An hour later, with Hattie lying down for a nap and Suzanne doing the same, Inga stood in the large, airy kitchen with Martha. Despite the icy wind buffeting the Bridger house, this room seemed warm and friendly. It wasn’t just the fire burning in the stove. It had more to do with the white lace curtains framing the three windows and the yellow gingham tablecloth covering the table. She wondered if it was Hattie or her daughter-in-law who had made them.
“D’ya know how to cook?” Martha asked with a fair amount of skepticism, interrupting Inga’s musings.
“Ja.” She smiled as she glanced down at the child. “My mamma taught me when I was no more than your age. You are five, ja?”
“I’ll be six come January.”
“So old already? And what have you learned to cook? Maybe you make pancakes for your uncle and grandmamma. Ja?”
Martha frowned, causing the freckles across the bridge of her nose to blend together. “Grandma doesn’t let me be ’round the stove. She says I might get burned.”
“But you can do other things. Come. Show me the root cellar. We do not want your uncle returning and finding nothing to eat.”
“Oh, he won’t be in for a long time yet. Lotsa chores t’do.” Martha opened the cellar door, then looked over her shoulder. “You ever lived on a farm?”
“Nej.” Inga picked up the lamp on the table and followed after the girl. “We have always lived in town.”
“In Uppsala?”
They started down the steep steps into the cellar.
“Nej,” Inga replied again. “I grew up in Sweden. We have been in America only a short while.”
“You like it here?”
“Ja, very much.”
Martha stopped at the bottom of the stairs. “You gonna be Uncle Dirk’s wife?”
Dumbfounded, Inga couldn’t form a reply.
“Grandma says he needs one.”
Swallowing, she said, “I did not come to be your uncle’s wife. I am here to help care for your grandmamma and you and your sister.”
Martha seemed to forget her question as quickly as she’d asked it, but it lingered in Inga’s mind as she selected potatoes, onions, and carrots for their supper.
You gonna be Uncle Dirk’s wife?
What would it be like, she wondered, to be married? To spend every day of her life preparing meals in a bright kitchen like the one upstairs? To listen for a man’s footsteps as he returned from his chores, his broad shoulders wearied from his hard labors?
As she climbed the stairs, Martha in front of her, she thought of her shipboard friend, Beth Wellington. Only her name wasn’t Wellington any longer. Beth had a husband now. Beth had said she would never marry, but now she was Mrs. Steele, and in May, she would have a child of her own.
Perhaps…
Nej, Inga mentally chided herself before the wishful thought could even form. She shouldn’t hope for such a thing to happen to her. There was one enormous difference between Inga and her friend. Beth was beautiful. Extraordinarily so. She had been sought after in England. Aboard ship, she had drawn more than a few looks of interest. It was no wonder she’d married so soon after her arrival in Montana. What man wouldn’t want a woman like Beth?
Inga, in contrast, was not beautiful. Her face was no more than ordinary, and when compared to her pretty sisters or the exquisite Beth, she was rendered plain. She was also much too tall for most men’s liking. Pappa said she could be too headstrong and willful—not the most feminine of qualities—and her sisters said she was much too forthright and sensible for her own good. They told her she needed to learn to flatter and flirt.
She gave her head a small shake as she set the vegetables on the counter. This was unlike her, having such thoughts, and she didn’t much care for them. Long ago, she had learned to accept herself the way she was. She wasn’t going to start wishing for the moon now.
With more vigor than required, she primed the pump, then filled the sink with water. Glancing over her shoulder, she asked Martha, “Do you have a stool to stand on?”
“Yeah.” She pointed. “Over there.”
“If you bring it here, you could help me wash the vegetables.”
Martha immediately did so, carrying the small step stool over to the sink and setting it on the floor beside Inga. As she stood on it, she looked up and said, “You’re real tall for a girl, ain’tcha?”
“Ja.”
“My ma was real purty. She had red hair just like mine and Suzanne’s.”
Inga paused and looked down at the child. “Do you remember your mamma?”
Martha nodded, then tears suddenly swam before her eyes as she shook her head. “Not really,” she whispered.
Inga’s heart squeezed painfully.
“I got a picture of her and Pa, but it don’t show that her hair’s red.” She sniffed. “I sure wish it did.”
“It must have been very beautiful,” Inga said as she lightly touched Martha’s hair, “if it was like yours.”
“You s’pose I’m awful ’cause I can’t remember her better than I do?”
Inga cupped Martha’s cheek with one hand and leaned toward her. “Nej, I do not think so. I believe such things are meant to fade so our hearts do not hurt so much. It is enough to remember that you loved your mamma and pappa.”
Unnoticed, Dirk watched from the dim hallway. He saw Inga tenderly caress Martha’s cheek and heard her comfort the child with words. He was grateful, for he never knew what to do or say in these situations. He always felt helpless. Too often he realized he was a miserable substitute for their father.
Inga gave Martha a peck on the cheek, then straightened and returned to her work. Martha quickly did the same, her tears forgotten, the look of sorrow erased from her face. It seemed this minister’s daughter knew something about children.
During the trip back to the farm, Dirk had silently questioned the wisdom of bringing her here. Inga didn’t look strong enough to handle the work that would be required of her. But Ma seemed to have taken to her right off, and so had the children. He reckoned that was all that mattered.
“I wonder if…” Inga began as she turned toward the table. Her voice died when she saw Dirk standing in the shadows. “Oh…Mr. Bridger…I did not hear you.”
“Just came in to check on Ma.”
“She is asleep.”
“Yeah. I know. I already looked in.”
Inga touched his niece’s shoulder. “Martha and I are preparing supper.”
“So I see.”
For just a moment, he felt warm inside. Almost content. It was an odd, unexpected sensation, a foreign one.
A blush rose in Inga’s cheeks as he continued to stare at her. “Is there something you needed, Mr. Bridger?”
He gave his head a quick shake, and the feeling fled. “No.” He spun on his heel and strode down the hall.
Cold air slammed into him as he stepped outside. He shivered and hunched inside his coat. Blast! How he hated this weather! How he hated this farm! He wasn’t meant to be here, stuck in this life.
He stepped off the porch and headed toward the barn, running over the chores he still needed to finish before milking time. An endless list of chores, because no matter how much he got done, there would be other things added to the list tomorrow. And the next day. And the next. And the next…
Feelings of guilt returned. This farm had been his brother’s dream. Heaven only knew why. As far as Dirk was concerned, no man in his right mind would want to be a dairy farmer. But John had loved everything about this life. He’d put everything he had into it. He had planned on staying right here with Margaret and their daughters. He had wanted more children. He’d hoped for a son—or perhaps several sons—who would work the farm with him and inherit it one day.
Now John was dead. There would be no sons, no more children. His life had ended while he was yet a young man, and his dreams had ended with him.
Inside the barn, Dirk sank onto a bale of straw, cursing softly. His dreams had ended, too,
with John’s death, and it seemed the bitterness grew sharper with each passing month. And the bitterness only served to increase his guilt. After all, he was alive and his brother was dead. He would only have to stay until the girls were raised, then he could leave. John didn’t have any more chances.
But Suzanne wasn’t yet four. It could be another fourteen or fifteen years before he could leave Iowa. He would be in his forties by then. Who was he kidding? He’d be too old to start life over again. The world was changing with amazing swiftness. Things would be different in fifteen years. It would be the twentieth century by then!
He leaned forward and rested his forehead in his hands, his elbows braced on his thighs. He was a lousy son, a lousy brother, a lousy uncle. His ma was ailing, and his nieces needed love and attention, and all he could think about were the things he’d wanted, the places he’d counted on seeing—the Orient, the Swiss Alps, the jungles of darkest Africa—wherever the winds of chance might have blown him.
“Mr. Bridger?”
He straightened abruptly, surprised Inga had entered the barn without his hearing the door open.
“I brought you some coffee and a sandwich. I thought you might need something, since supper will be late.”
He wasn’t hungry, but he did recognize her thoughtfulness. “Thanks.” He rose to his feet and watched as she walked toward him, her movements fluid and willowy, like a tree swaying in a gentle breeze.
It had been a long time since he’d had the opportunity or the energy to notice the way a woman moved. It surprised him that he’d noticed Inga Linberg. His preference had always run toward dark-haired women with eyes to match. Fiery little things like the gal in Montana he’d been with the night before he received the telegram about John. Women with a thirst for life who didn’t want to tie a man down. Certainly not the saintly daughter of some minister.
He met Inga’s gaze as she stopped in front of him, and once again he suspected she knew exactly what he’d been thinking. He didn’t like the way that made him feel either. But then, it wasn’t his fault she’d been born tall and fair-haired, not to mention a minister’s daughter. And even if she were his type, he wouldn’t be interested. He didn’t want or need any more obligations or complications in his life.
“It is just cold beef, Mr. Bridger.” She handed him the tray, her gaze unwavering, her posture straight and her head held high and proud.
“Thanks.”
“Is there anything particular you would like me to do before supper is ready?”
“No.”
“Very well.” She turned to go.
“Miss Linberg?”
She looked back at him. “Ja?”
“Thanks for comin’ to help us.”
Her smile was tender, and it softened the sharp angles of her face. “Ingen orsak.” Apparently remembering herself, she repeated the words in English. “You are welcome, Mr. Bridger.” Then she walked out of the barn with the same long, sure steps that had carried her into it.
Wednesday, December 1, 1897
Uppsala, Iowa
My dear Beth,
I received your letter of one month ago and was delighted with your joyous news, as were my parents and sisters. I pray you will have an easy confinement.
I write to you with some surprising news of my own. I am not living at the parsonage at present. I have taken employment in the home of a dairy farmer, caring for his widowed mother, who is ill, and his young nieces, who lost their parents in an accident nearly two years ago. I had not had the opportunity to meet Mr. Bridger before this morning as he and his family do not attend Pappa’s church.
While you came to America knowing you would be a teacher in Montana, I have never imagined that I should be employed in any capacity other than as Pappa’s assistant. The decision to take employment surprised everyone, including me. I am certain my sisters never expected me to leave home, even in a temporary manner.
My employer seems an unhappy man, though I suppose that is not surprising, given the hardship the family has endured. Yet that he loves his mother and his nieces is evident. I feel he has a great capacity for kindness within him.
Hattie Bridger, his mother, is quite easy to like. I knew this the moment I met her. Although she does not say so, I suspect she suffers great pain for she moves with care and uncertain steps. But mostly it is weariness and worry I see in her face.
Not that anyone wouldn’t be wearied by her two granddaughters. Martha, who is nearly six, is a darling child, inquisitive and bright beyond her years. I think her mamma’s absence has left an emptiness in her heart that is hard to fill. I shall do my best to do so as long as I am able. Suzanne, who will celebrate her fourth birthday in January, is like all children her age. Active and imaginative. This I have already learned in just one day with the family. I think I shall have my hands full with little Suzanne, but I also think I shall grow to love her and her sister in no time at all.
I have begun work on your baby’s quilt. I hope to have it finished soon so you might receive it before the birth. I think you shall be pleased with it, for I have tried to tell the story of how you came to America, met Mr. Steele, and learned to love him. I have used not only what you told me on board the ship but your letters from Montana to create the quilt.
I think of you and our friend Mary so often, remembering the weeks we were together with great fondness.
You may write to me in care of the Bridger Farm, General Delivery, Uppsala, Iowa.
Affectionately, Inga Linberg
Three
Inga awakened to the sound of creaking boards. At first she thought it was only the never-ending wind continuing to assault the house. Then, as she grew more alert, she realized it was footsteps on the stairs she had heard.
“Äsch!” she muttered as she tossed aside the thick covering of blankets and sat up. How could she have overslept her first morning here? What would Dirk Bridger think of her?
Rising from the bed, she smacked her shin against a chair. She winced and swallowed a groan. To make matters worse, the bedroom was icy cold. Gooseflesh puckered on her arms and legs, and her teeth began to chatter before she could even light the lamp.
She made hasty work of her morning ablutions, dressing quickly and brushing her hair into a simple bun at the nape. Then, still shivering from the cold, she left her bedroom and hurried down the stairs.
A lamp burned brightly in the kitchen, and its light spilled into the hall, serving as a beacon for Inga. When she reached the doorway, she paused and looked about the room. Much to her relief and delight, blessed warmth emanated from the wood stove on the far wall. A pot gurgled and boiled on top of the stove, and already the enticing scent of brewing coffee was filling the room.
Her employer, with his back toward her, bent down and shoved another piece of wood into the fire. Afterward, he closed the black iron door, straightened, and turned. Stubble darkened his jaw and chin, his hair was mussed, and sleepiness lingered in his brown eyes. But none of it lessened his dark good looks.
All of this Inga realized in the instant before he noticed her standing there.
Dirk cocked an eyebrow. “You’re an early riser, I see, Miss Linberg.”
“Only reluctantly, Mr. Bridger,” she answered honestly. She entered the kitchen and stepped over to the stove. “I am sorry not to have your breakfast ready.”
He stifled a yawn, then grunted and said, “Too early to eat. It’s coffee I want at this time of day, and I can fix that myself.” He jerked his head toward the speckled blue pot on the stove. “Always do.”
Inga felt a sudden shyness as she looked into his eyes, realizing how close she was standing to him in her quest for warmth from the fire. Her heart did a funny little dance in her chest, and her mouth felt as dry as cotton.
“You’ll get used to how we do things around here quick enough, I reckon. Just ask Ma if you got questions.” He glanced once again at the coffee pot, which continued to rattle and shake as the water boiled inside.
Released from his gaze, Inga took a step backward, trying to still her racing pulse. She was surprised and more than a little unnerved by the way she reacted whenever she was near Dirk Bridger. One would think she was a silly schoolgirl instead of a mature woman of twenty-two years.
Dirk looked over his shoulder. “Join me?” he asked, lifting the pot with a towel around the handle.
She nodded. “Ja. Tack.” She gave her head a small shake, trying to clear her thoughts, then repeated in English, “Thank you.”
Dirk filled two mugs with coffee and carried them both to the table. “Sit here,” he said as he pulled out a chair. “It’s closest to the stove. You’ll be warm in no time.”
She forced a smile, feeling awkward that he had guessed her discomfort.
“House is always plenty cold when I first get up.” He walked around the table. “But cows don’t wait to be milked, no matter the weather.” He pulled out his own chair and sat down.
Inga did the same. Then she wrapped her hands around the mug and stared at the steam rising from the dark liquid within. Her sense of awkwardness increased as silence filled the room. She couldn’t think of a time when she’d been alone like this with a man—except her pappa, of course. It seemed somehow…intimate, the two of them seated at the kitchen table when the sun had yet to rise.
“Ma’s mighty grateful to have you here,” Dirk said, breaking the silence. “So am I.”
She felt a tiny skip in her heart. “I hope I will be of help to you all.”
“Already have been. Ma looked more rested at supper last night than I’ve seen her in a long spell.” He took a sip of coffee, then added, “You’re a good cook, too.”
“Thank you.” She lowered her gaze to the center of the table, feeling that wretched shyness again, along with a flush of pleasure.
Outside, the wind whistled around the corners of the house. Here in the kitchen, there was only the friendly sound of a crackling fire in the stove.
Inga lifted her gaze just enough to look at Dirk’s hands. Strong hands. Work-worn and callused. The hands of a man who labored long hours to provide for his family. Hands that could cradle little Suzanne with tenderness as he carried her, sleeping, to her bed as Inga had seen Dirk do last night.
Robin Lee Hatcher - [Coming to America 02] Page 3