INSPIRATIONAL HISTORICAL ROMANCE

Schoolteacher Ellen Thurston never expected to find love in Pepin, Wisconsin. But the moment she discovers a baby boy outside her door, it’s love at first sight. While the townsfolk don’t approve of Ellen as a single mother, what worries her most are her feelings for the handsome farmer who defends her decision to keep the child.

Ellen is far above the reach of a German immigrant like Kurt Lang. Especially one weighted with responsibility. Kurt knows how hard it is to raise a child alone, but he will do whatever it takes to help make Ellen’s dream of a family come true.

What had prompted Mr. Lang, who had been concerned about her desire to keep William since the very night they’d found him, to speak on her behalf?

People moved around her, offering their farewells, and Ellen replied politely. But as she waited for Mr. Lang to come and speak to her, she realized that he had left without a word. A lost feeling filled her that she couldn’t quite explain.

When she was finally alone again, she shut the school door and secured it. Suddenly, fatigue overwhelmed her. She closed her eyes and once again saw Mr. Lang rise to his feet in her defense. Warmth for him welled up within her, but she took herself firmly in hand. Her path had been set.

She had always resolved to pursue an education, not marriage, as most women did. But Holton had somehow made her forget that for a brief time. Now she was herself again. Therefore, she shouldn’t, and wouldn’t, interpret Mr. Lang’s defense of her as anything more than a change of mind expressed by a caring and sympathetic man. Because she would never be foolish over a man again.

Once had proven to be quite enough.

LYN COTE

and her husband, her real-life hero, acquired a new daughter recently when their son married his true love. Lyn already loves her daughter-in-law and enjoys this new adventure in family stretching. Lyn and her husband still live on the lake in the north woods, where they watch a bald eagle and its young soar and swoop overhead throughout the year. She wishes the best to all her readers. You may email Lyn at l.cote@juno.com or write her at P.O. Box 864, Woodruff, WI 54548. And drop by her blog, www.strongwomenbravestories.blogspot.com, to read stories of strong women in real life and in true-to-life fiction. “Every woman has a story. Share yours.”

The Baby Bequest
Lyn Cote

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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I am come that they might have life, and that they might have it more abundantly.

—John 10:10

And be ye kind one to another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ’s sake hath forgiven you.

—Ephesians 4:32

To Carol, Nan and Chris, my knitting pals!

And in fond memory of Ellen Hornshuh, a special lady

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Epilogue

Dear Reader

Questions for Discussion

Excerpt

Chapter One

Pepin, Wisconsin

August, 1870

Clutching the railing of the riverboat, Miss Ellen Thurston ached as if she’d been beaten. Now she truly understood the word heartbroken. Images of her sister in her pale blue wedding dress insistently flashed through her mind. As if she could wipe them away, she passed a hand over her eyes. The trip north had been both brief and endless.

She forced herself back to the present. She was here to start her new life.

The sunlight glittering on the Mississippi River nearly blinded her. The brim of her stylish hat fell short and she shaded her eyes, scanning the jumble of dusty, rustic buildings, seeking her cousin, Ophelia, and Ophelia’s husband. But only a few strangers had gathered to watch the boat dock. Loneliness nearly choked her. Ophelia, please be here. I need you.

The riverboat men called to each other as the captain guided the boat to the wharf. With a bump, the boat docked and the men began to wrestle thick ropes to harness the boat to the pier.

As she watched the rough ropes being rasped back and forth, she felt the same sensation as she relived her recent struggle. Leaving home had been more difficult than she could have anticipated. But staying had been impossible. Why had she gone against her better judgment and let her heart take a chance?

The black porter who had assisted her during her trip appeared beside her. “Miss, I will see to your trunk and boxes, never fear.”

She smiled at him and offered her hand. “You’ve been so kind. Thank you.”

Looking surprised, he shook her hand. “It’s been my pleasure to serve you, miss. Yes, indeed it has.”

His courtesy helped her take a deep breath. She merely had to hold herself together till she was safely at Ophelia’s. There, with her cousin—who was closer than her sister—she could mourn her loss privately, inwardly.

Soon she was standing on dry land with her luggage piled around her. She handed the porter a generous tip and he bowed his thanks and left her. Ellen glanced around, looking for her cousin in vain. Could something have happened to her? Even as this fear struck, she pushed it from her mind. Ophelia was probably just a bit late. Still, standing here alone made her painfully conspicuous.

A furtive movement across the way caught her attention. A thin, blond lad who looked to be in his midteens was sneaking—yes, definitely sneaking—around the back of a store. She wondered what he was up to. But she didn’t know much about this town, and she shouldn’t poke her nose into someone else’s business. Besides, what wrong could a lad that age be doing?

She turned her mind back to her own dilemma. Who could she go to for assistance? Who would know the possible reason why Ophelia wasn’t here to meet her? Searching her mind, she recalled someone she’d met on her one visit here a year ago. She picked up her skirts and walked to Ashford’s General Store.

The bell jingled as she entered, and two men turned to see who had come in. One she recognized as the proprietor, Mr. Ashford, and one was a stranger—a very handsome stranger—with wavy blond hair.

Holton had the same kind of hair. The likeness stabbed her.

Then she noticed a young girl about fourteen slipping down the stairs at the rear of the store. She eased the back door open and through the gap, Ellen glimpsed the young lad. Ah, calf love.

Ellen held her polite mask in place, turning her attention to the older of the two men. “Good day, Mr. Ashford. I don’t know if you remember me—”

“Miss Thurston!” the storekeeper exclaimed and hurried around the counter. “We didn’t expect you for another few days.”

This brought her up sharply. “I wrote my cousin almost two weeks ago that I’d be arriving today.”

The storekeeper frowned. “I thought Mrs. Steward said you’d be arriving later this week.”

“Oh, dear.” Ellen voiced her sinking dismay as she turned toward the windows facing the street. Her mound of boxes and valises sat forlornly on her trunk at the head of the dock. How was she going to get to Ophelia? Her grip on her polite facade was slipping. “I could walk to the Steward’s but my things...”

“We’ll get some boys to bring them here—”

The stranger in the store interrupted, clearing his throat, and bowed. “Mr. Ashford, please to introduce me. I may help, perhaps?” The man spoke with a thick German accent.

The man also unfortunately had blue eyes. Again, his likeness to Holton, who had misled her, churned within. She wanted to turn her back to him.

Mr. Ashford hesitated, then nodded. “A good idea.” He turned to Ellen. “Miss Ellen Thurston, may I introduce you to another newcomer in our little town, Mr. Kurt Lang, a Dutchman?”

Ellen recognized that Mr. Ashford was using the ethnic slur, “Dutch,” a corruption of Deutsche, the correct term for German immigrants. Hiding her acute discomfort with the insult, Ellen extended her gloved hand and curtsied as politeness demanded.

Mr. Lang approached swiftly and bowed over her hand, murmuring something that sounded more like French than German.

Ellen withdrew her hand and tried not to look the man full in the face, but she failed. She found that not only did he have blond hair with a natural wave and blue eyes that reminded her of Holton, but his face was altogether too handsome. And the worst was that his smile was too kind. Her facade began slipping even more as tears hovered just behind her eyes.

“I live near the Stewards, Miss Thurston,” the stranger said, sounding polite but stiff. “I drive you.”

Ellen looked to Mr. Ashford a bit desperately. Young ladies of quality observed a strict code of conduct, especially those who became schoolteachers. Should she ride alone with this man?

Mr. Ashford also seemed a bit uncomfortable. “Mr. Lang has been living here for over six months and is a respectable person. Very respectable.” The man lowered his voice and added, “Even if he is a foreigner.”

Ellen stiffened at this second slur from Mr. Ashford.

Mr. Lang himself looked mortified but said nothing in return.

With effort, Ellen swallowed her discomfort. The man couldn’t help reminding her of someone she didn’t want to be reminded of. More important, she would not let him think that she embraced the popular prejudice against anyone not born in America.

“We are a nation of immigrants, Mr. Ashford,” she said with a smile to lighten the scold. She turned to Mr. Lang. “Thank you, Mr. Lang, I am ready whenever you are.”

Mr. Lang’s gaze met hers in sudden connection. He bowed again. “I finish and take you.”

She heard in these words a hidden thank-you for her comment.

A few moments later, she stood on the shady porch of the store, watching the man load her trunk, two boxes of books and her valises onto the back of his wagon along with his goods. She noticed it was easy for him—he was quite strong. She also noticed he made no effort to gain her attention or show off. He just did what he’d said he’d do. That definitely differed from Holton, the consummate actor.

This man’s neat appearance reminded her that she must look somewhat disheveled from her trip, increasing her feelings of awkwardness at being alone with the stranger. She’d often felt that same way with Holton, too. His Eastern polish should have warned her away—if her own instincts hadn’t.

At his curt nod, she met Mr. Lang at the wagon side and he helped her up the steps. His touch warmed her skin, catching her off guard. Rattled, she sat rigidly straight on the high bench, warning him away.

Just then, the storekeeper’s wife hurried out the door. “Miss Thurston! Ned just called upstairs that you’d arrived.” The flustered woman hurried over and reached up to shake hands with Ellen. “We didn’t expect you so soon.”

“Yes, Mr. Ashford said as much. I’d told my cousin when I was arriving, but perhaps she didn’t receive my letter.”

“The school isn’t quite ready, you know.” Mrs. Ashford looked down and obviously realized that she’d rushed outside without taking off her smeared kitchen apron. She snatched it off.

“That’s fine. My cousin wanted me to come for a visit, anyway.” Ophelia’s invitation to visit before the teaching job began had come months before. Ellen suffered a twinge, hoping this was all just a minor misunderstanding. Then she thought of Ophelia’s little boy. Little ones were so at risk for illness. Perhaps something had happened?

She scolded herself for jumping to conclusions. After a few more parting remarks were exchanged, Mr. Lang slapped the reins, and the team started down the dusty road toward the track that Ellen recognized from her earlier visit to Pepin.

The two of them sat in a polite silence. As they left the town behind them, Ellen tried to accustom herself to the forest that crowded in on them like a brooding presence. The atmosphere did not raise her spirits. And it was taking every ounce of composure she had left to sit beside this stranger.

Then, when the silence had become unbearable, Mr. Lang asked gruffly, “You come far?”

“Just from Galena.” Then she realized a newcomer might not know where Galena was. “It’s south of here in Illinois, about a five-day trip. You may have heard of it. President Grant’s home is there.”

“Your president, he comes from your town?”

She nodded and didn’t add that her hometown had a bad case of self-importance over this. They’d all forgotten how many of them had previously scorned Ulysses S. Grant. “Before the war, he and his father owned a leather shop.” She hadn’t meant to say this, but speaking her mind to someone at last on the topic presented an opportunity too attractive to be missed. She found President Grant’s story extraordinary, though not everyone did.

“A leather shop?” The man sounded disbelieving.

“Yes.” She stopped herself from saying more in case Mr. Lang thought that she was disparaging their president. The wagon rocked over a ridge in the road. Why couldn’t it move more quickly?

“This land is different. In Germany, no tradesman would be general or president.”

Ellen couldn’t miss the deep emotion with which Mr. Lang spoke these few words. She tilted her face so she could see him around the brim of her hat, then regretted it. The man had expressive eyebrows and thick brown lashes, another resemblance to Holton. Unhappy thoughts of home bombarded her.

As another conversational lull blossomed, crows filled the silence, squawking as if irritated by the human intrusion. She felt the same discontent. She wanted only to be with dear Ophelia, and she wasn’t sure she could stand much more time alone with this disturbing stranger.

She sought another way to put distance between them. “I am going to be the schoolteacher here. Do you have children?” Ellen hoped he’d say that he and his wife had none, and hence she would not come in contact with this man much in the future.

“I am not married. But I have two...students.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” Ellen said, clutching the side of the wagon as they drove over another rough patch, her stomach lurching.

“My brother, Gunther, and my nephew, Johann. They will come to school.”

This man had responsibilities she hadn’t guessed. Yet his tone had been grim, as if his charges were a sore subject.

“How old are they?” Do they speak English? she wanted to ask. She sincerely hoped so.

“Gunther is sixteen and Johann is seven.” Then he answered her unspoken question. “We speak English some at home. But is hard for them.”

She nodded out of politeness but she couldn’t help voicing an immediate concern. “Isn’t your brother a bit old to attend school? Most students only go to the eighth grade—I mean, until about thirteen years old.”

“Gunther needs to learn much about this country. He will go to school.”

The man’s tone brooked no dispute. So she offered none, straightening her back and wishing the horse would go faster.

Yes, your brother will attend, but will he try to learn? And in consequence, will he make my job harder?

The oppressive silence surged back again and Ellen began to imagine all sorts of dreadful reasons for her cousin not meeting her on the appointed day. Ellen searched her mind for some topic of conversation. She did not want to dwell on her own worry and misery. “Are you homesteading?”

“Ja. Yes. I claim land.” His voice changed then, his harsh tone disappearing. “Only in America is land free. Land just...free.”

In spite of herself, the wonder in his voice made her proud to be an American. “Well, we have a lot of land and not many people,” she said after a pause. If she felt more comfortable at being alone with him, she would have asked him to tell her about Europe, a place she wished to see but probably never would.

“Still, government could make money from selling land, yes?”

She took a deep, steadying breath. “It’s better not to look a gift horse in the mouth.”

More unwelcome silence. She stole another glance at him. The man appeared in deep thought.

“Oh,” he said, his face lifting. “Not look gift horse...to see if healthy.”

“Exactly,” she said. She hadn’t thought about the phrase as being an idiom. How difficult it must be to live away from home, where you don’t even know the everyday expressions. Homesickness stabbed her suddenly. Her heart clenched. Perhaps they did have something in common. “It must have been hard to leave home and travel so far.”

He seemed to close in on himself. Then he shrugged slightly. “War will come soon to Germany. I need to keep safe, to raise Johann.”

“You might have been drafted?” she asked more sharply than she’d planned. During the Civil War, many men had bought their way out of the draft. Not something she approved of.

“Ja—yes—but war in Germany is to win land for princes, not for people. No democracy in Germany.”

“That’s unfortunate.” No doubt not having any say in what the government did would make being drafted feel different. Ellen fell silent, exhausted from the effort of making conversation with this man who reminded her so much of Holton. She knotted her hands together in her lap, as if that would contain her composure. Would this ride never end?

“We—the men—we build the school...more on Saturday,” he said haltingly.

This pleased her. She wanted to get her life here started, get busy so she could put the past in the past. “How much longer do you think it will take?”

“Depends. Some men harvest corn. If rain comes...” He shrugged again, seeming unable to express the uncertainty.

“I see. Well, I’ll just have faith that it will all come together in the next few weeks. Besides, the delay gives me more time to prepare lessons.”

At that moment, Mr. Lang turned the wagon down a track and ahead lay the Steward cabin. Ellen’s heart leaped when she saw her cousin, carrying her baby, hurry out to greet her.

“Ophelia!” she called.

Mr. Lang drew up his team. “Wait,” he insisted. “Please, I help.” He secured the brake.

But Ellen couldn’t wait. She jumped down and ran to Ophelia, the emotions she’d been working so hard to keep at bay finally overtaking her. She buried her face in Ophelia’s shoulder and burst into tears. Her feelings strangled her voice.

Chapter Two

“Why weren’t you at the river to meet me?”

Ellen grasped her cousin’s hand desperately as Mr. Lang drove down the track away from them. She had managed to pull herself together enough to bid Mr. Lang goodbye and thank him for the ride, but she was glad to see him leave—his presence had pushed her over the edge emotionally. The man had only been kind to her, but being alone with him had nearly been more than she could bear.

“Why weren’t you at the river to meet me?” Ellen repeated.

Ophelia pulled a well-worn letter from her pocket. “You said your boat would dock tomorrow. ‘I will arrive on the sixteenth of August,’” she read.

“But that’s today.”

“No, dear, that’s tomorrow. It’s easy to lose track of days when traveling. I know I did.”

Ellen thought her own mental state must be the explanation. As Ophelia guided her to a chair just outside the log cabin and disappeared inside, Ellen tried to appear merely homesick and travel-weary, not heartsick. She must master herself or this thing would defeat her. She stiffened her spine.

Soon Ophelia bustled into the daylight again and offered her a cup of tea. “This will help. I know when I arrived I...” Her cousin paused, frowning. “I cried a lot. It’s a shock leaving family, leaving home.” She sat down beside Ellen and began nursing her little boy.

Ophelia had thoughtfully offered her an excuse for her tears and she would not contradict her. Yet the invisible band around her heart squeezed tighter. Ellen took a sip of the tea, which tasted like peppermint. “I’ll adjust.”

“Of course you will. You’ve done right coming here. Pepin has the nicest people, and those with children are so happy to have a teacher. They can’t wait to meet you.”

A weight like a stone pressed down on Ellen’s lungs. She’d never taught before. Would she be good at it? “I’m glad to hear that.”

“The schoolhouse with your quarters isn’t finished yet, but Martin and I will love having you spend a few weeks with us.”

That long? How could she keep her misery hidden that long, and from Ophelia, who knew her so well? “I’m sorry for arriving early and putting you out—”

“You’re not putting me out,” Ophelia said emphatically. “Having family here—” the young mother paused as if fighting tears “—means a great deal to me.”

Touched, Ellen reached out and pressed her hand to Ophelia’s shoulder. “I’m glad to have family here, too.” Family that loves me, she thought.

Her cousin rested her cheek on Ellen’s hand for a moment. “I’m sorry I missed Cissy’s wedding.”

The image of Holton kissing her sister, Cissy, in their parlor, sealing their life vows, was a knife piercing Ellen’s heart. What had happened had not been her naive younger sister’s fault, she reminded herself. “Cissy was a beautiful bride,” she said bravely.

“Oh, I wish I could have been there, but we couldn’t justify the expense of the riverboat fare and the time away from our crops. It seems every varmint in Wisconsin wants to eat our garden and corn.” Ophelia sounded indignant. “You’d think our farm was surrounded by a desolate desert without a green shoot, the way everything tries to gobble up our food.”

Ellen couldn’t help herself; a chuckle escaped her. Oh, it felt good to laugh again.

“It’s not funny.”

“I know, but you are. Oh, Ophelia, I’ve missed you.”

And it was the truth. Ophelia had been a friend from childhood, slipping through the back fence to Ellen’s house, escaping her own overbearing, scene-making mother.

“I miss your parents. They were always so good to me,” Ophelia said in a voice rich with emotion, rich with love and sympathy.

The cousins linked hands in a silent moment of remembrance.

“They were good to me, too,” Ellen murmured. Strengthened, she released Ophelia’s hand. “But they are with God and I am here with you. To start a new life, just like you have.”

“Ellen, about Holton.” Her cousin paused, biting her lower lip.

Ellen froze, her cup in midair. What about Holton? What could Ophelia possibly know? And how?

“I wondered... My mother wrote me that when he first came to town, he was making up to you...”

Ellen suffered the words as a blow. She should have foreseen this. Ophelia’s mother, Prudence, completely misnamed, was also one of the worst gossips in Galena. Of course Aunt Prudence would have told Ophelia how, when he first came to town, Holton had buzzed around Ellen, only to switch his attentions when her prettier, younger and easier-to-manage sister came home from boarding school in Chicago.

Ellen tried to keep breathing through the pain of remembering.

At that moment, Ophelia’s husband, Martin, walked out of the woods, a hoe over his shoulder and a dog at his side, saving her from having to speak about Holton and his deception of her. She had gotten through mention of the awful day of Cissy’s wedding without revealing anything. No doubt it would come up again, but perhaps every day that passed would distance the pain.

This move would work out. It had to.

As she thought of her future in Pepin, the handsome but troubled face of Kurt Lang popped into her mind. What was wrong with her? Did she have no defense at all against a handsome face? A handsome face belonging to a man that might mislead and lie just as Holton did?

She vowed she would never again make the mistake she’d made with Holton. Never.

* * *

Kurt found Gunther sitting beside the creek, fishing. The lanky boy was too thin and his blond hair needed cutting. A pang of sympathy swept through Kurt. His brother was so young to carry their family shame.

Gunther looked up, already spoiling for an argument. “I did my chores and Johann did his.”

And just like that, Kurt’s sympathy turned to frustration. He knew why Gunther simmered all the time, ready to boil over. But the lad was old enough to learn to carry what had happened to them like a man.

Upstream, Johann, who had been wading in the cooling water, looked up at the sound of Gunther’s voice. He waved. “Hello, Onkel Kurt!” The barefoot boy splashed over the rocks and ran up the grassy bank to Kurt.

Kurt pulled down the brim of the boy’s hat, teasing. Johann favored his late father’s coloring with black hair and brown eyes. “You keep cool in the water?” Kurt asked in careful English.

Johann pushed up the brim, grinning. “Yes, I did.” Then the boy looked uncomfortable and glanced toward Gunther.

In return, Gunther sent their nephew a pointed, forbidding look.

Kurt’s instincts went on alert. What were these two hiding?

His guess was that Gunther had done something he knew Kurt wouldn’t like and had sworn Johann to secrecy. Kurt let out a breath. Another argument wouldn’t help. He’d just wait. Everything came out in the wash, his grandmother used to say and was said here, too.

“You bring me candy? Please?” Johann asked, eyeing Kurt’s pockets.

“Candy? Why should I bring you candy?” If he wasn’t careful, he’d spoil this one.

“I did my chores this week.”

After feigning deep thought for a few moments, Kurt drew out a small brown bag. “You did do your chores well, Johann.” Kurt lapsed into German as he tossed the boy a chunk of peppermint. Then he offered another chunk to his brother.

Gunther glared at him. “I’m almost a man.”

Irritation sparked in Kurt’s stomach. “Then act like one.”

Gunther turned his back to Kurt, hunching up one shoulder.

Kurt regretted his brusque tone, but he couldn’t baby Gunther. Everyone said that had been the root cause of their father’s downfall. Their father had been a very spoiled only child who had never grown up. Kurt would not let Gunther follow in their father’s disastrous footsteps.

“Your schoolteacher arrived today.”

Kurt stopped there, realizing that the unexpected meeting had upset him. Miss Ellen Thurston was a striking woman with a great deal of countenance, but so emotional. He’d heard all the gossip in town about her. She was a well-educated woman and a wealthy man’s daughter, and her family was even in government in Illinois. Far above his touch. His brow furrowed; he recalled the scene at the Stewards’, her brown eyes overflowing with tears. Why had she burst into tears like that? He shook his head again. Women were so emotional, not like men.

But wondering about the new schoolteacher was just wasting time. His life now was raising Johann and guiding Gunther. Brigitte’s betrayal tried to intrude on his thoughts, but he shook it off—he did not want to spare one more thought for his former fiancée.

“I’m not going to school,” Gunther insisted.

Kurt stiffened.

“Nicht wahr?” Johann asked and went on in German. “I think it will be fun. At least we will get to meet some others here. I want to make friends. Don’t you want to make friends, Gunther?”

A fish took Gunther’s bait, saving them from another angry retort.

The deep pool of Kurt’s own sorrow and shame bubbled up. He inhaled deeply, forcing it down. Would the weight he carried never lift? Kurt watched his brother deftly play and then pull in a nice bass. Kurt tried encouragement. “A fine fish for supper. Well done.”

Gunther refused the compliment with a toss of his head.

Kurt’s patience began slipping. Better to leave before he traded more barbed words with the lad. He relaxed and spoke in German, “Catch a few more if you can. Johann, help me put away what I bought at the store. Then we will look over the garden to see what needs picking.”

Johann fell into step with him. Kurt rested a hand on the boy’s shoulder. Again he thought of the schoolteacher, so stylish and with soft brown curls around her aristocratic face. He’d anticipated a plain woman, much older, with hair sprouting from her chin. What was Miss Ellen Thurston doing here, teaching school? It was a mystery.

Then, in spite of the sorrow that never quite eased, Kurt began teasing Johann about how much peppermint he thought he could eat at one time.

Things would get better. They had to.

* * *

Riding on the wagon bench, Ellen dreaded being put on display for all of Pepin today, nearly a week after arriving. But the men had decided to hold a community-wide workday on the school and attached living quarters, and she must attend and show a cheerful face to all. In light of the wound she carried and concealed day by day, it would be one long, precarious ordeal. She had to portray confidence above all.

When the Stewards’ wagon broke free of the forest into the open river flat, she welcomed the broad view of the blue, rippling Mississippi ahead. She took a deep breath. The normally empty town now appeared crowded and her heart sank another notch—until an impertinent question popped up: Would Mr. Lang come today? Ellen willed this thought away.

Ophelia touched her hand. “Don’t worry. You’ll get to know everyone in no time and then this will feel more like home.”

Ellen fashioned a smile for Ophelia. If only shyness were her worry. “I’m sure you’re right.”

“You met my friends Sunny and Nan last year. They are eager to make you welcome.”

Ellen tried to take comfort from her cousin’s words.

Ellen and Ophelia joined the ladies who were storing the cold lunch in the spring house behind the store. Then they gathered in the shade of the trees with a good view of the unfinished log schoolhouse and claimed places on a rectangle of benches. Small children rolled or crawled in the grass in the midst of the benches, while older children played tag nearby.

Though scolding herself silently, Ellen scanned the men, seeking Kurt Lang. He had made an impression on her and she couldn’t deny it. She also couldn’t deny that she resented it.

“Miss Thurston,” Mrs. Ashford called. “This is my daughter Amanda.” Mrs. Ashford motioned for a girl in a navy blue plaid dress, who appeared to be around fourteen, to come to her. “Make your curtsy to the schoolteacher, Amanda.”

The thin, dark-haired girl obeyed, blushing. With a start, Ellen recognized her as the girl she’d seen slipping downstairs to meet a boy on the day Ellen had arrived.

Ellen took pity on the girl, obviously enduring that awkward stage between girlhood and womanhood, and offered her hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, Amanda. Your dress is very pretty.”

Mrs. Ashford preened. “Amanda cut and sewed it all by herself. She is the age where she should be finishing up her learning of the household arts. But Ned and I decided that we’d let her go to school one more year, though she’s had enough schooling for a girl.”

Ellen swallowed her response to this common sentiment, quelling the irritation it sparked. Enough schooling for a girl. Her older brother’s wife, Alice, had the gall to tell her once that the reason Ellen had never “snared” a man was she had had too much schooling for a woman. I couldn’t stand my sister-in-law’s sly rudeness and innuendo a day longer. What would this storekeeper’s wife say if she announced that she intended to earn a bachelor’s degree and perhaps teach at a preparatory school someday?

Ellen limited herself to saying, “I will be happy to have Amanda in my class.”

The men began shouting words of instruction and encouragement, drawing the women’s attention to the schoolhouse. They were coordinating the positioning of four ladders against the log walls, two on each side. With a start, Ellen spotted Kurt Lang as he nimbly mounted a ladder and climbed toward the peak of the joists.

Ellen felt a little dizzy as she watched Mr. Lang so high up in the air, leaning perilously away from the ladder. An imposing figure, he appeared intent on what he was doing, evidently not the kind to shy away from hard work.

As she watched, a barefoot boy with black hair and a tanned face ran up, startling her. “You are teacher?” he asked with an accent. “The girls say you are teacher.”

“Yes, I am going to be the teacher. Will you be one of my students?” Was this Mr. Lang’s nephew?

He nodded vigorously. “I want school. I like to read.”

“Good. What’s your name?”

“Johann Mueller.” He pointed toward the school. “My onkel Kurt.” Then he pointed to a teenager standing by the ladders. “My onkel Gunther.” The boy said the name so it sounded like “Goon-ter.”

Ellen noted that Gunther, working with the men on the ground, wasn’t paying attention to the work going on around him. He was staring across at Amanda. She then recognized him as the young man Amanda had slipped out to see that first day she’d come to town.

Over the hammering, she heard Mr. Lang’s voice rise, speaking in German, sounding as if he were scolding someone. She caught the name, “Gunther.”

She saw Gunther glare up at Mr. Lang, then grudgingly begin to work again.

Ellen felt sympathy for the younger brother. Why was Mr. Lang so hard on him? He was just a boy, really.

Johann bowed. “I go. Goodbye!” He pulled on his cap, gave her a grin and ran toward the children.

Mrs. Ashford pursed her lips, looking peevish. “I hope you don’t have trouble with those Dutch boys.” She nodded toward the unhappy Gunther. “That one’s too old for school and Mr. Ashford told Mr. Lang so.”

Ellen agreed. A sixteen-year-old could stir up all kinds of trouble at school, not only for the other students, but for her. Mr. Lang, of course, probably hadn’t thought of this. She drew in a breath. “I’m sure he thinks it best for his brother.”

“Well.” Mrs. Ashford sniffed. “I think the homesteading law should have specified that land was only for Americans, not for foreigners.”

Ellen bit her tongue. The homesteading law had been designed specifically to attract people from other countries to populate the vast open area east of the Rocky Mountains. There simply weren’t enough American-born families to fill up those vacant acres.

Ellen recalled Mr. Ashford’s whisper that Kurt was respectable even if a foreigner. It must be difficult for Mr. Lang to face this prejudice against immigrants day after day. Even though she didn’t agree with Mr. Lang’s treatment of his brother, she felt a keen sympathy for him—he and his charges had a difficult path ahead of them in so many ways.

This very feeling of sympathy led Ellen to resolve to keep her distance from Mr. Lang as best she could.

* * *

Hours later, the lunch bell rang. The men washed their hands at the school pump and gathered around the tables. While the women served the meal, the older children were permitted to sit by their fathers and listen to the men discuss the progress of the school building.

Despite her decision to keep her distance, Ellen tracked Mr. Lang’s whereabouts and listened to catch his words.

For distraction, she insisted on donning an apron and whisking away empty bowls to replenish them. As she approached Mr. Lang’s table, she heard him laugh—his laughter was deep and rich. Just as she reached him with a heaping bowl of green salad, he turned and nearly swept the bowl from her arms.

“Tut mir leid! I’m sorry!” he exclaimed, reaching out and steadying her hold on the bowl with his hands over hers.

The unexpected contact made her smother a gasp.

“No harm done.” She set the bowl on the table and stepped back, slightly breathless. Perspiration dotted his hairline and his thick, tawny hair had curled in the humidity. She nearly brushed back a curl that had strayed onto his forehead. The very thought of it made her turn away as quickly as possible to get back to work.

As she made her way to the next table, she noticed Mrs. Ashford’s daughter pause before slipping into the trees. The girl looked over her shoulder in a furtive move that announced she was up to no good.

Ellen recalled how Gunther had earlier been staring at this girl. A kind of inevitable presentiment draped over Ellen’s mind. She glanced around. Gunther was nowhere to be seen.

What to do? After listening to Mrs. Ashford’s opinion of foreigners, Ellen didn’t want to think of the repercussions in this small town if someone found the two young people together. And she didn’t want people gossiping about Amanda—she knew how that stung.

She excused herself and followed Amanda into the cover of the trees, threading her way through the thick pines and oaks. She hoped the young couple hadn’t gone too far.

She also hoped she wouldn’t find them kissing.

When she glimpsed Amanda’s navy blue plaid dress through the trees, the young girl was testing the flexed muscle of Gunther’s upper arm. A timeless scene—a young man showing off his strength to a young, admiring girl. Innocent and somewhat sweet. However, that wouldn’t be how the Ashfords would view it.

At that moment, she heard footsteps behind her. She swung around to find Kurt Lang facing her. She jerked backward in surprise.

Before she could say anything, Mr. Lang glimpsed the couple over her shoulder. His face darkened. He opened his mouth.

Impetuously, without thinking about her actions, Ellen shocked herself by reaching up and gently pressing a hand to Mr. Kurt Lang’s lips.

* * *

The lady’s featherlike touch threw Kurt off balance. He grappled with the cascade of sensations sparked by her fingers against his lips.

“Please, you’ll embarrass them,” she whispered, quickly removing her hand as her face flushed.

She was so close, her light fragrance filled his head, making him think of spring. He fought free of it. “They need to be embarrassed,” he replied emphatically. “I see you follow the girl Gunther likes. Then I see Gunther is not at table. He is not to flirt with this girl. He is too young.”

“But do you want everyone to hear, to know?” she cautioned.

Kurt thought about the wagging tongues, and realized she was right. “No. But I must discipline him. He must do what he is supposed to.”

The lady bit her lower lip as if she wanted to say more but then she fell back.

“Gunther.” He snapped his brother’s name as a reprimand.

In an instant, Amanda dropped her hand, blushing. Gunther jerked back and glared.

“We’re not doing anything wrong,” Amanda said in a rush.

The schoolteacher preceded him toward the couple. “No, you aren’t,” she said evenly, “but slipping away like this would not please your parents, Amanda. Why don’t you go back before you’re missed?”

Kurt admired her aplomb. She was definitely a lady of unusual quality.

“Yes, ma’am.” Amanda snuck a last look at Gunther and then hurried away.

The lady schoolteacher sent him an apologetic look filled with an appeal for the young couple. Why did women want to coddle children?

When the two females had moved out of earshot, Kurt told his brother what he thought of such a meeting. The boy flushed bright red and began to answer back.

Kurt cut him off. “You embarrass me in front of your teacher.”

Instead of apologizing, his brother made a rude sound and stalked away. Kurt proceeded back to the tables.

The other men were finished eating. With the hot sun blazing down, they lingered at the shaded tables, talking and teasing one another about minor mishaps during the morning’s work. Kurt envied their easygoing good humor, wishing he could participate, but inside, he churned like the Atlantic he’d crossed only months before.

He could not afford to lose his brother as he’d lost his father.

An older man sitting in the shade away from the tables in a rough-hewn wheelchair with his feet propped up motioned for Kurt to come to him.

Kurt obeyed the summons. “Sir?”

The older man reached out his hand. “You are Mr. Kurt Lang from Germany. I’ve seen you come to worship and I’ve been wanting to meet you, but my days of calling on folk are over. I’m Old Saul.”

“I hear you were pastor before Noah Whitmore.” Kurt shook the man’s hand and sat on a stool beside his chair. “I’m pleased to meet you, sir.”

“Just call me Old Saul.”

Kurt digested this. People here thought differently about social status. Few wanted titles of respect beyond Mr. and Mrs. or Miss. It puzzled him. But he was never left in doubt of their low opinion of him, an immigrant.

Old Saul nodded toward the lady schoolteacher. “I didn’t think I’d still be here to greet Miss Thurston, but God hasn’t decided to call me home just yet.” Then he looked directly into Kurt’s eyes. “You carry a heavy load. I see it. You’re strong but some burdens need God’s strength.”

The old man looked frail but his voice sounded surprisingly strong. Kurt didn’t know what to make of what he’d said, yet for the first time in many days, Kurt relaxed, feeling the man’s acceptance deep within his spirit.

“It’s hard starting out in a new place,” Old Saul continued, “but you’ll do fine. Just ask God to help you when you need it. God’s strength is stronger than any human’s and God is a very present help in times of trouble, Mr. Kurt Lang. Yes, He is.” Then the older man’s gaze followed the lady teacher.

Kurt could think of nothing to say so he watched the schoolteacher, too. Even though she was dressed simply, she had that flair that lent her a more fashionable look. He thought of her following the Ashford girl and his brother, trying to protect them from gossip. She must have a caring heart.

Miss Ellen Thurston, the lady schoolteacher.

Kurt drew in a breath and before anyone caught him staring at her, he turned his attention back to Old Saul. She is far above me, a poor farmer who speaks bad English.

Chapter Three

Ellen’s heart beat fast as she prepared to ring the handbell on the first day of school. Children, obviously scrubbed and combed and wearing freshly ironed clean clothing, had begun gathering over the past half hour and milled around the school entrance.

Then she glimpsed trouble. Mr. Lang marched into the clearing, his face a thundercloud. He grasped his brother Gunther’s arm and headed straight for her. Little Johann ran behind the two, trying to keep up.

Oh, no, she moaned silently. Didn’t the man have enough sense not to make a public scene?

As she rang the bell, the children ran toward her, looking excited. But when they reached her, they turned to see what she was looking at with such consternation, and watched the threesome heading straight for her.

Ellen racked her brain, trying to come up with some way to avert Gunther’s public humiliation. In the moment, she only managed to draw up a welcoming smile.

“Good morning, Mr. Lang!” she called out in a friendly tone, hoping to turn him up sweet.

She watched him master the thundercloud and nod toward her curtly but politely. She turned to the children, hoping to move them inside. “Children, please line up by age, the youngest students in the front.”

Some jostling and pushing happened as the line shifted.

Mr. Lang halted at the rear. Gunther tried to pull away from him, but couldn’t break free. Looking worried, Johann hurried past them to the front of the line as instructed.

“Eyes forward,” she ordered when children turned to look back at Gunther. She set the school bell down on the bench inside the door and then asked the children their ages and did some re-sorting in the line. She sent the children in row by row, keeping Gunther and Mr. Lang at the rear.

Finally, the older children went inside. Mr. Lang released Gunther to go with them with a sharp command in German.

Ellen stepped forward, intercepting Mr. Lang before he could turn away. She lowered her voice. “I wish you hadn’t called so much attention to Gunther. He already stands out as it is.”

“Gunther disobeyed. He is my brother, Miss Thurston. I must do what I think is best.”

Helpless to better the situation, Ellen struggled in silence. Obviously Gunther had balked at coming to school. Mr. Lang had excellent intentions, but this public humiliation would only bring more adverse attention from the other children. Was there ever a schoolyard without hurtful taunting?

“Perhaps you should take a moment to remember your school days, recall how children treat newcomers,” she said in an undertone.

He looked up, showing surprise.

Hoping she’d given him something to think about, Ellen turned to go inside to take charge of her classroom.

Gunther slouched on the bench by the back door as if separating himself from the rest. She didn’t say a word, hoping to let the whole situation simmer down. How was she going to gain Gunther’s cooperation and reach him?

From her place with the other older children, Amanda Ashford peered at him until Ellen gently reminded her to face forward.

At the front of the class, Ellen led the students in a prayer, asking God to bless them as they began the first year together in this new school, smiling as brightly as she could. With a heavy heart, Ellen sighed. This promised to be a challenging year of teaching. However, uppermost in her mind was the image of Mr. Lang. His square jaw had been clamped tight and his eyes had been angry, but underneath she’d seen the worry.

What drove the man to push his brother so? And how could she help Gunther—and Mr. Lang?

* * *

By the end of the day, Ellen had the beginnings of a headache. The children for the most part were well behaved but most of them had little or no experience in a classroom with other students. Concentrating on their own lesson while she taught a different lesson to another age group taxed their powers of self-control.

Ellen had kept order by stopping often to sing a song with the children. This had occurred to her out of the blue and worked well, bringing a release of tension for her as well as the students. Grateful that the school year started in warm weather, she also had granted them a morning and afternoon recess in addition to the lunch recess.

Now their first day together was nearly done. From the head of the classroom, she gazed at her students, fatigue rolling over her. “Students, I am very pleased with your performance on this, our first day together. I think that I have been fortunate in starting my teaching career with a very bright class. However, we must work on concentrating on our studies. I haven’t punished anyone today for not listening and not sticking to their own work, but I may have to tomorrow. Do you take my point?”

“Yes, Miss Thurston,” they chorused.

“I will do better,” Johann announced in the front row.

Some of the students tittered.

Ellen frowned at them, letting them know this mocking would not be tolerated. And she didn’t reprimand Johann for speaking out of turn, since she liked his eager reply and most other students nodded in agreement. “I am sure each of you will. You are fortunate to have parents who care about you enough to build a school. Now pick up your things and line up as we did to go out for recess. I will meet you at the door.”

Ellen hadn’t planned to do this, but she recalled that her favorite teacher had always waited at the back of the schoolroom and had spoken to each of them on their way out. She had looked forward every schoolday to those few precious words meant just for her.

She took each student’s hand in turn and thought of something pleasant to say, showing that she had noticed them specifically. Each student beamed at the praise, and she promised herself to end each schoolday this way.

Finally, she faced Gunther and offered her hand. “Gunther, I hope you’ll find school more pleasant tomorrow.”

He accepted her hand as if her gesture in itself insulted him and he wouldn’t meet her gaze. Then he stalked off with Johann running to keep up with him, talking in a stream of rapid German.

She slipped inside and immediately sank onto the bench at the back of the room as if she could finally lay down the load she’d carried all day. If Mr. Lang had been there, she would have gladly given him a good shake.

* * *

During afternoon recess two days later, Ellen watched the younger children playing tag. Then she noticed that the older children had disappeared. Where? And why?

Then she heard the shouting from the other side of the schoolhouse, “Fight! Fight!”

She ran toward the voices and unfortunately the younger children followed her.

There they were—Gunther and Clayton sparring, surrounded by the older boys and girls. As she watched, horrified, Clayton socked Gunther’s eye. Gunther landed a blow on Clayton’s jaw, making his head jerk backward.

She shouted, “Stop!”

At the sound of her voice, the older children surrounding the two combatants fled from her.

She halted near the two fighting. The fists were flying and she didn’t want to get in the way of one. “Clayton Riggs, stop this instant! Gunther Lang, stop!”

Neither boy paid the slightest attention to her. She couldn’t physically make them obey. Or could she? She ran to the pump. Soon she ran back. The two were now rolling around on the ground, punching and kicking each other.

She doused them with the bucket of cold water.

The two rolled apart, yelping with surprise and sputtering.

“Stand up!” she ordered. “Now!”

Gunther rose first, keeping his distance from the other boy. Clayton, though younger than Gunther, matched him nearly in height and weight, rolled to his feet, too.

“Both of you, go to the pump and wash your face and hands. Now.” She gestured toward the pump and marched them there, hiding her own trembling. She was unaccustomed to physical fighting and it had shaken her.

She stood over them as if they were two-year-olds while they washed away the dirt and blood from the fight. The cold water had evidently washed away their forgetfulness of where they were. Both looked embarrassed, chastened. Possibly wondering what their elders would say?

She then waved them into the schoolhouse and told them to face the opposite walls near the front. She called the rest of the children inside then.

No child spoke but as they filed in, all of them looked at the backs of the two miscreants. A question hung over them all. What would the teacher do to Gunther and Clayton?

She was asking herself the same question. She knew that Clayton had been taunting Gunther for two days—subtly in class and blatantly on the school ground. She had tried to keep them busy and apart, hoping to prevent fisticuffs. She’d failed.

Now she went to the front of the classroom and faced her students. “I didn’t think I needed to tell any of you that fighting on school grounds will not be tolerated.”

“Are you going to paddle them?” a first grader asked in breathless alarm.

“The idea that I would have to paddle any one of my students is repugnant. I expect my students to show self-control in every situation. No matter what the provocation, fighting is no way to settle an argument. Gunther and Clayton will stand the rest of the day, facing the wall in shame.”

The same first grader gasped. Some of the children gaped at her.

“If any more fights take place, I will have to inform the school board and they will mete out corporal punishment. I am a lady.”

She added the last as her justification and she saw that her instincts had proven true. The other children nodded in total agreement. Miss Thurston was a lady, and ladies didn’t paddle students.

Dear Lord, please don’t make it necessary for me to talk to anybody about this.

* * *

Later, Ellen rose from the table at the end of another evening meal at the Ashfords, who had finally agreed to let her pay them for providing her meals. Ellen could cook over a woodstove but could only make tea or coffee on the hearth in her quarters.

Though the meal had been delicious, the pleasure had done little to raise her spirits. The lady of the house gazed at her questioningly and then glanced toward Amanda, who was clearing the table. Mrs. Ashford had apparently picked up on Ellen’s preoccupation and Amanda’s forlorn mood during the meal.

“I hope everything is all right at school,” the lady of house said with a question in her voice.

Ellen decided that everyone would soon know what had happened so she might as well be frank. “I’m afraid that two boys came to blows during recess this afternoon.” The fight had ended in a nosebleed for Clayton and a black eye for Gunther.

“It wasn’t Gunther’s fault,” Amanda declared from the doorway to the kitchen. “That Clayton boy was making fun of how he talks and calling him names all day. Gunther ignored it till the Clayton boy started saying nasty things about Gunther’s uncle and little Johann.”

Both Mrs. Ashford and Ellen turned to the girl, stunned. Amanda had never shown such spirit before. Yet Ellen wished Amanda had kept her peace.

“I’m afraid I can’t allow fighting between students,” Ellen said patiently. “Even if there is provocation. I must maintain order.”

“Quite right,” Mrs. Ashford agreed. Unfortunately, she added, “I knew that Dutch boy would make trouble.”

“It wasn’t Gunther’s fault!” Amanda stomped her foot.

“That will be enough sauce from you, miss.” Mrs. Ashford’s face reddened. “Now get busy washing the dishes before I wash your impertinent mouth out with soap.”

On this unhappy note, Ellen said her thanks and descended the steps into the deep honey of twilight. Since she’d moved into her quarters, a large room behind the schoolroom, she’d dreaded the lonely evenings, which gave her too much time to fret, which she began as soon as she touched ground.

What should she do about Gunther Lang? Why didn’t his older brother realize the situation he’d put Gunther in? Her mind drifted back to home and brought up her sister exchanging vows with Holton. How long did heartbreak linger?

When she walked through the trees into the schoolyard, she was surprised to glimpse Kurt Lang, sitting dejectedly on the school step, clearly waiting for her as his horse grazed nearby. Of all people, he was the one she felt least ready to face—she had no doubt he’d come to discuss the fight.

“Mr. Lang,” she said.

He jumped up and swept off his hat. “Miss Thurston, I am sorry I am come so late. But I know Gunther had a fight. Please, I ask—do not put him out of school.”

Ellen walked toward him, trying to gather her scattered thoughts. This disturbing man put her at a disadvantage. He was handsome like Holton, but he never tried to charm her like Holton. Mr. Lang reminded her more of a determined bull.

Nothing she’d said so far concerning Gunther had made the least impression on him. She knew in her heart that there was nothing she could do to help Gunther fit in—too much separated him from the other students. But how could she make this man believe her? See he was doing harm to his brother?

Glum about her prospects at persuading him, she sat down on the school step, facing the river. He sat down a polite distance from her. For a few minutes neither of them talked. Finally, she cleared her throat. She would try once more.

“I realize that you want Gunther to learn more English so he is better prepared for life here.”

His powerful shoulders strained against his cotton shirt. “Yes, that is so.”

Her heart went out to him, a man trying to raise a teenage brother and a little boy by himself. Nonetheless, why did he have to be so stubborn? “But Gunther is too much older and too sensitive about being different from the others. Making him sit with little children won’t work.”

“Gunther must learn to obey.” Mr. Lang’s words rang with deep feeling.

She tried to imagine what was driving this man to continue to put his younger brother in such a difficult situation. Maybe if she talked about her family, he might reveal something about himself.

“I have a younger sister.” She didn’t mention that her elder brother was full of himself or that she’d had a baby brother, too. It cost her enough to speak of her sister Cissy and what her sister had unwittingly put her through. She paused a moment, grappling with her own rampant emotions. “My parents made the mistake of always saying to her, ‘Why can’t you be more like your sister?’”

Where am I going with this? How is this being helpful?

She shook herself and then drew in a breath. “Nothing you do or say is going to change Gunther’s mind or behavior. The struggle is not between you and him. It’s really between Gunther and this new set of people, this new place.” She sighed.

Several moments passed before he spoke. “You speak truth. But Gunther is too young to know what is good for him.”

“Human nature will not be denied.” Each word increased her confidence that making the lad attend school would not end well. “Gunther is a young man and we’ve put him in a situation that wouldn’t be normal for any lad his age. You see that.”

“Yes.” Mr. Lang didn’t sound happy or convinced. He rose. “I will keep Gunther home tomorrow. I must go, and think.” He bowed his head politely, his unfailing courtesy impressing her once again.

“I think that’s best.” Ellen watched him don his hat and ride away. She stood motionless long after he’d vanished through the trees. Even after he had disappeared from view, his image stayed with her. A handsome, brave but troubled man. She wondered if his broad shoulders ever tired of the responsibilities he carried. The deep sadness she sensed in him drew her sympathy.

She shook herself and went inside, her own heart heavy. Never far from her mind were the charming words Holton had spoken to her. She reminded herself that she must stop noticing Kurt Lang so keenly. After everything she’d been through with Holton, the last thing she needed was to be the focus of whispers about the foolish old-maid schoolmarm.

Of course it was one thing to stop noticing him. It was another thing to stop thinking of him completely.

Chapter Four

Standing outside the Stewards’ cabin after Saturday supper, Kurt tried to figure out exactly what he was doing there. He’d been surprised when the Stewards had invited him and his family to eat with them and Miss Thurston. The meal had been tasty, and he’d enjoyed talking about farming and the fall hunting with Martin, who was about his age. Unfortunately, Gunther had eaten in sullen silence, in contrast to Johann’s lively chatter.

As the sun had disappeared behind the trees, a sudden awkwardness Kurt couldn’t understand sprang up.

“Mr. Lang,” Mrs. Steward said in a voice that didn’t sound quite genuine, “I wonder if you would save Martin a trip and drive my cousin back to the schoolhouse?”

The question startled him. And it also startled Miss Thurston. He saw her glance at her cousin.

In Germany, this request would have caused Kurt to suspect matchmaking. Here, however, he could not think that he’d been invited for this reason. So why?

Miss Thurston’s face turned pink, revealing her embarrassment.

“Yes,” Martin spoke up, sounding as if he’d been rehearsed about what to say, “I have my wife’s pony hooked up to my cart. It only carries two adults, so perhaps your brother and nephew can just walk home?”

Now Miss Thurston’s face burned bright rose-red.

“I am happy to,” Mr. Lang replied, mystified. What else could he say?

Gunther favored both of them with an odd look but gestured to Johann to come with him, and the two headed down the track in the fading light of day.

Kurt took the reins of the two-wheeled cart as Martin helped Miss Thurston up onto the seat beside him. She clung to the side of the bench as Mr. Lang flicked the reins and they started down the track to town. He noticed that she sat as far from him as she could. He hoped she didn’t think he’d engineered this so that he could be alone with her.

Kurt couldn’t think of anything to say to her. When they were out of sight of the Steward cabin, she finally broke the silence.

“Since we’ve been given this opportunity to talk, just the two of us, there is something that I have wanted to discuss with you, Mr. Lang.” Her voice quavered a bit on the last few words, as if she were nervous.

“Oh?” he said, hoping for enlightenment.

“After the fight at school, you kept Gunther home only one day, right? Have you been sending Gunther to school the rest of this week?”

He stiffened. “Yes, I send him. What do you mean?”

“I thought as much. He has been playing hooky.”

“Hooky?” Mr. Lang turned his gaze to her.

“Sorry. Playing hooky means not coming to school.”

Kurt wanted to explode; instead he chewed the inside of his mouth. But he tried to stay calm for Miss Thurston’s sake. “Why does he not obey me?”

“Sometimes it’s not a matter of obedience,” she replied, sounding hesitant.

“Then what is it about?” he asked, his cheeks burning.

“Isn’t this really about whether Gunther learns more English and more about this country?” she replied in a gentle voice. “Our history and our laws? Isn’t that what you want, more than his obedience?”

Her question caught him off guard. He stared at her, noticing the wind playing with the light brown curls around her face. Startled by both her question and his sudden awareness of her, his mouth opened, and then closed tightly.

Night was overtaking them. Fortunately the half-moon had risen so he could see to drive. He glanced at its silver half circle above the treetops. Then, after many quiet moments, he asked, “What am I to do with him?” He didn’t try to hide his anxiety.

“Making him sit with little children won’t work,” she stated.

“But he must learn. And I cannot teach him.” His words rung with deep feeling he couldn’t conceal.

“I think private lessons would be best,” she said. “I asked my cousin to invite you tonight so we could discuss this without calling attention to Gunther. If I came alone to your place...” Her voice faded.

“Private lessons?” he echoed.

“Yes. Why don’t you bring him two evenings a week? I will help him improve his English, and learn American history and government. You can make sure he studies at home on the other evenings.”

“That will make more work for you. I cannot pay.”

She touched his forearm. “I’m the teacher here in Pepin. Whether I teach in the daytime or evening, I’m being paid.” Then, seeming embarrassed, she removed her hand from his sleeve and looked away.

He wished she hadn’t taken her hand away so quickly. Her long, elegant hands, covered in fine kid gloves, were beautiful. “You are good. But still, I think Gunther must not be given good for bad behavior.”

“Very few sons of farmers attend school beyond eighth grade. Don’t you see? It isn’t normal for Gunther or good for him.”

The school came into view through the opening in the forest. Kurt tried to come to grips with what Miss Thurston had suggested.

Then an unusual sound cut through the constant peeping of tree frogs. Kurt jerked the reins back, halting the pony. He peered ahead through the dark shadows.

Miss Thurston did the same. The sound came again.

A baby crying.

They looked at each other in amazement.

“It’s coming from the rear of the school, near my quarters,” she said, stark disbelief in her voice.

Mr. Lang slapped the reins and jolted them over the uneven schoolyard to her door. A shaft of moonlight illuminated a wooden box. The crying was coming from inside.

Without waiting for his help, Miss Thurston leaped over the side of the cart and ran to her door. She stooped down and leaned over the box.

The wailing increased in volume and urgency.

Kurt scanned the shadows around the schoolhouse as Miss Thurston called out, “Hello? Please don’t leave your child! I’ll help you find a home for the baby! Hello?”

No answer came. Only the crickets chirped and toads croaked in the darkness. Then he thought he glimpsed motion in the shadows. He jumped down and hurried forward a few steps but the cloaking night crowded around him. The woods were dark and thick. Perhaps he’d imagined movement.

The baby wailed as he walked toward the teacher’s quarters. He joined Miss Thurston on the step, waves of cool disbelief washing through him. “Eines kind? A baby?”

“It seems so.”

She looked as if she were drowning in confusion, staring down at the baby, a strange, faraway expression on her face. She made no move toward the child. Why didn’t she pick up the child? In fact, Miss Thurston appeared unable to make any move at all.

* * *

Ellen read his expression. How to explain her reluctance? She hadn’t held a child for nearly a decade, not since little William. Her baby brother.

“How does the child come to be here?” he asked, searching the surrounding darkness once more.

“I don’t know.” The insistent wailing finally became impossible for her to avoid. She stooped and lifted the baby, and waves of sadness and regret rolled over her.

“What is wrong?” he asked.

She fought clear of her memories and entered her quarters, Mr. Lang at her heels. She laid the baby gently on her bed and tried to think.

“Does this happen in America?”

She looked at him. “What?”

“Do women leave babies at schoolhouses?”

“No. I’ve never heard of this happening before.”

The child burst into another round of wailing—frantic, heartfelt, urgent.

Mr. Lang surprised her by picking up the infant. “He is hungry.” He grimaced. “And the child needs a clean...windel.”

“Windel?” she asked.

“The child is wet,” he replied.

She lit her bedside candle. In the light, she noticed the child had a dark reddish discoloration showing through his baby-fine golden hair. Was it called a port-wine stain? Memories of her brother so long ago made it hard to concentrate. She could feel Kurt looking at her, most likely wondering why she was unable to take action.

“Do you have an old cloth to dry dishes?” he asked when she offered no solution. “We could use to...”

“Yes!” She hurried to the other side of the room, threw open a box of household items and grabbed a large dish towel.

Mr. Lang completely surprised her by snatching the dishcloth, laying the baby on her bed and efficiently changing him.

“You know how to change a diaper?” she asked, sounding as shocked as she felt. She couldn’t help but admire his quick, deft action.

“I raised Johann from a baby. We must get milk for this one.” He lifted the child. “We will go to Ashford’s Store, yes?”

Glad to have direction, she blew out the candle and followed him outside. They rushed past the pony and cart and headed straight for the store. The motion of hurrying seemed to soothe the infant.

Within a few minutes, Ellen and Mr. Lang arrived at the back of the store, at the stairs to climb to the second-floor landing. Moonlight cast the stairwell in shadow so she held the railing tightly as she hurried upward. She rapped on the door, and rapped again and again. The child started wailing once more. Mr. Lang stood behind her, trying to soothe the child. She wrung her hands. What seemed like forever passed.

Then Mr. Ashford in trousers and an unbuttoned shirt opened the door. “What do you...” he began forcefully, then trailed into silence, gawking at Ellen.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Ashford, but we need help,” she said.

He stared at them yet didn’t move.

“We come in, please?” Mr. Lang asked even as he pushed through the door and held it open for her. She hurried inside, again thankful for Mr. Lang’s support.

Mr. Ashford fell back, keeping them by the door, still looking stunned. “Where did that baby come from?”

“We don’t know,” she nearly shouted with her own frustration.

“We find him on the doorstep,” Mr. Lang said. “We need milk and a bottle. You have these things?” His voice became demanding on the final words.

Mrs. Ashford, tying the sash of a long, flowered robe, hurried down the hall, followed by Amanda in her long, white, flannel nightdress. The two asked in unison, “A baby? Where did it come from?”

“It is boy,” Kurt said.

“We don’t know,” Ellen repeated, nearly hysterical herself from the baby’s crying. She struggled to stay calm as memories of her little brother bombarded her. “He was left on my doorstep.”

“He needs milk. And a bottle to feed. Please,” Mr. Lang repeated.

Stunned silence lasted another instant and then Mrs. Ashford moved into action. “Ned, go downstairs and find that box of baby bottles. Mr. Lang, bring that baby into the kitchen. Amanda, light the kitchen lamp.”

Grateful to follow the brisk orders, Ellen followed Mrs. Ashford and Mr. Lang. The lady of the house lit a fire in the woodstove while her daughter lit the oil lamp that hung from the center of the ceiling. As if he sensed that help had come, the baby stilled in Mr. Lang’s arms, his breath catching in his throat.

Mrs. Ashford began rifling through her cupboard and then triumphantly brought out a tin and opened the lid. “Horlick’s Malted Milk,” Mrs. Ashford read the label aloud. “Artificial Infant Food. It’s something new, made east of here in Racine, Wisconsin.”

Standing beside Mr. Lang, Ellen’s nerves were as taut as telegraph wire. In contrast, Mr. Lang looked serious and determined. Having him with her had made this so much easier.

The storekeeper entered the kitchen with a wooden box of glass bottles. With their goal in sight, Ellen slumped onto a chair at the small kitchen table. Surprising her, Mr. Lang lay the child in her arms and stepped back.

Again, holding the baby brought Ellen the waves of remembrance. Struggling against the current, she watched Amanda scrub a bottle clean while the older woman mixed the powdered milk with water and set it in a pan of water on the stove to warm. Within a few minutes, she handed Ellen the warm, wet bottle. Ellen wanted to offer the child to Mrs. Ashford, but the little boy flailed his hands toward the bottle and she quickly slipped it into his mouth. He began sucking. Bubbles frothed into the bottle.

Relief swamped Ellen.

Mrs. Ashford sat down at the table near her, watching the child eat. “He’s evidently hungry.”

“He has good appetite,” Mr. Lang agreed, gazing down with a grin.

Ellen released a pent-up breath. She felt as if she’d run a ten-mile race.

“Where did he come from?” Amanda asked again.

“I drive Miss Thurston home from her cousin’s,” Mr. Lang replied. “We find the baby in a wooden box on the doorstep.”

“Did you see anyone?” Mrs. Ashford asked sharply.

Ellen frowned. “I thought I saw movement in the woods. I called out but no one was there.”

“I’ve heard of this happening,” Mrs. Ashford admitted, “but I never thought I’d live to see it here. Someone has abandoned this child.”

“And on Miss Thurston’s doorstep,” Amanda murmured.

All of them stared at the baby in her arms.

No other reason could explain the child’s appearance. People didn’t go around misplacing infants.

Ellen gazed down at the small face that had changed from frenzied to calm. The evidence of tears still wet on his cheeks drew her sympathy, and tenderness filled her.

Who could part with you, little one?

“How old do you think he is?” Ellen asked.

“Hard to say,” Mrs. Ashford said, reaching over to stroke the white-blond, baby-fine hair. “But not more than a month old, if that.”

“Nearly newborn, then.” Ellen cuddled the child closer. The tension suddenly went out of the little body. The baby released a sound of contentment, making her tuck him closer, gentler. More unbidden caring for this child blossomed within her.

“Some people are superstitious about babies born with marks like that,” Mr. Ashford said, pointing at the baby’s port-wine birthmark. “Maybe that’s why they didn’t want him.”

“Yes, it’s sad the poor thing’s been born disfigured,” Mrs. Ashford agreed.

Ellen stiffened. “On the contrary, I’ve heard people say birthmarks are where babies were kissed by an angel.” Nonsense of course, but she had to say something in the child’s defense.

Mr. Lang bent, stroked the child’s fine hair and murmured some endearment in German. His tenderness with the child touched Ellen deeply.

“I can’t think of anybody hereabouts who was expecting a child. Can you, Katharine?” Mr. Ashford asked.

His wife shook her head.

“But babies don’t really come from cabbage patches,” Amanda said reasonably, “so where did he come from?”

“That’s enough about where babies come from,” Mrs. Ashford snapped.

“You better go off to bed,” the girl’s father ordered and motioned for her to leave.

Ellen sent the girl a sympathetic glance. Some topics were never discussed in polite society. “Good night, Amanda. Thank you for your help.”

The girl stifled a yawn as she left. “See you tomorrow at church, Miss Thurston.”

The mention of church snapped Ellen back to reality. “I better be getting home then. Dawn will come soon enough.”

The baby finished the bottle and Mrs. Ashford placed a dish towel on Ellen’s shoulder.

Laying the baby on it, Ellen rose, patting his back. She prepared to leave.

The older couple looked flummoxed. “You can’t mean you’re going to take this baby home with you to the school?” Mrs. Ashford popped to her feet.

“I don’t see that I have any other choice,” Ellen said, and waited to see if she’d be contradicted.

Despite her initial misgivings, the truth had already settled deep inside her. Someone had entrusted her with this child and she would not shirk that responsibility.

Mrs. Ashford said something halfhearted about Ellen not knowing how to care for an infant in an uncertain tone that didn’t fit the usually overconfident woman. Ellen hadn’t appreciated the woman’s comment about the child’s disfigurement, and she also knew without a doubt that the Ashfords shared the common prejudice against the illegitimate, the baseborn. “I’ll keep the child. I’m sure someone will realize they’ve made a mistake and come back for him.”

“I hope so,” Mr. Lang spoke up. “This is serious thing, to give up one’s own blood.”

His statement struck a nerve in Ellen. What had driven someone to give up their own child, their own kin?

Mrs. Ashford handed Ellen a bag of rags, three more bottles and the tin of powdered infant food. “Just mix it with water right before you need it.”

Ellen thanked them sincerely and apologized for bothering them after dark. The two had been more helpful than she would have predicted. Maybe she had judged them too harshly.

Ellen and Mr. Lang walked down the back staircase with the baby in her arms and the cloth sack of supplies over his shoulder. The toads still croaked at the nearby creek. Ellen brushed away a mosquito, protecting the baby from being bitten.

The baby had slipped into sleep. Still, his lips moved as if he were sucking the bottle. With a round face and a nice nose, he had white-gold hair that looked like duck down. His skin was so soft. She’d not felt anything so soft for a very long time.

Ellen had always told herself that she didn’t care for babies much, holding herself back from contact with them. But she knew—when she allowed herself to think about it—that all stemmed from losing her infant brother. His loss had altered her life, and led her to not fulfill her accepted womanly role. This had grieved her mother.

But now everything had changed. This child—who had been given to her—needed her. She bent down and kissed his birthmark.

“William.” She whispered the name that still caused such hurt.

“What?” Mr. Lang asked.

“I lost a brother by that name.” She couldn’t say more.

After a moment, Mr. Lang said quietly, “This baby will cause trouble.”

She paused.

“People will talk.”

She tilted her head as she gazed up at him tartly. “Everyone will know that this couldn’t possibly be my child.”

“I... Sorry,” he stammered. “I do not mean that. I mean, people will not want this child here. If someone gives away a child, no one wants him.”

She wanted to argue, but recalling the Ashfords’ comments and attitude, she couldn’t. “I will keep him, then.”

Mr. Lang looked quite startled. “They will not let you.”

“Why not?”

He lifted both his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “You are schoolteacher and unmarried. They will say—”

“What do you say, Mr. Lang?” she demanded suddenly, prodded by something she didn’t yet understand.

He gazed down at her. “I say that troubled times come here. Soon.”

She couldn’t argue with him. But she wouldn’t relinquish the child except to someone who would love him as he deserved. “Good night, Mr. Lang. Thank you.”

“Good night, Miss Thurston.” He paused as if he wanted to say more, but then merely waved and headed toward the cart.

She gazed down at the child as she entered her home and shut the door. She moved inside, rocking the child in her arms, humming to him. His resemblance to William, who had died before he turned one, brought back the pain and guilt over his loss, and for a moment, it snatched away her breath. Her little brother had been born when she was nearly fourteen, and he had left them so soon. And even though she didn’t want to remember, to be reminded, she couldn’t help herself.

She thought of Mr. Lang and how he’d helped her, how he’d also cared for a baby not his own.

“I will call you William,” she whispered and kissed him again. “Sweet William.”

Chapter Five

The next morning, Kurt waited, hunched forward on the last bench at the rear of the schoolroom where Sunday services were also held. When would Miss Thurston appear with the baby? He sat between a surly Gunther and an eager Johann, hoping neither his inner turmoil nor his eagerness to see her were evident.

A warm morning meant that the doors and windows had been opened wide, letting in a few lazy flies. Men, women and children, seated with their families, filled the benches. Ostensibly Kurt had come to worship with the rest of the good people of Pepin. But he knew he and his brother and his nephew did not look or feel like a family in the way that the rest of those gathered today did. Their family had been fractured by his father’s awful choices. Gloom settled on Kurt; he pushed it down, shied from it.

Wearing a black suit, Noah Whitmore, the preacher, stood by the teacher’s desk at the front. But Kurt knew that more than worship would take place here today. The foundling child would not be taken lightly. His stomach quivered, nearly making him nauseated, and he couldn’t stop turning his hat brim in his hands. He was nervous—for her.

He’d had no luck making the schoolteacher see sense last night. He didn’t want to see the fine woman defeated, but to his way of thinking, she didn’t have a hope. What would everyone say when they saw the baby? When they heard Miss Thurston declare she intended to keep him?

As if she’d heard his questions, the schoolteacher stepped from her quarters through the inner door, entering the crowded, buzzing schoolroom. With a polite smile, she called, “Good morning!” And then she paused near Noah, facing everyone with the baby in her arms, back straight, almost defiant.

As if hooked by the same fishing line, every face swung to gaze at her and then downward to the small baby, wrapped in the tattered blanket in her arms. Gasps, followed by stunned silence, met her greeting. Kurt had to give the lady her due. She had courage. Her eyes flashed with challenge, and Kurt could not help but notice that she looked beautiful in her very fine dress of deep brown.

She cleared her throat. “Something quite unusual happened last night. This baby was left on my doorstep.”

In spite of his unsettled stomach, Kurt hid a spontaneous smile. Her tone was dignified, and when a wildfire of chatter whipped through the room, she did not flinch. Kurt could not turn his gaze from her elegant face. She blushed now, no doubt because of the attention she drew.

Recovering first from surprise, Noah cleared his throat. “Was a note left with the child?”

Everyone quieted and fixed their stares on Ellen again.

“No, the child came without any identification.”

“Is it a boy or a girl?” a man Kurt didn’t know asked.

“How old is he?” Martin Steward asked. His wife, Ophelia, started to rise, but Martin gently urged her to remain seated. Would Miss Thurston’s family support her in her desire to keep the child?

“The infant is around a month old, Mrs. Ashford thought,” the schoolteacher said. “He is a boy, and I’ve named him William.” At that moment, William yawned very loudly. A few chuckled at the sound.

Mr. and Mrs. Ashford, in their Sunday best, hurried inside with Amanda between them. “We’re sorry to be late,” Mr. Ashford said, taking off his hat.

“But we lost so much sleep helping Miss Thurston with the foundling last night,” Mrs. Ashford announced, proclaiming herself as an important player in this mystery. “We overslept.”

Kurt watched them squeeze onto the bench in front of him, though plenty of space remained open beside Johann. The simple act scraped his tattered pride. When he noted their daughter steal a quick glance at Gunther, his tension tightened another turn. The Ashfords would never let Gunther court their daughter. That was as ridiculous as if he decided to pursue Miss Thurston himself.

This realization choked him and he tried to dismiss it.

Ellen nodded toward the rear of the room. “Yes, thank you, Mrs. Ashford. I’ll need more of that Horlick’s infant powder today. So far he seems to be tolerating it well.”

Mrs. Ashford perched on the bench, her chin lifted knowingly.

“Well, what are we going to do about this, Noah?” a tall, young deacon named Gordy Osbourne asked, rising. Many nodded their agreement with the inquiry.

Kurt braced himself. Now unrelenting reality regarding her station in life would beat against Miss Thurston.

Noah looked troubled. “Is the child healthy, Miss Thurston?”

Before Ellen could respond, Mrs. Ashford piped up, “He appears healthy, but is disfigured by a birthmark on his head.”

“He has what’s called a port-wine stain on his forehead,” Miss Thurston corrected, “but his hair will cover it as he grows.” The lady sent a stern glance at the storekeeper’s wife and held the child closer.

Why didn’t she see that he’d been right? No one was going to let her keep this child. He realized he’d been mangling his hat brim and eased his grip.

“Unless the mark grows, too, and spreads,” Mrs. Ashford said, sounding dour.

“I don’t think that has anything to do with the baby’s health,” Noah commented. “A birthmark will not hurt the child.”

“Maybe that’s why somebody abandoned him at the teacher’s door,” Osbourne’s wife, Nan, spoke up. “Some people don’t want a child with that kind of mark.”

“Unfortunately you may be right,” Noah said. “But the real question is, does anyone here know of any woman in this area who was expecting a child in the past month?”

Kurt admired Noah’s ability to lead the gathering. Was it because he was the preacher, or had he done something in the past to gain this position? In Europe, leadership would have to do with family standing and connections, but here, that didn’t seem to matter. No town mayor or lord would make this decision. Noah Whitmore had thrown the question open for discussion—even women had spoken. This way of doing things felt odd but good to Kurt.

Noah’s wife, Sunny, rose. “I think I can say that no woman I know in this whole area was expecting a baby last month.”

“Perhaps someone from a boat left him at the schoolhouse,” Miss Thurston said, “because it is the only public building in Pepin, and a little away from town. They would have been less likely to be observed leaving the child.”

The congregation appeared to chew on this. Kurt stared at Miss Thurston, remembering her initial hesitation to pick up the child and her mention of a baby brother who’d died. She had known loss, too. Wealth and position could not prevent mortality and mourning. He forced his tight lungs to draw in air.

“Well, we will need a temporary home for the child—” Noah began.

“I will keep the child,” Miss Thurston said, and then walked toward the benches as if the matter were settled.

Her announcement met with an instant explosion of disapproval, just as Kurt had predicted.

One woman rose. “You can’t keep a baby. You’re not married.” Her tone was horrified.

Ellen halted. “I don’t know what that has to do with my ability to care for a child. I’ve cared for children in the past.”

“But you’re the schoolmarm!” one man exclaimed. General and loud agreement followed.

Kurt didn’t listen much to the crowd, but watched for the reactions of the young pastor. And Miss Thurston, who’d paused near the front row, half-turned toward the preacher, too.

The pastor’s wife silenced the uproar merely by rising. “There is an orphanage in Illinois run by a daughter of our friends, the Gabriels. We might send the child there.”

Murmurs of agreement began.

Miss Thurston swung to face everyone again. “I think that is a precipitate suggestion. What if the child’s mother changes her mind? I don’t think it’s uncommon for a woman to become low in spirits soon after a birth.”

A few women nodded in agreement.

“What if this woman suffered this low mood and was in unfortunate circumstances? After realizing what she’s done, she might return to reclaim the child. I think it’s best we wait upon events.”

A man in the rear snorted and muttered loud enough for all to hear, “It’s probably somebody’s unwanted, baseborn child.”

Noah stiffened. “I think we need to remember why we are gathered here.”

That shut everyone up, suiting Kurt’s idea of propriety. A child’s life was not a subject for derision.

Noah gazed out at the unhappy congregation. “Miss Thurston is right, I think. A child’s future depends on our making the right decision. This is something we need to pray about so we do what God wants. One thing is certain—no woman gives up her child lightly. Someone has trusted us with their own blood and we must not act rashly.”

His words eased some of the tension from the room, another sign of Noah’s leadership. Again, Kurt wondered about the preacher’s past and how he’d come to be so respected here. Kurt’s family had been respected in their village, but had lost that over his father’s many sins.

“But who’s going to take care of the foundling in the meantime?” Mrs. Ashford asked.

“I will,” Ellen declared. “He was left on my doorstep.”

The storekeeper’s wife started, “But you’ll be teaching—”

“I’m sure we can find someone who will care for the child while Miss Thurston carries out her teaching duties,” Noah said, taking charge of the room. “That’s something else we will pray about.”

Noah raised his hands and bowed his head and began praying, effectively ending the discussion. Kurt lowered his head, too, praying that Miss Thurston wouldn’t be hurt too badly when the child was taken from her. Because he was certain that that was exactly what was going to happen, one way or the other.

* * *

Ellen’s face ached with the smile she’d kept in place all morning during the church service. She wished everyone would just go home and leave her alone. But the congregation lingered around the schoolhouse, around her.

Everyone wanted a good look at William and an opportunity to express their opinion of wicked people who abandoned babies. They also lauded her desire to care for the child—even if she were a schoolmarm, a woman was a woman, after all. Most voiced sympathetic-sounding, nonetheless irritating comments about William’s birthmark. Noah and Sunny had helped her but underneath all the general sentiment still held that she shouldn’t, wouldn’t, be allowed to keep William. Ellen was nearing the end of her frayed rope.

Then Martin came to her rescue. “Cousin Ellen, you’re coming home with us for Sunday dinner as planned.” He smiled at everyone as he piloted her toward their wagon. When Martin helped her up onto the bench, she noted Mr. Lang and his family, who had ridden to church with the Stewards, sat in the wagon bed at the rear. This man had predicted how the community would react all too accurately. But he didn’t look triumphant in the slightest, and for that, she was grateful. He nodded to her and gave her a slight smile that seemed to have some message she couldn’t quite read.

As the wagon rocked along the track into the shelter of the forest, Ellen breathed out a long, pent-up sigh. She glanced at her cousin sitting beside her. “Ophelia...” She fell silent; she simply didn’t have the words to go on.

Ophelia leaned against Ellen’s shoulder as if in comfort. “I can’t believe this happened.”

Ellen rested her head against the top of Ophelia’s white bonnet, murmuring, “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“The Whitmores are coming over after dinner so we can discuss this,” Martin said. “We need to decide what to do with this child.”

Ellen snapped up straight. “It has already been decided. William will stay with me.”

“You can’t mean you really want to keep this baby?” Ophelia said, sounding shocked. “I don’t know how I’d take care of our little one alone.”

Her cousin’s stunned tone wounded Ellen, stopping her from responding.

“Ja—yes, she does,” Mr. Lang said as the wagon navigated a deep rut. “I told her last night that they will not let her.”

Mr. Lang’s words wounded more than all the rest. He’d been there last night, he’d experienced discovering this child with her. Why wouldn’t he take her side in this matter?

She brushed the opposition aside. It didn’t matter why he wouldn’t support her—it didn’t matter why any of them wouldn’t support her. She wasn’t like other women. She had goals, and now she’d added one more. If she were a weak woman, she wouldn’t be here to begin with—she would be living at home under her sister-in-law’s snide thumb. But she had struck out to make a life of her own, and that was exactly what she planned to do.

Those who opposed her would not win. All she had to do was come up with a convincing argument to keep this child—and her job. And frankly, she reminded herself, Mr. Kurt Lang’s opinion in this matter—in all matters—was irrelevant to her.

* * *

Later, in the early dusk, Kurt walked into the Steward’s clearing for the second time that day. Ever since the Stewards had dropped them off after church, he’d been worrying—about William, about Gunther, about Miss Thurston.

“Kurt, what brings you here?” called Martin, who was hitching the pony to his two-wheeled cart.

“Is Miss Thurston here still?” The fact he couldn’t easily pronounce the “Th” at the beginning of her name caused him to flush with embarrassment. He tried to cast his feelings aside. He had come to talk with Miss Thurston face-to-face over Gunther’s schooling. Altogether, the issue had left a sour taste in his mouth. But a decision must be made—Gunther’s playing hooky had forced his hand.

“She’s about done feeding the baby and then I’m taking her home,” Martin said as he finished the hitching.

“I have come to offer to escort the lady home.”

Martin turned to Kurt. “Oh?”

The embarrassment he’d just pushed away returned. Kurt tried to ignore his burning face. Did Martin think he was interested in Miss Thurston? “I wish to speak to her about my brother, Gunther, before school starts again tomorrow.”

At that moment, the lady herself stepped out of the cabin with William in her arms. She noticed him and stopped. “Mr. Lang.”

Sweeping off his hat, Kurt felt that by now his flaming face must be as red as a beetroot. “I come to take you home, Miss Thurston. And perhaps we talk about Gunther?”

She smiled then and walked toward the cart. “Yes, I want to discuss that matter with you.”

They said their farewells to the Stewards, and soon Ellen sat beside him on the seat of the small cart, holding the baby whose eyelids kept drooping only to pop open again, evidently fighting sleep. Kurt turned the pony and they began the trip to town, heading toward the golden and pink sunset. Crickets sang, filling his ears. Beside him, Miss Ellen Thurston held herself up as a lady should. Only last night had he seen her usual refined composure slip. Finding the infant had shaken her. Did it have something to do with the little brother she’d mentioned?

Kurt chewed his lower lip, trying to figure out how to begin the conversation about his brother. “I still don’t agree with what you have said about Gunther,” he grumbled at last.

“But yet you are here, talking to me” was all she replied.

A sound of frustration escaped his lips. “Gunther...” He didn’t know what he wanted to say, or could say. He would never speak about the real cause of Gunther’s rebelliousness. He would never want Miss Thurston to know the extent of his family’s shame. His father’s gambling had been enough to wound them all. What had driven him even further to such a disgraceful end?

Kurt struggled with himself, with what to do about his brother. Gunther needed to face life and go on, despite what had happened. Would his giving in weaken his brother more?

“Your brother is at a difficult age—not a boy, not fully a man,” she said.

If that were the only problem, Kurt would count himself fortunate. So much more had wounded his brother, and at a tender age. A woodpecker pounded a hollow tree nearby, an empty, lonely sound.

“Gunther and Johann are all I have left.” He hadn’t planned to say that, and shame shuddered deep inside his chest.

“I know how you feel.”

No, she didn’t, but he wouldn’t correct her. “Do you still think to teach Gunther in the evenings?”

“Yes. As you know, you can send him to school, but you cannot make him learn if he’s shut his mind to it. Private lessons would be best.”

Kurt chewed on this bitter pill and then swallowed it. “He will have the lessons, then.”

“Will you be able to help him with his studies on the evenings when I am not working with him?”

“I will.”

“Then bring him after supper on Tuesday.” Miss Thurston looked down at the child in her arms and smiled so sweetly—Kurt could tell just from her expression that she had a tender heart. Something about her smile affected him deeply and he had to look away.

She glanced up at him and asked, “Have you told Gunther about this?”

“I tell him soon,” he said.

“Good.” She sounded relieved.

He, however, was anything but relieved. His fears for Gunther clamored within. They had come to this new country for a new start. He wanted Gunther to make the most of this, not end up like their father had.

They reached the downward stretch onto the flat of the riverside. He directed the pony cart onto the trail to the school. Again, he was bringing her home in Martin’s cart and again someone was waiting on her doorstep. This time a woman rose to greet them. What now?

Kurt helped Miss Thurston down. She moved so gracefully as a shaft of sunset shone through the trees, gilding her hair. He forced himself not to stop and enjoy the sight. Instead, he accompanied her to greet the woman.

“Good evening,” Miss Thurston said, cradling the sleeping baby in her arms.

The other woman replied, “I am Mrs. Brawley. My husband and I are homesteading just north of town.”

“Yes?” Miss Thurston encouraged the woman.

“I have one child and I heard the preacher say this morning that you needed someone to care for the baby.” The woman gazed at the child, sleeping in the lady’s arms.

“I take it that you may be interested in doing that?” the schoolteacher asked.

“Yes, miss. I could take care of two as well as one.”

“May I visit your home tomorrow after supper and discuss it then?”

“Yes, yes, please come.” The woman gave directions to her homestead, which lay about a mile and a half north of town. They bid her good-night and she hurried away in the lowering light of day.

“Well, I hope this will solve the problem of William’s care during the schooldays.”

Her single-mindedness scraped Kurt’s calm veneer. “You think still they will let you keep the child?”

She had mounted the step and now turned toward him. “Perhaps you are one of those who think a woman who does not wish to marry cannot love a child, and is unnatural. That is the common wisdom.”

Her cold words, especially the final ones, startled him. “No. That is foolish.”

Her face softened. “Thank you, Mr. Lang.”

He tried to figure out why anybody would think that. Then her words played again in his head. “You do not wish to marry?”

“No, I don’t wish to marry.”

Her attitude left him dumbfounded. “I thought every woman wished to marry.”

She shook her head, one corner of her mouth lifting. “No, not every woman. Good night, Mr. Lang. I’ll see you Tuesday evening.”

“Guten nacht,” he said, lapsing into German without meaning to. He turned the pony cart around and headed toward the Stewards’ to return it. Thoughts about Miss Thurston and William chased each other around in his mind. Very simply, he hated the thought of seeing her disappointed. What if she became more deeply attached to William and the town forced her to give the child away in the end?

Why wouldn’t she face the fact that the town would not let her keep William? He wouldn’t press her about this, but in fact, the town shouldn’t let her keep him. The question wasn’t whether Miss Thurston was capable of rearing the child. But didn’t he know that raising a child alone was difficult, lonely, worrying? Didn’t he know it better than anyone here?

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