Lyn Cote Read online

  His inability to put his thoughts into words chafed his nerves. Or perhaps it was merely the nearness of her. “They will call him names” was the best he could mutter.

  She tilted her head and considered him. He felt his face warm.

  “Mr. Lang, that will only happen if he does a poor job spelling. If he does a good job, quite the opposite will happen. He will rise in their estimation. I suggest you go over his weekly spelling list every evening. I know this is harvest but before bed—”

  “We do already,” he said somewhat gruffly. Why did he have to notice how her hair had slipped down the back of her neck, and how, from her working in the sun, two tiny golden freckles had popped up on her nose?

  “Then I don’t think you have anything to worry about.” She smiled. “Johann is doing quite well.”

  Evidently she was unaware that Johann doing well might only make others sharpen their claws. He didn’t want to point this out, spoil her faith in her students. Without another word to her, he turned to carry his bag of corn to the corn crib near the cabin.

  His head was full of worry for Johann—till he heard a girl’s giggle. Uneasy, he halted at the point where the cornfield gave way to the clearing and scanned his surroundings.

  To his right, just in the cover of the surrounding forest stood Gunther and the storekeeper’s daughter. She pressed her back against the tree and Gunther rested a hand above her head, leaning toward her.

  Aggravation and alarm vied within Kurt. He had ordered Gunther to put Amanda Ashford out of his mind. He was too young, and her parents would make a big noise if they heard about their daughter and that “Dutch” boy. Kurt nearly called out to Gunther, but something stopped him.

  Things with Gunther had been much better at home. Did he want to risk this new harmony just because Gunther was stealing a moment with Amanda?

  At that instant, Mrs. Steward solved the problem by coming around the cabin toward the fields. She waved to him. “I’m bringing water for us!”

  He walked to meet her. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted the young couple separate and disappear, probably to reappear far from each other in a few moments. “Good. I will just add this to the crib and be right back.”

  Mrs. Steward halted and poured him a cup of water. “Wait. After you dump the corn, would you drop in on Martin? I think he’d like a man to talk to.”

  Kurt downed the cold water in a single draft and, refreshed, handed her back the cup. Though he wanted to make every working minute count—who knew when rain would come and make the fields muddy and the corn wet?—he nodded to her request. He understood loneliness, since he lived with it daily. The least he could do was go talk to Martin.

  He dumped his sack of corn into the crib and then secured its door against scavengers. He walked to the cabin, his muscles still warm from the work. Sitting down would feel good.

  He stopped in the open doorway, sorting through his thoughts, choosing something safe to discuss with Martin.

  “Kurt,” Martin greeted him with evident pleasure. “How is the harvest coming?”

  An easy subject. “I think you have a fine yield. The soil is good here.”

  Martin grinned, moved slightly and grimaced. “I’m sorry to make double work for you.”

  “It is no trouble. You would do the same for me.”

  Martin nodded. “How’s Ellen?”

  “Ellen?” Why had Martin asked him that? “She is digging potatoes.”

  “I see. That’s all you have to say about my wife’s pretty cousin?”

  Kurt stared at Martin.

  “You think Ophelia and I haven’t seen how you look at her sometimes when you think nobody is looking?”

  Kurt tried to deny this but his tongue tangled up and nothing to the purpose came out.

  “Don’t be so shy. I know Ellen has declared that she isn’t interested in marriage, but…”

  When Martin’s voice trailed off, Kurt studied him. “But?” he prompted finally.

  “Sometimes a woman gets swept off her feet by a man with a glib tongue,” Martin said, not enlightening Kurt very much. “I think Ellen is getting over…something like that. I probably shouldn’t be saying anything. It’s her business, not mine.” Martin appeared pained by his suggestion.

  A man with a glib tongue? That gave Kurt some idea of why Ellen held herself aloof sometimes. “I understand,” Kurt said, though of course he really didn’t. “I think another two days and I’ll have your corn in.”

  Martin looked relieved at the switch back to farm talk.

  Soon Kurt excused himself and headed back to the cornfield, turning over in his mind Martin’s words about his cousin. Kurt had thought Martin would be against his interest in Miss Thurston, but he hadn’t sounded unsympathetic. What should Kurt make of that?

  Why did life have to be so complicated? All he wanted was to raise Gunther and Johann and live a quiet life, free of gossip and conflict. What was wrong with that?

  Well, to start with, in all honesty, that wasn’t all he wanted.

  Before turning his attention to getting in Martin’s corn, he looked across the field to where Miss Thurston was digging, giving in to bittersweet temptation.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Sunday worship had finished and outside people were chatting, or climbing into wagons and carts to head home. Kurt had brought Mrs. Steward and little Nathan with him, and now he waited for them alone beside his wagon. After the closing prayer, Mrs. Steward had been surrounded by people who wanted a firsthand and detailed report on her husband’s recovery.

  Johann mingled with the other children. Since today was the Sabbath, none of them could run or play or swing but they could talk and tease quietly. Kurt couldn’t see Gunther, which of course made him think that Gunther was with Amanda.

  “I wonder why Miss Thurston doesn’t put that Dutchman in his place.” A woman’s sharp voice from the other side of his wagon hit Kurt like an arrow through his heart.

  “Maybe she doesn’t realize that he’s making up to her,” said another woman.

  “Humph. No woman is that naive. You heard him speak up about that baby she’d taken in. I think she encouraged him. Why else would he have done that?”

  Kurt cringed. What he had most feared was happening. His association with Miss Thurston was harming her reputation.

  “I wonder if that’s why she chose his nephew to head up one of the spelling teams at school.”

  “Maybe that’s just for practice, not the competition. I’m sure she wouldn’t put a foreigner forward at the big spelling bee in the spring, would she?”

  The other woman sighed. “Who knows what she would do.”

  For a moment, Kurt hoped they wouldn’t see him as they came around the side of his wagon. But as they came abreast of him, they glanced his way and shock registered on their faces. In return, anger boiled up inside him. Covering this, he nodded slowly at the women, touching the brim of his hat as their faces reddened. They flashed him false smiles and gathered their skirts to hurry toward their husbands and their wagons.

  His body radiated heat like a torch. People are talking about me and the schoolteacher. Hadn’t he been flogged enough by gossip and whispering in Germany? Must he also endure it here?

  He’d been right to be concerned that people would gossip about Johann being chosen as captain. And he was right to fear that Gunther’s infatuation with Amanda would soon be noticed and spark more gossip. But never in his worst nightmares had he thought people would link him with Miss Thurston in a romantic way. Being coupled with him would surely do her no favors.

  As Miss Thurston approached him with William in her arms, Kurt suddenly felt as if every eye around the clearing was on him.

  “I’m going home with Ophelia,” she said.

  He knew Miss Thurston was waiting for him to help her up onto the bench yet he found he couldn’t touch her.

  “Let me get Johann,” he said sharply, stepping away from her. He hated himself for such a displa
y of poor manners, but he had no idea how else to save her reputation.

  “Johann,” he said as he approached the boy, “it is time we leave.”

  Johann looked unhappy but, waving to his friends, he joined Kurt. “My team is studying spelling. We are going to win again.”

  Kurt glanced at his nephew’s shining face.

  My team. We are.

  Dismay and gratitude warred in his heart. Was it possible Miss Thurston was right, and that Johann was being accepted? And I left her standing by the wagon.

  They arrived back at the wagon and found Mrs. Steward and Miss Thurston already seated on the wagon bench. Gunther sent Kurt a confused look. “I helped the ladies up.”

  “Danke. Thank you, Gunther.” Kurt walked around and got himself up on the bench without looking at the women while Johann climbed in back with Gunther. Kurt untied the reins and started the team off toward home.

  As he drove, he couldn’t help but wonder if the two women he’d overheard were saying what everybody else in town was already whispering. He swiped at his perspiring forehead with his sleeve. He knew exactly what he must do to silence the gossips. He hated the very thought of it, but he’d been left with no recourse but to gently distance himself from Miss Thurston.

  He owed her that much.

  *

  On Tuesday afternoon, Ellen was standing at the front of her classroom, listening to the second graders reading aloud from McGuffey’s Reader, so happy for just another routine day. Then Mrs. Ashford burst through the school doors.

  “We need Johann!” she shouted. She grabbed the boy by the hand and yanked him to his feet, dragging him behind her like a kite tail. “It’s an emergency!”

  Half the students also jumped to their feet.

  “What is it?” Ellen called to the woman’s back, her pulse racing suddenly.

  Mrs. Ashford didn’t reply, holding on to Johann and running outside.

  “Amanda!” Ellen said, halting the girl who looked ready to follow her mother. “Come forward! Children, stay where you are and do whatever Amanda tells you to. Disobedience will not be tolerated.” Ellen swished past as the girl moved quickly to the front of the class.

  What could possibly cause Mrs. Ashford to require Johann? Ellen reached the town’s street within minutes. A Conestoga wagon sat in the middle of the street, oxen drinking at the water trough in front of the General Store.

  The blacksmith and Mr. Ashford stood beside the wagon looking troubled. Ellen approached them, trying to calm her breathing. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s a bad business,” Mr. Ashford replied. “We’ve sent for the preacher, but you go on inside and help my wife, please. The…woman is distraught.”

  The woman? And why the hesitation? She tried to peer into the wagon, but Mr. Ashford forestalled her with a raised hand. “Don’t look.”

  His words pushed her back as if he’d shoved her. He was clearly shielding her from something he thought unfit for a lady. She hurried inside and found Mrs. Ashford sitting by the cold stove, patting a weeping woman’s hand. Three boys like stair steps huddled behind the weeping woman.

  Johann was in the center of it all, speaking to the stranger in German.

  Ellen tried to still her qualms and sat in the chair opposite the woman. “Mrs. Ashford, what’s happened?”

  “I’m afraid that this poor woman stopped for help. Her husband was ill. Mr. Ashford couldn’t understand her but she took his hand and drew him outside. When he climbed into the wagon, he found that the poor man had already expired.”

  From what she’d seen outside, Ellen had anticipated something like this but still couldn’t hold back a gasp. “She doesn’t speak English?”

  “Barely any. That’s why I came for the Dutch…for Johann. I didn’t know how to tell her.”

  Ellen hated that a seven-year-old boy had been given the task of informing a woman that her husband had succumbed to death. But necessity often forced youngsters to accept responsibilities they were too young to carry. How was the boy?

  Ellen noted his unusual crestfallen expression. She touched his arm. “Johann, tell the woman that the town will help her. Mr. Ashford has sent someone to fetch our pastor.”

  “Yes, indeed. We must help her,” Mrs. Ashford agreed, wiping her own eyes.

  Ellen realized that the storekeeper’s wife was feeling the woman’s suffering. Some things cut across the barriers of language and nationality. “What is her name?”

  “She is Mrs. Bollinger,” Johann said, “Marta Bollinger from Switzerland.”

  “Where was she bound?” Ellen asked.

  Johann asked the woman and then replied, “New Glarus.”

  “Why, that’s way southeast of us,” Mrs. Ashford exclaimed. “They should have gone east when they reached the Wisconsin River.”

  Johann translated this. The widow sobbed, rocking in her misery. Her children huddled closer to her.

  “Johann, I think it’s better not to ask her any more questions,” Ellen instructed. “Mrs. Ashford, I think some chamomile tea might calm the lady.”

  “Of course!” The storekeeper’s wife leaped to her feet. “And I’ll bring some food down, too. Won’t take me a moment.”

  Ellen was glad she’d come. She would make sure no one said anything unfeeling or unkind to the poor woman. Johann talked gently to the children in German, but the three boys said little in return. The eldest looked to be only around the same age as Johann. Moving nearer, Ellen patted the woman’s back, praying for her.

  Soon Mrs. Ashford bustled in with a large tray of tea, thick slices of fresh bread, pale butter and golden honey for the family.

  “Danke” was all the woman said, tears still washing down her face. She tried to nibble at the food. The boys murmured their thanks, too, and they ate as if starved. Mrs. Ashford had just returned with another tray with sliced apple cake when Noah Whitmore arrived.

  And Kurt Lang, just behind him.

  Ellen’s heart leaped at the sight of him. Kurt would be able to comfort the woman.

  “Is this the new widow?” Noah asked gravely, doffing his hat.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Ashford said, looking truly saddened. “You brought Mr. Lang with you.”

  Ellen was pleased to hear the obvious relief in Mrs. Ashford’s voice.

  “Kurt says he will translate for me. I think it’s better to have an adult address this sensitive situation.”

  “Of course.” Mrs. Ashford wiped away a tear herself. “It’s just so sad.”

  At this moment, a woman with a basket over her arm entered the store, jingling the bell, startling them. Mrs. Ashford hurried to steer the customer away from the knot around the cold stove. Ellen stepped back also but stayed nearby because she didn’t want the woman to be surrounded only by men. Johann moved to stand with the three little boys.

  Noah sat on one side of the widow and Kurt on the other. “Has she been told her husband is dead?” Noah asked Johann.

  “No,” Johann said, sounding scared. “I thought it better for my uncle to tell her. He would know what to say. Her name is Frau Marta Bollinger.”

  Ellen looked at Kurt. When he met her gaze, she wanted to reach out and comfort him. The task before him was an dreadful one. But she knew he had the strength and heart to do it. And apparently, so did other people in Pepin.

  Kurt nodded to Johann and then grasped the woman’s hand. “Frau Bollinger, my name is Kurt Lang,” he said in German. “I came to live here this spring. This man is Noah Whitmore. He is the pastor here. I am very sorry but I’m afraid your husband is dead.”

  The woman bent her head into her hands, sobbing. “Nein, nein…”

  Noah gently claimed her other hand. “Tell her we’ll take care of everything. And she isn’t to fear being in want. She has our deepest sympathy.”

  Kurt translated this and patted the woman’s hand. He was aware of Miss Thurston hovering nearby, her sympathy evident in her expression. He wished he could turn to her to help him comfort this stra
nger. She would know just what to say. But he had promised himself he would not do anything to add to the gossip about them.

  “What will we do now?” Frau Bollinger asked Kurt, near hysteria. “I have no idea how…” She shut her mouth, obviously trying to stay in control.

  Kurt did not know how a burial was handled here. He knew how death was dealt with when one had a church and a churchyard, a home and a family. He turned to Noah. After Noah reassured Kurt that all would be done as it should be, he rose and went out to talk to Mr. Ashford. Miss Thurston took Noah’s place beside the woman, her pretty face drawn in deep concern. She murmured soft, comforting words to Frau Bollinger.

  To witness Miss Thurston being so kind to this woman reminded him that he must keep his distance from her. Kindness could move any heart and he needed to keep his own far from Miss Thurston. He focused his attention on the widow as they began to help her calm herself to face her husband’s final resting. Bad memories of funerals flowed through Kurt’s mind, stirring up a pain too deep for words. He noticed behind him that even Mrs. Ashford spoke to the customer in hushed tones. His sympathy went out to this woman, a stranger in a strange land.

  *

  After all that had taken place since Mrs. Ashford had come running into her school, Ellen felt dazed. Noah and the Ashfords had sent for people, and the poor man had been laid out and buried on land Mr. Lang offered. Now Ellen, the Ashfords, the Langs, the Stewards, the Whitmores with the Bollingers stood on the gentle green hillside where they had laid Joachim Bollinger to rest. Around them the maples blazed scarlet, bright spots amid the sorrow.

  Ellen had already decided what she would do, and now was the time to announce it. “I’ll take Mrs. Bollinger and her sons home with me.”

  Everyone turned toward her.

  “But you don’t speak their language,” Mrs. Ashford objected.

  “I was hoping that Mr. Lang would permit Johann to stay with me to translate. That would make it easier for her sons, too.”

  As everyone simply stared at her in disbelief, a host of melancholy black birds swooped skyward, their strident calls filling the air.