“Better, for now anyway. You go back to sleep.”
“I’d rather be here. You go on.” He took the chair that Morning Dove vacated and, leaning his arms on the bed, watched Augusta breathe. Yes, she was better. He could both see and hear it. Maybe it hadn’t gone into pneumonia after all. Or the influenza that took so many lives, or the wasting disease of his mother. But then, maybe God had just worked another miracle.
He smoothed her hair back from the broad forehead and laid his fingers against her cheek. How could he possibly care so much so quickly? The thought of burying her up on the hill with his mother and father ripped his heart like the sharpest of knives. Was joy to come with the morning?
Chapter 12
St. Paul
September 4
Where in the world could Augusta have gone?
Hjelmer stared around the bustling train station in St. Paul wishing he were anywhere but here. The high-domed ceiling and marble floors and walls echoed with the cries of babies, boarding announcements, and hawkers calling their wares. The constant screech of unoiled train wheels made his ears hurt, even though he was used to the ring of the blacksmith’s hammer.
He wanted to clap his hands over his ears. Instead, he walked over to the wall that posted the train schedules and looked to see when the trains arrived from Chicago. After jotting down arrival times, he checked the date his sister should have arrived in St. Paul and headed for the ticket booths.
“Where to?” the man asked, barely looking up.
“I have some questions.”
The man behind Hjelmer cleared his throat.
“Make it quick. These people need to catch their trains.”
“Who would I ask about a missing passenger?”
The agent nodded to the right. “That office right over there.”
“The one marked private?”
“That’s the one. Next?”
Hjelmer frowned at the man’s abruptness, and when the man behind him stepped forward, bumping him in the passing, Hjelmer shot him an indignant look. “Excuse me.” He dragged the words out to show his disgust and made his way to the door indicated.
“How can I help you?” asked an older woman with wire-rimmed glasses perched on the end of her nose.
“I hope you can. You see, my sister is missing.”
“Oh, my goodness. Please sit right down there, and I’ll see if Mr. Franklin can see you. How long has she been missing?”
“Four days.” It felt like forever.
Within minutes Hjelmer was ushered into the next office and began answering a barrage of questions. When he’d finished telling his story, the lodge-pole man with piercing eyes clasped his hands on his desk and leaned slightly forward.
“You’re sure she got as far as here?”
“Ja, her trunk came to Blessing, and it had been stamped through here.”
“Good. We know that much at least.”
“Here are the arrival times from Chicago.” Hjelmer laid his notes on the desk.
Franklin nodded and, pulling out a drawer, extracted some papers. “Here are the full schedules. We can see when she came in and what other trains were leaving about the same time as the St. Paul and Pacific left for Grand Forks. Somehow she must have gotten on the wrong train. Or . . .”
Hjelmer didn’t want to think about the possibilities of the or.
“We can check with the guards to see if any of them saw anything suspicious, though they would usually report that to me.”
Hjelmer looked at the grids on the paper, knowing that Franklin could decipher them much faster than he. “What I don’t see is how she could have gotten on the wrong train. Every time I’ve ridden one, and that’s been plenty lately, the conductor checks my ticket as to the destination. If she was on the wrong train, wouldn’t he put her off at the next station and send her back here?”
“You’d think so, but sometimes crazy things happen. And when one can’t speak English . . .” Franklin stopped and shook his head. “You wouldn’t believe the stories I could tell you. Shame the immigrants aren’t required to learn English before they come here. You should have told her.”
At that point Hjelmer could have cheerfully strangled his sister. “Oh, I told her, and so did the others, but you don’t know my sister.”
“Ah.” Franklin bent to studying his schedules. The silence lengthened, but Hjelmer kept himself from shifting on the chair so as not to distract this first man who’d offered to help. “All right. Far as I can figure, if she asked for the train to Blessing or Grand Forks, the two other trains waiting in the same area would have been one going south, ending in Ipswich, South Dakota, or the Northern Pacific heading for Fargo and parts west. End of the line there is Seattle in Washington Territory. She could have gotten on either one of those and gotten off at any stop along the way. If she lost her ticket or ran out of money or . . .” He paused, then leaned forward again. “I surely do hope you are a praying man, Mr. Bjorklund, because if the good Lord ain’t watching out for her, you got a mighty big heap of trouble.”
“Please, don’t remind me.” Hjelmer rubbed the end of his chin with one forefinger. “Any suggestion on how I should proceed?”
“Well, you could notify the police and turn in a missing persons report. You got a picture of her, by any chance?” When Hjelmer shook his head, Franklin continued. “Stick around here a couple of days, and you should be able to ask all the conductors, ticket agents, and baggage handlers if any of them might have seen her. Anything distinctive about her other than her speaking only Norwegian?”
“She is tall—five nine or ten—and she has blue eyes the color of mine. A family trait.”
“Heavy? Slender? Hair color?”
“Blond hair usually worn in a bun. Not really slender but not fat either, you know.” How did one describe a sister he hadn’t seen for so long? What if she had cut her hair?
Franklin was writing as fast as Hjelmer was talking. “Okay. Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll post this description in the sign-in area to see if we can trigger any memories, and I’ll give you a list of the men working that day. Then, if you want, you can wait down there by those trains and ask your questions when the trains arrive and leave.” He stood and extended his hand. “You’re not the first person to come looking for a lost person, and I’m sure you won’t be the last. Good luck, Mr. Bjorklund. And please, let me know what you find out.”
That evening after hours of questioning, Hjelmer sent a telegram to his mother.
No luck yet Stop Keep praying Stop Hjelmer
Chapter 13
Blessing
September 5
“I’ve written an answer to their letter. You know, the one about teaching the little deaf girl.” Kaaren crossed the cucumber patch with swift strides.
“And?” Ingeborg dropped another handful of cucumbers in her basket and stood, stretching the kinks out with her fists rubbing the small of her back.
“Hi, Tante Kaaren.” Astrid plunked her pickings in the pail beside her, her sunbonnet hanging down her back by its strings. With nimble fingers she searched the leaves for more of the right size. “Sammy’s sleeping.” She nodded to the blanket lying in the shade, a toddler sprawled in the middle.
“Thank you, Astrid, for watching him for me.” Kaaren handed the letter to Ingeborg. “See for yourself.”
Ingeborg took the letter from the envelope and pushed her sunbonnet off with the back of her grimy hand. “I’ll get it dirty.”
“No matter.” Kaaren looked around. “Where are the girls and Trygve?”
“Scrubbing cucumbers with Mrs. Rasmussen. I sent them to the well house where it was cooler.” Ingeborg read between comments. When finished, she smiled at her sister-in-law. “My land, your soddy is going to start a new life. Have you thought of a name for your school yet?” She reread a portion of the letter. “ ‘I will inform you as to when we will be taking students, and you can bring Margaret Louise to us.’ ”
“I’m thinking tha
t we should call it the Blessing School for the Deaf. This will indeed be a blessing for those who come. As you can see, Margaret Louise is ten years old. She’ll fit right into the regular school after some intensive help.” Kaaren nibbled her bottom lip. “But how can I call it a school when I have only one pupil?”
“Oh, I have me a feeling that God will send all you can handle to your door.” Ingeborg tapped the envelope on her forefinger. “You thought of sending a copy of the book you used to this girl’s folks?”
“That’s a good idea.” Kaaren took the letter back and put it in her bag. “Let me get an apron on, and I’ll set the vinegar water to boiling. You have the crocks all washed out?”
“And lined up in the cellar. We can fill them there.”
“Good. Penny sure was grateful for the butter and eggs and cheese. She asked if the boys had been hunting lately, hoping we would smoke geese again like last year. She says she can sell all we can supply.”
“Have they heard anything about Augusta?”
Kaaren shook her head. “Not a word. It’s like she disappeared in the smoke. I just wish there was more we could do to find her.” She shook her head again. “Poor Bridget.” A sigh accompanied the headshake. “Oh, she wondered if you had cheese for her too. I left her eggs and butter.”
“Soft but not cured.” Ingeborg bent back to her picking as Kaaren headed for the house. If only she could wear pants again. These skirts were always in the way. And what she wouldn’t give to go hunting herself. While the deer were nowhere near as plentiful as they used to be, the ducks and geese still half darkened the sky as they migrated south. They should be able to hang twenty or thirty at a time in the smokehouse. Good thing they would have extra down for more feather beds now with the new family here and Kaaren’s coming boarders.
“All done, Ma.” Astrid could barely hoist her bucket, she’d filled it so full.
“Good girl.” Ingeborg dropped the last of the cukes in her full basket and, picking up both basket and bucket, headed for the well house. “Thank you for picking so many.” She glanced at the rows of bending dill, heads heavy with seeds. What they didn’t need for the crocks, she’d hang to dry, both to use in the winter and to save for seed next year. The carrots she had kept over the winter and replanted for seed looked about ready to pick too.
She glanced up. Sure enough, the sun was straight up. Time for dinner, and it wasn’t on the table yet. With the men gone, she seemed to get a bit lax. “Let’s get these in to the others, and you can set the table for me.”
With Astrid helping with the bucket, they opened the door to the well house and set the bucket and basket inside. “Dinner in a few minutes,” she said to the group cleaning cucumbers and shook her head with a smile. “Look at how many you got done.” Scrubbed cucumbers filled a washtub.
“I done the most.” Trygve sloshed his hands in the water.
“Uh-uh.” The oldest Rasmussen boy, Thomas, shook his head. “My ma done the most.”
“Boys.” Slender to the point of emaciation, Elvira Rasmussen laid a hand on her son’s shoulder. “You both did good.”
“Me too, huh, Ma?” While Thomas was five, Sarah, at four, refused to be left behind.
Ingeborg wiped her brow with the corner of her apron. “Let me tell you, I’d rather be in here scrubbing than out there picking. Elvira, would you please bring in that jug of buttermilk when you come?” Ingeborg fetched the butter crock, which she handed to Astrid, and another of sour cream. “Think I’ll slice some of these cucumbers, and we’ll have them in sour cream. How does that sound?”
“Sounds heavenly.” Elvira laid a hand on her youngest—Baby, they called him—who had decided that splashing the wash water would make the time pass more quickly. “I can’t remember when we had so much good food to eat. Things were hard back in New York. That’s why we come west. Mr. Rasmussen says we will find a homestead out west. Can you believe free land?”
“Ja, well, you will work mighty hard for your free land.” She smiled at the woman on the stool. “But it’s worth every drop of sweat and aching muscle.” She reached up on a shelf for the soft cheese. “Four years since we proved up this piece. Blessing has come a long way since we homesteaded the first sections.”
Ingeborg held the door open for Astrid, and they headed for the house. In the days since the Rasmussens had arrived, she’d never heard that woman say more than three words at a time. What had gotten into her?
Good smells greeted them and the clang of a stove lid being set back in place.
Kaaren turned with a smile from checking the oven. “Good, I was about to call you. Astrid, you want to go ring the triangle so Mr. Rasmussen knows dinner is ready?”
Astrid set her crock on the table and dashed back out the door. While the ringing went on longer than usual, Kaaren and Ingeborg only exchanged smiles. Astrid did everything with a boisterous enthusiasm that frequently had to be shushed. If Mr. Rasmussen didn’t hear that summons, he was hard of hearing for sure.
As soon as everyone was seated, Ingeborg nodded to Trygve to say the blessing. He led the Norwegian prayer in a clear voice, and while some of the smaller ones stumbled over the words, the amen rang loud and clear.
When everyone’s plates were filled, they felt as if it had been days, instead of hours, since they ate.
A few minutes later Mr. Rasmussen mopped his gravy with a slice of bread and accepted a refill of coffee. “I was thinking that if maybe my family could stay here, I would go on out west and see if I can locate land for a homestead. Elvira here would help you around the place in exchange for their food.”
Ingeborg looked up to see a terrified-rabbit look in Elvira’s eyes before she looked down at her plate. “I guess I was hoping you would decide to stay on for a while. There’s plenty of work for you here, and it would give you a chance to get back on your feet a bit.”
The man nodded. “I appreciate that, ma’am, and don’t think I’m not grateful for what you’ve done for me and mine, but if I don’t get out there, all the good land might be gone.”
Ingeborg kept the rumors she had heard of the land quality to herself. More rocks than soil in some places, she’d heard, and less rainfall than here in the Red River Valley too. “Of course you have to do what you think best, but . . .” She spread jam on a piece of bread for Trygve while Kaaren made sure that Samuel got more of the meal in his mouth than on his head. She glanced up in time to catch the stare that Mr. Rasmussen sent to Grace and Sophie.
“They’re talking, Mr. Rasmussen,” Kaaren said gently. “Grace cannot hear, and we are all learning to use our hands to talk with Grace. We make letters with our fingers, called signs, and spell out the words.”
“Well, I’ll be. . . .” He looked back at Kaaren. “Did you make that up, the signs, I mean?”
“No, I was given a book.”
Grace laughed at something Sophie signed to her.
“She really can’t hear? Not a thing?”
“Nothing. She was born deaf.”
“But . . . but she seems so bright, so happy.” The look of disbelief he wore made Ingeborg want to roll her eyes. As if there were something wrong with Grace’s mind just because she couldn’t hear.
“Well, I better get back to the field. You want I should take the oxen out now?” he asked.
“Yes, please. And give what I said some thought, would you? I know my husband would be glad to have you working here through the winter. And maybe when Hjelmer, my brother-in-law, gets back, he could send out some feelers for land for you. He’s the banker here in Blessing and our local representative to the Constitutional Congress.”
Rasmussen pushed back his chair, belched, and stood. “Thank you for the good meal, and yes, I’ll think about it.”
When Elvira had taken the children who didn’t go down for naps back out to finish scrubbing the cucumbers, Kaaren and Ingeborg sat back down at the table with a second cup of coffee.
“If he takes her west, she won’t make it through t
he winter. Looks like the wind would blow right through her.”
“Maybe he would go later, find a place, and then move out there in the spring.” Kaaren dunked her cookie in her coffee. “In the meantime, we can get some meat on her bones. You think as pale as she is, she might be carrying?”
Ingeborg shook her head. “I sure hope not. She said she lost one just before they set out, and the baby before that died after living only a week. She doesn’t look strong enough to carry another.” Jealousy, sharp and hard, stabbed through her. Why was it that other women had baby after baby and she hadn’t conceived since Astrid was born?
Lord, it’s just not fair.
Chapter 14
The Ranch
September 6
“Augusta, do you think you could eat something?”
The voice sounded as though it came from across a wide and deep valley, like those between the mountains of home. If only she knew what he said, for it was a man’s voice. Something smelled delicious, so she sniffed again. She could see light through her eyelids, but opening her eyes seemed to take more strength than she had at the moment. But like an obedient baby bird, she opened her mouth at the touch of a spoon. Whatever it was, it tasted as good as it smelled.
After the fourth or fifth spoonful, she commanded her eyes to open, and this time they did more than flutter. She’d been right. The sun was shining in the window. Her gaze traveled around the room and stopped at the man leaning forward with another spoonful of the broth she’d by now identified as chicken. Sherry, that’s what his eyes reminded her of, what little bit she’d had of it in her life. But dusting the bottles at one of the houses she’d worked in had let her know something of the world of drink. She opened her mouth without prompting.
Now, why in the world was he sitting here feeding her? Had she been that sick? Had he been caring for her all along? Vague memories surfaced of soothing voices, cool cloths, and some rank liquid that seemed to ease the coughs. She was sure she remembered a woman’s voice too.
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