Forevermore

by Cathy Marie Hake

  “Danke. I love you, Daddy. Night-night.”

  “Sweet dreams.” He pressed a kiss on her forehead. “I love you.” He made sure the curtain was pulled back so a slice of moonlight filtered into the room, then blew out the lamp and left. The housekeeper went to bed after his daughter—had she shared Annie’s bed? Annie—Jakob halted. Annie wouldn’t sleep well with someone in bed with her. They’d moved Emmy-Lou to the trundle because she squirmed and thrashed in her sleep.

  Once he went downstairs, he watched as his sister reached for another peach to slice. Miss Ladley stood over by the sink. She dunked peaches into scalding water and peeled them. “Smells heavenly.”

  “Ja.” Annie nodded.

  “Purdy as these here are, you oughtta put a jar in the county fair.”

  Annie winced.

  Unaware of that reaction, Miss Ladley scalded and skinned another peach. “Mr. Stauffer, do y’all like pie or tarts best?”

  “Tarts.” He cast a glance at his sister. “I like to take one in each hand when I go out to the fields. Isn’t that right, Annie?”

  “Ja, but you work hard, so you need to eat lots.”

  “Them peach trees you got—they’re fine ones. I reckon the grocer begs you for the fruit to sell. Me and Mrs. Erickson—we can use up the bird-pecked ones and such. They taste just as good.”

  During supper, Annie had called her Hope, but she still addressed Annie by her married name. Was it merely a sign of respect, or had Annie left up that barrier because she wasn’t sure she could trust Miss Ladley yet?

  “Jakob?” Annie’s knife paused halfway through the peach she was slicing. “If it’s not too much trouble, would you please get the screens for us tomorrow? We need to dry some for later.”

  “They’re out in the barn. I’ll fetch them now.” He reached over and grabbed a slice from her bowl. “And Annie? It is no trouble. I’m glad to get the screens. You know how much I like peaches.”

  He went out to the barn. Even though they’d been stored in canvas, dust coated the mesh screens. Phineas set aside a halter he’d been treating with saddle soap. “Those need a good scrubbing.”

  It was considered woman’s work, but Jakob never minded pitching in. Ever since Annie came, Phineas had gotten good about seeing needs and helping out, too. More than once, Jakob found himself wishing their father had wanted Annie to marry Phineas instead of Konrad. Phineas wouldn’t have . . .

  “Are the frames weak?” Phineas gave him an odd look.

  Jakob glanced down and realized he’d gripped the edges and begun to twist them. “They’re strong enough to do the job. The women—they’re doing peaches.”

  Phineas snatched up a bar of lye soap. “What are we waiting for? Let’s scrub those now so they can put up more. No one makes a better dried peach pie than your sister.”

  A while later as they stacked the screens on the back porch, he heard Hope through the open window. “Ain’t it something how menfolk have a clock in their heads that chimes when food comes outta the oven?”

  “Oh?” Phineas crooked a brow at Jakob.

  “I asked for tarts for the morning.” He tried to ignore the mouth-watering aroma wafting toward them. It was Thursday. No one baked on Thursday. Saturdays, yes. And often on Tuesday. But never on Thursday.

  “Mrs. Erickson, ma’am, seems to me we got some hungry men out there. Good thing you thought to put on another pot of coffee to go with these here tarts.”

  “That sounded like an invitation to me!” Phineas wrenched the doorknob and plowed inside. “Annie, I just told your brother that nobody makes a better peach pie than you.”

  “They’re tarts, and Hope made them.”

  Jakob quelled his greed. “We can wait ’til tomorrow.”

  “Nonsense.” Miss Ladley turned from him to his sister. “And nonsense to you, too. You and me—we done baked them tarts together. I peeled the peaches and made the crust, but you sliced and seasoned the peaches. Yep. We worked better’n a hand in love.”

  Hand in glove, Jakob silently corrected.

  “And Mr. Stauffer, of anybody, I reckon you understand that the best—your name bein’ Jakob. In the Good Book, Jacob didn’t mind bein’ a hand and workin’ hard all them extry years on account of him lovin’ Rachel so much.”

  The housekeeper had mangled another saying, but somehow, it made sense. Jakob nodded.

  “Well, your sis is a real nice gal, and I have me such a good time in her company that I don’t even notice how we’re working. Lookee here.” She waved at the counter. “Got us a full dozen tarts made, and I just popped ’nother half dozen into the stove.”

  “Did we really make eighteen?” Annie’s eyes widened.

  Jakob slapped Phineas on the shoulder. “I guess we can swipe one tonight.”

  Phineas took a big bite and chuffed air around it. “Hot. Hot, but ohhhh, gut. Sehr gut.”

  “Betwixt Mr. Stauffer’s fine peaches and his sister’s special mix of spices, ’tis no wonder at all.” Miss Ladley set a plate with a tart on the table in front of Annie and swept away the assortment of spice tins. “Betcha that little babe’s gonna have a sweet disposition with you eatin’ the likes of that.”

  Annie’s hand went to her tummy, and her cheeks turned ruddy. Phineas cleared his throat and looked away.

  Miss Ladley heaved a loud sigh. “Guess I spoke out of turn. When there’s mixed company, some folks don’t make any mention ’bout a woman bein’ on the nest. Sorry I opened my big mouth. I won’t say nothin’ more.”

  “That would be best.” Jakob decided to change the subject. “Tomorrow, I will build a cot for you, Miss Ladley. While you’re here, we need to make you as comfortable as we can.”

  “No need to make a cot. My quilt’s nice and thick. I’m used to a pallet.” She licked a little speck of sugar from her lip. “You’re decent men, and I’m a God-fearin’ woman. That bein’ the case, I reckon ’tis silly for you to waste your breath on fancy manners with plain old me. I wouldn’t take offense if’n you men called me Hope.”

  Fifteen minutes later, out in the barn, Phineas chuckled. “I didn’t say anything, but that new cook you hired is funny. She tangles her words up and still ends up making sense. I doubt there’s another woman who could talk about her bed and in the next breath invite men to call her by her given name without it coming out as sinful.”

  Jakob shook his head. “She is different, but Annie needs her.”

  When he went to his bedroom that night, Jakob shut the door and unbuttoned his shirt before turning around. Every night he did the same thing—sliding down his suspenders and shrugging out of his shirt, sitting on the chair and peeling off his boots and socks, then finally shucking his britches before ever looking at the empty bed. Nights stretched long enough without facing the loneliness any sooner than he had to. When he finally faced the bed, Jakob froze. A flat expanse of sheet lay where Naomi’s pillow belonged.

  Four

  Hope waited until Mrs. Erickson’s breathing stretched into a slow, steady rhythm. Careful not to awaken her or little Emmy-Lou, Hope slipped back into her work dress. She tiptoed to the door, sneaked out, and went over to the room across the hall. Trying to stay as quiet as possible, she tapped lightly.

  The door opened so savagely, Hope jerked back and tightened her hold of the pillow. Barefooted, bare-chested, and wearing jeans, her boss didn’t say a word, but the wild look in his eyes made her catch her breath. “Mr. Stauffer, sir, I don’t need this.” She extended the fluffy pillow toward him. The moment she’d laid her head on it, the faint scent of roses had drifted up to her.

  The muscles in his cheeks twitched, and his jaw remained just as clenched as his hands.

  I was right. This here pillow belonged to his missus, and he counts it dear. He hadn’t accepted it yet, so Hope took a small step closer and pressed it against his arm. The pink peonies embroidered along the hem and the matching pink tatted lace edge looked impossibly feminine against the tanned, ropy muscles of his forear
m. She whispered, “I didn’t want to upset your sister. She was tryin’ to follow your order to make me comfortable. A pillow never made a lick of difference to me, so you might as well put it back where it b’longs. G’night.” She tiptoed back to her room and stopped.

  Mr. Stauffer stood in his doorway. Backlit from the lamp in his room as he was, she could see he now clutched the pillow to his chest, but his features were cast into shadow.

  Just as well. A man’s entitled to the privacy of his grief. She lowered her gaze. “I’ll wait ’til you shut your door so’s the light in your chamber won’t wake up your sis.”

  The door he’d practically torn from the hinges now shut with a silence that was every bit as unnerving.

  “I’m sorry.” Mrs. Erickson shuffled past Hope’s pallet and climbed back into bed.

  “Nothin’ to be sorry over. You can’t help it. Fact is, you oughtta sleep in a mite to make up for all the times that babe makes you get up durin’ the night. It only takes one of us to make breakfast, and since I’m the hired cook, that means I’m gonna earn my keep.”

  “But—”

  “Frettin’ ain’t no good for you nor that babe. There’s plenty of work for us to share the rest of the day. You might as well rest while you can.”

  Emmy-Lou sat upright on the trundle and announced, “Chickens don’t like butter.”

  “Shhh. Schlaff. ” Annie coaxed the little girl to lie back down. After she had covered her niece, she murmured, “She talks in her sleep sometimes—crazy things.”

  “Well, you got her all tucked in real sweet-like. Not having a mama’s hard on a gal—but she’s blessed to have you here to dote on her. Of all the things you do, that’s gotta be the most importantest of all.”

  “After Naomi died, a cousin—Miriam—came for a while. A terrible accident happened, and she tried hard to get past it, but she grew so afraid that she had to leave. Jakob came to get me so I could mind her. He is still very worried and doesn’t allow Emmy-Lou to go where we cannot see her for even a minute.”

  “I don’t abide gossip, so if’n answering would make a talebearer of you, don’t feel obliged to answer. But can you tell me what happened so I can help you mind her?”

  Only Emmy-Lou’s sleepy breaths filled the room; then Mrs. Erickson said softly, “Jakob needed more water, so they were drilling. A test hole didn’t yield water, so they started drilling a ways off. Emmy-Lou fell in the first hole.”

  Hope sucked in a sharp breath.

  “Nobody talks of it. Poor Emmy-Lou is terrified of the dark now. It is why we leave the curtain open a little at nighttime.” Annie yawned.

  “If’n we switch your bed to that other wall, the light will fall across her trundle instead of slanting ’cross your mattress first. Would you sleep better if’n we did that?”

  “I don’t think Jakob would want things rearranged.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” Hope pretended to yawn and snuggled under her quilt. “Much as he dotes on his baby girl, once we mention it, I bet he’ll set the stairs afire, rushin’ up here to move things.”

  Mrs. Erickson soon returned to her slumber, but Hope didn’t fall back to sleep. Accepting the fact that she’d not doze off again, she went downstairs and rushed to skin, slice, and blanch more fruit. Seven jars wasn’t a lot—but every little bit she could squirrel away without Annie knowing was just that much more work the poor woman would be spared. Tossing a peach cobbler into the oven would explain the heavy, sweet fragrance in the kitchen. Oatmeal and coffee topped two of the burners. The two largest pots held water she heated.

  Hope stepped out onto the back porch and pulled her comb from her apron pocket. It didn’t take long to unravel her bedtime plait, comb her waist-length hair, and braid it again. A few jabs with hairpins, and she’d seen to making herself decent. Well, almost. She curled her toes on the smooth planks for a moment before cramming them into her boots. Across the barnyard, the rooster started warming up.

  G’morning, Lord. I shorely do love the way you start the day—with all them purdy gold and pink ribbons streamin’ ’cross the sky as it turns lavender. ’Tis like you got yourself a paint box to fix up a new picture every mornin’. Takes my breath away, how each one is different from the last. I gotta praise you for that. And, God, ’tis plain to see why you sent me here. These folks—they need a helpin’ hand. Ain’t just a hand, neither—leastways, not just mine. They’re sore in need of your touch. The Good Book says you walked in the garden with Adam and Eve. Ain’t my farm, but I’m givin’ you the invite to come walk this garden with me. Make my heart still so I can hear what you want me to say and do for these folks.

  The door opened. “Miss Ladley? You are up early again.”

  Hope turned. “Dawn’s my most favoritest time of the day. Sky’s so beautiful, it makes me wanna reach up and touch each of them streaks.” She stood and dusted off the back of her dress.

  If he hadn’t crooked his brow slightly, she might have thought he hadn’t heard her.

  “You didn’t answer me last night ’bout the peaches. You gonna take most of ’em to town or ship ’em off by rail? Could earn yourself a purdy penny thataway.”

  “Monday.” He strode past her and out to the barn.

  Well, his plan made sense. By the time he picked and packed bushels of peaches today, he’d have to wait ’til early tomorrow to take them off—and shipping food on Saturday would be foolish.

  “Oh!” Hope chased after him. “Mr. Stauffer!”

  He turned.

  She stopped a few feet away. “I wanted to ask—well, that office of yours is a wondrous place, and I don’t mean you no insult, but that sis of yours . . .” She took a deep breath. “A woman in her last months uses the necessary a dreadful lot. Nighttime trips to the outhouse are wearin’ her out. I’d be careful to empty out a chamber pot straightaway each mornin’ if’n you wouldn’t mind me tuckin’ it in that study at bedtime each night for her.”

  A curt nod, then he turned and continued on.

  Hope scanned the yard and scuffed her toe in irritation. “If’n I find the cat, I’ll bet she got that man’s tongue.”

  “I’ve been thinkin’ on what we can fix ahead for the menfolk to eat, come harvest.” Hope settled the last screen of peaches atop the large stack and covered the whole affair with netting to keep out insects. “I reckoned we could make a big ol’ mess of noodles and dry ’em. Whaddya think?”

  “That would be smart.”

  “Dandy. We’ll need eggs to make noodles, but that henhouse is brimming with ’em. Do y’all want Emmy-Lou to come with me whilst I feed the chickens and go work the garden, or do y’all want her to help you gather the eggs?”

  “I can feed the chickens. They’re good scratchers. We don’t have to feed them as much as some of the new, fancy breeds.” Mrs. Erickson took Emmy-Lou’s hand.

  “Uh-huh. Dominiques are fine chickens. Hearty and lay mighty tasty brown eggs. I always like the brown eggs better.” Hope walked alongside them toward the coop. “You’ll never imagine what I heard early in the spring this year.”

  Emmy-Lou continued to trot along. “What?”

  “There’s a feller named Wilson clear back in New Jersey.

  He built hisself an incubator that handles four hundred eggs at a time. Well, newborn chicks don’t gotta eat or drink for a day and a half, so he’s taken to shipping day-old chicks by rail express clear to Chicago!”

  “You don’t say!” Mrs. Erickson’s face clouded over. “Those poor chickies.”

  “You’ve been to Chicago?” Emmy-Lou wrinkled her nose. “Is that way, way far away like Dallas?”

  “I’ve been to Dallas, but not to Chicago. It’s much, much farther away; but a farmer’s wife came back after visitin’ her kin, and she brought one of the crates he shipped them chicks in. She said them little chicks was parched. They had to tip those little critters’ beaks into water to get ’em to drink up, but it worked. Can you imagine?” She laughed. “Lookee at me. I got so wound u
p in telling my tale, I follered you right out here. I might as well feed the hens. This is a fine brood you got.”

  “We gots a hundred.” Emmy-Lou squatted down and trailed her fingers along the back of one of the black-and-white-feathered hens. “Nobody else’s looks like ours. Mrs. Creighton’s are mostly white. Their eggs are easy to find ’cuz they’re white.”

  “But just think of all the fun they’re a-missing!” Hope pressed an egg basket into Emmy-Lou’s hands. “A hen works to lay her egg. When she takes the trouble to hide it, doesn’t seem fair just to snatch it away. Searching a little—well, that’s like a game you play. You look down low, and your auntie can look up high. Thataway, them hens will figure they done a good job. Betcha they’re so happy, they’ll lay another tomorrow. Plenty of hens don’t lay eggs every day, you know.”

  “Ours do!”

  Hope gave Mrs. Erickson a puzzled look. “Yesterday was Thursday, and you didn’t go to market. Most ever’body goes to market on Thursday. When do all y’all go?”

  “Phineas went on Wednesday. He takes the eggs, butter, and produce in so Mr. Clark has them for the women when they shop the next day. Sometimes Jakob goes. If I need anything, they get it for me.”

  “Stretches my imagination, tryin’ to figger out anything you ain’t got. This here farm is like a corner of paradise on earth. Suppose I ought to stop blitherin’ and start workin’.”

  She headed to the garden, which was nearly exploding with ripe vegetables. If she stripped all the pods off the pole beans, they’d continue to produce more. Soon a whole bushel of beans rested at the end of a long row. Another of ripe tomatoes joined it.

  “Miss Hope, I finded lotsa eggs!”

  Hope turned around. “Sehr gut, Emmy-Lou. We’ll use some of them to make noodles today. Do you want to help?”

  “Can I roll them out?” Emmy-Lou galloped closer and tripped over a cabbage.

  Hope caught her. “Careful there.” The outer leaves of the cabbage were torn. “We’ll make us some coleslaw. For what I have in mind for lunch, we’re gonna need an onion. How about if you go find one and pull it?”