by Linda Byler
Hannah knew that many of the local ranchers considered them pests, but to her way of thinking, they were the most beautiful creatures of the plains, even if their meat was often unfit to eat, tasting of a bitter goat flavor. They would have been more than happy with the strong-smelling meat before the loan from Daudy, when starvation lurked in every corner of the old log house.
She watched the shadows play along the every-moving surface of grass, clouds playing with the wind, teasing the sun. If those ambitious Amish men came out here to live, would they notice or appreciate the endless wonders of this land? Would they use common sense, or would they look on the fertile earth beneath the grass and, ambitious and eager to turn the prairie into a profitable landscape, go crazy with dollar signs?
Well, there was nothing she could do about it. Let them come, let them face a drought, winter storms, and whatever else God chose to send them. They’d learn.
Back at the house, Sarah’s thoughts ran along an opposite line. She could hardly grasp the fact that her life would resume in the ways of her childhood, the beloved closeness of a group of like-minded people, who understood the importance of Ordnung, were obedient to church doctrine, forming an invisible protective fence around the family, making choices and decisions for her, and abiding by a discipline they believed came from God.
It was a way of life that allowed one to walk in the footsteps of Jesus. It was what she had been born into, raised as a child to accept the manner of dressing, the church services held in homes every two weeks, the strict adherence to using the horse and buggy, and the shunning of electricity and the automobile.
Oh, it wasn’t that it set them apart as elite members of God’s family. She never wavered in her attitude that all like-minded Christians who believed in God’s Son, Jesus Christ, and who lived as they had been taught, would enter into the same rest with other good and faithful servants.
The Amish way of life was her lot, and a beloved one. Even a few families, those of her own father and brothers, living within a distance she could travel with a horse and wagon, were a gift. A rare and precious gift she would never take for granted.
They would hold an Amish church service, even without an ordained minister. Tears sprang to her eyes as she hummed the slow melody of the “Lob Sang.” Page 770 in the thick black Ausbund, the book containing the verses written by men of faith while incarcerated in the damp, stone-walled prisons in Passau, Germany. Unser fore eldern. Our forefathers, who chose persecution over the doctrines they found questionable and forged a way of life they preferred.
She giggled, a maudlin, hysterical little sound, as tears ran unchecked down her face. She had no pickles or red beets. She had served the last jars to her neighbors. What were church services without the pickles and red beets served with traditional bread and cheese and pies?
How gladly she would spread the white tablecloth! With a song in her heart she would clean and polish, sweep and mop, rearrange the furniture to make room for benches forming a line of people seated facing the minister.
Evening shadows lurked in the corners of the house after the sun disappeared below the horizon. Sarah lifted the glass chimney, struck a match, and lit the oil lamp. She called the children in from their play, set a basin of warm water and soap on the porch, and washed their hands and faces by turns. They washed their feet until the water turned black from the dust and dirt they had accumulated.
“Now, into your nightclothes,” she announced.
“I’m hungry.”
“I don’t want to go bed. It’s not dark yet.”
Sarah smiled at Eli and Mary as she spread slices of sourdough bread with new butter and molasses. They drank cold well water, then became droopy with sleepiness, their eyes taking on that certain dull, half-alert look, until she shooed them off to bed.
Together they knelt by the side of their small, single beds, clasped their hands, bowed their heads, and recited the same German prayer Sarah had prayed as a child. Then she tucked them in, kissed them goodnight, and softly left the room, the door slightly ajar.
She found Manny on the front porch removing his shoes, his wide shoulders slumped with weariness.
“Where’s Hannah?”
Sarah shrugged her shoulders, picked up the dish pan of dirty water, and threw it out over the yard before wiping it with the washcloth.
“She went for a walk,” she said quietly.
“She’s upset, isn’t she?”
“Yes. She read Father’s letter.”
“She’ll get over it.”
“I’m not so sure. Oh, Manny. Life would be so perfect if only Hannah would …” she almost said, “Be like you,” but she caught herself. How, she wondered, could two children, raised the best she and Mose knew how, be so different from each other?
Sarah sat on the rough-hewn bench, her hands in her lap and sighed. “She’s so hard to figure out.”
“She’s a loner, Mam. She simply doesn’t like people. She loves this land and has no desire to see if filling up, especially not with our people. Plus, she has a real problem with Jerry Riehl, the horseman.”
Sarah looked at Manny sharply. “What do you mean?”
Manny shook his head. “I can’t tell on her, Mam. But he is certainly interested in her. Seriously interested.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do. They all want her. Everyone who lives around here would like to have her for a girlfriend, a wife, and she knows it. Look at the Jenkins boys. They fall over their feet to please her. She couldn’t care less. She’s downright mean to Clay sometimes.
“It’s why they all want her: they know they can’t have her. She presents a challenge to them. I guarantee you, Mam, Hannah will never marry. Pity her husband if she ever does.”
They sat together in the gathering darkness, mother and son, a companionable silence between them, the night easing itself softly around them, folding the dark, lowlying house in its whispering embrace.
A quarter moon sliced its way up through the blanket of night clouds on the horizon, the stars arranging themselves in their age-old positions, twinkling and blinking.
From out of the night, a lone, dark figure appeared, silently stepping into the yard, wordlessly, as if part of the night, a being devised from the earth and sky and vast stillness around her. Without speaking, she stepped up on the porch, opened the screen door, and let herself inside.
“Goodnight, Hannah.” There was no answer, but then, Sarah didn’t expect one.
CHAPTER 11
Hannah decided early on that God must not have heard her begging for a train wreck.
The spring rains ran their course, then stopped as if all the rain clouds had been cut from the sky with a giant scissors, leaving the yellowish, copper tone that spoke of drought and dust, the sky cloudless and sizzling with white heat. Everywhere Hannah looked, from one horizon to the other, there were ripples of heat above the waving grass, the sun a fiery ball that saturated the earth and sky with heat. The wind dried out the heavy new growth. Dust rolled from wagons and horses, trucks and tractors, anything that moved across a road, leaving an imprint in the inches of loose dust that clung to everything.
By the middle of July, Ben Miller and his brood arrived, settling into a tent, of sorts, while the building began on his 1200 acres. Ike Lapp and his wife and children chugged in on the back of a flatbed truck, the wooden sides flapping and creaking dangerously, threatening to spill all of them out over the side.
Hannah stood by the door frame, her arms crossed, watching the clattering apparatus rumble up to the porch. She stayed right where she was, letting her eyes convey her disapproval.
Of course, they all climbed down, the six offspring of various sizes, the lean and hungry wife who couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds.
Sarah received them warmly, her eyes wet with unshed tears of welcome. Manny stood by her side, pumped Ike’s hand with enthusiasm that seemed genuine, inquired about the children, always mannerly, always prope
r and polite, pleasing his mother.
Hannah turned away, went inside, out through the back door and across the prairie to the windmill. Likely Mam would cook them a good dinner while she listened to news from home. Well, she’d do it alone. They didn’t need to feel like this was a celebration with everybody fussing and fawning over them, as if they were important moving out here where they probably wouldn’t make it anyway. Hannah vowed to have nothing to do with them. Ben Miller either. Talk about shunning! They hadn’t seen anything!
When Sarah told her that Ike Lapp’s family were moving on a claim only six miles east of them, Hannah was furious. Sarah listened to her displeasure until it ran itself out, then told her she didn’t have to be neighborly, if that’s how she felt, but she herself would do as she pleased. “They’re poor, Hannah. They have only 320 acres. You know how hard it was for us.”
“Yeah, well, the summer’s turning out dry, so we may not have enough for ourselves, let alone peddling everything to that Ike Lapp family.”
Sarah set her mouth in a firm line and turned away.
The calves arrived one by one, little, wet and black, their long, spindly legs knobby kneed and wobbly, their tails whacking at flies only hours after they were born. Their eyes were large and liquid, with slanted lids and heavy lashes, the prettiest animals Hannah had ever seen.
One after another, the mothers dropped their calves that nursed successfully without any serious complications, which was a miracle of sorts, Hannah knew. Thirteen cows and now there were eleven calves. The herd was swelling in size, the calves capering among their mothers, exact little replicas of the Black Angus breed.
Hannah was never happier than when she was sitting astride Pete, out by the cows, milling around with them, checking on the health of the babies and the mothers who had not yet calved. She knew them all apart by small differences, a whorl of hair on a forehead, a longer neck, a heavy tail, or a peculiar set of nostrils. Some small difference was always there, and she named each calf to match their oddity.
She hoped they could have at least seven or eight of the calves weighing close to eight hundred pounds till late fall or early winter, make a successful drive to Pine, and meet the cattle truck that would take them to the large auction in Dorchester.
She believed that with Manny’s help, they could accomplish this, if certain new and nosy neighbors would stay out of it.
Oh, it irked her! Here was Mam, cooking and baking, riding off with Manny in the wagon like two saints, leaving her alone, uninvited and never letting her know what they were doing. They could at least tell her which family they were visiting.
Fueled by a strong dose of anger, she yanked the old, brittle saddle with the cracked wooden stirrup off Pete’s back and hurled it into a dark corner of the barn.
She hadn’t bargained for this. She had battled, even anticipated drought and winter storms. They’d survived the awful fire, the long winter, met Lemuel Short, acted like greenhorns and took in the poor man.
This, now, this wave of Amish people migrating out here, thinking it was all one big lark, wealth hidden everywhere they looked, was going to be a tough load to shoulder. Nosy, judgmental, deciding right from wrong for themselves as well as everyone around them, it was enough to make her yank off the dichly and go cut her hair. That would give them something to talk about!
You just watch. Mam would give half of her garden produce away. That wife of Ike Lapp, whatever her name was, looked as mean and hungry as a wolf in winter. The children picked their noses and examined whatever they had dug out.
Hannah shuddered. She picked up the saddle, hoisted it on to the wooden rack, hung up the bridle, then leaned on the fence, one foot hooked on the bottom board, her arms crossed on the top rail, watching Pete walk out to meet his only companion, Goat.
They possessed two of the oldest, most battered and worn horses she had ever seen. Ribs like washboards, skinny and distended necks, scrapes and cuts and swollen knees.
Hannah shook her head and wondered if they’d last another year. That Goat was as worthless a horse as she’d ever seen. He had no eye for cutting cattle from the herd, just ran pell-mell among them like a happy calf. You could yank on the reins, yell directions, and still he simply did not get it. He was stupid. Stupid and loathsome, and constantly dropping loose green bowels that made a mess wherever he went.
It never stopped. But, it was all they had and Hannah would never mistreat poor Goat. Manny had more patience, so he rode him among the cattle more than Hannah did, mostly to save the poor horse from Hannah’s frustration.
They practiced their roping skills on the calves, making them wild-eyed and skittish. Clay told them it was not a good idea, but Hannah told him that a bit of chasing wouldn’t hurt them. He narrowed his eyes and set his jaw and thought—wait until you try and drive them to Pine—but didn’t say it aloud.
Two half-dead horses and saddles that were falling apart, bridles held together by rivets and pieces of twine. Comfortable, serviceable buildings, a windmill, the start of a good herd of cattle. Hannah guessed they weren’t doing too badly. With a satisfied nod, she turned away.
What was that? Dust rolling out toward Pine? Someone was approaching. Hannah fought the urge to hide, stayed where she was, squinting, the wind tugging her black hair out from under the flapping men’s handkerchief that served as her head covering. A loose brown dress, one sleeve torn, pinned haphazardly down the front, the skirt, well below her knees, blowing in the ceaseless wind that caressed the plains all day long.
A pickup truck hauling a cattle trailer. Nothing new or different, it resembled the Klassermans’ rig.
Her bare feet were planted apart, brown and strong, and she stood there unwavering as she watched the truck draw the trailer up to the barn, followed by a cloud of brown dust and grit that rolled over everything as it came to a halt.
Hannah didn’t recognize the driver or the two passengers. She crossed her arms and glared, hoping to convey the message she felt inside: Move on. Don’t bother me.
Her squinting eyes tightened, the lids drooped and closed momentarily as a long sigh escaped through her lips, a whoosh of air expelled by the jumping craziness in her chest.
It was him!
He walked up to her, at ease and unselfconscious, lifted his straw hat, the wind picking up the dark hair underneath, the light in his eyes meant for her.
“How are you, Hannah?”
She nodded.
“I need a place to keep three horses until I get a lean-to built. I bought the old Perthing place out past the slough. What is it called? Swamp … or something?”
Another young man joined them, tall and thin, straw hat pulled low, thumbs hooked in his suspenders. Hannah met his dark, curious gaze with her usual coldness and her flat, unwelcoming stare that usually froze the friendliest person.
“This is Jake. Jake Fisher.”
Hannah nodded, lifted her chin a few inches and kept it there. Jerry Riehl and Jake Fisher. Sounded like horse thieves or something.
“I don’t want your horses.”
Jake looked at her, startled.
Jerry said, “Well, you’re going to get them. I don’t know where else to put them.
“There’s the Klassermans. The Jenkinses too.”
“I don’t know them.”
“So?”
Jerry stepped closer, stared at her, his eyes bright with anger. He was here now, and he had a plan firmly in place. This obstinate girl was not going to stop him.
“I’m leaving them here, Hannah. I want to keep them in your barn. I have salt blocks and grain, so feed them until I can come and get them.”
“No.”
Jake looked at his friend, a small smile playing around his mouth.
“Manny will do it. So will your mother. If you want to be so bull-headed, go right ahead. It’s not going to make any difference.”
Hannah’s eyes blazed. “Yeah, well, I’m not my mother. Or Manny. So don’t come here expecting a bunch of
favors because you’re not getting them. I don’t want a gaggle of bossy Amish folks as neighbors. We were doing just fine on our own, so don’t expect me to be of any help.”
“If I remember correctly, your whole family was not doing so great after the fire. You would not have been able to stay on your homestead without your grandfather’s help, and you know it.” Jerry’s face had gone white, his nostrils flared.
For once in her life, Hannah did not know what to say. Any smart retort that came to her mind fizzled and died before the blaze in his eyes, a reflection of her own.
With that, he stalked off, yanked the bar on the trailer door, let down the wooden ramp, and walked up, calling to his horses.
Hannah stayed where she was, her tanned face suffused with anger.
She had never seen horses like the ones he led down that ramp. Sleek, well-fed, their necks arched and thick, rippling manes and tails like poetry. Their eyes were calm, without the whites showing, well-trained by the way Jerry led them down easily, without any coaxing or commanding.
A black one and a dark brown one with a beautiful mane and tail as black as a crow.
The third horse he led down made her draw in a sharp breath. Golden! A golden horse with a mane the color of molasses in milk. Or oatmeal. The tail was arched and flowing almost to the ground. A groan of longing rose in her throat, and she brought her fist up to her mouth to silence it.
She would never let either of them see what she was feeling. Never.
Her eyes followed the golden horse, taking in the waving mane, the deep, wide chest, the long symmetrical legs, the perfect withers. A white blaze on the forehead. Hooves perfectly trimmed and shod. Likely he had done it.
They led the horses over, Jerry holding the black one and golden one. “Meet my horses, Hannah.”
She lifted her chin and stared coldly.
“The black one is Duke. The brown one is King. Haven’t named the palomino. You can name her. They’re all riding horses, not drivers, so don’t go trying anything crazy. Keep them penned. They won’t do well turned loose. This is strange country for them. One scoop of grain and plenty of water. Make sure they have hay.
