Northern Lights Trilogy

by Lisa Tawn Bergren

  Trent beat three more men before the sixth man beat him. With that, he rose and smiled, waving to the customers. “That’s it for me, gentlemen. I always quit when the tide begins to turn, and it appears that time has come.” He rose, cheeks flushed and his hairline damp, making his dark hair, gray at the temples, curl a bit. Tora stared up at him in adoration, and before she knew what was happening, he dipped her for a low kiss.

  She rose, gasping for breath and laughing in surprise. What had come over him? Trent was usually the picture of decorum! Today he was acting downright…unseemly.

  “I take it back, Mr. Storm!” shouted a man in the back, the same who had challenged him earlier. “You’re just the man for Miss Anders!”

  “Hear, hear!”

  “Hear, hear!” boomed the crowd.

  Tora was still shaking her head and laughing about it two hours later. It was good to know that her love could still surprise her, she thought. It added some romance and suspense to their courtship. Intent on setting the kitchen to rights before turning in for the night, she gathered the canvas scrap bag and hauled it out to the back alley for the wandering dogs.

  She tossed it from the back stoop and paused to search the night sky. The stars were brilliant, covering the black backdrop of infinite space with a powdered sugar sprinkling of glimmering orbs. Her breath fogged before her, and as she did each night with the girls, she prayed for Kaatje, that she was somewhere warm and safe. Oh, come home soon, Kaatje.

  Tora missed her friend. She wondered about Elsa, too. Was she on her way from Bergen yet? Tora hoped so. She wanted both women with her when she said “I do.” It just wouldn’t be the same without them.

  She smiled again and rubbed her upper arms, suddenly chilled through. She turned to go inside when a movement at the end of the alley caught her attention. It was pitch dark, but the lanterns outside the front of the roadhouse cast long shadows. A man stepped into the center of the alley, his back to the street, facing Tora. He stood stockstill, staring and staring.

  By instinct, Tora threw back her shoulders and straightened. There was something eerily familiar about his stance and body. He was someone she knew… Who? Tora shivered again, this time not from the cold. Quickly she slammed the door shut and bolted it as if he were tearing at it from outside.

  “Tora?”

  She spun around, frightened out of her wits, and closed her eyes in relief when she saw Trent.

  “Tora, what’s wrong?” He rushed to her and took her in his arms.

  “Nothing,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m just being an idiot.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There was a man outside. He just stood there in the alley and stared at me.” She felt increasingly foolish with each word out of her mouth.

  “Did he come after you?” Trent asked, the muscles in his jawline tightening. “Did he threaten you?”

  Tora sighed and took a step away from him. “No. It was nothing. I just thought….”

  Going to the door and unlocking it, Trent pulled it open, then stood on the stoop outside like a marshal from the pages of a dime novel. He turned back to her. “He’s gone, whoever it was.” Then, after coming back inside, securing the door again, Trent placed one hand on her shoulder and the other under her chin. “You just thought what, Tora?”

  Embarrassed, she shook off his tender touch. “Nothing. I was being foolish. Probably just tired. I’m going to go turn in now, Trent. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  He watched her leave in silence; she could feel his gaze upon her back. Wearily she climbed the steps to the girls’ room. She pulled their blankets up to their chins and kissed each on the forehead. Then she went to the window and looked out to the street. It was deserted.

  I am being foolish.

  She walked to her own room, pulled the pins from her long, dark hair, and brushed it out. Then she undressed and put on a loose cotton shift. Tora was about to climb under the covers when she decided to go to her own window and once more make sure the man was gone. She blew out her candle so there was no light to betray her presence, then slowly lifted the shade to one side.

  The street was still empty.

  I’m being childish. I just thought…

  I just thought…

  Finally, she admitted it to herself, voicing it for the first time in her head. I just thought that he looked a lot like Decker. The man who had kidnapped her in Washington Territory, raped her, and left her on a freight train bound for Seattle.

  It looked an awful lot like Decker. She squeezed her eyes shut as if she could pinch away the memories and pulled the sheet and blanket over her head. He couldn’t be here in Alaska.

  He just couldn’t.

  Elsa Ramstad’s newest steamship, the Majestic, had transported her passengers in record time to the Eastern seaboard of America. The steel-hulled ship was outfitted with three sailing masts, as well as a triple expansion engine. Elsa laughed to herself. She had spent too much time with Peder—he’d always been so adamant about the advantages of sails over steam, almost a purist about it. And now, she could not imagine a ship without sails. And they had proven useful. The sails helped dampen the Atlantic’s tendency to roll a ship and, in tandem with the steam engine, had helped make their crossing a record in Ramstad shipping logs. A voyage that had once taken them six to eight weeks had been shortened to less than a month’s time. Elsa noted the date in her logbook with some pride.

  She relinquished the wheel to Eric Young when he came on duty and glanced upward at the yards of sail as she strolled the deck along with her eager passengers, waiting for their first look at America’s shores.

  “Kristian, come here!” she called, watching as her four-year-old climbed the rigging to one of the lower yards.

  “Ah, he’s a’right, Cap’n!” retorted a sailor. Elsa knew that she had gotten a reputation for being overprotective of her children, but then none of her sailors had lost a family member to the depths of the sea, had watched a spouse disappear forever among the roiling waves. “Kristian, come down at once!” she called.

  “Ah, Mother,” he complained. But he immediately complied.

  When he reached the deck, Elsa breathed a sigh of relief and hurried him toward the main cabin. “Come, Kristian. Let us see what Cook has made us for our noon dinner.”

  “I hope it’s brisket again!”

  “Aye, that was a special treat last night, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes! And with carrots and potatoes and cabbage!”

  Elsa laughed and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Nothing like a growing boy with an appetite. You’ve never seen food you didn’t like.”

  They left the deck, and Elsa ducked her head to pass through the small cabin door. It was made of fine mahogany, like the interior, and she smiled as she gained sight of Eve and Riley, Elsa’s loyal first mate, playing with a wooden train.

  “Mama!” Eve cried, leaving the small table to toddle over to her mother.

  The girl was in a pristine white dress. With her white-blond hair and big blue eyes, she looked like an angel. It was times like this that Elsa’s heart ached for Peder, for a mate to share in the joys of parenting. How proud he would have been of his children! How he would have relished playing with them and seeing them grow. Blinking back sudden tears, Elsa pulled Eve close for a quick embrace.

  “Go wash your hands, Kristian. It is soon time for supper.” After bemoaning the task and getting a stern warning look from his mother, Kristian reluctantly did as she bid.

  Riley studied her with a knowing look. “You still miss him, don’t you?”

  Elsa looked away, a bit embarrassed. Riley had become like an older brother or an uncle to her since Peder’s death. “It’s been almost two years, and it’s much better. But it’s times like this,” she said, gesturing toward where Kristian had stood, “that I ache for him. He would’ve loved his children. And they would’ve loved him.”

  “Certainly.” Riley rose and walked to the porthole, looking o
ver the gray-blue waves of the Atlantic. “You said it’s been almost two years, Elsa.”

  “Right….”

  He turned and looked at her again. “Two years. Your grieving has been properly observed. Do you think…do you think that you can ever let a man into your life again?”

  Elsa slowly shook her head. “Oh, I do not know. I don’t know if I could ever take that risk again. The pain. Even the thought of losing another I love takes my breath away.” She sat down. No one had asked her such a direct question before—the thought of finding someone she could love as fiercely as she’d loved Peder seemed impossible. Surely it would be selfish to think such a love could happen twice in one lifetime.

  “Could you consider it for the children’s sake?”

  “For the children?”

  “Yes. As you have said, they would love a father.”

  “It is not exactly like I have a hundred men at my door, Riley.”

  “It is not exactly like they can come knockin’ when you’re always at sea, Cap’n,” he said, returning Elsa’s sharp tone.

  “The children have you.”

  “It is not the same and you know it. And it’s not only for the children. You need a man by your side too. You’re young and healthy. I know what you and Peder shared was somethin’ special, but does that mean you will avoid love for the rest of your life?”

  Elsa bit her lower lip. When he was so forthright, he was usually right, whether Elsa liked hearing it or not. The children came running back in then, eager for Elsa to inspect their hands. And Cook arrived with their meal, setting it upon the dining room table and leaving.

  “Hurray!” Kristian cried. “It is brisket again! Can I have mine on a slice of bread?”

  “Yes,” Elsa said. “But you must first wait for us to say a blessing over the food.” She turned to Riley and dropped her voice. “I will think about what you have said, Riley.”

  The man nodded once, obviously gratified.

  A week later as they left Camden, Elsa worked on a painting of her mother, sister, and nephews outside her childhood home, with the harbor behind them. She had sketched out twelve prospective paintings while in Bergen, and wanted to get this one in color before it faded from her memory. As she worked, she thought of the portrait above the Ramstads’ fireplace, the one of Peder and Kristian as a toddler in samurai costumes. That had been a glorious season, that year when they had first explored the Far East together. She smiled as she remembered going to the Saitos home in the mountains, an outdoor tub and a loving husband.

  Elsa dipped her brush into the green-blue oil, then set it down. Her heart was no longer in the painting, and it never came out right if she could not concentrate.

  That night in Japan, Peder had come to the steaming tub, picked up a bar of soap, and washed her hair, tenderly, thoroughly. She could still feel his strong fingers on her scalp, his lips softly touching her neck. It was one of the most intimate, treasured moments of their marriage. And even remembering it for a moment made her swallow hard in melancholy woe.

  Could she ever let someone else in her heart like that again? When he had died, a part of her had died with him. They had been one. Not that they always were of one mind…but he had become her heart, and she his. Was there enough left within her to risk that loss again? But look at what I’ve gained from the risk, she thought, looking over at Kristian and Eve. They were playing skittles, a child’s shipboard game involving a top and pins. As the top spun, Eve shrieked and Kristian giggled. The Swiss clock on the wall chimed seven times.

  “Nooo,” Kristian wailed, knowing what it meant.

  “Yes, go get undressed. I’ll be in shortly to tuck you in.”

  Cook ducked his head through the door and looked at her with an inquiring glance.

  “Yes, I’d love tea, Cook,” she said with a smile. It was their routine every night. She would go and tuck her children into bed—they had their own bedrooms and proper beds on the Majestic—tell them each a story, usually reading The Adventures of Tom Sawyer to Kristian and making one up for Eve, then she’d tuck them in and have tea in the parlor. Afterward, Elsa would stroll across the deck, talking to the crew, assigning tasks, checking Eric’s charts. It was a good life. A fulfilling life. Did she really need a man to make it complete?

  No.

  But did she wish Peder were home with her again?

  Yes.

  One warm evening, Elsa sat down at her logbook table and moved aside a brass sextant—a gift from some anonymous friend—off the upper portion of an old, yellowed chart. The sextant was a fine instrument, the best she’d seen, and had been awaiting her in Camden a year prior, as other gifts had awaited her in Seattle and Bergen. Each time, when she inquired, no one knew their source. With the sextant, she had even gone to the maker in Boston—a temperamental craftsman named Gates—but he told her he had sold over a hundred of that make and hadn’t kept records of who purchased them.

  Elsa picked it up, feeling the heavy weight of the brass instrument in her hands. Whoever sent it knew her well, for she loved to take readings every night that there were stars visible, loved the methodical, dependable nature of the earth and sky and sea. Regardless of what happened in her world, those three elements remained constant. Like God in a way, she mused. The sea constantly showed her new faces, but deep down, it was always the same sea. An old friend, of sorts.

  Hearing the bell clang for the fourth watch, Elsa rose, left her cabin, and walked the decks to the stern of the ship. She enjoyed observing the watch toss the foot-long Walker “Cherub” into the sea, allow it to drift beyond the Majestic’s wake, then haul it back in to measure their speed. The combination of rotating blades and recording dials indicated their progress with unfailing accuracy.

  “How are we faring, Eric?” she asked as he raised a lantern to read their rate of speed.

  “Very fine, Captain,” he said with a smile. “She’ll be one for the Ramstad record books, for sure.”

  “Good, good. Please report to me your findings before you turn in.”

  “Aye, aye.”

  She turned and closed her eyes as she walked back to her cabin, taking in deep breaths of the fresh salty air, loving the rock and roll of the sea beneath her feet. This was home to her, perfect in so many ways. She could almost sense Peder’s arms around her, the warmth of his embrace. Almost. But he wasn’t there. He would never be there again.

  Perhaps it was time to be open to another. To look for the possibility that God would allow her to love again. “Perhaps,” she whispered to herself, gazing at small swells across the water lit by a half-moon climbing the sky above. “Just perhaps.”

  five

  After nearly two months on Soren’s trail, Kaatje was so exhausted that she felt near to collapse. Life as a farmer had been taxing, but nothing like this day-to-day struggle to survive on the river and alongside it. They were moving fast and furious through the Interior of Alaska, stopping only to camp. They averaged fifteen miles a day, give or take a bit, and it was grueling. She had lost weight; her clothes hung on her lean frame. But there was no way Kaatje would ever let James Walker know she was struggling. While things had softened between them, there was still a discouraging air about him, as if he wanted to stay away from her but was stuck within close proximity of her, day in and day out.

  They were trudging along an Indian path near the village of Tanana, portaging yet again where the river was impassable. The men carried the boat over their heads and small packs on their backs while Kaatje was left to manage the rest. The path wound around huge clumps of swamp grass and massive fields of flowers—wild iris and giant bluebells, for the most part.

  Kaatje wore a net under her hat, but still the huge black flies clung to it, hoping to find a hole and a way in. When they did, they bit, leaving red welts on her tender skin. Not so tender anymore. It was just as James had warned, but she refused to say anything, to complain. Where was the tenderness and consideration he had shown her now and then? He was a confusi
ng and exasperating man. She stopped to shift her pack, lifting the straps that ate at her shoulders. The men trudged forward, never looking back. She felt irritable and abused, angry at her traveling companions—they called themselves guides!—and her absent husband. It was Soren’s fault they were there; it was James’s and Kadachan’s fault they were on this path with these blasted woman-eating flies…

  Memories of the mother grizzly plagued Kaatje, and she constantly looked about, sure they would soon happen upon another. They had seen several along the river, the bears fishing and dolefully watching the boat pass as if they knew the men had shotguns trained on their foreheads. Kaatje looked ahead. The men seemed to ignore her as they concentrated on their own load. As if they were the only ones carrying anything. Why, a grizzly could come and haul me away right now, and the men probably wouldn’t even notice, she pouted, knowing she was pouting, unable to do anything else.

  Kaatje rounded a boulder and immediately encountered a swarm of no-see-ums, tiny gnats that seemed to find their way under her net and leave bites that swelled to the size of chicken eggs as she slept. She could barely see the path before her, and swatted around her face blindly until they dissipated. James turned briefly, obviously noting her discontent, but then moved on.

  What was she doing here, so far from her daughters, her home, her life? Why had God led her to this place to suffer so for a man who had mistreated her from the beginning? She grimaced and clenched her teeth, muttering a conversation between herself and her Lord. “He’s dead. Here I am, in the middle of nowhere, on a path to nowhere. For what? For what? Yes, I needed to know about Soren. But couldn’t there have been some other way? Couldn’t I have sent James? Why bring me here?”