A Promise to Love (11 page)

At home, Bible study and prayer had been a major part of her life. Now that things were settling down here, she intended to get back into her routine of reading from the Scriptures every night before bed. Tonight, it felt especially appropriate to read 1 Corinthians 13, the chapter about love.

“What are you reading?” Agnes asked, looking over her shoulder.

“My
Bibel
.”

“Your Bible? It don't look like any Bible I ever seen.”

“It is
Svenska
Bible.”

“Huh,” Agnes said. “I guess that would explain it. How about reading some of it to me?”

Ingrid repressed a sigh. More translating when she had been looking forward to escaping into her mother tongue for a while. It would be too difficult and time consuming to translate the entire chapter, so she decided to focus on a few verses that she especially loved in this chapter.

“Love last long time . . . and love is kind,” she read.

For Agnes's sake as well as her own, she tried to translate the Swedish words into the simplest English possible.

“Love does not envy, and love does not brag on self.”

She glanced over and saw that Agnes, sitting on a small stool beside her, was listening intently.

“Love is not rude or selfish or angry.”

She turned a page.

“Love does not have evil thoughts, it hate sin, and is always glad of truth.” Agnes, the teller of blunt truths, nodded her head in agreement with that verse.

“Love bears always, trusts always, hopes always, endures always.” She smiled as she repeated her favorite words in the entire Bible. “Love never fails.”

She was surprised to see tears welling up in Agnes's eyes.

“Why you cry?” she asked.

“Do you believe what you just read?” Agnes asked. “Or is it just some fancy words—that part you read about love enduring?”

“Ja. I believe the
Bibel
.”

“Does that mean you ain't gonna run out on us if my sisters act bad?” Agnes stared at her hands, twisting and untwisting her fingers. “Or if I get cranky and say something stupid, or if Pa gets mad and starts yelling again like he did when Trudy spilled Ma's perfume? Isn't that what ‘endure' means? Sticking around even if sometimes you don't feel like it?”

“Why you ask this?” Ingrid was concerned. It wasn't like Agnes to avoid her eyes, and it was highly unusual for the child to cry.

“I know you and Pa aren't in love or anything mushy like that. You're just here because you don't have anyplace else to go, and he only married you because you were handy. What I want to know is, before I get too attached to you, are you gonna take off and leave us the first time you get a better offer?”

Ingrid closed her Bible and considered how to answer the child. Agnes was too smart to accept a pat answer. She would expect and most definitely deserved the truth.

Ingrid leaned over and grasped Agnes's chin. “Look at me.”

Agnes turned her eyes to her—eyes that were open and vulnerable. Eyes that were begging not to be hurt.

“I not marry your father because I have no place to go. I marry him because I love him already. First time I see you girls, I want to be your
moder
. Your father does not know this. He is not ready to know this, but I promise you I not run away. Ever.”

“So, love endures, huh.” Agnes's voice had a catch in it.

“Ja.” Ingrid let go of the child's chin. “Love endures.”

When Joshua came in from the barn, his kitchen smelled like lilacs and the floor was wet. He climbed the narrow stairs to kiss his girls good night, and they all had wet hair and also smelled of lilacs.

“Swedish people sometimes take baths even in the middle of the week, Pa,” Agnes informed him. “Not just on Saturday.”

He had a sinking feeling he knew why there had been a bath in the middle of the week. “Is that so?”

“Yeah, and Ingrid says that Polly kicks her in the side when she's sleeping here with us, so she's bunking with you tonight.”

“Is she now?”

“If you ask her to,” Trudy said, “she'll tell you a story before you go to sleep. She always tells us one.”

“I'll remember that.”

He heard the girls' prayers, marveling at their sweet innocence. How had he and Diantha, with all their faults, managed to create such beautiful little creatures? His heart caught when he saw Bertie's cradle standing empty in the corner. His son should be here.

He went back downstairs and wandered into the kitchen area. He checked, and there were still a couple of sugar cookies left in the warming oven. Tomorrow there would probably be another treat for him put there by Ingrid's competent hands, but the fact was, he had no appetite. He was simply putting off walking into his own bedroom.

His gratitude to Ingrid was boundless, but he dreaded going in there, and he didn't know what to do about it.

Ingrid heard him enter the house. He had stayed in the barn later than usual. She thought perhaps it was his way of being thoughtful to her, his way of giving her time to get the children tucked into bed and herself ready for him.

Joshua and Diantha had made beautiful children together, but she too would give him children. Some would have light hair like hers, and some would have wavy dark hair like their father.

All their children would be treated the same. There would be no favorites, no loving the children of her flesh more than she loved the others. That was not how one wove a strong family together. She knew she had enough love in her heart to cherish a whole houseful of children.

She heard him as he went up to the loft, a little disappointed that he had not come to speak to her first, but she could not fault him for listening to the girls' prayers. He was a good father. Once the girls were settled, he and she would have their time to be together.

One candle was still burning on the thick window ledge of their bedroom, because she wanted him to be able to see her in her pretty new nightgown that Hazel had purchased. She wanted him to see her with her blonde hair unbound and falling in shining waves around her shoulders.

She was sitting up in bed, her back pressed against the freshly laundered pillowcases that smelled of sunshine, waiting . . . waiting . . .

He went downstairs and . . . into the kitchen.

Why was he going into the kitchen when she was here waiting for him—waiting with so much love in her heart?

She heard the small squeak of the door on the warming oven. Why was Joshua searching for cookies on a night like tonight? Her own stomach was in such a state of nerves and anticipation that she could not have eaten had she tried.

Then his footsteps came right up to the outside of the bedroom door. She had left the door slightly ajar, just enough to let him feel her welcoming him but closed enough to leave her a little privacy.

There was a long hesitation outside the bedroom door. Too long of a hesitation. She did not understand.

And then the door opened.

She saw him taking it all in, the clean, neatly ironed sheets folded back, her new white nightgown, her unbound hair, the glowing candle.

The expression in his eyes was unfathomable. She did not know him well enough yet to discern what was going on in his mind. Was he thinking she was beautiful? Was he thinking he might be able to love her?

Her breath caught in her throat, waiting . . .

“I can't do this,” he said. “I am so very sorry, Ingrid, but I just can't. I'll be sleeping in the barn if you or the girls need me.”

And her world crumbled in.

 10 

Scalding tears soaked Ingrid's pillowcase as she rehashed the hopes and dreams she had held in her heart as she had prepared for this night. What kind of man turned away from a woman, his legal wife, who was waiting and willing to give him her heart—a woman who had worked miracles with his family and home in such a short time?

She knew the answer to this question. It was the kind of man who was still in love with his first wife, a man whose heart was still bound to Diantha.

Her romantic dreams of love with this handsome stranger evaporated. Like drops of water casually flung upon a hot stove, they turned into a fine mist and floated away upon the breath of his rejection.

Of course, it was hard for him to turn his affection toward her so soon after his wife had died. She did not blame him for being divided. That, in itself, was understandable, but tonight had not been her idea. She had not been the one who suggested they spend the night together.

How dare he do this to her? She, who had spent so many nights with the girls, entertaining them with her stories, loving them, and watching after them while he snored away, alone, in his own bed downstairs. She had not once complained; if anything, she had gone out of her way to make things easy for him. She had deliberately allowed this husband of hers, this widower, the time and space to grieve.

Well, he could spend the rest of his life grieving as far as she was concerned.

Ingrid did not sleep a wink. Instead, she lay awake, thinking, reflecting, redefining, and planning her life as it would be from now on.

It was clear that there would be no more children. Even if he changed his mind someday, she would never allow herself to be put in the position of being rejected by him ever again. Instead, she would love the children she had even more, and she would not visit her disappointment in the father upon the little girls who had so innocently accepted her into their lives.

Nor would she visit her disappointment upon the man who had been forced, because of his love for his children, to marry her. It would be foolish to attempt to punish him for not loving her. She had seen the fruits of such things in other women's lives, those who complained and nagged about inattention from their husbands—their tongues effectively pushing men away who had once presumably loved them.

No, when Joshua came in from the barn for breakfast in the morning, she would act as though nothing was the matter. She would act as though he had not broken her heart with his rejection. She would act like the happy mother of a brood of children.

He would not know the difference. After all, he was only a man. As long as his belly was full and his children were alive, he would be content. Then he could grieve his wife, the wonderful Diantha, all he wanted!

Long before the rooster crowed to greet the sunrise, Ingrid rose to begin her day. She plaited her hair, removed her new nightgown, put on her old work dress, and went outside to split the day's kindling with Joshua's sharp axe. This was a chore he was becoming lax about doing. She had to remind him nearly every morning this week that she needed kindling to start the fire.

He was always apologetic—him with the beautiful blue eyes—and he would hurry to bring an armful in, but she was tired of reminding him.

Awakening before the rooster crowed gave her enough time to do the chore herself and saved her from having to ask him to do something he should have done without being asked. She would wager that Diantha had never had to ask him for kindling. No doubt he had anticipated her every need.

The pain of Joshua's rejection made her longing, worry, and grief over her brother's disappearance even more acute. It would be comforting to know that there was one person on earth who truly loved her. But she would never allow Joshua to know the emptiness she felt inside.

Unless it was an emergency or something important for the children, she would never ask that man for another thing as long as she lived!

Joshua slept fitfully in the hayloft. The scurrying of mice over the horse blanket under which he was sleeping and the sound of the livestock stirring beneath him had kept him awake most of the night as he tried to forget the memory of the hurt he had seen in Ingrid's eyes as he had turned away from her. Finally, he fell into an exhausted slumber in which Ingrid's and Diantha's faces blended together in a bizarre collage.

The sound of an axe splitting wood roused him from that restless sleep. This was not a sound he was used to hearing unless he was on the other side of the axe. He threw back the horse blanket and climbed down the ladder to investigate.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the sight of a tall, slender woman illuminated by a lantern glowing nearby, wielding an axe as expertly as a man. Her golden hair gleamed in the lamplight as she swung the axe in a perfect circle over her head and brought it dead-center on each piece of wood she was splitting.

Apparently, Ingrid had decided to take care of the kindling herself, and taking care of it she was! She could not be more energetic with that axe than if she had been going after a nest of rattlesnakes.

In the lantern's glare, he checked his pocket watch. It was three o'clock in the morning. Even on his best work days, he didn't awaken for another hour.

“Good morning?” he said. After what had happened last night, he wasn't entirely certain what sort of morning it was going to be.

She froze with her back toward him, and then she lowered the axe and slowly turned around to face him.

“Good morning!” she said with a wide smile.

She looked reasonable enough, he thought, as he slowly approached her. Maybe she had just wanted to get an early start.

“I'll get the rest of the kindling in.” He cautiously reached for the axe. “But, Ingrid, do you have any idea what time it is?”

“It is early. Better to get work done before children awake.” She blithely handed him the axe and sauntered on into the house.

He stood there looking at the axe, then at her, then at the woodpile. He had always hated splitting kindling, a tiresome job for which he'd been responsible since he was big enough to handle an axe. Because he hated it, he tended to split just enough to get them through each day, but today, he decided it might be wise if he went ahead and got a nice big pile of it together for her. Perhaps enough to see her through the entire week.

“Here you go.” Joshua filled the wood box nearly full and headed back outdoors for another armload.

“Thank you.” Ingrid was engrossed in beating up a batch of something in a large bowl.

When he came back in, she had the stove blazing, a thin pastry spread out over nearly the entire table, and she was industriously layering it with butter, sugar, nuts, and dried fruit.

“What is that?” he asked, dropping another armload of kindling into the box.

“Strudel.”

“Is that what we're having for breakfast?”

“No,” she said without looking up.

He waited for her to explain, but she was so engrossed in her task that she seemed to barely notice that he was standing there. He had absolutely no idea what to do next—so he went outside and split another armload of kindling.

“I keep the bed,” Ingrid said as he mounded kindling in what had been an empty box.

“Excuse me?” he asked.

“I keep.” This time she looked straight at him. “I keep the bed. Not right for
moder
to sleep in loft with girls all the time.”

Now he understood. Perfectly. She was staking out her territory, claiming his bedroom for herself.

“Where am I going to sleep?”

“I no care.” She made a dismissive gesture with her hand. “Barn. Kitchen floor. On roof. On moon. I no care.”

She finished sprinkling the pastry with cinnamon and began to expertly fold it. The folding of it was intricate and would have been fascinating to watch—except he was still trying to puzzle out where he was going to sleep.

“But really, Ingrid, where—”

“Barn good enough last night, good enough other nights.”

“It was miserable out there.”

She paused in the middle of folding the pastry, and he saw a slow smile spread over her face as she savored the idea of him having been miserable.

“Ingrid, I want to apologize—”

“Kaffee?”
She whirled around with the coffeepot in her hand.

“Sure,” he said. “About last night . . .”

“We need eggs.” She brushed butter over the folded strudel. “You get?”

“I guess so.”

He slunk off to the henhouse—thinking it was a whole lot easier to deal with a riled-up rooster and twelve sleepy hens than the woman who was slinging pastry together in his kitchen.

He wondered, given Ingrid's mood this morning, if it might be wise to hide the axe she had been wielding so expertly.

“Something sure smells good.” Joshua came back inside after milking the cow and gathering the eggs. “Is it that strudel you were working on this morning?”

Ingrid bent to take a pan out of the woodstove and sat it on the table. The pastry had turned out beautifully.

“That looks delicious, Ingrid.” He reached to pinch off a piece.