Read Online Waiting for Summer's Return by Kim Vogel Sawyer - Free Book Online
Authors: Kim Vogel Sawyer
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each name came a vivid mental picture. She closed her eyes, savoring the images, crushing the paper to her chest. For long seconds she allowed herself to imagine that she held her children next to her heart rather than only their names printed on parchment.
With a deep sigh, she set the paper on the little crate beside the bed. She crossed to the chest to bring out blankets, pleased Mr. Ollenburger had left the trunk for her use. Although she didn’t have much to store—only her remaining two dresses, her coat, reticule, and nightgown—at least she could keep those items dry and clean in the trunk.
She turned, arms laden, to make her bed. She stood still for a moment, examining the crude yet sturdy construction. Thinking back on the day and all Thomas had shown her—the log barn, animal pens built of neatly trimmed saplings, the towering gristmill—it seemed clear Mr. Ollenburger was a man who could fix things. Her foolish heart had come close to asking him to pray for her when he’d walked her to the shariah this evening. Perhaps his prayers would be strong enough to fix her broken heart. Her own were to no avail.
With a sagging spirit, she put her bed in order and blew out the lamp, sealing herself in a mournful, murky gray. She slipped between the covers and pulled the rough blanket clear to her chin. After a few moments, her eyes adjusted to the dismal gloom, and she stared at the rough beams overhead, her mind picturing the flower-sprigged paper that covered the ceiling of her bedroom in Boston.
Boston … If only she hadn’t found that newspaper article. If only she hadn’t shown it to Rodney. Rarely had she gotten her way with Rodney, but this time she had been persuasive.
“Think of it, Rodney—working side-by-side under the sun, building our house and plowing our fields, depending on no one but each other. How adventurous it would be! Can you not imagine it?”
Her words came back to haunt her, bringing with them another fierce stab of pain. Why couldn’t she have been satisfied to remain in Boston? Why couldn’t she have simply tolerated the distant affection offered by her husband? Why had she thought she needed more of his time and attention?
When her parents died, her brother had taken her in with reluctance. His wife had said boarding school would be beneficial, and off she was sent. When she reached a marriageable age, her brother and his wife had introduced Rodney to her and indicated it would be in her best interests to become his wife. Rodney had chosen their neighborhood, their home, and most of their furnishings—things befitting the son of bank owner Horace Steadman. Rodney had said they would start their family immediately, and they had, bringing into the world four wonderful children in the space of eight years.
Summer resented that so many decisions had been made for her. Never had her life been her own. Not until she found the article and convinced Rodney to go along with her scheme of beginning life anew in the lands of Oklahoma. She remembered the joy of moving through their spacious home, selecting which items they should sell and which they should take to pack into the wagon they would purchase in Missouri. Rodney often scowled, but he allowed her to have her way for the first time in their marriage.
They had argued fiercely over the box of books. Books are heavy, Rodney had insisted; books are necessary, she had countered. She had been told the frontier lacked reading material, and she would not allow her children to grow up uneducated. Finally Vincent’s pleas convinced Rodney to allow the crate. How her heart had leaped with satisfaction as the train to Missouri had pulled out of Boston. A new life of her own choosing!
The bitter taste of regret was like bile on her tongue. Look what her choices had brought her—no husband, no children, no belongings, no home. Her eyes flitted around the room, another of her choices. A windowless hovel with a dirt floor and a bed made of
With a deep sigh, she set the paper on the little crate beside the bed. She crossed to the chest to bring out blankets, pleased Mr. Ollenburger had left the trunk for her use. Although she didn’t have much to store—only her remaining two dresses, her coat, reticule, and nightgown—at least she could keep those items dry and clean in the trunk.
She turned, arms laden, to make her bed. She stood still for a moment, examining the crude yet sturdy construction. Thinking back on the day and all Thomas had shown her—the log barn, animal pens built of neatly trimmed saplings, the towering gristmill—it seemed clear Mr. Ollenburger was a man who could fix things. Her foolish heart had come close to asking him to pray for her when he’d walked her to the shariah this evening. Perhaps his prayers would be strong enough to fix her broken heart. Her own were to no avail.
With a sagging spirit, she put her bed in order and blew out the lamp, sealing herself in a mournful, murky gray. She slipped between the covers and pulled the rough blanket clear to her chin. After a few moments, her eyes adjusted to the dismal gloom, and she stared at the rough beams overhead, her mind picturing the flower-sprigged paper that covered the ceiling of her bedroom in Boston.
Boston … If only she hadn’t found that newspaper article. If only she hadn’t shown it to Rodney. Rarely had she gotten her way with Rodney, but this time she had been persuasive.
“Think of it, Rodney—working side-by-side under the sun, building our house and plowing our fields, depending on no one but each other. How adventurous it would be! Can you not imagine it?”
Her words came back to haunt her, bringing with them another fierce stab of pain. Why couldn’t she have been satisfied to remain in Boston? Why couldn’t she have simply tolerated the distant affection offered by her husband? Why had she thought she needed more of his time and attention?
When her parents died, her brother had taken her in with reluctance. His wife had said boarding school would be beneficial, and off she was sent. When she reached a marriageable age, her brother and his wife had introduced Rodney to her and indicated it would be in her best interests to become his wife. Rodney had chosen their neighborhood, their home, and most of their furnishings—things befitting the son of bank owner Horace Steadman. Rodney had said they would start their family immediately, and they had, bringing into the world four wonderful children in the space of eight years.
Summer resented that so many decisions had been made for her. Never had her life been her own. Not until she found the article and convinced Rodney to go along with her scheme of beginning life anew in the lands of Oklahoma. She remembered the joy of moving through their spacious home, selecting which items they should sell and which they should take to pack into the wagon they would purchase in Missouri. Rodney often scowled, but he allowed her to have her way for the first time in their marriage.
They had argued fiercely over the box of books. Books are heavy, Rodney had insisted; books are necessary, she had countered. She had been told the frontier lacked reading material, and she would not allow her children to grow up uneducated. Finally Vincent’s pleas convinced Rodney to allow the crate. How her heart had leaped with satisfaction as the train to Missouri had pulled out of Boston. A new life of her own choosing!
The bitter taste of regret was like bile on her tongue. Look what her choices had brought her—no husband, no children, no belongings, no home. Her eyes flitted around the room, another of her choices. A windowless hovel with a dirt floor and a bed made of
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