family.”
“His return is an answer to little Gabi’s prayers, and mine.” Hattie’s voice quivered. “When did this happen?”
“Yesterday afternoon … in time for supper.” Mrs. Brantenberg’s voice was as devoid of emotion as her expression. “Rutherford has gone to town today. I’m not sure when he’ll be back.”
Back . Again, she hadn’t said when he’ll be home . The word choice had been intentional. Mrs. Brantenberg no longer considered the farm his home.
And if he didn’t stay, Maren had little hope of ever seeing her homeland again.
Seven
A snort startled Woolly, and he opened his eyes under a canopy of green leaves. One of the two horses tied to an oak branch offered another snort.
Woolly sat in the bed of the wagon, surrounded by stacks of boards, a barrel of nails, and flour sacks. How long had he slept? The memories of his visit with Miss Jensen early that morning and seeing Mary Alice Brenner in front of the lumber mill began clearing the cobwebs from his mind. Stretching, he realized he should’ve left his arm in the sling a bit longer—it might have kept him from doing too much with his wrenched shoulder while he was in town. He’d best get back to the farm while there was still light enough for the horses to find their way home.
He untethered Boone and Duden, backed them up to the wagon’s doubletree, and hooked the traces. Although he’d rather live and work on the farm and be close to Gabi, his mother-in-law’s silence made it clear she didn’t want him there. He’d gone into town to look for employment, but with so many former slaves flooding the workforce here, there wasn’t much work available for him.
Thankfully, when he’d mentioned going into town to get supplies, Mother Brantenberg offered him the use of the wagon if he’d pick up a few supplies for her. He deserved the cold shoulder she’d turned his way, and if all she could offer him was the treatment of an employee, that would have to do.
Woolly goaded the horses onto the main road, and the wagon rose out of the bottomlands, through the stands of birch and sycamore trees lining the small German family farms common to the area. Some farms still had a look of abandonment and disrepair, but most showed signs of a new postwar hope and vitality. He remembered the first time he’d made this trip from town. He’d stepped off a steamboat in Saint Charles and walked into Mr. Johann Heinrich’s dry goods store looking for work. He had done farm work for his folks growing up in Virginia, and that’s all he knew. Johann told him of Christoph Brantenberg who was looking to hire a farmhand and sent him this direction. That June day, he’d found work and met his future bride.
This trip he had a lot at stake—a future with his daughter, his gift from Gretchen. He was rehearsing what he’d say to his mother-in-law as her apple orchard came into view. At the intersection, he reined the horses onto Brantenberg Lane. The now-empty log cabin he and Gretchen had lived in sat at the corner of the Brantenberg property. The day he left for the war, he’d hired George Ransom, a freedman up from Mississippi, to work the farm. And now the family was gone, chased away by raiders.
It hadn’t taken long for the cabin to sag. The roof probably wouldn’t make it through the winter, and it was in better shape than most of the farm.
Thinking about what Mary Alice had said about the land in California, he had a notion to go west in the spring. But now wasn’t the time to entertain such thoughts.
When he glimpsed Mother Brantenberg walking to the barn, Woolly’s pulse quickened. Fortunately, the horses were anxious to be home and sped their gait. He parked the wagon beside the barn and hopped down from the seat. He’d unload it later.
Before he reached the barn door, Mother Brantenberg stepped back outside, swinging a bucket. Her wooden work shoes pounding the dirt path, she marched past him to the watering trough outside the
“His return is an answer to little Gabi’s prayers, and mine.” Hattie’s voice quivered. “When did this happen?”
“Yesterday afternoon … in time for supper.” Mrs. Brantenberg’s voice was as devoid of emotion as her expression. “Rutherford has gone to town today. I’m not sure when he’ll be back.”
Back . Again, she hadn’t said when he’ll be home . The word choice had been intentional. Mrs. Brantenberg no longer considered the farm his home.
And if he didn’t stay, Maren had little hope of ever seeing her homeland again.
Seven
A snort startled Woolly, and he opened his eyes under a canopy of green leaves. One of the two horses tied to an oak branch offered another snort.
Woolly sat in the bed of the wagon, surrounded by stacks of boards, a barrel of nails, and flour sacks. How long had he slept? The memories of his visit with Miss Jensen early that morning and seeing Mary Alice Brenner in front of the lumber mill began clearing the cobwebs from his mind. Stretching, he realized he should’ve left his arm in the sling a bit longer—it might have kept him from doing too much with his wrenched shoulder while he was in town. He’d best get back to the farm while there was still light enough for the horses to find their way home.
He untethered Boone and Duden, backed them up to the wagon’s doubletree, and hooked the traces. Although he’d rather live and work on the farm and be close to Gabi, his mother-in-law’s silence made it clear she didn’t want him there. He’d gone into town to look for employment, but with so many former slaves flooding the workforce here, there wasn’t much work available for him.
Thankfully, when he’d mentioned going into town to get supplies, Mother Brantenberg offered him the use of the wagon if he’d pick up a few supplies for her. He deserved the cold shoulder she’d turned his way, and if all she could offer him was the treatment of an employee, that would have to do.
Woolly goaded the horses onto the main road, and the wagon rose out of the bottomlands, through the stands of birch and sycamore trees lining the small German family farms common to the area. Some farms still had a look of abandonment and disrepair, but most showed signs of a new postwar hope and vitality. He remembered the first time he’d made this trip from town. He’d stepped off a steamboat in Saint Charles and walked into Mr. Johann Heinrich’s dry goods store looking for work. He had done farm work for his folks growing up in Virginia, and that’s all he knew. Johann told him of Christoph Brantenberg who was looking to hire a farmhand and sent him this direction. That June day, he’d found work and met his future bride.
This trip he had a lot at stake—a future with his daughter, his gift from Gretchen. He was rehearsing what he’d say to his mother-in-law as her apple orchard came into view. At the intersection, he reined the horses onto Brantenberg Lane. The now-empty log cabin he and Gretchen had lived in sat at the corner of the Brantenberg property. The day he left for the war, he’d hired George Ransom, a freedman up from Mississippi, to work the farm. And now the family was gone, chased away by raiders.
It hadn’t taken long for the cabin to sag. The roof probably wouldn’t make it through the winter, and it was in better shape than most of the farm.
Thinking about what Mary Alice had said about the land in California, he had a notion to go west in the spring. But now wasn’t the time to entertain such thoughts.
When he glimpsed Mother Brantenberg walking to the barn, Woolly’s pulse quickened. Fortunately, the horses were anxious to be home and sped their gait. He parked the wagon beside the barn and hopped down from the seat. He’d unload it later.
Before he reached the barn door, Mother Brantenberg stepped back outside, swinging a bucket. Her wooden work shoes pounding the dirt path, she marched past him to the watering trough outside the
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