by Linda Byler
She chuckled out loud, brought back to the present by Hannah’s angry, “What are you laughing about?”
“Oh, nothing, Hannah. Nothing.”
“What?”
“Just a passing thought.”
“You have to tell me.”
“All right. I was just wondering if your poor husband will ever amount to anything other than a nuisance. A bother, like an unwanted house cat.”
“I hope you know I’m not planning on having a husband. Unless, of course, I’d go English and marry Clay.” She watched for Sarah’s response with narrowed eyes.
Quickly, Sarah caught herself. Her instant panic, her tendency to plead. She pretended she hadn’t heard and gave her full attention to Abby, getting her to say, “Gaul. Can you say gaul?” It’s the Dutch word for horse.
Louder, Hannah said, “I wouldn’t want anyone for a husband, except Clay. He’s the best-looking man I’ve ever seen.”
Sarah feigned unconcern. “Is he?” and turned back to teaching Abby to talk.
Hannah flounced out of the house, down to the barn, where Manny was constructing a pen for the chickens, complete with a nesting box and plenty of hay.
“Aren’t they allowed out during the day, Manny? I can see penning them up at night, but they should be allowed to eat bugs and stuff.”
“What? With all the eagles and hawks and falcons that hover over this prairie? They’d all be dead in less than a week!”
“You aren’t serious.”
“Sure I am. Haven’t you seen them swoop down all the time, eating the prairie hens and gophers?” Manny bent his back and began to hammer nails into a board.
“What will we feed them?”
“Laying mash from the feed store in Pine. They deliver with that rattling old truck for fifty cents.”
Hannah had forgotten. They had money now. Money to buy necessities, to feed chickens, and have eggs for breakfast. They would live like normal people. Bake cakes and pies. A surge of exhilaration crept up her spine, giving her goose bumps.
Yes, they would not only survive, but prosper, with their aging grandfather’s support. She could feel it, here in the dank air of the primitive barn, a testament to their father’s lack of foresight.
A hovel made of logs. And yet, Mose had brought them here, secured the documents, laid the foundation for a successful ranch on these plains. She should think along those lines, instead of undermining his abilities.
Almost, but not quite, she remembered her father with kindness.
The silo crew arrived in Pine. A flatbed truck brought the hundreds of steel parts on a cold, dry day, when the atmosphere was heavy with dust and the smell of weary grass and dead insects.
Ben Miller stuck his finger up his nose, gave a good twirl, and said every hair in his nose holes was covered with dust and dirt, soot from the train, and if he couldn’t breathe through his mouth, he’d have suffocated a long time ago. Back in Indiana, to be exact.
Whoever would think of moving out here in this flat land that probably even God only remembered from time to time? He forgot the rain, sure as shootin’, and most of the trees too.
He talked the whole way to the homestead, then stood in silence, speechless, when he saw the dwellings that Mose Detweiler had built in the middle of a dry desert filled with dead grass and asphyxiated bugs, stinking groundhogs, and crazy little chickens that multiplied like rabbits. They were everywhere, dashing madly across the road, chirping and squawking, pecking and fluttering.
He told Ike Lapp that you couldn’t begin to shoot a fourth of them. The rest of the crew consisted of two single men, Ben Beiler and David King, bachelors both of them, aged beyond their years of rumschpringa, unimpressed by the thought of marriage. They worked at manufacturing and installing windmills, traveling around the states whenever they felt like it. Both lived at home enjoying the coddling of their elderly parents, figuring they had nothing to lose staying single.
Ben Beiler was known as Bennie, David as Davey. They were chaps easy to get along with. Brown haired and brown eyed, both of average height, ordinary, clean shaven young men who had no astonishing features that separated them from everyone else, one way or another, both handsome or plain. They had never met a woman they could not live without.
When the dust rolled up toward the blue, cloudless sky, Manny came dashing in from the barn, shouting about the windmill crew’s arrival. Breathless with anticipation, he stayed rooted to the porch, shading his eyes, calling to his mother and Hannah when the truck reached the yard. The driver was paid and sent back to Pine, and the four men turned to greet the occupants of the house.
Homesteaders. Ben Miller strode up and shook hands with Sarah and Manny, then clutched a reluctant, limp hand belonging to Hannah. Ike Lapp, Bennie, and Davey followed, meeting the favorite Amish greeting requirement of hand shaking.
“So,” Ben Miller began, hooking thumbs like sausages through his suspenders. “This is where Mose Detweiler settled then, did he?”
Sarah nodded, a half smile on her lips.
“You’re planning on keeping the acreage you got off the government then? Going on without him, are you?”
“Yes, we are,” Sarah nodded.
Ike Lapp stuck his thin, white nose in the air and commented nasally about the lack of rain or trees.
Hannah thought he didn’t need to make fun of them, so she asked him in a voice dripping with vinegar why he thought they were erecting a windmill. That got his attention.
It got Bennie’s and Davey’s too. They tried to deny it to themselves, and they did deny it to each other, but this tall, confident girl with the big, dark eyes fascinated both of them. Here was a girl with some spunk. When they walked through the powder-dry grass to the site they had agreed on, Bennie watched the arrogance of her shoulders. Davey thought her steps really covered some ground.
She spoke without thinking. She told Ben Miller if he didn’t like prairie hens he should try living out here with nothing else to eat. They were quite tasty.
Bennie and Davey couldn’t believe the family had lived here without money, without food, and barely decent shelter. Each one watched Hannah’s face intently, stealing looks when the other wasn’t watching. Obviously, this Hannah Detweiler was different, a force to respect.
They planned where the windmill would go. The well-drilling rig was arriving the following morning, so everything should be finished within a week’s time.
The wind blew, lifting the men’s hats, tugging at their trouser legs, and parting their beards. They retrieved their straw hats and clapped them back on their heads, only to have them torn off and whirled away. Ben Miller said they’d have to shut the windmill off or else their tank would overflow constantly in this kind of gale.
Sarah laughed. “It’s not always this windy. I’m hoping we’ll be getting some fall rains, now that the weather had cooled some.” Manny squared his young shoulders and told them they’d get used to it.
Supper that evening was a lively affair. Sarah cooked generously, setting out canned sausages cooked with potatoes, lima beans, and onions, sauerkraut and fluffy white dumplings.
Ben Miller kept up a constant stream of Lancaster County news, interesting accounts of frolics, horse sales, and the high price of tomatoes. Some of his chatter bordered on gossip, blurring the line between truth and the questionable grapevine of which he was so fond.
“Elmer Beiler’s Amos was scouted so bad the other night, he couldn’t drive his horse and buggy home from Enos King’s Emma, his girlfriend’s house. They led his horse to the firehouse in Intercourse, tied it by the maple tree, there by the hitching rack. He got loose somehow and ran all the way to Bird-in-Hand without his harness.
“The buggy was taken apart so bad they still couldn’t find one wheel. All the oil bled out of the hub and made a terrible mess on Enos King’s barn floor. I don’t know who put all that oil in the hub, but I bet the chaps who scouted them had more oil with them than what was on that wheel. Anyway, they c
arried his halter, whip, and neck rope all the way to the top of the windmill there at Enos Kings’. Henry Easch told me you could see it for miles around. They say Amos got fer-late with dating and told his girlfriend off. I heard the horse had a hoof condition and after galloping at that rate, he ruined a tendon in his front leg. Haven’t heard if they put him down yet or not. Ach, such dummheita. Ain’t never seen the likes. But I thought if Amos doesn’t love his girlfriend better than that, she’s better off without him. Amos has a quick temper. Wait till he finds out about this. The fuzz will fly.”
And on and on. Ike Lapp stuck his white nose in the air from time to time, laughing uproariously, his beard sticking up like prairie grass, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down like a cork.
Hannah didn’t laugh. She ate her sausage and sauerkraut and sat in her chair thinking how unattractive these windmill chaps were, greasy haired and pale as lard. She wouldn’t cook for them if she was the boss. If they could sleep in the haymow, they could cook their own food. She slammed cups of coffee down and glared at all of them, including Benny and Davey, who, in her opinion, were about as helpful as two bumps on a log.
Until Manny told them about the cattle management here on the plains. They sat up, forgot making an impression on Hannah, their eyes alight, excitement in the way they sat on the edge of their chairs.
“Cowboying, you mean, son?” Bennie asked, extracting a toothpick and shoving it back between his lower teeth.
“Yeah. Oh, yeah. But there’s a lot more to it than climbing on a horse and throwing a rope. It takes serious skill. I’ll ask the Jenkinses to ride over and show you.”
Hannah had never known Manny to be so talkative. His black eyes danced as he created pictures with his speech, his listeners rapt. Hannah broke in dryly to inform Bennie and Davey that it wasn’t as exciting as Manny made it sound. There were no good horses around, so riding among those milling cattle was risking your life.
She didn’t want a bunch of Lancaster County bachelors living out here on these peaceful plains. Next they’d all be raising cattle like a bunch of greenhorns, minding everyone’s business but their own. Embarrassing to think about introducing Ike Lapp and Ben Miller to handsome Clay Jenkins, who, by the way, had nothing to do with her. So what should she care? She shared her thoughts to her mother after the men had gone.
“Hannah, stop it. You must not think along those lines. It’s just wrong. God made these men, all individuals, loved by Him as well as all of us. Now you stop it. They may be thinking the same thoughts about you. Did you ever think of that?”
Hannah flounced one shoulder, than the other. “They both want me. They would both like to marry me. I can tell. I wish Manny would stop painting a spectacular picture for them. He makes it sound so enticing and romantic.”
Sarah watched the expression on her daughter’s face and thought, she surely isn’t like other girls. But she said, “Maybe it is, Hannah. Maybe it is.”
CHAPTER 24
The windmill arrived. The well-drilling rig ground its way along the level road, dust rolling in huge billows, prairie chickens running ahead of it, their necks stretched with terrified squawks.
The pounding of the well drilling equipment was a ceaseless clatter as they dug deep beneath the dry soil.
Ben Miller and his crew set to work pouring the cement foundation, with Manny’s help, who was completely taken by Bennie and Davey. He told Hannah he hoped with all his might they would move out here to stay. They could start a small church service on Sunday; they had the beginnings of an Amish church already.
The Jenkinses arrived midweek, the men in awe of the steel windmill’s construction. Hod proclaimed it the best windmill he’d ever laid eyes on. He had a bit notion to have the guy build him one. Until Abby got wind of his plans, squelching them properly with her rapid-fire tongue lashing, saying they had a perfectly good windmill, and he wasn’t going to spend no money to build another one.
Clay took up for his father, followed by Hank and Ken, who chimed in, stating their case effectively. Another familial spat ensued, with Abby holding court like a small dog, getting everyone’s attention with her wiry authority.
They stood as a group watching the windmill being set, a better construction, a better devised and assembled windmill, sturdier bolts, a gas engine in case of calm weather.
Hod laughed and told them to take that engine back to Pennsylvania. They ain’t using it here, that’s sure.
The well drillers hit a stream at 120 some feet, but it was a powerful one. The grizzled old man who ran the machine said it was one of the best, and he’d been digging wells for a long time.
“Lady, you ain’t got nuthin’ to worry about. Ye’ll have good water for a thousand o’ them black cows. Ain’t no way this one’s dryin’ up. No way.”
The promise of good water brought so much hope to Sarah, bolstering her spirits for days. With the dust and the wind, no rain all summer, she had repeatedly questioned their move back to the homestead when she lay alone at night with no one to talk to, no one to ask, except the fiery Hannah, who threw all Sarah’s questions to the ground and stomped on them. To question, to think of quitting, was an unbearable weakness, according to Hannah. Sarah learned to keep her doubts to herself.
She wrote a check for the well driller and one for Ben Miller, cringing inwardly, wondering if this mountain of debt would ever be paid. She put her trust in God, having no one else. It came naturally, though, the submission, having practiced it all her life, although in the face of so much adversity, she needed to dig deep into the well of her soul to find the stream of trust and courage.
Sometimes, she imagined Hannah marching ahead, the flag of bravery hoisted in the air, leading her and Manny and the children. It was Hannah who had the pioneer spirit, the unflinching stoutheartedness that kept them going forward.
Had God made Hannah and given her this unusual personality for this purpose? Or was she a rebellious girl headed straight down the wrong trail? Sarah chose to believe the first as she watched Hannah sitting on the porch steps, her eyes scanning the prairie, taking in the endless possibilities of verdant, waving grass, her keen mind calculating, adding and multiplying, never dividing or subtracting.
And now, the glorious windmill and the deep, deep well, the tank of water that would never be empty. It seemed to Sarah that she could sense a new purpose in Manny, an eagerness in the glint of his dark eyes, a lifting of his young shoulders.
They were sad to see the windmill crew leave. Ben Miller’s endless stories were a boon to their days. Bennie and Davey were brand new heroes for Manny. Hannah, however, could hardly wait to see them go and hoped those bachelors hadn’t caught too much of the pioneer spirit. She didn’t want them out here. At least Ike Lapp’s nose got a bit of color. Actually, quite a lot. The sun and the wind had turned it into a deep shade of red that had started to peel like an old cherry. She just could hardly stand sitting at the supper table with that man. She told her mother to send their food down to the barn, but Sarah said no, you couldn’t treat workers like ordinary barn cats.
Hannah cast her a look of disbelief. This comment, coming from her mother, surprised her. She realized that without her husband, she just might find a spark of new energy and get rid of the limp submission she had always portrayed.
The wind blew, the windmill spun effectively, the new steel water tank remained full and overflowing. The thirteen cows with the Bar S brand filed in regularly, milling around the tank, creating a quagmire of wet prairie soil, swatting their tails at the incessant flies, spreading mud and soggy grass into the clean, cold water.
Hannah didn’t like that. The cows’ water needed to stay clean, so every morning she strode out to the tank and skimmed the top and raked out the muck, keeping an eye out for the unpredictable black cow that had killed her father. Hod said she’d likely be all right; she’d just been riled that day from all the unusual activity with the calf branding. She had proved to be trustworthy when the new cattle from the
Klassermans had arrived, so Hannah was not afraid, only vigilant.
She missed her grandfather’s steady presence, his unfailing good humor. Sarah had been remarkably brave when she shook his hand, bidding him goodbye, their eyes saying the words that weren’t necessary to speak.
Sarah had hoped he would stay but knew he couldn’t. She knew her younger brothers would need him for the harvest. Another unspoken agreement was the telling of the loan he had given them. Her sisters would not need to know, the way they would raise a fuss. Her father knew it was probably the saving of Hannah, the keeping of her.
Ah, but it was a shaky deal, this loan, and her father knew it. It was risky, unwise perhaps. How much of it was done as a punishment to squelch Rachel’s, Emma’s, and Lydia’s greed? Far into the night they had talked, her and her father, a golden memory so precious it was beyond description.
The bond between a father and a daughter was something she had never known existed. Always, it had been the women of the house who shared their feelings, her father always working, working, a man of few words. Now his words were priceless, each sentence laden with goodness, like mouthfuls of bread with fresh butter and honey.
The Klassermans arrived, the black Angus bull towed behind the spring wagon. Young and muscular, he was a real prize, Hannah could tell, as she stood by the barnyard fence watching their arrival.
She grinned up at their German neighbors, both rotund and sunburned at summer’s end, dressed in freshly washed and ironed clothes, a broad brimmed hat setting low on Owen’s head, squeezing his small blue eyes to an even smaller size. “Here comes the financial part of the Bar S,” he called out. “A finer young bull ain’t to be found.”
Hannah nodded, still smiling. Manny came out of the barn carrying a pitchfork, his eyes alight with pleasure at the sight of their neighbors.
Sylvia heaved herself off the spring wagon, greeting them both effusively, then made her way to the house, carrying a heavy satchel.
