But would she know his intention? Or would she perhaps see the clover as only a decoration of a bed and the eagerness of the man to take her to it? There was little he could do about it now. It was there, and she would see it as soon as she walked in.
He leaped from the wagon, while James went off the other side and gawked at the surroundings.
Anna stood up, again finding Karl waiting to help her down. As usual, his shirt-sleeves were rolled up to the elbow as he raised his arms to her. She avoided his eyes and let herself swing down to his grasp. The touch of his hands on her waist made the coming night loom up before her in a formidable way. She would have turned quickly from Karl, but he gently held her, the butts of his hands resting lightly on her slim hipbones. He glanced quickly at the boy, but James was paying little attention to them.
“Anna, do not be afraid,” Karl said, dropping his hands. “It will be good here, I promise you. I welcome you to my home and to all that is mine. All of it is yours now, too.”
“I have a lot to learn and to get used to,” she said. “I probably won't be good at much and you'll be sorry you brought me.”
There were things that Karl, too, had to learn and he thought with racing heart of the coming night. But, he thought, this we will learn together. “Come, I will show you the house, then I must tend Belle and Bill.”
He wished he could take her into the house alone, but the boy was running toward them. It was his home, too, and he was eager to see inside.
Crossing the clearing, Anna noticed a bench beside the door with a bucket on it, a leather strop hanging on a peg above, apparently where Karl did his washing and shaving. There was a stump beside the woodpile where he must do the chopping.
He walked just behind her. When they reached the door, he leaned around her to remove the chunk of wood wedged against the outside of the door. “It keeps the Indians from stealing everything in the place,” he explained, and walked to the side of the house to fling it toward the chopping block. “Indians have a curious sense of honor. If you leave and they discover you gone, they will take whatever they can lay their hands on. But if you place the block of wood before the door to tell them you are gone, they would not take so much as a wild plum from the bush beside your door.”
“Are there many Indians around here?”
“Many. But they are my friends, and you need not fear them. One of them is taking care of my goat while I am gone. I will have to go fetch her.”
But he'd avoided taking Anna inside as long as he could. He reached for the latchstring. She'd never seen such a thing before. It hung outside the door, leading from a small hole in the puncheons, tied to the latch itself which was on the other side. When he pulled the string, she heard the klunk as a heavy oak bar lifted, then the door swung open. He leaned with the door, his shoulder blade against it, letting both Anna and the boy pass in front of him.
The interior was dark and smelled of musty earth and wood smoke. She wondered how he had stood it to live in such a burrow for two years! But he quickly found a tallow candle, his flint and steel, while she stood waiting to see what was beyond the arc of fading afternoon light created by the open door.
She heard the scratch as the tinder lit, then the candle flared. She saw a wooden table and chairs with pegged legs; another bench like the one outside; a curious thing that appeared to be a section of tree trunk on four legs; a fireplace with its iron cauldron suspended above the dead ashes, brass containers hanging on hooks, various earthenware dishes on the hearth; barrels raised off the floor on wooden slabs; dried foods hanging from the ceiling; an earthen floor with fresh swirls telling her he'd swept it last thing before he left.
Karl stood expectantly, watching her glance from one thing to the next. His throat filled with heartbeats as he saw her slowly turn in the opposite direction and find the bed. He wanted to reach out and take her slim shoulders and say, “I meant it as a welcome, nothing more.” He saw her hand go up to her throat before she looked quickly away to his clothing hanging on pegs behind the door, then to the wooden trunk nearby.
James turned, too, to eye the bed, and Karl longed more than ever to snatch up the sheaf of sweet clover and run outside with it. Instead, he excused himself, saying, “Belle and Bill are anxious to be free of the harness.”
When he was gone, James explored the place further, saying, “It's not so bad, is it, Anna?”
“It's not so bad if you're a badger who expects to live in a burrow. I don't see how he could live here all this time.”
“But Anna, he built it all by himself!” James was intrigued by everything, examining the set of the stones in the fireplace, the way the legs of the table were set into the puncheon boards, the windows covered with waxed sheets of opaque cloth that let in only negligible amounts of light. While Anna wondered how anyone could possibly mistake them for windows, James seemed pleased by everything. “Why, I'll bet this place is as snug as a rabbit's nest in the winter. He's got these walls so thick that no snow or rain could ever get in.”
She took their rolls of clothing and laid them on the bed and began untying them, trying to pretend she wasn't crestfallen. James charged out the door saying he was going to help with the horses. She sat down on one of the chairs and clasped her hands between her knees, staring at the bed across the room, at the flowers that were drying there on their stalks. Something at once inviting and foreboding flooded her veins at the sight of them.
She thought about Karl, his first displeasure with her, his later acceptance and forgiveness, his hesitancy at times, his seeming kindness. She imagined him picking these flowers all alone, getting this hut ready for her. She remembered how he had slipped and called her “my Anna” and it raised goose bumps on her skin. She shivered and hugged her arms, still wondering about the clover, the sight of it somehow prompting a surge of guilt in her.
This was not a man who took a wife lightly to his bed with no thought of what it all meant. His words of welcome by the wagon came back to her now, telling her again how he felt about sharing all that was his. These were words of a man who was doing his best to please, who offered all that he had as a kind of dowry to his bride. But the only dowry she brought was deceit.
Already she knew how her lies had disillusioned Karl, and how very difficult it had been for him to accept her in spite of them. Thinking of lying with him, of his discovering the one lie she was most afraid to reveal, she knew with unerring certainty that a man like Karl Lindstrom would be totally unable to accept a used wife.
He came in with a barrel on his shoulder, filling the doorway with his bulk before leaning to set it on the floor, then turning to find her huddled on the chair.
“Anna, you are shivering. I will light a fire. It is always cool in the place. The sod keeps it so. Why do you not go outside where it is warmer?”
“Karl?” she asked hesitantly. His head snapped around.
She realized it was the first time she had used his first name. “Don't you have a stove?”
“I have never needed a stove,” he answered. “The fireplace is good and I can do everything with it—cook, keep warm, dry herbs, heat water, make soap, melt wax. I have never thought too much about a stove. Morisette sells them, but they cost dearly.”
She wondered how in the world she was going to use that black pit of a fireplace when the little she suspected of how to cook was all based upon doing so on an iron stove like everybody had back East.
He studied her a moment. He himself liked a fireplace. For the long, dreary nights of the winter there was nothing so heartening as blazing flames to stare into, especially a fire kindled of logs from one's own land. How many times he had envisioned this night when he would bring her here, his Anna, and of building up the fire high, and by its light laying her down on a buffalo robe before it. Yes, he thought, a house should have a fireplace. A house with love should have a fireplace.
“So you want a stove, Anna?” he asked anyway.
She shrugged. “A stove would be nice.
”
“Perhaps in the log house we will have a stove,” he offered. She smiled then and he felt better. “Come,” he said. “You can gather the woodchips for kindling while I bring in the logs.” He took down a willow basket and handed it to her, leading the way outside.
James called from across the clearing, “Hey, Karl, what's all this stuff in your garden?”
“A little bit of everything,” he called back. He liked the sound of the boy's voice calling him Karl.
“What's all this stuff here?” James called.
“Those are turnips.”
“All these?”
“All those. But do not say it so loud. You will make your sister want to run away.” He smiled sideways at Anna, and she realized how hard he was trying to put her at ease.
“I can tell the peas and beans and stuff,” James said proudly.
“Did you see the watermelon there at the end? Do you like watermelon, boy?”
“Watermelons? Really?” With arms flapping, James went to the far end of the vegetable plot. “Hey, Anna, did you hear that? Watermelons!”
Karl laughed and continued watching as James explored the garden. “It does not take much to gain that one's interest, does it?”
“I guess not. He seems as happy as you are to be here.” But she made no mention of her own feelings as she started to pick up wood chips and place them in the basket. The fragrance of freshly chopped wood seemed to hang around Karl Lindstrom all the time. She recalled the way he had spoken of the trees on their ride home, and the woodsmell seemed right.
Inside the cabin, Karl knelt with his back to her, a small hatchet in his hands. He shaved curls of wood off one of the pieces he'd brought in. They were much the same color as the hair at the back of his neck, which she studied. He finished, then reached up to her for the basket. Again, his eyes lingered on her in a way that made her mind stray to bedtime. He took a small scoop and cleaned the ashes from the fireplace into a pail. He found a large chunk of charcoal at the bottom of the ashes and carefully placed it aside as if it were quite precious.
Anna watched all this from behind, observing the play of muscles as he reached up for the scoop, leaned forward to use it, swiveled at the hips toward the pail, pivoted on the balls of his feet to take the charcoal up, straightened, then knelt again with a cracking of knees. He turned abruptly to look up at her, and she wondered if he knew she'd been wondering what the muscles beneath his shirt looked like.
“Hand me the candle,” he said.
She reached to put it in his outstretched hand. Their fingers carefully avoided touching.
He pivoted again toward the fireplace, readjusting the fleecy mound of wood curls. It kindled and flamed under Karl's watchful eye. He added chips. He squatted before the growing fire, unmoving, lost in thought, elbows braced upon knees. The blaze before him brightened and turned his hair to the color of flame.
Anna stared fixedly at the spot where his shirt disappeared into the back of his pants.
“You can put your things in the trunk,” he said, not turning around.
“I don't have much.”
“What you have you can put there. There is room for them, and the trunk will keep them from getting damp. You can put the boy's things in it, too.”
He heard her move, heard the lid of the trunk squeak open. He arose, the fire now burning satisfactorily. He turned to find her laying her clothing into the trunk, partially hidden by the door.
“Would you like me to show you the spring?” he asked. “I have a wonderful spring, and there is watercress growing near it.” Such a foolish thing to say, Karl told himself. Why do you not say what it is you want to say about the spring? But if I mention washing, she might think I am criticizing her—or worse—she might think I want her clean for bedtime and this is the only reason I bring up the spring.
“I've never tasted watercress before. What's it like?” The clothes were all in the trunk and she had to stand up fully now and act as though her mind were on what she was saying.
“It tastes like . . . like watercress,” he ended, then laughed nervously. “A little like collard, a little like dandelion, but mostly like watercress. Sweeter than other greens.” Karl picked up the chunk of charcoal and took it with him outside, saying, “Come, you have to see my spring.”
“Hey, Karl,” James hollered, “where's all this water come from?” He was already studying the bubbling flow that came from beneath the walls of the springhouse.
“It comes from deep in the earth. It runs all year long, no matter how cold the weather gets. We are lucky. Never will we have to chop holes in the ice of the pond for water, or melt down snow or ice, which takes much time.”
“You mean all we have to do is come right here and have a cold drink, any time?”
“Ya, that is so, boy,” Karl said proudly, hoping Anna, too, would be impressed with this spot he had chosen for their home. “This is a springhouse. Open the door and look inside.”
It was built of wood, with a latched door that swung on hand-carved wooden hinges. When James opened it, he was surprised at how very cool it was inside. The soft sand around the spring had been hollowed out, shored up and formed a wide bowl in which earthen jugs and crocks were partially submerged. The crystal-clear water purled with a whisper around the jugs, then wended its way out below the walls again. In one corner was a leather bag hanging above a pail where Karl placed his chunk of charcoal.
“What're you saving that for?” James asked.
“This is my lye leach. The water drips from the bag onto the charcoal, and slowly lye is made. The bag is empty again, so I must refill it.” He stooped to do so. “With it we make soap and tan leather and many other things. You could be a help to me if you would check the water bag when you come in here, and always keep it filled and dripping. But I must warn you, there are times when we must test the lye to see if it is strong enough. Then I must find a prairie chicken egg and float it. When it sinks, this tells me the lye is ready. The lye in the cup will look so much like tea a person could not tell the difference. Never leave it in that cup. If it was mistaken for tea and somebody drank it, this would be a disaster.” The bag was again filled and hung. The regular plops of the dripping water accented the constant music of the spring, the smell of the damp wood.
“Gosh, Karl, did you think this up all by yourself?” James asked, taking in the entire structure.
“No. My father taught me this, too, how to make a springhouse, when I am only a tad like you.”
“In Boston we got water from out back in barrels where they came and filled them every other day or so. Seems like it never tasted fresh. This water's the best I ever had. Hey, Anna, come and try some.”
James passed the dipper to his sister, while Karl looked on expectantly. It was water such as she'd never tasted in her life. It was so icy it hurt her teeth, making Karl laugh when she grabbed them with her fingers to warm them. But that didn't stop her from drinking again and again while Karl watched with pleasure in his eye.
“It's good,” she said, when she'd finally drunk her fill.
“It is plenty close to the house, and even closer to where the new log house will be. Enough good, fresh water, and close enough to the house that a lad has little excuse for not keeping clean with it, huh? I think maybe it is time we filled a couple of these buckets and let the water lose its chill for later. What do you say, James?”
“You mean for washing?” the boy asked.
The tone of his question made Karl ask, “Do you object to washing?”
“Well, I never been much for bath-taking,” James admitted.
“Such a reply for a tadpole. Anna, what have you taught the lad? In Sweden a boy learns right from the start that in all of nature, animals clean themselves to keep healthy. A boy must do the same.”
But James said, “Anna's not much for baths either.”
“She's not?” Karl said before he could stop himself. He was beginning to realize that a lad of thirteen could
be an embarrassment to an older sister. “Well, when you have only a barrel in your backyard it is a problem. Here there is no such problem. There is the spring here, and the pond and the creek. Plenty water for everything.”
Anna could have kicked James into the spring! It was true she hated baths, but did he have to spew out the fact to Karl first thing?
“Come. Fill yourself a pail, boy, and take it back to the house. Tonight we will baby you a little bit and heat the water. Most times I will not warm it up. It is refreshing, and makes you want to work hard to get warm fast.”
With filled pails they trudged back to the house, and the subject of baths was blessedly dropped. Anna, however, was well aware that Karl was outside at what she'd guessed to be the washbench. He shaved before supper while she explored things around the kitchen end of the house, peeking inside barrels and tins and crocks. There were odd-looking foods, some of which Anna could not identify. Others held basic staples.
She heard a yelp outside and realized that James must be following Karl's suit. They both came in, shiny-faced and combed, making her realize she would surely be expected to wash as well. But there was no privacy, and she had no inclination to let the icy water touch her skin.
Their supper was simple. Karl laid it all on the table, showing Anna where things were kept. They had cold meat, which he brought from a crock in the springhouse; bread, which he said he baked himself, although Anna couldn't for the life of her figure out where; cheese he'd made from his own goat's milk. Anna had never eaten goat's cheese before, and found it sweet and full-flavored.
Naturally, James again brought up what Anna would have avoided. “You don't expect Anna to know how to make cheese, do you, Karl?”
“No,” he answered, avoiding her eyes. “But I will have to teach her. It is not too hard. There is a corner of the chimney that keeps the milk just warm enough to curdle good and slow. In the morning I will walk to get my goat from my friend, Two Horns. Then we will have fresh milk for breakfast. Have you ever milked a goat, boy?”