“Me neither.”
She turned to see the love shining from her husband’s eyes. And to think she’d heard that Norwegian men were cold and unfeeling. Whoever started such a rumor didn’t know her husband, that was for certain sure.
“Well, at least it didn’t hail.” From the shelter of their porch, Haakan and Ingeborg, along with Lars and Kaaren, watched the storm make its way east. The children were all out playing in the puddles, covered with black gumbo and shrieking with laughter. Paws had a bit of brown along his back, but otherwise they now owned a black dog.
“You think it damaged the wheat?” Kaaren asked.
“Some, but most of it will pop back up in a day or so. We’ll have to set the binder blade right on the ground to pick it all up.” The two men began discussing what adjustments the machinery would need, leaving Kaaren and Ingeborg to laugh at the antics before them. Baptiste and Thorliff took a run and slid through a mud puddle as if they were on ice. Soon all of them, Hamre included for a change, were skating barefooted on tracks slick as an oiled pig. The bigger ones held the littler hands, and when a bunch fell down, giggles erupted as they wiped the mud from their faces.
The ground slurped up the water, and before the sun came fully out, steam began to rise, and the puddles disappeared.
“Okay, everyone, stand by the well and get washed off. We’ll have buttermilk and cookies ready when you’re clean.” Ingeborg nodded to the big boys to take care of the children. “We should have played out in it too,” she said to Kaaren.
“I know. Good thing we baked this morning, no matter how hot it was.” Kaaren and Ingeborg made their way into the house and threw open all the windows to let in the fresh air.
Rain. They’d finally had rain. And even if the wheat wasn’t dry enough to cut and bind, they’d have the party as they planned. Everyone was in need of a party, especially before the really heavy work of harvest began, for once their wheat was threshed, Haakan and Lars would take the steam engine and the threshing machine and travel the country threshing grain.
Ingeborg almost hated to think of the weeks ahead.
Chapter 5
Nearing St. Paul, Minnesota
End of August
“I never dreamed a country could be so big.”
“What’s that you say?”
Augusta Bjorklund turned from looking out the train window and glanced at the man in the seat facing her. She hadn’t meant to make her comment out loud. It just slipped out. All the letters that described this land hadn’t even begun to do it justice. Here she’d been on the train three days, and they still weren’t to Blessing. Since the conductor spoke Norwegian, he’d told her that the next big stop where she would change trains—again—was St. Paul, Minnesota.
They’d be there by evening.
She shook her head at the other passenger’s question, since she didn’t understand what he’d said, then turned back to the window. So many fields being harvested. Wouldn’t her brother Johann love to see this—this vast land and all this bounty? Trees and lakes and rivers and farmland the likes of which she couldn’t even begin to count.
No wonder the newspapers at home often described this land as flowing with milk and honey. True, the streets of the cities she’d seen weren’t paved with gold, but then she’d never believed they were. Otherwise none of the immigrants would have returned to Norway, and some did. They didn’t come home wealthy either.
Her stomach rumbled, and she laid a hand over her midsection. Surely she would be able to buy food in St. Paul far cheaper than what she’d seen so far. While Johann had warned her that food would cost dearly, she hadn’t dreamed it would be so expensive. Until she found she was running out of money.
She glanced up to catch the eye of the man across from her. The look he gave her didn’t need an interpreter. She could feel the heat blossom on her neck and up her face. Had he no manners at all? Why, if she could just speak the language, she’d tell him to mind his own business. That was for sure.
If only she had listened to Johann and did as the letters from Mor had said. Learn to speak American. If she’d heard that once, she’d heard or read it, well . . . She sighed and returned to the window.
When his foot nudged hers, she shot him a look that could have scorched corn.
He tipped his hat and winked at her.
Of all the colossal nerve. Was this the way of American men? If so, give her a good solid Norwegian any day.
That of course brought her back to thoughts of Elmer. That no good, lying . . .
The conductor made his way down the aisle, swaying along with the rocking train. He stopped beside Augusta’s seat. “Two more stops and you’ll be getting off, miss.”
Oh, how good to hear her beautiful Norwegian language. “Mange takk.” She gave him her best smile. “And how do I know what train to go to there in St. Paul?”
“The ticket agent will direct you. Just go up to the window and ask.”
“But . . . but what if he doesn’t speak Norwegian?”
“Oh, most of them do, a bit anyway. We get lots of immigrants from Norway out here. Swedes too and other Scandinavians, Germans, Russians. There’s lots of people going west for free land. Not as many as a few years ago, but still a lot. You got family waiting for you?”
Augusta nodded. “My brother Hjelmer and Mor. Others too.”
“I’ll be by to make sure you get off at the right place.” He touched a finger to the bill on his uniform cap and continued down the aisle.
Augusta wanted to summon him back and ask more questions about the changing of trains. But he had a job to do, so she sank back against the seat. With great care she kept her gaze from meeting that of the man on the other seat. Then he nudged her foot again. Tucking her booted feet as far under the seat as she could, she glared at the man and locked the metal in her spine so that she sat ramrod straight. She gathered her travel-stained skirt closer to her legs and turned slightly toward the window. Short of stabbing his foot with a hairpin, she had no weapon. Obviously withering looks didn’t count.
She knew he was watching her, could feel it with every nerve in her body. Should she tell the conductor? But what could she say? This man is bothering me?
If there were other seats available, she could just get up and move, but the car was full except for the seat next to her and the seat next to him. If he was cramped for foot room, why didn’t he move over?
The nudge again.
The conductor made his way back down the aisle calling out the next stop as the train whistle cried and the train began slowing down.
Dear God, please make this man get off here.
But he didn’t. Instead he lit a cigar and waved it at her whenever she made the mistake of looking up.
If the window wasn’t so important to her, she’d have moved over. After all, she did have her knitting along. She could hear her mor admonishing her to not waste a moment of precious time. But she wanted to see this new country.
Augusta tightened her jaw. There he was again, this time touching her ankle. That’s it! She rose, regal as a Viking princess, and deliberately planted her heel on the top of his foot. Then turning to give it a good mash, she headed for the necessary. The grunt she heard as she left more than made up for the discomfort of deliberately hurting another. She started to think person and changed her mind. But she couldn’t call him an animal either. Animals weren’t obnoxious like that, so she guessed he was a man. She shook her head. At least God had spared her meeting men like that in her past.
Dirty rude man.
When she returned, he took the cigar out of his mouth, nodded to her, and moved his feet out of the way so she could resume her seat. The leer was gone, his expression now showing a measure of respect.
If only she could get her heart to return to its normal place and pace.
When they finally arrived in St. Paul, he was right behind her as she stepped off the train.
The conductor pointed her in the direction of the infor
mation window and the huge board that showed train arrivals and departures. A man on a ladder was erasing some lines and writing in others. Wheels screeching, steam hissing, vendors hawking their wares, babies crying, children running and laughing, men shouting—the tumult made her want to clap her hands over her ears.
The man stayed right behind her. Even above the cacophony, she sensed his presence.
Heart thundering in her ears, she waited in line to ask her questions. The line moved slowly. She could hear him humming under his breath.
Shivers chased each other up and down her spine. Why, oh why won’t he go away?
She stepped up to the window and, keeping her voice low, asked, “Which is the train to . . . to . . .” She had to check her carefully written-out itinerary. “G-Grand Forks.” Would the man with the green visor above his eyes understand her Norwegian?
“Right over there, number. . . .” A voice over a loudspeaker drowned out his words.
The man behind her cleared his throat.
“Mange takk.” She clutched her tickets tightly in hand and nearly ran across the marble-tiled floor. Surely there would be only one train in that spot right now. If not, she’d have to ask again. She glanced back over her shoulder.
Here he came! Would he never leave her alone?
She went down the stairs and followed the crowd. But there were three trains, all lined up with only a walkway between them. Which one? She studied the numbers on the front of the engine. What did he say? Oh, Lord above, what number did he say?
The man was drawing nearer. Two others came down the stairs together, singing some song at the top of their lungs. She recognized the signs. At one of the homes she’d worked in, the master frequently came home inebriated like that. A black man dressed in the uniform of a conductor stood at a step stool leading to an open door on the middle train. Her hands shaking so badly she could hardly hang on to her carpetbag, she let him help her up the steps.
There was only one other woman on the car, the smoke from the cigars of the men giving the room a silvery haze. Wishing for the fresh air of home, she sank down in a vacant seat and leaned against the back. This time there was no seat across from her, only the backs of the ones in front. She set her carpetbag in the seat by the window and prayed the man wouldn’t get on this train.
“All a-b-o-a-r-d,” the familiar words came, and the train inched backward. She’d only have one more change to make, in Grand Forks. Relief made her almost dizzy. The rude man hadn’t gotten on this train. She stood to place her coat in the rack above and glanced around the half-full car. No, he wasn’t there.
But at the other end near the cast-iron stove, the two drunks were tippling their bottles and laughing as if they’d heard the best joke ever.
At least they were at the other end of the car.
The train stopped, the wheels and brakes screeching, then at a shout from someone outside, it began to pull forward. Within minutes they were passing between brick buildings and the backyards of houses with wash hanging on lines and children playing under the shade trees. Soon they were out in open farmland.
The noise from the inebriated men grew, the laughter taking an uglier tone.
“Tickets, tickets, everyone.” The dark-skinned conductor came through the door between the cars and made his way down the aisle.
Just as Augusta handed him her ticket, a shout came from the rear. A shot rang out. A woman screamed.
“Oh!” The conductor headed for the fracas. “Stop that! Now you . . .”
Augusta glanced down at the floor to find her ticket lying there. Breathing a prayer of thanks, she scooped it up and put it back in her reticule.
Drunken fights on the train, a man who accosted her, what was this world coming to? Another man in uniform bustled down the aisle, and the fray settled down again. Ah, the stories I have about my trip to North Dakota. At least there wasn’t a storm at sea like Carl and Roald had endured. The ocean part of her journey, though long, seemed almost commonplace compared to this portion.
Her stomach made hungry noises again. She sighed and shook her head. She hadn’t even taken time to find something to eat. Surely there would be a stop soon where she could buy some bread or something.
At least she wouldn’t die of hunger in the next twelve hours, and there was water in a jug by the necessary. Mor would have a good meal ready when she got to Blessing. It was over two years since she’d seen her mother. And Hjelmer, her baby brother—was it really six years since she’d seen him? He’d be a man now, not that he hadn’t thought he was when he left home.
Thoughts of her family took over her mind. Memories of her two brothers, Roald and Carl, who died the second winter in Dakota Territory, and her baby sister, Katy, last winter. So many gone now, Far included. Home had seemed desolate without him and Mor there. That had made the leaving easier. She retrieved her coat from the rack and folded it to use as a pillow against the window. Warm as it was, she didn’t need it as a blanket. In the morning she would be in Grand Forks, and then it was only an hour or two to Blessing. Almost there. She glanced out the window again, but the moon hadn’t come up. A light shone once in a great while. Otherwise complete darkness hid the land.
So huge a country. One could surely get lost easily.
Chapter 6
Ipswich
September 1
Kane studied the black clouds mounding on the western horizon. They looked like rain, but then so had many others, and right now with harvest in full swing, the farmers didn’t want any rain. Wasn’t that just the way of it?
He should have been at home helping to cut and bind the oats. Instead, in another hour or two he’d be in Ipswich, and a couple hours after that, if the train was on time, he’d meet up with his soon-to-be bride. He’d left the ranch before daybreak the day before and had camped at a spring off the road, the same place he camped every time he came to town.
His stomach knotted. Would she be happy here? Well, she surely wouldn’t if mountains were important to her. While he’d heard of sky-piercing mountains out to the west, mountains that carried snow all year, he’d never been farther than Pierre, and that only once. He clucked his team into a trot. Be good if he could beat the rain to town. No sense appearing like a drowned rat.
But like the blackbirds flitting and singing from the brown cattails in the dried-up swamp, his mind took wing and dreamed ahead to the woman arriving on the train. How would he recognize her?
You’re a sorry sort, he scolded himself. Borrowin’ trouble like that. Just how many women traveling alone are going to get off that train looking around for someone to meet them? When the team lagged, he clucked them up again, this time flicking the reins so they knew he meant business. Dust bloomed from under their feet and added another layer to his boots propped against the footboard. He’d better give them a rubdown too, or his new clothes wouldn’t look quite so good.
Again he shook his head. “Why in tarnation am I buying new? These are all still hanging together.” He studied the patch on one knee and the about-to-need-one state of the other.
The horses swiveled their ears to listen and kept up their steady pace. One snorted and tossed his head, adding to the jingle and squeak of the harness. One wheel groaned, reminding Kane that they needed greasing. Always something to fix. And if he weren’t home harvesting, he should be home repairing machinery and fixing fences.
“Instead, I’m about to get married.” He sent a glance heavenward. “I sure do hope you know what you’re doing here. Why did I let myself get talked into this?”
But he knew why. The letter that he found of his mother’s, written years earlier, had laid a load of guilt bigger than any hay load he could haul. Then Lone Pine and Morning Dove had started in. It seemed that everybody who ever had a wife and baby wished them off on everyone else. Even in his Bible reading it seemed that everyone had children, lots of children if the lists were accurate. The patriarchs needed sons to pass on their land to, and so did he. He reminded himself tha
t though the Bible didn’t list all the daughters born, he could have those too. Girls were good for helping their ma about the house and all. At least, so he’d heard, never having had a sister of his own. Being an only son, an only child, had never seemed a hardship to him, but he knew his mother had wished for more children.
A meadowlark trilled and another answered. Were they a pair? The Bible said God made mates for his creatures; otherwise everything would have died out long before. And now it was his turn.
He swallowed again. Must be the dust that was making his throat so dry.
Heat lightning slashed the approaching black clouds, but there didn’t look to be any rain falling. A breeze kicked up, bending the black-eyed Susans that frilled the roadside. Sunflowers shuddered and grasses bowed. A crow’s black shadow crossed the road ahead of them, his raucous cry grating on nerves already stretched with apprehension. It almost sounded as if the bird was laughing—or warning him.
“Good a reason to laugh as any. A man marrying a woman he ain’t never seen.” Maybe he should have taken his mother’s advice and traveled back to Pennsylvania, where his folks came from, and looked up some of his relatives. They might have had friends and neighbors who knew of a comely young woman wanting to go west.
“Yes, they might have. But this is what you did, and this is what you live with.” The horses snorted again, their ears twitching to pick up all the sounds, including his voice.
What will it be like to have someone to talk with in the evening? Someone to wake up to in the morning? He rubbed his hand over his face. Better leave that part of thinking alone.
A rider on horseback nodded and tipped his hat as they met. Off to the east, he could see a dust cloud. Must be another wagon on the way to town. Dogs barked from a farm alongside the road, a twolane track where wheels had worn off the grass, showing the way to the boxlike house and white hipped-roof barn. Like most places, the available money was spent on the barn, not the house.
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