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

by Vikki Kestell

  Then she was struggling not to laugh and, leaning toward the children on his other side, she put a warning finger to her lips. Jan glanced at the four smirking faces down the row from him. Eyes bright with excitement, Little Karl, Arnie, Kjell, and Uli were trying their best to restrain themselves.

  Be a father to the fatherless.

  Yes, Lord, Jan nodded. These are mine. I am their father.

  At the end of the service, Jacob shook his head, still shocked and bemused. “Folks, I’ve been asked to make an announcement. There’s going to be another wedding shortly.”

  Jan could not stand the suspense. His hand reached for Rose’s and she gave it willingly even as speculative eyes glanced everywhere but at them.

  “Hrmm! Since I’ve only just been informed myself, I know you’ll be as surprised and certainly as delighted as I am. Folks, I am happy to announce the upcoming marriage of Mrs. Rose Brownlee and Mr. Jan Thoresen!”

  Congratulations burst all around them, and Sigrün, her face aglow, turned and embraced Rose—until Rose pulled away, amazed.

  “What did you say?” Rose grasped Sigrün’s shoulders. “Sigrün! You talked!”

  A silence fell. Sigrün, unaccustomed to being the center of attention, shifted from one foot to the other. All eyes were on her.

  “I’m so happy, Rose,” she whispered again. “For you, for Onkel.”

  A roar of approval rang through the building, but Jan could not speak. He was reliving those dark days, seeing Sigrün as a little girl, ill and reeling from the loss of her pappa and beloved cousin. He was remembering her clinging to him in grief and fear, traumatized and saying nothing. Speaking no words for all these long years!

  Ah, Lord! he prayed, humbled and grateful, Surely nothing is too difficult for you! You have healed her brokenness . . . and your mercy has tamed my wild heart.

  No, Lord. Nothing is too difficult for you.

  ~~**~~

  Postscript

  And it shall come to pass

  in the last days, saith God,

  I will pour out of my Spirit upon all flesh:

  and your sons and your daughters

  shall prophesy,

  and your young men shall see visions,

  and your old men shall dream dreams:

  And on my servants and on my handmaidens

  I will pour out in those days of my Spirit;

  and they shall prophesy

  Jan sat up, fully awake, his mind clear. The night was calm and silent, lit by moonlight, but his heart drummed within his chest. He could still sense the holy hush attending his dream. He half expected to see a sacred messenger within the moonbeams slanting through the window.

  He looked to the other side of the bed and saw . . . his bride. His Rose! Her soft, even breathing told him that all was well.

  Jan climbed from the bed and padded to the window. O Lord! Such a dream I have never had! He closed his eyes and could see it all again—hear it all again . . .

  A young girl raced through the prairie grass. The echoes of her laughter floated on the air. She stopped and looked Jan full in the face.

  “Hello, Pappa!”

  Kristen? No, not Kristen . . .

  Jan reached out and touched the long braid, as white as spun silver, trailing over the girl’s shoulder. He stared into her bright eyes, deep and clear, blue as a summer sky.

  His eyes!

  She took him by the hand and they walked. As they walked, the girl grew and matured. When they stopped, they stood on the road running through Thoresen land, the track that led east and then northward, deeper into the prairie. The girl was now a young woman, tall and stately, her wheat-blonde hair fell gracefully to her waist. She smiled at him, her lips gently firm but sweet.

  Rose’s mouth! O dear Lord!

  “Pappa,” the young woman said. “Look.” She gestured. “See your heritage, dear Pappa.”

  Down the road from the east trod a long line of people. The young woman released Jan’s hand and went to greet them.

  She embraced and stood among several who were, clearly, her children—his grandchildren! Behind them the line extended beyond view, men and women, boys and girls, light-haired and dark. They gazed at Jan and nodded . . . with love and honor.

  Jan reached his hand toward the young woman, to call her back, not wishing her to leave him. She smiled again and her face glowed with great happiness.

  “Bless us, Pappa! We are your heritage, Pappa, your heritage in the Lord. We will carry your faith—the Good News of Jesus, our Lord—forward into many generations!” And she and those with her bowed their heads.

  As if it were the most natural thing in the world to do, Jan lifted his hand as she requested and, in a clear voice, pronounced a father’s blessing. “I bless you my daughter! And your children . . . the children the Lord will give you. Be fruitful. And go with Him.”

  The many with bowed heads then lifted them and looked up into the heavens. Faces shone with elation. Some stretched up their arms.

  They faded from view.

  Only the woman remained. She did not return to him but, solemnly, she spoke a soft parting word, a haunting refrain.

  “What I lose, Pappa, is not lost to God. In him the lost are found.”

  She was gone.

  Jan whispered her final words. “The lost are found. The lost . . . are found.”

  He heard Rose stirring. “Jan?”

  “Ja, my Rose. I come.”

  He crawled under the covers and sank into the welcoming warmth of her arms. As Rose nestled into the crook of his neck, she sought his lips and they kissed.

  Only yesterday had they married! And only mere hours ago they had, for the first time, given themselves to each other.

  Jan opened his eyes in the dark of the room and could still see the little girl with trailing white braids.

  Your heritage, Pappa.

  She had seemed—and still seemed!—so real.

  Could it be? At their time of life? He and Rose had not spoken of children, but . . .

  With a great sigh of peace, Jan tucked the dream into a corner of his heart—a precious place where he would remember it and keep it safe.

  Ja, Lord, as you will. I and mine are yours.

  ~~**~~

  The End

  An Excerpt From

  Joy on This Mountain

  The sequel to

  A Rose Blooms Twice

  and

  Wild Heart on the Prairie

  Chapter 1

  August 1908

  Rose finished her difficult climb and crested the rise behind their house. She slowly straightened her stiff back, her breath coming hard. Below her, nestled picturesquely between the knoll and a meandering creek, stood their home, the place where she and Jan had lived, loved, dreamed, and raised their family.

  Across the creek and away to the east stretched the fields that belonged to Jan’s son, Søren, and two of his cousins, Karl and Kjell. Their families, homes, and barns were surrounded by their well-ordered crops.

  Rose turned toward the sinking sun. Their fields, hers and Jan’s, lay before her. The drying stalks of their harvested corn waved in a gentle breeze. Rose searched through the shadows beginning to fall upon the field, her hand held to her eyes against the waning light.

  There.

  Rose spotted the young woman, on the far side of the field, her face turned toward the dropping sun. Even from this distance, Rose could tell the woman was staring out into the vast prairie, her shoulders bowed.

  Rose’s heart twisted a little. It would be best not to approach her right now. Rose’s comfort would not be welcome. Not at this time.

  Sighing, Rose looked back toward their little white house, the center of so much happiness. She looked for and found her husband of 26 years staring back at her. He leaned heavily against the rails of the veranda that wrapped around the house. Rose knew that he was as concerned as she was, but he was unable to climb the hill she stood on, no longer able to till or harvest
their fields.

  “Oh Lord,” she murmured. “You are our Rock. Our strong High Tower. Our Fortress. Our strength in time of need. O God, we need you now.”

  She turned again toward the solitary woman across the field and remembered . . . remembered the summer day she came into their lives.

  Late summer 1883

  The heat in the house was oppressive. Sweat ran from Rose’s face and soaked the pillow and her hair. She strained with a contraction.

  “Jan,” she moaned. “Jan!” The contraction peaked and she fell back against the pillow.

  She had endured more than 24 hours of hard labor yet the baby just would not come. Rose had given birth three times before this, the children of her first marriage, but none had taken as long or been as difficult. As another contraction took her, Rose felt her strength ebbing and her hope and resolution slipping.

  “Jan . . . Jan, please,” she whispered as the constricting band about her eased momentarily.

  Fiona leaned over her and wiped her brow. “Whist? Jan?”

  “Yes . . . Jan . . .” she moaned through cracked lips. “I need him.”

  Moments later Jan slipped to the side of her bed and took her hand. Rose looked up and, voice shaking, whispered, “Jan, I don’t think I can do . . . this . . . it’s taking too long . . . and, and . . . something must be wrong . . . I’m so . . . sorry.” She stared at his dear face in shame and regret.

  “Nei, Rose.”

  His eyes, those blue, blue eyes, captured her soft gray ones as another contraction took her. Neither of them looked away; they remained fixed on each other until the pain eased again.

  Jan began to speak, willing her to hear and be strengthened. His eyes never left hers as he spoke, his words awash with faith and resolve. “Listen, my li’l Rose!”

  “Da Lord ist mine light an’ mine salvation;

  whom shall I fear?

  da Lord ist da strength of mine life;

  of whom shall I be afraid?

  . . . For in da time of trouble

  he shall hide me in his pavilion:

  in da secret of his tabernacle shall he hide me;

  . . . I had fainted, unless I had believed

  to see da goodness of da Lord

  in da lan’ of da living.

  Vait on da Lord:

  be of good courage,

  an’ he shall strengthen thine heart:

  vait, I say, on da Lord.”

  “In da lan’ of da living, Rose. We vill see his goodness in da lan’ of the living. Be of good courage, my Rose.”

  Another contraction began as Rose was muttering, “Be of good courage . . . he shall strengthen my heart . . . wait on the Lord . . . my heart will not fear . . .”

  Her breath rasped as she struggled with yet another unproductive birth pang. Another. Again. Another. And another.

  And then—water gushed from between her legs. The contractions came without reprieve now, one atop each other, relentless, without mercy. Suddenly an urgent need to push overtook her.

  An hour later Rose lay exhausted and limp, while Fiona and Amalie gently cleaned and dressed her. Finally Amalie, her kind face smiling broadly, laid a tiny bundle on Rose’s chest. Rose’s arms trembled with fatigue as she struggled to hold the bundle. The bedroom door opened softly and Rose felt her husband leaning over her.

  “Ist vell, Rose?” Rose heard the depth of concern and care in his voice. Her eyes drifted up to his deep glacier ones.

  “Our daughter,” she breathed. She felt the warmth of the tiny body against her breasts, felt the small rise and fall of the baby’s breath.

  “Ah, Rose! Our babe.” Jan sat on the edge of the bed and tenderly slipped his work-rough hands under the bundle. Lifting the newborn he turned back the blanket and revealed to both of them a tuft of white-blonde hair and a crinkled pink face.

  Rose thought her heart would stop, so great was the love that washed over her at that moment. She looked to her husband. His face was buried in the baby’s blanket and she heard his muffled sobs.

  Rose had never seen, never heard her husband cry so and, as his weeping intensified, tears began to stream down her face also.

  She knew too well why he cried. He cried for the loss of his other daughter, Kristen, and her mother, Elli. For the many years of grief and loneliness he had suffered.

  Rose cried for the husband and children she had lost three years before . . . James, and their children, Jeffrey, Glory, Clara. Gone in a few agonizing moments, claimed by a river of ice one fateful evening.

  She also wept for the new love and companionship God had granted her with this good man. For the comfort and healing of this baby—for the renewal and purpose this child would bring them.

  She knew they wept for joy.

  “Oh dear God, I denk you!” Jan sobbed. He held the baby to his chest with one hand while his other hand tenderly caressed Rose’s cheek. “I denk you, O Fat’er God!”

  Finally, their tears eased, and Jan wiped his eyes on the corner of the baby’s blanket.

  “Such joy, my Rose! Such joy,” he whispered.

  “Yes,” Rose answered tearfully. “Joy.”

  Their eyes met and they slowly nodded in agreement.

  Jan looked down on the tiny face and murmured, “Little girl, you are Joy!”

  “Joy Again,” Rose added. “She is our Joy Again.”

  “Joy Again,” Jan repeated, tasting the words for the first time. He smiled and nodded . . .

  Rose roused herself from those precious memories and turned again to the tall figure across the field. How had so many years flown by?

  And how had so much been undone so easily?

  ~~**~~

  Chapter 2

  April 1902

  Arnie Thoresen smiled contentedly at his pleasant wife, his healthy young sons, and his cousin, Joy, who had just arrived in Omaha. They were finishing lunch outdoors at a sidewalk café, and it was a very lovely late spring day. Arnie hadn’t seen his much younger cousin for more than two years. He leaned back, relaxed and replete from the meal, and indulged in his favorite pastime: people watching.

  At almost 19 years old, Joy was proving herself to be a charming, unspoiled young lady. She was tall for a woman but as slender and supple as a willow branch. Her thick, white-blonde hair, inherited from her Norwegian father, hung to her waist in a silken sheaf. She wore it more in the mode of the last century than in the manner of a modern woman of the 1900s. Arnie liked that immensely.

  Joy’s father and Arnie’s father had been brothers. Arnie, compared to Joy, was also tall but broad rather than lean, and he sported a shaggy head of dark-blond hair. Unlike his brothers, who remained on the family’s farm, Arnie had chosen to study law and establish a practice in the city.

  Arnie listened as Joy praised something Arnie’s older son Petter said, her hand resting on Petter’s arm. It was obvious that both of his boys were smitten with their second cousin.

  Arnie grinned as Joy declared that Petter was “brilliant” and the young man reddened in both embarrassment and delight. Petter’s little brother, Willem, punched Petter under the table, and attempted to distract Joy’s attention toward himself. Arnie and Anna exchanged amused glances.

  Arnie’s hand was dangling over the arm of his chair when he felt a warm, wet nose snuffle his hand. Startled, he momentarily jerked his hand away and looked down into the soft brown eyes of a black-and-white border collie. The dog nudged his hand again and Arnie rubbed between his ears.

  “Arnie! It’s good to see you.”

  Arnie turned to find the greeter. “Grant! The pleasure is mine. How are you keeping?”

  “Fine, fine; thank you for asking. I see Blackie found you. He never forgets a friend.” Grant Michaels snapped a leash onto the dog and nodded and smiled at the group. And then saw Joy Thoresen. And stared.

  Joy stared right back, her lips slightly parted. Petter and Willem looked from Grant to Joy and back and then glared. Arnie shook his head and smothered a chuckl
e.

  “Grant, I believe you know my wife, Anna?”

  “Pleasure,” Grant muttered, still staring.

  “And these are my sons, Petter and Willem.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Grant nodded in their general direction.

  Petter and Willem’s eyes narrowed and drilled holes in Grant.

  “And this is my cousin, Joy Thoresen. She has just arrived in Omaha and will be staying with us this summer. Joy, this is my good friend, Grant Michaels.”

  Grant reached across the table to gently shake Joy’s hand. He smiled into her deep blue eyes.

  Joy smiled back and said sweetly, “Won’t you join us, Mr. Michaels?”

  “I’m so sorry; I believe we’ve finished lunch and were just leaving,” Petter stated flatly.

  Willem added in an icy tone, “Yup. Too bad you can’t join us ’cause we’re a-leavin’.”

  As if he hadn’t heard, Grant Michaels seated himself across from Joy. Blackie laid himself down under Grant’s chair.

  “How long have you had your dog, Mr. Michaels?” Joy asked.

  “Blackie and I have been pals since he was a pup. He’s grown now at five years old, and he is a good dog and loyal friend.”

  Joy could not take her eyes off this new acquaintance. He was a little taller than she was with a riot of dark brown hair curling around his face and his laughing hazel eyes.

  Such lovely hazel eyes . . .

  Since Grant was both Arnie’s friend and business acquaintance, conversation that day was uncomplicated and natural. On Sunday, Joy spied Grant across the filled pews of Arnie and Anna’s little church. He smiled and nodded at her and she found him lingering after the service to greet the family. Of course, Anna invited him home for Sunday dinner.

  Over the next several weeks, wherever the Thoresens happened to be in town, Grant Michaels somehow also “happened” to be there. He happened to meet them when he was walking Blackie, he spied them outside the milliners, he encountered them in the library, he chanced upon them out at dinner. He and Blackie became frequent dinner guests at Arnie and Anna’s. Before long he was calling at their home for Joy, taking her on drives and to church functions.