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AS JAN CURLED HIS FISTS and started toward him, Grader shrank in terror.
“Jan!” Brian pulled at his arm. “Jan!”
He forcibly yanked Jan around. “Be sendin’ your boys doon th’ creek on horseback, Jan. Now.”
Jan turned to Søren. His chest heaved but he could not catch his breath. He could not wipe the image from his mind of the rushing torrent and Rose’s skirts, heavy with water, pulling her under.
“Pappa,” Søren said softly. “Little Karl and I should take the bays downstream, ja?”
Søren’s eyes were haunted. He, too, had a vivid picture in his mind, but it was the image of the drowned calf tangled in the tree roots near the creek bank. He could not help it—when he looked into his heart, it was not the calf, but Rose’s white face he saw floating in the roots of the cottonwoods.
Jan nodded. He could not think; he could not act. He could only hate.
He looked again at Grader who paled under Jan’s icy disdain. The man, struggling wildly in his bonds, began to shriek and beg for his life.
Grader’s shrieks startled Jan, and he saw himself mirrored in Grader’s fear-filled eyes. What he saw stunned him—Jan saw his own hatred.
Dear Father in heaven, Jan gasped. I am undone! I thought you had tamed my heart, but in its depths, I am yet a murderer!
Jan dropped his face to his hands. He stumbled out into the yard. Peering at the sky through the downpour, he cried aloud, “Father! I am sorry! I know you hear me . . . please forgive me.”
A crack of thunder answered him. Jan dropped to his knees, sobbing.
—
SØREN AND LITTLE KARL had been gone half an hour and early morning was changing the skies from black to a sodden gray when Fiona and Meg arrived. Jan shook his head at their questions and did not trust himself to speak.
Fiona was making coffee when Brian uttered an urgent exclamation, “Jan! ’Tis rememberin’ something I am! Th’ Andersons’ old soddy. We showed it t’ Rose. Coom! Help me t’ be openin’ it!”
Jan stared at Brian, not comprehending. Brian grabbed his arm and pulled him along.
The Andersons’ dugout. Of course. Of course, I remember it! Jan wrenched the shovel from Brian’s hands and raced ahead of him. He reached the side of the knoll first but could not find the door—the rain had turned the hillside into a slurry of mud and grass. He drove the shovel into the hillside here! There! Again and again until—at last—it struck wood.
Jan scrabbled with his fingers for the edge of the door. He found it, jammed the shovel’s tip into it, and leaned his considerable weight on the handle. The door began to give but Jan would not wait. He simply grasped it and, straining with all his might, ripped it from its hinges and flung it aside.
He paused. The soddy was as dark as the storm-swept night had been. Within, it was as still as a tomb.
She is not here! his heart screamed.
“I’ll be fetchin’ a torch!” Brian yelled above the now drizzling rain.
Jan dropped to his knees as his strength left him. He crept forward, feeling about him with his hands. Dry, pounded earth was all his hands found.
He crawled forward, sweeping his arms across the floor in an arc. Still his hands found only hard, dry dirt.
And then. And then his left hand encountered cloth. Damp, clammy cloth. He followed the cloth until he felt a hip and then an arm. He traced his way up the arm until he touched an icy cheek. He picked up her hand—a hand as cold as death. He could not feel her heart beating in her wrist or fingers.
“Brian! Brian McKennie! Here—she is here!”
He scooped Rose into his arms. She was as light as a feather.
Oh, Lord, please do not let her spirit fly away to you!
“Rose.” Jan choked on his words and his love poured out. He could not stop—he babbled words of endearment in his native tongue, not knowing if she could hear them, knowing she could not understand them.
“Rose. Little Rose!” he called her urgently.
In his arms, her body shuddered. “Help me,” she moaned.
Alive! Thank you, God, she is alive!
She moaned again and her head twisted against his chest. “Please. Do not let me fall in the river.”
“Nei, Rose, I not let you fall,” he murmured and pressed her closer to his chest so his warmth would comfort her.
Forever, he cried to God. This is what I want, Lord—to forever hold and comfort her!
Brian appeared with a torch. In the light Jan looked down on Rose’s face to assure himself that she was truly alive. Her face was so cold that her cheekbones shone like polished white marble in the flickering light. Jan carried her across the yard and into the house, surrendering her to Fiona and Meg.
They were ready with towels, dry clothes, and hot bricks to tuck into the bed. Fiona, her face sober with worry, gently shooed him away.
Jan stepped into the other part of the house and saw Grader, his arms and legs still tied to a chair. The man watched Jan with anxious eyes.
Jan’s chin dropped to his chest and he prayed. Lord, I surrender this unruly heart to you. Totally. Completely. I hold nothing back.
He looked at Grader again. The man was terrified for his life.
Jan began to string halting words together in English. “I sorry,” was his first quiet, awkward sentence. “I sorry.”
He wanted to add, I was wrong! It is not my place to condemn, but “Please to forgiving me,” was as close as he could manage.
Grader’s mouth opened a little. He did not answer.
Jan licked his lips, searching and desperate for right words. “I forgiving it to you,” he said, meeting Grader’s gaze.
Jan swallowed hard. “You.” He pointed at Grader, who flinched. “You asking da Lord Jesus. He forgiving it to you, too.”
Grader stared at Jan, perplexed. Jan wasn’t surprised—he knew how pathetic his attempt to tell him that Jesus would forgive him had been! But perhaps Grader would, somehow, understand.
And then . . . the light of understanding flickered, and Grader’s eyes misted over. He dropped his gaze to the floor and a sob caught in his throat.
Jan nodded and started toward the door. Tusen takk, Lord.
He closed the door behind him.
~~**~~
