Mr. Thoresen had listened and watched quietly. Now he spoke to Uli who nodded.
“Onkel says if you are afraid of him he will know it. You must be bold because you are his mistress, and he must learn to mind you.”
Thoresen’s blue eyes challenged her. Squaring her shoulders, Rose held out her hand to the dog. He sniffed it and then her skirts. He looked up expectantly so she patted him.
That wasn’t too bad, Rose admitted.
Jan handed the rope to her and spoke to Uli again.
“Onkel is going to drive a stake for you to tie him to, otherwise he may try to go home. You are to leave him tied up for two days and feed him. Then he will think this is his home and stay all by himself. Also, stake Snowfoot near him—not too near at first, though. Soon he will know Snowfoot lives here too and will protect her.”
Mr. Thoresen went about cutting and driving a stake while Rose held the dog’s rope uncertainly. He gazed hopefully at her—one of his droopy eyes was blue, the other golden, she realized.
“Don’t ever look in a mirror,” she muttered. The pup wagged his tail when she spoke. He never took his eyes off her.
The stake was in, the dog tied, and the goat placed nearby. Immediately the dog began to pull at the rope and whine.
“He isn’t used to being tied up, but he will be all right.”
“What do I feed him, Uli?”
“Oh, most anything. He will catch his own food later—you know, rabbits and ground squirrels. That’s nice too, because they eat a lot from your garden. Well, we have to go now. G’bye.”
Mr. Thoresen pulled Uli up in front of him on the horse. Rose decided it would be polite to at least thank him.
“Hm. Thank you very much, Mr. Thoresen.”
He glanced at the dog and back to her. She was certain for once that he was laughing behind that impassive expression.
“Ja, sure,” he replied.
Rose was busy with her usual chores all day. The dog alternately pulled on his rope or wound himself up in it and yelped piteously, so she was constantly untangling him. His reaction when she came near him became more friendly each time. Moreover, he came near to knocking her down in his exuberance. This was repugnant to Rose and she became more put out with the inconvenience each time, but the fact that Snowfoot seemed relaxed made her tolerate it.
That night after Snowfoot and Prince were inside the stable, Rose brought the pup a large plate of Prince’s oats, cooked and cooled. He ate them gratefully and drank deeply from the pan of water next to them. Then he lay down quietly so Rose went to her own dinner relieved.
The sound of the pup’s angry baying that night awakened Rose. She rushed from the house and slipped the rope off his stake, freeing him. Fiercely he charged across the yard and around the stable, disappearing into the darkness beyond. His bark (a sort of cross between a deep cough and a howl) echoed back, farther away. Rose checked the stable; the door was secure, and Prince and Snowfoot, awake and alert, seemed fine.
Rose waited by the back door more than an hour for him to return.
“He probably saw a shadow, and now I’ve let him run home,” Rose fumed. “Brian will bring him back tomorrow and tell me how foolish I am. Well, I’m going back to bed!”
When Rose opened the door to fetch water in the morning, there, across the threshold on the top step lay the dog. The rope was gone—no, six inches of it hung from the collar and his coat was a mess from his jaunt. But he seemed happy to see her. His tail thumped as if to say, “See? I’m a good dog!”
“Well!” Rose went to the trough and began to pump. The dog stayed close beside her, not exactly underfoot, but nearly. After starting the fire and putting coffee on, she went to the stable.
On the ground, mingled with her own footprints were new coyote tracks. They led off in the direction the dog had gone last night.
Rose examined him closely. He wasn’t just dirty—his left ear was slightly torn and bloody, and some of the other marks on him were dried blood too. Getting on her knees, Rose patted him and spoke in genuine praise. “You are a good boy. Good boy!”
She scratched his head, and he closed his eyes. Rose was so impressed that she gave him half of Snowfoot’s milk as a reward. Afterward, he crawled under the house and slept several hours.
Later in the day she saw him marking the perimeter of the yard. He swaggered around, sniffing everything and letting everyone know he was there. Even Snowfoot endured his close examination and then astounded Rose by playfully butting him in the side. Maybe it would work out to have a dog, she admitted. When it was evening again and time to milk the goat, the dog and goat were both fast asleep, the dog’s head resting protectively on her rump.
“All right, dog,” Rose relented. “It looks like you’ll be staying. But you don’t own the place. I’m the boss—even if you do act like the ‘Baron of Brownlee Estate’”!
He merely thumped his tail and stretched nonchalantly. He had no doubts about staying.
Chapter 19
The calendar showed it was almost the first of June. Rose had been in RiverBend for five weeks, and her life had taken on the feel of regularity, each day flowing peacefully into the next. The repairs to her house were finished, including three windows large enough to let in light and allow Rose to enjoy the view. Moreover the hard work of living by herself out in the country with three animals and a new garden to care for demanded all her attention and strength. Yes, it was hard, but she thrived on it and ate and slept better because of it.
There was no way she could compare her life with many of the other women living in the district, though. She had her money to buy whatever she needed or just wanted and the option of leaving for the comforts of an easy life anytime she chose. Her heart ached over the stark poverty of some of her new acquaintances, a few really on the point of destitution. They had begun with little and by sheer sweat and determination managed to feed their growing families. But the children had to have clothes, shoes, and schooling, the roof needed repairs, the mule went lame, or father or mother couldn’t work. Their existence hung by such a fragile thread—how real a God must be for people in desperate circumstances!
One woman in particular Rose had only seen once yet her look of emptiness went to Rose’s soul like a knife. “I must have looked like that when I lost James and the children,” she realized. “God reached out to me; could I reach out to her for him?”
The woman glided through town with her family, silent and wraithlike, stopping at Schmidt’s for only the most meager of purchases. She stared bleakly at the bright bolts of fabric and colorful pots, pans, and dishes but never touched them. Her children were as silent and drab as she, gazing at the glass candy case without a flicker of emotion. Rose wasn’t fooled. Inside those malnourished, veiled expressions lived little boys and girls who longed to run and laugh, lick peppermint sticks, and have all they wanted to eat for dinner every night. The father, Rose noted, could afford his plug of tobacco and spoke roughly to his wife for “gawkin’ at them fancy do-dads.”
Rose observed the woman’s involuntary cringe. Does he beat her? she wondered, and indignation welled in her breast at his arrogance. A desire to help somehow was born in that instant.
Evenings when she spent real time praying, she asked the Lord to show her what she could do. How could she help these women? Would her money be of use? “It belongs to you, Lord; I will always have enough. Whatever you tell me to do with it is what I will do.”
So the unnamed woman and her family were on Rose’s lips daily.
Then, since the time for her things to arrive was close, Rose went to town both on Wednesday and Friday that week. The perishable freight sent by her mother’s gardener could not be allowed to sit in the sweltering sun without disastrous effects, so she must check with Mr. Bailey after each twice-weekly train. On Wednesday after the Tuesday evening train there was nothing for her. On Friday, a letter had arrived.
Dear Rose,
We’ve all had our struggles accepti
ng what you’ve decided, but have reconciled ourselves for the most part. Mother, of course, has cried, complained, and run the gamut of emotion. I believe if your letters continue to express the satisfaction and happiness of your situation it will help.
We are all in good health. Abby is growing with “expectation” and Mother is spending her attentions on helping to prepare for baby. Of us all, Abby was most supportive of your venture. She has even suggested that we visit you next year! What a woman. It seems your descriptions of spring on the prairie really sparked her inner eye.
Oh, yes, we are shipping your requested items directly following this letter. Mother adamantly refused to send anything at first until I pointed out that as a woman past the age of twenty-one you have all the rights and privileges of managing your own affairs as Mother has of hers. It may have come as a shock to her to recall that you are not a child anymore, but it did the trick and getting your freight together began soon after.
I turned the list of landscaping items over to Abby who remains enthusiastic about beautifying your prairie cabin. Maybe that is why she wants to come next year and has added several pieces of her own inspiration as a gift. I have not yet developed a craving to spend more than a week on a train one way anywhere with a family to care for, but who knows? I may miss my dearest sister enough by then to suffer the discomfort with joy.
Mother is enclosing her letter with the freight, but we all send our love and best hopes for the success of your schemes. Remember—you can always come home if by any chance things don’t work out.
I am always your loving brother,
Tom
“What a precious message,” Rose murmured. “And my things will be here next week!” Because the following train would arrive Tuesday, she could be fairly certain of that. She sipped her coffee slowly and reread every line. What if they did come next spring? Her imagination went wild with delight. Somehow she knew both Tom and Abigail would love it.
Rose usually saw Meg and went visiting when she was in town, but that was regularly on Wednesdays. Today, Friday, Vera was out in the country herself with Pastor nursing a sick family. Rose decided to invite Mrs. Schmidt to have lunch at the boarding house.
The bell jingled merrily when she breezed through the door. “Hello, Mr. Schmidt!” she called out.
He didn’t answer and a strange tension permeated the store. By the cash register stood a dark-haired young man of about twenty-eight or so. His hair was long and unkempt, his clothes slovenly. In his hand he held a lovely glass platter, one of the few pretty items Mrs. Schmidt had in stock.
“I guess I didn’t hear ya right, Schmidt. I thought I heered ya say I don’t get no more credit?”
Mr. Schmidt’s face was red with suppressed anger. He reached to take the plate from the man, but it was jerked out of Mr. Schmidt’s reach.
“Hey, old man! I’m a-lookin’ at this!”
“Mr. Grader,” Mr. Schmidt spoke tightly, “Unless I get some money on your account, I cannot gif you anymore credit! It’s been four months now.”
“Really? Well, don’t worry ’bout it. I’ll pay ya next month. Right now I need me some beans, cornmeal, and tabaccy. Jest put it on my tab.”
“No. I cannot anymore.”
“Well now, I didn’t know you were gonna be unreasonable and not take my business! That could lose you money.”
The plate slipped intentionally from his fingers and smashed on the floor.
“Oh, gee—what’d I tell ya?” He picked up a glass sugar bowl and pretended to examine it.
Mrs. Schmidt heard the breaking glass and came bustling out, concern written on her face. She took in the situation at once and looked helplessly at Rose still standing just inside the door. Grader’s eyes followed her nervous glance to Rose.
“Hey—you must be thet widder lady from back east they telled me about.” The man seemed to have just noticed Rose. He looked her over rudely and called back to Mr. Schmidt.
“Why don’tcha introduce us, Schmidt?”
Mr. Schmidt hesitated. The sugar bowl fell to the floor, shattering. Stifling a hurt cry, Mrs. Schmidt looked to Rose again. Rose walked forward and stopped in front of the man.
“My name is Mrs. Brownlee. Do you intend to pay for the damage you have done?” She tried to sound as authoritative as possible, but knew she was only bluffing.
He bowed sarcastically in return. “My name is Mr. Grader,” he mimicked. “But you kin call me Mark.” He looked her over again.
“By God, I believe you do have money. Bet she don’t owe you none, huh, Schmidt?” he picked up a vase now and stared with meaning at Mr. Schmidt.
“Why doncha add some coffee and sugar to my order, old man? And hurry it up.”
Beaten, Mr. Schmidt gathered the items and stacked them on the counter. He didn’t bother to write up a charge. Tossing the vase to Mrs. Schmidt and laughing raucously, Mark Grader picked up the groceries and strode out. Just at the door he turned and lifted his hat in mockery.
“Good day, Mrs. Brownlee!” His laughter followed him out onto the street.
“That man just robbed you! Don’t we have a policeman, constable, or sheriff or something?”
Mrs. Schmidt answered, “Ve haf only a Mayor and a council. Ve will complain to them and they will do something, hope. That man Mark Grader is bad, but his brother is worse. They put him in prison last year for hurting a man who made him angry, and now Mark is half crazy—like he is looking to fight mit someone.”
Mr. Schmidt was ashamed. “I apologize, Frau Brünlee. That you should be spoken to in that way in my store . . .” He shook his head sorrowfully.
“No, please don’t feel that way. You are not responsible for that man’s actions. We’re friends here. I came to ask Mrs. Schmidt to have lunch with me at Mrs. Owens’ parlor. Are you free to be my guest, Mrs. Schmidt?”
The good woman looked the question at her husband with pleading eyes. He nodded immediately.
“I get mine hat, Frau Brünlee!” she said eagerly.
Her face was shining as they strolled over to the boarding house. A bought lunch! Rose became infected with her excitement and they both ordered gleefully. Hot tomato soup, chicken sandwiches, and cool peaches shimmering in golden syrup were followed by rich chocolate cake with thick icing and coffee. Mrs. Schmidt was having such a wonderful time that she became like a girl for a few minutes, shedding the weariness of hard frontier life. Rose thoroughly enjoyed her company and her tales of life in native Bavaria before coming to America.
“Ach! It’s beautiful in Deutschland, aber the land is all owned by the rich, and ve pay very much to use it. Many years of hunger and getting no better made us think to come to America. Ve vork hard, very hard and now ve own land and store and haf good life for children.” She paused. “I find Lord Jesus here, too, dank the good Gott! If Heinrik find him, too, den ve have best life together.”
Rose agreed. “I want you to know, Berta, that I’m praying for you, but mostly for Mr. Schmidt to know Jesus. If friends pray together, they can expect good things to happen.”
“Ja? Are you really? How dat gifs me hope! Can we pray now, together, bitte?”
Rose and Mrs. Schmidt put their heads close together and prayed. When they were done, Berta squeezed Rose’s hand.
“Dank you so much! And for saying you are my friend.”
How many new friends did she now have, Rose wondered on her way home. In five short weeks—almost a month and a half—her life had taken on new meaning and purpose.
Sunday the Medfords spent the afternoon with her. It was the first real hospitality she had given, but soon, she told them, her things would arrive, and she would have dishes and chairs. They laughed uproariously because dinner was served on cheap tin and Jacob Medford sat on a box at the table. Rose didn’t even own enough plates so she was using a bowl for her food.
“I’ll have you back properly, I promise!” she assured them.
“If we enjoy ourselves less than this, Rose, it won�
�t be worth it!” Vera chuckled.
“Well, anyway, I believe the shipment will be here on the Tuesday night train. Would you be able to drive it out here Wednesday morning, Pastor?”
“I could on Thursday, Miss Rose. I’m sorry, but I have several appointments that day.”
“Of course. That’s all right, but some of it really shouldn’t wait until Thursday. There are some perishable items that can’t sit in the sun. Could you suggest anyone else?”
“Why don’t you have little Karl Thoresen drive it? He’s young, but Jan raised him to be very conscientious and dependable.”
“Thank you for the idea! I’ll ask him tomorrow.”
The morning was soft and misty when she drove to Thoresens’. She felt familiar on her second visit and greeted Amalie as warmly as she was welcomed.
It was impossible to actually tell Amalie what she came for though, even if Rose did enjoy her coffee, pastry, and chatter, so Rose employed Uli to interpret. The child took her job seriously and endeared herself further to Rose by her solemn manner.
“Uli,” Rose began, “Would you tell your mother, first of all, how much I enjoy her hospitality?”
Amalie responded to that with what pleasure it gave to have a lady visit her—that Rose’s company was a treat.
They smiled at each other with perfect understanding. “This is going to work out well,” Rose rejoiced.
“Uli, next let your mother know that my household things are arriving on the train tomorrow night. I need a driver to bring them home, and Pastor suggested Karl. Would he be willing and available to do the job?”
Uli translated dutifully and brought Rose Amalie’s reply.
“Mor says we would be happy to help. She says maybe little Karl and Onkel both should come because she thinks it would take two men to do a good job and not drop your pretty things.”
Rose made a note to herself that Norwegian for mother and father must be Mor and Onkel. She had heard Uli use “Mamma” several times also. “Mor must be a little more formal,” Rose decided.
“I hate to take Mr. Thoresen from his work here at home when this is such a busy season,” she objected.
A Rose Blooms Twice Page 15
