A Season of Grace

by Lauraine Snelling

  “Bestemor can help you. She taught Nilda and me.”

  The idea of skiing to school delighted both boys the next morning. With their dinner pails in bags over their shoulders, they strapped their boots to the skis and pushed off from the edge of the porch.

  “Takk, Far,” they yelled back. “When we get there, everyone is going to want skis.”

  Rune watched them until they turned at the road. He nodded. The skis worked. This first ski journey seemed a bit shaky at the start, but both boys dug their poles in and had the rhythm right off.

  “You can be proud of both the boys and the skis.” Signe stood beside him until they turned back to the door.

  “They were afraid they might have forgotten how to ski, but it comes back quick.”

  “Like Knute said, you’d better get down to the shop and get more skis into production. You’re going to have customers.” Gerd jiggled the chatterbox on her hip. “This one will be ready to ski before you know it.”

  “Is Mr. Kielund coming to help with the trees?” Signe asked.

  “Probably not today. He has to get the wagon box on the sledge just like we do, and that will be first on the list.” Rune nodded as he talked. “Nilda would have loved to see those two start out.”

  “Nilda loves to ski more than anyone else in the family, I think,” Gunlaug said. “All winter long, she skied to work, first to the Nygaards—”

  “Good thing that did not last long,” Ivar commented. “The thought that he is in Blackduck makes my skin crawl. I know it is far harder for Nilda. If that man touches her, I swear I will kill him.”

  Rune stared at his brother. Please, God, don’t let him mean that, or . . . let me rephrase that. Lord, help us.

  “Rune, what is it?” Gunlaug was peering at him.

  He shook his head. “Sorry, what?”

  “You had a strange look on your face.”

  “I’m concerned about that . . . that . . .” Rune stopped, having no idea how to finish the sentence.

  Ivar scowled. “There are no words bad enough, so don’t bother trying. The ones that fit . . .” He shook his head and looked at his mor. “You don’t like us using words like that when women are around.”

  “I don’t like you using words like that at all.” Gunlaug’s eyes narrowed. “But sometimes . . .”

  “Sometimes actions speak louder than words. Remember when we talked about praying for our enemies and those who spitefully use us? That verse, I can’t remember where it is. I think Jesus said it.” Ivar drummed his fingers on the table. “Matthew, beatitudes?”

  Gunlaug nodded. “That was some time ago, back home. I don’t remember what brought it up. And then the minister preached on that same thing. Maybe that is why you remember.”

  “No, but what I want to happen to Dreng is not the result of prayer but all action.” He stood up. “Let’s get out to the woods, Bjorn.”

  “I’m coming too,” Rune said. “Swinging an ax is good for working off bad feelings. Many kinds of work are. If Oskar shows up, send him back. We’ll return to the house for dinner. We’ve got to get the wagon bed on the sledge first.”

  With three of them working together, it wasn’t long before the horses were throwing the powdery snow up with their hooves as they jogged toward the towering trees. Their crystallized breaths were making ice on their whiskers, so Rune slowed them to a walk.

  “They sure want to go, don’t they?” Bjorn sat next to Rune on the seat, with Ivar on the outside. “Does the glare off the snow bother their eyes as much as it does ours?”

  “I have no idea.” Rune wished he could see more than blurs where he knew the horses’ rumps to be. His glasses steamed up and his eyes watered. What a miserable combination.

  They tied the team to a tree off where they were safe and threw the blankets over them.

  “Did you bring some oats for them?” Rune asked.

  “Always.” Bjorn pointed to the sack in the wagon. “Feed them now or later?”

  “Now. I’m not sure how long we’re going to stay out here.”

  “It’s not as bad as I thought it would be, since there is no wind.” Ivar pulled the saws and axes out of the wagon. “Let’s get at it.” He tucked his scarf into his coat and pulled his knit hat down over his ears. “We don’t need any frostbite.”

  Before long they were all shedding their coats, and then their sweaters, leaving their wool long johns to soak up the sweat. Rune notched the next tree, and he and Ivar picked up the rhythm of their axes, one on each side of the cut. They were nearing the tipping point when Rune ordered Bjorn back away from where he was sawing limbs off the last tree. “Just being careful!” He wiped his forehead with the back of his gloved hand.

  “You all right?” Ivar asked.

  “Ja, er, not really.” Was it time to confess how bad his eyes were? Or ignore it, like he had been? Was this putting the boys or the horses or anyone else in danger?

  “Your eyes?”

  “The sun’s too bright.”

  “Let’s end this one and then talk.”

  “Ja.”

  They picked up their axes, and chunks of pine flew again. The tree trembled. They both backed away and leaned on their ax handles. With a growing roar, the tree gave up and hit the ground, taking one much smaller tree with it.

  “We should have taken that one out first,” Ivar grumbled. “We lost part of it now.”

  “Ja, we should have. Look, both of you—if you see something that needs doing, you tell me, you hear?”

  “Sorry, Far.” Bjorn hung his head. “I—I almost said something, but . . .”

  “But you didn’t. Son, you and Ivar are both men, and you are men who know what we are doing. I have to be able to depend on you.”

  “But . . .”

  “No buts. We work as a team.” Rune grabbed his sweater and pulled it over his head. “Let’s get this one done. When Oskar comes, we’ll have his team to help skid trees too.” He chose the bucksaw. “Have either of you counted how many trees we have in that stack already?”

  “Not enough.”

  Bjorn’s rejoinder made Rune snort. “There never will be, son, not ever.”

  Chapter

  22

  Have you considered coming along to my church so you can hear Mr. Larsson play for the service? The wedding will be right after the service, since Reverend Skarstead has a second parish.” Nilda placed Mrs. Schoenleber’s address book back on her desk.

  Mrs. Schoenleber cocked her head and nodded slightly. “Why, that sounds like a marvelous idea.” She paused to think more. “Then we will return here after the wedding.”

  Nilda licked her lips. Dare she ask? Yes, she dared. “We can, or perhaps we can go out to the farm for the celebration dinner they are preparing.”

  “So much depends on the weather. I know you agreed to stand up for Selma, but if the weather is stormy . . .”

  “I know.”

  “All right.” Mrs. Schoenleber combined a nod and a smile, then glanced down at her list. “You remember that Petter is coming for supper, yes?” Her eyebrows arched as she leaned forward. “I think he is sweet on you.”

  Nilda’s smile made her feel warm inside. “I enjoy being with him. The three of us had a good time on the boat. But, you know, I really thought he was more Ivar’s friend than mine.”

  “Well, we shall see. His supervisor says he’s not happy that Petter wants to work out in the woods this winter, but he’ll let him get it out of his system. Young men dream of being lumberjacks or cowboys, or so it seems.” Mrs. Schoenleber paused at the sound of the door knocker. “Miss Walstead is here. Are you ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be.”

  “If she can stay for supper and the evening, we’ll have a fourth for whist.”

  Nilda groaned inside. Whist was one of the things Miss Walstead insisted she learn. It was not an easy accomplishment, but she was improving. However, it was not her favorite way to spend an evening. A book to read in front of the fire,
along with a cup of tea or hot spiced cider—that was pure pleasure. Or knitting and visiting, or knitting and being quizzed by Miss Walstead. Lately she had been teaching Nilda both American and Minnesotan history. She had progressed from first readers into third, the same with history. Reading them all aloud and answering questions both written and verbal, along with studying English grammar, was a challenge—but a good one. Nilda had always enjoyed school, and she could tell she was learning fast this way. Every time they worked on English words now, she had to put them in a sentence. Even when she was at home, using the English came easier.

  “Are you ready for another day?” Miss Walstead greeted her. “I thought today we would make a trip to the mercantile and perhaps stop by the millinery shop. You need a hat to go with that black outfit.”

  “And shoes. Leather gloves would be nice. Oh, and a bag.” Mrs. Schoenleber nodded as she spoke. “I know—the three of us should make a trip to St. Paul and do some real shopping.”

  Miss Walstead grinned brightly. “When would you like to go?”

  “The social is next Saturday, so let’s plan to catch the train on Monday and return, say, Thursday? We could go to my brother’s house, but staying downtown would allow us to be right in the middle of the good stores. We can have supper with him and Belle one evening.” She nodded more vigorously. “Yes, this is a fine idea, thank you.”

  Nilda looked from one woman to the other. Delight lit their faces. A trip to St. Paul, as if they did that kind of thing every other week. Nilda had never done something like this in her entire life. When it came to clothes, you made it yourself, or if you couldn’t, such as shoes and boots, you might order it from the store, or you did without. She and her family passed clothes and such around all the time. Her stomach shook. She set her coffee cup very carefully back on the saucer so they would not hear it rattle.

  “You are awfully quiet.” Miss Walstead smiled gently. “A bit much to take in?”

  Nilda nodded. And blinked. Nilda Carlson, for pity’s sake, you are a grown woman who is just experiencing new things. This is not worth crying over. Now, stop!

  If only it were that easy.

  She inhaled and blew out a heavy breath, looking Mrs. Schoenleber in the eyes. “Are you sure you want to spend all this on me? After all, I . . .” Nilda lifted both shoulders and her palms. “I mean, I . . .”

  Mrs. Schoenleber reached over and patted Nilda’s hand. “You would deny an old woman this privilege of taking you shopping for the first time? I do not see it as spending, but investing. You are a young woman of rare beauty and character, and the wonderful thing is that you have no idea. To help you grow and become all that you can be, I see that as a gift to me. Such a privilege, is it not, Jane?”

  “I absolutely agree, for that is what I see too. Teaching you and watching you grow is such a privilege. I look forward to every day and lie awake at night planning what to do next.” Miss Walstead leaned back in her chair, and the two women exchanged grins of both conspiracy and delight.

  “But I am a farmer’s daughter,” Nilda said.

  “Yes, so you will have the best of both worlds. Gertrude, I believe it is time Nilda starts music lessons too. That piano of yours is not used enough.” She looked at Nilda. “Did you ever dream of learning a musical instrument?”

  “My onkel played the fiddle, but he never really had time to teach me, nor I to learn.”

  “I imagine we could find a fiddle player to teach you, but I was thinking Mrs. Potts to start you on piano, and lessons sometimes with Fritz.”

  “Ahh.” Mrs. Schoenleber nodded slowly, her smile growing. “A fine idea.”

  Nilda spent the day in a haze of too-muchness. Overwhelmed was a word she not only knew but felt. All the way from the top of her hair to the tips of her toes. Toes that were now encased in soft house shoes rather than her normal winter boots.

  How she longed to be home to share all of this with Signe, although it might be too much for Gunlaug. Things like this just did not happen in the Carlson family—or any others, as far as she knew. A fairy tale, that was what this was.

  “Well, then let us begin.” Mrs. Schoenleber nodded briskly. “While you two go about your explorations, I will write to my brother and ask him to make the hotel arrangements.”

  “You could telephone him,” Miss Walstead said.

  “I know, but sometimes it is hard to understand people on that newfangled machine. I much prefer letters. Then he can’t insist that I come for the board meeting too.”

  “Which you will do anyway, because you know how important that is, and you don’t want him to get the idea that a woman should not be the head of the board.”

  “True.” Mrs. Schoenleber smiled at Nilda. “And that will be good training for you too, Nilda. You have a good head on your shoulders for business.”

  Disagreeing would be impolite, so Nilda kept from it with extreme self-control. As she’d thought—a fairy tale, and she was in it.

  By suppertime that evening, Nilda was looking forward to Petter coming so she could sit and enjoy a casual conversation. Or so she thought.

  After all the greetings, he had just been seated in the parlor when it became obvious he could scarcely sit still.

  “Something surely has you excited, Mr. Thorvaldson,” Miss Walstead commented with a smile.

  Petter nodded and leaned forward so far, he could have fallen off his chair. “They have posted that the logging camps will open in two weeks. I think Dreng and I were the first to sign up. The foreman, Mr. Nicholson, said that returning loggers are hired first, but that there is always room for new men.”

  Nilda nodded and smiled. He was excited, all right. But her mind leaped at the idea that Dreng was soon to be heading into the woods. Ideally never to return. Even thinking such a thing made her heart stop. How could she? Earlier Mrs. Schoenleber had given her such high praise, and now she was wishing death or injury on another human being. No matter how horrible the man was, he was still human. How could she pray? Oh, Lord, get him out of here and yet keep him safe from—from . . . The argument raged in her head.

  She glanced up to see Mrs. Schoenleber watching her. Sucking in a deep breath, Nilda forced a smile onto her face. At least she hoped it was some semblance of a smile. Think of something good, something lovely. A verse fought its way to the front of her mind.

  She smiled at Petter. “I am glad you are getting your wish.” There, that was good and true. “I know Ivar had thought about going, but he is already out in the woods felling our own trees.”

  “Supper is served, madam,” Charles announced from the doorway in his most sonorous voice, something he did when they had company. Nilda made sure she did not catch his eye, because it might make her laugh, and that was truly impolite.

  Petter offered her his arm, another thing that tickled her funny bone. “You should offer to Mrs. Schoenleber first,” she whispered.

  “Oh well.” He held out his other arm, and Miss Walstead took it with a chuckle.

  Mrs. Schoenleber rolled her eyes and walked beside Charles into the dining room. “You better enjoy and appreciate the meals here. They say they have good food in the logging camps, but I know it cannot compare to what Cook prepares for us.”

  “And the company here is far more engaging.” Miss Walstead smiled up at Charles, who pulled out her chair after seating Mrs. Schoenleber. “I so enjoy dining here. Matilda is not nearly as good company, and I am not nearly as fine a cook.”

  “Matilda?” Petter gave her a questioning look.

  “My cat. She is large, fluffy, and queen of our house. She makes sure no one forgets her position.”

  “Is she a good mouser?” Nilda asked, thinking of their two cats at home.

  Miss Walstead laughed. “No, that is far too plebian for Her Highness.”

  “Plebian?” Nilda repeated.

  “Of lower class.”

  “I see. Queenly and plebian are at opposite ends of the social strata.”

  Petter star
ed at her. “Would you like to explain to me what you just said? How have you learned so much English so fast?”

  Miss Walstead said, “I work her nearly to death, or at least exhaustion. She is in school all her waking hours here and most likely dreams about what she is studying too.”

  Petter looked from one of the older women to the other. “Truly?”

  Later at the card table, he asked, “Is whist part of your training too?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Schoenleber answered for her. “It is part of entertaining guests.”

  “I like checkers and backgammon better, but this game is for four people, and those aren’t. Did you play cards of any kind at your house when you were growing up?” Nilda asked.

  “I don’t remember much play time. We were always working at something. Far taught me both woodworking and leatherwork, even how to make boots. He used to make boots for all of us. His brother would tan the hides of cattle, hogs—their hide was used for the soles—and caribou. He lived farther north than we did.”

  “He patched boots too, then?” Nilda asked.

  Petter nodded. “Over and over. After a while the boots were more patches than original leather, but we’d grease them and keep on wearing them, or when we were young, pass boots on to the smaller ones.” He laid his cards down. “I won.”

  “That you did. Congratulations,” Mrs. Schoenleber said.

  “This just isn’t my game,” Nilda groaned. “One more round?”

  “You have to keep track of the cards,” Miss Walstead pointed out. “You can’t let your mind wander.”

  “I see that, but seeing and doing are not necessarily the same thing.”

  Petter nodded. “How well I know that. Not just in cards.”

  “What do you plan to do with the rest of your life, when you come back from the woods?” Mrs. Schoenleber asked when they were nearing the end of the next round.

  “I promised I would return to work in the lumberyard. It is a good job, and I have a lot to learn. The manager, Mr. Goddard, says he is willing to teach me everything I need to know. I would like to buy a house here in Blackduck and settle down.” He looked directly at Nilda, who was shaking her head at the hand she’d been dealt.