Journey to Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #3)

by Ruth Glover

  “That must be it,” Frankie nudged Anne awake and pointed.

  Smoke from a stovepipe drifted, white and pure, across the blue sky already dimming toward evening, as the house lifted over the curve of the horizon. Anne and Frankie watched as it seemed to move toward them, closer and closer until, with a flourish, Frankie urged the weary horses to a trot and curvetted between half-buried gate posts into the Ketchum yard.

  It had been a long day. Tierney had spent several hours ironing, and her shoulders ached. Ironing was a wearying job, though the Ketchum equipment was the very latest and best. For one thing, there was a real ironing board, one that could be folded away when not in use and with a sadiron holder on one end. It was the first time in her life that Tierney had not ironed on a board set across two chair backs.

  The irons themselves were at the root of her weariness. There were three of them, set to heat on the range top, each a different size: No. 1 weighed four pounds and had one end rounded “for polishing”; No. 2, 5 1/8 pounds; and No. 3, recommended for heavy overalls and the like, weighed 5 3/8 pounds. The detachable handle could be used on all three and, supposedly, “fit naturally to the hand without straining the arm or wrist.”

  Arm and wrist perhaps, nevertheless, as Tierney prepared a batch of macaroni and beef and tomatoes for their supper, she stopped from time to time to rub and manipulate her elbow and shoulder; it had indeed been a big ironing. Soiled clothes were left to accumulate through blizzards, and Tierney always hastened to get out a batch of laundry when a day dawned bright and clear and promised to be sunny long enough to dry clothes. Or stiffen them. It was a Herculean task to wrestle the garments, frozen into bizarre shapes, off the line, collapse them by main force into a basket, and take them into the house, there to warm, sag, and eventually finish drying. And of course such a hit-or-miss laundry schedule deviated sadly from the housewife’s cardinal rule of washing on Monday and ironing on Tuesday and threw the entire week into housework chaos.

  The macaroni dish, a sealer of green beans, and great slabs of bread—which Tierney had learned to make well under the direction of Lavinia—this would be their supper. Planning to serve a sauce dish of canned peaches for dessert, at the last moment Tierney had put together a cakelike topping called “Cobbler” in Lavinia’s White House Cook Book. Written by Hugo Ziemann, chef of the United State’s White House under President Harrison, it promised “1,600 tested cooking recipes, besides numerous hints and helps for the toilette and household” and was a great aid to proper cooking for Tierney.

  She had barely taken the dessert from the oven when she had cause to rejoice in her decision—a rig was pulling into the yard. What a rare occurrence! And right at supper time. There was no thought of sending anyone on without food and drink and a good thawing out at the side of the heater. Tierney glanced at the cobbler, lifted the lid to the macaroni dish, sniffing appreciatively, stirred the beans, and felt herself prepared. Just pray it wasn’t the preacher from Fielding with another stern rebuke for the arrangement at the Ketchum house!—a single female, unchaperoned, living with an eligible widower! Perhaps a good meal would soften his countenance and bend his rigid back. In his disapproval he made Tierney think of nothing so much as the misshapen, frozen balbriggans she wrestled from the line after washday.

  “Who in the world—” Will had exclaimed, rising from his comfortable chair at the side of the front room heater, and stepping toward the door. “I can’t imagine who this could be, this time of the day.”

  Peering from the window, Tierney muttered to herself, “If it’s the preacher, he’s brought his wife,” and wondered if that meant more big guns trained her way, to get her to depart the premises. Tierney stiffened her back and her determination, and, standing by the kitchen range, waited for some word, some sign that would identify the guests.

  “Tierney!” The word was a cry, a piercing cry.

  Tierney started, as though struck a physical blow. Annie! Could it be—

  Then Anne’s woolly arms were around her, Anne’s cold cheek was pressed to hers, Anne’s voice was murmuring incoherently in her ear. It was indeed Annie Fraser.

  Supper was late in being served. Even then, over what Anne pronounced a “masterpiece,” the talk went on, explanations, newsy bits and, finally—over great cups of tea and sauce dishes of Chef Ziemann’s peach cobbler—the account of the unexpected appearance of the dreaded and feared Lucian MacDermott, Anne’s flight, her welcome into the Schmidt household, and Frankie’s offer to drive her from Hanover to Fielding, and Tierney.

  “Who would have thought,” Anne concluded, shivering, “that the long arm of the MacDermott could reach e’en to the hinterlands o’ the prairies.”

  “He won’t get away with his shenanigans here,” Will said stoutly. “Women are honored, almost revered, here on the prairies and in the backwoods. And we have law and order, whether he knows it or not. Our Mounties are able and capable, I can tell you that. A better prepared force you won’t find!” So spoke the son of immigrant parents, safe and secure in his chosen homeland.

  “Lucian MacDermott ne’er cared for law and order; considered himself above it, I guess,” Tierney said. “He was a law unto himself in Binkiebrae.”

  “Well, Anne,” Will said, his gray eyes serious, “you are welcome here. In fact, your presence may be a blessing. We have,” he said with a smile, “a watchdog of a preacher, and right after my wife’s funeral he was out here, laying down the law of the church about our living arrangements. But I don’t know how Buster and I would have made it without help. Tierney has been God’s blessing to us. Right, son?”

  Buster, in his high chair chewing with gusto on a piece of licorice, smiled a black and cherubic grin and took another bite.

  While Anne and Tierney did the dishes and put Buster to bed, Will and Frankie got acquainted, pulled up to the fireside in the front room. The girls joined them, and the talk went on into the night. Finally—after the fires were stoked, the dampers set, and the lamps distributed—Anne and Tierney retired to her room, Will went to sleep with Buster, and Frankie took Will’s bed. Peace settled on the Ketchum home—more than at any time since Lavinia’s death, Will’s great grief, and Tierney’s several months of uneasy attendance on the man’s and child’s needs.

  Tierney and Anne talked long into the night. “I’m so glad ye’re here, Annie,” Tierney said more than once, adding, “the Society would be verra vexed wi’ me for bein’ here, a lass alone. And yet I canna, in good conscience, look for another place—”

  “Hae ye thought o’ marryin’ the man?” Anne asked thoughtfully. “He seems a fine sort, and o’ course I know he is, from the letters ye’ve written. And what a wonderful place he has here! It’s the best setup I’ve seen in all that trek across the plains. How about it, Tierney, hae ye considered marriage?”

  “Why, Annie,” Tierney said, surprised. “Ye know I’m pledged, in my heart, to Robbie Dunbar!”

  Annie looked uncomfortable. “Aye, so ye’ve said. But coom now, is it sensible, lass, to consider such a thing when there’s nae chance in a million ye’ll e’er see Robbie Dunbar again?”

  Tierney, plaiting her hair before the mirror, stared unbelievingly through it at her friend. “Annie Fraser, nev-er, ne-ver hint at such a thing,” she said, low and fierce and enunciating every syllable clearly, “if you expect me to continue to call you my friend.”

  Anne had the grace to look shamefaced; such love was incomprehensible to one who’d never experienced it.

  “I’m sorry!” she said, agitated, and Tierney immediately forgave her.

  “Annie,” Tierney said thoughtfully, laying aside her hairbrush and turning from the mirror, talking directly to Anne, “isna it time to do summat about . . . about God?”

  Anne was immediately big-eyed. “Wha’, wha’, Tierney? Wha’ shall we do?”

  “Here we are, two lone lassies, far from home, at the mercy of anyone and everyone and needin’ God’s protection sae bad, and havin’ nae right to c
oom to Him and ask fer it.”

  “We always went to kirk, Tierney.”

  “Aye, but was it enough? I think not. At least we dinna know God an’ Jesus like Pearly does. And we dinna hae the peace and joy she has. I, for one, want . . . need that.”

  Tierney looked at Anne expectantly. Anne said, humbly, “Me too, Tierney. Me too. The last thing, almost, that Pearly said to me this mornin’ is that she’s still prayin’ for us. So—what shall we do aboot it, Tierney?”

  “I’m thinkin’ lots aboot Pearly’s verse, ‘Coom unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will gi’ ye rest.’ The reason we don’t hae that rest, Annie, is because we haven’t coom. Reet?”

  “Reet, I guess,” Anne said uncertainly, but willing to be persuaded and led.

  “Well, then, let’s . . . coom.”

  “Aye.”

  Not knowing what else to do, the girls joined hands, closed their eyes, and Tierney prayed, Annie agreeing.

  “Lord God o’ Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, and Pearly, we coom to Ye jist now. We ken we need to be forgiven, and so we ask You to forgive our sins—do you mean that, too, Annie?” Tierney asked, digressing momentarily.

  “Aye.”

  “An’ make us clean an’ pure in the blood o’ Jesus, shed for us. An’ . . .” Tierney proceeded more surely now, “an’ we take Him as our Savior, right now, in this place, at this time—” her prayer grew in assurance and authority, until she ended on a high and happy note: “in Jesus’ name, Ahhhhmen.” It may have been an ecclesiastical amen, but it was from the heart.

  There was nothing left to do but fall into each other’s arms and shed a few tears, tears of relief, tears of joy, tears of happy surprise that such a fine feeling should accompany such a simple transaction.

  “Why are we cryin’?” Annie asked, eventually, “when we feel sae wonderful?”

  “I dinna ken there’d be sich a . . . a feelin’ in my heart,” Tierney said, awed. “I remember Pearly said the Spirit bears witness wi’ our spirit, that we are the children of God. That’s it, Annie, it’s the witness.”

  The girls, so new in the way and so wise already, rejoiced in the witness, finding it unexpectedly sweet and satisfying. Each attempted, in her own way, to express her thanks for the great gift of God’s forgiving love and the accompanying gift of His joy.

  “We better get some sleep,” Tierney said, finally, their cold feet attesting to the lateness of the hour and the chilling of the house. With a hearty puff she extinguished the lamp and climbed into bed, there to hear her continued whispered prayers echoed from Annie’s side of the bed.

  “Won’t Pearly be glad?” Annie murmured, just before they dropped off to sleep. “Frankie can tell her.”

  Sleep had almost overtaken both of them when Anne sat bolt upright. “Who do ye suppose that man was—that asked the store owner in Fielding how to get to this place?”

  Next morning, Tierney came awake with another of Pearly’s Scriptures running through her mind: This is the day which the Lord hath made; we will rejoice and be glad in it.

  Or perhaps she had learned it at the kirk in Binkiebrae; suddenly her heart was opened and she realized how much the kirk, after all, had taught her. That it hadn’t brought her to a personal relationship with Christ, she figured, was her own fault, and she would no longer belittle the blessings she had gleaned from her childhood spiritual upbringing. Certainly it had kept her from the sins of the world, had given her not only a biblical background but pious examples in the good people of Binkiebrae. And it had, in the end, pointed her toward the Christ she now knew in fulness.

  “Wake up, Annie! This is the day the Lord hath made, and we are to rejoice and be glad!”

  “This early?”

  “Aye, this early. This early, and all the time. I hear Mr. Ketchum stirrin’, fixin’ the fires, and I like to get up and get coffee on for him.”

  “Are ye sure,” Anne said, opening one eye, “ye dinna want to do it for him permanently?”

  Then, catching sight of Tierney’s frosty face, she added hastily, “But o’ course not . . . I’m jist joshin’! I’m nae forgettin’ aboot Robbie. Where, Tierney, do ye suppose he is, the dear man?”

  “I dinna ken,” Tierney said, slipping from the bed, shivering, reaching for a warm robe that had been Lavinia’s, and shrugging it on. “But I’ll tell ye this, Annie Fraser—this is the first day of praying that will not end until God brings us back together again. Oh,” she carolled at the joyousness of the thought, “hallelujah!”

  “Maircy! Ye’re beginnin’ to sound like Pearly hersel’!”

  “Hallelujah!” Tierney said again, having already experienced the presence of the Lord close and available as soon as she had opened her eyes, and anticipating the day and the new blessings that would be hers.

  “Ye’re aboot to become a fanatic, just like Pearly,” Anne said, with a sigh. “But I agree; ’tis sweet.” After a moment she added a faint, “Hallelujah.”

  Tierney gave a peal of laughter that had Will, downstairs, picking up his ears. It had been a long time since laughter had played much of a part in his household’s activities. It sounded good to his ears. It would be good to have Anne Fraser here—good for Tierney, good for Buster, who already loved her, good for . . . himself.

  His opinion was only strengthened when Anne appeared, hastily dressed in the chilly room but lovely just the same. Her beauty was fresh and dewy, her spirit naturally light and happy, her smile ready and sweet. Yes, she would be a fine addition to the family.

  “Good morning, Miss Fraser,” he said, more cordially than one would have expected, new acquaintances that they were, and found her brown eyes turned on him with the full force of which they were capable. Will straightened from the heater, flushed, as though his heart was beating harder than was necessary.

  “There’s nae need tae call me Miss,” Anne said with a dimpling smile. “Please make it Anne . . . Annie.”

  “Well, I will, if you’ll drop the Mr. Ketchum and make it Will. I’ve never been able to get Tierney to break down and get that intimate.” Will’s fine face creased in a smile. “I don’t know how we should ever have endured and survived without Tierney, Anne. We owe her a great debt, Buster and I. I live in fear of the day when she’ll up and leave us, and yet I know she will. I’m well aware of the rules of the Society and that we are breaking them even now. I don’t know how to solve it—our problem, that is. But come,” Will gestured to a chair at the side of the heater, now glowing red, “sit by the fire and warm yourself.”

  “Well I will, for a few moments. I promised Tierney that I’d get Buster up when it’s time and bring him doon and dress him by the fire. I can e’en feed him his breakfast—Scotch porridge, I would suppose. Reet?”

  “Reet—that is, right.” Will—staid, substantial, sensible Will—blushed.

  Breakfast was a happy affair. Tierney and Anne, of course, had to share their “testimony,” in fine Pearly fashion.

  “An’ you’ll be sure and tell her, I know,” the girls both urged Frankie. “An’ we’ll write her all aboot it verra soon.”

  Frank assured them that he’d tell her and assured them that he rejoiced now for her, as well as for himself, over their good news. His blessing over the porridge and toast, at Will’s invitation, was fervent and covered much more territory than their appreciation for the food. Yes, it was a time of rejoicing for all concerned. Will’s latent devotion was stirred until he, too, was caught up in the glory of the moment.

  Tierney cleaned up the breakfast dishes while Anne dressed the pajama-clad Buster. With the day bright and beckoning, she said, “Buster, how would you like to take me on a tour of the place—show me the chicken runs and brooders, the barns and cows and barn cats. And do you know what? I’ve never been inside a soddy.”

  “We got one!” the child, big-eyed and important, told her.

  “Really?” Anne feigned surprise and pleasure. “Then you’d be jist the one to show it to me.”


  So outside wraps were donned, and Buster and Anne, hand in mittened hand, squeaked in overshoes warmed at the fire out into the glories of the day and spent a happy half-hour playing with cats, squirting milk from cows’ udders, and throwing snowballs at the side of the barn.

  “An’ now, the soddy,” Buster said importantly. “Lemuel lived in it, Miss Annie, when he was here. But he’s gone now. Daddy keeps things in there. Things like coal oil for the lamps. And he hangs meat in there when he butchers. We’re going to butcher pretty soon. I don’t like liver, Miss Annie.”

  “You know what, Buster—neither do I.” And the two trudged their cheery way to the soddy, to Buster’s pride and Anne’s interest. Ever since her trek across the continent she had wanted to see inside one of the small, turf-topped sod buildings.

  The door, frozen in its hinges, opened with effort. Once inside, it was hard to see, momentarily, having come from the outside glare to the dimness of the soddy. Though many soddies had no windows at all and were nothing but miserable burrows for humans, this one had two windows, one on each side of the door. But being set in walls two feet thick, the light was poor. Still Anne could see that the dirt walls had been hung with felt and that the ceiling, above poles, had been laid with tar paper, and the sod laid over that. Another innovation, perhaps.

  Buster saw her looking up and said, “Daddy says the tar paper keeps the bugs and mice from falling through.”

  “That’s . . . that’s a good thing, I’m sure.” Anne shivered—bugs and mice!

  “I lived here,” Buster said proudly, “when I was a baby.”

  “Well, you’re a fine, big laddie now, and that’s for sure,” Anne said and Buster squirmed with pleasure.

  The door squeaked open behind them and banged shut. Anne turned.

  His back against the closed door, his arms crossed on his chest, his hat tipped rakishly back, and his lips curled in a smile that was colder than the day—Lucian MacDermott.