Spring for Susannah by Catherine Richmond

grass beat her from a different direction. Flowered spikelets pressed close, shutting off the air. What was that rustling noise?
    The sound moved closer. A snake? Her heart raced. Or a fox or a badger? With a gasp, she pulled her skirts higher. She whirled right. No escape. It could be a wolf, inches away, watching, waiting for an opportunity to pounce. Or an Indian.
    â€œJesse?” Her voice quavered.
    He emerged on her left. “Yes?”
    Her knees buckled and she almost threw herself into his arms. She swallowed hard. “I was wondering . . . what sort of animals live in this grass.”
    He shifted the guitar to his other shoulder, then brushed a bead of perspiration from her temple. “The big-eared sort. They heard us and are miles away by now.” He took the food basket from her, then hiked on, whistling “The Campbells Are Coming.”
    With hands free, Susannah managed to keep Jesse in sight. Thank God he’d come back for her. Could she thank God for Jesse?
    The land ascended to the west, opening to a valley cut more than a hundred feet into the plain. Hills and draws rippled along the bluffs. A stream flowed south through a ravine filled with cottonwoods, elms, box elders, willows, and scrub oaks.
    â€œThe Sheyenne River.” Jesse pointed.
    â€œTrees,” Susannah sighed. After six days of nothing but grass, the wooded slopes seemed like a paradise.
    â€œThis is where we get our firewood.”
    â€œWhy don’t you live here?”
    â€œOur claim’s got the best spring in the territory. Soil’s not so good here.” His boot scraped at a patch of gravel between clumps of grass. He glanced from her face back to the valley. “I suppose we could build our real house here.”
    Jesse headed for the nearest cottonwood where two people sat on a blanket. Susannah tucked a stray lock of hair under her hat and brushed seeds off her skirt. What if Marta didn’t like her? What if she thought Susannah’s worries were foolish?
    â€œYou’re looking mighty fine.” He tucked her hand onto his arm.
    â€œJesse!” A stocky man jumped up and sprinted toward them.
    â€œYou old dog! You half a wife and not tell us!” His accent sounded German—no, Jesse said they were Norwegian. He hugged Jesse, pounding him on the back, then held him at arm’s length. “Look at you! No beard. You shave now you half a wife?”
    â€œSure! Don’t want to scratch when I kiss her. And by the way, this is no half-wife. You won’t believe all she can do.”
    Ivar faced her. “He’s always making fun of how I speak. All his fault; he taught me English.” Susannah stepped back, but to her horror, he lifted her. “I don’t know, Jesse. She may be half-wife if you don’t start feeding her.”
    When her feet reached the ground, Susannah stumbled. Jesse steadied her with an arm around her shoulders. “Susannah, this is our neighbor, Ivar Vold. Ivar, my wife, Susannah Mason.”
    How odd to be introduced as a wife, with a new last name. Ivar pumped her hand. Strawlike hair stuck out from his hat and the lower half of his apple-cheeked face. She glanced at Jesse. His neck and jaw were a shade lighter than the rest of his face.
    Ivar motioned toward the blanket. “This is Marta and our baby, Sara.”
    A woman with a thick braid of light brown hair sat cross-legged, nursing a baby. To Susannah’s surprise, she showed no sign of embarrassment. Ellen had nursed her own infants, but Susannah had never seen her do so in mixed company.
    Ivar addressed his wife in Norwegian, and Susannah’s heart sank. Marta didn’t know English. Susannah turned away and pretended to cough, struggling to compose her face.
    Marta spoke.
    â€œShe says, will you help her learn English?”
    Susannah blinked. “Oh. Yes, of course. I would be glad to.”
    Marta returned her smile.
    â€œGood news!” Jesse tuned his