Dakota December and Dakota Destiny by Lauraine Snelling

Author:Lauraine Snelling
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: North Dakota, Christmas Eve, Norwegian, World War I, Victory Day, Tuesday, November 11, 1918, Soldahl, North Dakota, Johanna Carlson, Caleb Stenesrude, Private First Class Willard Dunfey, Pastor Moen, Mary Moen, missing in action, Christian Historical Fiction, Christian Fiction
Publisher: eChristian, Inc.
Published: 2012-08-10T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 16

“What do you mean you don’t want to see me anymore?”

“Just that.” Johanna twisted her hands in knots.

Caleb stared at her, his heart about to leap from his chest. Had he misread all the signs? Surely he wouldn’t feel this way if he hadn’t felt she did too. All these years, he’d never even escorted anyone to church, or the socials or . . .

He slammed his fist against the doorjamb. Johanna jumped as if she’d been shot.

“I’m sorry, that was uncalled for.” He stared at her, trying to read what was behind her face and in her heart.

She refused to meet his eyes.

“Johanna, I can’t believe you are talking like this.” He wanted to take her hands, enfold her in his arms, protect her from whatever monster was hiding inside.

“I’m sorry, Caleb, that’s just the way it has to be.” Her voice sounded lost.

Caleb looked around the shop, as if hoping a message might jump at him from the walls or the piles of material. The night before he had not pressed her for an answer. He’d just hightailed it off her porch as if his tail were on fire. Now as he glanced over at the curtained doorway to her workroom he could see Henry peeking through the crack. What a fool he had been. He knew loud voices scared the daylights out of the child and more than once he’d seen Johanna hide within herself when a man raised his voice. And here he’d done both.

“Good-bye, Caleb.” She turned and, shoulders squared beneath her dark dress, pushed through the curtain.

He could hear her comforting Henry in a gentle voice.

Caleb crammed his hat back on his head and gave the door a satisfying slam. Halfway to the street, he turned right and headed west to the main part of town, his boots kicking up slush in his long strides. For his own benefit he recited in his head a litany of names that applied to one Caleb Stenesrude.

“Good morning, Sheriff,” someone called.

He heard but pounded on. He could feel curious eyes drilling into his back but his stride never shortened. By the time he’d reached the Erickson’s driveway, his chest pumped like a bellows and sweat slimed his hat band. He’d covered over three miles.

The sun beat down on his shoulders yet he could feel the ice creeping over his heart. “Dear God, why?” He looked toward the heavens. “Why?” This time a dog barked, the sound carrying over a still-snowbound prairie.

“I prayed over this, thought I was doing what You wanted.” He wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand and unbuttoned his sheepskin jacket. Between the sun and the hard walk he no longer needed that. He shook his head and snorted. “No fool like an old fool.” He turned around and started back. The way he had stormed around, probably half the town was talking about him now.

When he reached the wrought-iron fence surrounding the Norgaard mansion—no one called it the Weinlander house even though all knew Dag owned it now—he paused.

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