One
September 30, 1865
E milie stood in one of her favorite places—Mrs. Brantenberg’s kitchen. Anywhere on the farm was, really. But this airy room, with the big window looking out on the back acres, plenty of cupboards and workspace, and two well-stocked sideboards, made cooking and baking a delight. Even better, today was the day she and PaPa came to the farm to help with the apple harvest. She and her friend Maren were hard at work preparing the feast for those picking in the orchard.
Emilie sprinkled the cinnamon-perfumed topping on the soft apple wedges, then slid her skillet apple crisp into the oven. Brushing a strand of brown hair behind her ear, she looked at Maren, who stood with her hands in the dish tub. “Have you set a date for the wedding?”
“Rutherford and I have spoken with Mrs. Brantenberg about February.” Her blue eyes sparkling at the mere mention of Rutherford’s name, Maren pulled a cook pot into the dishwater.
“That’s only four months away. Will you be ready?”
“I’m ready now.”
“You are?” Surprised by her friend’s tranquil response, Emilie slid a cooled loaf of Mrs. Brantenberg’s honey-wheat bread into a sack. “You don’t want a special dress or cake or feast? Where will you have the ceremony? How many guests? It seems there would be myriad details to look after.”
“I didn’t say everything else was ready.” Pink tinged Maren’s cheeks. “I meant that I’m ready to be Rutherford’s wife.”
“Oh.” A different set of details altogether occupied Maren’s thoughts. Warmth rushed up Emilie’s neck. She obviously had much to learn about that kind of love.
“Now that I’m living in town, I miss seeing him every day. Before I met Rutherford, I wouldn’t have believed it possible to love so deeply.” Drying her hands on her apron, Maren met Emilie’s gaze. “What about you?”
“Me?”
“Yes.” Maren sighed. “You don’t want love in your life?”
“I have love in my life.” Emilie tucked a second loaf of bread into the sack and carried it to the crate. “My father loves me and I love him.”
“A father’s love is not at all the same.”
She didn’t doubt that. But as full as her life was with PaPa, the store, and now college, there was no time or energy left to even entertain the thought of such foolishness. One man in her life was enough to keep her busy. “Maren Jensen, you have become a hopeless romantic.”
“Perhaps. But don’t be too surprised if you discover that romance can be contagious.”
Not for her. Having her father and the store to take care of had made her immune to romantic notions. And that was best.
Maren glanced out the window, and Emilie followed her gaze. Mrs. Brantenberg’s wagon bumped up the road from the orchard.
“I know you’re extra busy with your college classes these days.” Maren added a butter crock to one of the crates. “Is there more I can do for you at the store?”
“It’s been wonderful having you there the past few weeks, almost like having a sister. But soon you and Rutherford will marry, and he’ll want you here on the farm. Not working in town.”
A shadow crossed Maren’s face. “If he decides to stay in Saint Charles.”
“If? I thought—”
“He received a letter from a childhood friend, a Mr. Garrett Cowlishaw, who is coming to lead the caravan of wagons west in the spring.”
“Oh.” Emilie had heard about the caravan, of course, but … “You think Rutherford will want to join him? Take you and Gabi and Mrs. Brantenberg on the trail?”
“He has not said as much, but I would not be surprised.”
“My father and the Rengler brothers were talking about the caravan.” Emilie pulled the cast-iron skillet from the oven, inhaling the sweet scent of baked apples. “He seemed drawn to the idea and asked me what I thought.”
Maren tucked a strand of blond hair into her coiled braid. “I had my fill of traveling, coming from Denmark only four years ago.
September 30, 1865
E milie stood in one of her favorite places—Mrs. Brantenberg’s kitchen. Anywhere on the farm was, really. But this airy room, with the big window looking out on the back acres, plenty of cupboards and workspace, and two well-stocked sideboards, made cooking and baking a delight. Even better, today was the day she and PaPa came to the farm to help with the apple harvest. She and her friend Maren were hard at work preparing the feast for those picking in the orchard.
Emilie sprinkled the cinnamon-perfumed topping on the soft apple wedges, then slid her skillet apple crisp into the oven. Brushing a strand of brown hair behind her ear, she looked at Maren, who stood with her hands in the dish tub. “Have you set a date for the wedding?”
“Rutherford and I have spoken with Mrs. Brantenberg about February.” Her blue eyes sparkling at the mere mention of Rutherford’s name, Maren pulled a cook pot into the dishwater.
“That’s only four months away. Will you be ready?”
“I’m ready now.”
“You are?” Surprised by her friend’s tranquil response, Emilie slid a cooled loaf of Mrs. Brantenberg’s honey-wheat bread into a sack. “You don’t want a special dress or cake or feast? Where will you have the ceremony? How many guests? It seems there would be myriad details to look after.”
“I didn’t say everything else was ready.” Pink tinged Maren’s cheeks. “I meant that I’m ready to be Rutherford’s wife.”
“Oh.” A different set of details altogether occupied Maren’s thoughts. Warmth rushed up Emilie’s neck. She obviously had much to learn about that kind of love.
“Now that I’m living in town, I miss seeing him every day. Before I met Rutherford, I wouldn’t have believed it possible to love so deeply.” Drying her hands on her apron, Maren met Emilie’s gaze. “What about you?”
“Me?”
“Yes.” Maren sighed. “You don’t want love in your life?”
“I have love in my life.” Emilie tucked a second loaf of bread into the sack and carried it to the crate. “My father loves me and I love him.”
“A father’s love is not at all the same.”
She didn’t doubt that. But as full as her life was with PaPa, the store, and now college, there was no time or energy left to even entertain the thought of such foolishness. One man in her life was enough to keep her busy. “Maren Jensen, you have become a hopeless romantic.”
“Perhaps. But don’t be too surprised if you discover that romance can be contagious.”
Not for her. Having her father and the store to take care of had made her immune to romantic notions. And that was best.
Maren glanced out the window, and Emilie followed her gaze. Mrs. Brantenberg’s wagon bumped up the road from the orchard.
“I know you’re extra busy with your college classes these days.” Maren added a butter crock to one of the crates. “Is there more I can do for you at the store?”
“It’s been wonderful having you there the past few weeks, almost like having a sister. But soon you and Rutherford will marry, and he’ll want you here on the farm. Not working in town.”
A shadow crossed Maren’s face. “If he decides to stay in Saint Charles.”
“If? I thought—”
“He received a letter from a childhood friend, a Mr. Garrett Cowlishaw, who is coming to lead the caravan of wagons west in the spring.”
“Oh.” Emilie had heard about the caravan, of course, but … “You think Rutherford will want to join him? Take you and Gabi and Mrs. Brantenberg on the trail?”
“He has not said as much, but I would not be surprised.”
“My father and the Rengler brothers were talking about the caravan.” Emilie pulled the cast-iron skillet from the oven, inhaling the sweet scent of baked apples. “He seemed drawn to the idea and asked me what I thought.”
Maren tucked a strand of blond hair into her coiled braid. “I had my fill of traveling, coming from Denmark only four years ago.
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