“Yes. Eight sharp. Do not be late.”
He stood straighter when he heard the serious note in her tone, then shuffled his feet. “Mama wanted me to ask if you’re needin’ anything.”
“No. Thank you. See you tomorrow morning.”
“Bye!” he said, scooting away from her door as if she were the village witch, the relief in his walk visible.
Tora closed the door, still half lost in her dream. She sat back down on the bed, basket at her feet, trying to remember just how the dream went … There had been a girl, a girl that looked somewhat like Letitia, but not like her exactly. It was Jessica, she supposed. Did a mother have some supernatural power to discern what her baby would look like as a child? The last she had seen of Jessie, she was just an infant, chubby and cute, with eyes the color of cornflowers, and hair that curled up at the ends in little ringlets.
It was nonsense. All of it, Tora thought, suddenly angry. She stood and paced. Why, she hadn’t thought of Jessica since that day she had left her in the road at Kaatje’s feet, determined to go on with her life. It was all that rotten Soren’s fault! If he had not gotten her pregnant, none of this would have happened! She could have gone to work for Trent immediately, they would have fallen in love, and no secrets from the past would have split them apart.
The anger dissipated as Tora once again thought of the child in her dream. When she had seen Jessica in her sleep, she had felt neither anger nor the weight of responsibility. Only the overpowering sense of lost time and guilt. What had she done? She sat down hard on the edge of her bed. Had she given up a child she had actually wanted? That was impossible! Her life held no place for a baby, a toddler, a girl. What Tora wanted excluded children. Once she and Trent had married and a suitable nanny was hired, then.
It was all too much, she concluded once again. Perhaps she was truly on the edge of hysteria. Who wouldn’t be in her position? One of the greatest ladies in the West, now fighting it out as a schoolmarm in the Washington Territory! Next she’d be ambushed by Indians, the way her luck was running.
Wearily, she reached for the basket and unwrapped some roast beef, potatoes, and carrots on a plate. She picked at it for a few minutes then lay back down. Sleep overtook her immediately.
The next morning, she was up and ready for her students before they arrived. Determined to make things right—since she could see few options—she had built a fire in the school’s woodstove and, after checking a student’s primer, had written the alphabet on the board. Although she could speak English with almost no accent, she still had trouble remembering not to write her letters as she had as a child in Bergen, with crossed o’s and such.
She walked back to the woodstove, to see how her fire was faring. It sputtered and was a sorry excuse for heat, but at least Tora had tried. She’d assign Ross to see to it as soon as he got in. Today, she felt together, ready for this new challenge before her. One never knew. Perhaps her stint as a schoolteacher would lead her to other opportunities. Today after school she would go to Mr. Crosby and ask for a small advance on her salary in order to buy some food supplies. If the townspeople were to respect her, she needed to act respectable and stop assuming people would feed her. She felt a slight blush climb her neck at the thought. Imagine! Tora Anders relying on others for food! Not since she had stowed away on the Herald did she feel so on the edge, teetering between her dreams and disaster.
However, she felt much closer to disaster here, outside Spokane, than she had crossing the Atlantic. Perhaps it was because she had tasted success and failure, she thought to herself as she wiped off her dusty desk. And that taste of success had left her wanting more. No, this school would only be a place to rest, take stock, and then move on. She simply had to decide where she wanted to go. Back east? Farther west?
Thoughts of Elsa came to mind. She knew from the newspaper accounts that she and Peder were in Seattle. What would it be like to see her sister again? Perhaps she could go, packed with all her fine things, with the excuse that she wanted to reestablish their relationship. Tora shook her head. No, that would never do. Elsa drove her mad with her elder sibling ways, so condescending and self-righteous. And knowing Peder, he would probably sniff out the truth of her predicament, just as Trent had.
No, Tora Anders would make her own way in the world. One way or another.
eleven
October 1886
It took Karl several days to work up the courage to return to Kaatje’s farm. For hours he had paced the floor of his small hotel room, thinking about what he would say and how he would say it. Regardless that he only felt friendship with Elsa as he had stared inside at her, he doubted it would hold. For years he had drilled it into his mind and heart that she was married, that she belonged to another. And yet he had continued to love her. Now she was alone. Available. How could he talk to her, see her beautiful face without those old feelings of love and desire returning? That was the last thing she needed right now. Yet he so desperately needed to talk to her, to seek her absolution!
Disgusted with himself, he put his hat atop his head as he stared into the small, oval mirror. It had peeling gilt edges. Just like him, he mused. Once fine, now clearly needing some work. Unfortunately for me, he thought, I need more work than a quick refinishing job. No, he needed work from the inside out. He opened his door and left the room, inhaling the scents of stale beer and old food from the bar below. Between Elsa and his poor accommodations, it was tempting to head out of town immediately. He laughed under his breath. Even thinking of Elsa made his heart pound. What made him think that he could face her and honestly ask her forgiveness? Did his heart not need to be right before he could go to her? He turned back toward his room.
Go to her.
Karl stopped short and looked about the dim hallway to see if someone was there. No, he had been right. He was alone. Who had spoken?
You know the way. You know the path. Go to her.
Karl reached out to brace himself, a hand on either doorjamb. How long? How long had it been since he had heard his Lord’s voice? Or was it the Lord’s? What if it was the Evil One, trying to draw him back into temptation?
You know yourself. You know the path. Follow it.
No, it was him! It was him! “Lord God,” Karl whispered, sweat suddenly pouring from his brow, “I do not know if I can. I don’t know if I’m strong enough.”
You are stronger than you think.
“She’s alone and mourning. What place do I have there with her?”
Be her friend.
“And if I cannot leave it at that?”
Be her friend.
“But what if—”
Be her friend. Go.
As if physically turned, Karl pivoted on his heel and walked numbly to the stairway. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, dabbing at his brow.
“You okay there, Mr. Martensen?” the man at the front desk called.
“Sure,” he mumbled. But inside, he felt anything but sure.
Kaatje answered the door, and Karl took the opportunity to breathe.
“I wondered when you’d work up the courage to come,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron as if drying them.
“It took awhile,” he admitted.
“She knows you’re here,” Kaatje said gently. “She’s wanted to see you, if that helps any.”
“It helps some. I was afraid—”
“Elsa is out with the children in the barn. Why don’t you go say hello? And bring me back some milk,” she said, handing him a pail.
Karl smiled down at his friend. How did she know so much? Was he so transparent? “Anything else? Want me to churn some butter while I’m at it?”
“Now that you mention it …”
“All right, all right, I’m going. No need to threaten me with additional chores.” He turned toward the barn, feeling a bit better after bantering with Kaatje.
“Karl.”
He turned back to her.
“She’s very … tender. Her heart
remains in Peder’s hands, dead or alive.”
Her words struck deep. Even Kaatje thought she must try to protect Elsa from him. He considered her a moment before answering. “I am here to be her friend, and only that. I wanted to leave, leave without ever seeing her. I doubt myself.”
She nodded. “But God doesn’t. He’ll give you the strength, Karl. You know that, right?”
“Yes. For the first time in a long time, I’m sure of one small thing in my life. I’m heading in the right direction, and it all starts with your barn.”
“My old, sad barn. Who knew it would have such import?”
Karl smiled. “We’ll have to build you that new one in honor of such an occasion. I’d better go.”
“Go, Karl. Go with God.”
Still smiling, Karl turned again and headed toward the barn, feeling more sure with each step. Gradually, the trepidation within his heart eased, and his smile broadened. Truly, this was of God. He could feel him! He could feel him! How long had it been? The exhilaration of the Lord’s presence almost made him want to jump and shout with joy, but as his hand met the roughened wood of the door, the joy fled. He was about to face his best friend’s widow, a woman he had once coveted, a woman he would have tried to steal away if she had given him half a chance. “Help me, Lord,” he prayed silently. “Help me to be as you asked. Her friend. Her friend only.”
He pulled open the door, wincing at the creak that disrupted the quiet afternoon. It was dark and hazy inside, plumes of dust dancing through shafts of light from cracks in the ceiling. He passed through the tack room and through a narrow passageway to the main barn. There he saw her.
She was in the far corner, laughing with the girls and her son as they played with a baby pig. When she saw him, her smile faded and she stood immediately, absentmindedly brushing the straw from her skirt. Her eyes never left his. The children, as if sensing the importance of the moment, stayed silent. Karl almost forgot the children were there as he mentally told himself to put one foot in front of the other, going to her as she walked toward him.
Neither said a word, walking through shaft after shaft of light as if it were a dreamscape instead of reality. He dropped the bucket at his feet, then took her into his arms, holding her tenderly and backing up a bit to stare into her eyes. Bright tears in her eyes made him realize that he, too, was crying.
“I’m sorry, Elsa. I’m so sorry,” he said simply.
She melted into his embrace again, her head against his chest. “I miss him, Karl.”
An ache began in his throat, begging him to give in more fully to the sorrow he felt deep within. “I … I had just made plans to come see you and Peder—”
“Auntie Elsa,” Christina interrupted, pulling them from their private universe. “We’re going outside to play.”
“Very well,” Elsa said, clearly as flustered as Karl to realize they weren’t alone. “Keep an eye on Kristian, will you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Karl’s eyes followed Kristian, studying the boy who belonged to Peder. He stood tall and proud already, reminding Karl of his old friend. His hair was a sandy blond, his eyes remarkably like Peder’s mossy green. The three-year-old’s eyes stopped Karl—they looked like the eyes of a much older child, reflecting pain, just beyond the immediate joy. What would it be like to lose your father at such a tender age? Karl wondered. As gruff as Gustav Martensen had been toward his son, at least he had always been there.
“Over here, Karl. There’s a bench by the hay.” Elsa led the way, a study in grace as she walked. Karl searched his heart, wondering at what he was feeling, but could not find anything but friendship. What relief! He wanted to sink to his knees and sing God’s praises right then and there. But Elsa was waiting. “You got my letter, then. I sent it to Saint Paul, not knowing where you were—”
“No,” he said softly. “I did not get your letter. I just happened to be here in the Skagit Valley and …”
“You were coming to Seattle?” she encouraged gently.
“Yes,” he said, joining her on the rough-hewn bench. “I figured it had been long enough.” He raised his eyes to meet hers. “I was coming to seek forgiveness. From you. From Peder.”
Elsa looked away, as if visualizing another time, another land. “I was so sorry that what happened drove you and Peder apart.”
“And you and Peder?” Karl asked, holding his breath.
“We had our moments, but eventually he forgave me.”
Karl shook his head in frustration and moved to the ground in front of her, kneeling. He took her hand. “I was so wrong, Elsa. I’m sorry that what I did caused you any pain. I’m sorry that I robbed you and Peder of any time you had together. I know it must be hard, but can you find any way to forgive me?”
Elsa smiled and placed a gentle hand on his cheek. “Dear Karl. I forgave you long ago. Didn’t you know it?”
“I had hoped …” He stood and paced away from her. He needed some distance to ask what he had to next. “And Peder?” He wondered if the words were even audible, it was so difficult for him to get them out.
Elsa looked down at her hands and then back at him. “Peder was more troubled. He forgave me, but I am afraid he never forgave you.”
Karl turned, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. Peder had died hating him! How was he to get past that? He looked up to the nearest shaft of light, silently studying it.
Gently, she laid a hand on his arm and looked up at him intently. He hadn’t heard her approach. “Sometimes, Karl, I find that it is harder to forgive myself of a sin than to allow another, or God, to do so. Have you forgiven yourself?”
He shook off her hand and strode away. “How can I forgive myself?” he cried. “I never looked Peder in the eye. Never asked his forgiveness. When I think of how I would feel had the tables been turned—”
“Karl, Peder was wrong.”
“What?”
“He was wrong to hold on to a grudge like that. You asked his forgiveness. You asked it in a letter.”
“A letter!” Karl scoffed. “I wasn’t man enough to face you both again.”
“You did your best at the time. I forgave you then. It was enough for me.”
“But not enough for Peder.”
“And as I said, he was wrong. You know that. It is not our way. What if God held on to his anger at our sinfulness in the same manner?” She stepped forward, visibly trembling. “He was wrong, Karl. And I pray that God forgave him for his stubbornness. He was wrong.” She metered out the words, seemingly wanting to hammer them into his head.
Karl sighed and ran a hand through his hair.
Elsa smiled, catching him off guard.
“What?”
“Peder used to do the same thing when he was frustrated. You picked that up from each other as boys. I remember you both doing it in Bergen.”
Karl allowed himself a small smile too. “I did a lot of things like Peder. Had it not been for him, I would never have gone to sea. Nor come to America. To say nothing of finding Christ.”
“You were good for each other. It is tragic that your friendship ended as it did.”
“Yes.” He sat down again on the bench and Elsa joined him.
“He would have found it in his heart to forgive you, Karl. Eventually, he would have come around to it. Especially had you visited us as you planned. He might’ve been angry for a time, but then he would have worked it through. He would have seen the truth eventually and called himself pigheaded for waiting so long.”
Karl glanced up at her. “You think so?”
She nodded once. “I know so. I knew my husband. And although he was terribly stubborn, he was also a fair man. And faithful. He missed you as much as you have missed him these years.”
“Such a waste,” Karl muttered.
“Truly a waste,” Elsa murmured. She reached for Karl’s hand, and again he was amazed at the wave of warmth that flooded through him. It was not of lust, but of friendship. “Don’t let us p
art as strangers, Karl. Can you and I be friends? I need my friends,” she said, her voice cracking a bit, “right now. I feel very alone.”
Karl studied her eyes. “I am here to be your friend, Elsa. Above all else, I will always be your friend. Ask me, and I will help. Tell me what to do, and I will be there. Thank you for your forgiveness. For your words about Peder, even if they were painfully honest. Thank you for trusting me again.”
He raised an arm and Elsa sank against his side. “Oh, Karl, I miss him so.”
“Me too. Me too.”
By the time Karl made it into Seattle from the train station, it was dark and raining periodically. The soft, soaking rain of winter matched Karl’s mood. It was as if the skies wept for him, and for Peder. He stopped briefly at the hotel to drop off his luggage and considered waiting until morning to visit Peder’s grave. It would be difficult to get a horse at this time of night, and the weather was not inviting. But like a penitent priest, Karl felt it was just as he deserved. Why should this be easy, simple?
He stopped at the front desk as he put on an oilskin hat and coat. “Where can I find a horse this time of night?”
The short, squat man with a mustache looked at him queerly and cocked his head to one side. “This time of night, no one in his right mind will be out, let alone letting out their stock.”
Karl pulled a wad of bills from his pocket. “I’m sure I could convince someone to make the extra effort.”
The man’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Well sure. Now you’re talkin’. I have a friend three blocks down. If you stop by the house—it has a pretty substantial porch, you’ll find it sure. Foster’ll take care of you.”
“Thank you,” Karl said, laying a bill down on the counter for the man’s help.
“Anytime, mister, anytime. Be careful out there. It’s liable to get a bit more wet.”
Karl did not respond as he exited, feeling as if he were a man on a mission. He had obtained the Ramstads’ address from Elsa. She had encouraged him to stay at their empty house, but he felt uncomfortable with the idea. No, his sole purpose in being here was to say his good-byes to Peder Ramstad, the closest friend he had ever had. The man he had wronged.
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