Kane felt like slamming his hand on the table until the cups and saucers bounced. If only she would say what she wants. If only we could have a few minutes alone together . . . rather, a few years. He amended his thoughts. Many years, a lifetime. But she looks so sad. Why? Her brother has come, and now she will go to her mother, to that Blessing place she has been so insistent upon. He studied her covertly, making sure she was not aware of his gaze. But why is she so sad?
“The only thing I can see that should be done is for me to take the two women back to Blessing with me,” Hjelmer said in both languages so all could understand.
“But I have no money for a ticket,” Asta said with a humph.
“I assumed that might be the case.” Hjelmer glanced at Kane.
Kane clamped his hands together under the table and sealed his mouth. If he thinks I’m paying for her ticket, he can think again. I already paid for one fare clear from Norway, and by the looks of things, I will end up alone—again.
The silence stretched clear to Monday.
Hjelmer took in a deep breath. “That is settled, then. I will take Augusta home with me, and Miss Borsland can go on from St. Paul with us or stay there, as she wills.” He looked sideways to his sister. “Since I know that you have few belongings here, you will be ready in about ten minutes or so, right?”
Kane, help me! Augusta pleaded inwardly. But he was staring at the tablecloth as if counting every fiber. Augusta felt like a puffball ground under the heel of a boot. “Ja, I will be ready.” She spoke in Norwegian. Speaking in the little English she knew would take far more than she had to give at the moment.
Perhaps this was for the best after all. But why had God brought her clear out here only to take her away again? Silly, it wasn’t God who brought you out here; it was your own stupidity. She had to believe the inner voice was right. Once on her feet, she shot Kane another imploring look.
He refused to look up.
Augusta sucked in a deep breath and spun on her heel. If that was the way it was to be, so be it. Kane could . . . could—she couldn’t think of anything vile enough.
Within the prescribed ten minutes, she had gathered her things and stuffed them in her carpetbag, said good-bye to Morning Dove and Lone Pine, and climbed up onto the wagon seat, leaving the back for Miss Borsland. Or she could walk behind the wagon, for all Augusta cared.
Kane was nowhere to be seen.
“We should at least tell him thank you.” Hjelmer stared around at the barn and outbuildings.
“If you don’t turn the horses around right now, I will.” Talking was hard between teeth clenched so tight they ground together. Augusta’s jaw hurt.
“Mr. Bjorklund, I can’t possibly sit back here without even a blanket.”
Augusta leaped from the wagon seat, marched over to the barn, and tore a saddle blanket, so sweat-filled it stood alone, off a saddle. She threw it in the back of the wagon and climbed back up the wheel. “Now go.”
Hjelmer went.
Several hours down the road with neither woman speaking and the creak of the wheels getting monotonous, he turned to Augusta.
“Mor will be so happy to see you, I cannot even begin to tell you.” He waited. A crow made more talk than his sister did. He glanced in the back. Miss Borsland sat facing the rear, but the erect posture of her head told him in no uncertain terms that she wasn’t sleeping. Her arms crossed like bars over her chest only added to that certainty.
“Wait until you see her boardinghouse.”
Several miles passed between the clopping feet of the team.
“You won’t even recognize Thorliff.”
The crow announced their passing.
“Husband stealer.” The Norwegian words were hissed from the back of the wagon.
Augusta sat like a Viking queen frozen in a pillar of ice.
Chapter 33
Blessing
October 7
“They’re here!” Thorliff burst through the door of the boardinghouse.
“Glory be to God.” Bridget untied her apron and threw it over the hook by the door. It missed, but she didn’t bother to pick it up. “Mange takk, kjære himmelske Far.” She muttered the words over and over in Norwegian as she charged out the door. She didn’t even apologize to the man she nearly ran over.
Thorliff ran beside her, laughing and calling her to hurry.
She and Augusta fell into each other’s arms at the end of the station platform.
“I think they are happy.” Thorliff grinned up at his no-longer-so-much-taller uncle.
“Thank God for that.” Hjelmer sighed and rolled his eyes.
“Mr. Bjorklund.” Even the sound of her voice made him flinch by now. While Augusta had spoken no more than the barest of necessary words, Miss Borsland had more than made up for his sister’s silence. More than once he wished he’d bought her a ticket to Chicago or New York. He glared at his mother. It was all her fault. If she hadn’t taught him to be polite, this young woman would not now be calling his name and making the hair stand up on the back of his neck, let alone the backs of his hands.
“What should I do with my bags?”
Hjelmer kept a glare from adhering to his face only by the utmost strength of character. “Thorliff, would you be so kind as to help Miss Borsland with her bags? Take them to the boardinghouse, if you will.”
Thorliff looked up at his uncle again, a question mark arching his eyebrows. “Will she be staying?” He kept his voice low so only they could hear.
“That is up to your bestemor.”
“Yes, sir.” But clearly from the look on his face, Thorliff did not understand. But then, as he’d learned more than once, adults were frequently hard to understand.
“I’m going home to my wife.”
“Yes, sir, but you better not look for her at the store. She’s out at our house.”
“And why, pray tell, is she out at your house?” Hjelmer could feel the heat start in his middle and work its way up. All this time away and his wife doesn’t even have the decency to be here to meet him. She’s out gallivanting around the countryside while I chase all over half of America looking for my sister. All because my mother made me go.
Hjelmer settled his fedora squarely on his head. “Thank you, Thorliff, now please go see to Miss Borsland.” Pounding his feet on the dirt street, Hjelmer set off for the livery to saddle his horse.
Thorliff watched him go, shaking his head. He shrugged and turned to the young woman, also staring after the marching man.
“God dag. I am Thorliff Bjorklund, and I will help you with your bags.” He tipped his porkpie hat with two fingers.
“Mange takk.” She corrected herself. “Thank you. I am Miss Asta Borsland.” She again looked off at Hjelmer, who was now sliding open the door to the barn.
“I will take you to my bestemor’s boardinghouse.” Thorliff spoke English now, but slowly, watching to see comprehension reach her eyes. At her nod, he picked up both her suitcases, then bobbed his head for her to follow him.
They passed Bridget and Augusta without a word.
Like a dam that breaks and floods until all the water behind it is emptied, Augusta couldn’t stop crying. Her mother patted her shoulder, hugged her again, and murmured mother sounds, but still Augusta cried on. She drenched her mother’s shoulder. She drenched both of their handkerchiefs. Even the front of her dark wool jacket wore the darker stains of tears.
Every time she started to dry up, she hiccuped and tried to stem the flood. To no avail.
“Come, Augusta, come with me, and I will pour you a good cup of coffee, and we will talk as long as you need.”
Augusta let herself be led across the street to the boardinghouse, guided as if she were blind or feebleminded. Both of which were appropriately descriptive at the time.
Goodie took one look at the red-eyed young woman, whose hair had escaped the bun to hang around her face, and tsked her way to the stove to pull the coffeepot forward. She rattled the grate and adde
d several chunks of wood to the firebox.
Eulah pushed the rocking chair nearer the stove and guided Augusta to sit in it. “Sit yoself heah an’ rest while ah gets a wet cloth fo yo’ eyes.”
Cosseted and clucked over, Augusta sniffled and hiccuped. She wiped her eyes again, nodding her gratitude for a clean dish towel to replace the sodden handkerchiefs. Finally she leaned her head back against the chair and sniffed again. “I-I’m sorry, Mor. I don’t know what came over me.” Another hiccup forced a tear through the sieve of her eyelashes. “You know me. I never cry like this.”
“Ja, that is true.” Bridget handed her daughter a cup of steaming hot coffee. “Drink this and you will feel better. Then you can tell me the whole story from when you left home until now.”
The telling took more than an hour. While Augusta talked and Bridget both listened and nodded, asking questions in all the right places, supper preparations went on around them. Goodie took Miss Borsland up to a room and informed her when the meal would be ready. Thorliff headed home on Jack the mule after helping Miss Borsland with her bags. Eulah kept the coffee coming.
When the river of tears trickled down to a stream and then to a stop, Augusta sighed, her shoulders dropping and her head feeling as if it weighed forty pounds. Her neck could barely hold it up. She laid her head from side to side, then after dropping it forward to her chest, sighed again.
“So now what do I do?” Augusta asked her mor.
Bridget patted her daughter’s hand. “I do not know. There must be a way to get out of the marriage, I would think. That is, if you want to?” Her snowy brows met in a question.
“I don’t know what I want.” Liar. The little voice had come with her, for certain, since she left the ranch. But it had been unusually silent.
Bridget braced her hands on her knees and pushed herself to her feet. “Ja, well, I know what you need, and that is for certain sure. You need a bed and maybe a long hot bath first. There will be supper after that or breakfast in the morning should you sleep all night. Everything looks better in the morning.”
Augusta nodded. “Are you sure you have room for me?”
Bridget patted Augusta’s cheek. “You forget, I own the place. I can put whoever I want in my rooms.”
“But I don’t want to take the place of a paying guest.”
“Gussie, when I built this place, I built a room for you, for I knew you would come to help me.” Bridget took the cup and saucer from her daughter. “Besides, your trunk is already there, and your things are in the drawers and on the hooks just waiting for you.”
From her mother, the childhood name sounded safe and familiar, even though she hadn’t allowed anyone else to use it for years. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that it had been some time since she had food and the coffee needed an accompaniment. “Could I please have a slice of bread or something? I didn’t feel much like eating on the train.”
“Bless your heart, of course.” Bridget started to retrieve a loaf of bread, but Eulah took the knife from her, and after slicing both bread and cheese, along with some leftover ham, she set the plate in Augusta’s lap.
“Unless yo wants to come to de table?” she asked, motioning to the table.
Augusta smiled up into the dark eyes and shook her head. “Here is fine. The fire feels good, and I might never leave this chair.”
Bridget returned with a glass of milk. “Here, this too will help. This is Eulah. She helps here, along with Lemuel, her son. Goodie Wold is turning the meat on the other stove.”
“Glad to meet you finally.” Goodie waved her fork in the air.
“And you will meet Ilse later. She lost her parents on the trip over, so she came out here with us. She takes care of the upstairs.”
While she ate, they filled her in on the workings of the boardinghouse and the latest happenings in Blessing, at the same time going about their chores to get the meal ready. When Goodie pulled three apple pies from the oven, the cinnamon-perfumed air made Augusta almost smile.
“Oh, this feels so much like home.” Augusta stood and took her plate and cup to the dishpan on the back of one of the stoves. “I think I’ll pass on that bath for now. I’d drown falling asleep in the water.”
“Come then, I’ll take you to your room.” Bridget pointed out the dining room and the parlor on their way up the stairs. She told who lived in which room, and at the end of the hall, she opened a room that was already dim from the dusk falling outside. She lighted the lamp with a spill from her own and set them both on the dresser.
“Mor, this is beautiful.” Augusta admired the white curtains at the windows, the braided rag rug, the nine-patch quilt with all its brightly colored squares. “Are all the rooms this nice?”
“Most of them. I’ve had lots of help, and with that new Singer sewing machine, why I can’t tell you how much easier it is to make the things I need.” While she talked, she hung up her daughter’s jacket and knelt to help remove her boots.
“Mor, I can undress myself.” Augusta unbuttoned her skirt and let it drop, standing still in her petticoats and chemise.
“Here.” Bridget pulled open a drawer in the plain oak dresser that Uncle Olaf had made and pulled out one of Augusta’s nightdresses, made of pink-flowered flannel and trimmed around the neck and sleeves with white lace. She held it up and, when Augusta bent her head, dropped the rose-scented garment in place.
“Ah, my own things.” She sniffed the sleeve. “And rose sachets even. Mor . . .” Tears filled her eyes again. “You will spoil me.”
“Let me worry about that. You are my daughter come home, and I think we will throw a party.”
Augusta sank down on the edge of the bed where Bridget had pulled back the quilt and sheet. “I’ll never be able to thank you enough.”
“Since when is there thanks enough in a family?” Bridget lifted the covers for her daughter to tuck her feet under. “Now you just sleep until you are rested. And if you need anything, you pull that rope over there. Ilse will come.”
“Mange takk.”
“Velbekomme.”
Augusta was asleep before her mother closed the door.
“She knew I was coming home today,” Hjelmer muttered as he saddled the horse. “You’d think she’d be here to at least meet my sister.” He tightened the cinch and led the animal out into the westerly sun. He’d thought of checking in at the store but knew if Anner caught him, he’d want to discuss everything that had gone on since Hjelmer left. And Anner talked slow.
Instead he waved at Sam, busy at the smithy, shouted, “I’ll be back soon,” and kicked his horse into a ground-devouring lope. Here he had so much to tell Penny he was about to burst, and she wasn’t even home.
He met her returning in the buckboard.
Even from a distance she recognized him and waved her widebrimmed dark felt hat in greeting. He swung the horse in beside the wagon. She is so beautiful. Why isn’t she at home? What is so important out at Ingeborg’s that she had to leave the day I was coming home? While his thoughts churned, Penny pulled the team to a halt, wrapped the reins around the brake handle, and stood up, her arms wide in welcome.
“You better be careful. They could jerk, you know.” His voice came out more gruffly than he’d planned.
Penny froze. Her chin raised a bit, one eyebrow cocked. She sat back down on the seat and gathered her reins. Hat beside her on the board bench, she clucked the horses forward.
Hjelmer knew he’d gone too far.
“I missed you at the store.”
No response. She clucked the team into a fast trot.
“Well, I guess you don’t care much about my trip, then.” Watching her face, he knew he should keep his mouth closed, but the words kept coming.
“Did the crates for the windmills come?”
That eyebrow went higher.
“Well, did they?” If his mor heard him, she’d wallop him for sounding like a spoiled child. Why is she being so stubborn? You’d think she’d be glad to see me,
much as I’ve been gone.
Penny slowed the team to a walk. She kept her eyes straight forward, but since there was no sun, only clouds on the western horizon, the narrowed eyes weren’t squinting against the light.
“They’d be large crates, hard to miss.”
Penny turned her head, gave him the look she reserved for riffraff, and straightened her shoulders.
“Well, fine, if ’n you can’t be any more talkative than this, I’ll see you at home.” He kicked his horse back into a lope without looking over his shoulder. Her “men!” sounded somewhat like a swear word, at least if he heard it right.
“You find yo missus?” Sam asked when Hjelmer swung off his mount.
“Ja.”
“Oh.” Sam went back to pumping the bellows, bringing the iron bar in the coals to an incandescent white, separated from the black by a glowing red band. The smell of hot iron and burning coke filled the shanty.
Hjelmer stripped the saddle off his horse and led the animal into the stall, where he fussed with removing the bridle and buckling the halter in place.
From inside the barn he couldn’t see or hear if Penny was close. If she wanted a fight—so be it.
Don’t let the sun go down on your anger. Penny could hear her tante Agnes’s voice as if she were sitting on the wagon seat right beside her.
She heard it again later as she set a plate of food before her husband, when she would rather have slammed it and gladly watched the gravy bounce into his lap.
And she heard it that night when she crawled into bed after banking the coals, filling the reservoir, putting the cat out, checking on the rising sourdough, and hanging his coat on the hook by the door. While he tried to sound as if he were asleep, she knew better. Besides, he never slept that close to the edge of the bed and on his side.
That was her style.
She sighed. This was no good. She had so much to tell him, and he was acting like—she knew it wasn’t proper to think of one’s husband as acting like a little boy, but that was what it seemed.
“Hjelmer.”
A fake snore answered her.
Blessing in Disguise Page 26