Threads of Hope

by Andrea Boeshaar

  “Cinnamon and sugar.” Kristin blinked and looked toward the kitchen. “Coming, Mary.” With one last glance at Sam, she sidestepped.

  His one arm caught her around the waist. “Kristin?” He needed to ask, as ridiculous as it might seem. “Did you ever kiss Peder Olstad?”

  “Never.” Her gaze met Sam’s. “Oh, he tried to steal kisses when we were children, but I was always stronger than he.” A smile tugged at her mouth. “I think I still am stronger.” She fingered her bruised jaw. “Peder caught me off guard last Sunday.”

  “Careful so it does not happen again.”

  “No, it will not!” Determination was etched on her every feature before she turned on her heel.

  A chortle simmered inside of Sam as he watched her making her way to the kitchen. Maybe he wouldn’t leave quite yet. Ma had been right. He ought to have a hearty breakfast to see him off.

  Kristin pushed the supper around on the plate with her fork. Sam had been gone only three days, and already she missed him greatly. When she’d gathered vegetables Friday and again yesterday for their noon dinner, she’d looked off into the distant 194 fields and expected to see him. But he wasn’t there. At church this morning there was extra room in the pew, and now, at the dining room table as they ate repast, Sam’s chair sat vacant beside Jackson. Kristin wondered what he was doing. Had he arrived in Madison safely? Funny to think that it had only been a week ago that she’d enjoyed a buggy ride with him and dinner at the Smiths’ house. That sunny autumn afternoon felt like years ago.

  Kristin glanced at Mrs. Sundberg’s empty place at the table. The woman had taken to her bed right after Sam left on Thursday. The entire family seemed solemn in her and Sam’s absence. Mr. Sundberg began to talk in English, so Kristin didn’t know what he said. If she tried hard enough, she might be able to figure it out. However, she felt too weary. Caring for Mrs. Sundberg and overseeing the children, plus keeping up with the housework, had become overwhelming. Still, Mary insisted that every day, after school, Kristin practice the English words that Mary wrote on her black slate. Kristin indulged the child while she prepared supper each evening.

  Sy Sew

  Kjole Dress

  Sko Shoe

  Vannkoker Kettle

  Komfyr Stove

  Cook Cook

  Jeg vet ikke I don’t know

  Kan Jeg få litt hjelp? May I have some assistance?

  Norwegian wasn’t so different from English. Kristin had been practicing the words and simple phrases on her own while she knitted in the sitting room after everyone retired at night. Beginning tomorrow, Mary planned to give her a brand-new list of words and easy phrases.

  Kristin smiled inwardly. Mary will make a fine and determined teacher …

  “Kristin?”

  She shook herself and glanced at the subject of her thoughts who sat beside her. “Ja, Mary?”

  The girl reverted to Norwegian. “Pa made mention of the fact that Mr. Olstad, the younger one, was not in church today. And there does not seem to be any man in our congregation who departed for the California Territory.”

  So Peder lied. Kristin raised her shoulders in a helpless gesture. “All I know is what Peder told me a couple of weeks ago before fighting with Jackson.” She glanced at Mr. Sundberg.

  “Apparently Lars’s lying nature rubbed off on your … venn.”

  “Peder is not my friend—or anything else for that matter.”

  Mr. Sundberg’s features came together in a simmering frown. “There are children present at this table!”

  “And so they too can hear the truth from my own lips.”

  “Pa, let her be.” Jack sent an annoyed glance at his father. “Everyone knows she likes Sam.”

  Kristin felt her cheeks growing pink. However, they would never match the purplish red on Mr. Sundberg’s countenance.

  Many moments of silence ticked by. Once more Kristin pushed the food on her plate around, suddenly unable to eat.

  Mr. Sundberg spoke once more. “After service this morning Ole Larson told me he spotted Peder Olstad entering one of the taverns on Friday night. It appears, Miss Eikaas, that your friend is drinking away the money you gave him. Quite the waste.”

  Jack and Mary grew wide-eyed, and Kristin masked her indignation. She wasn’t about to spout off to Mr. Sundberg again and threaten her position. What’s more, she refused to set a poor example for the children. As far as Mr. Sundberg knowing about the money she gave Peder, Sam told her that he explained last week’s misunderstanding to his parents. Mrs. Sundberg, like Sam, believed her. Mr. Sundberg, judging from his behavior, did not.

  “In all due respect, Mr. Sundberg, what Peder does with his funds is and always has been, his choice.” Kristin laced kindness around each word, although news of Peder’s behavior stung. She had thought better of him. She believed he wanted a chance at a new life. “All I can say is my conscience is free and clear. I did what I could to help my best friend’s brother and father. What happens next is neither my concern nor my responsibility.”

  Mr. Sundberg didn’t reply but took a bite of his meal of meatballs, potatoes, and gravy.

  “Who cares what that onde mannen says or does?” Jackson asked in between mouthfuls.

  Peder? An evil man? Sadness pervaded Kristin’s being. Before arriving in Brown County, Kristin would have never guessed Peder would be thought of in such terms.

  Excusing herself from the table, she carried her plate to the kitchen. She wanted to buckle under the weight of animosity in this home, which had grown tenfold since Sam left. Instead, she pushed back her shoulders and set her jaw. She had a job to do here, which included running upstairs and checking on Mrs. Sundberg.

  Taking to the steps, she reached the bedroom. She knocked then waited for a reply before opening the door. Even in the drapery-darkened quarters, Kristin saw the woman had eaten only a bite of one meatball.

  “Mrs. Sundberg?”

  The woman’s eyelids fluttered open and she put her hands on either side of the wooden tray, as if realizing it still balanced on the tops of her legs. “Kristin.” She sighed. “I must have dozed off again. You prepared a tasty meal.”

  “How do you know? You barely touched it.” Gathering her skirt, Kristin carefully sat on the edge of the bed. “Take a few more bites.”

  “I cannot. I am too tired.”

  She ignored the protest and forked a small piece of potato into Mrs. Sundberg’s mouth.

  “Mmm … I so enjoy potatoes from our garden.”

  “I do as well. What makes them grow so well?”

  She lifted one shoulder. “Fertile soil.” She took a deep breath. “I scrape uneaten vegetables, egg shells, potato peels, old coffee grounds, and such, into the wooden barrel beside the barn. Every so often, I add more dirt. But no meat or bread goes into the mix. When the barrel is full, Karl brings me another, and I fill that one up too. Come springtime, he rolls those barrels onto the fields and spreads their contents over the soil before Sam plows. Afterward seeds are planted.” She smiled. “You can see for yourself that our harvest is bountiful.”

  “I should say so.”

  “My people use that method of fertilization too.”

  “There is proof it is effective.” Kristin forked another bite of gravy-slathered potato into Mrs. Sundberg’s mouth. When no further protests came, she fed Mrs. Sundberg a third bite of food—a part of a meatball this time.

  “Mmm … the taste of onion in the meat … delicious.”

  “Good.” Kristin fed her another little piece.

  “That is all.” Mrs. Sundberg turned her face away. “I cannot eat another bite.”

  “Very well.” Kristin lifted the tray and stepped toward the door. But the heaviness in her heart compelled her to retreat to Mrs. Sundberg’s bedside. Setting the tray on a nearby table, she sat down once more. “I don’t like to see you in such a state.”

  “I will be better soon. My condition waxes and wanes.”

  “I pray it wanes soo
n.”

  Mrs. Sundberg gazed at her and smiled. “Thank you, dear heart. It is good to have you here to help me.”

  A spirit of doubt clouded her thinking. “I do not believe Mr. Sundberg feels the way you do. In fact, he behaves as if he does not want me here at all. Sam told me that this was his idea—me working for you.” She scrutinized Mrs. Sundberg’s expression. “Your husband would rather I not be here. Is that true?”

  “He and your uncle … there is great strife between them.” She ran her pink tongue along her bottom lip. “I am going to tell you something—something very personal. Go and close the door.”

  Kristin did as the woman bid her and returned to the side of the bed.

  “I feel I can trust you, Kristin, so I will tell you this. My husband believes your uncle stole numerous silver spoons, although it has never been proved. Nevertheless, Karl holds the transgression against Lars Eikaas and refuses to forgive him.”

  “Oh, my …” Kristin’s hand found its way to the base of her neck.

  “And your uncle …” Mrs. Sundberg closed her eyes. Her voice sounded weary. “He despises my people and other Indian nations in Wisconsin. He feels we are inferior to whites and should not own land or anything else of value. And regarding the theft incident … well, Lars took great umbrage when the sheriff questioned him about the silver and denied all accusations. He then set out to ruin Karl’s character and reputation in Green Bay, saying it was immoral for him to marry me. He even told Reverend Wollums that I should not be allowed to attend church with whites.”

  “That is not right. Scripture tells us that God does not look upon the outside of a person, but sees her heart.” Kristin felt humbled as the words fell from her tongue.

  “Yes. The good news is many people discount what Lars says—although some side with him.”

  “So that is the reason Mr. Sundberg dislikes me?”

  “That is partly so.” After an audible sigh, Mrs. Sundberg opened her eyes. She reached for Kristin’s hand. “More is the fact that Sam is in love with you.”

  Kristin sucked in a breath. The news was really no surprise, but hearing the words still took her aback. Love? Could it really be so?

  “Sam’s feelings have foiled Karl’s plans.”

  “Plans for Sam to become an important man in Wisconsin?”

  “Yes.”

  Things were beginning to make more sense. “But what if God’s plan is not the same as your husband’s?” Kristin found herself hoping it was so.

  Mrs. Sundberg gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “That is what has Karl fuming. He has an unforgiving spirit and an unwillingness to concede to God’s will.” She rolled her head to and fro on the feather pillows that propped up her willowy frame. “He is a contender by nature. So I pray for my husband all day long. Even more so since my condition has flared.” She paused and gazed at Kristin. “Perhaps that is the reason God allowed me to be ill—so I would have the time to pray longer and harder.”

  “Thank you for sharing this insight with me. It answers many of my questions.” She pulled her hand away and stood. “I will pray too.” Then, silently, Kristin added, My prayer will be that Sam comes home quickly!

  CHAPTER 15

  SO, WHAT DO you think about your visit thus far?” John Evans gave Sam a friendly rap on the shoulder blades.

  “To say I’m impressed, sir, would be an understatement.” Sam glanced around and, again, took in the rich, dark paneling of the library, the heavy velvet drapes, and the many volumes that lined the built-in oak bookshelves. Everything was just as his father had described.

  “Please, sit down.” Mr. Evans held out a long, thin hand, indicating the leather-upholstered chairs near the massive desk. “I’m glad your trip was uneventful.”

  “It was.” He’d met with Oshkosh and his men and rode most of the distance with them. “I hope it’s no imposition that I arrived later than planned.” It had been dark when Sam pulled up to the gate last night.

  “None whatsoever.”

  Sam eased into the cushy chair. “Your pastor preached a thought-provoking sermon this morning.”

  “Yes, we’re fond of Reverend Michaels. His daughter and mine are the same age.” Mr. Evans folded his tall, slim frame into the chair opposite him. “You might recall that I mentioned my daughter, Samantha, will be arriving home shortly.” He chuckled. “Sam and Sam will dine at my table tonight.”

  Sam grinned at the joke, adding a slight nod. “I do remember your saying so.”

  “I would have said more this morning, but …” Mr. Evans waved his hand in his air. “My friends and acquaintances always have something to tell me, as you witnessed this morning after church. And my neighbors frequently stop to say hello while on their Sunday strolls.”

  “You are a man in great demand.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that.” He grinned and changed the subject. “Tell me news of your father.” Mr. Evans crossed one leg over the other. His suit appeared to be cut from the finest cloth, causing Sam to feel like a regular yokel. But he couldn’t change the fact he wasn’t as monetarily wealthy.

  “Pa is well. Thankfully crops have been good this year.”

  “And what of that undignified neighbor?” Mr. Evans dipped his head slightly. “Is he still so ornery?”

  “Mr. Eikaas? I’m afraid he is.” Sam lowered his gaze to his brown trousers and brushed a smudge off his knee. “I’m surprised Pa mentioned Mr. Eikaas.”

  “Yes, well, we conferred about a possible investigation into those missing silver spoons of your father’s.”

  “I guess I had my head in my bookwork when they disappeared. What’s more, my parents rarely discuss controversies in front of us kids—not unless they involve mistreatment of Wisconsin Natives.”

  “Which is what has brought you to Madison now.” Mr. Evans smiled, stood, and ambled over to a polished table on which a crystal brandy service stood. “You would like a drink?”

  “No, sir. I don’t imbibe.”

  “I should have known. Like father, like son.” Grinning, Mr. Evans poured a small amount into a tumbler. “Sam, are you aware that your mother and my late wife, God rest her soul, were childhood friends in Norway?”

  “No.” In that instant, Sam felt rather ashamed for not knowing more about his birth mother. “I don’t remember her and regard my stepmother as my mother.”

  “It’s only natural.”

  The reply soothed Sam’s conscience.

  “Your father and I actually met in the courtroom. We were on opposing sides, but I marveled at his tenacity.”

  Sam had heard the story before.

  “I invited Karl to dinner one evening, and my wife joined us. As we got to know one another, my wife pointed out the ironic connection. How sad she was to learn of your mother’s death on the journey to America.”

  “It’s not an easy voyage, so I hear.” Sam immediately thought of Kristin and all she must have endured.

  The maid suddenly appeared at the entryway. “Beg your pardon, sir, but Miss Samantha has just arrived home.”

  “Wonderful.” Mr. Evans glanced at Sam. “Excuse me for a few minutes.”

  “Of course.”

  After the slender man strode into the mansion’s foyer, Sam pushed to his feet, stretched, and made his way to the enormous bookshelves. Authors such as James Fenimore Cooper, Edgar Allan Poe, and Charles Dickens were among a collection in one section. A host of law books occupied another. And the last section of shelves housed curious reads, like The Condition of the Working Class in England in 1844.

  Sam pursed his lips thoughtfully. In all the books he scanned he didn’t see one religious publication. Nor did he find a Bible. Mr. Evans returned. “Samantha is dressing for dinner. She had an enjoyable time at her friend’s cottage on Lake Monona. We’re sure to hear all about it as we enjoy our meal, which will be served promptly at eight.” The man peered at his gold pocket watch then tucked it back into his waistcoat.

  Sam returned to his sea
t. He quelled the rumblings in his stomach. They ate much earlier back home. By eight o’clock the women would be sewing and chatting, and he, Pa, and Jack would have seen to the animals for the night.

  He wondered what Kristin was doing right now. Perhaps she was spinning again. He smiled inwardly.

  “A pleasant thought?”

  Sam shook himself, embarrassed. “Quite.” He stared across the way at Mr. Evans and watched as his host reclaimed his seat.

  “So, tomorrow will be a busy day. Tell me, have you talked with Chief Oshkosh yet?”

  “Briefly when we stopped to water the horses, although we weren’t able to discuss much. I plan to see Oshkosh and his men first thing in the morning. I’ll be at the capitol bright and early.”

  “I’ll be sure Cook has made a breakfast for you before you leave. Sam and I—that is my daughter Sam and I—usually breakfast about eight. Lunch is at twelve-thirty, tea at five o’clock, and dinner at—”

  “Eight.” Sam smiled.

  “You’re a fast learner.” Mr. Evans chuckled lightly.

  The conversation drifted back to the meeting tomorrow. Mr.

  Evans enlightened Sam of some of the questions the committee might ask and coached him how to answer correctly.

  Sam made mental note.

  A rustling sound interrupted their discussion. “Ah, there you are, darling.” Mr. Evans rose and strode to the library’s doorway. “Sam Sundberg, may I present my daughter, Miss Samantha Evans.”

  Sam politely pushed to his feet. “It’s a pleasure, Miss Evans.” He took in her off-the-shoulder evening gown that revealed more of Miss Evans than he cared to see. His face felt suddenly aflame, and Sam realized just how backward he must appear.

  The young lady strode gracefully forward and held out a gloved hand. Her green eyes boldly appraised him. “Mr. Sundberg … may I call you Sam?”

  “Of course.” Taking her hand he bowed over it politely.

  “And you may call me Sam.” She laughed, sounding like a twittering sparrow. “Sam and Sam.” She turned to her father, her hand still clasped on Sam’s. “Papa, Sam and Sam.”

  Mr. Evans chuckled too. “Quite the irony, I’d say.”