She returned the smile, took hold of his hand and squeezed. “Ja, I know you will. Now go home, Karl. Go back to your bride.”
This time there was a bit of youthful cockiness in his grin. “Tell Herr Bridger I look forward to meeting him.” Then he hurried to the buggy, sprang onto the seat, and lifted the reins. In a moment, he was on his way.
Inga waited until her pappa’s buggy had turned onto the main road before she entered the house. It was surprisingly tidy, she thought as she wandered from the living room into the kitchen, her gaze sweeping over all the familiar items that filled each room. She wouldn’t have thought a girl Astrid’s age would be so thorough in her cleaning. At the parsonage, Astrid had always…
Inga froze in midstep. Her heart nearly stopped, too.
Astrid had been at the parsonage that morning to welcome Thea and Karl home. But Astrid couldn’t have known they were coming. Why had she been there? Maybe she’d been homesick. Or maybe she was visiting for the day. Dirk had said he would be back tomorrow to see Inga. Margaret’s cousin—what was Mrs. Trent’s first name?—had probably volunteered to watch the girls.
Inga left the kitchen and walked quickly to Hattie Bridger’s old bedroom. Nothing was out of place. No luggage was in sight. Her heart began to beat a little faster as she hurried toward the stairs and climbed to the second floor. She checked all three bedrooms. There was nothing in any of them to indicate either Astrid or the Trents had been at the Bridger farm.
She forced her racing heart to slow as she squared her shoulders in determination. She wasn’t going to slip back into the doubts and fears. She wasn’t going to live that way any longer.
Still, despite her resolve to be calm and patient, the hours of afternoon moved slowly. Inga lost track of the number of times she went to the door to stare down the road, waiting for the wagon to appear.
Where are you, Dirk?
Snippets of memories played in her head. Dirk’s expression when Martha had entered his bedroom on Saint Lucia’s Day morning. The snowball fight when they’d gone looking for an evergreen tree to brighten Hattie’s last Christmas. Dirk’s proposal of marriage. The night they’d stood before the mirror and he’d told her she was pretty. The tenderness of his touch. The sweetness in his kisses. The moment she’d realized she was pregnant with his child. Dirk climbing the maple tree. Dirk pushing her in the swing.
Dirk…
Her life in Sweden had been one of familiar routine. Inga had welcomed the adventure of coming to America. She had reveled in it, like a starving woman at a banquet table. Once in Uppsala, she had longed for another adventure. Dirk’s need of help had seemed an answer to that longing.
But then she had fallen in love, and she had let fear seep into her heart. Fear of the day the adventure would end. Except, how could it end, when life itself was the adventure? She wondered how she had failed to see that before now.
She longed for Dirk to hurry home; she had so much to tell him.
“Are you certain you won’t change your mind?” Allison asked above the hiss and whoosh of the waiting train.
“I’m sure,” Dirk answered firmly.
The woman glanced at the girls, each with a hand clasped by her uncle. “But you cannot raise them alone. What if their aunt never—”
“My wife’s gonna be home tomorrow.”
Allison must have seen that further argument was useless. With tears in her eyes, she bent to give Martha and Suzanne each a kiss good-bye.
As she did so, her husband said, “This doesn’t mean we’re going to be strangers, Mr. Bridger. We’ll be back to visit.”
“And you’ll be welcome.” Dirk let go of Martha’s hand, then offered it to Harvey. “You’re family. Family’s always welcome.”
Allison couldn’t control her tears any longer. They were running down her plump cheeks as she straightened. “You must let us know if the children need anything. Anything at all.”
Dirk nodded.
“My dear,” Harvey said, “it’s time to board the train.” He took her arm. “Come along.”
Allison wiped her eyes. “Perhaps, when they’re older, you’ll allow them to spend a few months with us. We have a beautiful summer cottage in New England.”
“Perhaps,” Dirk answered.
“Allison, we must get on the train.”
“Good-bye, Martha. Good-bye, Suzanne.” She waved her handkerchief as she walked backward, pulled by her husband.
“Good-bye, Cousin Allison,” the children called in unison just as she disappeared into the waiting passenger car.
Martha slipped her hand back into her uncle’s. “She sure did cry a lot.”
“She’s gonna miss you.” He looked down at her. “They’re nice people.”
Suzanne tugged on his arm. “Can we go home now, Unca Dirk? I wanna see Aunt Inga.”
“I want to see her, too.” He squeezed their hands. “And we will. Soon.”
“I don’t know when they’ll be back, Inga,” Sven had said as the two of them stood in the barn. “Dirk asked me to see to the milking tonight, and I said I would. He said they were all going down with the Trents to catch the train.”
That had been many hours ago. The house was dark now. Dark and silent. Inga had prepared herself an evening meal, but it had gone uneaten. She had tried to sew on her new quilt, but she was too restless to sit still.
There were moments when doubts came again. What if Dirk had decided to accept the Trents’ offer? What if Inga had come to her senses too late? But she shoved those thoughts aside. He would be back. He had told her he would, and nothing would ever again make her not believe him.
The house grew cold as the hour became late. Exhausted and lonely, Inga climbed the stairs. She entered the bedroom she’d shared with her husband. She felt his absence most in here, she thought as she crossed the room and undressed for the night.
The sheets on the bed were cool, and the bed seemed too large. She buried her face in his pillow, but the loneliness only increased when she noticed it carried Dirk’s scent. Had she ever noticed that before?
She had been blind to many things, it seemed.
For some reason, as the wagon drew closer to the farm, the road ahead of them lit by a full moon, Dirk had begun to feel a new urgency to reach their destination. Anticipation had welled up in his chest, although he hadn’t known why.
Now I know why, he thought as he leaned against the doorjamb and stared at his wife, asleep in their bed. He could never have described the surprise, the joy, the hope, or the wonder he’d felt the moment he discovered her there.
He stepped into the room and closed the door. The children had been carried to their room and tucked into their bed. The horses had been rubbed down and put out to pasture. And now the rest of the night belonged to his wife.
He crossed to Inga’s side of the bed and knelt there, his gaze never moving from her face. He hadn’t made a sound, yet her eyes opened, as if she’d sensed his presence.
“Dirk,” she whispered. If there had been any lingering doubt about why she was here—in this room, in this bed—it was dispelled in the loving way she said his name. She sat up. Her hair tumbled about her shoulders, a pale and silky waterfall that glimmered in the moonlight. “I have been waiting for you.”
He smiled. “I’ve been waitin’ for you, Inga Bridger.” His voice was husky with emotion. “All my life, I’ve been waitin’ for you.”
Her fingertips on his cheek were cool. “I know.” She cradled his face between the palms of her hands, drew him toward her. “And I am not afraid any longer.”
Dirk wished he had the words that would tell his wife how much he loved her. He wished he could make her see all she had given him.
He drew her from the bed, setting her feet gently onto the floor before him, holding her tightly against his chest.
“I love you, Inga.”
“As I love you.”
“It’s not gonna be easy. We’re always gonna be short on money and long on prob
lems.”
“It does not need to be easy. We need only to have each other and our faith in God. He will see us through.”
“Yes,” he answered. “Yes, he will.”
He felt, more than heard, her sigh, and somehow he understood it was a sound of contentment. He pressed his cheek against the top of her head. After a few moments, he said, “I’ve always liked the way your hair smells.”
“And I have always liked to hear you say it.”
Dirk stepped back, holding her at arm’s length so he could look at her. “You’re beautiful.”
Inga felt his gaze upon her. She was warmed by it. She felt…beautiful—just as he’d said.
“My wife,” he whispered.
“My husband,” she replied softly.
There was a beauty in this moment, in the way their hearts communicated beyond the words that were spoken. A beauty in the love they’d found in one another, a love that transcended everything that had gone before.
A love that caused a twining and tangling of all their tomorrows.
A love that wove together all of their hopes and dreams.
And where there had been two, now there was only one…
One more pattern of love.
Epilogue
Saturday, July 30, 1898
Uppsala, Iowa
Dearest Mary,
I pray this letter finds you well and happy. I have been remiss about writing to both you and Beth, my dear friends.
I will always be sorry Thea could not visit you while she was living in New York City, for then she could have brought me more news from you. But, of course, we did not know where you were at the time.
Margaret Bridger’s cousins, the Trents, have been most generous, sending gifts to the children from wherever their travels take them. They are planning another visit to our farm next spring, and we are looking forward to it now. I believe I will like Allison Trent a great deal.
My quilts continue to sell beyond my wildest expectations, and thanks to the money these sales have brought us, we now are the proud owners of two beautiful Thoroughbred yearlings. Although Dirk insists they will be no more than saddle horses for us, I think the future holds something else in store for them. There is a chance Dirk is actually beginning to believe it, too.
Karl is working for Dirk on the dairy, and it seems he has found his true calling. There is great enthusiasm in his voice when he discusses his ideas for the future with Dirk. Thea has changed and seems much happier now, especially as she watches her new home being built on the piece of land Dirk gave to them.
As for the rest of my sisters, Kirsten falls desperately in love with someone new every month. Astrid is nearly as bad. Thea says they are both empty-headed and much too flirtatious for their own good. This coming from Thea made us all laugh. Except for Pappa. He did not laugh. I think because he fears it is true.
Gunda recently surprised us with her good news. She is engaged to marry Valdemar Dolk. His parents own the general store in Uppsala, and it was his brother who drowned last March. Valdemar has decided to study medicine rather than go into the family business. The couple plan to marry and then move to Boston where they will stay until he is ready to begin a practice of his own. Then they will return to Uppsala. Dr. Swenson is counting the days until his retirement.
We thank God daily for his grace and mercy, for the lovingkindness he has shown toward us. I have seen the love for our Savior growing in my husband’s heart, and I rejoice over what that has wrought in our love for one another. Only God himself could have brought all this to pass.
There is one more miracle for which I praise God, and I shall try to express my gratitude in my newest quilt, one that I shall not finish until next February. For until then I shall not know if our child will be a son or a daughter.
But God knows, just as he knows every stitch, every thread in the patterns of our lives.
Fondly yours,
Inga Bridger
Enjoy the Next Book in Robin Lee Hatcher’s
Coming to America series:
In His Arms
One
New York City, July 1898
The door to the master’s study swung shut behind Mary, causing her to gasp in surprise. But it was Winston Kenrick’s soft chuckle that made her whirl about and her pulse quicken in dread.
“I wondered how soon you would get to cleaning this room, Mary.”
“If ’tis a bad time, Master Kenrick, I could be coming back later. When you’re not so busy and all.”
He smiled, but the look was more feral than comforting. “I wouldn’t think of causing you the trouble. Come in and be about your business.”
Mary tried to disregard the ominous feeling in her chest. In the months she had worked for the Kenricks, nothing untoward had happened to her. Yet it seemed the master was always watching her. It seemed he was around every corner, in every room, waiting, observing, smiling. The truth be told, she didn’t like him much.
“I’ll be trying not to disturb you, sir,” she said as she set down her bucket of soapy wash water. She pulled the feather duster from her waistband and walked to the bookcase where she set to work, ignoring the man behind her.
The master chuckled again. “But don’t you know, my dear girl? You always disturb me. You can’t help it.”
“I’m thinking I don’t know what you mean,” she replied without looking at him. But she was more than sure she did know.
Winston moved closer. “How is that little boy of yours, Mary Malone?”
Her heart nearly stopped. Her hand stilled, the feather duster resting on the spine of a book. “Me boy?” she whispered. She’d never told anyone in the Kenrick household about Keary. How did Master Kenrick know?
“It must be difficult, raising an infant on your own. What is he? Almost a year old now?”
She remained stubbornly silent.
“I could make it easier for you, Mary.”
“I’m having no complaints as things are now.”
His hands alighted on her shoulders. Slowly, he turned her to face him.
Winston Kenrick was a handsome man in his midforties. His hair was silver gray, but rather than making him look old, it added to his distinguished appearance. He had enormous power and influence among the wealthy members of New York society. He watched Mary now with eyes that said he knew exactly how to use his power and influence to get what he wanted.
“My dear girl, you have no idea what I’m offering.”
Mary’s infamous temper flared. “But I’m thinking I do know, sir, and I’ll be having you know I’ve got no interest in the likes o’ you. Not for any amount of your charm or your money.”
His eyes narrowed. “Don’t play the innocent with me.”
“Oh, I’ll not be pretending innocence, sir. You already know I’m not married and I have me a son, so there’d be no use to it. But I learned me lesson well with Seamus Maguire, I did. I’ve been betrayed, but I’ll not be used. Not by you nor any other man.”
She tried to push him away, but his grip on her arms tightened.
Winston grinned. “I think I can change your mind.” He kissed her.
For a moment, she didn’t fight him, too stunned to move. But then he chuckled low in his throat, pleased with himself and with what he was doing.
Her anger flared hotter. She bit his lip. Hard.
He howled as he stepped back from her. Mary used the opportunity to slip away, dashing to the opposite side of the master’s enormous cherry wood desk. Winston, in turn, positioned himself between her and the door.
He touched his lip with his fingertips, then looked at them, as if checking for blood. “You Irish witch,” he said softly. The words would have seemed less terrifying if he’d shouted them.
“Just let me go, Master Kenrick. I’ll collect me pay and be gone from here.”
“Are you aware that the authorities could deport you because you lied to get into the country? You told them you were married. They could send you back to Ir
eland.” He paused a heartbeat, then added, “Without your son.”
“They’d never do that.” Fear made her mouth dry, her tongue thick. “They’d never do that.”
“Do you dare take that chance?”
She shook her head, whether in disbelief or in answer to his question, she didn’t know. “I can’t betray Mrs. Kenrick nor meself in such a way.”
He moved toward the door. “I have very powerful friends. Police officers. Judges. I can make certain you never see your son again. Never. Is that what you want?” With a click, he turned the key, locking the door. Then he faced her again. “Be careful what you decide, my dear. Be very careful. Your son’s future is entirely up to you.”
Keary. Me darlin’ Keary.
Winston moved to the center of the room, then crooked his finger at her. With heart pounding, she came around from behind the desk. She told herself that, no matter what happened, she’d lived through worse and survived.
“That’s a good girl.”
Winston stepped toward her.
Mary stepped backward.
He grinned, enjoying the game.
She bumped against the desk, stopping her retreat.
Winston laughed aloud. “Playing it coy, Miss Malone?”
“Don’t do this, sir. Just let me go, and I’ll be no more trouble to you.”
“You’re no trouble to me now.”
For Keary, she reminded herself. To protect Keary she could bear anything.
Winston reached for her. Panic surged, and she instinctively tried to push his hands away.
“No!” she cried.
Irritation flashed in his eyes, and with unexpected swiftness, he rent the fabric of her blouse. “Let’s be done with this silliness.”
“Leave me be!”
He pressed her against the desk. She tried to brace herself, hoping for enough leverage to shove him away. Then her right hand closed around something large, cool, and hard on the desktop.
“You’ll not be doing this to me!” she cried.
Mary swung her arm with all her might. The second after she hit Winston on the side of his head with the object in her hand, she saw a look of disbelief in his eyes. He stumbled backward a few steps, teetered drunkenly, and crumpled to the floor, lying in an awkward position on the Oriental rug.
Robin Lee Hatcher - [Coming to America 02] Page 26