by Linda Byler
She whirled around. “Of course, what would you know about that? You were safely at home in Lancaster County, shoeing horses and counting money, pitying those half-crazy Mose Detweilers that lit out for North Dakota after they lost everything!”
“That’s harsh, Hannah.”
“No, it isn’t. You can’t tell me you didn’t hear about my destitute, misguided family. Everybody did. Our reputation was mud. Mud!” she shouted.
Jerry watched her, wondering where all this was coming from.
“You know you remember.”
“I’m not going to defend myself about what your family did or didn’t do. Of course, I remember hearing about you, but I certainly didn’t know you, or worry about it.”
“You probably laughed with all your buddies about those pathetic people who had no clue what they were doing.”
There was no right or wrong answer to her senseless accusation, so Jerry got up, reached to the wall hook for his straw hat, and strode out the door to the barn. He forked loose hay into a neater pile, swept the forebay, and pondered Hannah’s outburst.
Was her past so painful, the shame like a hidden disease? Who could tell what a headstrong daughter had suffered with the public shaming and all? Hadn’t he heard something about a homemade distillery and whiskey?
Perhaps Hannah wasn’t so hard to figure out after all. People were not all cut from the same pattern, that was sure. Some could live through a traumatic childhood and come out unscathed, turning into loving, normal adults, while others wallowed in thorny nostalgia that served to hurt only themselves. Was her bitterness a product of her past?
He decided to buy mules and asked Hannah to accompany him to a ranch ten miles southeast of Dorchester, close to a small town called Bison.
Hannah was cleaning, her apron front black with the cleaner she was using on the stove top. She kept rubbing vigorously without looking at him.
“Are you riding?”
“No, it’s too far. Hod Jenkins is taking us in the truck.”
“Us?”
“Oh, come on Hannah. You want to see the mule farm. This guy has other horses, too.”
“I told you, I won’t stand for farming with horses.”
“Well, just a couple of mules for making hay.”
She squinted her eyes and looked at him like a stray dog that hadn’t decided whether he’d be friendly or take off running.
“I’m not dumb.”
“I know.”
“Well, then.”
“Come on. Change your clothes. Wear a covering. You look extra pretty with a white covering on your dark hair. Better than that men’s handkerchief you insist on wearing.”
“What do you care?”
“You’re my wife.”
She almost told him she wasn’t his wife, but she was, so there was nothing to say. Plus, she had to admit to herself that she wanted to see the mule farm. She ducked into her bedroom and closed the door firmly behind her.
He looked at the closed door, a small smile playing around his mouth. When she emerged, the snowy white covering was pinned to her sleek, black hair. The deep purple of her dress brought out the heightened color of her cheeks, her large, dark eyes snapping with anticipation.
She took his breath away, so he turned, kicked off his boots, and went to the sink to wash his hands and face. He was drying his face on the roller towel when he caught a glimpse of her watching him with an inscrutable expression, one that baffled him and tormented him for days. What was she thinking? Could he ever win her love?
She’d made it clear from the beginning that this was not a union based on love, and he had agreed, with a young man’s audacity that he was invincible. Everything was possible, wasn’t it?
In the spring, a young man’s fancy turns to thoughts of love. Perhaps that was the ache in his chest, the concealed sadness and lack of hope. He’d thought he could do this, but after the long winter was over, the soft breezes everywhere, she was not responding to his kindness and seemed farther away than ever, an iceberg drifting away in dark, frigid waters, abandoning him.
Well, she was wearing her covering, so that was something.
The pickup truck rattled up to the ranch house, its blue color faded to gray, the fenders laced with rust, dust clinging to everything, mud splatters and bits of yellow grass on top of all the rust. Wooden racks sagged at various angles, flopping and waving precariously, while empty gasoline cans and pieces of rope and barbed wire, paper bags, and feed sacks puddled into corners or slid around to each side, depending on the direction the truck was headed.
Hod’s window was down, a greasy coat sleeve slung across the door, his once-white Stetson aged into varying shades of brown, gray, and yellow, his weathered face like fissures in old canyon rock.
His eyes lit up at the sight of them, his tobacco-stained teeth appearing as his face crinkled into a smile like a discarded paper bag. “Ain’t you a sight for old eyes there, Hannah? Better looking ‘n that husband o’ yourn.”
Jerry grinned and bumped Hod’s arm with his fist. This impressed Hannah more than anything. Jerry’s easy relationship with Hod and his boys, Hank and Ken. Clay, the oldest, had married Jennifer, a girl from town who, in Hannah’s opinion, wasn’t worthy of him. Hannah had almost been persuaded to be his girl and leave her family and the Amish way of life. She wasn’t exactly sure what had held her back, other than her mother’s prayers, she supposed.
Jerry held the door for her, and she scrambled inside, scooting over beside Hod to allow room for him. She hadn’t realized a truck was so narrow. She had to sit sideways to allow Hod to shift gears with that odd-looking stick with a porcelain knob at the end, which meant she was jammed up against Jerry with no room for her feet.
“May as well hold ‘er on yer lap, Jerry. This Ford ain’t new. Think they’re makin’ the 1947 models wider, I heard.”
“We’re fine,” Jerry said, smiling at Hannah, who was looking straight ahead with the high clear color in her cheeks that meant she wasn’t fine at all.
Hod looked over at her. “Loosen up, honey. My word, we ain’t goin’ to yer ma’s funeral.”
Hannah gave him a tight smile, and he shrugged his bony shoulders and talked nonstop to Jerry. Never could tell about Hannah, pickin’ her moods. Worse than an ornery old cow.
Hannah rode along, alternately jostling against Jerry, or trying to slide away from him, which meant she’d interfere with Hod’s driving. She was acutely aware of Jerry’s nearness, the length of him, the hard strength beneath the sleeve of his denim coat. He smelled of hay and horses and wood shavings and toothpaste.
He’d smelled of mint toothpaste once, long ago, when he kissed her. If he dared to put his arm around her, she’d bite him!
CHAPTER 2
THE TRUCK SLIPPED AND SLID THROUGH RUTS FULL OF MUDDY SLUSH. All around them the prairie lay flat, waiting to be awakened at the first kiss of the sun. Gray skies were woven with patches of white and blue, scudding along as if threatening the land with another blast of winter’s fury.
Hannah half-listened to Hod and Jerry’s conversation, her eyes roving over every corner of the Ford’s windows, taking in the barbed wire and rotting old posts of a derelict ranch, the well-kept buildings of another. But mostly she searched the horizon for cattle, observing the size of herds, their well-being, and which ranchers raised wheat or corn, or simply cut the prairie grass and used it to feed their livestock.
It was good hay, nutritious, that native shortgrass called buffalo grass. Sedges and switch grass, the never-ending, God-given supply that kept all the overhead costs of these ranches to a minimum.
She jabbed her elbow into Jerry’s arm, pointing to the right, where a distant herd of antelope streamed over a rise like brown and white liquid, as smooth as the wind. Those antelope sightings filled Hannah’s soul the way she imagined Bible reading and prayer filled her mother’s.
The untamed freedom of wild creatures—their lack of restrictions and rules and authority—thr
illed her innermost being. It was spiritual for her, raising a belief in the God of nature, of a creation that was so huge and vast and awesome, it could only produce a deep humility.
The way the antelope coexisted with wolves and coyotes, prairie dogs and foxes—it was all an endless circle of life. One Hannah understood and wanted to belong to as she raised cattle and cut grass for a winter’s supply of hay. She would be strong enough to withstand anything nature threw at her.
Living on the plains was an endless challenge. The future was unpredictable. Seasons came and went, with their surprises and dangers, leaving all the ranchers and farmers scrambling to make ends meet, to face the drought and snow storms and wind and fire, the wolves and lawless men, and to rise above the despair.
Hannah glanced quickly at Jerry’s profile and wondered if he felt what she experienced when she sighted the antelope. Nothing in his eyes or the set of his jaw gave away his feelings, so she looked steadily ahead as the truck ground its way through water-filled ruts and potholes.
It would be exciting to see what actually occurred after a drought, as far as the return of vegetation went. Would the wildflowers reseed themselves? Hannah thought of her mother squeezing tomato seeds onto a rag, leaving them to dry for planting in the spring. Leaving pole beans and chili beans to dry, the seeds rattling in the leathery pods like dead bones. But how long could soil be dried out before roots and seeds died? She wanted to ask Hod, but decided to listen instead.
“Yeah, this dry spell’s been a doozy. Guess you heard how many people from town’s moving to Illinois?”
Hannah shook her head. Jerry said no, he hadn’t heard.
“Guess a buncha folks is raisin’ turkeys. Cheap land. Rains there, mostly. Sounds as if some folks is thinkin’ turkeys is good profit. Ralph went, you know, Ralph at the feed mill. His wife’s been bellyachin’ as long as I’ve knowed her to git him to move off these plains. Good ol’ Ralph. He’ll hate them turkeys. Dumber’n a box o’ rocks. A turkey chick will drown in its own water bowl. Abby tried raisin’ them dumb chicks every year. Mighta kept one outta a batch o’ twelve.”
Hod turned the steering wheel sharply to the left, reached down to shift gears, rolled down the window to send a stream of brown tobacco juice out of the opening, then rolled the window back up.
Hannah swallowed and looked straight ahead.
“Owen’s been thinkin’ on movin’, didja hear it?”
“The Klassermans?” Hannah whipped her head around, shock and surprise widening her eyes.
“Sure.”
“Why? Why would they consider moving?”
“Wal now, honey, that I couldn’t tell you. Guess you’ll have to ask ‘em the next time you see ‘em. I heard he’s tired o’ the battle. Think he lost a good bit o’ cattle. That’s the trouble with them fat Angus. They’re fine till the goin’ gits tough. Now, look at my steers. Them longhorns is uglier than a mud-splattered cat, skinny and mean. But they’ll git through jest about anything. They’ll travel for miles, exist on scrub and old dead grass if they have to. The Klassermans’ is too soft.”
Hannah sat up, clutched the dashboard, her mouth compressed to a grim line. Doubt stabbed her chest. She flinched from Hod’s words. The Klassermans’ ranch, the well-rounded, beautiful Black Angus herd had always been her goal. And here was Hod, the true survivor of the plains, who took every disaster as it came, met it head on with real grit and good humor. As tough as the land itself. Would Jerry be up to the challenge? Or would she always be holding him here without his heart really being in the land?
For one panicked moment, she regretted the desperation that had driven her to marry him. Her heart pounded in her ears. She chewed her lips as she listened to Jerry’s gravelly voice.
“Are you serious? I’ve been thinking a lot about cattle raising since the rest of our group moved back to Pennsylvania. Whether it’s a good idea to attempt it at all in these parts.”
A shot of anger coursed through Hannah. These parts. Huh.
Jerry continued, “I finally came up with the conclusion that you have to have something for the land, for the life, living on this wide-open land. It has to be in your blood, the way milking cows or horseshoeing, or anything else gets in your system and stays there. I’m about to agree with you about the Angus, too.”
Hannah drew in a sharp intake of breath. “I’m not raising longhorns.” Hod looked at her. Jerry didn’t. They bumped along in silence.
“Seems to me you don’t have much say so in the matter, missy,” Hod said. “Yer married to this feller, Hannah. He seems to have a good head on his shoulders.”
“You know I don’t like longhorns.”
“Wal then, you jest might have to move to Illinois and raise turkeys.”
Hannah searched Hod’s profile for signs of laughter and was shocked to find there was none. He meant it.
The subject was dropped, the cab of the truck filled with uneasy silence. Hannah was relieved when the truck nosed its way to the left, following a path of brown mud and bits of gravel to a set of gray buildings clustered around a stand of cottonwoods. Leafless and windblown, they appeared dead from the drought and hot, pulsing winds.
The buildings were well-kept though, fences mended, roofs in good repair, barn doors hung straight. And yes, there was one of Ben Miller’s windmills, tall and straight, whirring away, the long steel arm driven by the paddles of the wheel pumping water from underground streams, the only source of water in the years of drought.
The house was long and low, like theirs, Hannah observed. The yard was bare and windswept, without clutter. Two medium-sized dogs came tearing around a corner of the house, barking uproariously, their short, pointed ears alert, their short legs muscular and pumping like pistons.
A curtain was pulled aside from the low windows that faced the driveway. There was no sign of an automobile or truck. The dogs took up their position at the door of Hod’s truck, alternately bouncing on their short legs and barking.
“Which one of us wants to get chewed up first?” Jerry asked Hod, laughing amicably.
Hannah stared out the window, thinking that if this was a horse farm, she’d eat someone’s hat. There was not a single horse to be seen anywhere.
Hod opened his door, swung to the ground, and was instantly surrounded by the yelping, jumping canines. “All right, all right, that’s enough. Calm down. I ain’t gonna hurtcha.”
The door of the house burst open and a small, thin man appeared, poking his arms into a denim overcoat, a black felt hat with a narrow brim pulled low on his forehead.
“Hey, hey. Knock it off. Here. Shut up! Toby! Tip! Cut it out.” The dogs quieted immediately, sat on their haunches, their mouths wide, tongues lolling, pleased to have announced their master’s visitors.
“Hod Jenkins! How’s it going, old man?”
Hod grinned, stuck out a weathered hand, and gripped the man’s hand. “Good. Good. Couldn’t be better.” He turned to the truck, lifted a hand, and beckoned with his fingers. “Brought you someone interested in mules.”
Jerry got out, held the door for Hannah. Introductions were made, with Jerry’s easy friendliness and Hod’s teasing making short work of feeling accepted and liked, in spite of their Amish clothing.
The man’s name was Obadiah Yoder. He looked at Hannah’s white covering and said his mother used to wear one of them. He came from a plain background, he said. River Brethren. Used to baptize in rivers. An old, old religion that went way back. They still didn’t accept automobiles.
Now he and his wife weren’t practicing members anymore. Being the only ones for hundreds of miles, they’d fallen away from some of the old practices. Never had any children, but hard telling what would have happened if they had, being the only River Brethren for miles around.
When Jerry nodded in agreement, Hannah held back a snort. What was he agreeing about? There would be no children for them, so he didn’t have to hang on to his Amish ways for them.
“So, you want mules
?” Obadiah asked.
“I’d like to look at what you have, see if I can get a team of four.”
“Four?”
Jerry nodded yes. “You could kill a horse on this land.”
Hannah swallowed, felt the heat creeping into her face. Now, why did Jerry have to say that? She felt as if this Obadiah Yoder could see the fact that her father had done just that, the memory of it like an exposed wound that festered with contempt.
“So, you’re planning on tilling the prairie?”
“Well, there’s all this talk of winter wheat, so I figured it might balance out the loss of calves and help keep a steady profit going,” Jerry said evenly.
“It’s gonna hafta rain, sonny,” Hod said dryly.
Hannah ground her teeth. What was all this honey and missy and sonny? As if they were mere children. What did Hod Jenkins know about getting ahead, with his ranch in disrepair and the prairie crawling with ugly cattle that were nothing but a set of horns, long hair, and ribs?
Jerry said something about yeah, they’d have to depend on rain. Oh, just shut up, Hannah thought, crossing her arms and biting down hard on her back molars.
Obadiah chuckled, a sound like a prairie hen trying to attract a mate. Hannah glared at him through half-closed eyes. “Well, if you want to look at mules, then I guess I’d better send Tip and Toby to get them for me, huh?” he asked, his lean face wrinkling into a full smile.
He looked at the dogs, who watched his face intently. They stood on all fours, shifting positions, whining and begging. When Obadiah said, “Hep, hep,” they were off like a shot straight across the prairie, disappearing into vague shapes in less than a few minutes.
Hod whistled. Jerry shook his head. Hannah wanted to stay quiet and aloof, but she couldn’t help being intrigued by the dogs’ instant knowledge of their master’s orders, the eagerness with which they flew to obey.
“What kind of dogs are they?” she blurted before she could catch herself.
“They’re Blue Heelers,” Obadiah said. “Bred in Australia, also called Australian sheep dogs. They’re easily trained. Herding animals is bred into them. I’ve had them most of my life, although these two are exceptional. Never had better dogs.”
