Chapter Five

      Charlotte sat at Susanne’s desk, her head resting on her folded arms. The letter to the Iowa School for the Deaf was half written beneath her weary arms.

      With the boys taking a nap, and the clean laundry freezing on the clothesline outside, she had tried to sneak in a moment to write the letter before starting supper. But the lure of sleep had won.

      It had been horrible timing for Abram to leave. The boys didn’t know her, nor did they trust her. Robert refused to eat what she had prepared for breakfast and threw a tantrum, causing George to cry. Nothing she did had soothed either of them.

      Martin had eaten his breakfast without complaining, but when Charlotte had asked him to clear his plate, he refused. She had lost her patience and scolded him, and he’d begun to cry.

      Charlotte had almost thrown her hands up in defeat, but she wouldn’t give in—not now, not when she had come so far and wanted so badly to be a part of their lives.

      Though she and the boys were upset for the remainder of the morning, she had managed to get the beds stripped and the laundry under way before it was time to prepare dinner.

      Caleb, Josiah and Milt had eaten their dinner quickly and then left the house without looking back—and Charlotte didn’t blame them. George had cried through the whole meal.

      Between doing laundry, trying to soothe George, disciplining Martin and communicating with Robert, she had worn herself ragged the rest of the afternoon.

      She sighed and picked up her head. The November sun was already starting to fall toward the western horizon. If she wanted to have supper ready by the time the men came in to eat, she needed to get busy. The letter would have to wait until later.

      Charlotte stood and stretched her aching back. Her hands were chapped and her feet were sore. She walked across the main room and into the kitchen, hoping she wouldn’t wake the boys who were sleeping in the big room above her head. She would fry up salt pork for supper and serve it with pan gravy over boiled potatoes.

      She grabbed several pieces of firewood from the box in the lean-to and began to stoke the fire when a shadow passed by the kitchen window.

      Charlotte glanced over her shoulder and a scream lodged in her throat.

      There, standing at the window, was a tall Indian. His black hair was collected in two long braids running over his shoulders and down his chest. Though he wore a white man’s shirt and hat, he had large hoops in his earlobes and a buckskin jacket over the shirt. He stared back at her without expression, his black eyes like two dark pools of ink.

      Charlotte slowly straightened from the cookstove. She was too far away from the sawmill to call for help and she had no weapons in the house, except a kitchen knife. Her thoughts immediately went to the boys who were asleep upstairs. She prided herself on being prepared in every situation—but right now she felt defenseless.

      The man moved away from the window and toward the lean-to door. She raced to shove the crossbar in place to prevent his entry, but the door was already opening when she entered the lean-to.