A Season of Grace
Page 27
Mrs. Schoenleber sniffed. “Miss Carlson is very special to us all, and my employees are not people to simply sit on their hands when a wrong has been committed. They know the fellow, and they are competent. It is not they who are in danger, but he.”
The sheriff turned his attention to Nilda. “Miss Carlson, I am Sheriff Daniel Gruber. Did your assailant show you a knife or gun?”
“No. He choked me.” Nilda’s voice was thin and reedy, not like her at all.
“And Mrs. Schoenleber, are your men armed?”
“No.”
“Miss Carlson, did he succeed in forcing himself on you?”
She had not heard that phrase before, but she could guess its meaning. Mrs. Schoenleber replied, “It was an attempted rape.” She emphasized the attempted.
“Good. Is the assailant on skis or snowshoes?”
“No. I mean, neither.” Nilda was grateful that Gilda wrapped a warm quilt close around her, both for the warmth and for modesty.
The sheriff asked, “Do you know the man?”
“Dreng Nygaard. It’s a long story.” Her sobbing had eased, and now her face burned, actually a good sign. She was warming up at last, however painfully.
“Tell me.”
She explained as briefly as possible about Dreng’s attack on her back in Norway. She used English, but when she could not remember a word, she used Norwegian and Cook, bless her, translated. She told the sheriff about Dreng’s boast that he searched her out in this country and found her. She did not mention that Einar Strand’s name helped him locate her. She told of his threatening letter and his insistence that everything was all her fault. “When I stabbed at his face with the ski pole, trying to get away, I may have put out his eye. He said he would kill me for that. He chased me, ran after me, and screamed threats at me.”
“I see.” The sheriff pushed himself to his feet. “I will need a written statement from you, of course, but we will do that later. If you think of anything else relevant to the incident, please call and tell me.”
Relevant. Yet another word to learn.
He smiled. “Mrs. Schoenleber, thank you for your part in this. And thank you too for the socials you’ve been hosting. They are a real addition to our community, something our young people need. My niece says they all have had a grand time.”
“Glad to hear that.” She walked with him to the door, and once he went out, she returned to the warm kitchen. “I wish Fritz were here to play for us this evening. I so enjoy his music, and we could use something soothing and lovely tonight.”
Hours later, Nilda, Miss Walstead, and Mrs. Schoenleber were sitting comfortably beside the fire when Charles and George returned. Mrs. Schoenleber motioned to two side chairs. She said simply, “Inform us.”
Charles sat down. “You look much recovered, miss. Did he injure you?”
“No. I’m well.” Nilda was glad her voice was getting back to normal.
George moved his chair closer to the fire and held his hands out toward the flames. “We found the place of the attack easily from the ski tracks. His heavy coat was still lying in a heap at the site, as was the tail of your ski that had broken off. Your other ski pole was broken as well. Why he did not go back for his coat, we cannot say.”
“He was terribly furious, insanely furious. He chased me.”
George nodded. “We saw that from the tracks in the snow. We debated pursuing him and decided to wait for the officials.”
Charles picked up the story. “When the deputies arrived, we followed his tracks. He ran after you for nearly a quarter mile, but he was wading in the snow. He gave it up, finally, and turned toward the river. He seemed to be headed for the Cantwell farm, but he was obviously in extremity. He started dragging his feet. He fell a couple of times. Then he stopped, sat down, and leaned against a tree. That is where we found him.”
“Did he say anything to you? I mean, about me?”
“No, miss,” said George. “He was no longer breathing.”
Nilda gasped. “Oh no! I killed him!”
“No, you did not!” Charles insisted. “We believe he died of hypothermia.”
Mrs. Schoenleber translated, “He died of the cold.”
George said gently, “It was his own foolishness that killed him, miss, not you. Certainly he should never have attacked you. But he should at least have gone back for his coat. The wind was especially fierce on the river. Hypothermia only takes an hour or two to kill you.”
Nilda stared into the fire. “He said he had changed, he begged me to forgive him. And I did. He proved himself otherwise, but I would never want to hurt him or kill him.”
“You were protecting yourself from madness.” George frowned. “He must have been watching this house, but I never noticed him. Did you?” He looked at Charles.
“No. We can leave it to the law to sort that out. Surely someone saw him.”
Nilda’s head was whirling. “What will happen to him?”
“You and your family know his family. That will make it much easier. We cannot bury him here until the ground thaws anyway, so there is time to make arrangements.”
Nilda turned to her employer. “Could I please go home for a few days?”
Mrs. Schoenleber squeezed her hand. “Of course, dear. Whatever you need.”
The next afternoon, Nilda and her family were gathered around the kitchen table. When she finished telling them all that had happened, she looked around at their faces. “The sheriff reminded me several times, as did Mrs. Schoenleber, that this was not my fault. No matter what Dreng screamed at me, his death, even though I injured him, was not my fault either. I did not kill him—the cold and his fury did that. Still, I feel twinges of guilt sometimes. I hope that passes.”
“He should have died in Norway,” Ivar murmured. “We were too easy on him.”
“Then you would have had to live with that responsibility.” Gunlaug laid her hand on her younger son’s arm. “Guilt is a horrible thing to live with. This way, he brought it on himself. His own actions caused his death.”
Nilda continued. “I had to prepare a written statement for the sheriff. At that time, the sheriff revealed to me that the foreman of the lumber camp where Dreng worked had written to him asking him to lock Dreng up if he saw him, and the foreman would press charges. The letter said that he attacked a girl who works in the camp just like he had attacked me. He slipped into the cook shed early one morning when she was preparing potatoes for breakfast. Others heard her screams and came to her rescue, but he got away.”
“We will give the sheriff the addresses for his parents. That we can do.” Rune nodded as he spoke. “This is out of our hands.”
Nilda nodded. “I feel better now that you all know. I’ve been having those terrible dreams of a man in a black hat.” She looked at her mor. “But last night, nothing woke me. I slept until the maid woke me for breakfast so we could get on the road out here.”
“How long can you stay?” Rune asked.
“Two more days. George will pick me up on Thursday morning.”
“Good. So let’s all get back to work. Work eases sorrow and pain; it will lift us up. You say you broke a ski. Bring it to me the next time you come, and I will make another of the same weight and length. I will send the two pairs of skis we just completed back with you. Ivar and Bjorn can go back out and finish limbing those trees and bring in a load of wood. Knute will help them, and I will work in the shop.” Rune looked around the table.
“And life goes on.” Gunlaug smiled sadly.
Rune nodded. “Yes, tragedies happen, but life goes on. Many losses, many blessings. One season after another.”
“I would say we have been in a season of grace, with God watching out for us.” Gunlaug returned her son’s smile. “No matter what time of year, we will remain in His season.”
Nilda nodded and shuddered. Far, dead and gone. And even Dreng, dead and gone. But there was a beautiful new baby in this home, and lively children.
A sudd
en thought seized her. It wasn’t just birth and death. The families were changing in other ways. Here were two prosperous farmsteads where one struggling farm used to be. No, there were three farms, for Oskar and his children, with Selma, were now part of their world. She thought of the boisterous Petter, the quiet Fritz. They were a part of her life as well. So many losses, so many blessings.
This was why she had felt the need to come home. To be with her family who took things as they came, the good and the bad, and kept on going.
A season of grace indeed.
Lauraine Snelling is the award-winning author of over 70 books, fiction and nonfiction, for adults and young adults. Her books have sold over 5 million copies. Besides writing books and articles, she teaches at writers’ conferences across the country. She and her husband make their home in Tehachapi, California, with basset hound Annie and their “three girls,” big golden hens.
Resources: bethanyhouse.com/AnOpenBook
Website: www.bethanyhouse.com
Facebook: Bethany House
Twitter: @Bethany House