Dakota Dusk by Lauraine Snelling Page B

“Not if you don’t want to, you don’t.”
    Jude pulled at the collar of his shirt. “It’s been awhile since I told anyone—in fact, I never have.” Why do you want to do this? his mind cautioned. What is there about this woman that invites you to tell all? He looked across the table into the most compassionate eyes he’d ever seen.
    “You don’t need to do this.”
    “Ja, I guess I do.” He took a deep breath and began. “I been a no-good all my life, deviling my older brother and making life miserable for my wife and mother. But I can’t make my wife and my mother sad anymore because they are dead and it’s all my fault.” He continued with his story without a break. “And now you know. So if you want me to leave, I’ll understand.”
    “Do you play an instrument?”
    The question surprised him. “What?”
    “I asked if you played an instrument.”
    “I know what you said. I heard you.” He stared at the woman across the table. Her smile warmed him clear down to his ankles. He shook his head, feeling a laugh starting down in his middle. “Yes, I play, if you call a mouth organ an instrument.”
    “Good. That means we’ll have nearly an orchestra right here. Miss Stenesrude plays the organ and piano, Mrs. Knutson the fiddle, and I do a fair-to-middlin’ job on the gutbucket . . . banjo some, too. I think we’ll have some real high times, come winter.” She pushed herself to her feet. “More coffee?”
    Jude shook his head. “No, thanks.” He stared at the woman who had just given him his life back. “Is that all you have to say?”
    She poured her coffee and turned to look at him. “No. There’ll be no smoking or drinking or playing cards in my house!” Then her eyebrows raised in question.
    “Of course not.”
    “And it’s high time you understand that God forgives us when we ask . . . and even before. You need to plug into that. Breakfast is at seven, earlier if you need, I make your dinner bucket, and supper is served at six o’clock sharp. You needn’t worry that I’ll tell tales on you. Your life is safe with me.” She walked over to the sink and set her cup into the dishpan. “I’ll show you to your room.” She picked up the kerosene lamp and led the way up the stairs.
    Rebekka heard them come up the stairs. What on earth had they been talking about all this while? She turned over and thumped her pillow. She missed sitting in the kitchen discussing the day with Widow Sampson. Why had he come along and ruined everything? Now this house that had felt like home felt more like just a place to live.

Chapter 7
    Everywhere Rebekka went, Jude was there.
    “Howdy, Miss Stenesrude,” said Johnny J., her oldest pupil, as he waved at her from his painting ladder when she approached the school on Monday morning. “Sure is looking good, wouldn’t you say?”
    “I certainly would.” Rebekka stopped to admire the sparkling white paint. “You’re doing a fine job.” She opened the door to find Jude nailing up the thin boards and the chicken wire for the plasterers who were coming next. “Mr. Weinlander,” she said as she tipped her head in acknowledgment.
    “Miss Stenesrude.” Jude continued nailing, the hammer ringing in perfect rhythm.
    Now he was here, ruining her joy in the new building. How could anyone else be happy when he stared out at them with such sad eyes? She slanted a peek in his direction. There was no indication he cared whether she was in the room or not; he just continued with his work.
    Rebekka paced the room, picturing the blackboards for the wall, where her desk would go, and if she would change the configuration of the children’s desks. She’d seen a school building with movable desks, and since the school was also used as the town’s meeting hall, theater, and dance hall, movable desks would be a decided advantage.
    She took a paper and pencil from her bag and began a list of supplies, including the changes she would like to make. But where