Molly finally asked for something to eat Thursday afternoon. Anna soft-boiled the egg she’d kept out of the flapjack batter, and Jane made toast and tea. Molly grimaced with the first swallow of toast and opted for the egg and tea. After eating, she settled back against the pillow and asked Jane to read more about Jo and Meg. While Anna heated up more water and sent more steam into the tent, Jane climbed up beside Molly and read until the child fell asleep. When she ducked back out from beneath the sheet of canvas, the sun had begun to set. Once again Anna lit the lamps in the windows. Then she asked to examine Jane’s knee.
“It’s much better,” Jane said as she sat before the stove and unwrapped her leg.
Anna perched on the footstool at Jane’s feet and repeated the poking and prodding, nodding with satisfaction when Jane only winced. “Is gut,” she said, then reapplied ointment. When the front door opened abruptly, Jane started and stood up so that her skirt would fall back into place.
Mr. Gruber, his arms full of firewood, kicked the door closed behind him and crossed the room to the woodbox. He bent to deposit the wood, and by the time he’d turned back around, Jane had snatched the bandage off the floor and muttered something about checking on Molly.
“If all goes well tonight,” Anna called after her, “Peter takes down tent tomorrow, ja?”
That night Molly held Katie close and slept so soundly that, midway through the night, Jane slipped out of bed, pulled out the trundle, and crawled beneath the pile of comforters with a sense of gratitude and a weariness borne of the ever-present concerns of recent days.
Moonlight spilled in the window as Jane lay listening to Molly’s even breathing and trying to imagine where they would have been this night if Molly hadn’t taken ill. She wondered at the kindness of Anna Gruber and her son. Thank You. I haven’t spoken to You in a while, but thank You for taking care of us. Thank You that Molly didn’t have— She still couldn’t even think the word. Thank You that she didn’t have that. She wondered at the tragedy that had ravaged Peter Gruber’s handsome face and the heartbreak he’d endured. How could a woman turn her back on a man she loved? How many men had had that happen to them after the war? How terrible for Peter.
And he didn’t look that horrible. Not really. If you looked past the scars and into those beautiful eyes— Thinking of Peter’s dark eyes reminded Jane of the expression in them earlier this morning when finally he’d let her look him in the face. She’d caught a glimpse of caution. Wariness, as if he was testing her.
It made her think of that time she’d encountered a stray dog in the alley behind Mrs. Abernathy’s. The poor thing had stood its ground over a ham bone, watching her. Wary, although now that she remembered, it hadn’t bared its teeth. Not once. It had just watched her. And when she spoke kindly to it, it lowered itself to its haunches, the hambone between its front paws. Not exactly relaxed, but not so defensive either. When Jane said, “That’s a good dog. I won’t bother you,” the dog had thumped the earth once with its tail. And never stopped watching her as she returned to hanging out the day’s assortment of kitchen towels and linens.
Mr. Gruber’s gaze earlier reminded her of that dog. Wary. Hoping for the best but accustomed to being kicked and chased off. She was so glad she hadn’t looked away. So glad she’d concentrated on his kindness in bringing Katie back from the train and seen beyond the scars to those beautiful eyes. Stephen had had brown eyes, too, but not like Mr. Gruber’s. Not that dark, not set beneath finely arched eyebrows, not separated by an aristocratic nose.
Molly muttered in her sleep. Jane tensed momentarily, then realized it wasn’t anything to worry over. Her breathing was even, and she didn’t cough or sputter. She must be dreaming. Jane rolled onto her side and burrowed into her pillow. Her last conscious thought was the somewhat troubling realization that she couldn’t remember the color of Mr. Huggins’s eyes.
Peter woke with a start and sat up in bed, listening. Listening. Swearing softly under his breath at the realization that his campaign against unwanted residents in the house was about to begin again. He and Mutti had waged war on field mice after the first cold snap in the fall, setting traps in the loft and engaging in more than one chase involving brooms and the two of them in their nightclothes—chases that had ended in success and with them both out of breath and laughing at their ridiculous antics. Mutti wanted a cat. Peter agreed it was a good idea. He had word out to several of the neighbors in case any Christmas litters appeared in barn lofts nearby.
Another rustle out in the main room convinced him he’d better get up. He’d have to wake Mutti, but she wouldn’t mind. She defended the soddy against unwanted invaders with the passion of a Prussian field marshal. Quietly, he slid out of bed and pulled on his pants. He padded to the doorway and peered into the main room, thankful for the faint moonlight reflecting off the whitewashed walls. What he saw made him smile.
The child had her back to him. She’d moved a kitchen chair over to the shelving on the far wall—that must have been what he heard—and was standing atop it, reaching for a biscuit tin. He stepped into the room, doing his best to move silently, lest he startle her and make her fall. The hem of the borrowed nightshirt she was wearing touched the seat of the chair. One of the sleeves had come unrolled. As she extended her arm to reach for the biscuit tin, several inches of sleeve dangled past her outstretched fingers.
When Peter was close enough to the chair to keep her from falling if she startled, he whispered softly, “It’s good to see that you’re hungry.”
She didn’t look his way, just stood with her hand stretched toward the biscuit tin. She was cradling her doll in the other arm.
“I’m afraid that’s not what you think it is,” he whispered, coming to her side. Still, she didn’t answer. Her eyes were open, but— Ah. She was sleepwalking.
He reached to the higher shelf and a cracker tin that did, indeed, contain crackers. Opening it, he offered her one, shoving the dangling sleeve back up her arm to free her hand. She took the cracker, then stood motionless.
“Shall we give Katie a cracker as well?” She nodded, and Peter gently pried open her hand and put a second cracker in her palm.
“There,” he said. “Ready to go back to bed?”
Again the child nodded. This time she looked toward the window.
“It’s still nighttime. Tomorrow, when you wake up, you can have a nice breakfast. Katie, too. All right?”
He intended to help her down off the chair and walk her back to bed, but when he touched her arm, she tucked the doll between her upper arm and her body, put the crackers into that hand, and with her free arm, reached up, clearly intending for him to pick her up. When he did, she curled up in his arms and laid her head against his chest. She sighed, and he felt her relax in his arms. Sound asleep.
There was nothing to do but put her to bed. How he would explain it to Mrs. McClure if she awoke to find him standing over her, he didn’t know, but as it turned out, she was sound asleep in the trundle. As he crept around the foot of the bed to the opposite side and ducked beneath the canvas curtain to put Molly back in bed, her mother didn’t stir.
Peter settled the child back against the pillows and, pulling the covers up, tucked them beneath her chin. He crept into the main room, replacing the chair at the table and then pausing to put the lid back on the cracker tin and return it to the high shelf. He’d just headed back toward his own room when Mutti stirred.
“Vas ist?”
“It’s nothing, Mutti,” Peter said quietly. He stepped closer. “The child was up. Sleepwalking, I think. Hungry. I gave her some crackers and put her back to bed.” He chuckled. “I heard a rustle. I thought we were going to have another war against mice.”
He heard Mutti’s low laugh. “Another dance with a broom, ja? Let us hope not, at least not until our guests depart.”
“Let us hope,” Peter agreed.
“She is pretty, ja?”
“She’s a beautiful child. Those dark curls. Thank God she’s going to be all right.”
“I speak of Jane. She is pretty. And kind. It’s nice having her here.” Mutti sat up in bed. “We must to have special Christmas, ja? For the child.”
“They might be gone by Saturday.”
“Nein. Molly must rest a few days at least.”
Peter sighed.
“She is child, Peter. She must have Christmas. A tree, ja? If you take the sleigh out to the river, you could find something.”
He could almost hear Mutti’s thoughts skittering about as she gathered ideas and made plans. He knew her so well. She was making a paper chain in her mind. Already tearing out another page of her ledger book to make scherenschnitte snowflakes. And making springerle cookies. How he loved springerle. He could almost smell them baking, imagine the aroma of anise oil in the air. Mutti was right. Why not give a sick child a happy moment? Why not, indeed. He didn’t know about a tree though.
“It’s only two days away, Mutti.”
“And what? You have so much doing in this snow you can’t take the sleigh to look for a little tree?”
She was right. Again. He chuckled. “You can’t see my face, but I’m smiling. And yes. I’ll drive out tomorrow and see what I can find. I’ll keep it in the sleigh until you come out and approve it.”
“That’s my Peter,” Mutti said. “It will be wonderful surprise. You will see.”
Peter padded back to his room and slid beneath the covers, shivering when his bare feet touched the cold sheets.
It was still dark when Jane woke—to the sound of Mr. Gruber leaving the house, she realized. Probably headed out to feed the livestock. Livestock. I wonder what they have in the way of livestock. She hadn’t paid much attention to the length of Mr. Gruber’s absences from the house. In fact, she didn’t really know very much about him except what Anna had said about his injury and subsequent heartache. She didn’t know anything at all about Anna, except that she was Peter’s mother and she’d apparently only come to live with him since he was injured. Where had she been before that?
Hearing Anna in the next room, Jane rose and dressed. “How can I be of use today? I feel like I’ve been something of a pampered guest, and I’d like it if there were a way to repay you for all your kindness.”
Anna reached for a small basket hanging on a peg below the “medicine shelf.” “Bundle up and gather eggs while I knead dough.” Anna leaned into her kneading. “Inside the barn look to farthest wall. You will see the door to the chicken coop.”
Unwilling to admit that she knew next to nothing about chickens and had never gathered eggs, Jane donned her coat and headed out to the barn by way of the trench Mr. Gruber had dug in the snow, which was nearly up to Jane’s waist, thanks to the way the wind had drifted it between the house and barn. When she stepped inside the barn, the black horse thrust its head over a stall door—so suddenly that Jane dodged away.
“She’s just saying hello,” Mr. Gruber said. “She’s very gentle. Never bites or kicks.” He raised his head to glance at the horse. “Do you, Molly-girl? You never bite or kick?”
When the horse whickered, Jane laughed. “It’s as if she’s talking back.”
“She talks back all the time,” Mr. Gruber said. “She’s a she, after all. Can’t let a man have the last word.” He glanced Jane’s way, and his grin disappeared. “I do apologize, Mrs. McClure. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
Jane smiled his way. “That’s perfectly all right, Mr. Gruber. I didn’t take it to mean much of anything.” As she made her way toward the door at the opposite end of the rows of stalls, she passed several pigs huddled together in the deep straw in one of the larger stalls, and a dun-colored cow obviously expecting a calf. In the next stall, Mr. Gruber sat milking a second dun-colored cow. He nodded at the basket in Jane’s hand. “I see Mutti has put you to work.”
“I offered,” Jane said, nodding at the door just beyond the little room. “That opens into the chicken coop, right?”
Mr. Gruber nodded. As Jane walked past, he said, “Don’t let Solomon worry you. He’s all bluster and no fight.”
Solomon? Jane didn’t have to wonder long who Solomon was, for the instant she opened the door to the coop, a large bird began to flap its russet-colored wings and march toward her. How on earth could a chicken sound threatening? But this one did. Jane turned away from it and went to the four rows of nesting boxes to her left, all save one inhabited by a rust-colored hen, looking perfectly content and almost cozy. Jane hesitated. The blustery bird fluttered up off the earth, menacing enough that Jane ducked and raised her arm to shield her face.
“Stop that, Sol!” Mr. Gruber stepped into the coop, and the rooster settled and sauntered away. At least it seemed to Jane that he was sauntering.
“Thank you,” she said primly, and turned once again to the nesting boxes. She hesitated. How did one get the hens to vacate the premises so their eggs could be collected?
“You’ve never gathered eggs before.” He sounded surprised. Amused. Before she could respond, he brushed past her and slid his hand beneath one of the birds.
“No eggs,” he said, but when he checked the next box, he withdrew an egg and, with a smile, handed it over.
So they don’t bite. Jane followed Mr. Gruber’s example, but the second she began to slide her hand beneath a hen, it clucked madly. Jane snatched her gloved hand away just in time to avoid being pecked. Thank goodness for gloves.
“You don’t have to be afraid. They don’t know you, is all. They’re mostly bluster and very little bite.” He paused. “But if you are afraid, just hand me the basket, and I’ll take care of it. Mutti never has to know.”
Was he teasing her? He’d said more since she’d come into the barn than he’d said the entire time she and Molly had been here. Jane lifted her chin. “I believe I can handle a few clucking hens, Mr. Gruber.” She glanced toward the barn. “And besides, weren’t you milking a cow?”
He nodded. “I was, and I apologize if I seemed to think you aren’t up to handling the ladies.” He nodded at the nesting boxes, then sidled around her, pausing at the door. “Just keep an eye on the rooster. He’s been trained to attack if his ladies are threatened.” He swallowed. “Killed a big bull snake once.”
Jane glowered at him. “Are you teasing me, Mr. Gruber?”
He shrugged. “Well, something killed the bull snake. Maybe it was the dog.”
“You don’t have a dog.”
“We did. It ran off. But I haven’t seen a bull snake about, so you needn’t worry about that.”
“Just because I grew up in the city doesn’t mean I’m afraid of snakes. And for your information, I am not. Unless, of course, they rattle.”
“I’ll still gather the eggs if you’d like.”
By way of an answer, Jane slid her hand beneath another hen, ignored the creature’s clucking and fussing, and was rewarded with not one, but two eggs. She glanced his way. “Anna said to tell you that breakfast will be ready soon.” She quickly investigated the rest of the nesting boxes. She was tempted to glance back to see if Mr. Gruber was watching her but didn’t want him to see her do so.
“Well, look at that,” he finally said. Jane looked his way. He was pointing at the rooster, who’d settled on his perch. “You’ve won Solomon over.” He retreated into the barn and bent to retrieve the milk pail. “Your Molly can have fresh milk if she feels up to it this morning.”
Jane pulled the door to the coop closed behind her. “She had a good night. I have high hopes.” Mr. Gruber swept his hand toward the house, like a gentleman showing a lady the way to a coach. With a smile and a nod, Jane led the way inside, hoping that the friendly man she’d just been joking with in the barn wouldn’t go into hiding inside the house.