A Noble Groom (Michigan Brides #2)(33)

Idette’s eyes pooled with tears, as if she was wondering the same thing—wondering what had become of the life she’d once known.

“Ach, liebchen.” Annalisa stretched out trembling fingers to her sister, wanting to comfort her but not knowing how.

Idette swiped at her eyes and gave a curt shake of her head. “I must go now.”

Before Annalisa could stop her or say anything more, Idette flicked the reins and the team lurched forward. At the same time she pulled her scarf back over her face as if somehow she could make the bruises disappear.

A gust of wind lashed at Annalisa. She hugged her arms across her chest to ward off a chill, but the shivers came anyway.

“Her husband is the worst kind of riffraff,” Carl said.

She nodded in silent agreement. Hans had been calloused, uncaring, and had treated her no better than one of his beasts. He’d never considered her needs. He’d wasted their money and had cared nothing for the daughter he’d fathered. And no matter how hard Annalisa had tried to be a good wife, he’d never loved her in return. He’d never shown her any affection.



But he’d never beaten her. She could give him credit for that.

If only she didn’t have to get married again . . .

The chill seeped deeper, making her insides quake.

Her groom would arrive soon—maybe in a fortnight or a month. What if he was like Leonard? What if he was worse? How could she bear it?

She straightened her shoulders and set her lips firmly together. She would bear it as she always had. And eventually Idette would learn to bear her burden too.

They always did.





Chapter

7





Guilt gnawed at Carl’s stomach.

He’d always been an honest man. And living a lie—hiding his true identity—was beginning to kill him.

At least he wanted to believe the deception was making him weak—not the fact that even after two weeks of plowing and harrowing, he was still the feeble, wobbly-kneed nobleman he’d always been.

“Hold up,” he called to the horses as he lowered himself onto a stump, his bones creaking like a rusty crank. His body ached in parts he hadn’t known existed. “After a full day’s work, I’m surprised the two of you aren’t ready to fall over.”

Old Red swished his tail and cast Carl a sympathetic glance—or so he wanted to believe. The horse understood his pain and weariness. Because certainly nobody else did.

Everyone else could work from before sunup until the darkness of night and not seem to be the least affected by the long day of labor. Whereas he could hardly plod back to the cabin for the supper Annalisa fed him every evening. Then he’d stumble back to the Bernthals’ barn, throw himself in the hay, and sleep until Uri nudged him awake again the next morning.

He was sunburned, his hands still blistered and raw, and he was filthy beyond recognition.

“I don’t know how I can withstand much more of this, Lord,” he said aloud. At least in the fields he could pray without anyone hearing his complaints. “I think I’ve taken on much more than I bargained for.”

After the last Sunday service at the Lutheran church outside of Forestville, Pastor Loehe had graciously given him paper and pen, and he’d finally been able to write a letter to Fritz Diehl in Chicago inquiring about more suitable work options. Pastor Loehe had offered to post the letter, although Carl was sure the pastor wouldn’t have been so eager to help had he known Carl’s intention of leaving.

And yet, he reasoned, if they knew who he really was, they’d send him away as fast as they could.

He was doing the right thing in making plans to move on. He wasn’t meant for the life of a common laborer. He was destined for greater accomplishments, for better things, for the noble life to which he’d been born.

The coolness of the evening air soothed Carl’s hot face. The strong earthiness of the freshly turned soil lingered in his nostrils and under his dirt-encrusted fingernails. Above him, the sky was streaked with the leftover traces of the sun that blessedly signaled the end of his workday.

He glanced at the cornfield where he’d left the plow and to the acre after acre of rich soil he’d tilled. As hard as the work had been, his chest swelled with pride at the satisfaction of a job well done. “I have to admit, Lord. I never would have imagined when you saved my head from the guillotine that I’d be working myself to death here in America.”



Old Red snorted and stamped the ground.

“Yes, I know your stomachs are growling.” Carl pushed himself up from the stump, his back hunched, his knees bowed like those of an old man. Slowly he straightened, stretching each aching muscle. “I’m famished too.”

He gazed at the hovel of a cabin, where Annalisa would have a simple meal waiting for him after he tended to the animals—which he was finally learning to do. His heart gave a thump of anticipation at the thought of stealing glances at her as he ate and played with Gretchen.

Annalisa would try not to look at him, but every once in a while, if he got lucky, he’d catch her stealing a glance at him too.

He grinned at the picture of her ducking her face away, acting as if she wasn’t paying attention to him.

But at the sight of a strange horse tied outside the cabin, his grin faded.

Who could possibly be visiting this late in the day? And how had he missed the sound of the visitor’s arrival?