But Hannah didn’t want venison; she wanted squirrel. She continued to search the limbs above.
“It used to be dangerous outside after dark,” she remarked. “One time a pack of wolves sent my pa up a tree only a quarter mile from our door. Mama heard him yelling and came to his rescue with a gun slung around her neck and a burning brand in each hand.”
“Your ma did that?”
Hannah nodded. “When Seth was a baby. Pa says she shot one of the wolves. Got a ten dollar bounty and sold the hide, too.”
Wes glanced uneasily at the shadows forming around them. “Glad they’re not around anymore.”
A movement in the tree caught her eye, and Hannah raised the rifle to her shoulder. The motion felt like a dance, performed with perfect step and balance. She aimed at the squirrel, but just as she applied pressure to the trigger, a crash sounded in the underbrush behind them.
Hannah whipped the gun about, aiming for the noise. Wes had dropped behind the fallen tree. Only something huge made a clamor like that. And she had just one shot.
The rustling inched closer, skirting the edge of the clearing. Hannah followed the sound with the gun’s muzzle. A breathless moment later, a black bear emerged from the brush and strolled through the meadow. He was young—nothing as big as the hide hanging in the hotel—and fat and rolling after a summer of feeding. With an easy flick of his paw he turned over a rock and nosed underneath.
Hannah steadied her hands and carefully aimed the gun.
“Don’t shoot!” Wes hissed. “The caliber isn’t enough to kill it!”
She kept the gun trained on the bruin. If it decided to charge, she was dang sure going to slow it down!
The bear wandered into a nearby thicket and began munching on berries. After half a minute, it caught wind of the children. Grunting once, it rose on its hind legs, snuffled the air, and stared through the gloom directly at Hannah. She locked eyes with it, every muscle tensed to shoot.
But the bear must have decided she didn’t pose much of a threat. It dropped to all fours and wandered back into the woods, stopping to nose beneath a fallen log for one last mouthful.
Wes stood up shakily, and Hannah lowered the gun. Only then did she notice her heart exploding beneath her ribs. Wait till she wrote to Seth about this!
“Shall we head home?” Wes sounded a little rattled.
But Hannah had spotted a squirrel. In one easy motion, she lifted the gun, sighted down the long barrel, and pulled the trigger. The rodent dropped to the forest floor like a dishrag.
“Now I’m ready,” she stated, handing him the rifle.
She stuffed her kill into a gunny sack and followed Wes back to the river where they came upon a whole settlement of squirrels. Wes reloaded and doubled their catch, and together they clambered over another fence.
As they swung out of the woods, Hannah found her reckoning of time not as inaccurate as she had feared. The sun had not set, rather it was cowering behind a heavy bank of clouds that drenched the county in early twilight. The cold wind rushing ahead of it tasted wet.
Lightning licked at the clouds, and heavy peals of thunder rumbled like a distant locomotive. The children began to run. They nearly beat the storm, but at the very edge of the farm the sky opened up and cast down hard, cold pellets.
“Hail!” Hannah yelled and dashed for the old log cabin, only a stone’s throw away. “Follow me!”
Plink! Plink! Plink! The ice dropped sparingly at first then multiplied with a rush that stung their backs and rattled the dry grass.
They gained the shelter of the building, watching gravely as the marbles bounced through the fields like a swarm of white locust. Pumpkins and potatoes would escape damage, but the hail flattened the unharvested wheat, driving the precious grains into the ground. Visions of new shoes and new bonnets rose from the tattered field like spirits of dead dreams.
When the falling ice melted into a downpour, the children raced across the slippery yard and into the gathering room where the entire Wallace family had congregated. Ma was out of bed, looking strained but no longer sweating or shivering. Joel stood apart, watching the storm out the window, and Justin stared sullenly into the fire. Not one word was uttered about Hannah’s long absence or the gunny sack in her hand.
Only Maddy seemed not to notice the ruined crop. She beamed at Hannah. “I’m going to have a baby!”
Stunned, Hannah’s eyes flicked over Mama’s pale face that struggled to express all the joy and loss thrust on her within a few moments’ time. Her glance bobbled over the boys and finally found an anchor in the solid bulk of Doctor Graves, the town physician.
He nodded. “I expect a new arrival sometime in March.”
Hannah gaped at her sister, who looked like she’d just been given a thousand dollars. She couldn’t imagine being happy about a baby at sixteen, but she realized Maddy’s whole life had been leading up to this moment. From baby dolls to doe-eyed crushes and finally her crazy marriage to Tommy, it was what she always wanted. And she’d probably be a very good mother. At least she’d have someone else to boss around.
“Congratulations,” Hannah said out loud. But inside she resolved to never tie herself down while she still had so much living to do.
Chapter 7
The whole family gleaned in the field for days, working to save everything they could from the flattened crop. It was backbreaking work, even harder than working the scythe. They crawled over the field, stooping to retrieve broken stalks off the ground, gathering them into bundles, and forming them into shocks. Many of the stalks had every single grain beaten off and ground into the dirt, but they recovered anything they could.
Hannah stopped to stretch her aching back. “I hate this farm! I wish I could run away.”
“Where would you go?” Justin scorned. “No one else would have you.”
“I’d take my chances just to get away from you.”
“The way you’ve been shirking, nobody would miss you,” he accused. “A lot more could have been harvested before the storm if you weren’t always cutting out early.”
Hannah felt heat staining her cheeks. “You think you’re so important. You’re not worth half as much as you think you are.”
Joel stepped in before the fight got out of hand. “Justin, you will be a man in time, but less of one if you keep squabbling with girls. Hannah, you’re stuck here so make the most of it. There’s nothing either of you could have done to save this crop.”
But Justin was right and Hannah knew it. She had skipped out on work. Maybe if she had tried harder, if she had worked longer, if she had stayed home with the boys that last afternoon things might be different. But it was too late. The crop would only fetch half its worth and she alone was to blame.
She should have stayed. She should have worked like another son for Pa.
When they went inside, after the last of the wheat stood in sheaves bowing to the sun’s hot, drying rays, Hannah ventured the nerve to ask, “Mama, how much money do we owe?”
“Joel?” Mama asked wearily, sinking into her rocking chair in the gathering room.
Joel sat in Pa’s seat on the other side with his feet stretched to the fireplace. “Won’t know for certain till I get this wheat sold. But it’s more than we can pay without next year’s crop.”
“Why on earth did Pa borrow so much?” Maddy blurted out in frustration, toppling the mending basket on her lap.
Joel shrugged. “What else could he do when ends didn’t meet? But he figured on being out from under the debt this year, and the bank is expecting payment.”
Hannah automatically reached for the carding paddles. “What happens if we can’t pay?” she asked, combing the woolen fibers almost without thought.
“We will pay,” Mama insisted.
“But what if we don’t?”
“Pa put the farm up as collateral,” Joel admitted.
Hannah’s eyes grew huge, and she saw her fear reflected in Justin’s eyes. What would Pa think if they l
ost his farm?
“I don’t want you kids to worry about this,” Mama insisted. “Joel and I will go to Allegan to sort it out. If the bank will give us till spring we can pay it off then.”
“How?” Maddy scoffed. “By planting crops in October? We might as well give them the farm right now.”
Justin jumped up, fists doubled at his sides. “Shut up, Maddy! You could have helped if you hadn’t spent all the money Tommy sent you on material for new dresses.”
“It’s my money!” Maddy yelled back. “And I need new dresses. I’m going to split these seams in a few weeks.”
“All your money?” Justin asked skeptically.
“That’s enough,” Mama commanded. “We have vegetables to put by for winter, and we’ll have pork enough after we slaughter the hog. We can last a long time without needing anything from the store. And there’s your father’s pay and the money from butter, eggs, and wool.”
“That should pay it off in four or five years,” Maddy drawled sarcastically.
“And if Maddy continues to live with us,” Mama added with a pointed lift of her brow, “she can pay room and board out of her husband’s check.”
Maddy harrumphed.
“Mama,” Joel said hesitantly, looking down at his bare feet. He hadn’t been able to squeeze them into his shoes for three months, and they stuck out four inches past the hem of his trousers.
Mama sighed. “Of course that won’t do for winter. I don’t suppose you fit in Seth’s clothes?”
“These are Seth’s,” he mumbled, turning red.
“Then take your father’s boots and I’ll alter his trousers. Everyone else can make do.” Mama looked at each of them and smiled. “We’ll be fine. We’re Wallaces.” And that’s all she would allow on the subject.
~
The next morning Rounder took the planks at an easy canter, his neck arching gracefully, his ears alert and swiveling. Hannah clung to his back as easily as the cockleburs stuck in his mane. She sat astride, the skirt of her best dress hiked over her knees.
Her heart felt lighter now that she had come up with a way to redeem herself, to make up for some of her part in losing the wheat. But she so dreaded the task she had assigned herself that even on her way to accomplish it she drew back, swerving off the toll road. She cantered through a mown field, letting her horse and her imagination lead her elsewhere.
A haze, as if from a thousand cook fires, shrouded the trees at the edge of the field. The Confederate camp! It must lay over the crest of the hill, the men just rising for breakfast. She had chosen a risky path, but she had information that must reach General Grant.
An imagined shot rang out, rolling over the grassy field. Catching the flash of a sentry’s uniform from behind a stone fence, she urged Rounder to greater speed. Another shot, and a minie ball whizzed past her ear. Rounder raced down a gentle slope and into the safety of a copse of trees.
Hannah let the horse have its head. It leaped over a small brook and swept out across another open field. She delighted in the freedom of the wind whipping past her face. She threw her head back and laughed out loud.
Suddenly she heard the sound of hoofbeats pounding behind her. Looking back, she spotted a mounted patrol bearing down on her, pistols drawn. The enemy had discovered her and was chasing her down!
She kicked Rounder hard. The obedient horse flew over the field, neck low, tail streaming. Hannah held on, barely able to see through the black mane lashing her face. Powerful legs pounded the dirt like pistons. Hooves kicked up great chunks of earth. The deep chest heaved with mighty gasps.
Hannah thrilled with the swiftness of the chase, urging the horse to its top speed. She circled a cornfield, following it around a barn where she startled an old farmer who shouted at her and shook a pitchfork.
Her daydream broken, Hannah slowed at the Hilliards crossroads and turned back toward Wayland. Rounder snorted and tossed his head just to prove he wasn’t spent and covered the four miles at an easy jog. Thirty minutes later, Hannah tied him to the hitching rail in front of Mr. Lawson’s store, cooled and recovered. Then she tramped across the road to Mrs. Clark’s house, smoothed out her skirts, and forced herself to knock at the door.
The old woman answered and glared down at her suspiciously. “What do you want?”
Hannah squared her shoulders. “I’ve come to speak with Mr. Covington.”
Mrs. Clark narrowed her eyelids. “You know I don’t allow children to disturb my boarders.”
Hannah bit back her annoyance. “He asked to speak with me. I received word through Mrs. Carver.”
At the old woman’s skeptical frown, Hannah continued, “Please, just tell him I’m here.”
Without a word, Mrs. Clark shut the door in her face.
Hannah blew out a frustrated sigh and paced in front of the house, not at all certain the woman would deliver her message. A few moments later, however, the curtain moved at the window and Mr. Covington peered out.
Hannah took a deep breath. For her father’s sake and the sake of her family she must swallow her dignity.
The door opened and the gruff old man stepped outside. “So you’re back. I thought you might be.”
Hannah fought down her irritation. “Mr. Covington,” she said through stiff lips, “I must apologize for my past behavior. It was wrong of me to speak to you as I did.”
Mr. Covington let out a sound like the snorting of a horse. “I expected no better in this backwoods town.”
Hannah’s nostrils flared. “I beg your forgiveness,” she managed, “and I have reconsidered my decision. I would like to sit for your pictures. Mrs. Carver hinted that we might come to an understanding.”
He drew a pipe and a pouch of tobacco out of his pocket. He took the time to fill and light his pipe then he pointed it at her. “Miss Wallace, you will find that I do not mince words. I expect this same clarity in others. Now, come out and say exactly what you mean.”
Hannah could feel heat building under the bodice of her dress, and she could barely form the words. “All right,” she snapped. “If you want me to sit for your paintings, you will have to pay me.”
“That’s better,” he grunted, squinting at her through a wreath of smoke. “Then let us reach this understanding, as you called it. I need a model. I do not need a critic. I do not need a student. I do not even need a companion. If you can contain yourself to this capacity, you will be generously compensated after each session.”
He took a silver coin out of his pocket and flicked it, sparkling, into the air before palming it again.
Hannah could barely contain her contempt. She lifted her chin and glared proudly down her nose at him. “I can.”
He grinned beneath his beard and pocketed the money. “Then I think, Miss Wallace, that we do understand each other. Please come in.”
As they entered, Mrs. Clark scurried away from the door where she had been eavesdropping. To cover her embarrassment, she snapped, “Don’t take that pipe into my house, Mr. Covington. I simply will not allow it.”
“Nonsense,” he countered. “I’m just passing through. The girl and I will take our work into the backyard where I will have adequate light. And since you are already sufficiently familiar with our business, I needn’t say anything further.”
Indignant, the woman clicked her teeth together like a snapping turtle and sashayed into the kitchen. Hannah pinched off a grin. The exchange made up for some of her humiliation.
“Follow me,” Mr. Covington ordered. “Help me carry some things.”
He led Hannah up the stairs and into a simply furnished room. The bed, bureau, and washstand congregated haphazardly on one side. The other side held a dozen half-finished canvases that reclined on easels or leaned against the wall in various states of repose. Paper sketches littered the furniture and blanketed the floor like a dusting of snow.
Hannah studied the pictures as the artist collected his tools. In one sketch she recognized a gnarled old willow tree that stood in the p
ark square. Another showed the Wayland House. Barns, gardens, cows, machinery sitting idle in fields—the canvases held scenes she passed every day, but they looked different somehow, romantic and inviting.
Mr. Covington dismissed the landscapes with a wave of his hand, much as he had dismissed her the first time they met. “Drivel,” he grunted. “Folks surrounded by concrete and steel will pay a decent sum for a view of the countryside. It earns my bread. But a face can tell a story, and yours, my dear, speaks volumes.”
They wrestled the artist’s supplies down the steps and out the back door where Mr. Covington moved Hannah about the yard for ten minutes, posing her one way then another, trying different lighting, different angles. At last, he ordered her to stand still, head tilted slightly, face expressionless, staring into the distance with a milk pail—borrowed from Mr. Lawson—clasped in front of her.
Mr. Covington disappeared behind the canvas. “Do you always dress like that?” he asked.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re heading off to Sunday school. That dress fits to a proper length and the lace is still white. I’d wager you put on the only decent dress you own just make a good impression. Am I correct?” He popped his head over the canvas and gave her a frank stare.
The man was so infuriating!
“Mr. Covington,” she ground out, “if you’ve sent for me just to ridicule me, you would have done better to stay in your city. Here, folks have to work for their living six days a week. We only go to church once. So explain why I should own more than one good dress.”
He took a long drag on his pipe, eyed her evenly, and changed the subject. “Your daddy farms?”
She tossed her hair. “He does.”
“Carver told me he’s off fighting.”
“Yes.”
He disappeared behind the canvas again. “Seen action?”
“I don’t know. He’s only been gone five weeks.”
“He will soon enough, God help him. The fools in Washington will see to that. They sacrifice men like Passover lambs.” He muttered darkly about an “inept bureaucracy” and “desktop warriors” and the politicians who had brought the war on, especially Michigan’s own senator, Zachariah Chandler.
Blood of Pioneers Page 5
