The Homestead

by Linda Byler

  Sarah bent her head to the quilt, incredulous. Her own sisters. Her blood relatives. It seemed to her as if the dearest to her heart, the ones she had missed most, had turned into coldhearted stone objects she no longer recognized.

  Was it their mother’s passing? Was it grief that caused them to become sisters with attitudes so alien to Sarah’s remembrance? Compassion had been shelved, for one thing. They were perfect, in their own eyes. “Oh God,” Sarah cried silently. “Have I experienced a time of awakening in North Dakota and returned to find myself changed? Or has the Depression done this to us, to them?” Well she remembered the openhearted giving, the jars of honey and preserves, and the pieced baby quilt when Hannah was born. They had done her peach canning, her applesauce, gaily coming and going in their dusty buggies pulled by spirited horses, fussing and clucking about their sister’s first baby, Hannah.

  Emma gave days of her time, getting her started on making little broadfall-type trousers for Manny and pinafore-style aprons for Hannah. She only remembered her sisters as kind and loving. She had spent days dreaming of her return, of being taken back into their generosity, of their open arms waiting to receive her, and of their listening as she spoke of the journey.

  Oh, they had been sympathetic. They cried and wiped tears, discreet in their grief, reserved as was the Amish custom. But this coldhearted judgment of Hannah? The admonishing about being under her father’s care?

  This she could not grasp. Was it greed? A tight-fisted lust for money? Surely they had not fallen so far away from what God intended his Christian church to be.

  Sarah searched her own soul as she sat quilting, smiling acknowledgment when necessary, joining softly into the conversation when it was expected of her. She filled her plate with unimaginable food, the serving dishes piled high with parsley potatoes, serving platters of fried chicken and stewed tomatoes and dumplings. Yes, times were hard, jobs hard to come by, scrimp and save and make do. With this food so plentiful?

  Mentally, Sarah shook her head in wonder. She didn’t care if she never saw another cup of cornmeal as long as she lived, but this thought she did not share with her sisters. They would blame Mose and bring up the whole shame of their past. Then start in about Hannah.

  No, best to let it go. And she did, to the best of her ability. But that night, alone in the comfortable bed, where Mose’s pillow lay untouched beside her, she cried. She talked to God. She asked Him for guidance. There was the monumental problem of Hannah. Should she take Rachel’s advice? Make her go work for a stranger? How would she do that?

  She knew there was no way to force Hannah to do anything. To return to North Dakota was like facing a giant beast and its open, slavering jaws ready to devour her. She quaked with a lack of courage. She knew her own cowardice. To again be subject to that kind of desperation was simply unbearable.

  To stay, living with Hannah’s powerful rebellion, was another beast, almost as fearsome. Give her time, some said. But Sarah knew. She knew Hannah would not bend. She would never forget the 320 acres of land, her strong love for the plains, the freedom of the wind and the swaying grass, the horses and yes, likely Clay Jenkins was at the back of all the rest of it.

  So what if she made the sacrifice to return for Hannah’s sake? Should mothers sacrifice for their children?

  Sarah wasn’t sure that going back to the prairie would only send her daughter back to Clay, an Englisha mon. She would leave the faith, leave everything she had ever been taught.

  The next day, Sarah had a long talk with her father. She poured out her heart to her remaining parent, who listened attentively and recognized the problem for what it was, not what he wanted it to be.

  Wise, aged, experienced, he pondered Sarah’s plight, then went off to drive the corn binder in the late September sun.

  CHAPTER 19

  Hannah was lost. Low scudding clouds threatened a serious downpour. She was in Elam’s open courting buggy, by herself, and had already taken a few wrong turns. Fred, the bay driving horse, was exhausted, his head lowered, his sides heaving, leaving Hannah in a mild state of panic. Justifying herself by blaming the stupid Lancaster County roads, she stopped the horse, which happily obeyed, and looked around her.

  That was strange. There was a fairly high ridge, or at least a small mountain, to the left of her. All of Lancaster County spread out to the right, the woods, green fields and brown ones, dotted with white houses and barns, cement silos, and fences. Hannah snorted with impatience after acknowledging that she simply didn’t know where she was.

  Well, she couldn’t drive Fred up that hill, he’d likely die. So she guessed she’d have to turn around and ask someone. The thought of actually driving into a strange place to ask for directions was irritating, but the only smart thing to do.

  “Git up, Fred.” Slowly, he complied, lifting his weary head and starting back the way he’d come.

  Hannah had heard through a friend, Lydia, that there was a job available at a feed store, weighing corn, measuring and mixing feed, and waiting on customers. She was told it was about ten miles away, in Georgetown. She thought she’d already gone farther than that. Mam had wanted her to use the neighbor’s telephone, but she despised that contraption. Dialing made her nervous, always afraid she’d put her finger in the wrong circle. Then, when she did hear a voice, it was crackly and unintelligible.

  Against her mother’s wishes, she left early, despite her grandfather’s warnings that it would likely commence raining. She told him if it rained she had an umbrella, laughed off his warning of driving a horse and holding an umbrella at the same time.

  So here she was, caught in a very sudden and serious downpour, digging around under the seat for the large black umbrella while holding on to both reins with one hand. Large drops of cold rain splattered on her back. She pulled on the reins and stopped Fred under the overhanging boughs of a large tree, thinking it would afford a bit of protection, which it did not, large drops falling off the swaying leaves.

  This was a fine mess. She decided the best course of action was to turn into the drive leading to the closest farm, seeing the way the wind was getting up. The house was built of brick, the barn white, with the usual huddle of maple trees around the yard, the clean barnyard and well-kept grass surrounding everything.

  No one was about when she stopped by the hitching rack. Feeling foolish, she quickly hopped off the buggy, her white organdy covering already clinging to her head by the force of the rain. She eyed the house, then the forebay of the barn.

  Should she pull up to the watering trough, get her horse and buggy out of the rain? Would that be too bold?

  “Hey!”

  She turned to find a man standing just inside the wide door of the forebay, beckoning her with his right hand.

  “Better get in out of the rain.”

  Sheepishly, she led her tired, dripping horse to the watering trough, looking to thank the man who had allowed her to get out of the cold rain.

  “You’re pretty wet,” he observed.

  No beard. Single. Hmm. Hannah observed this in one swift glance, her dark eyes fringed with wet lashes, her covering thoroughly drenched, her dress clinging to her with no coat for warmth.

  “Who are you?” she said, quick and to the point, as always.

  “You can call me Jerry.”

  “Jerry? That’s different.”

  “Why don’t you unhitch?” He almost added, “Hannah.” It was her. It was. He felt as if a rainbow had descended out of the gray, wind-driven clouds and produced a miracle. A very wet and obviously irritated miracle!

  “How did you get yourself into this predicament?” he asked, grinning at her across the horse’s back, working loose the snap that held the britching to the shaft.

  Her eyes flashed. “Looking for a feed mill, if you have to know.”

  “Whereabouts?”

  “They said Georgetown, but there’s an awful hill. Growing up here, I never realized that mountain was there.”

  “May I as
k who you are?” As if he didn’t know.

  “I’m Hannah. Mose Detweiler was my father. He died in North Dakota.”

  “I heard about that.”

  “You did?”

  “Yeah.”

  What else had he heard? All the stupidity associated with her family? She said nothing as they unhitched Fred. Jerry took the horse to a stall and gave him some feed and hay. Hannah wanted to follow, taking notice of the long middle aisle with stalls on either side. This was obviously one huge horse barn, housing more horses than the average.

  She thought of the thin-necked, pot-bellied, long-haired nags of North Dakota, fed on grass and water, wherever they could find it, branded like cattle, half of them as wild as deer. She wondered what Clay would say about some of these horses’ heads appearing above wooden half-doors.

  Hannah was intrigued but too proud to move down the aisle and gawk like some poor beggar. Which she was.

  “I am a horse dealer,” he offered.

  “Mm.” Feigning disinterest, Hannah walked over to the barn door, her arms crossed about her waist. She was cold but determined he wouldn’t see her shiver.

  He thought about asking her into the house for lunch, which was where the rest of the family had gone, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He wanted to keep her here, in the forebay, lit magically by her presence.

  “Would you like to see the horses?”

  “I could, I guess.” She turned and led the way. He noticed she was almost as tall as he was and that her covering really was ruined by the rain. She could have worn a torn rag on her head and she still would have been the most beautiful girl he had ever seen or imagined.

  “This is Duke.”

  “Hm. High and mighty name.”

  “He’s a high and mighty horse.”

  She turned to look at him, her eyes wide. “Is he really?”

  “Yes, he is. The best. His offspring are amazing. I can get hundreds of dollars for a foal.”

  Intimidated, Hannah didn’t answer. From one stall door to another, she viewed black or brown horses, mostly for driving, sold to Amish men who knew a good horse with plenty of stamina when they saw one. She was quiet, unafraid to reach out and stroke foreheads, to cup a hand below a mouth. She was used to being around horses.

  He was so full of questions, and so afraid to ask them.

  They returned to the door of the forebay, watched it rain. Her hair was as glossy and black as her eyes, her profile like a princess. She was cold. She rubbed her hands across her bare arms, her voice shook.

  “Are you cold?” he asked.

  Immediately she snapped, “No!”

  “We could go inside and get something warm to eat. Coffee.”

  “No.”

  Relieved, he asked how far she had to return.

  “I don’t know. Far.”

  “How will you get home? It doesn’t appear to be letting up anytime soon.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  And you’ll be out here tomorrow morning, he thought. But he didn’t say it. This girl was not the normal Amish type of girl. She was unfriendly, barbed. Quickly, before his uncle and nephews returned from the house, he said, “So, how was it, living in North Dakota?”

  She shrugged, then turned to look at him and saw his friendliness, the dark light of genuine caring, and something else she couldn’t name. She saw that he wanted to know, though, and not only for the wrong reasons.

  “It was a lot different. Wild. Windy. Nobody around. We almost starved. My father was, well, not too capable. We lived like destitute people. It was scary. Dat tried planting corn, but it shriveled up in the hot sun. We didn’t have a windmill like the other ranchers. We didn’t have cattle. One of our horses died.”

  Hannah waved a hand, as if to dismiss the whole telling. “I’m going back. I hate it here. We have 320 acres of land from the government. All we have to do is live on it for ten years. Prove our claim. I’ll make a go of it. We have two young cows and one old, mad cow, the one that killed my father.”

  Soberly, Jerry nodded his head. “Heard about that.”

  “Dat didn’t fit to the West. He was a dreamer. He thought if he planted corn some God-given cloud would float above it and dump rain on it.” She looked wide-eyed with surprise when he laughed, genuinely laughed, loud and long.

  “You’re not very reverent about your poor father.”

  “Well.” Then, “It doesn’t rain out there. Drought is common. The cattle roam around, branded, so the ranchers know which cows they own. I want to learn to ride and rope, have my own cattle. But my mother …”

  She stopped. “I shouldn’t be telling you this.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I just shouldn’t. Who are you anyway?”

  “My name is Jeremiah Riehl.”

  “And?”

  “I live here with my uncle. My past is nothing to be proud of.”

  “What did you do? Kill someone, or what?” She was surprised again when he laughed like before.

  “My dad and I had a fight. We didn’t get along. My fault, a lot of it.”

  Instead of a suitable comment, she changed the subject back to North Dakota. “You should see the horses in the West. Some of them, well, most of them, are as ugly as goats. Tough, rangy, pot-bellied mustangs that can go twenty miles without breathing hard. Like the people. If it wouldn’t have been for the Jenkins family, we’d probably all have starved to death.”

  Jerry glanced at her sharply. He felt his own bitterness in the word “starved.” He didn’t doubt for a minute that she would go back and continue to make choices driven by her unforgiveness, much the same way he had.

  “How will you go back?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t go back without money this time. I was on my way to Georgetown for a job at a feed mill. I have to save some money before I can go back. I’m thinking maybe my grandfather will allow me to take a loan. The Jenkinses are keeping the horses and three cows. We need a better well and some way of pumping water out of it, likely a windmill. The creek is probably dry by now.”

  Her speech was laced with passion, her planning shone in the intensity of her eyes, her hands moving in agitation. Jerry watched her face like a man hypnotized. He thought, How could this girl survive in the West with all the uncouth characters, the claim jumpers, the cattle thieves, and the law sometimes helpless? He saw the challenge and accepted the unreality of her plans. She would not stay in Lancaster County.

  They went into the house and Becky served them bowls of steaming vegetable soup, slices of homemade bread, and apple butter. The fire in the cook stove felt so good that Hannah chose the chair closest to the heat, bent her head, and ate hungrily, the way a person who remembers an empty stomach does.

  Becky knew enough to stay quiet, watching Jerry. Hmm. Shook up, he was.

  When Hannah had finished her soup, she pushed the bowl away and began spreading apple butter on a slice of bread, her actions deliberate and concentrated. Jerry noticed the length of her fingers, the long, slim hands and arms. He pretended to eat, more than what he was actually hungry for.

  “Well, if you don’t want to drive your horse across the ridge to Georgetown, I could probably take you in the doch-veggley.”

  Hannah looked up from spreading the apple butter. “No.”

  Jerry raise his eyebrows and swallowed the retort that came naturally.

  “I don’t want the job. I’d have to drive a horse over that ridge every day from my grandfather’s farm. I won’t do that.”

  She pushed her chair back, surveyed the kitchen, the children around the table, and the window above the sink where the rain splattered and ran down in slices. “I’ll let Fred rest awhile and eat something. Then I’ll be on my way.”

  “Not in this rain,” Jerry protested.

  “I won’t melt.”

  Becky didn’t doubt for a minute she wouldn’t melt. Like a stone, this one. “Would you like to borrow my bonnet?” she ventured kindly.

>   Hannah reached up to touch her ruined white covering. “Wouldn’t help much now.”

  No smile, no appreciation for the offer. She rose, tall and slender, raised her hands to the heat of the cook stove and said firmly, “Denke for the soup. I’ll be on my way.”

  Jerry opened his mouth, closed it again. He followed her out and helped her hitch up Fred, all the words he wanted to say crowding his chest. He watched helplessly as she sprang onto the buggy, pulled up the sodden gum blanket, lifted the reins, and looked at him.

  “I’ll be all right. A little rain never hurt anyone. My father would have given anything for a few drops of this to save his field of corn.”

  He had to say it. “Don’t go back. Don’t go without letting me know when you’re leaving.”

  “Why would you have to know?”

  “I would be worried, I guess.” What an impotent answer! A limp, pathetic version of the desperate plea he felt in his heart, his whole being straining to keep her from making the same mistake her father had made.

  “Yeah, well, that’s nice of you, but I’m going. Somehow, I’ll raise the money.”

  He didn’t doubt she would do just that. The only comfort he could take with him after that was the length of time her eyes stayed on his, the amount of softening that took place in her hard, black gaze.

  She drove out of the forebay into the driving rain without looking back or saying goodbye.

  She came down with a terrible fever and sore throat. Her chest was filled with infection, her breathing came in short gasps, and her face was flushed and hot. The doctor was summoned from Lancaster, who pronounced her ill with double pneumonia in her lungs. He left medicines and pills and came back twice, begging Sarah and Hannah’s grandfather to put her in the hospital.

  Oh, never. The cost was much too high. Sarah tried every remedy she knew. She summoned her sisters, who came and stood over Hannah’s bed like flapping crows, their voices hurting her head. She turned her face away, refused to open her eyes, willing them out of the house.

  Onions. Raw, boiled, fried, slapped on her chest sizzling hot. Time after time, Hannah raked the stinking poultice off her chest and slammed it on the floor beside her bed, gasping for breath from the little effort it took to move her left arm.