Northern Lights Trilogy

by Lisa Tawn Bergren

  Had they recognized him? Elsa’s big eyes, perfect for her sculpted face, had held recognition and fear. It pleased him to think he frightened her. I should. They would be even more unnerved had they heard of his new reputation in these waters. “Run, mouse, run,” he whispered. “The cat is in the house.” He admired her slim waist and noted the child in Peder’s arms with interest. Mason had kept up with the Heroine of the Horn through the newspaper articles in the years since they had crossed paths, admiring her obvious tenacity and talent. All that and beautiful too. Yes, Mrs. Ramstad, someday you and I will again exchange words, and perhaps something more.

  Peder pulled her around a corner, ending Mason’s lustful imaginings. Had it not been for Ramstad and his louse of a first mate, Karl Martensen, Mason was sure things would have ended differently. The fact that the two men and their crew had foiled his efforts brought a grudging respect, but also a burning desire to set things to rights, to get even and claim what was his. And what wasn’t his these days? he asked himself with a low chuckle in his throat.

  Mason set down the jar with a clunk that made the shopkeeper scowl in his direction, then quickly look away upon seeing the perpetrator. Mason Dutton owned the people in Honolulu and the surrounding waters of the Hawaiian Islands. They were his people, he their king. Or dictator. If he chose to strike, he did so. If he chose to ignore them, they breathed a sigh of relief. Most steered clear of him, paying the required dues to exist under his “protection.” And he liked the sense of power it gave him.

  He waved at a man whose stolen British uniform bulged at the seams, and the man immediately lumbered over. “Captain Peder Ramstad is in town,” Mason said quietly. “Find out the name of his ship, their cargo, and when they intend to set sail.”

  Kaatje blinked, her eyes stinging from the salty sweat of her brow, and eased her horse to a stop. With the back of her hand, she wiped her forehead and looked around for Christina and Jessie. They were near the house, making mud pies as they had been doing for over an hour. She smiled. The industry of small children. If only she could sell their wares for money! On the stone wall that bordered the well were pie after pie, testimony of the girls’ busy morning.

  All in all, life was good here in the Skagit Valley of the Washington Territory. The soil was more dense than in Dakota, and thus heavier to clear and plow, but richer for growing. Here, they didn’t have the problem of drought that the dryland farmers of Dakota battled; instead, they contended with rot. Still, it was easier to bring in a crop here, and Kaatje was glad for her move. In the four years since their arrival, she had managed—with the help of her dear Bergenser friends—to build some semblance of a home for her daughters in the one-room shanty and bring in enough of a crop to sustain them through each year. With God’s help, they would do it again in 1886.

  If only it could be a bit easier, she thought to herself. Her neighbors had expanded their farms and their homes since arriving, whereas Kaatje found herself barely able to sustain what she and her friends had begun. She closed her eyes. Forgive me, Lord. I am thankful for what we have been given. I’m just so tired. Ease my weariness. Slowly, she unhooked the harness of the plow from her waist and chest and then released her horse. Her shoulders and back ached from the work, and she winced as the fabric of her dress moved over her back, made raw from the leather straps. She paused and gave in to her exhaustion for a moment, hand on neck, eyes closed, sweaty cheek to the slight breeze from the west.

  “Mama! Mama!” yelled her girls in unison, glad Kaatje was taking a break for lunch. They hauled a tin bucket of water, and Nels, the draft horse, whinnied and took a step forward as if they were bringing refreshment to him instead.

  “Poor Nels,” Kaatje soothed, stroking his giant sweaty neck. He was of good stock and had served them well here in the Skagit Valley. Certainly without Nels’s help Kaatje would have accomplished little on this land.

  When the girls reached her, Kaatje smiled broadly, invigorated simply by being near them as they chatted about business as if mud pies were a booming industry. “Give me a cup, child,” she said to Jessie, who offered up the tin scoop. Kaatje drank deeply, dipped for another, and then nodded at Nels. “Give the rest to him, please. He must be very thirsty on such a day as this.”

  “Yes, Mama,” Jessie said, happy to treat her big friend she had named after a fellow Bergenser. Jessie had a natural way with animals. Someday, Jessie had announced the other evening, she wanted to be a shepherd like Jesus, caring for her sheep on the hills that surrounded the Skagit Valley. She often begged to accompany Birger Nelson when he herded his flock to new pastures high in the hills. On the other hand, Kaatje’s older child, Christina, seemed to fear the horse and preferred chores that did not entail caring for Nels or their hog and sheep.

  If they were different in their personalities, they were even more dissimilar in their outward appearance. Christina was short for her age, with dark blond hair that waved a bit, and she had Kaatje’s gray eyes. In comparison, Jessie was fast approaching her older sibling’s height, and her dark hair held the same tight coil that Soren’s once had, making it wild and unruly but, at the same time, wonderful. Her eyes were a remarkable summer-sky blue, reminding Kaatje daily of her husband long absent, and of his indiscretions.

  It pained her a bit, when she thought of it, that there was nothing that resembled Kaatje in the girl—which only made sense because she was not her biological mother—but Kaatje often felt her heart did not make sense when it came to Jessie. She loved the girl so much that somehow Kaatje felt God should imprint her own image on the child, much as he had on Christina. She longed to erase any hint of Tora Anders in Jessie. She wanted to erase all the ugliness of the past, all the memories of Soren’s affairs with Tora and the others, and only view the hope of their future.

  Kaatje walked to the shanty, eager to enter the shade and protection of their small home and rest a bit before returning to the field. She wanted to sit in her rocker and close her eyes, but instead pulled bread from the basket on the sideboard and directed Christina to get last night’s leftover beef from the tiny icebox. As she placed forks and knives on the table with napkins and plates, the weariness overcame her. A blinding pain shot through her head, making her wince, and she stumbled toward her bed.

  “Mama?” Jessie said, rushing over to her. “What is it? Are you ill?”

  “No, child,” Kaatje struggled to convince her. “Just very tired. Eat your lunch with Christina, and let your mother rest. I will be fine in a moment.”

  She awakened an hour later to both girls, settled by her bed, studying her intently.

  “Mama! Are you all right?” Christina said, clearly frightened.

  “Do you need Doc Warner?” Jessie asked, sounding like a small adult.

  “No, children. I am fine.” Pressing away the pain that racked her body from head to toe, Kaatje sat up. “I’m simply tired. It is not normal for women to do such work in the field.”

  “Because Papa is gone,” Jessie said forlornly.

  “If only he would come back!” Christina wished aloud.

  “If he could find us,” Jessie added.

  If he’s alive, Kaatje thought to herself. After hearing nothing about him in the last four years, she assumed the worst. Soon, she would find the gumption to discover the truth. But not yet. Right now, she still held the tiniest hope that Soren was alive. That he would return to them and make things right after all these years. That Kaatje would have the chance to rant and rave and let him know how difficult life had been without him, and watch as he groveled for her forgiveness. That was all she wanted. A chance to let out all the fury that boiled beneath the surface. A moment of vindication. The day when all the things that were wrong in her life became right.

  “All in God’s time,” she told her daughters. “Someday it will all be made right. In God’s time.” She closed her eyes, willing her body to rise. For her children, who gazed at her in such distress. For herself. The world would not beat Kaatje Jan
ssen. She had too much to live for.

  section one

  Broken Cisterns

  one

  When the knock at the door sounded twice, sure, quick, Tora’s heart jumped. She swallowed and resettled herself in the chair, making sure the best side of her face was toward Trent and the flounce of her polonaise that fell to the floor was “just so.” She could feel his presence before he came into view, and she wondered at this thing inside her heart, this thing that would not die, that stirred for him more than any other. What was it about Trent Storm?

  He entered the room as if he owned it, looking elegant in new attire. He peeled off his gloves and coolly perused her. “Tora,” he said with a nod and then a slight smile. There was something hopeful in his eyes, and Tora was glad for it.

  “Trent!” she said in a surprised tone, as if she had forgotten he was coming, and went to him. He bent over her hand and kissed it, then held it in his warm, strong fingers as they stared at each other. After a long, intense moment Tora squirmed. “It has been a while, Trent.”

  “Yes, well, things at home have kept me quite busy. Helena is a few miles from Duluth, mind you.”

  “Please sit down,” she said with a grand gesture, hoping he would notice the neorococo furniture just in from France. He sat without hesitation. “Yes, but we haven’t seen each other for what? Five months?”

  “Counting, darling?”

  Tora frowned. His eyes were alive with challenge, and the air was suddenly charged with energy. “No, not at all. I simply was commenting. I’ve certainly been busy enough establishing new roadhouses—I’ve not had time to count the hours until seeing you again.” She hoped the edge of sarcasm in her voice would deflate whatever dangerous balloon was rising between them.

  “Quite. The facilities here are quite impressive. Not to mention this house.” He glanced around. “Very nice. I trust you did this with only your own funds.”

  Tora scowled. This was not going at all as she had planned. “Of course, Trent,” she said, hating the defensiveness in her tone. “I wanted to build a house in which I could entertain important guests, but moreover, a home. I had to borrow a certain sum from the bank, but they were happy to assist such a prominent—”

  “A home?” Trent interrupted, rising and walking to a window that stretched from the floor to the twelve-foot ceiling. He parted the velvet drapes and looked outside. “Hmm. A home. Something that reminds you of Bergen?”

  Tora felt the blood drain from her face. “Bergen? Why, it has been years since I’ve thought of Norway. No, I was thinking of someplace—”

  “Like Camden?”

  “Camden-by-the-Sea?” she managed to ask without her voice rising an octave. Where was he going with this? “No, what I started to say was—”

  “That you needed a home,” he put in.

  “Yes,” she said, staring back into his eyes when he studied her.

  “A sense of place.”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “A place where you know who you are, and others do as well. That’s the reason for this grand showcase of a home, correct? The three-story, overdone, showy Queen Anne of the Storm Roadhouse Maven?”

  Tora rose, thoroughly alarmed now. “Trent, whatever is wrong with you? I had so hoped you would like it, so treasured the idea you might want—”

  “What? To live here?” He shook his head once, decisively. “No, Tora. I do not even know who the Storm Roadhouse Maven is. You have not allowed it. How could I marry you? How could I come and make a home with you? You have grown more distant in the time I’ve known you, wrapped up in your own vision of the future and a very tangled net of lies.”

  “Of … of lies?”

  Trent pulled a yellowed paper from the inside pocket of his jacket and quietly unfolded it. “The Heroine of the Horn,” he read aloud. He stared down at her. “Elsa Anders Ramstad. Your long-lost sister. Here’s the amusing part, though. She apparently does not remember being lost. In fact, she seems to have a very solid idea of who she is and where she has come from.”

  “You … you spoke to her?”

  He ignored her question. “You told me she was dead. Do you think that she claims the same of you?”

  Tora sat down, hard. “Perhaps in some sense she does,” she muttered, half to herself.

  “That is the first honest thing I’ve heard from you in a long time.”

  Tora sighed and stared toward the window. She knew it was the end; this was the reason for Trent’s growing distance. He knew. He’d known for a long time. And her secrecy had driven him further and further away, even as she sought to draw him closer. “How did you find out?”

  “Some detective work. I so wanted you to confide in me, Tora.” He spoke as if he were talking about someone else, a distant relation. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why the secrecy? Was I untrustworthy? What is so humiliating in your past that you could not simply tell the truth? Not enough drama for you? Tora Anders,” he said with a shake of his head and a sigh, “you could have been a star on the stage. You’ve put on quite a performance these last four years. For a while, I told myself it didn’t matter, that you must have your reasons. Probably a silly pride thing, or whatnot. But it kept eating at me, and I couldn’t let it go. Last month, I decided enough was enough. If you couldn’t be honest with me, we certainly had little hope for a future.” He turned to her, his voice full of anguish. “Why, Tora? Why did you not tell me?”

  She could feel his stare but could not find it within herself to meet his gaze. “Tell you? When we first met, you were my employer! It was easier, cleaner if I came to you as an orphan. And as to Camden, and the baby, I couldn’t tell you all of that. Trent Storm would never have hired an unwed mother.”

  When he did not respond, Tora quickly looked at him. The stricken expression on his face spoke volumes—he hadn’t known! He hadn’t known all of it! Looking suddenly ten years older, Trent sat down hard on the settee. Tora rose and went to him, kneeling at his feet and resting her face on his thigh. “Oh, Trent!” Tears came unbidden. “Trent, I did it to survive. If you had known I was less than the wholesome woman you hired to work in your facilities, would you ever have employed me, much less courted me? I had to do it! I wanted to do something important with my life. To do this,” she said, waving about her. “And soon I was doing it as much for you as I was for me.”

  “At the expense of a child,” he said numbly. “Where, Tora? Where did you leave your baby?”

  “In a good home,” she said simply.

  “Look at me,” he said sharply, raising her chin forcefully. “The child lives?”

  “I hope so,” she whispered. For the first time in years, Tora felt a sense of relief in sharing the burden of her secret with another.

  “You feel sorrow over your decision?” His eyes never wavered.

  “Occasionally. But not for some time. There’s so much more to my life now—”

  Trent laughed a mirthless laugh and rose, as if brushing her off. “Do you realize how heartless you sound? God wants a different woman for me, Tora. A woman with heart and passion. Not perfect. I am far from a sinless man myself. But I fancy that I face up to my mistakes. I expect nothing less of a woman I would love.”

  So that was what this was all about? Some overblown sense of judgment? Why, he didn’t know her! He didn’t know what she had gone through to get to this station.

  “You are dead to me, Tora Anders,” Trent said simply, walking to the door with heavy footsteps. “You are fired and no longer associated with Storm Enterprises.”

  Tora’s mouth dropped, and her heart thudded dully. “I—I—”

  “You are on your own,” he said, walking to the doorway. He turned back once. “I sincerely hope, Tora, that one day you will find your way home.”

  And with that he was gone.

  Karl was not sure why, but after supper that evening he decided on a walk. Casually, he asked directions toward Tora Anders’s home, and gradually made his way there. She sat by h
erself in the front garden, sipping from a tall crystal glass and looking morose. It stunned him to see her again. She was as lovely as ever, her dark hair done up on top in an elaborate knot, her clothing impeccably fine. What does it cost to find dresses like that in the Montana territory? he wondered briefly.

  He stood at her iron gate, transported in time to their voyage six years before when he discovered Tora had stowed away aboard the Herald. She was an imp of perhaps sixteen then; now she was a grown woman. His mind flickered to her older sister—the woman he had longed for who had ultimately cost him his best friend. Had Elsa grown in beauty as her younger sister had? Quickly he pushed the thought from his mind. He had seen Tora at social events on Trent Storm’s arm in years past, but something was different about her tonight. She looked somehow lost, troubled.

  Karl chastised himself at the protectiveness that rose in his breast. Whatever sadness she felt, Tora probably brought on herself. He cleared his throat.

  Tora looked up at once and a small smile raised the corners of her perfect mouth. “Why, Karl Martensen. Here in Montana!” She rose and waved him in. “Please, join me. Would you care for some lemonade?”

  It sounded like an uncommon luxury to Karl, having citrus in a mountain town, and he nodded quickly. “Tora,” he said in greeting, bowing his head as he took off his hat and hugged it to his chest. He did as she bid and sat beside her on the garden bench, while Tora told a maidservant to bring more lemonade.

  “I’m pleased to see you, Karl,” she said, a note of weariness in her voice. “It has been a most unpleasant day.”

  “I am sorry to hear that.”

  “Yes. Perhaps you can take my mind off it. I refuse to dwell on the unpleasant! Tell me of you! It has been what? Three years?”