Wonderful Lonesome Page 2

  Her face cracked in a smile. “That’s right. One day at a time. We will get through this summer and have a bountiful harvest. You will see.”

  Rudy lifted his eyes at the approaching sound of boots. “Hello, Willem. Abbie tells me the two of you have fetched Ruthanna home from Pennsylvania.”

  “That’s right.”

  As soon as Willem stood beside Abbie, Rudy saw the hopefulness in the turn of her head, the wish for what Willem had not yet given her.

  Willem seemed in no hurry about anything except that his farm should succeed. He and Abbie were so different that Rudy often wondered if the predictions that they would one day wed would come true. Abbie’s one-day-at-a-time conviction might exasperate her when it came to waiting for Willem, and she might yet turn her head in that way toward another man.

  Perhaps even toward Rudy.

  When Rudy first arrived in Colorado, he regretted not bringing a wife with him. Then he met Abbie. He hated to think how he might have wounded a wife who saw through him.

  “It’s good to see you both,” Rudy said. “We should all be on our way back to the farms, don’t you think?”

  Willem squinted at Rudy’s retreating back. “Is Rudy all right?”

  Abbie pressed her lips together. “I hope so. I suppose no one can blame him for a moment of indecisiveness.”

  “Is that what it was?”

  Abbie was not inclined to answer. Willem was not inclined to press.

  “We should get Ruthanna home,” he said. “She’s worried about Eber.”

  “Of course. If you are sure we remembered everything.”

  “Even if we have forgotten something, Limon is not going away. We will be back.” Willem followed Abbie’s line of sight to where Rudy stepped off the depot platform and stroked the neck of his midnight black horse.

  “We should make sure Ruthanna has plenty to drink,” Abbie said in a thoughtful murmur. “I can see she is weary, and Eber is ill. They will need something for supper tonight. I’m sure my mother can spare part of tonight’s stew.”

  Willem nodded. Abbie, as always, thought of everything.

  When they returned to the bench where they had left Ruthanna, she was standing and engaged in conversation with a man in a black suit. Willem’s mind tried to sort out which Amish man this might be.

  “Is that Jake Heatwole?” Abbie asked.

  Willem nodded slowly as memory came into focus. “I believe so.”

  “What is he doing talking to Ruthanna?”

  “You have to admit, they are two of the friendliest people we could ever hope to meet. They’ve met each other several times before.”

  “But—”

  Willem cut off Abbie’s protest. “But he’s a Mennonite minister. Yes, I know. Does it really make a difference when we can’t find a minister of our own?”

  Abbie drew up her height. Willem ignored the whoosh of air she sucked in.

  “Jake,” Willem said, “what you brings you all the way from La Junta again?”

  “Thought I would come and see how folks are,” Jake answered with a smile. “Ruthanna tells me Eber is ill. Perhaps I’ll pay him a call while I’m here.”

  “Jake says he plans to stay for at least a week,” Ruthanna said. “Of course, I hope Eber will be feeling better long before that.”

  “He probably just needs his wife back,” Jake said.

  “If you’re planning to stay a few days,” Willem said, “why don’t you stay with me? My home is small, but there’s room for another bedroll.”

  Abbie barely managed to swallow words she would have regretted and hoped the flush she felt move through her face was not visible. What was Willem thinking? The four of them began moving toward Willem’s wagon.

  “Where did you leave your horse?” Willem asked.

  “At the blacksmith’s,” Jake answered. “She seemed to be favoring one foot on the ride up, so I thought he should look at her shoes. He should be just about finished.”

  “We’ll give you a ride over if you don’t mind sitting in the wagon. I am afraid the bench is full with the three of us.”

  Abbie admired many things about Willem. He was kind and generous and determined and hardworking. But this was going too far.

  “It’s only a few blocks,” Jake said. “I don’t mind the fresh air.”

  “It is at least a mile,” Willem pointed out. “The blacksmith refuses to have a shop closer to town.”

  Slightly more than a mile, Abbie thought, which raised the question of what Jake was doing at the train station in the first place if he had left his horse. He carried no burlap sacks or packages tied with string from the mercantile. If he had not come to Limon for supplies unavailable in La Junta, then he had only one purpose. Abbie set her jaw against what she knew to be true.

  “In fact,” Willem said, “why don’t we pick up your horse and then you can ride alongside us? We can chat about how your plans are coming for starting a Mennonite church in Limon.”

  There it was. Leave it to Willem to speak it aloud. Abbie heard the whistle of an approaching freight train on the Rock Island track.

  Jake dipped his head, the black brim of his hat swooping low. “Now that, my friend, is a subject I never tire of talking about.”

  “Willem, Mr. Heatwole might have other business in town,” Abbie said. “We ought not to rush him.”

  “It is no problem,” Jake said. “In fact, I appreciate the hospitality.”

  The train stirred up the wind around them, and its shuddering volume silenced the moment.

  At Willem’s wagon, he put Ruthanna’s suitcase in the bed and extended a hand toward her. “I promise you’ll be home soon.”

  Ruthanna accepted Willem’s assistance onto the bench. “I admit a certain amount of curiosity about the new church myself.”

  Abbie half rolled her eyes. She and Ruthanna had discussed this topic more than once, and Ruthanna had been steadfast that she would never leave the true church. What was there to be curious about?

  Ruthanna swallowed hard. The ride home would be just over eight miles to the point where her farm touched the corners of Abbie’s, Willem’s, and Rudy’s. She had made it dozens of times before with Eber, and the miles always passed pleasantly enough. The child had changed that. Now every jostle, every dip, every sway required utmost concentration to keep her meals where they belonged. It would be good to sleep in her own bed again, beside Eber.

  Their small home was hardly more than a lean-to compared to the homes of her parents and their friends in Pennsylvania, but at least it belonged to Eber and her. Ruthanna had a cast-iron stove for cooking, a firm rack for dry goods, a real mattress on an iron frame, and a table and four matching chairs. The baby would not need much at the beginning. Eber would build on next year, after the harvest. The baby would have plenty of room by the time she was ready to walk.

  She.

  Ruthanna smiled at the thought as Abbie settled in beside her.

  “How long did you say Eber has been ill?” Ruthanna asked. “He didn’t mention it in any of his letters.”

  “Just a couple of days, as far as I know,” Abbie answered. “I only saw him a few times while you were gone.”

  “I do not suppose you would have reason to see him often. It’s not like him to be sick.”

  “I admit I’ve never seen him ill before this, but everyone gets tired, Ruthanna.”

  “Not Eber.”

  Willem took up the reins. Ruthanna glanced over her shoulder at Jake stretching his legs in the wagon bed. He was a warm, sincere man with an infectious devotion. It seemed unjust to dislike him simply because he was a Mennonite, so she didn’t. Surely Abbie did not truly dislike him, either.

  It was the threat that Jake Heatwole carried in his every step that disturbed Abigail Weaver.

  Abbie watched Jake Heatwole, relaxed in the wagon, as he conversed with Willem about why he thought Limon needed another church. It mattered nothing to Abbie whether Jake Heatwole started another English church
. He had left the true faith when he joined the Mennonites. All that remained was to pray that he would not lure any of the Elbert County Amish. Willem had many responsibilities that demanded his best effort. Why would he think it profitable to spend time with Jake Heatwole?

  Unless. Abbie sat up straighter. Unless Willem thought Jake would repent and return to the Amish.

  Abbie wrapped three still-warm loaves in a soft flour sack and laid the bundle beside two similar offerings on the small table beside the hearth. The day was half gone, its first hours spent making bread dough, waiting for it to rise, heating the small oven, and baking bread two loaves at a time.

  Esther Weaver silently counted on her fingers. “Twenty loaves. Nine for the single men leaves eleven for us.”

  “They came out well this week, don’t you think?” Abbie resisted the urge to slice into a loaf that very moment and slather a thick serving with the butter she had churned the day before.

  “The way your brothers have been eating lately,” Esther said, “they’ll go through three loaves a day if I don’t stop them.”

  “I’ll make more tomorrow,” Abbie suggested.

  Esther shook her head. “There’s too much to do. We can’t get in the habit of giving more than one day a week to baking. It’s time the boys learned some self-control.”

  Abbie had to agree Daniel, Reuben, and Levi seemed to have bottomless stomachs, but she also noticed that all their trousers were too short again.

  “Are you taking the open cart?” Esther asked.

  Abbie nodded. “I don’t mind the sun, and sadly, it is not likely to rain.”

  “No, I suppose not, though I pray every day for that particular blessing.” Esther hung an idle kettle above the hearth. “On baking days at this time of year, the temperature is no different inside or out.”

  “Daed keeps talking about building a summer kitchen. I saw his sketch. It would have shade but no walls.”

  “He has many plans, but just when we need a summer kitchen the most, he must spend all his time thinking about getting water to the fields.”

  “He has ideas for an ingenious irrigation system,” Abbie said. “It will not always be this hard. Not every summer will be a drought.”

  Esther smiled and tilted her head. “Abigail, my child, we have been here five years. Have we seen a single summer that was not drought compared to Ohio—and this one worse than all the others?”

  “Then we are just about due for a nice wet summer.”

  “You had better get going. Where are you cleaning today?”

  “Rudy’s.” And she would scrub his home spotless. She did not want to give Rudy any more reason to feel defeated.

  Three weeks had passed since Abbie caught Rudy in the ticket line. She saw little of him, but he did not leave her mind. She would give encouragement in any form she could manage, including a sparkling house. Rudy Stutzman had a gift for understanding animals and keeping them healthy. If he left, who would be able to put a hand on the side of a cow and know that the animal’s temperature was too high?

  The wide brim of Abbie’s bonnet, tied over her prayer kapp, allowed her to watch the road ahead of her without squinting. When she saw the Millers’ buggy swaying toward her in the narrow road, she smiled. In a few more seconds she could see that both Albert and Mary were on the bench. That would mean that little Abraham was with them, probably in the back of the small black buggy.

  Abbie lifted a hand off the reins to wave, and the Millers responded almost immediately. She guided her horse as far to the side of the road as she dared to take the cart’s wheels. By the time her cart and the Millers’ buggy were side by side, eighteen-month-old Abraham was peeking out from his miniature straw hat and had a thumb under a suspender strap in imitation of his father.

  “Hello, Little Abe,” Abbie said.

  The little boy waved, his fingers squeezing in and out of his fist. Abbie thought Abraham was the most beautiful child she had ever seen, though to speak the sentiment would tempt his parents to pride, so she did not. His chubby, shiny face, with its constant half smile, never failed to charm her.

  Abbie raised her eyes to the child’s parents. “How are the Millers today?”

  Albert gave a somber nod. “We look for God’s blessing of rain.”

  “As do I.”

  “We have just come from Eber and Ruthanna’s.”

  “I was there yesterday to see how Ruthanna was feeling. How is she today?”

  “She was having a good morning. Eber’s health is of some concern to her, it seems.”

  “Yes, I was sorry to hear that he has a difficult day from time to time.” Abbie suspected Eber’s difficult days were more frequent than he admitted, and that was the reason for Ruthanna’s concern.

  “They’ve been hearing coyotes,” Albert said. “We should all be watchful.”

  “By God’s grace they will not come close.”

  Abraham rubbed his eyes, and his mother said, “It’s time for us to get this little one home for a nap.”

  Albert nudged the horse and the Millers moved on. Abbie pulled her cart back onto the road, sighed, and smiled at the thought of Little Abe, and now Ruthanna’s baby. These precious children were the future of the settlement. Whatever their parents suffered now would be worthwhile when they had strong, thriving farms to pass on to their sons.

  A few minutes later, Abbie could tell from the stillness outside Willem’s house that he was not there. Even the chickens had found a settled calm. Willem rarely was in the house when she came. He was running a farm, after all. Yet each time she hoped this would be the visit that he would be there to greet her.

  She let herself in, making a point to look for an extra bedroll. Seeing only one, Abbie exhaled in relief. At least Jake Heatwole was not in residence this week. She moved across the undivided space to the area that would be called a kitchen were the structure a proper house. Last week’s flour sack was empty, neatly folded, and laid precisely in the middle of the table. Abbie picked it up and put the new sack, holding three loaves of bread, in its place.

  Then she scanned the room. Next week would be Willem’s turn for a thorough cleaning, but Abbie looked for any task that appeared urgent for this day. Willem had been more generous with space in building his house than many of the settlers, and this pleased Abbie. There was plenty of room for a wife, and even a child or two. Willem also had partitioned off a true bedroom. Abbie peeked in there now, something she had come to be able to do without blushing at the thought that this would one day be her bedroom as well.

  She found little to do. Although Willem ate the bread she brought and appreciated her cleaning efforts, he was remarkably neat for someone who lived alone. His habits were thoughtful and purposeful, features she believed she would appreciate even more when she was his wife.

  By the time Abbie tidied up at Widower Samuels’s house and made the wide circuit back to Rudy Stutzman’s farm, bordering in a narrow strip on the Weavers’, midafternoon had pressed in on the plain with the fiercest heat of the day. A wisp of humidity made Abbie reconsider her position that there was no reason to think it might rain that day. The whole community would raise hearts of gratitude if it were God’s will to answer their prayers for moisture.

  Rudy stood in a pasture with two English men about half a mile from his house. Abbie slowed the horse and cart long enough to try to recognize the English, but she could not see their faces well and could not be sure whether she had ever seen them before. At their ankles nipped a black and white dog. The mixed breed had turned up one day as a pup not more than ten weeks old and attached himself to Rudy. Because of his shaggy coat, Rudy had dubbed him Rug. When Abbie caught Rudy glancing up at her now, she had half a mind to tie up the horse and traipse through the pasture, but she would have no good explanation for doing so. With reluctance, she nudged the horse onward.

  Rudy’s house was built for a bachelor, one modest room for sleeping, cooking, and eating, and a functional covered back porch for storing
an unsystematic array of household and hardware items. Abbie put the bread in the middle of a table and found the previous week’s limp flour sack hooked over the unadorned straight back of one of Rudy’s two mismatched chairs. Then she looked in the water barrel and mentally gauged how much she would want for a proper cleaning. She would not use that much, of course. Rudy had a well, and as far as Abbie knew it did not threaten to run dry for household use and watering the animals, but water was too dear to use a drop more than necessary.

  Abbie reached for the broom propped in one corner and began carefully dragging it through the dusty footprints on the floor of patchwork linoleum strips. She hung Rudy’s extra pair of trousers on a hook, decided that the weak seam in his quilt would have to wait till another day, slid aside the few plates he owned so she could wipe down the shelves, and cleaned the dirty bowls in the bin that served as a sink. Every few minutes Abbie’s gaze drifted out the open front door. She wished Rudy would walk through it and she could find out once and for all what was happening in that pasture.

  Rudy chided himself. He ought to have known better than to agree to a meeting with the English on an afternoon when Abbie was due to come. But the visitors had gone to the trouble to track him down in his farthest field, where he fought a battle against weeds that only grew more futile in the face of strangled crops, and rode with him to the pastures where his eight cows and three horses grazed.

  “You have some fine animals,” Mr. Maxwell said, “though the coats on several of the cows lack a healthy sheen. That will, of course, affect the price we can offer. We cannot offer top dollar for unhealthy specimens.”

  Rudy said nothing. The cows were healthy. He would not engage in a discourteous conversation to prove his point. Only two days has passed since he mentioned to the owner of the feed store that he might sell his cows to the right owner, along with one of his horses. With his crop choking, the dairy cows were his livelihood. He would have to be certain of the decision he made.