When Calls the Heart Read online

  “Yer lamp is still burnin’,” he said suddenly. In the light of day I had failed to notice it. The wick had burned down so that only a tiny flame showed. I felt my cheeks flush in embarrassment, but without further comment the boy leaned over and blew out the struggling flame.

  I wondered just how to start our conversation so that we might get to know one another. But he took care of that problem.

  “I live on da farm yust over dere,” he began, pointing a finger toward the northeast. “Vasn’t fer da trees, you could see our house an’ barn real plain.”

  This was good news. I had no idea that I had neighbors so near.

  “Will you be one of my new pupils?”

  “Ya mean, vill I go to school?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Me an’ my sisters, Else an’ Olga, an’ my broder, Peter.”

  “That’s nice,” I said and really meant it. “And what is your name?”

  “Lars—Lars Peterson. I vas named after my grandfader.”

  I could tell by the way he said it that he was proud of the fact.

  “And your father’s name?”

  “Henry Peterson. An’ Ma is Anna.”

  “And what class will you be in, Lars?”

  “Don’t know yet. Never been to school, but Pa has tried to teach us some letters an’ some vords. Ma doesn’t know da English vords too good yet. Pa studied a little bit in English ven he first came over. Ma came six mont’s later vid us young-uns, an’ she didn’t haf time to study. But she knows numbers real good. Numbers ain’t much different in any country, I guess.”

  I nodded and smiled, but I was thinking about the shame of a child nearing ten without ever having been in a classroom.

  “I vas pretty little yet ven ve came from da old country.” Lars continued. “Olga vas not t’ree yet and da tvins yust babies.”

  “How old are they now?”

  “Olga is seven and a half, an’ Else an’ Peter are yust turned six.”

  “And you?”

  “I’m nine.”

  He wiped the last crumbs from his cheeks and arose from the chair.

  “I best be carryin’ dat vood,” he said, “yer almost out.” I was relieved that he made no comment on the extraordinary amount I had used. “T’ank ya fer da good break—lunch,” he finished with a grin. “I’ll git ya some fresh vater first.”

  I moved to get him my water pail, pouring what still remained into the reservoir on the stove.

  “Lars,” I said slowly. I had to know, yet hardly knew how to ask, “What do people around here do about the wolves?”

  “Volves?” He looked surprised and confused. Then he answered confidently, “Ve don’t got no volves.”

  “But last night I heard them. And if your farm is so near, you should have heard them, too.”

  “Oh, dem. Dem’s coyotes.”

  “Coyotes?”

  “Yah, yust silly ole coyotes. Pa says dat coyotes are yella-livered. Scared of der own shadows, dey are. Von’t even take on anyt’ing bigger dan a hen or a mouse.”

  “But they sounded—”

  “Don’t dey make a racket!” His eyes sparkled. “I like to listen to ’em. Dey sound so close-like, an’ dey all howl togeder an—”

  “Yes, they do sound close,” I put in, shivering at my recollection. “And they never attack people?”

  “Naw, not coyotes. Dey’re scared silly of everyt’ing—especially people. Dey run vid der tails ’tveen der legs. I tried to sneak up on ’em a coupla times to get a good look at ’em, but soon as you git a little close, dey turn tail an’ run off, slinkin’ avay as fast as dey can go.”

  I felt relieved and embarrassed as I thought of my terror during the night I had just endured. Coyotes—harmless, noisy coyotes! Humiliation flushed my cheeks.

  Lars suddenly turned to me, the empty water pail still in his hand.

  “Miss T’atcher, ya know vat? Ven I vas little, I vas scared of’em. I used to lay in bed vid my head under da covers, sveat-in’ and cryin’.” He blushed slightly. “Den my pa told me ’bout dem bein’ sissies. Dey’d be more scared dan me if ve met up sudden. Pa says he’s gonna git a coupla good dogs, yust to keep da coyotes avay from da chickens—chickens be ’bout da only t’ings dat need fear coyotes.” He turned to go, then turned back. “Ya von’t tell, vill ya—dat I used to be scared of silly coyotes?”

  “No, I won’t tell, No one will know—you can be sure,” I promised him. He left the room with relief showing in his eyes.

  I won’t tell, I said to myself, about hiding under the covers, or fear, or fires, or burning lamps—anything. I’ll never tell.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Petersons

  After Lars had returned with the pail of fresh water, he began to haul wood. He did not stop until I insisted that I would be unable to get out of my house if he brought in any more. He grinned, then proceeded to chop a fine supply of kindling. I wanted to offer him a quarter, but somehow I felt that it wouldn’t be right in the eyes of his mother who had sent him over; so, instead, I fixed him a few more slices of bread and jam. He sat on my step and ate them, while I sat beside him.

  “How many students do you think I’ll have?” ’Bout eighteen or nineteen, or more maybe if da bigger boys come.”

  Perhaps twenty students, of all ages and abilities. It seems like an awesome task.

  “Ve only haf desks fer sixteen, so da ot’ers vill haf to haf tables an’ benches,” Lars continued.

  “And who will look after getting tables and benches?” I asked him, knowing that he was right about the desks. I had counted them the night before but had seen no evidence of tables or benches.

  “Mr. Laverly asked Mr. Yohnson to build ’em. He’s a car—car—builder.”

  I smiled. “I see. Will they be ready for Monday, do you think?”

  “S’pose to be.”

  Lars finished his last bit of bread, “I’d better go. Mama vill need me. T’anks fer da bread and yam. Oh, yah. Ma says, ‘come to supper tonight.’ Six o’clock. Right over dat vay—cross da field. Can ya come?”

  “I’d be delighted.”

  He frowned slightly, “Does dat mean ya vill?”

  “I will.”

  “Good.” And with a grin, he was gone.

  “Thank you for the wood and water,” I called after him.

  I spent the rest of the day sorting through my little house, making a list of the items I would need to purchase and wishing desperately that I had my trunks. Mr. Laverly did not come by as I had hoped, and I had no way of knowing where or how to contact him.

  At twenty minutes to six I straightened my hair, brushed off my dress, and set out to find the Petersons. Lars was right. As soon as I passed through the growth of trees behind the school grounds, I could see their farm sitting on the side of the next hill. At times I lost sight of it as I passed through other groves of trees, but my bearings seemed to hold true; it was always there, just where I expected it to be, whenever I emerged from the woods.

  Anna Peterson greeted me with a warm smile. Her English was broken, and she spoke with a heavy accent, but her eyes danced with humor as she laughed at her own mistakes.

  “Ve are so glad ya come. Ve need school bad—so chil’ren don’t talk none like me.”

  Mr. Peterson “velcomed” me too, and the warmth of their friendliness made it easy for me to respond. Olga and Peter were very shy. Else was a bit more outgoing, though still quick to drop her gaze and step back if I spoke directly to her.

  Anna was a good cook. The simple ingredients in her big kitchen produced mouth-watering food. It was awfully nice to enjoy a meal with a family again.

  The evening went quickly, and before I knew it, I could see the sun sinking slowly toward the treetops. Dusk was stealing over the land, making me feel like curling up and purring with contentment.

  “I must go,” I announced. “I hadn’t realized—it will soon be dark and I’m not very sure of my way.”

  “Lars v
ill go vid. He knows da vay gud.”

  I accepted Lars’ company with gratitude.

  Mrs. Peterson insisted on giving me a basket of food—milk, cream, butter, eggs, bread and fresh vegetables from her garden. I tried to explain that I still had milk and cream on hand.

  “T’row out milk. Vill be no gud,” she insisted. “Save cream for baking, maybe. Make lots gud t’ings vid sour cream. Ve vill send more t’ings vid Lars to school for ‘you.”

  “I will be happy to buy . . .”

  “Buy not’ing. I gif. I glad you here. Now my boys an’ girls learn—learn to speak, to read. I don’t teach—I don’t know. Now dey teach me.”

  “I’ll show you, Mama,” Else spoke up. “I’ll show you all I learn.”

  “Yah, little vun teach big vun,” Mrs. Peterson smiled, placing a loving hand on Else’s head. “ ’Tis gud.”

  Lars and I walked slowly through the twilight. I allowed him, at his insistence, to carry the basket. Already I loved him and his family and could hardly wait for Monday, to meet the other children of the community.

  We were about halfway home when a now-familiar but nonetheless heart-stopping howl rent the stillness. My first impulse was to lift my skirts and dash for home, but I restrained myself. I’m sure my face must have lost all of its color, and my hands fluttered to my breast, but Lars didn’t seem to notice. He was telling me about his Holstein heifer calf and didn’t even break his sentence.

  The howl came again and was joined by many others. Lars merely raised his voice to speak above the din. I fought hard to keep from panicking. Eventually Lars probably noticed my reaction and commented, “Silly ole coyotes. Sure make a racket. Sound like yust behind next clump, yet dey vay over in da field.”

  Then he went on with his story.

  Lars’ easy dismissal of the animals reassured me, and my heart slowly returned to its normal beat.

  When we reached the teacherage, Lars went in with me. He found the matches and lit the lamp, then unloaded the basket of food onto my small cupboard.

  “Ya be needin’ a fire?”

  “Not tonight. It’s plenty warm, and I won’t be staying up long.”

  I was beginning to feel weary from the lack of sleep the night before.

  “Guess I go now,” said Lars. He walked toward the door, basket in hand.

  “Thank you so much, Lars, for seeing me home—and for carrying the basket.”

  He would never realize the difference that his calm presence had made when the coyotes had begun to howl.

  “Yer velcome,” he grinned.

  “I wish I had some books to send home with you so that you and your sisters might practice reading, but I have none here. All my things are in my trunks, and I need to see Mr. Laverly before I can get them.”

  “Ya need Mr. Laverly? Vere yer trunks?”

  “Still in Lacombe. There wasn’t any room to bring them in the automobile.”

  “Ya need ’em?”

  “I certainly do,” I said emphatically.

  He nodded, then with a wave and grin pushed open the door. “ ’Night, Miss T’atcher.”

  “Good-night, Lars.”

  I watched him move away in the soft darkness. Soon the moon would rise to give light to the world, but for now his way was still dark—yet he moved forward without uncertainty or fear. The coyotes howled again, but Lars paid no attention to them as he hurried off toward home.

  I turned toward the coyotes now. They still made little tingles scurry up and down my spine each time I heard their mournful cry, but I refused to allow panic to seize me.

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” I spoke aloud to them. “You made a cringing, frightened coward of me last night, but never again—never again!”

  Still, I was glad to hook my door behind me as I entered the little teacherage I now called home.

  Chapter Twelve

  Trip to Town

  The next morning before I had even finished my breakfast, a team and wagon turned into my lane. The driver approached my house and knocked on the door, hat in hand. He introduced himself as Mr. Laverly. Lars, my special helper, had already ridden over on horseback to his farm that morning and informed him that I needed my trunks.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” the man apologized. “Wanted to be over to greet you yesterday right off, but my wagon busted a wheel an’ it took nigh all day to fix it. ’Course I had me no idee that you was without yer belongin’s, or I’d a borrowed an outfit from a neighbor an’ been right over.” His round face mirrored his sincere apology.

  “I sure feel terrible that yer things didn’t get here the same time that you did,” he hurried on, wiping his hands and face with a bright square from a pocket. “I was ’opin’ to spare ya a trip by wagon over those long, dusty roads. I’d be happy to jest go on in an’ pick up yer things fer ya, an’ ya can jest wait here.”

  “Oh, I’d love to go along, Mr. Laverly,” I interjected quickly. “The weather is lovely, and the trees are so beautiful—I’m sure that the trip to town will be an enjoyable one in spite of the dust.”

  He relaxed some—even smiled.

  “Would you care for a cup of coffee while I get my hat?” I asked, and he nodded that he would.

  I motioned him toward one of the green chairs and poured coffee into the cup with the fewest chips, then cleared the table. When I had things tidied I went to the bedroom.

  I did wish that I had another dress. The one that I had been wearing when I arrived hung, dejected and torn, from a peg in my bedroom. I had no sewing supplies with me to repair it. The dress that I now wore was the only other one I had with me. Besides appearing somewhat wrinkled and soiled, it was not the gown that I would have chosen to wear on my first day in a new town and did not go well with my hat.

  Looking in some dismay at my reflection in the small cracked mirror, I placed my hat on carefully and pinned it in place. I smoothed out my skirt the best I could and picked up my handbag, then went to inform Mr. Laverly that I was ready when he was. He drained the last of the coffee from the cup and rose to go.

  Mr. Laverly was not an eloquent man, I discovered, yet he did tell me of the parents’ desire to provide education for the children of Pine Springs. I admired these people for working so hard and long to get someone who would teach, and I felt honored to be that “someone.”

  At Lacombe, Mr. Laverly dropped me off at the general store and went on to the train station to collect my trunks. I did not dally but set to work filling my long shopping list as quickly as I could. There seemed to be so many things that I needed, but I held myself in check and purchased only essentials—with the exception of one extravagance. I had determined that I would drink my tea like a lady, even in a log house; so I purchased a teapot and two cups and saucers of fine china. I felt somehow Mama’s mind would be much more at ease about me if she knew that I was having my tea in the proper fashion. After all, civilization could not be too far away from Pine Springs if I had such amenities!

  I had not finished my shopping when Mr. Laverly returned. He kindly assured me that I needn’t rush. He suggested that we meet at one o’clock and perhaps I would like to get myself some lunch at the hotel before we started our long journey back. I agreed, and he went off on some business of his own. I finally rounded up all the items that I needed in order to keep house. I then bought a further supply of staple groceries and set out for the hotel.

  While waiting for my meal to arrive, I wrote a short letter to my family and also a note to Jon and his family. I assured them that I would write more later, but I did want them to know that I had arrived safely and was very pleased and excited about my living arrangements and my school. I omitted telling Mama just exactly where my school was. She had sent me west to Jonathan and expected me to stay within the shelter of his protection. I shuddered to think how she would feel if she knew that I was about one hundred and fifty long, slow miles away from him.

  My food arrived, and I placed my brief notes in the addressed envelopes. The waitress said I c
ould post them right there at the hotel.

  Mr. Laverly, true to his word, appeared at one o’clock. We returned to the store, and he and the clerk loaded my purchases. I looked longingly at the inviting little town, wishing that I had time to explore it, but Mr. Laverly was now in a hurry to be on his way.

  The September afternoon sun rode hot and high in the sky. The horses sauntered along, and the wagon bumped and jostled. With each mile, I came to realize more why Mr. Laverly had been concerned about saving me this trip. My excitement and the loveliness of the weather and scenery had gotten me to town without too much discomfort, but I began to feel that the trip home would never end.

  By the time we arrived at the teacherage, I was hot, tired, dirty and sore. Nothing would interest me more than a long soak in a hot tub; and then I remembered—I had no such thing, except for the round metal washtub I had just purchased that day for my laundry. Well, it would have to do.

  Mr. Laverly unloaded all of my belongings. The trunks were heavy for one person, and I insisted upon giving him a hand. It was a difficult task to get all the things from the wagon into the teacherage, and my help, though freely offered, was barely adequate.

  When finally everything was in my house, and Mr. Laverly had graciously refused my offer of a cup of tea, I remembered to ask him about the schoolhouse door. He had the nails out in a jiffy, and then his wagon rumbled out of the yard.

  Gone were the thoughts of a bath in my excitement at getting settled. With a feverish eagerness I attacked the trunks and the purchases and began to make myself a home in the “wilderness.” Dusk was approaching and I still had not stopped for breath. I was weary, dusty, and hungry, and if I didn’t stop, I would be exhausted. Though tired, I gazed around me with pleasure. It did look and feel much more like home now, but darkness would come soon and if I wanted a bath, I needed to haul the water for it.

  I placed my new boiler on the stove and poured the water from the pail into it. Then I ran for more water, pumping in near panic. If the coyotes were to begin their howling right now, I wasn’t sure that I, as yet, would be strong enough to face them alone. Fortunately, I was just entering the house with my second pail of water when the first howl broke over me. I really don’t need more water anyway, I assured myself and fastened the door behind me.