Dandelions on the Wind (7 page)

She looked at his hand, but didn’t move away. Instead, she met his gaze, her eyelids wet. “You left us alone.”

“My thoughts were filled only with my sadness.”

“What of my thoughts?” Her voice cracked. “You weren’t the only one who was sad.”

She didn’t want him here. And he couldn’t help but wonder which would be the more difficult—staying, or leaving again.

***

Maren stood at the dry sink longer than was necessary to complete her chores. She’d scrubbed the top of the pine cupboard. She’d reorganized the shelves on either side of the window. She’d even washed the glass and straightened the gingham curtain. Woolly had finally returned from town. The reason for her sudden interest in the tidiness of the kitchen was out in the yard, and she had a perfect vantage point. She could make out his silhouette as he climbed from the wagon and approached Mrs. Brantenberg at the watering trough.

The prodigal son-in-law and the woman he left behind were finally talking. Maren would eavesdrop if she could, but they were across the yard. Sure as the day was hot and muggy, she desired to hear what Woolly had to say to his mother-in-law. And Mrs. Brantenberg, would she finally say more than five words to him? Would she listen?

“Miss Maren?” Gabi’s sweet little voice startled her. The child stood at her side, stretching onto her tiptoes with her chin pushed up toward the window. “Is it my PaPa?”

Clearing her throat, Maren stepped back from the cupboard. “Yes. He returned from town with the supplies.”

“I will go help him.” Gabi turned to leave the room.

Maren caught the back of the child’s dress and stopped her. “Wait, dear one! Your grandmother is at the pump with your PaPa, and they need time to talk.”

Gabi nodded. “Oma has to let him stay.” She swayed back and forth with her hands clasped at her chest as if in a prayer.

Maren agreed with that prayer.

“I waited and waited for my PaPa,” Gabi said.

Maren stroked Gabi’s soft brown curls. “I know. You did.”

They both needed a distraction. “We have time to practice our music before dinner.” She followed Gabi to the sitting room. The child pulled her recorder from a cloth sack on the piano and positioned her small hands on the holes in the wooden tube, wrapping her lips around the mouthpiece on the end. When Woolly could hear his daughter playing the recorder, he would certainly be proud of her. The thought transported Maren back to Copenhagen, to memories of evenings and Sundays gathered at a hearth in her family’s farmhouse.
Moder
, brother, sister, and her singing while
Fader
played the flute. Yes, a girl needed her father, and Gabi was blessed to have hers here.

Swallowing the emotion that always came when she thought of family, Maren pulled her flute box from the bottom shelf of the bookcase. While Gabi blew into the recorder, practicing her chords, Maren pieced the wooden flute together and added the metal and ivory head. The instrument was one of the few items she’d brought with her from the old country.

***

Woolly added the last of the pickets to the stack at the side of the barn. A list of things he should’ve said—meant to say—to Mother Brantenberg taunted him. But when he stood before her, words seemed an empty offering. She was right … he hadn’t considered her sadness. Only his own.

He had already unhitched the horses and fed them. All that was left to do was to carry the flour sacks into the pantry and deliver Gabi’s surprise. He patted his shirt pocket where he’d tucked the other two gifts. It wasn’t proper that he give Miss Jensen a gift so soon. For now, he’d hang on to her surprise.

Music met him at the kitchen door. Pure notes from a flute and the hesitating notes of a recorder. Mother Brantenberg had marched off to the garden upon ending the conversation between them, and he’d just seen her bent over collecting squash and beans. The harmony must be coming from Miss Jensen and his daughter. Tears of joy pooled his eyes as he quickened his step to match his racing heartbeat. He didn’t want to miss a note of the music.

He opened the door and quietly stepped into the kitchen. “Home, Sweet Home.” A song he’d heard much on the marches from one battle to the next until it was banned from Union army camps. He’d recited the words to motivate himself as he became too weary to take the next step toward home. And now, though it seemed a bittersweet taunt, he’d never heard a melody so charming. He set the flour sacks on the table and followed the music on light steps. At the doorway to the sitting room, he paused and listened.

        
Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam
,

        
Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home
.

Mid verse, the flute’s music ceased. The recorder continued, at the hands of a less experienced musician.

“Mr. Wainwright?”

He peeked around the doorframe to see Miss Jensen standing beside the piano, a smile teasing her lips. He removed his hat and entered the warm room. “How did you know?”

“You were humming along.”

He hadn’t realized he was humming. Nor had he realized that Miss Jensen had developed especially keen hearing, no doubt due to her failing eyesight. A good thing to keep in mind.

He approached the piano where she and Gabi stood. “Please continue. It was beautiful.”

The grandfather clock sprang to life, sounding its hourly cacophony, a wholly unwelcome intrusion.

Miss Jensen began pulling the flute apart. “I’m afraid I’ve lost track of time, and I’m due to start dinner.”

“Does Oma still have music time after Sunday dinners?”

“We do. Yes.” Gabi’s smile brightened her eyes, the shade of bluebonnets.

“I’ll look forward to it.”

Miss Jensen placed the flute parts in the box, then looked at him. “You’re staying then?”

“I plan to.”

“I want you to.” Gabi set her recorder on the piano bench and gave his leg a hug. “You have to.”

Emotion clogging his throat, he reached into his pocket and felt around for the right gift. “Little one, I brought you something from town.” He handed her the paper-wrapped present.

Her eyes widening, Gabi seated herself on the piano bench and unfolded the paper. “It’s an ornament, Miss Maren!” The metal angel dangled from her finger as if it were hanging on the branch of a Christmas tree.

Miss Jensen stepped toward them and held the angel to her face. “It’s lovely.” She returned the ornament to Gabi then set her flute box on the bottom shelf of the bookcase.

“PaPa, did you bring Miss Maren a present too?”

“I did.” The words were out before he could stop them.

“You did?” Miss Jensen blinked feverishly. Was she trying to focus her vision, or had he made her nervous? “You shouldn’t have. I don’t even know—”

“Yet, you’ve cared for my daughter very well.” Woolly reached into his pocket and handed Miss Jensen the other paper-wrapped package.

Seated on the sofa, she carefully pulled the paper layers back as if it were an onion. Her lips pressed in concentration, she raised the gift into the light.

Gabi sat beside her. “It’s a whistle,” she said. “That’s a lovely gift too.”

Miss Jensen nodded while Woolly’s insides tightened. He shouldn’t be giving her gifts at all. She barely knew him.

He paced from the sofa to the piano and back. “I thought.” He stopped in front of her. “It’s in case some lunk should come trespassing and startle you in the barn. I would come running.”

Her face turning a lovely shade of pink, Miss Jensen draped the silver chain over her open hand. She clasped the copper whistle with her other hand and looked at him with a focused gaze that could pierce the darkest night.

Woolly watched as she lifted the chain over her head, the whistle resting on her lace bib. She held the copper trinket in her fingers. “Thank you. It is a lovely and … practical gift.”

He hoped Miss Jensen never needed to use the whistle to summon help, but he felt better knowing she was wearing it around her neck.

Woolly smiled. “You’re welcome.” He had to find the strength and means to stay on the farm. Despite Mother Brantenberg’s objections, she needed him. So did his daughter, and even Miss Jensen.

Eight

S
unday morning, Woolly drove the wagon to Immanuel Lutheran Church with Gabi singing a happy song beside him. The reins slack in his hand, he directed Boone and Duden onto Salt River Road. Behind him, Mother Brantenberg chattered to Miss Maren about various women in the quilting circle.

Seemed wrong not to go to church, but going didn’t feel right either. At the breakfast table, Gabi asked if he was driving the wagon or if Oma would still drive. Naturally, they’d assumed he would join them. It’s what the Brantenberg family did on Sundays, even when it no longer felt like a family.

Mother Brantenberg announced that he would certainly drive, and he couldn’t say no. Didn’t know if he could ever again deny either of them. After his mother-in-law stomped off to the garden Thursday evening, he was nudged by a sudden memory of her asking him to stay after Gretchen died. The very next day with nary a word, he’d left her alone with his newborn.

“Dear, are you all right?”

Certain the endearing term wasn’t meant for him, Woolly glanced at the backseat. Mother Brantenberg rested her gloved hand on Miss Jensen’s arm. Concern laced her gray eyes.

“Oh. Fine. Yes. Thank you.” The tentativeness in the young woman’s voice didn’t pair well with her answer.

“You’re as quiet as a church mouse. You were all through breakfast too.”

“Just thinking, I suppose.”

His guess was that her thoughts were of family and Denmark. Now that he was here to help Mother Brantenberg with the farm and Gabi, the young woman might think of returning home. And if she weren’t here, his help—his presence—on the farm may be better appreciated.

Miss Jensen sighed. “Also, I’m enjoying the ride and the cooler temperatures. It’ll make the wheat harvest a more pleasant task tomorrow.”

“At the farm?”

“You didn’t tell him?” Miss Maren’s voice rose.

He looked at Mother Brantenberg.

“With your sore arm and all, I saw no point in it.”

“So, it’s my arm causing you to treat me like an outsider?”

No answer came. Even Gabi fell silent on the last mile into town.

As he reined the horses to a stop at a hitching rail in front of the brick church, he was glad to see that some things hadn’t changed. Pastor Adam Barklage greeted parishioners at the doorway. His steps reluctant, Woolly wrapped the reins, then moved around the horses and offered his hand to Mother Brantenberg.

Her feet on the ground, his mother-in-law let go of his hand. “Pastor Barklage will be pleased to see you.”

Woolly wasn’t so sure. He had plenty disdain for himself. How would the pastor and his parishioners not feel the same? They all knew of his abandonment. He was swinging Gabi to the ground when he heard his name.

“Woolly Wainwright!” The pastor rushed down the steps toward him, his hair now thinning on top and gray at the temples. “Why, it is you! I’d heard you were back.”

“Pastor Barklage.” Woolly reached to shake his hand, but quickly became enveloped in a welcoming embrace.

“If you aren’t a bright spot in a bleak aftermath.” The pastor studied him from hair to shoe. “One of the few in our congregation who’s returned in one piece.” He clapped Woolly’s shoulders and gave them a good shake. “Happy to have you home, son!”

Home
. He wasn’t sure which hurt the most—his shoulder or his heart.

“Thank you, sir.” Woolly looked at Mother Brantenberg, the little girl at his side, and then at Miss Jensen. “It’s good to be here.” And on some levels—the shallow ones—it
was
good.

After a barrage of warm greetings from the other parishioners, Woolly told Gabi he’d wait for them outside. He watched as the ladies proceeded inside, chatting with the others. About halfway to the chancel, Miss Maren seated herself on the aisle next to Mother Brantenberg.

Sitting on the step just outside the door, he could hear a young woman’s clear soprano voice rise and fall in “A mighty fortress is our God, a bulwark never failing.” The hymn had played over and over in his mind on the battlefield, but never so sweetly as with a Danish accent.

***

After supper, Woolly’s baritone laugh and Gabi’s giggles wafted into the kitchen from the sitting room, stirring Maren’s dreams of home and family. She dried a plate, her thoughts being swept back through time. In her first year here, she’d dreamed of Orvie Christensen changing his mind, returning from the fighting, and marrying her despite her failing sight. She wanted a husband … children of her own. But when Orvie walked away and never looked back, she let those hopes fall by the wayside. No man would want her now, and she couldn’t blame them. All she wanted to do was to return to her mother and siblings … to be a part of their lives.

“You’ll soon have those flowers rubbed clean off.”

“Oh dear.” Maren added the dry plate to the stack.

“Thinking again?”

“Yes ma’am, I am.”

Mrs. Brantenberg handed her another wet plate. “I’m doing a lot of that myself lately.”

“Your son-in-law coming home has stirred your thoughts, I’m sure.”

“Most of them memories I’d rather forget.”

“And the good memories are not powerful enough?”

Mrs. Brantenberg looked straight at her, a gray eyebrow raised. “Is that something I said at the circle?”

“Yes ma’am. You said, ‘God would have us give more power to our good memories and see the weakness in the bad ones.’ ”

Huffing, the older woman dunked a bowl into the dishpan. “Your thoughts are of your family in Denmark?”

Nodding, Maren turned toward the singing and laughter coming from the sitting room. “I love you and Gabi, and so appreciate you opening your home to me. But, yes, I do miss my family.”

“Maren.” Mrs. Brantenberg patted Maren’s arm, leaving her sleeve damp with dishwater. “Not all men are as narrow-minded as Orvie Christensen.”