Deep Harbor

by Lisa T. Bergren

  Kaatje felt dizzy, bewildered. Her hand shook. “I cannot.”

  “Do you wish to do so later?” Elsa said, apparently wondering for the first time if Kaatje desired more privacy.

  “I do not know.” She placed one hand to her forehead, feeling the dampness of perspiration even in the cold afternoon air.

  “Come on, ladies!” Nora called. “Dinner’s waiting!” Her face was so jubilant that it felt distantly interesting to Kaatje to watch as it fell. Obviously, her own expression screamed that something was wrong.

  “What is it?” Nora asked. “What’s the matter?” She murmured something to Einar and scrambled down off the wagon without waiting for assistance, then hurried over to them. “What?”

  “Kaatje got a letter from Alaska,” Elsa whispered, conscious that others were staring at them curiously.

  “Oh—” Nora said, covering her mouth with a gloved hand. “From …”

  “It’s not Soren’s handwriting,” Kaatje mumbled.

  “Come,” Nora directed, taking charge as usual. “Come to the house, and you can go the back bedroom and have some privacy,” she said loudly, looking about them, “to read the news. Good or bad, this is Thanksgiving Day, and you have your friends about you, Kaatje.”

  “Thank you, Nora,” she said. She looked up at Elsa. “Let’s do as she suggests.”

  Quickly, Elsa gathered the children and they headed out to the Gustavsons’ farm. “Stay out of those pies, Kristian,” Elsa warned over her shoulder as they drove, but Kaatje heard her voice as if through a layer of dirt. It was muffled, distant. Her mind was in the Dakota Territory, the last time she had seen Soren. He had been so beautiful, so full of life. Was this the letter that would end it?

  All the way to the farm, Kaatje remembered one day after another she had shared with Soren. None of the bad days, of course. All the good ones. And they were so sweet. He had been dear to her heart, and she supposed she held out more hope that he lived than she admitted. All at once, they had arrived at the Gustavsons’, and huge Einar easily lifted her to the ground. “You can go on in, Kaatje,” he said tenderly.

  Nora waited at the door and took her coat, even as she waved down the hall. “Now you go and read your news. Do you want some company? Elsa?”

  Dear Nora always did have an uncanny sense of what people needed. “Elsa. It would be good to have her with me.”

  “Elsa! Elsa!” Nora called.

  “I’m coming, I’m coming,” Elsa said. “I had to get the pies.” She took one look at Kaatje and immediately handed the pies and her coat to her hosts. “Come, Kaatje. Let’s get this over with.”

  Feeling as if she were on a dreamwalk, Kaatje moved down the dim hall and into a bedroom with a window. Nora and Einar had done well for themselves here in the valley, and their home showed the benefits of prosperity. It would have been nice to have a window in her new room, Kaatje thought.

  “Kaatje?” Elsa asked carefully.

  Kaatje’s mind came back to the present and what was at hand. “I … I have waited for a letter for so long.”

  “Open it, Kaatje. I’m here. Together, we’ll face whatever’s inside.”

  Kaatje nodded and sat down on the edge of the bed with Elsa and tentatively tore open the letter. She read aloud in a voice that she was not quite sure was audible. It didn’t matter; she read more for herself than Elsa anyway.

  12 August 1886

  Dear Mrs. Soren Janssen:

  I have conducted a lengthy investigation of your husband’s whereabouts as you requested. He was seen about this time last year around Forty Mile, but hasn’t been heard from since. Got a letter from the sheriff in Kenai who said he staked a claim there a year or so back, but not striking gold, took off for my part of the territory. The Indians say he was trapping last winter, but haven’t seen him since spring. Now I do not want to alarm you, ma’am, but these are harsh lands. Trappers come up for air at least twice a year, since most need some supplies. Nobody’s seen hide nor hair of your husband for these last seven months, I’d say. There’s a good chance that he either has left the territory and is heading home or has met some other dire circumstance. If I hear any other news of him, I’ll be sure to pass it on. I wish you the best as you seek to find him and remain cordially yours—

  Sheriff Jefferson Young

  Kaatje let the letter fall to the bed. “Maybe … Perhaps he’s coming home.”

  “To Dakota?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps. If so, they’ll tell him where we are.”

  Elsa looked down, not meeting her gaze. “Or he is not coming home at all.” She dared to glance up at Kaatje. “Winter’s soon upon us. Don’t you think he’d be here by now? Even if he went all the way to Dakota and back?”

  “It depends.” She rose and paced before the window. “If he was on horseback, the journey could take months.”

  “Horseback? You don’t think he would load his horse on a train and come that way?”

  “But I’ve heard of trappers coming through the Yukon Territory, over into British Columbia, and down. If he was that far east—”

  “Kaatje—”

  “I know what you’re going to say! You do not want me to get my hopes up.” She looked up at Elsa suddenly, knowing by her expression that she believed Soren was dead. Kaatje shook her head slowly. “How could he be dead? I’d know somehow, wouldn’t I?” Elsa looked at her helplessly, and Kaatje remembered her talking about still thinking Peder would appear, miraculously alive. “You don’t know that Peder is dead either,” Kaatje said flatly, sitting again on the bed. “Perhaps we’ll never know.”

  “Perhaps we’ll just have to live with that,” Elsa said gently. “Or maybe, just maybe, Soren will come riding into town. Does this mean you won’t come to Seattle with me?”

  Kaatje shook her head, staring down at the letter. “No. I’ve waited half my adult life for Soren Janssen to come around. If he is alive, and he does come to me, he can take another journey and find me in Seattle. I’ll not put my life off until I know for sure. I want to live it.”

  “You always were better at hardunger than I was,” Elsa said much later that evening as the two sat by the fire. She picked at her knitting, but her mind buzzed with a thousand thoughts that distracted her from her counting.

  “You do not concentrate,” Kaatje said quietly, still staring at her tiny needlework.

  “I was thinking about Tora, wondering where she is tonight,” Elsa dared. “I wonder if she had a decent Thanksgiving. If she even knows she should be thankful for what she has.”

  Kaatje set down her needlework and stared into the fire. “Tonight, as I tucked Jessie in, for the first time I was truly grateful to Tora for giving her to me. Not that I haven’t appreciated Jess before this,” she amended quickly. “It’s just that for the first time, I was really glad in my heart that Tora chose me to leave that precious girl to.”

  “You realize, of course, that she probably thought of it as justice. A way of punishing Soren.”

  “Sure, sure. But still, isn’t God good? What she meant for evil, he has used to bless me.”

  “Jessie was blessed to get you as a mother, Kaatje,” Elsa said, reaching across to squeeze her friend’s hand. “Perhaps someday her real mother will realize what she lost.”

  “Or perhaps not. Some people never see the error of their ways.”

  “Like Soren?”

  “And Tora. How many others have we known? If I’m ever that stubborn, promise me you’ll slap me across the face.”

  “Kaatje!”

  “Promise me.”

  Elsa guffawed, but seeing her earnest expression, nodded once. “And you do the same for me. Just the thought of it is enough to keep me straight.”

  Kaatje’s face melted into a grin. “You had better walk the straight and narrow.” She glanced back at the fire. “You’re sure you want us in Seattle for the winter? Will it not be too much?”

  “It will ease my heart considerably. Going back to the hous
e alone with Kristian makes my heart ache. Your presence—and the girls’—will make it much easier to tolerate.”

  “We cannot stay forever. The farm—I’ll get Einar to care for the animals and look in on the house. But I’ll need to return come springtime. I was thinking we should leave in a couple of weeks.”

  “Grand! Just grand!” Elsa came out of her chair and knelt by Kaatje. “Thank you, friend, for this. I know it is not easy to leave your home.”

  “And come to yours? Yes, I guess it will be a sheer sacrifice,” she said, amusement in her tone. “The girls will think they’ve died and gone to heaven.”

  thirteen

  It was only as Tora awakened on Thanksgiving Day that she felt the depths of her despair. Her new job and the new challenges before her had buoyed her up, given her a false sense of importance, and taken her mind off her immediate circumstances. But with the day off from teaching, she had time to ponder her true condition. Winter was fast approaching, she thought dismally, shivering as the frosty air met skin. What would a long winter as a schoolmarm in a shack be like? And what was there in life to look forward to now? She had no friends and had been treated as an oddity in her new surroundings.

  The children were off today on holiday, but the cantankerous schoolteacher had not received one invitation to Thanksgiving dinner, Tora mused. She was alone for the first time, left to her own devices. Suddenly, she longed for the warmth of her mother’s kitchen, and even her father’s gruff voice. She longed to return home, snuggle deep into a feather comforter with Gratia’s careful design stitched to its cover, and listen to the sounds of her Bergen home. Even seeing Elsa and Carina wouldn’t be all bad, she supposed. What was her alternative? Eating cold beef and hard rolls. That was her day.

  She groaned and turned over, thinking of last Thanksgiving. She and Trent had had a nice reunion in Helena the day before, and had hosted over twenty people for the holiday dinner. It had been a boisterous, loud event, after which Trent had claimed he wished they had spent it alone. At the time, his words had irritated her. Now, she wished she could hear them again, and relish the loving heart from which they emerged—the desire to be with her alone. How could she have jeopardized that love? Her chance for a future?

  Tora flipped back over, agitated by her thoughts. Trent had been more than her future. In the beginning, that was how she saw him. But the years and the distance taught her more. She had loved him, with her whole heart. She had loved the way he moved, the way he held her like a precious, fragile doll, the way he had given her room to grow and to show the world what she could do. She had loved talking business with him, making plans, building something together. And now she had nothing of him. The tears were gone from her eyes, but the ache still built within her gut.

  Frustrated, she pushed back the covers and sat up. Nothing would be accomplished by lying in bed and mooning over a man who had banished her not only from his life, but her own world as well. She threw on some more clothes, her breath clouding in the cold morning air, and hurried to the potbellied stove to get a fire going. Today she would stuff the cracks in the wall with strips from an old dress, and attempt to make her shanty a worthy shelter for winter. And her piled luggage would form a nice wall of insulation on the north end of the shanty, the direction from which most of the valley’s wind came.

  But as she worked, memories of Trent kept entering her mind, memories of happy times and all she had lost. What did she have to be thankful for this year? she chided herself, attempting to take control of her self-pity. A roof over her head, a bed, a meal—sad as it was—and a means to support herself. But what about the other things in life, things like family, friends, love …? Again, an overwhelming sense of loneliness entered her heart. Working to find inspiration, she grabbed a sheet of paper and pen and sat on her bed with a book. She did not stop to think. She merely wrote what was on her heart, deciding that she would consider later whether or not to send it.

  25 November 1886

  Dear Trent,

  You have been in my thoughts constantly since the day we last parted. I owe you an apology for my actions. First, for hiding the truth of my child from you. Second, for using your name to get ahead in my own enterprise while jeopardizing yours. I was a woman scorned, and acted in haste, not wisdom.

  Tora paused for a moment, wondering what to write next. Although she truly felt regret, could she actually convince herself to send such words to him? She pressed on.

  I was wrong, Trent, and I am deeply sorry. You meant the world to me, and I tried every which way to make you love me too, all to no avail. It is only now that I realize that we had the love I so desperately sought, but risked it for my own gain. You never deserved to be betrayed, nor to be deceived. I hope you will find happiness someday. I am in search of it myself.

  Always yours,

  Tora

  The words, when she reread them, felt frightfully honest and frank. Trent would probably laugh as he read them. But something inside her drove Tora to leave them as they lay, to fold the paper, once dry, and seal it inside one of her last French envelopes. She addressed it from memory, feeling as if she were running a hand over Trent’s cheek instead of the smooth stationery. “I miss you, Trent,” she whispered.

  Her teacup, sitting on a warming tray above the stove, suddenly rattled, and Tora looked up. It became silent, so she again considered her letter. But when it began rattling again, it did not stop, and then Tora felt the rumble under her floor. What could be making such a commotion?

  She peered out the window, and could not see anything out of the ordinary for a long time, but the ground trembled more and more even as her trepidation grew. When the first head of cattle came into view, Tora breathed a sigh of relief. It was merely a cattle drive. A cattleman taking his stock to the railroad, or overland himself. It made sense they would come this way, by the schoolhouse. It was on a strip of land that ran for miles without fences, whereas most of the homesteaders had erected barbed wire to keep cattlemen from razing the land on their way through.

  A horseman cantered by her window and pulled the stock to a halt. Probably thirsty, Tora thought, rushing to grab her pail and her coat. She opened the door, glad to have a little company on this lonely day, when she saw the first cowboy’s face.

  Instinctively, she knew he was trouble. His eyes were deep set and constantly shifting, and his posture reminded Tora of a mountain lion on the prowl. He was large, strong, menacing. She took a step backward.

  He whistled and looked her over appreciatively, obviously enjoying her alarm. “Now, I had heard the schoolmarm out this way was something to see.”

  Tora looked quickly at his two companions to see if they approved of him. Both looked as trustworthy as the first.

  The leader dismounted and strode up to her with confidence. “Going to offer me some water, miss?”

  “Certainly,” she said, pretending to feel more at ease than she felt. As she bent to pump the water, she could feel him edge nearer to her than was proper. Sudden laughter from his cohorts made her look up with suspicion, but he smiled innocently. “Here’s your water,” she said, handing him the pail without offering a scoop. She stepped away.

  “Much obliged,” he said, his eyes never leaving hers.

  “I am glad to help.”

  He set the bucket down and took a step closer. “Helpful women are difficult to find this far west.”

  “Not if you look hard enough,” she said lightly. “My man and I plan to marry in the fall.” It was a desperate statement that she hoped would fool them. “Whose cattle are you running?”

  The man’s scarred face slowly widened in a lazy smile. “You tryin’ to lose me? Tell me the truth. You don’t have no beau.” He took another step closer, merely inches from her body. “Why make up a fantasy man when I’m right here? That’s right, we haven’t even been properly introduced. Have to be introduced if we’re to get to know each other. Name’s Decker, at your service.” He took off his hat and bowed low before
her, setting his cohorts to chuckling.

  Tora stepped away before he could reach an arm around her. “You boys get your water and get on your way. I’m expecting my ride for Thanksgiving dinner any minute.” She hoped her voice sounded more confident than she felt. To her, it sounded like a blatant lie. She went to close the door behind her when Decker pushed it in, his friends laughing as if they were watching a circus clown.

  “You can’t come in here!” Tora yelled, suddenly desperately afraid.

  “On the contrary,” Decker said, peeling off his huge jacket and advancing toward her. “There ain’t no man around to protect you. And as I said, we should get to know each other better. I’m a lonely cowboy. You’re a lonely schoolmarm. I think we should take advantage of our situation.”

  “Get out. Get out!”

  “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m here. I’m here to be your man.”

  When Mr. Crosby’s news of Tora’s absence reached Joseph Campbell upon his return from his Helena holiday, he immediately hurried from Spokane to the schoolhouse to search her room. Outside in the yard were the tracks of a herd of cattle. It being long after midnight, he lit a second lamp from his wagon and studied the tracks further. He could see evidence of three horses. He moved inside, tentatively opening the door with his foot while holding the lamps in his hand. “Miss Anders?” he called, his voice sounding thin and quiet in the night.

  The room was a mess. There had been a scuffle, judging by the overturned chair and by the bed. Then he noticed the drops of blood. Joseph looked around grimly. She had taken none of her luggage, if he counted right. And she had disappeared a couple of days ago. Thanksgiving Day, probably. The only people who had left their homes for anywhere besides church had been some cowboys driving a hundred head of cattle through town. Was she crazy enough, desperate enough, to take up with one of them and leave everything she had behind?

  Joseph shook his head. Tora Anders loved her things. It had been hard enough for her to leave her home. There was no way she would willingly leave the few things she still possessed. What had caused her to depart without her clothing and possessions?