stopped crying and was beginning to catalog all his favorite foods when the wagon rolled to a stop. Rosie looked up to find Seth setting the brake and climbing down from the bench. In the distance, a blond giant of a man waved from his plow.
“Rustemeyer!” Seth called. “Good morning.”
“ Guten Morgen , Hunter! How you are?”
“Pretty good, and you? We’ve just come from Rippeto’s.”
“Ja , Rippeto . Sehr gut.”
Curious, Rosie slipped down to the ground and started after Seth across the newly tilled field. Rolf Rustemeyer was no taller than Seth, but he had been built like a granite bluff. His thighs looked like two tree trunks. His hands, great slabs of ham, gripped the wooden plow handles. His hair hung to his shoulders in thick golden waves. When he smiled, his grin spread from ear to ear.
“Ah, Hunter, You have Frau ! Vife, ja? ”
Seth swung around. Seeing Rosie behind him, his eyes darkened. “Wife? No. She’s going to work for me. Work.”
“ Sehr schön! Beautiful, ja? Pretty.”
Rosie stopped. She stared up at the hulk of a man, her heart pounding. Unmarried. Hardworking. Friendly. And he thought she was beautiful. Had she just met her future husband?
“Name?” he asked. When Rosie said nothing, he placed a hand on the rock slab of his chest. “Ich bin Rolf Rustemeyer .”
“I’m Rosie,” she said. “Rosenbloom Cot … uh …”
“Rose Mills,” Seth finished when she faltered. “She’s come to look after my boy. Clean a little. Cook.”
“ Ah , die Köchin!” Rolf rattled off a long string of unintelligible words as he gestured toward his land and the ramshackle dugout in the distance. Then he finished with a grand smile. “Ja?”
“I don’t know what you said!” Seth shouted, as though talking louder might somehow make Rolf understand. “I … want … to … build … a … bridge! Will … you … help … me?”
Rolf frowned. “Helfen?”
“What?”
“Ach!” He turned to Rosie. “Sprechen Sie Deutsch , Fräulein Mills ?”
“A bridge,” she said. “Over water. Bridge.”
“ Britsch? Über dem Wasser?”
Rosie looked at Seth. He looked at her. “This puts me in mind of the time Tommy Warburton came to live at the Home,” she said. “He was as deaf as a fence post, poor little fellow. We had to draw pictures and point to things just to try to make him understand.” She paused. “Look here, Mr. Rustemeyer. A bridge.”
Hiking up her skirt a little, Rosie knelt to the ground. She drew her fingers through the soft, rich dirt. “This is the creek. The water.”
“Das Wasser?” Rolf asked.
“Das Wasser.” She set a pebble by the stream. “This is you, Mr. Rustemeyer. And this pebble is Mr. Hunter. Over here across the Wasser is O’Toole. Ja? ”
“ Ja! Bluestem!” He was grinning like a coyote that had just gotten into the chicken coop. “Ja, ja, ja!”
Rosie picked up a stick and broke it in half. Then she laid it across the line she had drawn. “Bridge. To go across, see? Across the Wasser .”
“Eine Brücke!”
“Ja!” Rosie said. “Eine Brücke!”
“Sehr gut!” Then Rustemeyer rattled off another string of German that seemed to indicate he understood the idea very well. And he liked it.
Rosie glanced at Seth. “What’s he saying?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
She studied the big German. “Come to Mr. Hunter’s house. Tomorrow. Build the Brücke .” “Am Morgen früh? Ich kann nicht. Ich habe eine Kuh die krank ist.”
“I don’t know if he’ll come,” Rosie said.
“I’d say it’s doubtful.”
She shrugged her shoulders and turned back toward the wagon. Suddenly from behind, Rolf Rustemeyer grabbed her arm and swung her around. Rosie clapped a hand over her mouth, her breath in her throat.
“Fräulein very pretty!” he said, falling to the ground on one knee and sweeping his frayed straw hat from his head. “Beautiful.”
Before Rosie could suck air into her lungs, Rolf Rustemeyer planted
“Rustemeyer!” Seth called. “Good morning.”
“ Guten Morgen , Hunter! How you are?”
“Pretty good, and you? We’ve just come from Rippeto’s.”
“Ja , Rippeto . Sehr gut.”
Curious, Rosie slipped down to the ground and started after Seth across the newly tilled field. Rolf Rustemeyer was no taller than Seth, but he had been built like a granite bluff. His thighs looked like two tree trunks. His hands, great slabs of ham, gripped the wooden plow handles. His hair hung to his shoulders in thick golden waves. When he smiled, his grin spread from ear to ear.
“Ah, Hunter, You have Frau ! Vife, ja? ”
Seth swung around. Seeing Rosie behind him, his eyes darkened. “Wife? No. She’s going to work for me. Work.”
“ Sehr schön! Beautiful, ja? Pretty.”
Rosie stopped. She stared up at the hulk of a man, her heart pounding. Unmarried. Hardworking. Friendly. And he thought she was beautiful. Had she just met her future husband?
“Name?” he asked. When Rosie said nothing, he placed a hand on the rock slab of his chest. “Ich bin Rolf Rustemeyer .”
“I’m Rosie,” she said. “Rosenbloom Cot … uh …”
“Rose Mills,” Seth finished when she faltered. “She’s come to look after my boy. Clean a little. Cook.”
“ Ah , die Köchin!” Rolf rattled off a long string of unintelligible words as he gestured toward his land and the ramshackle dugout in the distance. Then he finished with a grand smile. “Ja?”
“I don’t know what you said!” Seth shouted, as though talking louder might somehow make Rolf understand. “I … want … to … build … a … bridge! Will … you … help … me?”
Rolf frowned. “Helfen?”
“What?”
“Ach!” He turned to Rosie. “Sprechen Sie Deutsch , Fräulein Mills ?”
“A bridge,” she said. “Over water. Bridge.”
“ Britsch? Über dem Wasser?”
Rosie looked at Seth. He looked at her. “This puts me in mind of the time Tommy Warburton came to live at the Home,” she said. “He was as deaf as a fence post, poor little fellow. We had to draw pictures and point to things just to try to make him understand.” She paused. “Look here, Mr. Rustemeyer. A bridge.”
Hiking up her skirt a little, Rosie knelt to the ground. She drew her fingers through the soft, rich dirt. “This is the creek. The water.”
“Das Wasser?” Rolf asked.
“Das Wasser.” She set a pebble by the stream. “This is you, Mr. Rustemeyer. And this pebble is Mr. Hunter. Over here across the Wasser is O’Toole. Ja? ”
“ Ja! Bluestem!” He was grinning like a coyote that had just gotten into the chicken coop. “Ja, ja, ja!”
Rosie picked up a stick and broke it in half. Then she laid it across the line she had drawn. “Bridge. To go across, see? Across the Wasser .”
“Eine Brücke!”
“Ja!” Rosie said. “Eine Brücke!”
“Sehr gut!” Then Rustemeyer rattled off another string of German that seemed to indicate he understood the idea very well. And he liked it.
Rosie glanced at Seth. “What’s he saying?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
She studied the big German. “Come to Mr. Hunter’s house. Tomorrow. Build the Brücke .” “Am Morgen früh? Ich kann nicht. Ich habe eine Kuh die krank ist.”
“I don’t know if he’ll come,” Rosie said.
“I’d say it’s doubtful.”
She shrugged her shoulders and turned back toward the wagon. Suddenly from behind, Rolf Rustemeyer grabbed her arm and swung her around. Rosie clapped a hand over her mouth, her breath in her throat.
“Fräulein very pretty!” he said, falling to the ground on one knee and sweeping his frayed straw hat from his head. “Beautiful.”
Before Rosie could suck air into her lungs, Rolf Rustemeyer planted
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