutter clucked at the stove.
“Pa, how’d you get the wagon through the snow?” Thomas seated himself across the table. The woman sat in her chair with her hands lying palms up in her lap. From the look on her face, her hands gave her pain, but she did not complain.
“The wagon is still safe in Gaeddert, behind Heinrich Gaeddert’s house. Our oxen are snug in his barn.” He turned to the woman. “Heinrich Gaeddert’s father had good sense to build Russian house and barn. They stick together—you step right from house into barn. No need for rope to find the way through snow at his place.”
A brief smile upturned her cracked lips. “In the summer, I can’t imagine it’s pleasant to have the animals so near.”
He let loose a hearty laugh. He was enjoying this humorous side of her. “Ja, you are right, for sure. Still, it is convenient, ja?”
Thomas tugged his arm. “Did you walk home?”
“Nein, boy.” Peter tweaked his son’s hair. “I brought Herr Gaeddert’s two-seater sleigh pulled by his gelding Pat. So your Daisy has a new friend in the barn.”
Thomas jerked upright. “His two-seater sleigh? Will you give me a ride in it before you take it back?”
“I tell you what we do. When time it is to return it, you ride with me to town. You must make a promise not to peek in wagon, though, for Christmas is coming and peeking is not a good thing to be doing, for sure.”
The boy pulled a face. “Ah, it’s hard not to peek.”
“I will not take you unless you promise.”
Thomas shrugged, blowing out his breath. “All right, I promise.” A grin flashed across his face. “I guess it’s no fun to ruin surprises anyway.”
“Ja, this is true.” Peter chewed the inside of his mouth for a moment, thinking of the news he had not yet shared with the woman. Then something else crossed his mind and he turned again to her. “Frau Steadman, an apology I owe you.”
She raised her eyebrows in question.
“Before I could go to post office, the storm came up.” He did not mention the time helping Herr Schmidt. “I did not have chance to go to post office and send your letter. It is still in my pocket. So wet I got coming back, it is now ruined.”
“Please, don’t concern yourself about it. I can rewrite it. It’s far more important to have you safely home, Peter.” She jerked, her eyes widening and her cheeks blazing pink. “I mean, M-Mr. Ollenburger.”
He sat back in his chair, a lopsided grin tugging at his face. “I think it is all right for you to call me by my name. We do not need to be always formal. You call me Peter. And … and I call you Summer.” He enjoyed the taste of her name on his tongue.
She licked her lips. Would she agree?
“All right, Peter. You’re right. We’re friends, aren’t we? So from now on, I’ll call you Peter.”
“And I call you Summer.”
From the stove, Grossmutter suddenly interjected, “Lena.”
Summer’s startled eyes bounced from Peter to Grossmutter. The old woman tapped her bodice with bent fingers. “Lena.”
“Lena,” Summer repeated. “I will call you Lena.”
The old woman nodded in satisfaction, her wrinkled face wreathed in a smile. She went back to stirring the pot on the stove, and Peter and Summer smiled in each other’s direction. Peter felt a warmth fill him as he celebrated the open acceptance of Elsa’s grandmother toward the woman. They sat for a few minutes in easy quiet. Finally the woman sighed, leaned her head back, and closed her eyes.
“You are tired, Summer?” He wondered if she had slept at all the night he was away.
“Yes. I didn’t rest well.” Her face flooded with pink, and she stammered, “Th-the wind kept me up.”
He suspected it was more than the wind, but it would not be proper for her to admit it. “Then come.” Peter crossed to the chair and very gently took her elbow. “You go lie down. We will save you a bowl of your surprise soup.” He walked her across the room, his own chest constricting as she winced with every step. To take her mind from her discomfort, he teased, “The surprise is not shoes or socks floating in that broth, is it?”
A light laugh tripped from her lips. “No. Everything in it comes from your cellar.”
“Hmm.” He helped her sit on the edge of the bed and fluffed the pillow for her. “In my cellar are tools and ropes and all sorts of things. Maybe no soup I eat after all.”
She rewarded him with another tired smile as she leaned back against the pillow, her hands cradled against her chest. He placed a quilt over her. “You rest now, Summer. Schlop die gesunt.”
A smile crept across her lips as her eyelids closed with a flutter of lashes. “I said that to you last night,” she told him in an airy voice, already drifting off.
“That is probably why I slept so well in a strange house.”
Without touching her skin, he traced the outline of her cheek with one rough finger. Then he tiptoed from the room, leaving her to sleep.
It was two days before Summer could pick up a hot cup of coffee without her fingers hurting. She couldn’t imagine how people saw to chores day after day in that kind of cold. Peter had indicated this storm wasn’t typical for Kansas, but having happened once, it could happen again, she reasoned. Every prickle of her fingers reminded her that she would have her own chores to see to when she built her own house, and there were moments she wondered if she was doing the right thing. But then she would think of the graves, now covered with snow on the lonely landscape, and her resolve would return to be near her family in a place of her own.
On the third day following the storm, Peter announced at breakfast that he would be returning Herr Gaeddert’s sleigh and horse. “If you are coming, boy, you bundle up good. A second pair of long johns, your thickest wool pants, and a sweater over your shirt.”
“I won’t hardly be able to move!”
“Bundle or stay here,” his father returned calmly. “It is your choice.”
“I’ll bundle.” Thomas headed to his bedroom, grumbling under his breath.
“I think the boy has what they call cabin fever,” Peter told
Summer. “Cranky he has been.”
She sipped the last of her coffee. “One can hardly blame him. Even before the winter storm hit, he’d spent weeks here with only you, Lena, and then me for company most of the time. A trip to town will do him good.”
“I would be glad if you could come, too.” She heard the regret in his tone. “But the sleigh, it only seats two. If all people were slight like you, three could go, but me? I fill most of the seat myself.”
His large size did not intimidate her, nor could she imagine him any other way. “I’ll be fine here,” she assured him, “and you can mail the letter I rewrote to Nadine and Horace.” She glanced toward Thomas’s closed door then leaned forward to whisper, “Did my order come in?”
Peter whispered, too. “Ja, in the wagon are your things, all bound in brown paper. The boy will not peek.”
She leaned back and smiled. “Good. It will be fun to watch him open his gifts.” She felt her smile fade as memories of past Christmases pressed in. She pictured the towering nine-foot tree bedecked with glass balls, gold foil stars, candles, and ropes of popcorn and cranberries the children always helped her string. Beneath the tree, piles of gifts awaited opening. Tears threatened as the sound of feet on the stairs, happy squeals, and cries of “Oh, Mama! Thank you!” replayed in her heart.
What happy moments those had been, almost sweeter in memory than in living them, for now she knew what a priceless gift her family had been. Her heart swelled. She also knew—personally—who she needed to thank for the privilege of loving them.
“Summer?”
Peter’s voice intruded, dispelling the memories. She turned to face him. “Yes?”
“Deeply thinking you are.”
She smiled at his homey phrase. “I was thinking about Christmas and how special this one will be.”
His expression changed from interest to puzzlement. “Special? Away from … your dear children?”
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