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Lexham Press - Naomi Dathan

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109 pages

English

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Jem Perkins is used to her comfortable city life--she has a fine house, a handsome husband, and a new baby boy. But when her family's financial situation takes a turn for the worst, she must learn to adapt to her new life--in a sod house on a Nebraska homestead.Jem reluctantly adapts to the harsh realities of prairie life: churning butter, fighting illness, enduring loneliness. In Jem's desperate prayers for deliverance, she eventually encounters the God she's always thought she'd known and finds strength she didn't know she had.But when the history-making Children's Blizzard of 1888 sweeps across the land, ushering in a new season of hardship so harsh no one could have imagined, Jem will have to endure more than she ever has before. Can Jem's confidence, marriage, and new-found faith weather the storm?

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Historical fiction

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Publié par	Lexham Press
Date de parution	20 avril 2016
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781577995111
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	2 Mo

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WHITHER THOU GOEST I WILL GO
NAOMI DATHAN
Whither Thou Goest, I Will Go
Copyright 2011, 2016 Naomi Dathan
Kirkdale Press, 1313 Commercial St., Bellingham, WA 98225
Visit us at KirkdalePress.com or follow us on Twitter at @KirkdalePress
You may use brief quotations from this resource in presentations, articles, and books. For all other uses, please write Kirkdale Press for permission. Email us at permissions@kirkdalepress.com .
Print ISBN 9781577996873
Digital ISBN 9781577997313
Kirkdale Editorial Team: Lynnea Fraser, Elizabeth Vince
To Don, of course.
For your wisdom, faith, support, humor, strength,
and most of all, your unfailing love.
NOTE TO READERS
L ife for settlers on the Great Plains was never easy, but the winter of 1887–1888 was particularly tough. After fighting tough sod, drought, and prairie fires all summer, an arctic cold front moved across the center of the United States—and stayed. Pioneers huddled next to their stoves, burned braided straw and buffalo chips, and waited for a break in the -30 degree temperatures.
That break came on January 12, 1888. For the first time in weeks, the temperature rose above freezing. Relieved settlers left the warmth of their fires to go to town for supplies, tend to their livestock, or just walk and breathe the balmy air. Children hurried to school to see their friends.
No one was prepared when the storm hit.
Some people saw the cloud coming and had time to run for their shanties or sod houses. Some didn’t suspect anything—until the sky went dark and the 45 mph winds screamed to life around them. The temperature plummeted from 9 degrees Fahrenheit to 30 below. The whirling ice—ground to flour-sized particles by the wind—reduced visibility to inches.
Historians estimate that a thousand or more people may have spent the night on the prairie, wandering lost in the storm, burrowing into haystacks, or huddling in the thin outerwear they’d donned that morning. Somewhere between 100 to 400 people perished in the storm.
Most of them were children.
For a true-life account of this storm, read The Children’s Blizzard by David Laskin. I read this book with a pounding heart. Then I read it again. And then, again. Finally, I was inspired to write the fictional story of Seth, Jem, and Charley, and how they fared on that cold, dreadful night.
CHAPTER ONE
JANUARY 12, 1888
A t midnight, Charley woke shivering in his trundle bed. “Ma?”
He rose, but couldn’t see his mother’s form in the faltering lamplight. “Ma? Mom-mom?”
Still no answer. The cast iron stove was dark and silent. The wind outside howled like a wolf and caught at the door of the sod house, swinging it open and shut.
Where was Ma? Why wasn’t she making the stove hot or snuggling him warm under the covers? Was she outside with the wind-wolf?
Charley went toward the door. Ice blew into his eyes, making them water. But he wasn’t crying. Not yet. Warmth brushed his legs and a wetness caressed his cheek. The big dog, Zeke, curled his shaggy body against Charley, pushing him backward—away from the open door.
Charley pushed back and shook his finger at him. “No! Bad.”
Zeke whined and pressed harder. Charley fell, landing on something warm and solid. It didn’t hurt, but he set to wailing anyway, protesting his alone state, his empty belly, and the bitter cold that bit at his eyes and ears and nostrils like fierce ants.
No one came to comfort him, so his cries soon dried up. He scuttled across the still form on the floor, pausing at a tinkling sound. “Ging,” he said, remembering. “Ging, ging, ging.”
The bell. Pa had rung the bell today. Ding, ding, ding. He’d stoked the fire high and hot, gave Charley cold mash to eat, and clung to the doorframe, ringing and ringing the bell. Once, Pa had fallen to the dirt floor, but after a long while, he pushed himself upright, clutched the doorframe, and rang the bell again.
Now Pa was on the floor again, unmoving.
Charley stepped on Pa’s head as he went to look outside “Ma!” The storm sucked his voice away so fast that he didn’t even hear himself. The winds answered in high voices, scared and scary at the same time. Was Ma out there in the black with the wind voices?
At last, Charley made up his mind. With Zeke making little worried sounds close beside him, Charley stepped out into the blizzard to find Ma.
AUGUST 14, 1886 (Seventeen months before)
The Reynolds’ tea was well attended, but the August heat oppressed the guests, subduing the conversation to a languid pace. Servants discreetly watered—and even fanned—the profusion of roses arranged in vases throughout the room. Ladies and gentlemen sipped English tea and nibbled at scones and trifles to be polite, waiting for the blessed moment when they could return home, untie their cravats and corsets, and have a cool bath.
Jem Perkins had nothing but sympathy for the wilting flowers. She sank onto a thickly upholstered chair next to her sister and fanned herself.
“Can we go home now?” she whispered.
“Hush!” Sally hissed, shooting a worried glance toward their hosts. “Mrs. Reynolds has been planning this tea for weeks. And we haven’t even greeted the guest of honor yet.”
Hiding behind her fan, Jem peeked at Mrs. Ashley Grayson seated near the window. She couldn’t hear what Mrs. Grayson said, but it drew appreciative laughter from the surrounding crowd. Jem smiled at her sister with her eyes. “She sure feeds off the adoration, doesn’t she?”
Sally frowned. “Oh, Jem, I’m sure that’s not fair. Mrs. Grayson deserves credit for starting the Children’s Board.”
“Of course she does! But don’t you think she has a bit of the look a cat gets when he’s found a sunny spot on the windowsill?”
Sally pursed her lips. “You could have worked with her, Jem. I know she asked you to. Then you’d be right up there beside her.”
Wasn’t that just like Sally to make out that Jem was jealous. What had she to be jealous of?
Jem fanned herself again, waiting until her irritation ebbed before answering. After all, it wouldn’t do for Jem—the married woman—to engage in sibling squabbling with her poor spinster sister. Once satisfied that there would be only kindness in her voice, she answered. “I was hardly in a position to take on an outside project right then, was I? A woman’s first responsibility is to her family. Perhaps you’ll understand … one day.”
Sally’s cheeks went pink as the arrow found its mark. She was Jem’s elder by three years, poor thing, and she didn’t even have a serious beau. She sniffed. “I’m sure that was it. I’m sure it wasn’t because you discovered that setting up a charitable foundation actually requires a great deal of work.”
That stung. Jem lowered her fan. “Now you’re just being cruel. You know I work very hard, Sally. Look at how many hours I put into the flower garden last year.”
“And then you lost interest and Rogers had to take it over.”
“And think of all the poetry I’ve written. You’ve never written a poem in your life!”
“And I’m better off for it.”
“At least I’m trying things. Maybe I haven’t found my true calling yet, but you shouldn’t fault me for trying.”
Sally opened her mouth, but then shut it again, holding up a restraining palm. “Oh, we’re quarreling like children.” She sighed. “I apologize. I’m sure you have found your true calling, Jem. I’m sure your true calling is motherhood. You’re wonderful with Charley, and what’s more important than raising a happy, healthy child?”
Jem settled back in her seat, buying herself a minute by sipping her iced tea. Sally would never have apologized a year ago and would certainly have never offered a compliment. It was disconcerting really. “It is hot,” she offered.
Seeing Sally relax, she did too, leaning forward to whisper to her. “And boring. I know Mrs. Grayson deserves all of our admiration. I do, truly. But I’m so tired of seeing all the same people and having all the same conversations day after day. This city is chockfull of people, but you couldn’t tell by us.”
“There’s the doorbell,” Sally said. “I’m sure it will be someone fascinating.”
“Like Mark Twain?”
“That’s right. Or Buffalo Bill.”
Jem giggled. “How about Jesse James?”
“I think he’s dead. Wasn’t he killed? Oh—” Her tone changed abruptly. “Look. It is someone new.”
Jem looked. Her fan froze. The tall man stood in the entry to the parlor, his bearing military even out of uniform. He bowed slightly to Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds, shook Mr. Reynolds’ hand, and exchanged greetings with the surrounding guests. Feminine eyes followed his progress as he strode in, but he didn’t seem to notice. His pewter gray eyes scanned the crowd and landed on Jem.
She returned his gaze, then lowered her attention to her skirts. “Well, now. The new guest is dashing, wouldn’t you say, Sally?”
Sally made a haughty harrumph. “Oh, Sister, he looks to be a bit of a ruffian to me. Like someone who spends time in the Wild West. You’d do well to stay away from him, I think.”
Jem murmured her agreement and peeked at the man over her fan again. His eyes were still on her. “I believe I’ll have some refreshment.”
She approached the buffet table, turning her back on the man. Her sister was at her elbows, but when she felt Sally withdraw, she knew the man was approaching. She peeked at him over her shoulder while she ladled pink punch into a glass. He removed his derby and offered a slight bow.
“Ma’am.”
“Lieutenant.”
His lips twitched at her return address, or perhaps at the Virginia drawl that had crept into the single word. “I wonder if I might join you for a beverage.”
“Why, sir, as a guest of this tea party, you are as welcome as anyone to partake, I daresay.” Yes, the drawl of her childhood was definitely back, sliding through her words like sugarcane molasses.
“Indeed,” the man said. He poured himself punch and downed it in a single motion. The glass looked ridiculous in his large hand, like a child’s play teacup. “I have to say, ma’am, that the scenery in St. Paul has certainly improved since my