An Untamed Land

by Snelling, Lauraine

  “There now,” she said, laying the black hat in her lap. “Now it can fall no farther.”

  “You’d best hang on to it tightly; it seems to have a mind of its own.”

  “Rest assured, I will.” Ingeborg leaned forward and pointed out the window. “There it is, the grocer’s. We found it.” She pulled open the strings of her bag and dug inside for the coins Kaaren had given her. Removing the two copper pennies, she held them out. “This will be enough, don’t you think?”

  “For one small apple, I am sure.” He ordered the driver to stop in front of the apple cart that took up the same space on the corner as it had the day before. When Ingeborg started to rise, he stopped her with a shake of his head. “I will do this for you.”

  “Mange takk.” But when he started to step down without her money, Ingeborg pressed the coins upon him.

  He rolled his eyes upward as if looking for consolation and took one of the coins from her hand, obviously against his will.

  Ingeborg watched as he spoke with the grocer and, with a nod, indicated her sitting in the cab. When the aproned tradesman started gesticulating and raising his voice, her angel pressed the coin into the man’s hand, spoke in a sharp tone, and spun on his heel. The straight line of his mouth told Ingeborg something the grocer said had irritated him.

  “What did the man say?” she asked when he swung himself back in the cab.

  “He demanded I also pay for the apples the ruffians stole.”

  Ingeborg waited until he settled himself in the seat and repositioned his beaver hat, knocked slightly askew by the doorway.

  “And what did you answer him?” Guilt for involving someone else in a brew of her own making made Ingeborg twist her fingers together.

  “I told him to move the cart back to where he could keep better track of his produce and quit trying to take advantage of immigrants like yourself. For all I know, he and those two hoodlums are in cahoots.”

  “Oh.” All of a sudden the enormity of her situation rolled over Ingeborg like a thick fog coming in from the sea. Whatever had possessed her to think she could just waltz right out of the boardinghouse, find her way back to the Battery, find the grocer, and then return to the only place that right now seemed like a haven of comfort?

  “Hutte meg tu,” she muttered as she pinned her hat back in place. The simple words could be used as a sigh of disgust or an expletive of the proper manner, whichever one chose. Ingeborg could think of stronger words to call herself but stopped in time. Oh my, what a dolt I must seem.

  “My mother has a favorite saying, ‘All’s well that ends well.’ I think we can apply that bit of wisdom here. Now, can you tell me the address or at least the name of the place where you are staying?”

  Ingeborg nodded, pleased that she at least had the wits to do that before venturing out. “I wrote it down.” She dug the bit of paper out of her bag and handed it to him. “How can I ever thank you enough for all that you have done?” She raised her eyes filled with gratitude to meet his.

  “You will do a kind deed sometime for someone in your life, then they will do so also, and thus the circle continues. Now, let me show you some other sights of my fair city as we return to your starting place.”

  “Mange takk . . .” Ingeborg paused. “But . . . I don’t even know your name.”

  “Nor I yours. I cannot keep on thinking of you as my ‘Norwegian in distress.’ ” The twinkle in his eyes invited her to enjoy every moment. “My name is David Jonathan Gould, and please don’t believe everything you’ll hear about my family. We were immigrants once, too, and now my father is encouraging people like you to come help settle the West so we can push our railroads out there.” He leaned forward. “And now, I know what a fine sense of honor you have, but I do not know your name either.”

  “Ingeborg Moe Bjorklund. My husband’s name is Roald, and we are journeying to Dakota Territory to homestead there with his brother and wife.” Ingeborg could feel questions welling up like an artesian spring, but she quickly put a cap on them.

  David tipped his beaver hat. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Bjorklund.”

  His smile made her want to say something witty and wonderful to keep that glorious smile in place, but, as usual, words deserted her. When he turned serious, she felt as though a gray cloud had blocked the sun.

  “If you ever need something, you can write me here.” David reached into the pocket of his topcoat and pulled out a small white card with black embossed letters, which he offered to her. “No matter where I am, your letter will find me.”

  Ingeborg bit the inside of her cheek and swallowed quickly. What could she say to such a kind offer? Fearing the inanity of words, she just nodded and took the card, placing it carefully in a pocket in her reticule. Whatever made her accept it? She blinked quickly and pointed to some tall posts that held up a metal framework.

  “What is that?” She felt relieved that the quiver vibrating in her throat stayed put.

  “The el, or elevated train. One of our modern wonders. By elevating this type of transportation, the streets are then free for all other types of conveyance, including that streetcar over there.” He pointed to a long, horse-drawn car filled with riders, many of them reading newspapers. “New York is known for its modern methods of transportation.”

  “Well, I never . . .”

  As they continued, David pointed out the copper-domed courthouse and various mansions that made Ingeborg wonder at the wealth that allowed people to live in palaces such as these. Had the people here indeed found the streets that were paved in gold, and then harvested it all? He also showed her Columbia College and St. Paul’s Cathedral. Even Ingeborg, with her totally confused sense of direction, realized they had not returned by the shortest route.

  By the time they arrived in front of the boardinghouse, she knew a seed of a different kind had been planted in her fertile mind. While farming was to be their livelihood, Ingeborg was beginning to realize there was more to Amerika than crops and cows.

  She looked out the window of the cab and felt her heart drop. Two tall, very familiar men were approaching from the opposite direction. Whatever made her think she could get away with something this momentous without Roald discovering her duplicity?

  Ingeborg recognized storm warnings when she saw them. Apparently David Jonathan Gould did too, for she could see his assessing look as Roald and Carl approached.

  “Do you know that man?” he asked. “Your husband?”

  Ingeborg nodded. While Roald had a hard time smiling, the anger on his face and in his stride was visible for all the world to see. Why, Lord, couldn’t you have timed this better? She felt like crawling under the carriage seat, but experience had taught her the ineffectiveness of trying to hide. Like a good soldier, she understood the value of a strong offense.

  “Roald, you have arrived just in time to thank Mr. Gould for assisting me.” She extended her hand for her husband to help her down from the cab. When he ignored it, she smiled at Carl, who, tongue securely nestled in the curve of his cheek, took her hand as if he’d been assisting ladies from carriages all his life.

  With her feet planted firmly on the sidewalk, Ingeborg ignored her husband’s glower and turned to smile her farewell to the man who’d become her guardian angel. “Mange takk. Go with God.”

  “Velbekomme.” Gould tipped his beaver hat and turned to speak to Roald. “Mr. Bjorklund, may I wish you and your family success in your homesteading endeavors. My father is a partner in several of the railroad ventures in the West. If you are ever in need of employment, please feel free to contact me.” He handed Roald an embossed card, tipped his hat again, and motioned for the cabby to drive off.

  Roald looked from the card in his hand to the departing cab and back again. He took one step forward as if to follow, checked the card one more time, and, apparently making a decision, placed it carefully in an inner pocket of his wool coat.

  But when he turned to Ingeborg, all traces of confusion had va
nished. The thunder on his brow matched the lightning in his eyes. “So . . .”

  But before he could continue, Ingeborg, too, made a decision. She held up a mittened hand. “I kept my word, as I always will. I paid the grocer.” She spun on her heel and marched up the three steps, back straight and strong as an iron bar.

  Roald started after her. “You will . . .”

  She stopped in the act of opening the door. When she turned, her air of calm authority stopped him midword. “You are correct. We will not discuss this any further.”

  The look on his face made her want to beat a hasty retreat, but instead, she mustered every ounce of courage she possessed and, nodding to both of the brothers, stepped through the door and headed for the stairs, stubbornly ignoring the pain in her foot. Feeling his eyes drilling into her back, she took each step with perfect posture, as if she carried a gallon jar atop her head. However, the tension felt more like ten gallons.

  All the way to their room she could feel the thrust of his unuttered words like arrows thudding against her armored back.

  “Mor.” Thorliff catapulted into her skirts as soon as she opened the door.

  “How did it. . . ?” Kaaren stopped as soon as she saw Roald directly behind his wife. “Mrs. Flaksrude said there would be hot coffee ready whenever you returned.” She reached her hand out to Carl. “Before you ask, yes, I am feeling much better. The good food and rest have given me some strength back. Thorliff has been making me laugh, and that always helps.”

  “I’m glad, for we have our tickets to leave tomorrow. We will take a ferry across the river to Jersey City and board the train there.”

  “More walking?”

  “No, we have a wagon coming at dawn.”

  “Far, I . . .” The small boy broke off his words after a look at his father’s face.

  Ingeborg looked up in time to see Carl wink at his wife and to catch the smile he gave her as he followed Roald out the door to get their coffee.

  The steel rod of resolve that had been keeping Ingeborg upright melted in relief as soon as the men were gone. She collapsed in a boneless bundle on the bed.

  “Did you find the man?” Kaaren whispered.

  Ingeborg nodded and tugged open her reticule. She handed Thorliff the remaining copper coin. “Here, take this to your tante Kaaren. There’s a good boy.”

  “What man?” Thorliff asked, doing as he’d been told.

  “None of your business.” Kaaren took the coin and looked across the room. “You don’t have to give this back, you know.”

  “Just as well. We may need it another time. But let me tell you, I will do just as my mother did. The egg money will be mine.” Visions of milk cows and laying hens flew through her mind. Roald dreamed of land and more land, but her dreams were more specific: food for her family and enough extra to sell in the nearest village. Townspeople always were in need of butter, cheese, cream, and eggs. And if their garden did well, some of that could be sold, too.

  Feeling Kaaren’s gaze upon her, Ingeborg drew her attention back to the room. “I will tell you of my adventures another time.” Taking off her coat and mittens, she busied herself with transferring things from one satchel to another. What had happened to her? In all her life, she had never felt as though she’d stepped into another world as she had with David Jonathan Gould—and so comfortably. Where had she learned to act that way? What on earth had possessed her to allow a strange man to drive her about in a city that certainly was foreign to anything she’d ever known? And what about Roald? Would he ever forgive her?

  But why do I need forgiveness? I did nothing wrong. And if Roald had lived up to his responsibilities, none of this would have happened. With that thought, and feeling totally justified, Ingeborg snapped the catch closed and dusted off her hands. Maybe the arrival in a new land had acted as a spring tonic and purged her of past behaviors. Men! Uff da!

  She looked up in time to catch Kaaren’s intent stare. Thorliff stood in the crook of his aunt’s arm, eyes the same color as his father’s, studying her as if he wasn’t quite sure that she was truly his mor. Ingeborg held out her arms.

  “Come to mor, den lille, and I will tell you about the train that ran on tracks high above my head.”

  “Like a bridge?” Thorliff darted to her side and twined his fist in her skirt as if to tether her to the ground, then leaned his head against her bosom.

  “Like a bridge that goes on forever.”

  Roald burned his tongue on the coffee. He kept the pain to himself and, before the next sip, poured the liquid in the saucer and drank from that. The scalding coffee had nothing on the fury thundering in his head. What on earth had gotten into Ingeborg to think she could ride around in a horsecab with a total stranger? And after he had explicitly told her to stay in the boardinghouse. He knew he had made himself clear. Yet she seemed to have a mind of her own.

  Her insistence during the night upon paying the grocer twinged the edge of his conscience like a sore tooth. He could have said he’d pay. But an apple was such a trivial item compared to all the important things they had to do before leaving New York. What was the matter with her? Couldn’t she understand all the responsibility he was shouldering for all of them? On top of that, Ingeborg had deliberately disobeyed him. She’d never done such a thing before. Was this a portend of things to come?

  Roald was brought suddenly out of his musings by the snapping of Carl’s fingers in his face.

  “Roald, Mrs. Flaksrude has asked you two times if you’d like a doughnut.”

  “Oh.” Roald paused as he always did before answering. “Mange takk, Mrs. Flaksrude.” He dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Excuse me for letting my mind wander.”

  “These are for your womenfolk and that charming little son of yours.”

  The woman’s smile made him feel even more guilty as she placed a full plate in front of him. Where had his manners gone?

  “And I will have a basket packed with food for your journey before you leave in the morning.”

  “But we cannot—” Roald started to protest.

  “No, do not try to change my mind. The basket goes along with the price of your room, so say nothing about it. You will have enough on your mind without worrying about how to feed your families.” She placed both hands on her ample hips. “And besides, those robbers who sell food to the immigrants at the stations charge prices that would bankrupt a rich man.” She shoved the plate of doughnuts closer to the two men. “It’s the least I can do for good folks like you.”

  “You’ve done so much already.” Carl thanked her further by biting into the sugared treat. “Mange takk is far too small a word to say for all you’ve done for us.”

  “Ja, well, I want to help my fellow countrymen get a start here. It is not so easy as those agents led you to believe. I could tell you stories that would curl your toenails.” She shook her head dolefully.

  “I’m sure we’ve heard them all. We didn’t start this venture with our heads in the clouds.” Roald wiped the sugar from his fingers. “We knew long before we chose to immigrate to Amerika that there would be no streets paved with gold. The gold we are looking for is the rich black soil of Dakota Territory.” Roald reached for another doughnut and thanked his hostess when she refilled their coffee cups. “That is all the gold we need.”

  “You mark my words, that golden dirt ain’t as free as they say either.” She took her coffeepot and headed back to the kitchen. “I’ll pour up some hot for your womenfolk.”

  When Mrs. Flaksrude returned with the full coffeepot, Roald and Carl thanked her and headed back to their room bearing doughnuts and coffee for them all.

  Thorliff’s eyes popped out in wonder at the sight of the full plate of sugary doughnuts. “For us?” he squealed. “All that for us?”

  “Ja, but not to eat up in one sitting,” Roald answered in his usual stern manner, though the gleam in his eye reflected his own appreciation of Mrs. Flaksrude’s generosity.

  After they all enjoyed a re
spite of coffee and doughnuts, Ingeborg began sorting, organizing, and repacking their belongings in preparation for boarding the train tomorrow, while Kaaren and the children took a much needed rest. Roald and Carl spent the remainder of the day discussing the trip ahead of them, planning and dreaming of their arrival to their own land.

  In bed that night, Roald had a difficult time getting to sleep. The dawn would bring the beginning of the next leg of their journey. In four days, five at the most, they would arrive at Glyndon, the final stop of the St. Paul, Minneapolis & Manitoba Railway. It was hard to imagine a land so large that one could spend four days on the train and still not reach the other side. This was like traveling from the southern tip of Norway to the northern.

  He listened to Ingeborg breathing easily beside him. When he thought back to the events of the day, his jaw tightened. What had she been thinking of?

  The next day, saying goodbye to the New York skyline from the ferry to Jersey City didn’t bother Ingeborg a bit. But much to her surprise, the thought of never seeing Mr. Gould again brought a twinge of sadness. Their hurried wagon ride to the ferry dock on the Hudson River had passed with prescribed stern orders from Roald, encouraging murmurs from Carl, and fussy cries from the baby. Thorliff kept his thumb in his mouth, despite his father’s command to stop that babylike behavior.

  In the interest of trying to help things run smoothly, Ingeborg tried to anticipate her husband’s needs, but her efforts only seemed to make him more demanding. When she took Thorliff’s small hand in hers and went to stand at the rail, she could ignore Roald’s black looks and muttered comments. She knew very well what was bothering him: she hadn’t told him she was sorry for leaving the boardinghouse the day before.

  But she wasn’t sorry. Not one whit.

  If Roald had done as she asked, she never would have ventured forth. She never would have met David Jonathan Gould, her guardian angel. His kindness made her feel like . . . like . . . Ingeborg couldn’t come up with a word to describe her feelings. Imagine her, an immigrant only one day off the boat, riding around New York City in a horsecab. The day before, she’d been dragging bundles through the streets. Riding in a horsecab with leather seats was certainly far better.