“Let me take that.” Today Debbie had enough energy to do all the chores and make a quilt. The plunger slipped through her hands with ease. “I think we should have a party. Invite our neighbors. Make a special meal, pray over it, make some kind of monument? Something like that. Years later we can look back and say, ‘That’s the day our homestead became a farm.’”
Mama laughed. “Sounds like something your sisters would like to do.” A wistful look crossed her face. “Too bad they can’t join us.”
“This Saturday. And we could invite the Terrys to join us, since they’re at the closest farm. And maybe the Radles.” As soon as Debbie spoke, she shook her head. “But Papa said he wants to wait until the crop is planted before we have a party.”
“He’s right.” Mama sighed. “But nothing can stop us from frying up some ham and baking beans and brown bread.”
“And an apple butter cake,” Debbie added.
Mama blinked. “Sounds good.” Even though their stores of canned foods dwindled by the day. “What kind of marker do you have in mind? Something you’re working on inside those sod walls outside the house?”
Debbie’s mouth opened. Zack’s project was a secret gift from him to her, and she didn’t want to share. “Do you know what he’s been working on?”
“I’m not deaf. I don’t know what he’s doing, but I’ve heard him going out while we’re sleeping, but last night was the first time you joined him.” Mama waited, her steady eyes daring Debbie to disagree.
She hung her head, not denying it.
Mama took back over with the churn; the steady movement of the plunger worked in rhythm with her words. “I don’t know what Zack is up to, but he has behaved with perfect decorum, and Lord knows Papa doesn’t give him time to do anything by himself during the day.”
Debbie relaxed. If Papa made Zack stop, she didn’t know what would happen. Zack shouldn’t have to choose.
“But you, young lady, can’t be out there with him, alone, in the dark. That’s the kind of behavior can get a girl into trouble.”
“Mama.” Debbie’s face heated as if she’d sat too long at the hearth. “I would never—”
“And I’m sure Zack wouldn’t either. But you don’t know the temptations being alone places on you. Either of you.”
Debbie stood, so angry she wanted to walk out. “I know what happens between a husband and wife, Mama. You told me some of it when I started my monthlies, and, well, my sisters told me more.”
“Oh, darling girl.” Mama set the churn aside. She patted the seat for Debbie to sit down again. “Knowing in your head is different than being close to the man you love in the dark. Trust me. Don’t put yourselves in the way of temptation.”
“But Mama. I promised I would help him finish.”
Mama kept her hand on Debbie’s knee, but her face fell into set lines. “You must not. You don’t want to involve your father, do you?”
Debbie shook her head.
“Besides, I believe Zack wants this to be his gift to you.”
Tears crept into Debbie’s eyes. “I want to be part of it, Mama. I didn’t get to court before the war started. Is it wrong for me to want some semblance of romance for myself?”
“Of course not.” Mama smoothed Debbie’s hair. “Which is why we agreed to this strange concept of an audition for grooms, and why we have accepted Zack into our home. But you cannot meet together secretly in the night-time hours.”
Mama hugged her close. “Trust me. It will happen, in God’s time. And if Zack is the man God has for you, he will understand as well.”
Debbie had to agree, or she feared she’d lose everything.
When they presented their party plans, Papa reluctantly accepted them. They decided to invite the Radles, with Debbie’s friend, Alanna, and prospective fiancé, Sidney, as well as the Terrys. But Mama’s prohibition dampened Debbie’s excitement over the occasion.
Preparation day, the day before the party arrived, and Debbie grew excited as they took out the last of their stores from Maine for their feast. Blueberry and strawberry jam, maple syrup, dried apples, apple butter and applesauce, and the northern beans needed for Boston-style baked beans. Last fall they had enjoyed the last of the cider. She would miss it this year.
God had blessed them in allowing them to arrive in Kansas with all the jars intact. Debbie reached for the dry ingredients first, then she put together items which would make it swim in New England goodness. Three-quarters of a cup of apple butter—which was more like an apple jam and not buttery in the least, but that was its name—made from McIntosh apples, the best variety God had ever created.
Debbie glanced across the clearing, where they had planted apple cores last fall. Would they grow here in Kansas? Her stomach rumbled in hope.
About half the jar remained full. Good. A half-a-cup each of dried cranberries and pecans. The nuts were a nod to their new home; they grew naturally out in Kansas, whereas walnuts couldn’t be found.
As the cake baked, familiar aromas filled the soddy. Memories wrapped around Debbie. Would the time ever come when the smell of the prairie, of the wind over the grass, cedar trees and tall pines, bison and beef, be as welcome as salty air, spruce trees, and the fishermen’s dock?
“It smells good,” Mama said. “You have a good hand with baking.”
Debbie allowed the rhythms of cooking to push aside her worries about Zack. She’d hoped he’d be home by now. When the beans took a little longer to reach the right softness, they were glad the men delayed in coming home.
The food cooled, taken from the fire, and the sun passed completely from the horizon and the moon began to climb in the sky. Still the men hadn’t come home.
When the North Star climbed in the sky, Debbie had had enough. “I’m going to check on them.”
“But in the dark …” Mrs. Barker rarely ventured far from their home plot.
“I walk there every day. I could probably draw a map, including every gopher hole.” Debbie headed for the door. Should she carry the gun? Yes, as well as the horse. Her familiarity with the ground should get her to the field safely.
When Zack had suggested they could finish preparing the ground before the party, he hadn’t realized how much was left to do.
Sundown had passed long ago, and they worked under a night sky. Sharp edges cut into his fingers. Although they had already removed large rocks, an abundance of stones and flint littered the soil. Zack tossed them into a growing pile. Perhaps they could sell the flint as fire-starting material.
Conversation had dwindled up as their mouths grew dry. They drank the last of their water supply by their normal dinnertime. Each shovel hurt, his throat constricting with thirst.
Charles had slowed down, his movements sluggish and sloppy. Zack held saliva in his mouth for a long moment then swallowed it, and he could pull his tongue away from the roof of his mouth. “I know we intended to finish tonight. But it’s time to stop.” He didn’t dare say the man looked ready to drop. “One more day. It’s not worth making ourselves sick for.”
The man tensed to protest, but his knees shook from exhaustion. When he grabbed for his tools, he stumbled. With one hand on his heart, he slipped down to the earth.
“Charles!” Zack barked.
“I’m fine. Help me up.” But instead of standing, he sank to the earth.
Zack grabbed his hand. His skin burned as hot as the mid-day sun in spite of the night sky overhead. Overheated, his muscles had worn out. His heart? Something else? What could Zack do?
The Bible talked a lot about living water. They could use some about now. But no water spouted out of the ground, and Zack didn’t feel right to leave Charles alone while he went for help.
Scratching for remedies learned during the war, he rushed through common sense tactics. First, he took off Charles’s shirt and undid his long johns to his waist. He removed his own shirt and rolled all the clothes into a ball, then placed it under Charles’s feet. Not high enough. A rock instead, sof
tened by the fabric.
Charles breathed in short gasps.
“Breathe in, breath out.” Slowly, too slowly, his breathing came under control. What to do next? Stay there until morning? Build a fire and hope someone at the house saw it?
While Zack was deciding, the ground shivered and horse hooves pounded across the dirt. He grabbed his gun and went into sentry mode, watching for an unexpected animal or stranger to come upon him—hoping it might be help.
A cloud floated away from the moon long enough for the familiar pattern of the family’s paint to appear, as well as Debbie’s figure on horseback. She urged the horse forward at a slightly faster speed and jumped into his arms a moment later.
“Thank God, you’re all right.” She hugged him and kissed him quick on the lips. “Papa. What’s wrong?” Terror spread across her face.
“Heatstroke’s my guess,” Zack said. “Most of all, he needs water. Then something to help him cool down, and probably rest.”
“You sound sure of yourself.” Debbie poked her hands around her father’s prone body.
Charles’s eyes fluttered open. “My girl.” He clasped her hand. “I’m ready to go home.” He pushed on his arms to stand.
Zack sprang to his side. Charles made it to his feet, but bent over. With Debbie on his other side, they held him erect.
“I’m glad I brought the horse.” She nodded at Zack. “I’ll get on first, and you put Papa in front of me. Or should you ride with him?”
“You. I’ll walk along beside you, to make sure he’s okay.” He turned to Charles. “Do you think you can sit up in the saddle?”
The fire defining the man made it possible. “Who do you think you’re talking to?”
“The commander of the cavalry, sir.” Zack saluted. Charles returned a weak salute, and Zack relaxed. Soon they both sat astride the horse, the pommel in Charles’s hand and Debbie’s slight form hugging his sides while she took hold of the reins. “Let’s go.”
Their slow pace allowed Zack to keep up. After a couple of minutes, she stopped. “Stupid. I filled the canteen we had at the house and forgot to give it to you.” She unscrewed the cap and handed it to her father. “Here you go, Papa.”
Charles’s left hand trembled while he drank one, two, three long gulps. Zack held his thirst to two sips. That should keep him until they got to the house. He checked Charles’s arm—still too hot. He would need a sponge bath. “Drink some more, then we’ll get to the soddy.”
He drank more than half of the contents, but at last his posture straightened. The break lessened the strain on Debbie’s arms. An eternity later, they arrived at the soddy.
Mrs. Barker ran to meet them. “Praise God. I’ve been so afraid, praying all the time.”
Zack helped her husband from the horse.
“Dearest! What happened?” Fear-filled eyes turned to Zack.
“A heatstroke, I guess. We ran out of water several hours ago.” Guilt hit him hard. “I should’ve gone for water. We were just so eager to finish.”
“Just fifteen more minutes. If I had a penny for every time he says that, we’d be rich.” Charles leaned heavily on his wife, but together they made it to his mattress.
This was worse than the nights he had watched his friends sicken from bullet wounds and die. Mr. Barker was almost family, and Zack felt as though he’d shot the fatal bullet himself.
Chapter 8
Debbie’s worries subsided as she watched her mother guide her father inside the house. They were a matched pair, their strength holding the other up in difficult times. While Mama got him settled, Debbie looked for things that would help. They could use more water; cooking the beans had drained the pails they brought up each morning. It had to be enough.
“I’ll go for water.” Zack reached for the pail.
“Eat first.” She slapped food on the table. “We don’t want you sick, too. Give me a few minutes to reheat the beans.” She pulled out a pan of sliced ham from the now-cold oven. The edges had begun to curl. “I hope the ham is edible. It might taste better in a sandwich.” She used the remainder of the day’s bread to make two thick sandwiches.
When he struggled with swallowing his first bite, she handed him a glass of water. “Would you rather have milk or tea, instead?”
He shook his head. “I need water. I should’ve known better.” After he swallowed half the glass, he finished the first sandwich without any additional coughing.
Debbie watched him closely, afraid he might turn into a second patient. When he finished the last bite and started on the second sandwich, she dished out a bowl of beans.
While he ate, Debbie took a bowl of beans to her parents. “Do you feel up to eating some baked beans?”
Papa nodded. “Give them to me.”
Debbie relaxed and went back to Zack. He took his time with the beans, the extra syrup and chunks of pork fat mocking tonight’s emergency. “A meal fit for a celebration. I’m sorry we got so caught up in finishing.” His elbow caught the edge of the table and he winced.
“You must be exhausted.”
“Nothing a good meal and a few hours of sleep won’t cure.” He glanced at her parents, who were busy in conversation. “I’m heading to bed after I get the water. The garden will have to wait.”
Debbie nodded. She hadn’t told him about her mother’s stern warning, didn’t know how to bring it up. Zack must have caught her hesitation. “What’s wrong?”
He stopped eating. Without the sound of his spoon scraping against the bowl, the soddy fell dangerously quiet. I can’t talk about it. She mouthed the words, hoping he would understand.
He tilted his head as if trying to figure out what she was saying, and then nodded. His eyes snapped and burned like sparks from a fire, full of questions and impatient for answers. When would they have the opportunity to hash matters out?
She put Zack’s dishes in to soak, then sat down with him. “I’m so thankful you were with Papa tonight. Mama worries about him when he’s alone. But we need time together, too. I miss our visits.” An idea popped into her head, and she grinned. “I’m going to write about it in my journal.”
She maneuvered around her parents to the small stack she kept by her bed: her Bible, journal, and stationery. When she returned to the table, she took a sheet of stationery instead of her journal. She scribbled as quickly as she could. Mama knows about last night. She doesn’t want it to happen again. Instead of explaining more, she folded the page, slipped it in an envelope, and slid it to Zack.
Zack read the short lines and spread his hands as if to say, “Why not?”
She took the paper back. The explanation came more easily than she expected. Appearances. Temptation. A man and a woman alone in the middle of the night. Warmth crept up her neck. She glanced at her parents, but they weren’t paying attention.
His eyebrow rose, and a faint smile lifted his lips. In his softest voice, he said, “She might have a point.” His hand traced her face, then he grew serious. “I know farmers don’t work at night, but I’ve heard some interesting stories. There was a war widow during the Revolutionary War—somewhere in New England. Vermont, maybe. When the Tories claimed her land for the king, her family took refuge in a cave and farmed their land at night.”
“That’s about as believable as Paul Bunyan.” At least the two of them both had heard the tales of the lumberjack and his blue ox, unlike most of the farmers here in Kansas.
“Somebody told us the story when we were children. During the summers we’d hide in a cave and pretend to be brave Patriots defending our land from the bad Tories.” His smile faded. “It was fun as long as it was pretend.”
“That horrible war.” They both stayed quiet, staring into the flickering lamp. History lessons at school focused on wars and battles, dates and armies and generals. But this most recent conflict seemed the worst of all, with brother fighting brother, a country so divided they had to fight each other. The Union won, but would the states that seceded ever feel like part
of the United States again?
“I’ll tell you one good thing about the war.” Zack traced his fingers over the back of her hand. “I don’t think I would ever have answered an ad for brides in a small Kansas town looking for potential grooms.” His smile widened into a grin, and they both burst into laughter.
“And I might never have placed the ad,” Debbie agreed. “You could say God used the war to bring us together. And that’s a good thing.”
“That’s a very good thing.” Zack stood. “I’d better get the water before it gets any later.”
The single day Zack had expected to finish preparing the fields—both the crops and the garden—stretched out for nearly a week. Charles recovered from the heat stroke, but they all insisted he take things easy for a few days. So he worked only in the cool morning hours.
Zack felt duty bound to make up the difference. Turning the soil took an additional day. Then he rested on the much-needed Sabbath. In spite of the break, Zack couldn’t force himself to work on the flower garden at night.
If only Debbie could help him, he might finish it. Zack kicked himself for even thinking that way. Why did he feel as helpless as a ship without a sail, now that her mother forbid their working together? He had come so far on his own.
Come Monday morning, satisfied they’d prepared the ground as much as possible for planting, they harnessed the steer to the plow and began dragging the rows.
“You watch how it’s done,” Charles said. “We want the field planted in rows as straight as the seams on your pants.”
Zack watched, but he’d learn better by doing it himself. It looked simple.
Of course it wasn’t. Even Charles struggled. The plow drifted and he wrestled the steer back in line. Sweat poured down his face. Before Zack could call a halt, Charles dropped the reins and leaned over the plow.
Zack reached his side in a second and offered the precious canteen along with a wedge of cheese. “It’s hotter than a forest fire today. Take a rest.”
“I’m okay.” Charles stumbled to one knee, and something close to a sob came from him.
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