An Undaunted Faith

by Andrea Boeshaar

  As one might expect, my life is exhilarating. But this is only the beginning of a lifelong adventure. With God in my heart, Luke by my side, and children surrounding us, joy will abound. It does already. Things will never be dull, that’s for certain!

  But then why would I expect anything less than an exciting existence? I am a McCabe, after all.

  Coming in 2012

  from Andrea Kuhn Boeshaar—

  THREADS OF HOPE

  Book 1 in the

  Fabric of Time series

  CHAPTER ONE

  August 1848

  IT LOOKS LIKE NORWAY.

  The thought flittered across nineteen-year-old Kristin Eikaas’s mind as Uncle Lars’s wagon bumped along the dirt road. The docks of Green Bay, Wisconsin, were behind them, and gently rolling hills, rich farm fields, and green grass stretched before them. The sight caused an ache of homesickness to fill Kristin’s being.

  “Your trip to America was good, ja?” Uncle Lars asked in Norwegian, giving Kristin a sideways glance. He resembled her father so much that her heart twisted painfully with renewed grief. “First a ship across the ocean, then a train to Michigan, and another vessel to cross the lake. It is a long way to go.”

  “Ja, but the trip was fine,” Kristin managed to reply despite the tumult inside her. It had been a long journey indeed! “The Olstads made good traveling companions.”

  Kristin turned and peered down from her perch into the back of the wooden wagon bed. Peder Olstad smiled at her. Just a year older, he was the brother of Kristin’s very best friend who had remained in Norway with their mother. But it wouldn’t be long, and Sylvia and Mrs. Olstad would come to America too.

  “You were right,” John Olstad called to Uncle Lars in their native tongue. “Lots of fertile land in this part of the country. I hope to purchase some acres soon.”

  “And after you are a landowner for five years, you can be a citizen of America and you can vote.”

  The Olstad men smiled broadly and replied in unison, “Oh, ja, ja …”

  Uncle Lars grinned, causing dozens of wrinkles to appear around his blue eyes. His face was tanned from farming beneath the hot sun, and his tattered leather hat barely concealed the abundance of platinum curls growing out of his large head. “Oh, ja, this is very good land. I am glad I persuaded Esther to leave the Muskego settlement and move northeast. The deer are plentiful, and fishing is good. Fine lumber up here too.”

  “I cannot wait for the day when Da owns a farm,” Peder said. The warm wind blew his auburn hair outward from his narrow face, and his hazel eyes sparked with enthusiasm, giving the young man a somewhat wild appearance, which always troubled Kristin. “Then soon I will own my own farm too. No longer will we be at a landlord’s mercy like we were in Norway.”

  “Amen!” exclaimed Mr. Olstad, whose appearance was an older, worn-out version of his son’s.

  “And once you own property,” Kristin added, “Sylvia will come to America. I cannot wait. I miss her so much.”

  Kristin grappled with a fresh onset of tears. Not only was Sylvia her best friend, but also she and the entire Olstad clan had been like family ever since a smallpox epidemic ravaged their little village two years ago, claiming the lives of Kristin’s parents and two younger brothers. When her Uncle Lars and Aunt Esther learned of the tragic news, they insisted she come to America and live with them. Uncle Lars and Aunt Esther had left Norway seven years ago, making their dreams of owning land come true. Knowing this from their letters, Kristin had agreed to make the voyage, and her plans to leave Norway had encouraged the Olstads to do the same. But raising the funds to travel took time and much hard work. While the Olstads scrimped and saved their crop earnings, Kristin did weaving and sewing for those with money to spare. By God’s grace, they were finally here. And soon Sylvia and Mrs. Olstad would join them, and they would all find hope and happiness in this new land.

  Uncle Lars steered the team of draft horses around a sharp bend in the rutty road. He drove down one incline and up another. On top of the hill Kristin could see Lake Michigan sprawling eastward beyond a lovely white, wood-framed house that suddenly came into view. She then noticed the homestead’s large, well-maintained barn and several out buildings, including a tiny cottage, and she marveled at the sight of an American farm. No wonder Mr. Olstad couldn’t wait to own one!

  Next, she spied a lone figure of a man up ahead. Kristin could just barely make out his faded blue cambric shirt, tan trousers, and the hoe in his hands as he worked the edge of the field. Closer still, she saw his light brown hair sprigging out from beneath his hat. As the wagon rolled past him, the man ceased his labor and turned their way. Although she couldn’t see his eyes as he squinted into the sunshine, Kristin did catch sight of his tanned face. She guessed him to be somewhere in his midtwenties and decided he was really quite handsome.

  “Do not even acknowledge the likes of him,” Uncle Lars spat derisively. “That is Sam Sundberg, and good Christians do not associate with any of the Sundbergs.”

  Oh, dear, too late! Kristin had already given him a little smile out of sheer politeness. She had assumed he was a friend or neighbor. But at her uncle’s warning, she quickly lowered her gaze.

  “What is so bad about that family?” Kristin’s ever-inquiring nature getting the best of her, and she had to ask.

  “They are evil. Karl Sundberg is married to a heathen Indian woman who casts spells on the good people of this community.”

  “Spells?” Peder’s eyes widened.

  “Ja, spells. Why else would some folks’ crops fail while Karl’s flourish? He gets richer and richer with his farming in the summer, his logging camps in the winter, and his fur trading with heathen, while good folks like me fall on hard times. Same seed. Same fertile ground. Same golden opportunity.” Lars snorted with disgust. “I will tell you why that happens. The Sundbergs have hexed good Christians. Then to add insult to injury, Karl involves himself with the United States government and its Indian affairs. He sees that the Indians are well paid for their land, while those savages murder our women and children, accusing us of stealing the land out from under them. Oh, they are an evil lot, those Sundbergs. Same as the Indians.”

  Talk of Indians didn’t frighten Kristin; rather, it piqued her curiosity. As for the spells…well, those frightened her. She’d grown up around superstitions and had learned to fear them. After all, what if they were true? Even so, she wondered what it would be like to meet an Indian face-to-face—especially if he resembled the fine-looking man they had passed only moments ago.

  Unable to help herself, she swung around in the wagon to get one last glimpse of Sam Sundberg. She could hardly believe he was as awful as her uncle described. Why, he even removed his hat and gave her a cordial nod just now.

  “Turn around, girl, and mind your manners!” Uncle Lars scolded. His large hand gripped her upper arm, and he gave her a mild shake.

  “I–I’m sorry, Onkel,” Kristin stammered. “But I have never seen an Indian.”

  “Sam Sundberg is not an Indian. The squaw I referred to is his father’s second wife, who is called Mariah. It’s the two younger Sundbergs, Jackson and Mary, who are half-breeds. Not Sam. Still, Sam is just as bad. He calls the Indian woman ‘Ma.’”

  “Indians. How very interesting,” Kristin murmured. “Are there many living in the Wisconsin Territory?”

  “As of three months ago we are the State of Wisconsin—no longer a territory,” Uncle Lars stated with as much enthusiasm as a stern schoolmaster. “And to answer your question…ja, there are too many Indians in this state, if you ask me. You, my liten niese, will do well to stay away from them. All of them. You hear?”

  “Yes, sir,” Kristin replied. She chanced a look at Peder and Mr. Olstad. Both pairs of eyes and stoic expressions seemed to warn her to heed Uncle Lars’s instructions, and she had no doubt that they would do the same.

  Sam Sundberg wiped the beads of perspiration off his brow then placed his hat back on his head.
Who was the little blonde riding next to Lars Eikaas? Sam hadn’t seen her before. And the men in the wagon bed…he’d never seen them either.

  After a moment’s deliberation, he concluded they were the expected arrivals from the “Old Country,” as his father liked to refer to Norway. Months ago Sam recalled hearing talk in town about Lars’s orphaned niece sailing to America with friends of the family, so he assumed the two red-haired men and the young lady were the topics of that particular conversation. But wouldn’t it just serve Lars right if that blonde angel turned the Eikaas’s regimented household upside down?

  Sam smirked at the very idea. He didn’t have to meet that young lady to guess Lars would likely have his hands full. Her second backward glance said all Sam needed to know. The word plucky sprang into his mind. He chuckled. Plucky she seemed, indeed. No other female in Brown County would have the tenacity to boldly appraise a man the way she did, even if it had been done in all innocence. No doubt Lars had been acquainting his guests with the Sundberg family, calling them such things as “savages,” “heathens,” and “half-breeds.” What newcomer wouldn’t be curious?

  A bolt of indignation shot through him, and his mirth was quickly replaced by anger. Although Sam was a full-blooded Norwegian, he took the revilements against his stepmother and half-brother and half-sister as personal affronts. He shook his head in frustration. If only people in this community would take the time to get to know his family. If they’d only try to understand that his mother and siblings were no different from anyone else.

  He swallowed a lump of bitterness as, off in the distance, the Eikaas wagon rolled out of sight, leaving brown clouds of dust in its wake. Sam knew his father wouldn’t approve of his animosity. Pa would say, “Turn the other cheek.” But Sam was tired of turning the other cheek. At twenty-five years old, he’d lived through enough prejudice to last a lifetime. He no longer had the patience for the so-called Christians like Lars Eikaas and his clan…and now add to it his plucky little niece.

  Of course, not everyone around here was as intolerant of Indians as the Eikaas family. There were those who actually befriended the native Wisconsinites and stood up to government officials in their stead…like Sam’s father, for instance. Like Sam himself.

  He returned to his work beneath the hot sunshine and pondered the latest government proposal to remove the Indians from their land. First the Oneida tribe had been forced out, and soon the Menominee band would be “removed” and “civilized.” As bad as that was, it irked Sam more to think about how the government figured it knew best for the Indians. Government plans hadn’t succeeded in the past, so why would they now? Something else had to be done. Relocating the Menominee would cause those people nothing but misery—they stated as much themselves. Furthermore, they were determined not to give up their last tract of land. Sam predicted this current government proposal would only serve to stir up more violence between Indians and whites.

  But not if he could help it.

  “Sam!”

  Hearing his sister’s voice, he looked toward the house. “What is it, Mary?” he called back.

  “Ma says to come in for noon dinner.”

  “Be right there.”

  Hoe in hand, he trudged across the dark fertile soil. The corn grew high, and Sam expected a good crop this year.

  He reached the white clapboard home and quickly washed up, using water from the rain barrel. Entering the mudroom, which was for all intents and purposes a simple lean-to at the back of the house, he hung his hat on a wooden peg and donned a fresh shirt. Ma insisted upon cleanliness at the supper table. Finally presentable, he made his way through the house and into the dining room where a white, frosted cake occupied the middle of the table.

  “That looks good enough to eat,” Sam teased, although his appetite was getting the better of him by the minute.

  Ma gave him a smile and her nut-brown eyes darkened as she set the wooden tureen of turkey and wild rice onto the table. “Since it’s Rachel’s last day with us, I thought I would prepare an extra-special dessert.”

  Sam glanced across the table at the glowing bride-to-be. In less than twenty-four hours, Rachel Brecker would become Mrs. Luke Smith. But for the remainder of today, she’d fulfill her duties as Ma’s hired girl who helped with the cooking, cleaning, sewing, washing, and ironing…and whatever else women were wont to do around the house.

  They all sat down, Mary taking her seat beside Rachel. Sam helped his mother into her place at the head of the table then lowered himself into his chair next to his younger brother, Jackson, who’d been named after Major General Andrew Jackson, the seventh president of this great country.

  “Sam?”

  Ma’s silky voice pulled him from his musing.

  “Since your father is away, will you please ask God’s blessing on our food?”

  He gave his mother a respectful nod, and all heads bowed. “Dearest Lord, we thank Thee for Thy provisions. Strengthen and nourish us with this meal so we may glorify Thee with our labors. In Jesus’s name, amen.”

  The women served themselves, and then between Sam and eighteen-year-old Jackson, they scraped the bowl clean.

  “Good thing Pa’s not home from his meetings in town,” Jackson muttered with a smirk.

  “If your father were home,” Ma retorted, “I would have made more food.”

  “Should have made more anyhow.” Jackson gave her a teasing grin. “No seconds.” He clanged the bowl and spoon together as if to prove his point.

  “You have seconds on your plate already,” Ma said. “Why, I have never seen anyone consume as much food as you do, Jackson.”

  A guilty grin curved the corners of his mouth.

  Sam had to chuckle at the good-natured bantering. But in the next moment, he wondered if his family behaved oddly. Didn’t all families enjoy meals together? Tease and laugh together? Tell stories once the sun went down? According to Rachel, they didn’t. The ebony-haired, dark-eyed young woman had grown up without a mother and had a drunkard for a father…until Ma got wind of the situation and took her in. She allowed Rachel to live in the guesthouse, which had originally been built years ago to accommodate Ma’s ailing mother. And now, as a result of the Sundberg’s generosity, Rachel would soon marry a fine man.

  Sam took a bite of his meal, chewed, and looked across the table at his fifteen-year-old half-sister. Both she and Jackson resembled their mother, dark brown hair, dark brown eyes, and graceful, willowy frames, while Sam took after his father, blue eyes and stocky build, measuring just under six feet. Yet, in spite of the outward dissimilarities, the five Sundbergs were a closely knit family, and Sam felt grateful that he’d known nothing but happiness throughout his childhood. He had no recollection whatsoever of his biological mother who had taken ill and died during the voyage from Norway to America.

  Sam had been but a toddler when she went home to be with the Lord, and soon after disembarking in Philadelphia, his father met another Norwegian couple. They helped care for Sam and eventually persuaded Pa to take his young son and move with them to Wisconsin, known back then as the “Michigan Territory.” Pa seized the opportunity, believing the promises westward expansion touted, and he was not disappointed. He learned to trap and trade and became a successful businessman. In time, he saved enough funds to make his dreams of owning land and farming a reality.

  Then, when Sam was three years old, his father met and married Mariah, an Oneida squaw. Like her, many Oneida were Christians and fairly well educated due to the missionaries who had lived among them. Sam took to his new mother immediately, and she to him. Through the years, Ma cherished and admonished him as though he were her own son. As far as Sam was concerned, he was her own son—and Mariah, his own mother.

  They were a family.

  “Was that the Eikaas wagon driving by not long ago?” Mary asked.

  Sam snapped from his reverie. “Yes, it was. It appears Lars has relatives in town.”

  “He didn’t stop and visit, did he?” M
ary’s eyes were as round as gingersnaps.

  Sam chuckled. “No, of course not. I can’t recall the last time Lars Eikaas spoke to me…or any of the Sundbergs, for that matter. It’s just a hunch on my part. A while back I’d heard that Lars’s niece was coming to America, accompanied by family members, and since I didn’t recognize the three passengers in the wagon this morning, I drew my own conclusions.”

  “Is she pretty?” Jackson’s cheeks bulged with food.

  “Is who pretty?”

  “Eikaas’s niece…is she pretty?”

  Sam recalled the plucky blonde whose large, cornflower-blue eyes looked back at him with interest from beneath her bonnet. She’d worn a dark skirt and a lavender blouse. And pretty? As much as Sam hated to admit it, she was about the prettiest young lady he’d ever set eyes on.

  Jackson elbowed him. “Hey, I asked you a question.”

  Sam gave his younger brother an annoyed look. “Yeah, I s’pose she’s pretty. But don’t go getting any big ideas about courting her. She’s an Eikaas.”

  Sam forked another bite of food into his mouth, wondering who he was trying to warn…Jackson or himself!

  Kristin looked around the one-room log hut with its unhewn walls and narrow loft above. Disappointment riddled her being like buckshot. Although she knew she should feel grateful for journeying safely this far, and now to have a roof over her head, she couldn’t seem to shake her displeasure at seeing her relatives’ living quarters. Having glimpsed the Sundberg farm, Kristin had mistakenly assumed that all American farms looked as picturesque.

  “Here is your trunk of belongings,” Uncle Lars said, carrying the wooden chest in on one of his broad shoulders. With a grunt, he set it down in the far corner of the cabin.