Lauraine Snelling - [Red River of the North 02]

by A New Day Rising

  He nodded. Obviously, she was the talker in the family.

  Ingeborg introduced them to the others, except for Metiz, who had disappeared. Once the newcomers were all seated and had filled their plates, Kaaren stopped at Mrs. Strand’s shoulder. “Why don’t I take the baby, and then you can enjoy your meal?”

  “Why, that would be right neighborly”—Mrs. Strand handed the fussy child to Kaaren—“wouldn’t it, Oscar?” Without waiting for his answering nod, she continued. “Perhaps a wet cloth on his face would feel good. Broke out in those spots just this morning, but he ain’t too sick. Just feeling a mite puny.”

  When Ingeborg returned from taking Andrew to stay with Kaaren the next morning, she found the team of horses along with the mule all harnessed and tied to the corral. Haakan had yoked the oxen for the first part of the day and already left for the field. They alternated so one team could be resting while the others worked. Thorliff was out with the sheep. She checked on the soup simmering on the back of the stove, and after donning her britches, she clapped her straw hat on her head and tied the strings under her chin as she strode out to the barn.

  Freedom. Freedom from the dimness of the soddy and freedom from washing and cooking. She glanced over at her garden spot. Perhaps they could take time out to plow that one day soon. She was torn between the fieldwork and planting the garden. It was a typical spring; everything needed doing at once.

  She untied the horses, slapped the reins on their backs, and drove them toward the field where the disc waited. Meadowlarks sang and the jingle of the harness made its own melody. Bob and Bell nodded, snorting once in a while, as if to be part of the burgeoning spring symphony. She could feel the pull of the team in her shoulders and the stretching of her legs to keep the pace.

  “Ingeborg, what are you—” Hjelmer stared at her, trying not to look at her pant-encased legs. “You . . . that’s not . . . “He stammered to a close, his cheeks bright red from the sun or the shock, she knew not which.

  Oh, not again, I’m so tired of this. “Hjelmer, let’s get one thing straight right now.” Ingeborg hooked the reins to the metal ring high on Belle’s rump. “Things are different here on the prairie. I know my wearing britches isn’t considered proper, but you ought to try plowing in a skirt.” He started to say something, but she raised a hand to shush him. “This is my land, and if I hadn’t worked the soil, planted and harvested, we would have starved and perhaps lost our homestead. Now, which is more important, a woman in britches or the land?”

  She waited for his answer. He looked everywhere but into her face.

  “Well?”

  “The land, but—”

  “No buts. If you want to help us here and perhaps find land of your own, you’ll have to put up with my britches and probably a good deal else.”

  He stole a peek out of the corner of his eye at Haakan who was just bringing the oxen even with them.

  “Ja, Haakan too. We do what we have to do, Hjelmer. You’ll understand that better some day down the road. It ain’t always comfortable, but God willing, we’ll keep the land and build good homes here for the children.”

  “There a problem here?” Haakan stopped the oxen and settled the plow blade by pushing down on the handles.

  “No. I think not.” Ingeborg shook her head. “Is there?” She looked to Hjelmer, who also shook his head. But instead of looking at her, he studied the toe of his boot as if it were the prettiest face west of the Mississippi.

  “You ready to take the plow?” Haakan asked.

  “Ja.” The curt reply spoke volumes. Hjelmer traded places with Haakan and clucked the oxen forward. Immediately the handles bucked, and the plowshare rose out of the soil as if it had a life of its own.

  “No. Keep it solid and point the blade down.” Haakan paced beside him.

  Hjelmer gripped the handles and wrestled the plow back into submission.

  “Now, the oxen respond to voice commands. You heard me giving them. Gee is for—”

  “I know.”

  “Now, don’t fight it. Guide it.”

  “I am.”

  Haakan stopped, looked back at Ingeborg, and shook his head. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” He paused a moment as if waiting for an answer, and when none came, he returned to help Ingeborg hitch the three to the disc. “If he’d only listen.”

  “Ja, he’ll learn. Near as I can tell, Bjorklund men have a stubborn streak sky wide and a hard time asking for help.” She stood from hooking the last trace to the doubletree.

  “Only the men?”

  She glanced his way and grinned back when she could see he was teasing her. “It happens to the rest of us when we marry them.” Her gaze snagged on his and wouldn’t let go. Blue eyes looked directly into gray, both shaded by broad-brimmed hats that failed to dim the intensity.

  Ingeborg’s breath left her body. Taking another made her feel light-headed. Was it the air or the fact that her heart had accelerated to running speed? Her fingers tingled.

  A horse stomping its hoof shattered the moment.

  Ingeborg took in another deep breath and blinked. “Ja, well, I . . . we . . . ah . . .” She snatched the reins like they were lifelines and strode to the rear of the four-foot-wide row of sharpened steel discs. “Git-up there, Bob, Belle. Come on, Jack.”

  “I’ll get Lars’ team out.”

  “Fine.”

  She could feel his eyes drilling into her back and fought the urge to turn around. She looked up toward the trees bordering the Red River and made herself think of fishing, of hunting, of hauling water, of anything to keep her mind off the man behind her. In spite of the heavy rocks lashed to the edges of the disc to give it weight, it bounced on a thick clod of dirt, bringing her mind back to the task at hand.

  What can we do to make it safe to ride the disc? What would add enough extra weight and make the job easier for the driver? With her mind engaged thusly, she forgot the man and thought only of discing and planting and the thrill of seeing a sheen of green cover the newly turned land when the grain sprouted and poked its way through the soil.

  She passed Hjelmer and the oxen as she continued round and round the field. Soon her legs ached, her shoulders burned as if they’d been stung by a hive of bees, and her mouth felt as though she’d been chewing the dirt, not just discing it. When she glanced up at the sun to tell the time, it looked to have been stuck in place. She gritted her teeth and kept on going. After all the trouble over her working the fields, she wasn’t about to back down now just because of a few aches and pains. It would take more than one day to get her strength back.

  At noon she unhooked the traces, then hooked them to the rump ring and guided the horses toward the barn. She would love to ride one, but right now Belle’s back looked high as a two-story building.

  Neither said, “I told you so,” but the look the two men exchanged said it for them. Ingeborg was too tired to care. They unharnessed and unyoked the teams, and after allowing a short drink, they hobbled the oxen and horses on the shorter grass between the houses. From there they walked on over to Kaaren’s for dinner.

  Ingeborg had forgotten she was wearing britches and had forgotten the Strands were still camped by Kaaren’s barn, until she heard Mr. Strand call a greeting and Mrs. Strand suck in her breath loud enough to choke.

  “Well, I never!” Her words exploded.

  Ingeborg bit off the comment she was about to make to Haakan. She looked over to see the mountainous Mrs. Strand with her hands on her hips and a look of absolute horror on her pie-round face. She struggled for words, obviously an unusual occurrence for her. The woman settled with an “uff da” and clamped fists.

  Haakan tipped the brim of his hat. “God dag to you, too, Mrs. Strand. Fine day, is it not?”

  Ingeborg could swear he was laughing.

  Hjelmer muttered a good day and walked faster, as if hoping he could leave the embarrassment of his sister-in-law behind.

  Ingeborg slanted a look at Haakan, expecting maybe to see
his brows lowering and his eyes flashing—with what? Anger, resentment, astonishment? Well, too bad for him, I— She looked again. She’d been right before. He was laughing and fighting hard to keep it from showing. Bless the man. She could feel the warmth curl in her stomach like a kitten contented from being stroked.

  “I have a favor to ask, Haakan,” Lars said after they’d all chuckled quietly so the Strand’s wouldn’t hear about the britches incident. Only Hjelmer had failed to see the humor in it.

  “What’s that?” Haakan laid down his fork and looked at Lars.

  “I need a crutch.”

  Haakan looked from Lars to Kaaren. When she nodded, he said, “So?”

  “Could you bring me a sapling or a tree branch from the river that I can carve and smooth into a crutch? Needs to be tall enough to fit under my arm. I figure that by the time I have it smoothed down, my foot will be well enough to hobble around. I could at least do some of the barn chores.”

  “With all the pain you’re still suffering from, you sure you’re ready for this?”

  “Ja, or I will be when the crutch is. If I have to look at the finished stick for a few days, that will make me want to heal even faster. I just thank God over and over for how good I’m doing.” His voice caught on the last words.

  “And Metiz agrees?”

  “Metiz hasn’t been back since she disappeared yesterday when the Strands drove in. Don’t know what got into her.”

  I do, thought Ingeborg. She smelled bigotry and ran before it bit her. Don’t blame her at all. She twisted her back, trying to work the kinks out. If she didn’t get moving pretty soon, she’d have a hard time moving at all.

  “You know, I been thinking,” Haakan nodded as he spoke. He pointed to the bandages on Lars’ foot, still swollen somewhat. “I think we should build you a special shoe that would protect your foot when you start moving around. You’ll be a long time getting it into a regular boot.”

  “You thinking wood or iron?” Lars studied his foot.

  “Hjelmer, what do you think?” Haakan nudged the young man next to him.

  “I . . . ah . . . um . . .” Hjelmer blinked and swallowed what he’d been chewing. “I guess I was off woolgathering somewhere.” At their knowing looks, the red crept up his neck.

  “About us making a shoe for Lars to keep that foot from getting bumped.”

  Leaving the men to their discussion and to keep herself from falling asleep at the table, Ingeborg leaned forward, lifted Andrew down from his chair, and cuddled him on her lap.

  “Mor’s den lille guten?” She kissed his fair hair.

  “Mor, down.” Andrew tried to slide out from under her arms.

  She let him go and looked across the table at Kaaren. “I can tell he misses me.”

  “He’s gotten to be a busy one, he has. On the go from the moment you brought him.” She watched the little fellow go to the door.

  “Tor!” Andrew called. “TOR!”

  “Thorliff is out with the sheep.” Ingeborg turned in her chair to keep an eye on him.

  “Me go.” Andrew stepped over the door sill, clutching the frame with one hand.

  “No. You stay here.” Ingeborg rose from her chair, squelching a groan in the process, and snatched up her son. Tickling his tummy brought out the belly laugh that made them all smile. The child twisted in her arms.

  “See Tor.”

  “See Andrew.” She nibbled on the finger he thrust toward her mouth. He giggled again.

  “He is such a good baby.” Kaaren finished pouring another round of coffee. “But he sure misses Thorliff. If I’ve heard ‘see Tor’ once today, I’ve heard it a hundred times.”

  “Stubborn little fellow, aren’t you?” Haakan gently poked Andrew in the side, causing more giggles. Turning back to Lars, he said, “How about if I cut you a branch tonight after the plowing. I’ll quit early enough to go look for a prime one.”

  “Thanks. When I can hobble better, maybe I’ll even be able to go do some fishing. Or I could watch the sheep while Thorliff and Baptiste fish.” He ran his fingers through his hair, standing it upright. “I feel so terribly useless.”

  “I’ll bring you some harness to mend. That ought to keep you busy.” Haakan pushed back from the table. “Takk for matten.”

  “Velbekomme.” Kaaren answered with a smile.

  When their meal finished, the men and Ingeborg trooped out the door to ringing cries of “me go, Mor, me go.” She didn’t even glance over her shoulder, knowing that doing so would only make Andrew yell more.

  “Let’s yoke Lars’ oxen to the disc since they’re fresh. Hjelmer, why don’t you take the team I had—they didn’t put in a full stint—and I’ll take your oxen, Ingeborg. That leaves Bob and Belle to rest. We can use them this evening to plow the garden.”

  Ingeborg flashed him an astonished look. She’d not mentioned the garden. How had he known her desire to work there? Or was he just trying to keep her out of the fields? The latter thought drove out the joy of the former. Why was she so suspicious?

  When she collapsed in bed that night, her entire body ached. Her hands, in spite of her leather gloves, felt as raw as if she’d laid them flat on a hot stove. She thought back to the days, weeks, and months of fighting the plow handles. And breaking sod was much harder than plowing an already harvested field. How on earth had she done it all? Better enjoy the help while you can, woman, she thought. When Haakan leaves, it’ll all be back on your shoulders. Lars will have enough to do of his own. Unless of course, Hjelmer stays. Right now, that was scant comfort. He’d looked to be in nearly as bad a shape as she was. Neither one of them had done such hard labor for too long a time.

  She thought, too, about the plowshares that had been pounded out and resharpened after the fieldwork was done. Haakan and Hjelmer had worked together at the forge, but Hjelmer was clearly the better blacksmith. From the look on his face, one could tell the young man really enjoyed working the iron and the fire.

  “Thank you, Father, for all we got done today and for the perfect weather you are sending our way. Thank you that Lars is doing so well. You worked a mighty miracle there.” She forced herself to get back out of bed so she could finish her prayers. Falling asleep was a bit more difficult when on one’s knees. She also forced herself to pray for the Strand family. But when she bowed her head to listen to God, she caught herself just before she fell over. Sleep could come in any position if one was tired enough.

  The same routine continued over the next few days. When Ingeborg caught up with the discing, she switched to seeding. She didn’t need a team for that since she hand-broadcast the seed, so the animals got a bit of rest. Every afternoon, Mary Ruth Strand, with a wide-brimmed straw hat covering her fall of auburn hair and shading her pert nose, brought a water jug out to the field workers, ostensibly to be a good neighbor. But it was amazing how most of her time was spent with Hjelmer.

  “You know, watching her sashay across those furrows makes me wonder . . .” Ingeborg clamped a lid on her words and thoughts. “Nobody’s lips are that red naturally.”

  Kaaren looked up from the iron pot full of clothes she was stirring over the coals outside the soddy. Ingeborg had taken a day off from fieldwork and the two women were doing the laundry together. To keep the peace, Ingeborg had reverted to her skirts.

  “Shh.” Kaaren nodded toward the wagon still sitting beside the sod barn.

  Ingeborg looked over her shoulder and groaned. Here came Mrs. Strand in full sail. “Whatever did I do to deserve this?” Her mutter was for Kaaren’s ears alone.

  “God dag.” The woman’s voice carried like a cow calling her calf. “I just came to thank you for allowing us to camp here.”

  “You are welcome,” Kaaren answered in careful English.

  This must mean they are leaving. Ingeborg hid her glee in the shirts she was wringing out to hang on the clothesline.

  “Thank you, too, for that delicious cheese you sent over. I haven’t had cheese like that in a month of Sun
days. Our cow is so close to dry it’s barely worth milking her.” She paused. “I’d be willing to pay for some more of that cheese, if you have some.”

  “Oh no, we couldn’t charge you.” Kaaren wiped her hands on her apron. “I’ll get you some right now so you can have it for dinner.”

  Ingeborg nearly choked. Far as she knew, Kaaren would be cutting into the last wheel. The next ones weren’t all the way cured yet. Why didn’t she just turn over the entire homestead?

  “Your brother-in-law, that Hjelmer, seems to be a right fine young man.” Mrs. Strand came close enough to Ingeborg to talk, but not too close, as if wearing britches and other manly pursuits that Ingeborg engaged in might be catching.

  At least that was Ingeborg’s thought.

  “Ja, he is.” Swish and dip, dip and swish and wring. Another shirt plopped into the basket for hanging.

  “My Mary Ruth speaks quite highly of him.”

  “I’m sure she does.”

  “He mention anything about her? Like—”

  “Here you are.” Kaaren handed the woman a fat hunk of cheese. “And I brought you some potatoes, too. Thought they might be tasty.”

  “Why, glory be. Thank you so much. You sure I can’t pay you, now?”

  “Ja, that will—” Ingeborg began to speak, but Kaaren silenced her with a look.

  “No, we don’t charge our guests.”

  Ingeborg knew that statement was as much for her as for Mrs. Strand, but then Kaaren hadn’t been on the receiving end of the lady’s pointed remarks and withering looks.

  Mary Ruth continued to bring a water jug across the fields every afternoon. Sometimes she made a midmorning trek also, acting such the good neighbor. Her green eyes sparkled up at Haakan, too, but most of her sparkle she reserved for Hjelmer. Ingeborg barely got a drink.

  Sunday, Hjelmer asked if he could use Jack the mule.

  “Of course,” Ingeborg answered.

  “I thought I’d go call on the Baards. Since Roald thought so much of them, I think I’d like to get to know them better.”

  Ingeborg blinked. Since when had Roald ever mentioned the Baards? Had he ever written a letter home? She thought hard. Maybe once, but she and Kaaren were the letter writers, as if that went along with being the wife.