The Heirloom Brides Collection

by Tracey V. Bateman

  Clara bit her lower lip, trying to forget what her loyalty to Papa had already cost her. As if sensing his mistress’s need for distraction, the little coyote pup made a clumsy dash for Clara and attacked the toe of her shoe. Laughing, Clara picked him up and put him on the bed. He bounced across Papa’s chest, releasing little yips with each ungainly leap.

  Papa laughed. “What a scamp he is.” He twiddled his fingers, encouraging the pup to bat and snap at him. “Have you chosen a name for him yet?”

  Clara sucked in a breath. “If I name him, I know I’ll keep him. I wasn’t sure if you…”

  Her father arched an eyebrow. “Would let you keep him?”

  She nodded.

  “You’re twenty-four years old now. I think you’ve gained enough wisdom to know if you can handle the responsibility of a pet coyote.”

  The reminder of her age pained her, but she smiled. “Then I guess I better choose a name, because I don’t want to give him up.” She tilted her head and watched the coyote pup jump and bat at Papa’s hand. “How about Russet? Or Beau—short for Beauregard?”

  Papa chuckled. “Those names are too refined for a rowdy little fellow like him.”

  Clara clapped her palms together. “Rowdy! That’s the perfect name, Papa.”

  Papa caught the pup in both hands and held him in front of his face. “What do you think? Would you like the name Rowdy?”

  The pup yipped, wriggling.

  Both Clara and Papa laughed.

  “All right, Rowdy it is.” Papa plopped Rowdy in Clara’s lap and then placed his hand on her knee. “With that decision made, we can turn our attention to the next important decision.”

  Clara put the wiggly pup on the floor. “What’s that?”

  “Who will clear the field.”

  She sighed. “There really isn’t any choice, Papa. Only this morning the doctor told me your leg is healing well, but when I asked, he assured me you won’t be up and working before June. So it’s up to me to clear the field.”

  Papa shook his head. “I talked to the doctor this morning, too, about the field work. He recommended hiring a local man to do the labor.”

  Clara cringed. “Oh, Papa, no.”

  He frowned. “Now, hear me out. We have money in the bank. We can afford to hire a hand.”

  Hadn’t they sold their house in the big city and moved to this remote town to be away from others? How could Papa suggest they bring someone to the farm? “I’d rather do the work myself.”

  “You have enough to do with the cleaning, cooking, laundry, gardening…” Rowdy jumped and clamped his jaw on the corner of the blanket. The pup growled and spun a slow circle. Papa chuckled deep in his throat. “And keeping up with Rowdy. It only makes sense to hire someone to do the heavy labor until I’m on my feet again and can take care of the chores myself.”

  “But, Papa—”

  “No arguing, Clara Rose.” Papa sent her a firm look that stilled her tongue. “Tomorrow is Saturday. First thing after breakfast, you’re to hitch Penelope to the wagon and drive to the neighboring farms. Doc Biehler said at least two of our neighbors have fine, strapping sons who are accustomed to farmwork. You’ll ask to hire one of them. And that’s final.”

  Chapter Three

  A wagon rolled up the long lane leading to the Klaassen farmstead. Titus Klaassen lifted his attention from the trio of bawling Kose at his feet. He shielded his eyes with his hand, ignoring the largest baby goat’s attempt to eat the cuff on his pant leg, and watched the wagon approach. Saturday was chore day in his small farming community, so visitors were usually traveling salesmen. But this was no sales wagon, the driver no salesman. In all his twenty-five years, he’d never seen a salesman wear a ruffled bonnet and flowersprigged frock the same color as the lilac blossoms budding on the bushes around the front porch. He released a short chuckle. Salesmen might be more successful if they all dressed as pretty as the Me’jal perched on that wagon seat.

  He crouched and freed his cuff from the kid’s mouth, then held the milk-filled bottle toward the greedy little goat. While the kid tugged at the bottle nipple, Titus observed the young lady bring the wagon to a halt on the cleared ground beside the barn, set the brake, and climb down from the high seat. Slender and as graceful as willow branches swaying in a breeze, her appearance pulled at him with the same force as the hungry kid on the bottle.

  The young woman paused for a moment and shook the dust from her skirt. Then she reached up and released the strings on her bonnet. She lifted the bonnet from her head, revealing a braided coil as richly brown as the maple syrup Pa boiled every spring. Recognition dawned—the Frazier daughter. Titus rose, the empty bottle in his hand and a bleating Kos bumping against his shin, and watched the girl climb the porch risers and knock on the screened door. Moments later, the door opened, and the girl disappeared into the house.

  Worry nibbled at him, as persistent as the Kos demanding a second feeding. Just last Sunday his minister had led the congregation in praying for the elder Frazier, who’d suffered an accident on their land. Even though the Fraziers weren’t part of the local Mennonite fellowship, Titus had prayed for the newcomers every day. He hoped no other calamities had befallen the family.

  Curiosity about his new neighbors trickled through him. The Fraziers kept to themselves. Not once had either of them ventured to the Klaassen farm even though Ma had delivered a loaf of her blue-ribbon pumpkin bread to welcome them to Wilhelmina. The other two of the rejected goat triplets needed to be fed, but he couldn’t resist leaving the small pen and trotting across the yard to the house to find out why Miss Frazier had come calling.

  He wiped the bottoms of his boots clean on the scraper at the base of the porch—Ma always mopped first thing on Saturday, and she’d scold if he brought even a speck of dirt in—and followed the sound of women’s voices to the kitchen. Ma, ever the gracious hostess, had seated the visitor at the scarred worktable and was serving her a cup of Koffe as Titus stepped into the kitchen doorway.

  Ma barely glanced at Titus, but he witnessed a knowing smirk crease her face as she sank onto the opposite chair and folded her hands on the table’s edge. “Now, then, Miss Frazier, what brings you out on this fine spring Morje?”

  The girl crinkled her nose. “More-yah?”

  Ma chuckled. “Forgive me. The English words so close to my old language always seem to get swallowed by our Low German. What brings you out this fine morning?”

  Miss Frazier took a sip of her coffee before answering. “I wish I could say I was making a social call, because I know we—my father and I—haven’t properly thanked you for the delicious bread you brought to us last month.” Pink filled her cheeks, her expression as sheepish as a child who’d been caught with her fingers in the sugar bowl.

  Ma shook her head and clicked her tongue on the roof of her mouth. “You need not worry over a delayed thank-you. I know how much work needs done at the farmstead you and your Foda purchased. It sat empty for two years! I am sure you have both been very busy. And even more so now with your dear father injured.” A worried frown pursed Ma’s face. “How is your father, Miss Frazier?”

  “He is healing well, Dr. Biehler says.”

  “Such a blessing,” Ma said, and Titus nodded in agreement.

  Miss Frazier ducked her head. “But he is unable to work. In our fields.” She took another little sip of the coffee, the cup quivering in her grasp. She set the cup down and sent Ma a helpless look. “He sent me out today to inquire about hiring a farmhand. I already went to the Rempels, but they said they couldn’t spare either of their sons. Mrs. Rempel told me you have six sons. So I came here, hoping, maybe…” She bit the corner of her lip.

  Ma drew back in surprise. “Miss Frazier, are you asking to hire one of my boys to work at your place?”

  Her lip still caught in her teeth, Miss Frazier nodded.

  Ma grimaced. “Oh, I am sorry, but—”

  Titus held out his hand. “Ma, couldn’t—”

 
; Miss Frazier sat up straight and began a rapid flow of words. “Mrs. Klaassen, please. Papa already bought seed corn, and the seeds need to go in the ground before long if we’re to have a money crop this year, but the field hadn’t been completely cleared before we bought the farm. Papa got hurt felling the largest of the trees, and now he’s unable to finish clearing. The doctor said Papa won’t be able to work for many weeks yet, and I”—she gulped—“am unable to chop up trees or break the ground. We must hire someone.”

  Ma patted Miss Frazier’s hand and flicked a frown at Titus. “Please, let me finish.”

  Titus bit back his own objection out of respect for his mother.

  With Miss Frazier quiet, Ma offered a warm smile. “It is true the Lord blessed us with six sons. Our oldest, Jonah, is married and lives on a farm near Mountain Lake with his wife and our Grootsän, Little Ben. Our two youngest, Mark and Paul, have not yet finished school. But our middle boys, Titus, John, and Andrew, live here at home and help their father with our fields and livestock.

  “Since they have completed their schooling, and since all of them are familiar with every part of farming, any of them could certainly see to what needs doing at your farm.”

  Hope glimmered in Miss Frazier’s expression.

  Titus found himself holding his breath, his heart thudding in anticipation.

  “But I am so sorry, Miss Frazier. I cannot possibly hire out one of my boys.”

  Miss Frazier’s chin began to tremble and plump tears winked in her eyes.

  Her reaction pained Titus. He gritted his teeth and inwardly protested. How could Ma, the kindest and most giving person he’d ever known, be so callous to this neighbor in need?

  “Nä, nä,” Ma went on, seemingly oblivious to Miss Frazier’s distress, “my Ben would say the same thing. No hiring out of our boys. But”—she held up one finger—“we could lieen you one of our Säns.” She made a face. “Lend you one of our sons.”

  Titus sucked in his breath and held it.

  Miss Frazier gasped. “L–lend?”

  Ma nodded, her eyes sparkling. “What kind of neighbors would we be if we made you pay for such badly needed help? The Lord would frown on us, for sure. But to lend you a pair of hands until your father is able to work again? That would be our pleasure.”

  Titus let out his breath in a loud whoosh. Both women looked at him. His face flamed, but he stepped forward—one wide stride that brought him within arm’s reach of the table. “I will help Mr. Frazier, Ma. That is…” He locked his gaze on Miss Frazier’s wide, unblinking brown eyes. “If you approve, miss.”

  “I tried, Papa, honestly I did.” Clara petted Rowdy, who napped in her lap while Papa ate lunch. “But Mrs. Klaassen was very stubborn—or stoakoppijch, as she put it. She said the only way she would let one of her sons come help is if we ‘borrowed’ him rather than ‘bought’ him. I didn’t know what else to do except agree. Especially since Mrs. Rempel said they couldn’t spare one of their boys to work for us.”

  Papa sighed and toyed with his fork instead of eating. “It hurts my pride to have someone labor on my property without pay, but I was told that the Mennonite farmers around Wilhelmina were staunch in faith and work ethic. I imagine you’re correct in calling them stubborn. I don’t doubt you did your best.”

  Clara chewed her lower lip. If she’d had her way, she would have borrowed the younger of the two Klaassen sons who entered the kitchen during her visit. Both possessed wide shoulders and thick hands clearly capable of hard work, but the younger one, Andrew, just out of school and caught in the gawky stage between youth and manhood, was much less intimidating than the one who promised to come early Monday morning and get started hacking the fallen tree into firewood.

  An image of Titus Klaassen—tall, with a thickly muscled neck and a firm, square jaw that spoke of strength, and sky-blue eyes, full pink lips, and wavy blond hair that spoke of something soft and gentle—filled her mind. Not a trace of youthful awkwardness lingered in this one. More handsome than either of the beaus she’d left behind in Minneapolis and so sweetly eager to ease her burdens, he might prove to be a greater distraction than even Rowdy.

  “Did you convince the Klaassens to allow the son to take his meals with us, at least?” Papa’s query pulled Clara from her musing.

  She nodded so emphatically, Rowdy stirred. She scratched his silky ears, and he returned to snoozing. “I told Mrs. Klaassen we would serve him breakfast, lunch, and dinner, too, if he stays past five o’clock.”

  Papa finally carried a forkful of peas to his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “And snacks both morning and afternoon?”

  Would Papa deliver the snacks to Titus and spare her the discomfort? Of course not. Clara cringed. “Um…”

  “A man working hard all day needs snacks, too.”

  Something pinched her chest, making it hard to breathe, but she forced a reply. “All right, Papa. Snacks, too.”

  Finally, her father smiled. “Good. And we might find some other ways to repay him for his kindness.” He closed his eyes and sighed, his plate of food seemingly forgotten. “What a blessing to have such good-hearted neighbors. The Lord is taking care of us, Clara Rose.” He drifted off to sleep.

  Clara settled Rowdy on the bed next to her father and carried the plate out of the room. At the dry sink, she scraped the leftover food into a little bowl for Rowdy and set it aside. Then she stood staring at the small stack of dirty dishes, imagining adding one more plate, bowl, cup, and set of cutlery to the pile. The additional items didn’t trouble her. If she’d accepted Brant’s or Clifford’s proposal for marriage, she would have washed more dishes every day. She’d so looked forward to tending to a husband—mending his clothes, cooking his meals, keeping his house neat and tidy, raising his children….

  But after losing not one but two beaus because of her dedication to her father, she’d packaged her dreams for marriage in a box and hid it away in the farthest corner of her mind. She didn’t dare hope that another man would find her pleasing, because a third rejection would surely shatter her. Titus Klaassen’s rugged, handsome appearance and kind nature appealed to her. He seemed exactly the kind of man any woman would want to claim as a beau.

  She set her hands to work cleaning the dishes, and as she worked, a prayer formed and winged its way heavenward. Lord, having our young, handsome neighbor in close proximity for weeks on end will surely wreak havoc on my old-maid heart. Please heal Papa quickly so we can send our borrowed hand back to his own work.

  Chapter Four

  Early Monday morning, when the sun was only a sliver of red on the horizon, Titus saddled the oldest of his family’s horses and set off for the Frazier farm. Unlike Andrew and Mark, who had to be coaxed out of bed each morning with the promise of bacon and eggs, Titus enjoyed rising when the moon still hung heavy and a few stars bravely winked from a gray sky. The world was peaceful, and a man could think without any other distraction than birdsong or a whispering breeze—if one could consider such beautiful sounds distracting.

  He breathed in the cool morning air and hummed one of the hymns from yesterday’s worship service, inspired by the rhythm of Petunia’s steady clop-clop of hooves against the road. Quickly the tune gave way to boisterous words in his parents’ native tongue. “Lobe den Herren, den mächtigen König der Ehren!”

  Petunia snorted and shook her head, making her thick mane flop.

  Titus laughed. He gave the horse’s tawny neck a pat. “Oh, please excuse me, old girl, I forget you are an American horse.” He sang the line in English. “‘Praise to the Lord, the Almighty, the King of creation!’” He glanced at the sky, its blooming pink hue chasing away the remaining stars but bringing into view purplish streaks of clouds. “And such a creation He made, Petunia. Loveliness everywhere.”

  Including on the face of Miss Frazier.

  Titus chuckled self-consciously. Ma was getting older, gray winding its way through her hair and lines creasing her face, but she was just as wise as she’d al
ways been. She’d listened to his reasons why he should be the one to work at the Frazier place—as the oldest of the boys still at home he had the most experience, he was the earliest riser, so he could be to the neighboring farm by breakfast time, and he was the reigning fall festival log-splitting contest winner, so he possessed the know-how and strength to clear that field in short order.

  When he finished his list, she nodded and added another reason. “And Miss Frazier’s heart-shaped face and eyes as brown as a pecan shell are more pleasant to look upon than your brothers’ square jaws and Klaassen blue eyes, yes?”

  Sheepishly, Titus agreed. Then Ma had given him a caution, which he took to heart. “She is a comely young woman, my son, and you are at an age to take a wife. But before you allow yourself to be drawn to her, make sure she is a woman of faith. It would not bide well for you to be yoked unequally.”

  Titus pondered anew Ma’s serious words as he guided Petunia up the short, rocky lane to the neglected little house where Miss Frazier and her father lived. He’d prayed for years for God to lead him to the woman meant to be his helpmeet. None of the young women of Wilhelmina or any he’d encountered from nearby communities had stirred his heart the way Miss Frazier had when she looked beseechingly across the table at Ma and asked to hire one of the Klaassen sons. But despite the strange yet intriguing pull inside of him, he would heed his mother’s wise advice.

  He reined Petunia to a stop at the edge of the unpainted porch railing and braced himself to swing down. As he did, the door opened and golden light spilled across the dingy boards. Standing in the flow of gold, Miss Frazier gave the appearance of an angel. Titus sank back into the squeaky saddle seat. His heart caught.

  If she wasn’t already a woman of faith, he’d do more than chores on her farmstead. He would introduce her to the Savior. Because as sure as his ma made the best pumpkin bread in Cottonwood County, Miss Frazier was destined to become Mrs. Titus Klaassen.