Uri pulled a withered wormy apple from his coat pocket and held it out to Old Red’s muzzle. The horse’s nostrils whooshed before he stuck out his tongue for the treat. “I hope Carl will be kinder to you than Hans was. Maybe you’ll be happy.”
“Maybe.” She wasn’t expecting happiness. Not anymore. But she wouldn’t disappoint Uri with the truth.
The soft nicker of the gelding was followed by its loud crunching. Uri gently stroked the short fine hair on the horse’s forehead. “I’ll do my best to make sure he’s kind.”
Annalisa pressed a hand against Uri’s cheek. Unfortunately the boy had witnessed all too often the way Hans had treated her. And he’d loathed Hans’s gambling and drinking and how
she and Gretchen had gone without many of the things they needed as a result.
Over time, Uri had become more sullen and angry toward Hans so that near the end, Hans had complained to Vater about the boy’s lack of respect. Of course, Vater had then proceeded to take a switch to Uri’s backside until it was red with welts.
No child of Peter Bernthal was ever allowed to disrespect or disobey an elder.
She leaned forward and pressed a kiss against Uri’s brow. The difference in their ages had made him more like one of her children than a brother.
“You’re a good boy.” She could only pray he’d stay that way, that he would grow into a man like Herr Pastor.
She made her way to the cabin, knowing she couldn’t keep Vater waiting, especially once he finished his chores. He’d be ready for his evening meal, but Mutter would want to have the wedding first.
Annalisa squeezed into the best dress she owned. The dark, plain linen was worn and frayed around the edges, but it was clean. She unplaited her long braid and brushed the wavy strands into a knot at the back of her neck.
As she washed her face and then dried it with her apron, she tried to ignore her trembling fingers. She wasn’t nervous. What did she have to be nervous about? She knew what to expect now—in the darkness of the night when her husband would silently smother her with his sweaty body, sate himself, and then push her away.
Even so, her fingers shook and her stomach quivered. And she whispered a silent prayer that the kindness her new groom had already shown wouldn’t disappear, especially toward Gretchen.
The heavy clop of horse hooves against the muddy ground
outside the cabin drew Annalisa to the door. She donned her knit shawl—the one she saved for special occasions—and pushed open the door.
For a moment she blinked, the slant of the late afternoon sunlight blinding her.
“Mrs. Werner, I’m tired of waiting,” a man boomed at her in stilted Deutsch.
She didn’t need to see the face to know who it was. The gravelly voice belonged to only one person. Mr. E. B. Ward.
The wind wound through the dangling fringes of her shawl, making her shiver.
She lifted a hand to her eyes to shield them, giving her a full view of Ward’s face.
From atop his well-groomed mare he glared down at her. His hat was too small for his large head and revealed his pitted skin that had a yellowish tint. The yellow had seeped into the whites surrounding his eyes.
He spoke again, but this time in English.
She’d learned enough of the foreign language when she’d attended school in Detroit. But she’d seldom had occasion to use the English since moving to Forestville and could only pick out a few of Ward’s words—
men
,
work
,
good
.
“I haven’t changed my mind,” she said in her native tongue. “I won’t sell the farm to you.”
He shook his head and muttered under his breath. He glanced around, as if making sure they were alone. He then started hoisting his bulky body from the horse.
Her heartbeat thudded against her chest, sending danger signals throughout her body. What if Vater had been right? What if Ward had murdered Hans in order to get the farm? If the land-hungry businessman overpowered and killed Hans, what would stop him from doing the same to her?
She reached for the door, her fingers making contact with the crude handle.
Should she retreat into the cabin and get away from him while she had the chance?
But how could she hide when Uri and Gretchen were still in the barn? If only she could grab the hunting rifle that hung above the door.
Ward jumped the last distance from his horse, and his boots slapped the mud. Beads of sweat formed across the skin of his pockmarked forehead. He wiped the moisture with his sleeve and took a step toward her.
She pushed the door open. Over the past several years she’d grown quite proficient with the gun, as hunger had been a persistent teacher.
“Mrs. Werner.” He spoke again in German. “The sawmill will provide extra work for your people. It will help make jobs.”
Perhaps the sawmill would provide extra income for the farmers, such as during the winter months when the traps were empty and the supplies in the stores ran low. But Vater claimed selling Ward the land would only give him too much power. They’d left Saxony to get out from under the control of Baron von Reichart, and they couldn’t let that happen now with Ward.
“Put the mill somewhere else,” she said.
“I plan to build it right
here
on this land. Along the river.”
Her grip on the door handle tightened. “You can’t take it from me. I have my husband’s loan papers.”
His yellowish eyes flashed with anger, and he retorted in loud English.
She squared her shoulders. This was her land. She wouldn’t let this man scare her from it.
“Are you having trouble, Annalisa?” Uri called from the barn door.
“Get out of here, son,” Ward barked. “This isn’t any of your business.”
Uri started across the muddy barnyard, a shovel tucked under his armpit like a weapon. His features were creased with proud determination. “I think you’re the one who needs to do the getting out of here.”
Annalisa knew she should run to him, shush him, and make him go back into the safety of the barn. But his shoulders were squared with the strength of the man he was quickly becoming, and his choppy steps were decisive. She wouldn’t be able to sway him. And she wasn’t sure she wanted to.
“You folks are the stubbornest people I know.” Ward tripped over the German words.
She was thankful for the language barrier between them. It offered some safety from having to speak too much or too long to the man.
Uri stopped beside her and lifted the shovel. “Go on. Get out of here.”
Ward shifted his arm just enough to reveal a pistol tucked into a holster beneath his coat.
“I’ve made it my job to protect my sister from anything or anyone who tries to hurt her.” Uri didn’t budge, and the shovel in his hand didn’t waver.
Annalisa lifted her hand to the boy’s shoulder, wanting to pull him back into her embrace and hide him behind her skirts. Instead, she squeezed his tense muscles, hoping he would stop before he pushed Ward too far.
Ward eyed the boy with a sneer.
Uri was strong but wouldn’t be a match for a man like Ward. For that matter, she wouldn’t be able to fight him either if he decided to attack her. She’d end up dead, just like Hans.
And then who would give Gretchen a better life?
Was the fight against Ward really worth what it could cost her?
“Come along.” She tugged Uri away, back toward the barn.
He jerked away from her, and his wiry body sprang toward Ward like a trap about to close its steel teeth. He swung his arm, angling the sharp edge of the shovel toward Ward’s head.
“Nein, Uri!” She lunged for the boy and grabbed his arm, holding him back before the sharp edge cut into Ward.
The man jumped and bumped into his mare. The horse shifted and threw him further off-balance so that he fell with a heavy splat, sending a spray of mud flying into the air.
The muck showered Uri and her clean skirt.
Uri started after Ward again, but she dragged him backward, slipping and sliding in the mud with each step.
“That boy tried to kill me.” Ward huffed, pushing himself up and glaring at Uri as if he would murder him if he could only get his hands on him.
“We don’t want any trouble.” She held on to Uri with a strong grip, one she’d perfected while butchering chickens.
He struggled, but she dug her fingers into his arm.
Ward grabbed the horse’s stirrup and used it to heft up his frame. “Dumb, dirty Germans,” he muttered in English.
Even though the language was foreign, Annalisa still understood the slur. She’d heard it often in Detroit. And she could only pray that someday her children would be American enough that no one would insult them with such words.
As it was, her gaze dropped to the mud on her skirt, to the frayed edges, and then to her ugly, plain shoes. Maybe she wasn’t really dirty. But she couldn’t measure up, not as a daughter, a wife, or even an American. She seemed destined to fall short with everyone, even God.
“Don’t bother my sister anymore.” Uri’s young lean body strained against her hold.
Ward rubbed his gloved hand against his backside only to smear a layer of dark mud across the soft leather.
With a stream of grunting and swearing he managed to hoist himself back into his saddle. “Listen here, girl. If you don’t sell the land to me now, I’ll get it eventually.”
She shook her head, but before she could protest, he cut her off.
“You can make this easy. Or hard.” He shifted so that the handle of his pistol peeked at her again. “It’s your choice.”
She forced down the lump of fear that threatened to make her speechless. “I’ll do whatever I have to in order to keep my land.”
“And I’ll do whatever I have to in order to get it.” His gravelly voice was heavy with unspoken threats.
She trembled but didn’t move.
When he kicked his horse into a trot and started down the rutted trail toward the road, she finally let go of Uri and sagged with the weight of relief.
He was gone. For now.
But what would she do the next time he showed up? How long could she hold out against him without him hurting her? Or worse, murdering her?
Chapter
4
Carl eyed the open door of the cabin.
Did he dare make a run for it?
He perched on the edge of the chair and drummed his fingers on the table.
With her back to him, Frau Bernthal stirred a wooden spoon in a large pot on the range. Other than issuing orders to two of her children who’d run off to do her bidding, Frau Bernthal had not spoken more than a dozen words to him in the hour he’d been waiting, even when he’d tried to make polite conversation.
The shifting shadows outside the door and the changing angle of the afternoon sunlight indicated evening would soon be upon him. And his chances of leaving this strange, godforsaken place would slip past—at least until morning.
He’d determined to follow Matthias’s advice and hide in the wilderness of central Michigan among the peasants. It was still his safest option.
But during his months of running and hiding, he’d had the time to consider other options more appropriate for his station.
And after weighing all the ideas, the only other plan even slightly feasible was to try to track down his old university classmate and fellow scientist, Fritz Diehl. Last he’d heard several years ago, Fritz had gone to Chicago and was teaching physics at Northwestern University.
If he could manage to locate Fritz, his old friend would certainly be willing to shelter him and perhaps even help him find suitable work.
Carl tapped the table again. He ought to move on to Chicago before making plans with Matthias’s family.
But he’d told Matthias he would come and help the family until Dirk arrived. How could he let down his faithful servant? The dear man had risked his life to free him.
He’d also spent the last of his travel fare buying passage on the steamboat that had brought him from Detroit up Lake Huron to what appeared to be the middle of nowhere. And now, for the first time in his life, he was completely broke, without even a
pfennig
in his pouch.
Besides, he was rather tired of running. That’s all he’d been doing since leaving Essen three months ago.
“Well, Frau Bernthal, I believe that whatever you have cooking in that pot is calling my name.” Carl pushed away from the table and rose, breathing in the rich aroma of stewed venison, which only served to remind him how hungry he was and how long it had been since he’d last had a filling meal.
She glanced at him over her shoulder with somber eyes—eyes that looked as if they’d seen too much sorrow during her years. “We’ll be waiting on the others,” she said, casting an impatient frown toward the door.
He thought of asking her if perhaps he could help with the task at hand. But how could he possibly help her? He studied the tidy kitchen that apparently also served as a sitting room.
The crudely built table with its benches and two chairs filled the center of the room, hardly leaving room for the tall worktable, the wood-burning stove, and the corner shelves that held an assortment of rudimentary cooking ware and dishes.
In the opposite corner, a ladder rose into a dark hole in the low ceiling, up to what he assumed was a bedroom. Beyond the kitchen was a smaller room; he could see the end of a bedstead as well as a spinning wheel and loom.
He’d passed a large barn on the way up to the house and guessed it to be full of animals that needed some kind of tending.
What could he do? He didn’t know the first thing about taking care of domesticated beasts.
He ran his fingers across the thick soft wool of his coat. His heart urged him to put it back on and flee. But his stomach and mind warned him not to be a fool. He’d be safe in Forestville, Michigan. The duke would never look for him among a small farming community. He’d expect him to head to a big city like New York or Chicago.
“
Guten tag, Oma
.” A little girl burst through the door and skipped toward Frau Bernthal.
The woman turned, and for the barest instant her face lost the deep creases of worry and sadness. She didn’t smile, but a light flickered to life in her eyes and spread to her countenance, smoothing it like the surface of a peaceful pond.