The Heirloom Brides Collection

by Tracey V. Bateman

  The clomp-clomp of crutches against the floor let her know her father was coming. He stopped beside her. “It must be the painters Titus promised us.”

  She couldn’t determine from his even tone whether he was pleased or resigned. She flicked a look at him and noted the slight upturn of his lips.

  The small smile disappeared when he turned and met her gaze. “Would you bring out a chair, please, so I can greet everyone when they arrive and visit with them as they work?” He didn’t ask if she intended to stay inside or come out and visit with the workers, but she glimpsed the question in his eyes.

  “Of course, Papa. I’ll be right back.” She hurried inside, grabbed one of the chairs from the table, and carried it to the porch.

  A trio of wagons approached, each with two people on the seat and several more in the beds. Both men and women, judging by their headwear. Clara paused with the chair in her hands, a spiral of longing finding its way through her center. Yesterday being greeted by townsfolk had been so pleasant. Should she stay out here with Papa?

  Rowdy crept behind her, his fur ruffled and his lip curled back to show his teeth. She’d never seen the pup behave so fiercely. She couldn’t leave him out here with Papa.

  She put the chair down and scooped up Rowdy. “Papa, we’re going inside.”

  He nodded, and although not a hint of disappointment colored his expression, regret stung her. He raised his hand in a wave, and several people in the wagons waved back. Many of them called greetings. Before they could approach the house and address her directly, she hurried inside with the growling coyote in her arms.

  Clara spent the morning comforting Rowdy, who alternately growled, whined, and yip-yipped in protest at the intrusion of humans in his territory. Shortly before noon, the little creature crawled under her bed, curled into a ball with his tail over his face, and fell asleep. With him quiet, she could have gone outside, but fear Rowdy would awaken and be frightened kept her indoors.

  She couldn’t stay away from the windows, however. She moved from room to room, awed by the busyness she witnessed in every direction. In the cleared area behind the house, a half-dozen women swarmed her vegetable garden, planting the seedlings in neat rows with sticks and string separating the plants. Two men clambered on the barn’s roof, hammering wood shingles into place. Two more men carried posts and railings behind the barn. She couldn’t see what they were doing, but she could guess. They’d have a pen for their piglet by sundown.

  Several times she stepped up to a window only to have someone look in, paintbrush in his hand and a smile on his face. Although she always gave a little start of surprise, she managed to offer a smile and little wave before turning and scurrying to a different window. Until she looked out from Papa’s window and discovered Titus Klaassen on the other side of the glass. Then she froze as stiff as if she’d been caught in a blizzard and stared, wide eyed and unblinking, into his sky-blue eyes while he stood equally still and stared back.

  She had no idea how many minutes passed with the two of them gazing at each other, not smiling yet not frowning, their lips parted as if words were trying to escape, her pulse pounding with as much force as the hammers coming down on nails. Then someone must have called his name, because he jerked his face to the left, appeared to listen, nodded, and started to turn back.

  In those brief seconds of separation, her limbs thawed enough to move. She darted away from the window and around the corner. Ridiculous though it was, she pressed herself to the wall and leaned into the doorway just enough to peek with one eye at the window. There he was, hands cupped beside his face, peering in.

  Heat exploded through her face and all the way into her chest. She bolted out of sight, then she dashed around, whisking the curtains closed at every window except the one where she’d exchanged the lengthy, nonverbal staring match with Titus Klaassen. Instead, her head low, breath caught in her lungs, and gaze aimed at the floor, she stepped into Papa’s doorway, grabbed the door handle, and gave his door a quick yank that sealed the room away.

  She sagged against the sturdy door and released her breath in a long, slow exhale that calmed her thundering pulse. The patter of feet and mumble of voices on the porch caught her attention. She inched to the front window, lifted the corner of the curtain, and peeked outside. Two women were spreading blankets on the ground in front of the house. Other women arranged platters and plates and jugs on the edge of the porch floor. Mrs. Klaassen and Papa engaged in what appeared to be a lighthearted exchange. Desire to join them nearly twisted her heart into a knot.

  Mr. Klaassen ambled near. Clara felt like a voyeur as she watched him move beside his mother, plant a kiss on her cheek, then snatch up one of the odd rolls that looked something like a snowman and carry it to his mouth. He handed one of the rolls to Papa, and his face shifted in her direction. She ducked out of sight, then scurried to the table. She clung to the back of one of the chairs, a wild battle raging inside of her.

  Go out. The voice inside her head was more demanding than any she’d heard before. Should she heed it? If she went out, she’d please Papa. She could talk to Mrs. Klaassen, which would please her. She could tell Mr. Klaassen thank you for bringing these workers to their place. Even if their presence frightened Rowdy and intimidated her, she was still grateful for their thoughtfulness.

  One of the scriptures she and Papa studied last week tiptoed through her memory. “In every thing give thanks: for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you.” When Papa shared the verse from 1 Thessalonians, he’d indicated it instructed believers to thank God for everything they encountered, whether good or bad, because all things served a purpose. But she knew God wanted His followers to treat others the way they wanted to be treated. If she worked hard for someone else, she’d appreciate being thanked. Thanking them would please her Father.

  She straightened her shoulders and turned toward the door. They were all gathering to eat their lunch. She could tell everyone thank you at once. She lifted her foot to take a step.

  Whines erupted from beneath her bed—Rowdy awake, fearful, and probably hungry.

  Clara hurried to tend to her pet.

  Chapter Eleven

  The last wagon, driven by Titus Klaassen, rolled from the yard. Clara watched from the window until it disappeared over the gentle rise in the road, then she stuck her head out the door and addressed her father, who stood at the edge of the porch. “Are you ready to come in now? Supper is waiting.”

  Papa eased to the porch stairs and aimed a grin over his shoulder. “Supper can wait. Come with me.”

  Clara held her breath as Papa descended the two steps to the yard, wavering on the crutches. When he reached the bottom, she emptied her lungs in one whoosh and scurried after him.

  “Don’t look at the house until I tell you,” Papa warned.

  Temptation to sneak peeks tormented her as she moved alongside him to the middle of the yard, but she kept her gaze forward until Papa stopped.

  “All right. You may look.”

  Clara turned slowly, and when she got a view of the house, she clapped her hands to her cheeks and gasped. “Oh, Papa! It looks… It looks…” She couldn’t find appropriate words.

  The old gray weathered siding bore a coat of crisp white paint. The shutters, which once hung crooked and bore stains from mud dauber nests, lay square against the house and glistened in a vibrant, deep green. The porch railings and posts were white like the house, but someone had taken the care to add green bands on the carved turnings on the posts.

  At the base of the porch, freshly turned ground held dozens of flower seedlings. Within weeks, the whole patch would be ablaze with color and laden with scent.

  Papa chuckled. “Did you know our little house could be so pretty?”

  Clara shook her head, marveling. “It’s grand, Papa. So very grand.”

  Papa set the crutches in motion. “Come with me.”

  She followed him to the backyard, where he pointed out the white paint o
n the sides of the chicken coop and the outhouse as proudly as if he had wielded the paintbrush himself. Then he led her to the garden. A short fence built from unpainted pickets and mesh wire circled the large plot of rich soil dotted with tiny green sprouts.

  Papa tapped the fence with the tip of one crutch. “There’s no gate, so you’ll have to step over the fence. Mind you lift your skirt when you do so it doesn’t catch on the wire. As Titus told me, the fence isn’t the best, but it should keep rabbits at bay.”

  “That is what matters,” Clara said, and she meant it. This fence looked nothing at all like the delicate fence constructed of lattice that housed Mama’s garden in Minneapolis, but she liked it even better than the fence from Minneapolis. It wasn’t as pretty, but it had been constructed by people with giving hearts.

  “I won’t take you to the pigpen.” Papa grinned. “Before long, you’ll be able to follow your nose and find it. I requested two pigs from the Klaassens’ litter.”

  “Two?” Clara couldn’t imagine them needing the meat from two hogs.

  “Yes. There are some folks in town who don’t raise animals. They buy meat from area farmers. So if we butcher—”

  Clara clutched her bodice. We? Did Papa expect her to help?

  “—two hogs, then we can sell some of the meat. Or maybe, if there’s a family in need, we can share with them.”

  Her heart melted. “Papa, that’s a wonderful idea. Everyone has been so kind to us. We should do something kind for someone in return.”

  “I think so, too.”

  Rowdy had followed Clara out of the house, and he darted around the yard, nose to the ground, fur bristling. Clara smiled at the pup. “Poor Rowdy… He didn’t like having so much company today. Do you think he’ll bother the piglets when they come?”

  Papa didn’t answer, and she looked at him. He was watching Rowdy, and lines of worry marred his forehead.

  Concern rose in her chest. “What’s wrong?”

  Papa shook his head, as if dislodging a troubling thought. “My leg is tired. Let’s go back inside. Come, Rowdy.” Without a moment’s pause, Rowdy gave up his sniffing and trotted to Papa’s side. To her relief, her father’s expression cleared. He began making his way to the back door. “We’ll enjoy our supper, and then—” He stopped and turned a questioning look on Clara. “When we moved from Minneapolis, did we bring the wicker chair and rocker that sat in the screened-in porch?”

  Clara nodded. “Yes. They’re in the barn loft, remember? You put the chairs up there and wrapped them in burlap in the hopes no mice would chew on them.”

  “Ah, that’s right. On Monday, remind me to ask Titus to climb up and bring those down. We’ll put them on our grand front porch. Then you needn’t carry out a dining chair for me when I want to sit outside.”

  “Will he come again on Monday?”

  “Yes. The ground field still requires tilling, and then he’ll plant the corn.”

  Clara lightly gripped Papa’s elbow and escorted him across the yard. “Well, I will remind you on Monday if you forget to tell him tomorrow.”

  Papa stopped again. “Tomorrow?”

  Clara put her hands on her hips. “If you can make it all the way across the yard and up and down steps on your crutches, I imagine you can get yourself into the back of the wagon for a ride to church.”

  Papa angled his head, peering at her from the corner of his eyes. “Church?”

  She nodded, swallowing a smirk. “And I hope you won’t mind if I accompany you.”

  Papa let out a whoop, and Rowdy plopped down on his behind, lifted his nose, and howled.

  Titus lay in bed, hands locked behind his back, and stared at the ceiling. Every muscle in his body ached. Tiredness plagued him. But sleep refused to come. In place of the shadowy ceiling, he saw Clara Rose Frazier’s wide-eyed gaze, but try as he might, he couldn’t discern what thoughts trailed through her mind while she stared at him from the other side of that window.

  Why hadn’t she come outside during the day? Her father had never gone in. What word had Ezra Frazier used to describe Titus? Affable. That was it. Affable. Friendly. Clara’s father was that—friendly. But Clara? Unaffable, if such a word existed, described her. He revisited the frustration he’d experienced when she closed the door to her father’s room, closing him away from her sight. The frustration faded, and a deep hurt replaced it.

  Why doesn’t she like people, Lord? At least he knew for sure he wasn’t the only one she disliked. Her refusal to come out and greet any of the workers made it clear her unaffability extended beyond him to the entire community. But knowing didn’t ease his discomfort the way he’d expected.

  The burden drove him from the mattress to the floor. He knelt, bowed his head, and closed his eyes. “God, I’m an affable man. You made me that way, and I do not wish to change it. You also opened my heart to Clara Frazier. When I saw her the first time, sitting at the table in our kitchen with Ma, I knew she was the one I’ve prayed for and waited for all these years. But, Lord, can an affable man and an unaffable woman comfortably join as one?”

  He remained on his knees, listening for an answer. None came.

  He sighed. “Well, Lord, You turned water into wine and parted the Red Sea. You can do anything. So I’m going to trust You to work in my life and Clara’s life and bring us together if it is Your will. Amen.”

  Placing the situation in God’s hands eased Titus’s mind. He slid back into bed, closed his eyes, and before he even realized he’d fallen asleep, fingers of sunlight sneaked through his bedroom window and poked him awake.

  The smell of bacon, eggs, and toasted zweibach propelled him out from beneath the covers, and he dressed in his best suit, then hurried downstairs. The ride to town with his parents and brothers proved pleasant. Titus liked Minnesota in mid-May better than any other time of the year. In June the humidity—and the influx of mosquitoes—would start. But for now, the cool-but-not-cold temperatures, the good scents rising from the earth, and the expanse of blue sky overhead lifted his spirits. Mid-May was a time for rejoicing, and Titus anticipated joining his heart with his fellow believers in praise for God’s many blessings during the worship hour at church.

  The churchyard was already crowded with wagons by the time Pa pulled their wagon up beside the church. Titus glanced across the horses drowsing within the traces of the various wagons. If any familiar horses were missing, the preacher would probably share news of an illness or a calamity, so Titus always hoped to see every area family’s horse and wagon in the yard. He inwardly identified the Friesens’ mare, then the geldings belonging to the Kerfes’ and the Rempels’. Next was the Fraziers’ mare, Penelope. And then—

  Realization struck like a lightning bolt. Penelope—the Fraziers’ mare? He leaped from the back of the wagon and pounded across the ground.

  Ma’s voice called after him, “Titus, slow down, Son. Wait for your brothers, father, and me.”

  But Titus couldn’t slow down. Had Ezra Frazier somehow driven himself to church today, all alone, or had Clara brought him? He had to know. Please, Lord. Please, Lord. He leaped up the stairs, taking the six of them in only two bounds, crossed the narrow porch with one wide stride, and entered the church door reserved for the men’s use with his heart thudding like a bass drum in a county fair marching band.

  He looked to the left side of the church, where a sea of women’s flowered hats greeted him. His breath coming in tiny puffs of anticipation, he bounced his gaze across each hat, and there she was, third bench from the back, her molasses hair covered by a pert straw bonnet trimmed in orange poppies. A smile broke across his face. Thank You, my Father!

  Titus made his way to his usual bench, feeling as if he floated inches above the wide-planked floor. His father and brothers joined him just as the music leader stepped onto the dais and invited the congregation to rise for an opening hymn. Titus risked a glance over his shoulder as the gathered worshippers opened the Gesanbuchs and raised their voices in song. Ma had sl
ipped in next to Clara instead of going to the bench across from Pa, and she shared a hymnbook with Clara.

  Seeing the two women he loved side by side in his place of worship filled Titus so thoroughly, he lost the ability to speak. So he stood between Pa and John and listened as those around him sang, “Ach bleib mit deiner Gnade…”—“Abide among us with Thy grace…”

  The service passed more slowly than Titus could ever remember. He tried to pay attention to Reverend Fast, but his thoughts continually carried him to the bench on the women’s side. Clara had come. She had come to service. He couldn’t wait for worship to end so he could approach her, thank her for coming, ask her if she liked the way her house now looked in its fresh covering of white.

  At last they sang their closing hymn, and Reverend Fast released them to fellowship with one another. Titus pushed past Pa and strode directly to Ma and Clara. Women had already surrounded Clara, and he shifted impatiently from foot to foot, waiting his turn.

  Ma caught his eye, and a knowing smile curved her lips. She took Clara’s elbow and nodded to the women. “Dankscheen, everyone, for your kind welcome to Miss Frazier. If any would like to visit more with her, please come to our place for Faspa.”

  Titus almost socked the air in delight. Ma had invited the Fraziers to eat with them. He’d have lots of time to talk to Clara. He thanked Ma with a wink, then hurried out to the Frazier wagon. He’d be waiting to help Ezra into the back and Clara onto the seat. And maybe, if he was very lucky, Clara would allow him to drive her and her father to his farm. He couldn’t imagine a better end to this fine Sunday morning than accompanying Miss Clara Rose Frazier to Faspa.

  Chapter Twelve

  Clara, still reeling from the enthusiastic welcome from members of the Mennonite Brethren congregation, held Papa’s elbow and matched his slow, hitching stride as they left the church building. She’d been nervous at first when she realized she and Papa wouldn’t be able to sit together, but Mrs. Klaassen on her right and the grocer’s wife, Helena Voth, on her left—both so friendly and warm—bolstered her and sent the nervousness out the window.