Bending Toward the Sun (3 page)

“Hey, you. The Irish bloke.”

That’s what Owen Rengler called him, but it wasn’t Owen’s voice. Quaid looked up. Oliver, the youngest of the two Rengler brothers, stood at the stage of the Rengler River Freight steamboat, waving him forward, his other hand clutching the strap of his overalls. Quaid reined the horses to a stop in front of his friend.

“You had me thinkin’ you weren’t gonna make it in time for tonight’s shipments.”

Quaid hopped from the wagon and shook Oliver’s bear-sized hand. “What, and miss doing business with a river rat the likes of you?”

A generous grin revealed the gap between Oliver’s front teeth. “Finally saw fit to leave the house and visit the slums, did ya?”

“Forced to, with the war ended and the freight business picking up.”

“Owen says we’re to thank the good Lord for that.”

Townfolk called Oliver a simpleton, but it was the young man’s simple faith that had always impressed Quaid.

Oliver pulled a handcart to the side of the wagon. “You got the widow Brantenberg’s paperwork?”

Quaid patted his coat pocket, then the pocket on his trousers. He’d had Rutherford sign for the load and remembered taking the papers from the table.

Oliver blew a low whistle. “I’ve seen treed bears less distracted than you.” He hefted a basket of apples. “Somethin’ got ahold of you?”

Just a German girl turned young woman. Quaid walked to the front of the wagon where the papers lay tucked under his hat.

He laid them on top of the basket Oliver carried.

“You meet Rutherford’s intended?”

“Miss Maren Jensen. I did.” Quaid pulled another basket from the wagon. “As it turns out, Miss Jensen is working at Heinrich’s Dry Goods and Grocery and is good friends with Emilie.”

“Miss Emilie and Johann were at the farm today?”

“They were.” Quaid took off for the deck, pushing the cart up the ramp. He’d rather think about Emilie than talk about her.

His arms full, Oliver caught up to him. “Emilie Heinrich’s the cause of your distracted nature, ain’t she?”

He wasn’t about to give Oliver any more grist for the river’s gossip mill. “Quaid McFarland. That you down there?”

He glanced at the wheelhouse next to them. Pete stood at the window. “It’s me, all right. In the flesh.” He’d missed coming to the river for pickups and deliveries with his father. Forgotten how much he enjoyed kidding around with some of the ship crewmen, stevedores, and teamsters. He waved at the squatty captain. “How are you faring, Pete?”

“Better than you tromping them hills in worn-out boots and carrying all that weight from here to yon.” Captain Pete leaned out the open window, hanging on to his uniform hat. “You sure weren’t in no hurry to let yourself be seen here.”

“Look around … you blame me?” They all laughed. “I’ve been doing woodwork around the house. But I’m working as a teamster now. So don’t be shy about sending more work me father’s way.”

“Happy to do it. Welcome home.”

“Thanks.” Quaid waved, then turned toward Oliver.

“Speaking of your woodworkin’,” Oliver said, “Owen and me been talkin’ about havin’ the deck railin’s done over. You interested?”

“Workin’ on your boat? I’d have to do it on my off time, but yeah. I could build ’em while you’re downriver and have ’em ready next trip.”

“I’ll tell Owen.” Oliver heaved an apple basket. “He makes all the big decisions, you know.”

Quaid nodded, then slid a basket off the back of the wagon and followed Oliver to the boat.

When they’d emptied the wagon, Quaid returned it to the McFarland Freight House on Pike’s Street, then walked around the corner to his family home, which faced the river.

He stepped onto the porch. The riotous chatter and laughter on the other side of the log wall warmed his heart. Someday, he would have a lively household of his own. He opened the door and stepped inside. “I’m home.”

His mother strolled out of the kitchen, drying her hands on her apron. “That has to be my favorite declaration nowadays.”

“And I’m blessed to say it.” Quaid bent and kissed his mother on the forehead.

“Good thing you finally decided to come home.” His older brother walked in from the kitchen with his wife at his side. “Mother wasn’t going to feed us until you did.”

“Then I’d say you owe me first pick of the freight deliveries next week.”

Brady scrubbed his whiskered jaw. “You have particular deliveries in mind, do you?”

He didn’t have the patience to wait until Monday to stake his claim. “Heinrich’s Dry Goods Store and Lindenwood Female College.”

“You takin’ up playing checkers with Johann Heinrich?” A grin lit his brother’s green eyes. “Suppose it could be his daughter you’re interested in seein’.” Brady waggled an eyebrow. “That might be it because I heard Emilie Heinrich had signed up for a course at Lindenwood. Afraid I can’t oblige you, little brother.”

Couldn’t or wouldn’t? Quaid kept his posture steady, hoping his voice would follow the example.

Brady regarded his wife, standing at his side, swollen with their first baby. “Siobhan was afraid all them single women would steal me away from her. Father makes both them deliveries.”

“I don’t have a wife to worry about such things. You think Father would mind me taking those from him?”

“Taking what?” Quaid’s father stepped over the threshold with the giggling, curly-headed twins in tow.

Quaid greeted his seven-year-old sisters, then looked at his father. “It felt good to get out and make deliveries today. I’d like to do the deliveries to Heinrich’s Dry Goods and to Lindenwood Female College for you.”

“Methinks he developed an attraction to a certain young woman?” Brady chuckled.

Quaid resisted the impulse to stick out his tongue. He’d expected Brady’s ribbing, but he had to try. He wanted to see Emilie again—and often.

“Heinrich’s and the female college?”

Quaid nodded. “Yes sir.”

Father cocked his head. “If that
certain young woman
is Emilie Heinrich, she has a father who keeps close watch on her.” His voice fell flat. “You can make the deliveries. But no dawdlin’.”

“Thank you.”

“Mind yourself, son.
Herr
Heinrich may not appreciate you becoming any more than friends with his daughter.”

His father’s exaggerated German pronunciation in a distinct brogue would be comical—if the inference wasn’t so menacing.

Three

T
hursday, Emilie chose to sit close to the crackling fire. The ride to the farm for the quilting circle had been cold and damp, but the hugs were warm and Mrs. Brantenberg’s home cozy. Emilie drew a deep breath, savoring the sweet scent of the burning applewood, and pulled a cloth appliqué from her stack on the table. Using scraps from discarded clothing, she was making a floral basket quilt for her bed. Today she would begin stitching the baskets on the squares. After capping her finger with a thimble, she pushed the needle through the fabric. This step in the quilting process was likely her favorite—the moment a pattern began to take shape on the quilt top.

The design for her life had become clear when her mother ran off, leaving her to care for PaPa. So why, after twelve years, was the pattern beginning to look misshapen?

Corporal Quaid McFarland was to blame.

“It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

The pleasure was all hers.

“You’ve grown up and become a handsome lass.”

She felt her face grow warm even in the remembering. They’d both changed and grown up in the separation. And yet their shared memories had created a bond she’d not realized until Saturday.

Emilie positioned a flower petal on the square. If she was seeing flaws in her life’s pattern, it was actually Maren who was at fault. Before Maren started singing the praises of a loving companionship, Emilie had been quite content to keep her little-girl dreams at a safe distance.

“Life is much like quilting—a patchwork of scraps and remnants.” Mrs. Brantenberg’s voice returned Emilie to the present. “Like a quilt is made up of remnants … scraps, so is your life and mine.”

Emilie stared at the basket appliqué on her quilt top, her own remnants coming to mind. Her mother leaving. Her friends in the quilting circle. Her father insisting she go to college.

Seeing Quaid again.

“We all have a long list of the scraps and squares that make up our lives.”

Emilie looked around the room. Many of the women here—younger and older—faced difficult circumstances. Miss Hattie had lost her father to the war. Maren was losing her eyesight. Mrs. Brantenberg had buried her husband and her daughter. The young Mrs. Kerr’s husband had lost an arm. Caroline Milburn still hadn’t received word of her husband’s fate.

“Every one of us has loved and lost, even recently. No doubt, we’d choose a dreary, dark piece of fabric for our losses.”

Emilie followed Mrs. Brantenberg’s gaze out the window, where Gabi played with the other children.

“I know I’d choose bright, cheery patterns to represent the joy my dear granddaughter brings me, for the return of Rutherford, and for his upcoming marriage.” She and Maren exchanged warm smiles.

“I, for one, am thankful for the reminder.” Jewell Rafferty looked at the quilting project she had laid out on the braided rug. “Thomas comin’ home with only one leg hasn’t been easy. Him not able to do the work he once did. Nor has waiting with my sister for word.” She glanced at Caroline. “But any quilt worth a dollar offers a mix of light and dark.”

“It’s true in the quilted or transformed heart as well.” Mrs. Brantenberg lifted the Bible from her lap. “I woke up with the third chapter of Proverbs on my mind. We may all know the fifth and sixth verses by heart, but I’d like to read them anyway.

Trust in the L
ORD
with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths
.

“God, the Divine Quilter, has the perfect patchwork pattern for our lives. Each will be different as sunshine and snowfall.” Mrs. Brantenberg returned the Bible to her lap.

Caroline sniffled.

“It’s the batting that gives warmth to the quilt. Otherwise we may end up with a beautiful, but limp, blanket. We may choose wool or cotton for filling our quilts. In our quilted heart, our faith in the good Lord is the filling.”

Emilie pushed the needle through the next flower petal. Quaid had said she might see him at the store or at Lindenwood. She would choose a bright colored fabric for that moment. But if her father found out about such a meeting …

The patch could quickly change to dark.

Caroline sank into the sofa and wrapped her hands around her teacup, trying to absorb its warmth. The steamy fragrance of sassafras tea permeated the sitting room.

“Your quilting is improving quite readily.” Seated in the rocking chair across from her, Mrs. Brantenberg stirred another pinch of sugar into her cup.

She’d only gotten as far as the top of a small block quilt in the three months she’d been coming to the circle, but she welcomed the distraction. “I’m enjoying quilting more than I expected I would. Maren was right—you’re a good teacher. Mostly, it has been a tremendous help to keep me occupied.” She met the widow’s tender gaze. “When your husband died, did you feel like a part of you was gone?” She hated that her voice cracked. Phillip thought her strong, but he hadn’t seen her put to the test.

“Yes. And that missing piece left a hole in my heart as wide as the Missouri.”

Caroline’s heart pounded. “For four years, I’ve felt that part of me has been missing. Ever since the day Phillip left me to go off to war. I’ve not received letters from him for quite some time.” She set her cup in its saucer. This was October and his last letter arrived in January. “If Phillip were no longer living, I would know it. Wouldn’t I?”

Mrs. Brantenberg closed her eyes for mere seconds. Jewell called it praying in the moment, something the woman was known to do frequently during discussions in the circle. “I knew Christoph was with the Lord because I had all but watched his spirit leave his body.”

Caroline worried a button on her shirtwaist. “I don’t know what to think. I don’t feel that he’s dead.” Her voice quivered. “Neither do I have the strength to hold on to the hope that he lives.”

Mrs. Brantenberg scooted to the edge of the rocker and reached for Caroline’s hand, her tender touch calming.

“I want to trust God. I want to believe He is directing my path. But not knowing whether Phillip is dead or alive is a dark, dark remnant—a piece of my life that I want to rip to shreds.” Tears stung her eyes. “I need to know if he’s coming home to me. I need to know if I’m a widow.”

Mrs. Brantenberg wasted no time getting to the sofa with her arms open wide. Caroline leaned into the woman’s embrace and let the tears fall, her sobs muffled by the heartfelt prayer the woman offered up for her. When she’d spent her tears, she pulled away and accepted a handkerchief. This was one of the blessings of the quilting circle—like a careful mother hen, Mrs. Brantenberg cared for her chicks, even the newest ones.