A Noble Groom (Michigan Brides #2)(44)

There was no sense in dreaming of anything else. Her life had always been ordered by one man or another, and that was just the way of it.

For her, fairy tales would have to stay just that—fairy tales.





Chapter

9





Carl pressed his back against the tree and tried not to move.

Uri sat next to him and didn’t even blink.

The thicket was overgrown, and in early May tiny buds were finally beginning to make an appearance. Even with the foliage to camouflage them, Carl had learned the turkeys had keen vision and that even the slightest movement would spook them.

“Is he coming?” Carl whispered, peering through the woods for the gobbler Uri had called.

Uri gave him a dark glare for his transgression. Talking wasn’t allowed either.

Carl had to suppress a grin. The boy took the spring turkey hunting way too seriously. In fact, the boy took everything much too seriously.

The sunshine breaking through the overhead canopy of branches touched Carl’s head with warmth. With the vivid green coming to life around him, and the crispness of the air, he could almost find satisfaction in his situation. Almost.



Particularly because the spring sowing was nearly done.

He’d spent the past two weeks harrowing the land with a heavy sharp-toothed wooden frame, dragging it across the plowed land, attempting to break up the larger clumps of earth. And when he’d finished the harrowing, he’d slung a heavy bag of seeds over his shoulder and walked the fields, scattering seeds by hand. Then he’d had Old Red drag a wide branch across the ground to spread earth over the seeds.

He’d also planted fifteen hills of cabbage and twenty hills of potatoes, something that had taken great effort as he’d had to work around the stumps. He still needed to plant the corn. But Uri had told him that they would wait until the danger of hard frost had passed, which was still a fortnight away.

In the meantime, Uri had agreed to let him try turkey hunting. With the hens already on their nests, the gobblers weren’t needed anymore. They could take them without harming the turkey population.

Carl could only smile once again at the image of himself sitting in the woods, making ridiculous yelps, clucks, whines, and purrs that were supposed to lure the gobblers within shooting range. What would his father think of him now if he could see him? That he’d gone crazy?

What about Matthias? Perhaps his old servant would regret sending him to America if he could only see the depths to which Carl had sunk.

Uri made another loud call, a boxy cluck that came deep from his diaphragm. At least Uri’s calls actually imitated a female turkey. Carl decided his sounded more like a sick cow.

After a moment of silence, the gobbler returned the call. In the distant shrubs the bird’s head popped up, and he strutted toward them.

Over the past several days, Uri had killed four, while Carl had only managed to bring down two. So they’d agreed he could shoot the next bird.

Carl waited, losing all the humor he’d found in the moment. It was time for him to get serious and shoot the turkey. He had to concentrate and do everything just right. One little mistake and their hours of waiting would amount to naught.

The turkey stepped behind a tree. Carl used that moment to shift the barrel resting on his knee and adjust the stock against his shoulder. As the turkey reappeared, Carl aimed at the neck and waited until the gobbler strutted and extended his head. Then he pulled the trigger.

The bang was quickly followed by the turkey dropping with a jerk. Carl jumped up with the same excitement that coursed through him with each success. It wasn’t that he was fond of killing animals, and if he’d been back home, he would have left the task of hunting and butchering to the servants just as he’d always done.

Servants. Would he ever have servants again? His stomach rumbled at the thought of the feasts he’d once taken for granted. Now look at him. He glanced down at his dirty hands. He had to scrounge for his food like a beggar or go hungry.

With slow, heavy footsteps, he started after Uri toward the turkey. He hadn’t expected to stay so long—nearly six weeks. He’d hoped to hear from Fritz Diehl by now. But he hadn’t received any correspondence from his classmate.

Perhaps he needed to come up with another plan, another place to go. As much as he’d enjoyed tinkering with Annalisa’s fences and farm equipment, he was ready to move on, to get back to work on some of the projects and inventions he’d been developing for years.

Carl knew he had to leave, even if Dirk didn’t come. He had more important, more noble things to accomplish than farming. Didn’t he? He couldn’t stay indefinitely.



No, he’d only stay until after he helped plant Annalisa’s corn.

A few days ago, after her return from town, he’d seen her sneak the coins she’d earned from her eggs and butter into a crock under her bed. She’d obviously felt the need to hide her savings. He guessed whatever she had was meager at best, and now he wanted to help her earn more before he left. He’d even resort to ridiculous displays of imitating turkeys if it would aid her efforts to save money.

“Thank you, Uri.” He clamped the boy on the shoulder after they’d gathered the turkey and reached the edge of the river. “We’ll ride into town together tomorrow and see if we can sell our turkeys.”

“I’d give you all the birds to sell for Annalisa if I could.” Uri’s young features were earnest and so much like Annalisa’s. “But if I don’t bring home a profit from the birds, Mutter won’t let me hunt. She’ll find something else for me to do that will earn money.”