The Heirloom Brides Collection

by Tracey V. Bateman

  Clara opened her mouth to offer a greeting to her hired hand, but the words refused to form. How could the Klaassen son be so alert and spry this early in the morning? Papa never spoke a coherent sentence until he’d enjoyed his second cup of coffee, and her thoughts were cloudy until the breakfast dishes were clean and put away on the shelf. But this man sitting erect in the saddle with spine straight, eyes shining, and cheek dimpling with a cheerful grin appeared to pulsate with energy. Maybe he’d already had breakfast and coffee.

  He swung down from the saddle, looped the horse’s reins over the sagging porch rail, then stepped onto the porch in one lithe leap. “Good morning, Miss Frazier.”

  Clara willed her stubborn tongue to function. “G–good morning, Mr. Klaassen. You’re bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this morning.” Heat seared her cheeks. Had she really just called him bushy-tailed? Perhaps she’d be wise to not speak at all.

  He laughed, the sound so spontaneous and natural, an answering smile toyed at the corners of her lips. He pulled in a deep breath, his nostrils flaring, then blew it out slowly. “Early morning is my favorite part of the day. The air smells so clean and fresh. Slugabeds don’t know what they miss by lazing beneath the covers until midmorning.”

  Clara had never lazed until midmorning unless she was ailing. She locked her hands behind her back and searched for a proper way of inviting him in.

  His blue eyes narrowed, and he sniffed the air the way Rowdy did when he played in the grass behind the small chicken coop. “Miss Frazier, I think something is… scorched.”

  With a frantic intake of breath, Clara whirled and darted inside. Thin spirals of smoke rose from the frying pan on the iron stove. The three hotcakes she’d poured just before opening the door were now blackened and shriveled. Using her apron to protect her hand, she grabbed the handle and shifted the pan to the cooler side of the stove. The awful smell of burnt batter made her wrinkle her nose. She gazed in disgust at the ruined cakes.

  “Clara Rose?” Papa called from his bedroom. “Is everything all right out there? I smell smoke.”

  “All’s well, Papa.” All was not well. She’d just ruined breakfast, and their hired hand had witnessed it.

  “Then why do I smell smoke?”

  Clara sighed. She scurried to Papa’s doorway. “I burned the hotcakes.”

  “Well, make some more.”

  She resisted emitting a huff of annoyance and turned toward the stove. Mr. Klaassen stood on the little throw rug just inside the door, glancing around at the room that served as sitting room, dining room, and kitchen. Embarrassment smote her again. Images of his family’s decorated parlor and neat kitchen paraded through her memory. Although she’d done her best to make this little house feel like home by grouping the fine belongings they’d brought from Minneapolis in comfortable settings and keeping everything clean, how dismal the room must appear in comparison to his home.

  He shifted his gaze and caught her watching him. Another smile formed. “Would your father mind if I…” He gestured toward Papa’s open door.

  Papa’s voice blared from the bedroom. “Please, come in. We can become acquainted while Clara Rose fries a new batch of hotcakes.”

  He dipped his head in a slight nod as he passed Clara, and she hurried to mix more batter. While she worked, Rowdy awakened and toddled from his little basket behind the stove. He pawed at her foot, whimpering.

  Clara frowned. “I suppose you need to be let out, hm?”

  He swished his tail like a whirligig and bounced on his front feet.

  His antics usually brought a smile, but the humiliation of her first few minutes with a hired hand on the property was too raw. She scooped him up and clomped to the door. “Hurry, now. I need to get breakfast finished before the morning gets away from us.”

  She left the door standing ajar and returned to the stove, trusting the coyote pup to come back in when he’d finished his morning exploration. He would want his breakfast. She’d recently begun serving him their leftovers, and he always waited under the table while they ate, bumping his nose against her leg as if encouraging her to hurry up and feed him. She supposed she was spoiling him, but Papa didn’t seem to mind, and no one else was there to complain. She frowned, shooting a glance at Papa’s open doorway. Would Mr. Klaassen find Rowdy’s presence distasteful? And why should she care if he did? Giving herself a little shake, she set her attention on the hotcakes.

  With Papa’s and Mr. Klaassen’s voices and occasional bursts of laughter—Papa had never been so merry before breakfast—spurring her to action, she fried several batches of nicely browned cakes. They didn’t rise as much as usual, but she blamed the breeze whisking through the kitchen. With the hotcakes tucked in the warming hob, she scrambled a half-dozen eggs and fried slices of ham. She’d already set the table for her and Mr. Klaassen, but it seemed as though both men were enjoying their chat, so she filled two plates and carried them to the bedroom.

  “Ah!” Papa aimed a beaming smile at her and pushed himself higher against the tall walnut headboard. “Here’s our breakfast now. Just wait, Titus, until you taste Clara Rose’s hotcakes. So tasty you don’t need syrup or sorghum, and so light they melt in your mouth.”

  Clara scowled at her father, her cheeks flaming as hot as the grease in the frying pan. “Papa, really. It isn’t becoming to brag.”

  Mr. Klaassen had leaped from the straight-backed chair beside the bed when she entered, but he sank back onto the seat as he took the plate Clara offered. “You can’t fault a father’s pride in his daughter. If half of what he told me about you is true, he has good reason to brag.” His eyes crinkled with his grin.

  Clara sent an uneasy look from the hired hand to her father. “And what have you been telling Mr. Klaassen, Papa?”

  Papa held up his hand as if making a vow. “No exaggerations, Clara Rose, I assure you.” He curled his fingers around hers and gave a gentle squeeze. “Even if you can’t split logs or plow a field, you’re still the best daughter any man could ask for.”

  If her face got any hotter, she’d scorch this batch of hotcakes. She gently extracted her hand and gestured at her father’s plate. “Eat now.”

  “Stay with us while I ask the blessing,” Papa said, and Clara obediently bowed her head. Papa’s deep voice addressing God with familiarity borne of a longtime relationship chased away the uneasy feelings she’d battled since Mr. Klaassen’s arrival. When Papa thanked the Lord for sending them a pair of willing, able hands to get their farm up and running, she almost sneaked a peek to see Mr. Klaassen’s reaction. “And, our dear Lord, I thank Thee for this food and for my dear Clara Rose who lovingly prepared it. May it nourish and strengthen our bodies so we may do Thy will. Amen,” Papa finished.

  “Amen,” Mr. Klaassen echoed.

  Clara opened her eyes and found Mr. Klaassen looking at Papa with an odd expression on his face. If she wasn’t mistaken, he appeared triumphant. Puzzled, she inched toward the door. “I’ll be right back with coffee. Do you take cream or sugar, Mr. Klaassen?”

  He glanced up from cutting his hotcakes into bite-size pieces. “No, thank you. I prefer it black.”

  “You sound like me,” Papa said with a chuckle. “I need it strong and black to wake me up.” He rolled one of the hotcakes into a tube and took a bite.

  At the same time, Mr. Klaassen carried a forkful of hotcakes to his mouth. Both men stopped chewing, their brows descended in matching looks of confusion, and then they grimaced and bobbed their heads in forced swallows.

  Clara fiddled with her apron skirt, her pulse thudding. “What’s wrong?”

  Papa swiped his lips with his napkin. “I’m not sure. Here. Taste.” He held the rolled hotcake to her.

  She returned to his side and took the hotcake. She frowned. What was wrong with this hotcake? It should be tender, not dense. She broke off a tiny piece and put it in her mouth. At once, she spat the chunk into her palm. “Oh, Papa, I’m so sorry. I got in a hurry to make the second batch after the
first one burned, and I must have forgotten the sugar.” And after he’d told Mr. Klaassen her hotcakes would melt in his mouth. What a shock the flavor must have been. She battled the childish desire to hide under Papa’s bed.

  Papa patted her arm. “Now, now, anyone can make a mistake. Especially when we’re rushing.” He offered a sheepish look. “That’s how I ended up with this broken leg. I didn’t take the time to back-cut the tree trunk the way the books I read advised, and it fell the wrong direction. I’d say your mistake, Clara Rose, is much less hazardous.”

  Mr. Klaassen had nearly finished the ham and eggs. He paused and aimed a grin at her. “You didn’t make any mistakes with the rest of this breakfast. Everything else is just fine.”

  She appreciated his kindness, but she couldn’t deny a deep sense of shame. What kind of incompetent dolt left out sugar in hotcake batter? She reached for his plate.

  He held it away from her. “No, ma’am. My mother taught me not to waste food.”

  Clara gawked at him. “You can’t eat those things. They taste like wallpaper paste.”

  Papa snorted. “Now who’s exaggerating?”

  Mr. Klaassen laughed. “They just need a little sweetening.”

  No, they needed disposal.

  “Do you have some fruit preserves? Peach? Or maybe strawberry?”

  Papa’s face lit. “A fine idea, Titus! Clara Rose, bring out a jar of preserves.”

  Clara sent an uncertain glance across the pair. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather throw them away?”

  “Waste not, want not,” Mr. Klaassen said. “That’s what my pa always says.”

  “An excellent dictum by which to live.” Papa waved his hand. “The preserves, Clara Rose.”

  Clara scurried to obey. She would bring them strawberry preserves. They were the most sugary preserves in the cupboard. Those hotcakes needed all the sweetening they could get.

  Chapter Five

  Monday was usually wash day, but Clara decided to bake instead. After the morning’s disaster, she wanted to prove to Mr. Klaassen she wasn’t completely inept in the kitchen. After all, they weren’t paying the man in dollars but in food. The least she could do was feed him well.

  Papa was particularly fond of muffins sweetened with apple cider and made hearty with chunks of dried apples and black walnuts, so while the ring of an ax carried through the open window, she baked a batch of the rich muffins and wrapped two of them, still warm, in a cloth napkin. When she headed for the door, Rowdy rolled out of his basket and scampered after her, releasing little yelps.

  She laughed. “All right, you can come, too. But you have to behave yourself and stay out from under Mr. Klaassen’s feet.”

  Rowdy bounced along at her heels as she made her way across the hard, uneven ground, but her focus was on the man holding the ax. He employed a steady swing, bringing the blade behind and over in a perfect arc that reminded her of a windmill’s paddles. How could he work so tirelessly? A bare trunk and piles of branches in various sizes proved his industriousness over the morning hours. If he continued at this rate, he’d have the tree turned into firewood by evening.

  With his back to her, he couldn’t see her approach, and she had no desire to be whacked by that swinging ax. So when she was within a few yards, she called his name.

  He set the ax blade deep in the wood, released the handle, and turned. His face lit, sending a rush of heat through her frame in spite of the cool breeze. She lowered her gaze from his welcoming smile and found herself mesmerized by his exposed forearms—firm, muscular, with the veins standing out like ropes—below his rolled shirtsleeves. While she stared, he pushed the sleeves down to his wrists and yanked a bandanna from his pocket to mop his face. She followed the path of the bandanna and realized a red flush stained his cheeks. She jerked her gaze away from him. She hoped the color was from exertion rather than recognition of her blatant admiration.

  Clearing her throat, she forced her feet to close the gap between them, and she held out the lumpy napkin. “A snack.”

  “Thank you, Miss Frazier.” He took it and sat on the log, peeling back the layers.

  Clara marveled at the eagerness with which he carried the first muffin to his mouth. Had he already forgotten the bland hotcakes, or was he just so hungry he didn’t care how they tasted?

  With the bite still in his mouth, he looked up at her with his eyebrows high in an expression of pleased surprise. “Mm, ‘ese are rea’y good.”

  She frowned, unsure what he’d said.

  He swallowed, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and gave her a sheepish grin. “Please, forgive me. My ma would scold if she knew I talked with my mouth full. But these are really good.” He took another hearty bite, and a piece of walnut rolled down his front. Rowdy leaped out from behind Clara and dove on it. Mr. Klaassen jerked back so sharply he almost fell off the log. “Whoa, there! Where did you come from?”

  Clara reached in and caught Rowdy. The pup yipped in protest, but she held tight. “Didn’t I tell you to behave, Rowdy?”

  Mr. Klaassen gaped at the wriggling coyote. “He–he’s yours?”

  She nodded. “I rescued him from a hawk. He was too little to fend for himself, so I kept him.” Rowdy’s warm tongue swept her chin, and she shifted him a little lower. He began chewing on her dress sleeve. She shook her head, chuckling. “He’s something of a rapscallion.”

  “Well, I’ll be…”

  He seemed more astonished than disapproving, so she added, “He’s good company for me.”

  For a moment, Mr. Klaassen seemed to study her, his brow pinched and his lips sucked in, the muffins apparently forgotten. Then he gave a little jerk and stood. “I better finish my snack and get back to work. I’d like to have this spot clear of branches by the end of the day. I’ll need to borrow your wagon, though, to haul everything to the woodshed.”

  Puzzled by his sudden change in topic, Clara nodded mutely.

  “I’ll only haul the branches large enough to be used in your stove. If you and your pa don’t mind, I’ll burn the smallest ones.”

  Rowdy fought her restraining hands, so she set him on the ground before answering Mr. Klaassen. “Whatever you think is best.”

  His gaze seemed to fix on Rowdy, who batted at a clump of dirt. One corner of his mouth twitched in a lopsided grin. She expected him to say something about the coyote, but he surprised her. “I’ll bring your napkin back when I come in for lunch. Thanks again for the muffins, Miss Frazier. As I said, they’re really good.”

  She knew when she’d been dismissed. Battling an irrational thread of annoyance with the man, she patted her leg and spoke tartly. “Come along, Rowdy.”

  The ornery pup leaped over the clump of dirt, lost his balance and landed on his chin, then scrambled upright, shaking his head so hard his little ears flapped.

  Clara laughed and looked at Mr. Klaassen, wanting to share her amusement with someone. To her discomfiture, he stood staring at her with an expression of puzzlement creasing his sweat-dampened face. She grabbed up Rowdy and, ignoring the pup’s whining complaints, scurried to the house.

  Titus groaned as he slid down from Petunia’s back. He caught the trailing reins and shuffled toward the open stall.

  His youngest brother, Paul, glanced over from forking hay into the horses’ feeding troughs and snickered. “You’re moving as slow as Old Man Zemke.”

  Titus frowned. The eldest member of Wilhelmina had celebrated his ninety-fourth birthday last month and deserved to move at a snail’s pace after a lifetime of toil. “Don’t be disrespectful.”

  “To you or to Mr. Zemke?”

  “Both.” Titus unbuckled the saddle and pulled it free. His aching arms resisted bearing its weight, and he suppressed another groan when he tossed the saddle over the stall wall.

  Paul ambled over, the pitchfork braced on his shoulder. “Phew, Titus, you smell worse than John, and he spent the day in the pigpen.”

  Titus gave Petunia’s nose a rub. “Did the sow fa
rrow today?”

  “Uh-huh. Fourteen piglets. Took almost seven hours for them all to be born. Pa says we’ll keep four to butcher and sell the others. He was real happy about the big litter.” Paul chortled. “But John said that old sow nearly took his leg off when he started clipping the piglets’ teeth. I said maybe he should’ve left their teeth alone. The sow would learn a lesson when she got bit good and hard.”

  Titus shook his head. “And then get infection and maybe stop nursing? Not a good idea, Paul.” He aimed a light smack on his brother’s shoulder as he limped past him on the way out of the barn. “Would you mind checking on the goats for me? I need to clean up, and it might take awhile.” His whole body itched from the tiny bits of wood that had worked their way under his clothes and stuck to his sweaty flesh.

  “Andrew fed them their evening bottles after supper and put them in their pen.” Paul called after him in a teasing tone, “You missed a good supper.”

  “No I didn’t.” Titus licked his lips in remembrance. “Miss Frazier fed me fried chicken, boiled butter beans, and honey-glazed carrots.” They’d sat at the table together for the meal, but she’d kept her head low and ate in silence, stealing a bit of the pleasure of the delicious meal.

  “Well, Ma made Verenike with sausage gravy.”

  And the Klaassens probably enjoyed lots of talking and laughing, too. Titus paused and tossed a grin over his shoulder. “Sounds like we both got fed well. Finish up out there now instead of trying to stir me to envy.”

  Paul laughed and returned to his work.

  Titus continued on through the early evening shadows toward the pump at back of the house. When he felt fresh, he’d go eat a plate of his favorite cheese-filled dumplings in gravy. If Titus knew Ma, she’d set aside a helping of his favorite meal. He hoped his brothers had all left the kitchen by now, because while he ate he wanted to talk to Ma about some troublesome thoughts rolling in the far corners of his mind.

  He shucked off his shirt, boots, and socks and let his suspenders dangle beside his knees. His shoulder complained as he worked the pump, but by the time he’d dumped the third bucket of cold water over his head, his soreness had eased some. He shivered, though, when the breeze touched him. To make sure he’d chased away all the wood bits, he emptied one more bucket over his head, then hung it on the pump’s spout, used his shirt to give himself a cursory drying, and trotted for the house on bare feet.