Dandelions on the Wind (2 page)

“Ma’am.” A Union accent. Not one of Mrs. Brantenberg’s German neighbors. “Are you well?”

“Yes.” She felt along the wall for a makeshift weapon. When she found the shovel, she lifted it off its nail and held it across herself.

“I mean you no harm.”

Holding the shovel steady, Maren widened her shoulders and raised her smarting chin.

“I apologize. I didn’t—”

“Didn’t what, sir?” This man may be harmless, but he was no less a nuisance. “You did not mean to burst into my barn and cause me to take a topple?”

“You’re not Mrs. Brantenberg.” It wasn’t a question.

Did he know Mrs. Brantenberg, or had someone in town told him to expect an older woman?

“I am Maren Jensen.” She couldn’t make out his facial features in the shadows, but she did see one arm in a sling. That could be a ruse. “And you are?” Silence ticked off the seconds.

He removed his cap and moved closer. “People call me Woolly.”

While repositioning her heavy weapon, Maren blinked to focus her vision. Her employer had never mentioned anyone named Woolly. If he wasn’t a troublemaker, he had to be a drifter looking for work. And with her own work to finish, she had no time to waste. “You’ll find Mrs. Brantenberg at the house.”

“Thank you.” His voice held a pleasant tone, although it sounded a bit gravelly, like he’d been out in the wind for a long spell. She should be nicer to the gentleman, but she couldn’t afford to be. Chores were obligatory. Niceties with strange men were not.

He turned to leave the barn and quickly faded into the darkness. Maren lowered the shovel and listened as the door closed behind him. If she ever did have a home of her own, it wouldn’t sit beside a well-traveled road. Especially not during or immediately following a war.

***

Woolly felt like the prodigal son in the New Testament. Except it was his daughter, not his father, he was coming home to. He followed the path from the barn to the front of the brick Georgian-style plantation house. Its fluted porch columns needed whitewashing. The shutters framing the double-hung sash windows needed attention too. When the wind caught his kepi, he pulled the cap tight onto his forehead. The smell of fresh bread wafted on the breeze, taunting his hunger. He couldn’t say how long it’d been since he’d dined on anything but hardtack or bully soup.

Now that he was home, he had a lot to catch up on. But this wasn’t a Bible story, and he wasn’t a beloved son.

He stopped at the bottom of the steps. If nothing else, perhaps his mother-in-law would let him stay long enough to meet the little girl he and Gretchen had created on this very farm, and to make a few repairs around the place. He owed her that much. And more than he could ever repay. He couldn’t change the past four years. Not for Mother Brantenberg. Not for his daughter. Not for himself.

“Oma!”

The strained little voice drew his gaze to the window for a glimpse of sunny round cheeks framed in heaps of brown curls. Like his own. Tears stung his sleep-deprived eyes.

“A man, Oma.”

“
Bleiben sie ich zurück, Liebling
. Behind me.” He recognized the voice, and the endearing term. Mother Brantenberg was protecting her
little one
. His little one.

He removed his cap, then spoke through the closed door. “Greetings, Mrs. Brantenberg.”

The door opened just wide enough for him to see the woman’s face. She gasped. “It is you.” Her color matched what was left of the whitewash on the door that stood between them, and her foot didn’t budge from its crossed position behind the door. Mother Brantenberg studied him, her gaze resting on the cloth that tethered his left arm to his neck. “You are hurt?”

“I got my arm caught in a rope whilst loading a barge and pulled my shoulder out of place.”

His mother-in-law opened the door, but she hadn’t spoken of his identity. He so desperately wanted the child hiding in the skirts to know her father had returned home. But at least for now, he was only a visitor. Inside, good smells and memories of happier times hit him, and his stomach rumbled while his heart wrenched.

He glanced from the woman to the child, who stepped out from behind her. He held out his right hand to her. “And who is this?”

The little one leaned against her grandmother, dipping her chin and peering up at him with wide eyes. “I am Gabi.”

Short for Gabrielle—the name he and Gretchen had discussed for a girl. Gabi’s face was a sweet miniature of her mother’s. “What a lovely name.” He hoped his smile hid the pain.

“Thank you.” Gabi curtsied like a princess, then pointed to the soiled cloth that cupped his elbow. “Does it hurt?”

“It isn’t so bad anymore. Thank you.” His daughter was already four years old, and so grown up. He turned to his mother-in-law. “The arm should be workable in another day or two. I can start on repairs soon. Harvest?”

His mother-in-law huffed. Wrinkles framed her face. She still wore her hair parted down the middle with a braid, now white, encircling her head. But her eyes had dulled.

“Mister.” Gabi’s sweet voice cut into his thought. “What’s your name?”

“Woolly.” Mrs. Brantenberg rested her hand on Gabi’s head. “His name is Woolly.”

That’s what Gretchen had called him the first time they’d met on her father’s farm.

Gabi swayed side-to-side like she had music in her. “Woolly like a lamb?”

“Yes.” He pointed at his head. “My hair is curly like lamb’s wool.”

“Mine too.” Gabi patted her hair.

Woolly nodded, afraid to speak, sure the truth would come out before Mother Brantenberg was ready to reclaim him as family.

Mother Brantenberg glanced toward the washstand at the top of the staircase. “It is time to wash for supper, Liebling.”

Gabi offered him a forlorn glance, and sighing, she marched up the stairs.

His mother-in-law studied him. “I did not expect your return.”

“I had to come see my daughter. I should never have left you.” He glimpsed the staircase and the little round cheeks pressed between the white oak spindles. The light in Gabi’s eyes pierced the darkness in his heart … until he returned his attention to his mother-in-law. Mrs. Brantenberg looked as if she’d just gulped camp coffee. A look that said he’d not be staying for supper.

Two

M
aren sat on the stool with her hands under a cow, squirting milk into the bucket. She groaned and reached to touch her face. Her chin stung where she’d bumped the step. Her haystack landing had made a mess of her. All thanks to Mr. Woolly. But it wasn’t his fault she hadn’t seen him enter the barn. Although he smelled like a month on the road, he had been a gentleman, asking after her welfare and apologizing for the disruption.

Maren finished the evening milking and carried the pail and the basket of eggs to the house. By now Mrs. Brantenberg would’ve given the drifter a loaf of bread and a sausage and sent him on his way. She set the bucket of milk on a bench just inside the kitchen door. Facing the stove, she focused her thin vision. Mrs. Brantenberg scraped a tin spoon across a cast iron skillet. “Forgive my tardiness,” Maren said. “A man came looking for you and caused a stir in the barn. Did you speak to him?”

“He will have supper with us.” Her employer’s voice lacked its usual melodious quality.

Maren drew in a deep breath. The savory aroma of Mrs. Brantenberg’s gravy mingled with the smell of a-month-on-the-road clothing. He was there in the kitchen. Resisting an impulse to touch her sore chin, she placed the basket of eggs on the counter and turned toward the table.

He stood.

“Mr. Woolly.”

“Miss Maren.”

“You will surely enjoy Mrs. Brantenberg’s
schnitzel
and
brötchen
rolls.”

He nodded. “I have, thank you, and they’re indeed worthy of the long journey.”

He had? When?

Mrs. Brantenberg banged the spoon on the skillet. “Rutherford Wainwright has been here before.” Her voice remained emotionless.

Certainly not in the last eight months. She would have remembered him. But the name did sound familiar. When she’d learned the war had ended, she’d overheard Mrs. Brantenberg mention the name
Rutherford
to the shopkeeper in town. “Rutherford Wainwright.” Her son-in-law’s name. “He is Gabi’s
PaPa
?”

Mrs. Brantenberg blew out a long breath, which answered the question. Her son-in-law had returned.

“Mr. Woolly is my PaPa?”

Maren spun toward Gabi’s voice. When had the child come into the room? They hadn’t told Gabi her PaPa had returned from the war, and she’d blurted it out. If only the deafening silence could swallow her.

Mrs. Brantenberg nodded, silent.

The man took slow steps toward his daughter. “It’s true, Gabi. I’m your PaPa.” His voice held tenderness that made Maren’s heart ache. He knelt and lifted Gabi’s chin.

The child darted from the kitchen, leaving her PaPa on his knees.

“Liebling.” Mrs. Brantenberg’s call didn’t stop her, and soon the child’s footsteps on the stairs echoed throughout the house.

The man stood, his jaw slack.

Mrs. Brantenberg crossed her arms, her jaw tight. “She is likely afraid of you. You look a fright, and you smell worse.”

Maren glanced toward the kitchen doorway. When neither of them uttered a word or showed any signs of budging, Maren slipped out of the kitchen and up the wooden staircase to the first door on the left. She tapped on the closed door, then opened it.

“Gabi.”

The child’s sobs pierced her heart. She prayed for guidance and walked toward Gabi’s bed. A little girl needed her PaPa. And unlike many fathers, Gabi’s had returned from the war. So why had the child run from him? Gabi had told her more times than Maren could count that her PaPa would one day come home. Now that he had, his daughter lay on her bed, curled in a ball. The man did look like a bear just come out of hibernation, but Maren had never witnessed fear in Gabi. Not even when thunder rattled their bedroom windows and frayed Maren’s nerves. Gabi only needed time to get to know her PaPa. But judging by Mrs. Brantenberg’s cold reception of the man, he may not be here long enough.

Tears threatened to clog her throat, but Maren eased onto the edge of the bed and rested her hand on Gabi’s quaking shoulder. “I am here, little one.”

Clutching her cloth doll, Gabi looked at her. “My PaPa came back.”

An ache gripped Maren’s chest. “Yes.” Remembering the comfort in her own mother’s tender touch, she stroked the child’s tear-dampened hair. “You said he would return, and he did.”

Gabi scooted to the edge of the bed beside Maren, her legs dangling over the side.

“Are you not happy your PaPa is here?”

***

His daughter’s silence widened the ache in Woolly’s chest. He’d failed Gretchen. She’d died giving him a daughter, and he’d walked away. He wasn’t sure he could bear to stay, but he had to get to know Gabi. He drew in a deep breath and peeked into the room.

The young woman from the barn stroked his daughter’s curls. “A lot of men went away to fight in the war. Many did not come back,” she said.

“Like Miss Hattie’s PaPa.” Gabi’s voice quivered, causing his chest to tighten. He’d heard about Mr. Pemberton, and thousands of others.

“Yes. But your PaPa came home to you. You cannot forgive him for leaving you?”

Gabi covered her face with her hands. “I c-cannot.”

It wasn’t his mother-in-law who would turn him away, but his own child. He’d been foolish to hope anyone could forgive him.

Her shoulders quaking, Gabi threw the doll on the floor, then buried her face in the woman’s lap, sobbing. “He l-left ’cause of me. I killed my
mutter
.”

His insides ripping, Woolly rushed into the room and knelt on the rag rug at his daughter’s knee. His hand trembling, he lifted her chin with his fingertip. Her moist blue eyes were heavy with sadness.

“Little one,” he said, “you didn’t kill your mother. It wasn’t your fault she died. Your mama loved you very much.” He patted the tears from her cheeks. “She would rub her big belly and sing to you. We both did.”

“Mutter liked music?”

“Yes, very much.” He swallowed hard against another painful memory. “God needed her in heaven. She couldn’t stay with you. With us.” He fought the lump forming in his throat. “She left you here as a good-bye gift.”

Gabi’s long lashes were clumped like new grass after a spring rain. “A gift from Mutter?”

He nodded. “Yes.” Gretchen hadn’t been given a choice in the matter. He had.

“Why did you leave me?”

He turned away from her pleading eyes. He’d been so shortsighted. Why had he abandoned his baby girl when she was all he had left?

“I was sad,” he said. “I didn’t think I could live here without your mother. I missed her so.”

Miss Jensen slipped her arm behind Gabi and looked him in the eye. “But you were happy Gabi was born?”

“Yes! We … I wanted a baby girl who looked like her mother.”

Gabi snuffled and peered at him. “I look like Mutter?”

“You have her sparkling blue eyes and her sweet nose.” He tapped its rounded tip. “When she died, I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to give you the care you needed. That’s why I left you with Oma. And why I went to fight in the war. I knew she would take good care of you. But I never stopped missing you.” He extended his free arm and his daughter fell against his chest, soothing the ache.

Miss Jensen brushed tears from her smooth face. “Oma is waiting.”

He scarcely had time to stand before Gabi’s small fingers wrapped around his. His daughter’s tender touch weakened his knees as she pulled him toward the door.

At the top step, he glanced back at Miss Jensen, now an angel in his eyes. “Thank you.”

He didn’t deserve to feel this good.

Three

M
aren unfurled the napkin on her lap, then focused on the child seated across from her. Gabi’s smile had no room to grow on her sweet little face.

While Woolly seated himself to her right, Maren contemplated the man’s return to the farm. She didn’t want to like the child’s father. He had walked away from his newborn daughter. Away from his widowed mother-in-law. And so much bad had happened here since he left. His presence may not have changed the circumstances much for Mrs. Brantenberg, but she wouldn’t have had to face it alone.