Wild Heart on the Prairie (A Prairie Heritage, Book 2) (32 page)

His throat was closed
and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He could not even swallow!

“Rose,” he breathed.
Rose!
Oh, how I love the sound of your name on my lips!

She glanced up, looking
for . . . something? Then her eyes dropped again to her hands,
her
sweet hands!
folded around her cup.

The silence lengthened.

Dear Lord, what am I
to do? What am I to say?

Somehow he managed to
speak her name once more. “Rose.”

Her eyes were focused on
the table, but a single tear dropped onto the tablecloth. Another hung on her
cheek.

Have I hurt you, my
love?
Jan’s heart twisted at the
thought. He lifted his work-rough hand slowly toward her face and touched the
tiny droplet.

And he finally found the
words. “I luf you, Rose.”

She lifted her head and
looked for . . . confirmation? Assurance?

Knowing he was risking
everything, Jan relaxed his vigilance and allowed his eyes to echo his heart.

Rose and Jan stared,
heart to heart. What he saw made him tremble. And hope!

He pushed back his chair
and stood to his feet, hand outstretched. Still she hesitated.

Finally he whispered, “Rose.
Vill you come . . . to me?” He held his hands steady,
outstretched to her.

She touched his offered
hand, and he drew her up, into his embrace. Once she was in his arms, the dam
in his soul burst and he was stroking her cheek and her hair, saying everything
he felt but could not put into English. Jan shuddered and closed his eyes
against the emotions that rushed into his heart.

She looked up; he bent
down to her.

What will she answer,
Lord?

“I will,” she whispered
back.

Jan’s heart soared and he
could breathe again. He kissed her, tentatively, and kissed her again.
O
Lord, I thank you!
Jan prayed and rejoiced.

Jan wrapped her small
hand in his and led her outside where they sat together on her front steps.

“Rose.”

“Yes, Jan?”

He kissed her hand and
held it close. “My Rose.”

“Yes, Jan.”

~~**~~

Sunday before service,
Jan steered Pastor Medford away from the others. “Pastor, haf gud news.”

Jacob Medford smiled.
“Tell me!”

In spite of his clumsy
words, Jan was able to convey his happy announcement. He watched, impassive but
secretly delighted, as Jacob’s expression slid from blank surprise . . .
to dumbfounded . . . to astonished joy.

The next thing Jan knew,
his friend and pastor was pounding him on the back and shaking his hand. Jan
grinned like a schoolboy.

Still grinning, he
looked for Rose. She was watching and hid a giggle behind her hand.

My Rose!
was all Jan could think as he saw his love
reflected in her eyes.

As the service began,
Rose took a seat next to Amalie as she often did. Today, however, instead of
the children between them, Jan took the seat on her other side. Harold and
Sigrün were seated in the pew in front of them; Søren sat on Harold’s other
side.

My rightful place!
Jan’s heart thrilled.
From now on we will
share all things!
And he could see the same acknowledgment on her sweet
face. It was all he could do not to take her hand and hold it possessively in
his!

Then she was struggling
not to laugh and, leaning toward the children on his other side, she put a
warning finger to her lips. Jan glanced at the four smirking faces down the row
from him. Eyes bright with excitement, Little Karl, Arnie, Kjell, and Uli were
trying their best to restrain themselves.

Be a father to the
fatherless.

Yes, Lord
, Jan nodded.
These are mine. I am their
father.

At the end of the
service, Jacob shook his head, still shocked and bemused. “Folks, I’ve been
asked to make an announcement. There’s going to be another wedding shortly.”

Jan could not stand the
suspense. His hand reached for Rose’s and she gave it willingly even as
speculative eyes glanced everywhere but at them.

“Hrmm! Since I’ve only
just been informed myself, I know you’ll be as surprised and certainly as
delighted as I am. Folks, I am happy to announce the upcoming marriage of Mrs.
Rose Brownlee and Mr. Jan Thoresen!”

Congratulations burst
all around them, and Sigrün, her face aglow, turned and embraced Rose—until Rose
pulled away, amazed.

“What did you say?” Rose
grasped Sigrün’s shoulders. “Sigrün! You talked!”

A silence fell. Sigrün,
unaccustomed to being the center of attention, shifted from one foot to the
other. All eyes were on her.

“I’m so happy, Rose,”
she whispered again. “For you, for
Onkel
.”

A roar of approval rang
through the building, but Jan could not speak. He was reliving those dark days,
seeing Sigrün as a little girl, ill and reeling from the loss of her
pappa
and
beloved cousin. He was remembering her clinging to him in grief and fear, traumatized
and saying nothing. Speaking no words for all these long years!

Ah, Lord!
he prayed, humbled and grateful,
Surely nothing
is too difficult for you! You have healed her brokenness . . .
and your mercy has tamed my wild heart.

No, Lord. Nothing is
too difficult for you.

~~**~~

And
it shall come to pass
in the last days, saith God,
I will pour out of my Spirit upon all flesh:
and your sons and your daughters
shall prophesy,
and your young men shall see visions,
and your old men shall dream dreams:
And on my servants and on my handmaidens
I will pour out in those days of my Spirit;
and they shall prophesy

Jan sat up, fully awake, his mind clear. The night was calm
and silent, lit by moonlight, but his heart drummed within his chest. He could
still sense the holy hush attending his dream. He half expected to see a sacred
messenger within the moonbeams slanting through the window.

He looked to the other side of the bed and saw . . .
his bride
. His Rose! Her soft, even breathing told him that all was
well.

Jan climbed from the bed and padded to the window.
O
Lord! Such a dream I have never had!
He closed his eyes and could see it
all again—hear it all again . . .

A young girl raced through the prairie grass. The echoes
of her laughter floated on the air. She stopped and looked Jan full in the
face.

“Hello, Pappa!”

Kristen? No, not Kristen . . .

Jan reached out and touched the long braid, as white as
spun silver, trailing over the girl’s shoulder. He stared into her bright eyes,
deep and clear, blue as a summer sky.

His eyes!

She took him by the hand and they walked. As they walked,
the girl grew and matured. When they stopped, they stood on the road running
through Thoresen land, the track that led east and then northward, deeper into
the prairie. The girl was now a young woman, tall and stately, her wheat-blonde
hair fell gracefully to her waist. She smiled at him, her lips gently firm but
sweet.

Rose’s mouth!
O dear Lord!

“Pappa,” the young woman said. “Look.” She gestured. “See
your heritage, dear Pappa.”

Down the road from the east trod a long line of people.
The young woman released Jan’s hand and went to greet them.

She embraced and stood among several who were, clearly,
her children—his grandchildren! Behind them the line extended beyond view, men
and women, boys and girls, light-haired and dark. They gazed at Jan and nodded . . .
with love and honor.

Jan reached his hand toward the young woman, to call her
back, not wishing her to leave him. She smiled again and her face glowed with
great happiness.

“Bless us, Pappa! We are your heritage, Pappa, your
heritage in the Lord. We will carry your faith—the Good News of Jesus, our Lord—forward
into many generations!” And she and those with her bowed their heads.

As if it were the most natural thing in the world to do, Jan
lifted his hand as she requested and, in a clear voice, pronounced a father’s
blessing. “I bless you my daughter! And your children . . . the
children the Lord will give you. Be fruitful. And go with Him.”

The many with bowed heads then lifted them and looked up
into the heavens. Faces shone with elation. Some stretched up their arms.

They faded from view.

Only the woman remained. She did not return to him but, solemnly,
she spoke a soft parting word, a haunting refrain.

“What I lose, Pappa, is not lost to God. In him the lost are
found.”

She was gone.

Jan whispered her final words. “The lost are found. The lost . . .
are found.”

He heard Rose stirring. “Jan?”

“
Ja
, my Rose. I come.”

He crawled under the covers and sank into the welcoming
warmth of her arms. As Rose nestled into the crook of his neck, she sought his
lips and they kissed.

Only yesterday had they married! And only mere hours ago
they had, for the first time, given themselves to each other.

Jan opened his eyes in the dark of the room and could still
see the little girl with trailing white braids.

Your heritage, Pappa.

She had seemed—and still seemed!—so real.

Could it be? At their time of life
? He and Rose had
not spoken of children, but . . .

With a great sigh of peace, Jan tucked the dream into a
corner of his heart—a precious place where he would remember it and keep it
safe.

Ja, Lord, as you will. I and mine are yours.

~~**~~

The
End

The
sequel to
A Rose Blooms Twice
and
Wild Heart on the Prairie

Chapter 1

Rose finished her difficult climb and crested the rise
behind their house. She slowly straightened her stiff back, her breath coming
hard. Below her, nestled picturesquely between the knoll and a meandering
creek, stood their home, the place where she and Jan had lived, loved, dreamed,
and raised their family.

Across the creek and away to the east stretched the fields
that belonged to Jan’s son, Søren, and two of his cousins, Karl and Kjell.
Their families, homes, and barns were surrounded by their well-ordered crops.

Rose turned toward the sinking sun. Their fields, hers and
Jan’s, lay before her. The drying stalks of their harvested corn waved in a
gentle breeze. Rose searched through the shadows beginning to fall upon the
field, her hand held to her eyes against the waning light.

There.

Rose spotted the young woman, on the far side of the field,
her face turned toward the dropping sun. Even from this distance, Rose could
tell the woman was staring out into the vast prairie, her shoulders bowed.

Rose’s heart twisted a little. It would be best not to
approach her right now. Rose’s comfort would not be welcome. Not at this time.

Sighing, Rose looked back toward their little white house,
the center of so much happiness. She looked for and found her husband of 26
years staring back at her. He leaned heavily against the rails of the veranda
that wrapped around the house. Rose knew that he was as concerned as she was,
but he was unable to climb the hill she stood on, no longer able to till or
harvest their fields.

“Oh Lord,” she murmured. “You are our Rock. Our strong High
Tower. Our Fortress. Our strength in time of need. O God, we need you now.”

She turned again toward the solitary woman across the field
and remembered . . . remembered the summer day she came into
their lives.

The heat in the house was oppressive. Sweat ran from Rose’s
face and soaked the pillow and her hair. She strained with a contraction.

“Jan,” she moaned. “Jan!” The contraction peaked and she
fell back against the pillow.

She had endured more than 24 hours of hard labor yet the
baby just would not come. Rose had given birth three times before this, the
children of her first marriage, but none had taken as long or been as
difficult. As another contraction took her, Rose felt her strength ebbing and
her hope and resolution slipping.

“Jan . . . Jan, please,” she whispered as the
constricting band about her eased momentarily.

Fiona leaned over her and wiped her brow. “Whist? Jan?”

“Yes . . . Jan . . .” she
moaned through cracked lips. “I need him.”

Moments later Jan slipped to the side of her bed and took
her hand. Rose looked up and, voice shaking, whispered, “Jan, I don’t think I
can do . . . this . . . it’s taking too
long . . . and, and . . . something must be
wrong . . . I’m so . . . sorry.” She stared at
his dear face in shame and regret.

“
Nei
, Rose.”

His eyes, those blue, blue eyes, captured her soft gray ones
as another contraction took her. Neither of them looked away; they remained
fixed on each other until the pain eased again.

Jan began to speak, willing her to hear and be strengthened.
His eyes never left hers as he spoke, his words awash with faith and resolve.
“Listen, my li’l Rose!”

“Da
Lord ist mine light an’ mine salvation;
whom shall I fear?
da Lord ist da strength of mine life;
of whom shall I be afraid?
. . . For in da time of trouble
he shall hide me in his pavilion:
in da secret of his tabernacle shall he hide me;
. . . I had fainted, unless I had believed
to see da goodness of da Lord
in da lan’ of da living.
Vait on da Lord:
be of good courage,
an’ he shall strengthen thine heart:
vait, I say, on da Lord.”

“
In da lan’ of da living
, Rose. We vill see his
goodness in
da lan’ of the living
. Be of good courage, my Rose.”

Another contraction began as Rose was muttering, “Be of good
courage . . . he shall strengthen my heart . . .
wait on the Lord . . . my heart will not
fear . . .”

Her breath rasped as she struggled with yet another
unproductive birth pang. Another. Again. Another. And another.

And then—water gushed from between her legs. The
contractions came without reprieve now, one atop each other, relentless,
without mercy. Suddenly an urgent need to push overtook her.

An hour later Rose lay exhausted and limp, while Fiona and
Amalie gently cleaned and dressed her. Finally Amalie, her kind face smiling
broadly, laid a tiny bundle on Rose’s chest. Rose’s arms trembled with fatigue
as she struggled to hold the bundle. The bedroom door opened softly and Rose
felt her husband leaning over her.

“Ist vell, Rose?” Rose heard the depth of concern and care
in his voice. Her eyes drifted up to his deep glacier ones.

“Our daughter,” she breathed. She felt the warmth of the
tiny body against her breasts, felt the small rise and fall of the baby’s
breath.

“Ah, Rose! Our babe.” Jan sat on the edge of the bed and
tenderly slipped his work-rough hands under the bundle. Lifting the newborn he
turned back the blanket and revealed to both of them a tuft of white-blonde
hair and a crinkled pink face.

Rose thought her heart would stop, so great was the love
that washed over her at that moment. She looked to her husband. His face was
buried in the baby’s blanket and she heard his muffled sobs.

Rose had never seen, never heard her husband cry so and, as
his weeping intensified, tears began to stream down her face also.

She knew too well why he cried. He cried for the loss of his
other daughter, Kristen, and her mother, Elli. For the many years of grief and
loneliness he had suffered.

Rose cried for the husband and children she had lost three
years before . . . James, and their children, Jeffrey, Glory,
Clara. Gone in a few agonizing moments, claimed by a river of ice one fateful
evening.

She also wept for the new love and companionship God had
granted her with this good man. For the comfort and healing of this baby—for
the renewal and purpose this child would bring them.

She knew they wept for joy.

“Oh dear God, I denk you!” Jan sobbed. He held the baby to
his chest with one hand while his other hand tenderly caressed Rose’s cheek. “I
denk you, O Fat’er God!”

Finally, their tears eased, and Jan wiped his eyes on the
corner of the baby’s blanket.

“Such joy, my Rose! Such joy,” he whispered.

“Yes,” Rose answered tearfully. “Joy.”

Their eyes met and they slowly nodded in agreement.

Jan looked down on the tiny face and murmured, “Little girl,
you are Joy!”

“Joy Again,” Rose added. “She is our Joy Again.”

“Joy Again,” Jan repeated, tasting the words for the first
time. He smiled and nodded . . .

Rose roused herself from those precious memories and turned
again to the tall figure across the field. How had so many years flown by?

And how had so much been undone so easily?

~~**~~