Patchwork christmas, p.13
Patchwork Christmas, page 13
Molly coughed even as she smiled. “Sleigh bells!”
A dark dot of something came into view, gliding across the snow like a low-hovering raven flying toward the stranded train. As Jane peered at the spot, it grew, transforming into the discernible outline of a sleigh pulled by a massive black horse. The driver could have been animal, vegetable, or mineral, so swathed was he—or she—in a fur coat and hat. It was hard to tell where the coat left off and the hat began, thanks to a wide gray scarf wrapped ‘round and ‘round the driver’s neck and head. Jane wondered at the driver’s ability to see much through the narrow slit at what Jane presumed to be eye level.
Molly waved as the sleigh slid past the dining car. A pile of blankets next to the driver moved, and one red-mittened hand returned the wave. Apparently the driver wasn’t alone.
The car door opened, and Henry stepped inside, followed by a woman with merry blue eyes shining above the scarf she was pulling down from her face as Henry spoke. “Looks like the good Lord has answered our prayers for the little one.” He nodded at the woman. “Mrs. Gruber’s son was at a neighbor’s when the storm hit. He saw the stranded train on his way home—”
“—and so,” the woman said as she plopped a basket on the table, “I bake.” She pulled a blue and white cloth aside to reveal three loaves of bread.
The driver—presumably Mrs. Gruber’s son—stomped in behind them, still swathed in the gray scarf.
“My son, Peter,” the woman said as she reached for the basket he was carrying. Relieved of his burden, the man said something to Henry about talking to the engineer and retreated back outside, leaving his mother to reveal the contents of the other basket—a pie of some kind and a plate of cookies. Pulling off one red mitten, the old woman reached for a cookie. She hesitated, looking to Jane for approval. “Is all right, ja?” She nodded at Molly.
Jane nodded. “Yes, of course.”
But Molly had already hunkered back down beneath her blankets. When Mrs. Gruber held the cookie out, Molly shook her head. “Thank you,” she coughed, “but I’m not hungry.”
The old woman tilted her head and stared down at Molly. Depositing the cookie back on the plate, she stepped closer and leaned down, putting her palm to Molly’s forehead. She turned back to Jane. “To the house you must come.” She paused. “Better I make the child. Ve haf tea. And herbs.” She pointed at the horizon to the north. “Just there. Is warm, Peter’s house. We bring you back when the train is ready.” She glanced at the porter. “The whistle you blow, and Peter brings back. Is gut, ja?”
Jane didn’t give Henry time to answer. “That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Gruber, but we should stay with the train. We’ll be fine.” She nodded at the baskets of food. “Especially now that you’ve brought supper.” The aroma of whatever was in that pie was making her mouth water.
“Is nothing,” the old woman said with a wave. “Better I have at home.” She looked at Henry. “You should all come. Eat.” She went to the door and shouted for Peter. Her son reappeared, tugging at his gray scarf as Mrs. Gruber waved him into the train car. She babbled in German and gestured toward Molly and Jane.
The man’s voice rumbled through his scarf. “We don’t live far. Come where it’s warm, Mrs.—?”
“McClure,” Jane said. “Jane McClure.” She glanced at Molly. “And this is Molly.”
The man chuckled and glanced at his mother, who smiled and said, “Is good name, Molly.”
Mr. Gruber’s voice warmed with obvious pride as he said, “Mother’s brought several hundred children into this world. She’s an excellent nurse.” His dark eyes crinkled at the corners as he said to Jane, “She already has an onion plaster planned to break the fever. And there’s syrup for the cough.” He shrugged. “It tastes terrible. But it works.”
The old woman broke in. “When train whistles, Peter brings you back in sleigh.” She patted Molly on the head. “Your Molly will be better.”
Jane cleared her throat. “I … I don’t have …” She swallowed. Shook her head. “I can’t pay for medical care.”
The old woman put her palm to her chest. Sighed. Shook her head. “Not to pay.” She tucked gray curls back beneath her knit cap, then pulled her mittens back on as she appealed to Henry. “You must to say. Ja?”
Henry spoke up. “I’ve been riding these rails a few years now, ma’am. Porters hear things, just as a routine part of the job.” He smiled. “Mrs. Gruber has quite the reputation in Buffalo County. Healing hands, folks say.”
As if on cue, Molly coughed. And coughed. And coughed, whimpering with the effort and murmuring about a sore throat. Jane swallowed. Was it her imagination, or was her own throat a little sore as well? The woman smiled and nodded. And her son—what little of him Jane could see—he had kind eyes, at least. She relented with a nod. “All right then. Thank you.” When she reached for her coat, her knee twinged. With a soft grunt and a grimace, she shifted her weight.
Mrs. Gruber caught her hand. “Vas ist?”
“It’s nothing,” Jane lied. “I slipped on the ice at the train station.”
The old woman arched one eyebrow. “Also ve vill see to this ‘nothing.’” She spoke again to her son. Jane helped Molly don her coat and then shrugged into hers. While they gathered their things, Henry reassured Mrs. Gruber that the train crew would gather soon and enjoy the feast she’d provided before the pie got cold.
As Jane reached for their carpetbags, she twisted her knee just the wrong way. Pain shot up her thigh, and though she pressed her lips together to prevent it, Mrs. Gruber apparently heard her soft cry, for she said something to her son, and before Jane could utter a protest, the man had swept her off her feet and headed up the aisle of the train and out to the sleigh. Over his shoulder, Jane saw Henry scoop Molly up and follow in their wake. Mrs. Gruber trundled behind them with the two carpetbags.
In no time, Jane and Molly were settled behind the driver’s seat, swaddled in layers of fur hides and comforters. Mr. Gruber helped his mother aboard and then climbed up beside her, even as Henry called out reassurance from the platform between the train cars. “You rest well, ma’am. Soon as the snow stops, we’ll start digging out. There’s sure to be a crew on the way to help. You’ll be in Denver before you know it.”
Denver. Jane gazed back at the train as the sleigh glided across the snow to the rhythmic jangle of the sleigh bells attached to the black horse’s harness. She should have asked to send word to Mr. Huggins. Would the Union Pacific give notice to people coming to meet the train in Denver? Surely they would. Still, Jane wished she’d asked Henry about sending Mr. Huggins a telegram. Then again, telegrams cost money. And she had none.
Chapter 4
With a whimper about her head hurting, Molly climbed into Jane’s lap as Mr. Gruber drove the horse across the frozen landscape. Not until the sleigh came to a stop did Jane take note of anything but Molly’s whimpers, her restlessness, and the heat from her feverish body. Mr. Gruber helped his mother down first, then came to the side of the sleigh where Jane was seated. When he opened his arms, Jane handed Molly over.
As the man headed for the house, Jane took note of what little of the place she could see. Did these people live in a cave? Snow obscured nearly everything, save a length of pipe emerging from a drift and the shoveled path to what appeared to be a very heavy wooden door. There had to be a barn, but Jane couldn’t see it. The world around them was a blank slate of white.
The child was too thin—just like her mother. They both had that pinched look about their eyes, the look he’d seen on too many faces in the cities he’d marched through on that fabled “March to the Sea” masterminded by General Sherman. Peter had been little more than a boy all those years ago, but some of the things he’d seen still haunted him. There’d been so much hunger. So much need.
Peter offered to carry the woman inside if she would just wait while he took the child in, but she shook her head and climbed down with a soft grunt. As she followed him inside, Peter wondered what lay hidden behind those gray eyes of hers. The pinched look and the lightness of the child didn’t match the fineness of their clothes. And people on Pullman Palace cars didn’t carry threadbare carpetbags. Ah, well. Whatever the mystery, Mutti would soon have the child feeling better. Thank God for Mutti and her way with people … and her gift for healing.
The minute Peter stepped inside, Mutti waved him toward her room. “Take her there. I get featherbed. In here we set up cot.”
“Let me climb up and get the featherbed,” Peter said, ducking into Mutti’s room to deposit the sleeping child on her bed. He hesitated only long enough to pull the bottom half of a tied comforter up from the foot of the bed to cover her. It would keep her warm for the few minutes until Mutti had things arranged.
Intending to climb to the loft, he hurried back into the main room, but Mutti had already shed her cape and bonnet and mittens and was halfway up to the loft above. Peter knew better than to scold her. Mutti didn’t appreciate reminders of her advancing age. She seemed to have read his mind though, as she shot him a warning glance. Don’t say it. She was already to the top of the ladder before the child’s mother had so much as unbuttoned her coat. When the woman hesitated, looking about the room, Peter pointed to the free hook next to Mutti’s cape.
She hesitated. “But that’s for your coat.”
“I have to see to things outside,” he said. “My Molly doesn’t take kindly to being made to stand in the cold once she’s home.” When she looked confused, Peter smiled beneath his scarf. “The horse. Her name is Molly, too.”
They both started. Mutti had pushed the featherbed off the ledge above. It landed with a thud at the base of the ladder. “If lingering you are, Peter, let me hand down some quilts.”
Mrs. McClure quickly removed her coat and hung it on the hook Peter had indicated earlier. “I’ll take them.” She headed for the ladder.
He couldn’t help but notice the woman’s narrow waist as she limped across the room to where Mutti waited, a stack of quilts just showing at the edge of the loft above her room. The limp. He’d forgotten. Something about a sore knee. If he stayed inside to help, he was going to have to unwrap the scarf and— He glanced up at Mother and saw understanding—and with it, sadness in her eyes.
“You may go,” she said, her voice gentle. “We will be fine here.”
With a nod, he headed back into the cold world outside.
Jane held her hands above her head as, one by one, Mrs. Gruber dropped three quilts and then sheets and two pillows down from the loft. Finally Mrs. Gruber lowered a bundle that proved to be a folding cot. As Jane bent to unfold it, she thanked Mrs. Gruber again. “This is so kind of you.”
The old woman backed her way down the ladder, but once her feet were on solid ground, her wrinkled face folded into laugh lines as she said, “To have guests makes blizzard into blessing.” She put her palm to her chest. “You must to call me Anna, please.”
Jane nodded. “All right, Anna. And I’m Jane.” She smiled. “I understand your son’s horse and my daughter share a name.”
Anna chuckled. “Is good name, Molly. Fine horse, beautiful child.” Just then the Molly in the other room began another round of coughing. Anna followed Jane into the bedroom, where she bent down and pulled out what proved to be a trundle from beneath the bed. “We make this up for Molly”—she hesitated and pointed at Jane’s knee—“or for you. Whichever is better. You decide.”
Jane frowned as she glanced toward the middle room. “But we just—” She hesitated.
Anna nodded. “The cot is for me.”
“I couldn’t possibly—”
“You must,” Anna insisted. “Your Molly needs rest and quiet. Peter is up very early. I must cook for him. Is better for all.” She bustled into the other room.
Jane went to Molly’s side, murmuring comfort as she helped her out of her coat. “You have a fever.” She bent to make up the trundle and had just pulled Molly’s nightgown out of her carpetbag when Anna appeared in the doorway.
She held up a huge shirt. “Please to put this on.” She showed Jane the deep V at the front, explaining that the nightshirt was one of Peter’s castoffs and would make things easier when it came time to apply the poultice she would cook in the next few minutes. “So,” she said, “you make ready, and I make poultice and tea.” Without waiting for Jane to answer, she retreated back to the main room.
With a grimace, Jane moved about the trundle, spreading a clean sheet across the featherbed. “I’ll help you with the nightshirt, but you’re going to have to climb down to the trundle yourself, sweetheart. I’m afraid I don’t trust my knee to pick you up.”
Molly sat up, blinking and putting her hand to her head. “My head hurts. It’s too bright.”
Jane turned to look out the window that was, now that Molly had mentioned it, letting in more light than she would have expected. The sun must have peeked through the clouds. Jane rose and went to the window to pull the plain muslin curtains closed, smiling as she noted the embroidered design on the simple fabric—a crane of some kind, from the long neck and storklike legs. As she reached up to draw the curtains closed, a shadow fell across the snow. Jane leaned forward just in time to catch sight of Peter Gruber leading his Molly around the rim of a mountain of snow that Jane realized must be hiding the barn. She smiled at the picture of the massive black horse following its owner like an overgrown dog.
When the mare stretched out her neck and nipped Mr. Gruber’s shoulder, he batted her away. She dodged his hand, then lowered her head and butted him between the shoulders, sending him headlong into the snow. Jane could have sworn the horse was laughing as it stood, bobbing its head up and down as it watched Mr. Gruber flounder his way back to his feet. Gruber’s booming laughter sounded through the window as he shook the snow off and bent to pick up his scarf.
With a sharp intake of breath, Jane stepped back from the window and dropped the curtain. She glanced back at Molly. Maybe she wouldn’t notice. Of course she’ll notice. Unless he’s only inside when it’s dark, she’ll notice. And ask all sorts of embarrassing questions. Children just do that. They don’t mean anything by it, but—
The poor man. Such terrible scars. Just the thought of the agonies he must have endured made Jane shiver. She would make certain to speak of it to Molly. In some way to prepare her to be polite. And kind. Wondering if it had been a mistake to come here after all, she limped back to the bed and finished helping Molly change.
Peter’s laughter died the instant he noticed movement at his mother’s bedroom window. Snatching his hat out of the snow, he clamped it on his head, then grabbed Molly’s bridle in mock anger. “Come along, you. Just look what you’ve done. They’ve only been here a few minutes, and you’ve managed to frighten our guests.” His eyes stung from the cold. He turned his face away from the window. The woman had let go of the curtain, but maybe she was still in there … peering at him through that tiny crack where the curtains didn’t quite meet the window frame.
He shook his head as he headed into the barn. Even after all this time, a little thing like a curtain moving brought everything back. Would he never escape it? He’d come here to do just that—to build a life away from the memory of rejection and from the pity he’d never asked for. Mutti called the scars his “Medal of Honor.” He wouldn’t mind them so much, if only a few more of the boys in his regiment had gotten up that hill behind him before the rebels realized there was a sharpshooter in the trees. All the while he was tending Molly, Peter fought the memories of the shouts … the rebel yells … and the searing pain of the minié ball that had changed everything. Forever.
Once Molly was unharnessed and standing in her stall, contentedly munching on the mash Peter had mixed for her, he pulled his scarf back up over his nose and ventured back to the house, keeping a wary eye on the bedroom curtain as he walked the shoveled path between the barn and the soddy. After he opened the front door, he leaned in just far enough to make certain his mother heard him call for her, keeping the scarred side of his face turned toward the door.
“Come in and close the door,” she scolded as she looked up from where she stood at the stove, stirring something oniony. Mrs. McClure wasn’t in the room. Still, Peter only stepped in far enough to pull the door closed against the cold. “I need to shovel a path to the necessary. Then I’ll check the harness. And Molly seems a bit off her feed. I may stay out in the barn for a while to keep an eye on her. Don’t worry if I don’t come in right away.”
“It’s too cold for you to be outside for long.”
“I’ve got that little stove in the tack room. I’ll work in there. It’ll be fine.”
Mutti tilted her head and peered at him, a question in her eyes. She glanced at the room where the sick child and her mother must be resting, then looked back at him and shook her head.
He cleared his throat. “Do you need me to move the child?”
“She is settled in my room.” Mutti pointed at the cot. “I sleep here.”
Peter nodded, relieved that he wouldn’t have to dance about trying to avoid guests bedded down in the main room. He could rise early and find things to keep him busy out in the barn until the train signaled its departure.
Mutti leaned over the pot to inspect the contents as she spoke. “As soon as I have seen to the poultice … and to Jane’s knee … I start our supper.” She ladled some of the concoction into a crockery bowl and reached for the squares of flannel on the table. “Go,” she said, shooing him out the door. “Tend to things in the barn. But there will be a meal served at the usual time, and coming after you by lamplight I will not do.”
He nodded. “Just light the lamp in the window. I’ll come right in.”
Chapter 5
Molly had just donned Peter Gruber’s nightshirt and, with a little shiver, settled back beneath the covers when Anna bustled into the room, bowl in hand. “Please to make ready for poultice,” she said to Jane, as she moved to the opposite side of the high bed.
A dark dot of something came into view, gliding across the snow like a low-hovering raven flying toward the stranded train. As Jane peered at the spot, it grew, transforming into the discernible outline of a sleigh pulled by a massive black horse. The driver could have been animal, vegetable, or mineral, so swathed was he—or she—in a fur coat and hat. It was hard to tell where the coat left off and the hat began, thanks to a wide gray scarf wrapped ‘round and ‘round the driver’s neck and head. Jane wondered at the driver’s ability to see much through the narrow slit at what Jane presumed to be eye level.
Molly waved as the sleigh slid past the dining car. A pile of blankets next to the driver moved, and one red-mittened hand returned the wave. Apparently the driver wasn’t alone.
The car door opened, and Henry stepped inside, followed by a woman with merry blue eyes shining above the scarf she was pulling down from her face as Henry spoke. “Looks like the good Lord has answered our prayers for the little one.” He nodded at the woman. “Mrs. Gruber’s son was at a neighbor’s when the storm hit. He saw the stranded train on his way home—”
“—and so,” the woman said as she plopped a basket on the table, “I bake.” She pulled a blue and white cloth aside to reveal three loaves of bread.
The driver—presumably Mrs. Gruber’s son—stomped in behind them, still swathed in the gray scarf.
“My son, Peter,” the woman said as she reached for the basket he was carrying. Relieved of his burden, the man said something to Henry about talking to the engineer and retreated back outside, leaving his mother to reveal the contents of the other basket—a pie of some kind and a plate of cookies. Pulling off one red mitten, the old woman reached for a cookie. She hesitated, looking to Jane for approval. “Is all right, ja?” She nodded at Molly.
Jane nodded. “Yes, of course.”
But Molly had already hunkered back down beneath her blankets. When Mrs. Gruber held the cookie out, Molly shook her head. “Thank you,” she coughed, “but I’m not hungry.”
The old woman tilted her head and stared down at Molly. Depositing the cookie back on the plate, she stepped closer and leaned down, putting her palm to Molly’s forehead. She turned back to Jane. “To the house you must come.” She paused. “Better I make the child. Ve haf tea. And herbs.” She pointed at the horizon to the north. “Just there. Is warm, Peter’s house. We bring you back when the train is ready.” She glanced at the porter. “The whistle you blow, and Peter brings back. Is gut, ja?”
Jane didn’t give Henry time to answer. “That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Gruber, but we should stay with the train. We’ll be fine.” She nodded at the baskets of food. “Especially now that you’ve brought supper.” The aroma of whatever was in that pie was making her mouth water.
“Is nothing,” the old woman said with a wave. “Better I have at home.” She looked at Henry. “You should all come. Eat.” She went to the door and shouted for Peter. Her son reappeared, tugging at his gray scarf as Mrs. Gruber waved him into the train car. She babbled in German and gestured toward Molly and Jane.
The man’s voice rumbled through his scarf. “We don’t live far. Come where it’s warm, Mrs.—?”
“McClure,” Jane said. “Jane McClure.” She glanced at Molly. “And this is Molly.”
The man chuckled and glanced at his mother, who smiled and said, “Is good name, Molly.”
Mr. Gruber’s voice warmed with obvious pride as he said, “Mother’s brought several hundred children into this world. She’s an excellent nurse.” His dark eyes crinkled at the corners as he said to Jane, “She already has an onion plaster planned to break the fever. And there’s syrup for the cough.” He shrugged. “It tastes terrible. But it works.”
The old woman broke in. “When train whistles, Peter brings you back in sleigh.” She patted Molly on the head. “Your Molly will be better.”
Jane cleared her throat. “I … I don’t have …” She swallowed. Shook her head. “I can’t pay for medical care.”
The old woman put her palm to her chest. Sighed. Shook her head. “Not to pay.” She tucked gray curls back beneath her knit cap, then pulled her mittens back on as she appealed to Henry. “You must to say. Ja?”
Henry spoke up. “I’ve been riding these rails a few years now, ma’am. Porters hear things, just as a routine part of the job.” He smiled. “Mrs. Gruber has quite the reputation in Buffalo County. Healing hands, folks say.”
As if on cue, Molly coughed. And coughed. And coughed, whimpering with the effort and murmuring about a sore throat. Jane swallowed. Was it her imagination, or was her own throat a little sore as well? The woman smiled and nodded. And her son—what little of him Jane could see—he had kind eyes, at least. She relented with a nod. “All right then. Thank you.” When she reached for her coat, her knee twinged. With a soft grunt and a grimace, she shifted her weight.
Mrs. Gruber caught her hand. “Vas ist?”
“It’s nothing,” Jane lied. “I slipped on the ice at the train station.”
The old woman arched one eyebrow. “Also ve vill see to this ‘nothing.’” She spoke again to her son. Jane helped Molly don her coat and then shrugged into hers. While they gathered their things, Henry reassured Mrs. Gruber that the train crew would gather soon and enjoy the feast she’d provided before the pie got cold.
As Jane reached for their carpetbags, she twisted her knee just the wrong way. Pain shot up her thigh, and though she pressed her lips together to prevent it, Mrs. Gruber apparently heard her soft cry, for she said something to her son, and before Jane could utter a protest, the man had swept her off her feet and headed up the aisle of the train and out to the sleigh. Over his shoulder, Jane saw Henry scoop Molly up and follow in their wake. Mrs. Gruber trundled behind them with the two carpetbags.
In no time, Jane and Molly were settled behind the driver’s seat, swaddled in layers of fur hides and comforters. Mr. Gruber helped his mother aboard and then climbed up beside her, even as Henry called out reassurance from the platform between the train cars. “You rest well, ma’am. Soon as the snow stops, we’ll start digging out. There’s sure to be a crew on the way to help. You’ll be in Denver before you know it.”
Denver. Jane gazed back at the train as the sleigh glided across the snow to the rhythmic jangle of the sleigh bells attached to the black horse’s harness. She should have asked to send word to Mr. Huggins. Would the Union Pacific give notice to people coming to meet the train in Denver? Surely they would. Still, Jane wished she’d asked Henry about sending Mr. Huggins a telegram. Then again, telegrams cost money. And she had none.
Chapter 4
With a whimper about her head hurting, Molly climbed into Jane’s lap as Mr. Gruber drove the horse across the frozen landscape. Not until the sleigh came to a stop did Jane take note of anything but Molly’s whimpers, her restlessness, and the heat from her feverish body. Mr. Gruber helped his mother down first, then came to the side of the sleigh where Jane was seated. When he opened his arms, Jane handed Molly over.
As the man headed for the house, Jane took note of what little of the place she could see. Did these people live in a cave? Snow obscured nearly everything, save a length of pipe emerging from a drift and the shoveled path to what appeared to be a very heavy wooden door. There had to be a barn, but Jane couldn’t see it. The world around them was a blank slate of white.
The child was too thin—just like her mother. They both had that pinched look about their eyes, the look he’d seen on too many faces in the cities he’d marched through on that fabled “March to the Sea” masterminded by General Sherman. Peter had been little more than a boy all those years ago, but some of the things he’d seen still haunted him. There’d been so much hunger. So much need.
Peter offered to carry the woman inside if she would just wait while he took the child in, but she shook her head and climbed down with a soft grunt. As she followed him inside, Peter wondered what lay hidden behind those gray eyes of hers. The pinched look and the lightness of the child didn’t match the fineness of their clothes. And people on Pullman Palace cars didn’t carry threadbare carpetbags. Ah, well. Whatever the mystery, Mutti would soon have the child feeling better. Thank God for Mutti and her way with people … and her gift for healing.
The minute Peter stepped inside, Mutti waved him toward her room. “Take her there. I get featherbed. In here we set up cot.”
“Let me climb up and get the featherbed,” Peter said, ducking into Mutti’s room to deposit the sleeping child on her bed. He hesitated only long enough to pull the bottom half of a tied comforter up from the foot of the bed to cover her. It would keep her warm for the few minutes until Mutti had things arranged.
Intending to climb to the loft, he hurried back into the main room, but Mutti had already shed her cape and bonnet and mittens and was halfway up to the loft above. Peter knew better than to scold her. Mutti didn’t appreciate reminders of her advancing age. She seemed to have read his mind though, as she shot him a warning glance. Don’t say it. She was already to the top of the ladder before the child’s mother had so much as unbuttoned her coat. When the woman hesitated, looking about the room, Peter pointed to the free hook next to Mutti’s cape.
She hesitated. “But that’s for your coat.”
“I have to see to things outside,” he said. “My Molly doesn’t take kindly to being made to stand in the cold once she’s home.” When she looked confused, Peter smiled beneath his scarf. “The horse. Her name is Molly, too.”
They both started. Mutti had pushed the featherbed off the ledge above. It landed with a thud at the base of the ladder. “If lingering you are, Peter, let me hand down some quilts.”
Mrs. McClure quickly removed her coat and hung it on the hook Peter had indicated earlier. “I’ll take them.” She headed for the ladder.
He couldn’t help but notice the woman’s narrow waist as she limped across the room to where Mutti waited, a stack of quilts just showing at the edge of the loft above her room. The limp. He’d forgotten. Something about a sore knee. If he stayed inside to help, he was going to have to unwrap the scarf and— He glanced up at Mother and saw understanding—and with it, sadness in her eyes.
“You may go,” she said, her voice gentle. “We will be fine here.”
With a nod, he headed back into the cold world outside.
Jane held her hands above her head as, one by one, Mrs. Gruber dropped three quilts and then sheets and two pillows down from the loft. Finally Mrs. Gruber lowered a bundle that proved to be a folding cot. As Jane bent to unfold it, she thanked Mrs. Gruber again. “This is so kind of you.”
The old woman backed her way down the ladder, but once her feet were on solid ground, her wrinkled face folded into laugh lines as she said, “To have guests makes blizzard into blessing.” She put her palm to her chest. “You must to call me Anna, please.”
Jane nodded. “All right, Anna. And I’m Jane.” She smiled. “I understand your son’s horse and my daughter share a name.”
Anna chuckled. “Is good name, Molly. Fine horse, beautiful child.” Just then the Molly in the other room began another round of coughing. Anna followed Jane into the bedroom, where she bent down and pulled out what proved to be a trundle from beneath the bed. “We make this up for Molly”—she hesitated and pointed at Jane’s knee—“or for you. Whichever is better. You decide.”
Jane frowned as she glanced toward the middle room. “But we just—” She hesitated.
Anna nodded. “The cot is for me.”
“I couldn’t possibly—”
“You must,” Anna insisted. “Your Molly needs rest and quiet. Peter is up very early. I must cook for him. Is better for all.” She bustled into the other room.
Jane went to Molly’s side, murmuring comfort as she helped her out of her coat. “You have a fever.” She bent to make up the trundle and had just pulled Molly’s nightgown out of her carpetbag when Anna appeared in the doorway.
She held up a huge shirt. “Please to put this on.” She showed Jane the deep V at the front, explaining that the nightshirt was one of Peter’s castoffs and would make things easier when it came time to apply the poultice she would cook in the next few minutes. “So,” she said, “you make ready, and I make poultice and tea.” Without waiting for Jane to answer, she retreated back to the main room.
With a grimace, Jane moved about the trundle, spreading a clean sheet across the featherbed. “I’ll help you with the nightshirt, but you’re going to have to climb down to the trundle yourself, sweetheart. I’m afraid I don’t trust my knee to pick you up.”
Molly sat up, blinking and putting her hand to her head. “My head hurts. It’s too bright.”
Jane turned to look out the window that was, now that Molly had mentioned it, letting in more light than she would have expected. The sun must have peeked through the clouds. Jane rose and went to the window to pull the plain muslin curtains closed, smiling as she noted the embroidered design on the simple fabric—a crane of some kind, from the long neck and storklike legs. As she reached up to draw the curtains closed, a shadow fell across the snow. Jane leaned forward just in time to catch sight of Peter Gruber leading his Molly around the rim of a mountain of snow that Jane realized must be hiding the barn. She smiled at the picture of the massive black horse following its owner like an overgrown dog.
When the mare stretched out her neck and nipped Mr. Gruber’s shoulder, he batted her away. She dodged his hand, then lowered her head and butted him between the shoulders, sending him headlong into the snow. Jane could have sworn the horse was laughing as it stood, bobbing its head up and down as it watched Mr. Gruber flounder his way back to his feet. Gruber’s booming laughter sounded through the window as he shook the snow off and bent to pick up his scarf.
With a sharp intake of breath, Jane stepped back from the window and dropped the curtain. She glanced back at Molly. Maybe she wouldn’t notice. Of course she’ll notice. Unless he’s only inside when it’s dark, she’ll notice. And ask all sorts of embarrassing questions. Children just do that. They don’t mean anything by it, but—
The poor man. Such terrible scars. Just the thought of the agonies he must have endured made Jane shiver. She would make certain to speak of it to Molly. In some way to prepare her to be polite. And kind. Wondering if it had been a mistake to come here after all, she limped back to the bed and finished helping Molly change.
Peter’s laughter died the instant he noticed movement at his mother’s bedroom window. Snatching his hat out of the snow, he clamped it on his head, then grabbed Molly’s bridle in mock anger. “Come along, you. Just look what you’ve done. They’ve only been here a few minutes, and you’ve managed to frighten our guests.” His eyes stung from the cold. He turned his face away from the window. The woman had let go of the curtain, but maybe she was still in there … peering at him through that tiny crack where the curtains didn’t quite meet the window frame.
He shook his head as he headed into the barn. Even after all this time, a little thing like a curtain moving brought everything back. Would he never escape it? He’d come here to do just that—to build a life away from the memory of rejection and from the pity he’d never asked for. Mutti called the scars his “Medal of Honor.” He wouldn’t mind them so much, if only a few more of the boys in his regiment had gotten up that hill behind him before the rebels realized there was a sharpshooter in the trees. All the while he was tending Molly, Peter fought the memories of the shouts … the rebel yells … and the searing pain of the minié ball that had changed everything. Forever.
Once Molly was unharnessed and standing in her stall, contentedly munching on the mash Peter had mixed for her, he pulled his scarf back up over his nose and ventured back to the house, keeping a wary eye on the bedroom curtain as he walked the shoveled path between the barn and the soddy. After he opened the front door, he leaned in just far enough to make certain his mother heard him call for her, keeping the scarred side of his face turned toward the door.
“Come in and close the door,” she scolded as she looked up from where she stood at the stove, stirring something oniony. Mrs. McClure wasn’t in the room. Still, Peter only stepped in far enough to pull the door closed against the cold. “I need to shovel a path to the necessary. Then I’ll check the harness. And Molly seems a bit off her feed. I may stay out in the barn for a while to keep an eye on her. Don’t worry if I don’t come in right away.”
“It’s too cold for you to be outside for long.”
“I’ve got that little stove in the tack room. I’ll work in there. It’ll be fine.”
Mutti tilted her head and peered at him, a question in her eyes. She glanced at the room where the sick child and her mother must be resting, then looked back at him and shook her head.
He cleared his throat. “Do you need me to move the child?”
“She is settled in my room.” Mutti pointed at the cot. “I sleep here.”
Peter nodded, relieved that he wouldn’t have to dance about trying to avoid guests bedded down in the main room. He could rise early and find things to keep him busy out in the barn until the train signaled its departure.
Mutti leaned over the pot to inspect the contents as she spoke. “As soon as I have seen to the poultice … and to Jane’s knee … I start our supper.” She ladled some of the concoction into a crockery bowl and reached for the squares of flannel on the table. “Go,” she said, shooing him out the door. “Tend to things in the barn. But there will be a meal served at the usual time, and coming after you by lamplight I will not do.”
He nodded. “Just light the lamp in the window. I’ll come right in.”
Chapter 5
Molly had just donned Peter Gruber’s nightshirt and, with a little shiver, settled back beneath the covers when Anna bustled into the room, bowl in hand. “Please to make ready for poultice,” she said to Jane, as she moved to the opposite side of the high bed.
