The Heirloom Brides Collection

by Tracey V. Bateman

  What a pleasure to personally thank those who had come yesterday and worked magic on their property. Even if she and Papa chose not to join this congregation, she would always think kindly of them and ask God’s blessing on them.

  They reached their wagon, and Clara started to release the hatch. Another pair of hands crowded in, and she turned her startled gaze on Titus Klaassen. “Why, hello.”

  His smile sent a tremor of reaction from her scalp to her toes. “Hello, Miss Frazier. May I help your father?”

  His strength was greater than hers. She’d nearly tipped Papa on his nose while assisting him before church. She took a step back. “Please.”

  Papa braced his palms on the edge of the bed. Mr. Klaassen bent down, gripped Papa by the good leg behind his knee, and gave a push. Papa was sitting in the bed almost before Clara realized he was moving. She shook her head, laughing softly as Mr. Klaassen straightened.

  He grinned at her. “What?”

  “You make everything look so effortless.”

  “Everything?”

  Heat filled her face. Why had she made such a blatant statement? Now he would think she watched him perform every task… and admired him. But didn’t she owe him words of praise? She forced her embarrassment aside and looked directly into his eyes. “Yes. Papa and I both appreciate the work you’ve done. All the work.”

  He sucked in his lips for a moment, seeming to study her. He said in a near whisper, “All the work?”

  How she knew he referenced yesterday’s accomplishments she couldn’t guess, but she knew. So she nodded. “Yes.”

  A smile lit his handsome face. “Thank you.” They stood on opposite sides of Papa’s extended feet much the way they’d stood on either side of the window gazing at each other. But this time they both smiled. Clara much preferred being able to smile with ease at this man. She could have remained there forever beneath his blue-eyed gaze, but Papa cleared his throat.

  “Can we go now, Clara Rose? The churchyard has emptied.”

  She glanced around, and a second wave of heat attacked her face. How could she have been so oblivious? She gasped. “Oh! Your family has gone on without you, Mr. Klaassen.”

  His smile didn’t fade. “I know. I told them to go since Ma wanted to get things set out for our lunch.” He shrugged. “I guess I’ll have to ride with you and your father.”

  Papa scooted back several inches, bringing his feet all the way into the bed. “Put up that hatch, then, and let’s go. The next time I decide to ride in this wagon bed, I’m throwing a feather mattress in first. I’ll probably be black and blue by the time we’re home.”

  Mr. Klaassen closed the hatch and offered Clara his arm. With a self-conscious giggle, she allowed him to escort her to the front of the wagon and assist her onto the seat. His strong hands on her ribs should have frightened or perhaps offended her, but instead it seemed right for him to lift her. She settled on the seat, but he didn’t climb up beside her. She glanced at him, confused.

  “Would you prefer I rode in the back with your father?”

  His solicitousness touched her. She should probably send him to the back. If people saw them sharing the tight seat, they might get ideas. But how often would she be able to enjoy the company of a handsome man on a Sunday afternoon? Surely God would understand and not condemn her for her answer. “Please, take the reins, Mr. Klaassen. You’re more familiar with the road to your home.”

  He hooked his toe on the hub of the wheel and pulled himself up in one smooth motion. The bench bounced on its springs when his weight descended, tipping her in his direction. She grabbed the far side of the seat, and he sent her a brief, apologetic look. She smiled to assure him no harm had been done, and he lifted the reins. Before bringing them down on Penelope’s back, however, he pinned her with a serious look.

  “Miss Frazier, when we reach my house, you will be in the company of six Klaassen men. You can’t call all of us ‘Mr. Klaassen.’ It would be too muddling. So would you consider reserving that title for my pa and calling us boys by our given names?”

  He was hardly a boy. Sitting so close, gazing into his square, honed face, she realized more than ever how fully masculine he was. His suggestion made sense, but she hesitated. What would Mama tell her to do?

  From the back of the wagon came Papa’s droll voice. “For mercy’s sake, Clara Rose, agree with the man so we can get going. My backside is falling asleep.”

  Clara covered her mouth with her fingers and giggled. If Papa could be unconventional enough to mention his backside, she could call Mr. Klaassen by his given name. She lowered her hand and grinned at the driver. “All right. Titus it is.”

  No simple declaration had ever pleased him as much as her willingness to call him by his name. Titus arched one brow, inwardly praying. “And I may call you… Clara?”

  Her cheeks bloomed a delicate pink, but she nodded.

  “Thank you, Clara,” he said.

  “You’re welcome, Titus,” she replied.

  “Let’s go,” Mr. Frazier groused.

  Titus laughed and flicked the reins. As the wagon rattled out of the churchyard, he couldn’t resist asking, “Were you satisfied with the color of your house, Clara?”

  Her face lit, making his pulse stammer. “Oh yes! It’s lovely. Especially the porch posts. What a wonderful touch, the bands of green at top and bottom.”

  His chest puffed. Painstaking work, painting those bands, but well worth it to please her.

  “Thank you for organizing the work party. Papa and I both appreciate all you and your friends accomplished.”

  Relief flooded him. “I’m glad. But…” Should he ask? He might offend her, but he had to know. “Why didn’t you come out at all when we were there? Everyone wanted to meet you.”

  Her slender shoulders rose and fell in a feminine shrug. “I wanted to. I meant to. But Rowdy was very upset by all the commotion. I didn’t want to take him out with me, and I didn’t want to leave him alone.”

  Her tenderness toward that furry scamp never ceased to amaze him. “I suppose that makes sense.” It didn’t explain why she’d scurried away from him, though, when he found her at the window. He searched for a way to ask the reason for her strange reaction.

  “Until the house was painted, I had a hard time envisioning it truly being Papa’s and my home. But now it’s easy to imagine living there with him.” She sent a smile over her shoulder. “Right, Papa?”

  No answer came from the back.

  Clara giggled and whispered, “He’s fallen asleep.”

  Titus jolted. How could anyone sleep on that hard surface while bouncing along the road? But the man’s silence offered him the chance to ask a more probing question—one her father might consider too personal. He blurted it out before he could change his mind. “But couldn’t you at least have talked to me? You could have opened the window and talked to me.”

  She bit down on her lower lip and stared outward. The seat rocked with each bounce of the wagon wheels, occasionally bringing her shoulder against his. He kept his gaze forward, too, waiting for her answer.

  “I can’t talk to you, Titus. Not the way you… you want. You see, I sense you like me. And while it’s flattering, I cannot encourage it.”

  He cringed. He wished he hadn’t asked. His traitorous tongue formed another question. “Why?”

  She glanced into the back again, blinking rapidly. “Because of Papa.” She lowered her head and gripped her hands together in her lap, the hold so tight her knuckles turned white. “I’m all he has. He needs me. If I let myself fall in love, the man will take me away from Papa, and I can’t leave him.” She finally looked at him. Tears shone in her brown eyes, proving how deeply she loved her father—enough to sacrifice her happiness for his. “So, please, don’t like me, Titus. It will only lead to hurt.”

  Titus gritted his teeth. Her advice had come too late. He already liked her. He more than liked her. Oddly, her strong dedication to her father endeared her to him even mo
re. A woman so devoted to her father knew how to love deeply. If only she could love him with such depth.

  He tugged the reins, guiding Penelope to turn into the lane leading to his family’s farmhouse. He drew up beside the house and set the brake. Before getting down, he shifted to look at her sweet, sad, pleading face. “You’re right. I like you, Clara. I’ve prayed since I was fifteen years old for a godly wife, and I think God brought you here for me. I won’t stop liking you. I can’t.”

  Tears flooded her eyes. She touched the sleeve of his suit coat. Her voice emerged in a coarse whisper. “You must. I know that I’m not meant to be someone’s wife.”

  Anguish writhed through him. “But why?”

  “Don’t ask why. Simply trust my word.” She swept her fingers across her eyes, erasing the tears. She straightened and assumed a determined expression. “I won’t disappoint your mother by refusing to eat with your family, but the day has tired my father. As soon as we’ve finished eating, we’ll need to go home. Will you help Papa, please?” Without waiting for a reply, she clambered down from the seat and darted to the house.

  If she hadn’t promised Mrs. Klaassen that she and Papa would join them for the strangely worded lunch called Faspa, Clara would have gone home, closed herself in her room, and indulged in a good long cry. Her chest ached so badly, she could scarcely take a breath. But she pasted on a smile and visited with Mrs. Klaassen and the other two women who’d come out to partake of rolls; cold meat; cheese; a sweet, cold, pudding-like soup called Plumamooss; and a variety of relishes.

  The women gathered in the parlor and the men in the dining room, which should have been enough of a separation for her to distance herself from Titus. Unfortunately, the wide doorway and her position on the sofa gave her a straight view to Titus’s chair at the end of the table. His gaze never wavered from her face, and like a magnet, his blue eyes pulled her to meet his gaze again and again and again until she wanted to scream in agony.

  The women chatted together about the flavor of Mrs. Klaassen’s pickled watermelon rind, a topic that held no interest for Clara. Her ears tuned to the men’s talk—especially Mr. Klaassen’s booming voice.

  “Ezra, Titus tells us you worked as an accountant in Minneapolis.”

  “That’s right.” Papa spoke more softly, but familiarity with his voice let her hear him clearly. “At the Minneapolis Bank and Trust Company.”

  “Very different from farming,” another of the men said with a short laugh. “What brought you to Wilhelmina?”

  Clara held her breath. Papa wouldn’t share her secret heartache—she trusted him—but how could he answer truthfully?

  “My wife passed away several years ago. Minneapolis has been lonely without her. Clara Rose and I needed a fresh start. The farmstead in Wilhelmina seemed as good a place as any.”

  Titus’s steady gaze sent prickles of awareness up her arms. She set her plate aside and chafed her forearms, shivering.

  The same man who’d asked their reason for coming spoke again. “Too bad you have decided on farming for your living. We have a bank in town, you know, but many of the little towns around us do not. Our banker, Earnest Wiens, is looking for someone to share banking duties with him. No one in Wilhelmina has the knowledge he needs.”

  Clara tore her attention from Titus to Papa. Interest gleamed briefly in his eyes, but he shook his head. “I’m a farmer now, Mr. Rempel.”

  The man shrugged and went back to eating.

  “Clara?” Mrs. Klaassen’s concerned tone pulled Clara’s attention from the dining room and Papa’s wistful expression. “Don’t you care for the Plumamooss? Some people aren’t fond of prunes.”

  Clara forced a smile. “It’s very tasty, I’m just… full.” Full of regret, full of longing, full of dissatisfactions she didn’t understand. She stood. “And the hour is growing late. Papa still rests each afternoon, and I’ve left Rowdy unattended for quite a while. We should go home.” Besides, she needed a long cry to rid herself of the strange emotions tumbling through her chest.

  Everyone bid her and Papa farewell. Titus assisted Papa into the wagon, and he waved as they drove away. At their beautiful little white-and-green house, Clara helped Papa to his room, let Rowdy run outside for a few minutes, then closed herself in her room for the cry she’d promised herself. But to her great disappointment, the tears did not wash away the longings within her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Titus awakened early Monday with a snide question rolling in his mind. So he wasn’t supposed to like her, huh? He’d just have to see about that. Ma often bemoaned that Titus had been given the greatest portion of the Klaassen hardheadedness. Once he set his mind to something, he didn’t let go. Over the years he’d learned to curb the stubborn tendency when his mind led him toward something he shouldn’t have. But Clara was meant to be his wife. He knew it from the depths of his soul. Now it was time for her to accept it.

  He pounded down the stairs two at a time and careened into the kitchen. Ma was already there, stoking the stove in preparation for breakfast and Pa’s important pot of coffee. He snatched his jacket from the hook, then crossed to his mother, shrugging into the coat as he went.

  “Ma, I intend to marry Clara Frazier.”

  She continued adding split pieces of wood to the tiny flame in the belly of the stove. “I presumed as much, Titus.”

  He plunked his fists on his hips and shook his head, twisting his lips into a line of scorn. “She has some wild idea that she can’t get married, that she has to stay home forever and take care of her father. So I have to convince her getting married doesn’t mean she’s abandoning her pa.”

  Ma swished her palms together, closed the door on the stove, and straightened. “Do you know how you will convince her?”

  “Other than praying for God to rain some sense into her, no.”

  Ma laughed. “Are you open to suggestions?”

  He nodded emphatically. “Always.”

  “Good.” Her eyes sparkled. “How about you try this….”

  Clara was surprised when Titus rode up the lane Monday morning. Even though she’d stood at the window, watching, hoping, she hadn’t expected him. After what she had said to him yesterday, she wouldn’t blame him a bit for staying away. No other man had returned after she’d stated her intention to remain dedicated to Papa. But there came Titus on Petunia’s back, just like always.

  Her heart rolled over in her chest, and she dashed to the table to set out another plate.

  Papa stumped from the bedroom. “What are we having this morning, Clara Rose?”

  “Ham, eggs, and hotcakes with strawberry preserves.” The breakfast she’d prepared on Titus’s first day with such disastrous results.

  Papa gave her a speculative look, but she pretended not to notice and busily spooned sweet-smelling batter into the pan. By the time Titus knocked on the door, a stack of hotcakes waited in the warming hob next to a plate of fried ham and a bowl of fluffy scrambled eggs seasoned with grilled onions.

  She poured coffee in the three tin cups on the table while Papa and Titus seated themselves, then she scurried to the stove for the food. As she balanced the plates and bowls in her hands, she tried not to see if Titus watched her. She might begin juggling the items if she glimpsed the same expression on his face as she’d seen yesterday when she left his house. Despite her best efforts, her gaze flicked toward him, and she frowned when she realized he wasn’t paying any attention to her at all. He was too busy using a penknife to trim away a hangnail. At her table?

  “Titus Klaassen, don’t you dare flick a piece of your thumbnail onto my clean floor!”

  He looked up, his eyebrows rising. “Oh. Excuse me.” He pocketed the knife and glanced across the plates she held.

  Her heart began a rapid patter. Would he recognize the significance of the pancakes and preserves?

  “Everything looks good, as usual, Miss Frazier.”

  Miss Frazier? She placed the items in the center of the table, inw
ardly berating herself for the tremble in her hands. “Yes. Well…” She plopped into her chair. “Pray, Papa, so we can eat.”

  Papa’s lips twitched as he lowered his head. His blessing was short, and his tone held an undercurrent of amusement that tempted Clara to kick him under the table.

  Titus echoed his amen and reached for the bowl of eggs. “Ezra, I was wondering—”

  Clara gritted her teeth. So Papa was Ezra, but she was Miss Frazier? Titus must be carrying a grudge. She wouldn’t have expected such a thing from him.

  “—do you enjoy playing checkers?”

  Papa’s eyebrows rose. “Why, yes, I do. I would say next to whist, checkers is my favorite game.”

  Titus stabbed a forkful of ham. “Whist? What’s that?”

  “A card game.”

  Titus shook his head, chuckling. “I’m not familiar with card games. The Mennonites avoid gambling games.”

  Papa laughed. “I avoid gambling games, too, son.”

  Clara gaped at him. Son?

  “But whist is a game of skill and chance. No gambling involved.”

  Titus smiled. “Maybe you could teach me how to play.”

  “I would enjoy that, but whist requires four players.”

  “Oh.” Titus cut away another bite of ham and chewed, his expression thoughtful. “Well then, since there are only two of us, I guess we’ll have to stick to checkers.”

  Clara seethed. Only two? He and Papa acted as if she wasn’t at the table at all. She thumped her fork onto the wood tabletop. “Excuse me. I believe Rowdy needs to go out.”

  Papa looked up in surprise. “Rowdy is still sleeping in his—”

  Clara glared at him.

  Papa gulped. “Never mind. Take him out.”

  She scooped the sleeping pup from his basket and stomped out the door with him, her nose in the air.