“That is such good news. She has been through so much, and you, too.” By this time they’d reached the door, and while George escorted Ingeborg out, his mother stayed inside, waving from the door.
“Good-bye.” Ingeborg turned again to wave. “Your mother is such a fine woman.”
“My mother would like nothing more than for me to fill this house with small children. You heard her subtle hints.”
“Subtle?” Ingeborg raised an eyebrow.
“About as subtle as a charging buffalo. But she means well.” He helped her up into the wagon. “I can come calling, then?” He looked up at her, his brown eyes serious under the brim of his tan felt hat.
“I . . . I don’t know. Let me think about that, please?”
He nodded and stepped back. “Until I see you again.” He touched the brim of his hat and stood still while she drove the team out of the yard. When she looked back, he waved.
Now what have you gotten yourself into? Did she want him to come calling? He was a fine figure of a man, to be sure. But what did he see in her? The thought made her chuckle. Talk about a radish blooming in a rose garden. That’s what she would be. She slapped the reins on the horses’ backs. “Giddyup there, Belle, Bob. We’ve got a long way to go before dark.”
She stopped at The Mercantile and got Kaaren’s order and the things her own house needed as quickly as possible. Then tucking a precious letter in her pocket, Ingeborg headed for home. It would be dark or close to it by the time she got back.
The boys were already in bed when she entered the soddy after leaving off the supplies and the letter from home at Kaaren’s. She’d read it herself on the way. Bridget had asked about Hjelmer, if he arrived yet or if they’d heard from him. Ingeborg hoped he felt guilty as sin for not writing in all this time.
“I’ll go take care of the horses.” Haakan met her at the door.
“Mange takk.” She sighed when the musty smell of the dirt walls closed in around her. That lovely home across the river, with shiny tables and tall windows that let in all the light, made the soddy seem even smaller. She placed her hat on the peg reserved for it and her shawl next.
“Mor?”
“Ja, Thorliff, I am home.”
“Did you see the surprise?”
“No.” She crossed the room and bent over the bed. “What is it?”
“It’s a surprise.” He turned over and went back to sleep.
She discovered them in the morning. Nodding bluebells surrounded the base of the wild rose bush.
“Haakan dug them for you.” Thorliff looked up to watch her face.
Ingeborg rolled her lips together and blinked back the moisture that gathered behind her eyes and at the back of her throat. She knelt down and touched one of the delicate blue blossoms with a trembling finger.
“He thought you might like them. He said I had to keep the rose bush, the bluebells, and the cottonwood tree you planted by the corner of the house watered. Is it okay, Mor? Do you like them?”
“Oh, Thorliff, my son, I don’t just like them, I love them and you too. I know you had something to do with this.” She wrapped her arms around him and hugged him close.
“If you love them, why are you crying?”
“Because I’m so happy.”
Thorliff put his hands flat on her cheeks and looked deep into her eyes. “Mor, sometimes you make no sense.”
“Ah, Thorliff, sometimes beauty just makes me cry. Good things make me cry. It’s all right.” She pressed her hands over his. “It’s okay.”
Thorliff studied her intently. “You sure?”
“I’m sure.” Ingeborg got to her feet. “Now, I hear Andrew waking up. Let’s get him and have some breakfast.”
“I need to take the sheep out.” Thorliff danced in front of her.
“Ja, as soon as you’re done eating.” Ingeborg took one more look at her bluebells, then up to the blossoms on the rose bush. Such beauty at her doorstep, and both were gifts from two fine men. How rich her life. She sent the Father another thank-you when she picked Andrew up from where he knelt in the middle of the bed.
About the man who planted your bluebells, a voice inside seemed to ask. Do you love him?
Well of course, she could hear herself answer. He is a relative, of course I love him.
But is your love for him more than that for a relative? Aren’t you in fact in love with him? That was a question she was not ready to answer or even admit to the possibility. After all, he was leaving in the fall. A gentle voice whispered, He could always return in the spring.
She finished pulling Andrew’s dress over his head and tied him onto the chair for breakfast. If not tied, he slipped away, always determined to find Thorliff.
Thorliff took the other chair. He extended his hand, flat on the table and palm up for Andrew to play slap-and-get-grabbed. Every time the little one got his hand away in time, he let out his belly laugh that set the bluebells to ringing.
Ingeborg set thick slices of bread covered with heavy cream and dotted with choke cherry jelly in front of them. She tied a dish towel around Andrew’s neck, cut the bread in small pieces, and handed him a spoon. Lately he’d been adamant that he should feed himself.
She turned away so she couldn’t be appalled by the mess he made. She should have waited to dress him until he was done eating and she had stood him in the dishpan and washed him down. The sheep bleated from the corral by the barn, pleading to be let loose for their morning feed. Paws sat right by Andrew’s chair so he could catch any spills before they decorated the hard-packed dirt floor.
Ingeborg listened to the boys’ prattle with one ear while she quickly finished the morning chores, all the while listing in her mind the things that needed to be done that day. She needed to finish drying the venison, scrape the putrefying meat and tissue from the hide, and salt it down to remove the hair since this was spring and the coat was still blotchy with unshed spots. Once tanned, she would turn the hide into gloves, or—she paused and kept her smile carefully concealed. She would make a leather shirt for Thorliff, much like the one that Metiz had made for Baptiste. Wouldn’t he be thrilled?
She turned to look, to truly look at the boy at the table. Suntanned skin and peeling shoulder tops told of the hours he spent outside without a shirt on. The freckles on his face ran together to form a darker bridge across his nose and cheeks, and now with his second teeth grown in, his smile looked different, too, like he still had some growing to do to catch up with his mouth. He’d outgrown his boots that thankfully lasted until he could go barefoot, and there wasn’t a shirt in the house with long enough sleeves.
The next time she went to The Mercantile, she’d need to get him pants, but the boots would have to wait for Lars to make, or she would buy him a pair in the fall. She studied the baby beside him, also growing like the proverbial dandelion or the sunflowers that nodded by the trail to the Baard’s house. He, too, would need boots in the fall and pants and shirts cut down from some of Thorliff’s garments.
Too much to do. Always too much to do. What she really wanted was to continue plowing and breaking the sod that needed to decay over the summer. Instead, as soon as she and Andrew were ready, she would take him to Kaaren’s and take the extra team over to the Baard’s to help bring the hay in to stack by the barn. One or two more days, and they would start to stack here on their own fields. From the looks of the thick windrows, they would have plenty of hay, even if she bought more stock. And, if the rains fell right, they might get a second cutting.
“Bye, Mor.” Thorliff had his hat on his head and his dinner of bread, cheese, and dried venison in a sack over his shoulder.
“Me go, Mor, me go.” Andrew struggled against his bonds.
“You have enough for Baptiste, too?”
“Ja, and he brings some.”
“I know. If you come home before we do, go on over to Kaaren’s.”
“I could start the chores.” He shifted from foot to restless foot.
“
Ja. Mange takk, Thorliff.”
“Or I could go fishing.” His eyes lit up.
“Fishing, me fishing.” Andrew slammed his spoon down on the table.
“When you get big.” Thorliff darted out the door, ignoring the wails of his little brother.
Hjelmer glared at her when she showed up in her britches.
I’d like to see you out here in skirts, you pompous young pup. Ingeborg restrained herself from commenting, but it wasn’t easy. Who does he think he is, anyway? She’d seen the lowering looks he’d been directing at Haakan lately, too, especially whenever Haakan asked the younger man to do something. If one wanted to dignify him with the title “man.” The thoughts made her want to go over and shake him.
Instead, she helped hitch the team to a wagon tongue and pulled the empty flat wagon back out in the field to be loaded again. The men had constructed wide, flat beds for the wagon frames, with a tall rack in front so the driver had something to brace against as the wagon filled. They had three wagons running so the men in the field were kept busy forking hay onto a wagon, while others at the barn forked hay from the wagon to a stack. The younger children did their part by tramping the hay down. The tighter it was packed, the less chance there was for spoilage.
“Hey, Ingeborg, welcome,” Joseph called.
“Ja, thank you.” Ingeborg waved at Penny, who though in skirts, drove the other team back to the barn. Ingeborg steered the team to the spot where the men leaned on their pitchforks taking a moment’s breather. She wanted to leap off the wagon and throw her arms around Haakan in thanks for the bluebells. She wanted to feel his strong arms close around her and hear his heart beat beneath her cheek. She wanted to . . .
“Uff da,” she muttered. Such thoughts. She could feel her cheeks flame, and it wasn’t from the sun. Now she was almost embarrassed to look at him. But when he tossed up the first forkful, their eyes met. The warmth unfolded itself and stretched in her midsection, sending little tendrils of excitement clear to her fingertips.
“Thank you for my flowers.”
“You are welcome. They reminded me of your eyes.”
The warmth curled again and purred. “I . . . ah . . . giddyup, there.” She stared straight ahead and flicked the reins for the horses to pick up the pace.
With the flat wagon bed covered with hay, Swen and Knute climbed aboard to begin the packing job.
“How come you didn’t bring Thorliff? He would have fun with us.” They tramped the hay down as they talked.
“He had to feed the sheep. You can all play tomorrow when you come to our house.” Her mouth spoke with the boys, but her gaze followed the broad-shouldered man slightly ahead of the team who was filling his fork with hay. Again, in a smooth motion he swung his load up, twisted the fork, and dumped the hay on the lowest spot. Sweat darkened the back of his shirt, and sleeves rolled to the elbows revealed tanned arms.
She jerked herself back to the team. It was a good thing they knew what they were supposed to do, because her mind had certainly been off elsewhere—not far away, just following the man who noticed bluebells and saw them in her eyes.
When they stopped for dinner, she joined Agnes in the serving before sitting down to eat. Haakan moved over so a space opened beside him. Ingeborg stepped over the bench and sat down. When she looked up, Hjelmer sat directly across from her, his brows in a straight line that told her he was not pleased with her choice of seating, among other things. But when Penny sat next to him, the sun chased his angry furrows away, and the smile he gave the girl said more than a polite hello.
Ingeborg stifled her frustration with him and turned to smile at Haakan, pleased that he, too, had noted the younger man’s infatuation with Penny. The twinkle in his eyes said it all. She dug into the food on her plate, grateful for the chance to sit down, for the food, and for the warmth of the shoulder so close to hers.
You’re acting like a love-starved maiden, she scolded herself. Remember, he is leaving in the fall.
That night, back at Kaaren’s for supper since they finished haying at the Baards’ in time to come home and do their own chores first, Lars asked the blessing on the food. Afterward, he looked up to Ingeborg and Haakan. “I’ve been thinking. How about if we have a church service here at our house on Sunday. I know there’s no preacher, but we can sing and pray and read the Scriptures without one.”
“We could probably find someone to preach, too.” Haakan looked at Kaaren. “Since you like to teach, you could do that.”
Kaaren dropped her fork so it rang on the plate and tumbled to the floor. When she retrieved it, she stared at him, shaking her head. “But, Haakan, I am a woman. Women aren’t pastors.”
“Seems to me that out here on the prairie, we make do with what we got. You could find a passage or two of Scripture to read and then talk about them. Tell what they mean, a sort of reminder of how we should act. You could do that.”
“Would she wear a white robe?” Thorliff asked. “She’d look like an angel.”
“Why, Thorliff Bjorklund, how beautiful.” Kaaren laid a hand on his shoulder. “I think you are going to be a writer or a poet someday. You so often say just the right words.”
He ducked his head. “I want to write a book.”
Ingeborg looked at him, shock causing her mouth to drop open. “You are a farmer. This will be your farm, Thorliff.”
“I know.” He raised his deep blue gaze to meet hers. “But I like to write things, Mor.”
Ingeborg turned to take the spoon Andrew was banging on her arm. “We’ll see, son, we’ll see.”
That Sunday the Baards and two other families arrived before noon to take part in the service. Since the sun shone and a breeze blew, they met in the shade of the soddy, and soon everyone was seated on the grass Haakan had scythed short for them. Kaaren started the first hymn, her clear soprano winging its way across the prairie. Their voices raised in praise to the Heavenly Father as they went from hymn to hymn with different ones starting their favorite.
When the lull fell, Lars said, “Shall we pray? Father in heaven, we come before Thee without a church or a place of worship but knowing that Thou art here with us. Forgive us our trespasses as we confess them now before Thee.”
A silence fell, and even the small children sat without squirming. With heads bowed, each one recounted their sins in the silence of their hearts. Someone sniffed, another blew his nose. A meadowlark soared above them, spilling a song of blessing on the people gathered reverently below.
Kaaren opened her Bible. “This is from the first letter of John, chapter one, verses nine and ten. ‘If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness. If we say that we have not sinned, we make him a liar and his word is not in us.’ ” She closed her Bible. “We who have no pastor are called to be pastors one of another. We can worship together, confess our sins, and learn God’s Word. Even though we live so far apart and the years have been hard, we have no excuse not to worship together like this. God says for us to gather together, and we are following His orders. So, if any of you have a favorite verse, say so, and we will read it. God, himself, will preach to us through His Word.”
Agnes asked for Psalm 139, and one of the neighboring men asked for the twenty-third Psalm. Kaaren read each section and then turned to the Sermon on the Mount. When she finished reading that, someone began humming “Oh, God, Our Help in Ages Past,” and the entire group picked up the words. When they finished, Thorliff asked for the story of the boy Samuel.
When Kaaren finished reading, Lars cleared his throat after a moment of silence. “Let’s close with prayer and then the benediction. ‘Our father, who art in heaven . . .’ ” The voices joined together as young and old, male and female recited the Norwegian words memorized at their mothers’ knees. At the “amen,” Lars stood and raised his right hand. “The Lord bless thee and keep thee . . .” The age-old words floated across the gathering and settled as a mantle of peace on those asse
mbled. “. . . And give thee His peace.” The “amen” rang sure and true.
The children leaped to their feet and chased each other around the building. Mothers bustled to set up the food they’d brought, and the men grouped together to discuss the haying and the latest news.
Ingeborg stopped for a moment and looked over the joyous gathering. Such a far cry from last year at this time. So many changes, so much to be grateful for. Tears threatened to spill at the burst of thanksgiving that swelled up in her heart. “Thank you, Father,” she whispered, snatching the bug that almost disappeared into Andrew’s mouth.
“No, den lille guten. Bugs belong on the ground, not in your mouth.” She picked up the child and hugged him to her breast. Right now, she felt like hugging the whole world.
“I think our service went real well,” Lars said later that evening after everyone had left for home to do their chores. The Bjorklunds, except Hjelmer who had walked Penny home and not yet returned, were gathered at Kaaren’s house.
“You did just fine, Kaaren.” Haakan held up his coffee cup in salute.
“To think we will do this again next week at the Baards’.” Kaaren leaned back in her chair. “We will truly have a church here one day, and I don’t think it will be too long coming.” She leaned forward to tousle Thorliff’s hair. “And by the time you are ready for confirmation, we most likely will even have a pastor. Won’t that be wonderful?”
“I guess.” He looked up at his aunt. “When are we going to have school again?”
Kaaren looked from him to the two men and to Ingeborg. “We will have a schoolhouse for next winter, Thorliff, and this summer I will help you again. Forgive me for letting your lessons go. Every afternoon, after the sheep have grazed their fill, you and Baptiste can come over here, and we will start your lessons again.”
Ingeborg took in a deep breath. How would Kaaren care for Andrew, cook for all of them, and manage studies for the boys as well? Keeping track of Andrew was problem enough when she was busy. Was it time she hung up her britches and let the men do the fieldwork? At least for now? Lars would soon be able to join them. She rolled her lips together. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t enough to do at her own soddy. The garden was getting ahead of her, the weeds coming up like she’d liberated the plot from the sod just for them. There was washing to do, cleaning out the root cellar, cream to churn for butter, and milk to set for cheese. She stopped the listing right there before it overwhelmed her.
Lauraine Snelling - [Red River of the North 02] Page 25