Wild Heart on the Prairie (A Prairie Heritage, Book 2)

by Vikki Kestell

  Jan and Søren brought Elli’s casket outside.

  Brian and Fiona’s little daughter handed Søren a single faded rose, the last of the year. “For your mother,” she whispered. Søren accepted it, choking on his thanks, but Meg’s kindness would remain with him. Then Søren ran from the house and hid, and Jan understood.

  He was too old to be mothered as the women of the church had mothered his small cousins, and too stricken to face the men of the church. His sønn needed to be alone to grieve the loss of his mother and sister.

  Jan wanted to run and hide, too, but he knew he could not. He could not run and he could not grieve. Not yet.

  Fear of the sickness still caused his friends to keep their distance. Jan held himself rigidly, turning his insides to stone and his face to a mask as they spoke their condolences from a few yards away.

  Adolphe Veicht approached. Norvald edged up to the German minister’s side.

  “I would ask what Scripture you wish read over Frau Thoresen’s grave,” Adolphe asked. He made no gesture of sympathy and offered no condolences. Norvald repeated his words in Swedish.

  “Nei, but I thank you,” Jan replied, staring over Adolphe’s shoulder at Norvald. “I would have no unfamiliar words spoken over Elli this day. My sønn and I will read the Skriften in our own language and pray over her in words she would understand.”

  Behind Adolphe’s shoulder, Norvald nodded, but Adolphe’s expression tightened. “As you wish, Herr Thoresen.”

  Jan strode up the slope toward the apple trees and his brother and daughter’s graves. Henrik, Brian, and Norvald followed close behind carrying shovels and picks.

  “Our baby is here,” Jan pointed. “I wish Elli to be placed with him.” Kristen’s grave was to the right; an obvious space remained between Kristen’s and the baby’s graves.

  For me someday, Jan mused. He saw Søren, red-faced from weeping, striding up the hill.

  “I want to help.”

  “Ja, Sønn. You and I will dig. Our friends will help us.”

  ~~**~~

  Chapter 24

  Fraulein Engel spent three more days restoring the house to order and caring for Sigrün. Four days after they buried Elli, Fraulein Engel took her departure. The dear woman had aged and weariness etched her face permanently; her brother, concerned for her, came to fetch her home.

  “We can never thank you enough,” Jan had held her hand and spoken from his heart.

  After another week when neither Jan nor Søren sickened and as Sigrün strengthened, Amalie and the boys returned to the house. Jan spent hours holding first one child then another as they searched for and could not find their pappa.

  That night Jan stared at the sheets of paper before him. He picked up a quill but did not dip it into the ink bottle. He was still numb and could feel nothing inside except the voice of habit—do this, do that; go here, go there.

  Amalie had seated him before this table to write. “You must do this, Jan,” she’d said gently, her voice catching. “They must know.”

  Jan thought these past days—weeks!—would remain the worst of his life. Now he wasn’t so sure. How would he find words to tell Elli’s foreldre—her parents—that their datter and barnebarn—granddaughter—were dead? How could he commit those words to paper? And how would he tell his and Karl’s foreldre that their eldest sønn was dead?

  He looked at the paper and dipped his quill in the ink.

  Dear Herr and Fru Mostrom,

  His hand hovered above the paper. Nothing came to him.

  He had never understood why Elli’s pappa had given his blessing to their marriage. As the younger son of only a moderately successful farmer, Jan had no prospects of ever owning his own land or giving Elli a prosperous life.

  Elli’s father, Lars, had no sons of his own. In his heart, Jan had cherished the thought that Lars Mostrom had looked on him as a son, had seen something in his future son-in-law, something that he approved of and valued, as Jan’s own father had not. When Jan and Elli told the Mostroms that they were going to America, a light had flared in Lars’ eyes.

  “I would go with you, Jan, if I were younger!” he had said with wistful enthusiasm, “But . . . Elli’s mamma could not stand the strain—and I would not place my own dreams above her health.”

  Jan choked on a laugh that turned into a sob halfway out of his mouth. O God, did I place my dreams above Elli’s wellbeing? Above Kristen’s life?

  Amalie moved quietly to stand behind him. She clasped her hands together under her growing belly. Jan still did not move.

  She sighed and wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron. “Write this, Bror,” she whispered: “I send you sad news. A bad sickness arrived in our home three weeks past. Elli and Kristen have gone home to the Savior. So also has my bror—”

  Amalie’s voice broke. She pressed her face into her apron, but Jan could still hear the keening of her grief.

  Mindlessly he wrote the words she had spoken. He looked down at the paper and read what he had written.

  Dear Herr and Fru Mostrom,

  I send you sad news. A bad sickness arrived in our home three weeks past. Elli and Kristen have gone home to the Savior. So also has my brother Karl. Sigrün survived the fever, thanks be to God.

  Please pray for us. My sønn misses his mamma and søster, as do I. I hope you can forgive me for taking them so far from you.

  He could finish it now. He dipped the quill, wrote the final words, and signed it.

  With great respect,

  Jan Thoresen

  The letter to his parents was as difficult, so he used the first letter to begin.

  Dear Pappa and Mamma,

  I send you sad news. A bad sickness arrived in our home three weeks past. Karl, Elli, and Kristen have gone home to the Savior. Sigrün survived the fever, thanks be to God.

  Amalie and the rest of the children are fine.

  He wanted to scrawl, I don’t know what to do! Help me! Please tell me what to do! Instead he ended the letter quickly.

  Please pray for us.

  Your sønn,

  Jan

  The days somehow passed in a blur of chores and duties performed by rote. He ate what Amalie set before him. He answered when spoken to. But nothing Jan saw or heard penetrated the ache in his chest, the fog in his mind.

  One morning Søren bowed his head dejectedly over one of their milk cows. “Nothing will ever be the same again, Pappa, will it? I love Tante Amalie, but it, it hurts my heart that, that she has made Mamma’s kitchen her own. I know it is not her fault, but I am, am, am angry!”

  “Shush, my sønn. I know how you feel, but I don’t think you are angry with Tante Amalie, eh? Is it not that you are really angry that your mamma is not here anymore?”

  Large tears glimmered in Søren’s eyes. “I think maybe so, Pappa.” He choked a little. “Is it a sin to be angry, Pappa?”

  “Only if we hang on to it, Sønn. Only if we do not give it to the Savior each hour.”

  Søren nodded. “And what is wrong with Sigrün, Pappa? She will not speak to me. Haven’t you noticed?”

  Jan hadn’t noticed. His niece, again a healthy ten-year-old, would still crawl up into his lap after dinner and they would hold each other, neither of them speaking.

  How she must miss her pappa, Jan thought. How she must miss her cousin Kristen!

  Now that Søren had drawn Jan’s attention to it, he realized he had not heard Sigrün speak since . . . since when?

  Since the night Karl and Kristen died.

  Somehow life continued. Norvald decided he needed to learn English to better serve the community when he took crops and livestock to Omaha to sell. He enlisted Henrik and Brian to study with him. Of course, the three of them tried to convince Jan to join their group.

  Jan saw it for what it was: a well-meant and transparent ploy to draw Jan out of his sorrows. He refused.

  I will not learn the English, he vowed, stubborn in his grief. I do not need to learn; I have Søren
.

  ~~**~~

  Chapter 25

  All day the ache in his chest had grown. Now the throbbing pain threatened to erupt, and he did not know what it would do to Søren to see his father lose control. He could not remain in the barn another moment.

  With no word to his sønn, Jan left off milking and walked away from the barn. And then ran. He ran until he was far enough away and knew Søren would not be able to hear the sobs burst from his mouth.

  O Lord! I am undone. I am breaking. How can I give up my wife and datter? How can I take up Karl’s family for him, O God? I have not the strength or the heart.

  Sorrow racked his body; he could not breathe. Lord, would it not have been better for me to come to you than Karl? Did you make a mistake, Lord?

  It was early November; winter cold had not yet set in. He stumbled, weeping, up the slope to where Kristen, Karl, and Elli, with their baby sønn, were buried. After only a few weeks, wild grasses were greening the mounds that marked where they lay.

  Kneeling between Elli and Kristen’s graves, Jan pounded his thighs and cried aloud, unable to control the flood of grief: It had a life of its own and it possessed him.

  His chest constricted, and long, aching minutes crept by before his breath returned to him. He gazed into the distance . . . stared at the prairie that stretched before him, timeless, endless, masterless.

  Unbidden, an idea came to him. I will build a wall here. To surround them, he thought, wiping his face on his shirt sleeve.

  He glanced around. No, not a wall—a fence of wrought iron. Yes, that would be nicer. More open.

  He managed to stand. A fence with roses climbing over the gate. Sunset roses! And I will plant another tree just there, one that will bloom over the fence and cover them with its flowers and sweet scent.

  Still weak from his weeping, Jan stepped out the corners and perimeter he imagined, finding a comfort in doing so—as though he was doing something for Elli. For Kristen. For Karl.

  Søren appeared behind him, quiet, watchful. Like his father had, he would get his growth late. He was thin, lanky, and awkward with the promise of the man to come.

  My sønn! Jan saw the anguish in the boy’s eyes. Lord, I was wrong. I would not have my sønn left alone in the world. I must be strong for him . . . no matter how hard it is.

  Jan reached for Søren and pulled him close.

  “I was just thinking,” Jan confided, his words low and rough with emotion. “I was thinking to build an iron fence around them, a pretty one, with twists and curls.” He walked Søren around the graves, pointing. “Just so. With roses climbing on the gate? I think Mamma would like that. And a nice tree right here. What do you think?”

  Søren looked up into his eyes. “Yes, Pappa. Will you let me help?”

  “Ja, Sønn. We will do it together, eh?”

  “What about . . .” Søren was sniffling, but this, whatever was happening, was somehow good, even healing. “What about the stones? With their names?”

  “Ach! Of course. Perhaps we will go to town and ask where to quarry the best stone for engraving. Just you and I, ja? Just you and I.”

  Søren nodded and wiped his eyes. He held tightly to Jan’s waist and Jan squeezed his thin shoulders.

  “We will make it beautiful for them, eh?”

  Søren nodded again and swallowed.

  Far down the road, still on the other side of the creek, Jan saw a buggy and two riders approaching. “We are to have company. Please tell your Tante Amalie?”

  Søren reluctantly obeyed. Jan heard him running up the path to the house, heard the scrape of the repaired screen door opening and slapping closed.

  Jan went out to meet the men, four of them, two riding in the buggy, two on horseback. He recognized Gunnar Braun’s little sorrel mare first. Then he recognized Rikkert Kapel astride his bay. Klaus Schöener and Adolphe Veicht rode in the wagon.

  The minister and elders. All dressed in somber black.

  So. A formal visit, Jan mused.

  He did not offer a welcome when they drove into the yard but he watched them carefully. No hand raised in greeting. No one dismounted. Rikkert studiously avoided eye contact with Jan.

  When Jan still said nothing, Minister Veicht cleared his throat. “Good evening, Herr Thoresen.”

  Jan nodded. He could feel his anger growing, so he said nothing.

  Veicht cleared his throat again and inclined his head. “May we come in? We,” he gestured to the others, “the elders and I, would like to talk.”

  Amalie served coffee and cake in the living room and then closed the door behind her. Still no one spoke.

  Jan sugared his cup of coffee and stirred it. He took a sip. He waited. Lord, I am trying. Help me to master my aching heart.

  “Herr Thoresen, we know you are grieving,” Veicht said. “And your sister-in-law also. We have been praying for both of you. And the children.”

  Rikkert awkwardly translated Minister Veicht’s words. Jan nodded his thanks. He studied his friend curiously, for the man was clearly uncomfortable. Klaus and Gunnar watched Veicht, attentive, but saying nothing.

  “You do not answer me, Herr Thoresen?” Veicht was becoming a bit put out with Jan’s silence.

  “Thank you for your prayers,” Jan answered. “You wished to talk? I am waiting.”

  “You are not much hospitable, Herr Thoresen.” Veicht huffed. “Well, all right. What we came for must be said. You are a member in good standing of our church, ja? So we are here and must bring this to your attention.”

  Jan remained silent, but he locked eyes with Veicht, daring him to look away. He had guessed why they had come.

  “It is that you are now a single man, Herr Thoresen, and your sister-in-law a single woman, both living in the same house,” Veicht finally managed. “It is a difficult situation.”

  Jan’s eyes never left Veicht’s face. O God, let me not sin with my heart or my mouth, he prayed. He remained silent.

  “We have discussed this, the elders and I. The appearance of it will be wrong. It would lead to temptations and, and likely to s—”

  Rikkert made a sound low in his throat like a soft growl. Veicht turned his head in surprise and then moderated his thought. “Well, as I said, the appearance of it will be wrong, that is, the appearance of sin.”

  At the word “sin” Jan’s eyes narrowed and his hand, lying on the arm of his chair, fisted. Veicht paused, his eyes on Jan’s fist.

  Lord, I am calling on you . . . Jan prayed. I need your help.

  “We, we, that is, we have come with counsel. A good answer, one that would be right for all, ja? Even as soon after as it is, even while grieving, it would be right for you and your sister-in-law to—”

  The look of loathing Jan turned on Veicht would have curdled milk—but he did not respond and did not need to, for the door to the room sprang open at that moment.

  Amalie, breathing raggedly and heavy with her child, stood in the doorway. His brother’s wife, gravely offended, spoke.

  “I have been listening at the door, Minister, and am glad of it, for you are talking of me behind my back, nei? You do not have the courage to talk to my face?” Her hands were fisted on her hips.

  “What? I am such a great temptation?” she demanded. Now she was cradling her distended belly. “Such a tempting morsel right now that my bror would not be able to control himself? Is it so?”

  She laughed and the men cringed at its harshness. “Those are evil thoughts, Minister Veicht, if you think brother and sister would do such a thing!”

  “M-m-my dear lady,” Veicht stuttered, but Amalie was not finished.

  She wagged her finger at him. “Hear me well, sir! I am grieving. I love my husband and only him. I would not marry—I will not marry—until and unless my grief has passed. But under no circumstances will it ever be right to marry my husband’s brother. Hear me! I will never do so. Never.”

  She slammed the door behind her.

  Silence reigned in the room. Jan to
ok a large swallow of his coffee, marveling at what he had witnessed and proud of Amalie’s spirit. He glanced at Rikkert. Even though the man was staring at the floor, Jan could still see a smile curve his friend’s face.

  Jan was almost able to stifle his chuckle. When Veicht’s chin jerked up his face was livid.

  “You think this funny?” he hissed.

  “Nei. But you can see she is too much woman for me, ja?”

  Jan regretted his flippant remark the moment it left his mouth. O Lord! My mouth! He cringed inwardly.

  Veicht jumped to his feet. “So you treat this lightly? You reject our counsel?” he thundered.

  Jan too stood up, all humor gone, but still he restrained his temper and his tongue. “Minister Veicht, you are in my home. You do not raise your voice to me here. My sister-in-law has heard your counsel; I have heard your counsel. We thank you for it, but we are more concerned to hear the Lord’s counsel than we are to hear yours or any man’s.”

  He finished in a flat tone. “You have heard my søster. We do not agree that marriage is the Lord’s will for us.” He caught a gleam of approval from Rikkert’s eyes but the other two elders looked anywhere but at him.

  Veicht, his jaw clenched, studied Jan. “We give you more time to think on it, Herr Thoresen. Your sister-in-law is correct. While she is with child, the situation is less onerous. But after she is delivered, we will speak on this again. If you will not hear us then, we will bring it to the church.”

  Jan nodded. His expression did not change and he said nothing more. Finally the four men filed out of the room.

  Rikkert was last to go out the front door. He turned for an instant and nodded to Jan.

  Later, after the children were abed, Jan found Amalie in the kitchen trying, as usual, to work until her body demanded sleep.