His chiseled face softened as he gripped her hand. “And you are Anna.”
Oh my, she thought with a smile. Oh my. He has Faxon Gingerich’s blue eyes.
When Tessa’s father walked through the door to learn the news of Johnny’s restoration, he looked as astounded as her mother did. He held his hand out to Johnny. “Welcome to our home, son,” he said, in a voice as reverent as a prayer. And her mother started dabbing at her eyes with the corner of her apron all over again.
At length they roused from their absorption, and Tessa waited for a lull in conversation to excuse herself and go upstairs. Her mother asked if she wasn’t feeling well, and she said yes, which was true in a way, but she didn’t tell her why. It was because of what happened before her parents returned home. It was because of the way Hans had snatched his hat off the wall hook and stomped out of the house just after Betsy asked Caleb to stay for supper.
Conscience-torn, Tessa plopped on her bed and stared at the ceiling rafters. The door slammed and she heard Willie and Johnny outside. She went to the small loft window and saw them dash off to the barn like puppies after a ball, milk buckets clanging, stopping now and then to toss snowballs at each other, the way brothers did on a normal day.
But it wasn’t a normal day. It was a hugely significant day. For Johnny, for Willie, in a good way. For Betsy, Caleb, Hans, Tessa . . . it was a messy day.
If only she could turn back the clock and start the day all over again. She would have left Betsy’s diary in the cupboard. She should have.
But she hadn’t. She had taken it and given it to Hans.
What had she done? She pressed her fists against her eyes. Why had she done it?
She knew why. Jealousy. Envy. The green-eyed monster. She was consumed by it.
Her father’s deep voice floated up the chimney flue. She heard the name Gingerich and jumped off the bed. She crouched as close to the fireplace as she could without getting burned. Whatever he was talking about sounded serious.
“Caleb,” he said, “before the boys return from milking the cow, there’s something you should know. There’s reason to believe that your mother’s brother is our neighbor. His name is Faxon Gingerich.”
“Oh Caleb!” Betsy said. “Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”
Tessa heard Caleb mumble something in reply, but his voice was too low, too soft-spoken for her to understand it.
Tommyrot! She wished she had her grandmother’s ear trumpet. She crept to the top of the stairs and bent down. She could clearly see the four of them, seated around the table like a checkerboard: her father’s thick gray-brown hair, her mother’s black prayer cap, Betsy’s white prayer cap, Caleb’s shiny coal-black hair.
“Nae, Betsy, I’m sorry to say that Caleb guessed correctly,” her father said. “Faxon does not want to acknowledge him.”
“Surely Faxon will have a change of heart,” her mother said, her voice tinged with upset. “It must have been a shock to discover that he has a nephew from a sister he presumed dead.”
“I am half-blood,” Caleb said, almost sounding sad. “He will not want a nephew with Indian blood.”
Something inside Tessa twisted hard.
“But you belong to them!” Betsy looked up at him, her eyes wide. “They’re your family.”
The breath eased out of Caleb in an odd sigh. “Do not pity me. I belong to the Holy One.”
“Aye, and to the family of God,” her father said. “And that means you always have a place with us, Caleb. And I insist you stay here until this storm lets up. It is growing worse out there.”
A knock came at the door and Tessa assumed the boys had finished milking the cow. Her mother was closest to the door and hurried to open it. Tessa could feel the draft of cold come in and sweep right up the stairs.
“Martin! Come in, come in, get by the fire,” her mother said, closing the door behind him.
Martin?!
Rumpled Marty stepped near the fire, extended his palms, and rubbed them together. His coat and hatless head were covered in snowflakes.
He swung around to face everyone. “I wanted to meet Caleb,” he said, and Tessa noticed that his eyes landed on Caleb. “I can’t speak for my father, but he can’t speak for me either. I wanted to meet my cousin.” And then he grinned that big goofy grin of his—so bright and cheerful it could light a room—and came forward with hand extended to Caleb.
19
Beacon Hollow
December 14, 1763
Tessa woke in that quiet time just before dawn when the whole earth seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for the sun to rise. She hadn’t been sleeping well the last few nights due to the extreme cold, and to her extremely guilty conscience. On top of that, she worried about the black stallion.
She knew it was a ridiculous thought. That horse, and his father, and his grandfather, had survived the elements for decades. Lately though, the only thing that distracted her from dwelling on her own flawed character was when she filled her mind with thoughts of the horse. About how he had grown to trust her when she felt so very untrustworthy.
Whenever her mind circled back to Hans and Betsy, her stomach lifted to her throat. For the last few days, Betsy had searched high and low around the loft for her diary. Did Tessa admit that she had taken it? Given it to Hans? Betrayed her? No. The words she should have spoken stayed locked in her heart. Tessa remained stone silent.
Rumpled Marty had given her excellent advice: Repent. Confess. Make it right.
Tessa definitely repented. She was highly motivated to make it right. It was the confession piece. That one had her stymied.
She’d seen plenty of others sit on the confession bench in church, seen the shame that covered them. She wondered if confessing to Betsy alone might be enough. She decided to run the scenario past Marty—glossing over specifics, of course—and get his opinion. Until then, she carefully avoided being in proximity of Betsy. And that was not an easy thing to do in a snug house during a snowstorm.
She slipped out of bed and dressed, tiptoed downstairs, grabbed her cloak off the peg by the door, and left the house as quietly as she could. Yesterday, Tessa’s father, Willie, and Johnny had shoveled a path to the root cellar so they could get potatoes for supper. She swung the cellar door open, lifted the lantern high to light the path down the icy steps, and carefully made her way into the cold, dark room. Cold, yes, but well insulated, without the sharp bite in the air that made it hard to breathe. Here, she could breathe in deeply, filling her lungs with the scents of Beacon Hollow’s harvest: pungent apple cider, barrels filled with onions—kept far away from apples, her mother insisted, or you’d be eating an apple that tasted of onion—potatoes, beets, cabbages, carrots, turnips, and walnuts, all mingling with the smokiness of hams hanging from the rafters. She heard a mouse or two scurry behind the barrels and shuddered. She despised mice. Hated them.
She hung the lantern on the wall hook and lifted one lid barrel to rummage through sawdust. She grabbed what felt like a carrot and held it up to the lantern. Turnip. The stallion hated turnips. So did she. She shut the lid on turnips and tried another barrel. Carrots! She filled her apron with all she could find.
“Tessa?”
She whirled around to find her mother standing on the bottom step of the cellar stairs, her woolen shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders.
“Are you not well?”
“I’m well. I’m quite well, in fact.” Tessa fit the wooden lid back on the barrel. “I woke early and thought I’d take some carrots out to the stallion.”
Her mother took a few steps into the cellar to study her, concern in her eyes. “You’ve been so quiet, lately. So withdrawn. It’s not like you. You’re not feeling . . . left out, are you?”
“Left out?”
“Betsy, Willie, and Johnny. They seem very close. I just wondered if you felt left out. I know you’ve always yearned for a sister. For brothers. They’ll soon feel more at home, and include you in their circle.”
&
nbsp; Nothing could have been further from Tessa’s mind than feeling excluded by Betsy and her brothers. She wanted to avoid them! She took great pains to avoid them.
But how could she tell her mother what she’d done to Betsy? Her mother believed the best in her. How could she disappoint her? “Mem, I’m fine. Truly.”
Her mother knew better, but she didn’t press Tessa. “At least put the carrots in a sack so your hands can stay covered.” She held out an empty flour sack and opened it so Tessa could dump the carrots in her apron into it.
“I’ll be back soon. I’m just going out to see if the stallion might be nearby. I’m worried he hasn’t been able to find food during the snowstorm.”
“But the snow is so deep.”
“Not so deep in the woods. It’s probably barely reached the forest floor. And if I get hungry” —she lifted the sack—“I’ll just eat a carrot.”
Her mother gave her a relenting smile. Tessa handed the lantern to her and closed the heavy cellar door. She waved to her and cut through the fresh snow with long strides, heading for the hill behind the big stone house. She was right about one thing: once under the thick canopy of trees, there was very little snow to trudge through. She stuck to the trail, calling to the stallion but didn’t see any sign of him. She was thinking of turning back home when she caught sight of a man riding toward her on a horse, his shoulders hunched forward and his head bowed low. Though he was quite a distance away, she recognized him immediately. Hans. Her heart betrayed her and started pounding. Hans hadn’t come around Beacon Hollow since Sunday, when Johnny was restored to them. “Hans! Hello there! I’m out looking for the stallion.” She took a carrot out of the sack and fed it to his horse when he approached her.
Hans raised his head and looked at her. He wore a strange, haunted expression, and gazed at her in a way that produced a terribly uncomfortable feeling—as if he did not recognize her. He seemed to be struggling for words, an adversity Tessa had not thought him capable of.
“What’s wrong?” She caught a whiff of smoke in his clothing. “Where have you been?”
“It was just meant to be a warning . . .”
“Hans, did you fall off your horse?” Hit his head? She reached out to put a hand on his knee, but he flinched, shaking off her hand as well as her concern.
“It’s all my fault.” His voice scratched the air.
“Your fault?” She gaped at him, wondering if he might be intoxicated. She’d seen a drunken man once or twice in Lancaster Town. They spoke nonsensically, just as he was doing. Then she noticed a hatchet tied to his saddle. It was covered in blood. She pointed to it. “Did you go hunting?”
His eyes momentarily met Tessa’s and she felt the shock of his despair. “I . . . I . . . Yes, yes. I went hunting. Caught a rabbit.” He hesitated, then said, “I must go.”
She watched him ride away until he was out of sight, wondering if she should follow him home to ensure his safe arrival. She decided not to, as he was only a mile or so from the path to Not Faxon’s Farm and the horse knew its way to the barn. Besides, for the first time, she felt frightened by Hans. She knew that he could be moody and sharp tongued, but she had never seen him so distraught. She had no idea what triggered a mood like this, but he looked and acted like he’d seen a ghost.
The sun was painting the tops of the trees, her stomach was rumbling, and she knew she’d better get home before her mother sent someone to fetch her. Someone like Betsy Zook.
As she went around a bend in the trail, she heard a familiar nicker. She yanked her hood off her head and listened for the direction the sound was coming from. She cut off the trail and started to run through the trees. Then she stopped.
There, high on a rocky ledge, was the mighty black stallion, with the morning sky lit behind him.
Tessa blew out a startled breath. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected . . . but this sight? This beat everything.
For the last three nights, Betsy had slept soundly and woke rested. Both of her brothers were sleeping nearby in the loft and Caleb—Caleb!—slept below near the hearth. It made her so happy to know that he was willing to go to Indiantown with Bairn when the weather improved, to be welcomed in by the Conestogas. Perhaps he might even stay there. She hoped for it. She prayed for it.
For the first time in a very, very long time, Betsy had no worries on her mind other than Hans’s tetchiness on Sunday afternoon, the day when Johnny was returned to them. Certainly, Hans was pleased to see Johnny, but learning of Caleb’s existence stole the joy of the happy reunion. A dark mood descended over Hans, a side of him that was showing up with greater frequency, a side that disturbed Betsy. And Hans hadn’t been back to Beacon Hollow since, though to be fair, the weather had been fierce.
She was grateful the storm came through Stoney Ridge when it did—it gave her an abundance of time with her brothers, sitting close to the fireplace. There was so much to talk about, to share, to grieve about. Betsy felt as if she was finally able to move the heavy rock of grief for her parents, to come to terms with their deaths. Obviously, they had no funeral for their parents; in an unexpected way, the storm drew them together and served that purpose.
She lay in bed and pondered such thoughts when she was startled by a mighty racket, as if someone was trying to break the front door down. She sat up in bed and heard a flurry of upset voices coming from the kitchen. She swung her bare feet to the icy floor and dressed quickly to see what had transpired. By the time she hurried down the stairs, Caleb alone remained. He leaned with his back against the front door as if waiting for her, a wooden look on his face, arms crossed against his chest, and she had a growing dread that what he was going to say would change everything. Another before-and-after moment. She halted on the last stair step, not wanting to know anything, to hear anything he might tell her.
Through the east-facing window, she saw Bairn harness a horse to a wagon. A boy sat huddled on the wagon seat, head bowed, wrapped in a quilt. She saw Anna wrap another quilt around the boy, then brush the bangs off his forehead the way a mother did as she said goodbye to her child.
“Betsy?” It came out softly, falling from Caleb’s lips as sweetly as an endearment. She turned her head to face him and he pushed off from the door and walked toward her, speaking in a low, flat voice as he approached. “There was a massacre last night at Indiantown. Six Conestogas were killed. One boy named Christy escaped and came here.” He stopped in front of her and dropped his chin to his chest.
“No!” Betsy cried, barely able to speak. “But why? They’ve done nothing wrong!”
He raised his head to look at her. In those blue eyes she read heavy sadness, utter defeat. “They were born Indian.” He said it as if this was what he had been seasoned by life to expect.
She saw the horse and wagon rumble down the path, saw Anna watch the wagon go, standing in the cold with just a shawl to protect her from the cold. “Where are they going?”
“Bairn Bauer is taking the boy to Lancaster Town for safekeeping.”
Caleb turned to leave, but she stepped forward without hesitation to reach out and grasp his arms. “Caleb, where are you going?”
“To Indiantown. To bury the dead.”
“Oh no. Please go to Lancaster Town with Bairn. Please.” She bit her lips and felt unshed tears swell as the fear of helplessness began to take hold.
But Caleb was already turning away, moving beyond her reach, and she knew there was little point in arguing with him. At the door, he spun around. Their eyes locked and held. She knew hers were entreating, desperate. His were haunted, defeated. Abruptly, he reached for the latch. The cold wind swept in as he swept out.
Betsy stared at the closed door after he’d left. She hadn’t even realized her brothers stood at the top of the stairs.
“Betsy, all is well?” Johnny asked, worry in his voice.
She turned and looked up at the two of them on the stair steps, at their sleepy faces, their pale blue eyes, their blond hair that looked like roo
ster tails standing straight up from the tops of their heads. They were here, they were safe. God was sovereign over all. Over all. “All is well, Johnny,” she said, giving him a reassuring smile. “Hurry and get ready for school. I think the snow has finally stopped.”
Four hours later, Bairn returned from Lancaster Town, his face ashen. He couldn’t sit still; he paced the room as he provided scant details to Anna and Betsy: six Conestoga Indians had been brutally murdered during the night, and all the homes had been burned down.
“What of Will Sock?” Anna said, white-faced. “What of his family?”
“Nae. They are safe. But Captain John was killed.”
“What happened to the others?”
“It was such a bitter-cold night that most of the others had taken shelter elsewhere, like Will Sock and his family.”
“A small blessing, I suppose,” Anna said.
“I’m not so sure,” Bairn said, running a hand through his hair. “I suspect those responsible for the massacre will try to complete what they set out to do.”
Anna winced.
“I’m hopeful that it will not be public knowledge that Christy escaped,” Bairn said. “I fear that if they know there’s a witness, they will try to silence him.”
“Did Christy recognize anyone?”
Bairn shook his head. “He said he did not see any faces.” He hunkered before the fire, elbows to knees, then rose, ambling around the room again.
Up to this point, Betsy had remained quiet, but she had many questions. “What kind of monster would do such a thing?”
“Christy said it was the work of several men.” Bairn wrapped his arms tightly across his chest. “He said they fired their guns into the huts, then burst inside with tomahawks to kill the survivors before setting the little village afire.” He shuddered. “Somehow, he escaped in the chaos and ran all the way to Beacon Hollow. Barefoot.” In English he added, “The poor laddie’s feet were bleedin’ from the cold.”
The Return Page 22
