An Untamed Land (49 page)

After they’d been traveling for about an hour, Polinski pointed to a spot by the creek. “There it is. If that was your husband’s bridle, I figure he got caught in that there whiteout, and—”

“Thank you, Mr. Polinski. I’d like to be alone now,” Ingeborg interrupted. She couldn’t stomach the whine of his voice any longer. When he drove off with a reproachful look over his shoulder, she slid to the ground and tied Belle’s reins to a willow tree.

She quartered the ground with long strides, wishing she could have been there before the grass grew so tall. Knee-high and more in some places, it dragged at her boots and hid whatever tales it had to tell. She paused under one of the cottonwood trees to rest a moment. Pushing her hat back, she wiped her wet forehead with one sleeve. Then back and forth she walked until the sun had lost its heat and was slipping down toward the horizon. Had he really been here or had some animal dragged the bridle to this spot? She sank down beside the trunk of the largest tree, its lowest branches a good six feet off the ground. Could he have found shelter here, waiting for the storm to pass? She slammed her fist repeatedly into the fallen leaves and broken twigs.
Roald, you . . . you . . . we needed you. Why did you leave us? Why . . . why . . . why?
The heel of her hand slammed against something hard. Surely there were no rocks here. A larger branch perhaps. Absently she brushed the leaves aside. Roald’s pocket knife, the one he kept honed for carving, lay amongst the leaves, its bright shine dimmed from months of exposure to the elements of nature.

R
oald’s dead. I now know that for certain.” Ingeborg’s words were heavy as she dropped the bridle on the table. The weight on her shoulders seemed to push her right into the ground. She hadn’t realized that she’d still been hoping, hoping that somehow, somewhere, Roald was still alive.
He’s gone. I know he’s gone
. If she thought or said the words often enough, surely she would begin to believe them.

“You found this?” Kaaren ran the warped noseband of the bridle through her fingers. “Carl made this for the mule. No one else braids leather thongs in this decorative way.”

“No, Polinski did. I found this.” She laid the knife on the table. She would clean the knife and save it for Thorliff. Someday, owning something of his father’s would be important to him. She described to Kaaren what she’d done and seen. The words still seemed make-believe somehow.

“You found nothing else?”

Ingeborg shook her head. “The grass is nearly knee-high. I only found this by accident.”

“Or by the grace of God.”

Ingeborg stared at her sister-in-law.
How can she still believe that?
“Ja, well, think what you will. It matters not to me.”

The heavy feeling continued to grow as the days passed. Ingeborg scolded herself as she followed the horses and oxen back and forth across the field breaking sod.
You knew he was dead a long time ago, when he didn’t come back. So let this go. Many people have died in this
—she corrected the thought before she finished it—
godforsaken land
. She stared out across the prairie. This was her land, land for Thorliff and Andrew. It was good land, and it was not the land’s
fault that Roald, and Carl, and all the others had died. She knew where to lay the blame.

One evening Kaaren flew to meet Ingeborg at the door as she dragged herself into the house. Excitedly, she blurted, “A pastor is holding services tomorrow at the Baards’. We’ll have to hurry so we can talk with him before the service. It has been so long since we’ve had real Bible teaching and communion. I’ve missed the hymns more than anything. When we have a church, I shall learn to play the organ, I . . .” Her words trailed off at seeing the expression on Ingeborg’s face as she dished herself up a plate from the kettle warming on the back of the stove.

“Ingeborg, what is it?”

“I am not going. I have sod to break, and the threshers will be here soon.”

“So?”

Ingeborg laid down her fork and looked up, something unknown blazing in her eyes. “So—I—am—not—going.” She clipped each word and punctuated them with the heel of the fork on the table.

“But, Ingeborg, we
need
to hear God’s Word so terribly.”

“You go.”

“But . . .

Ingeborg rose to her feet and slammed the heels of her hands on the table. “Listen to me and do not talk of this again. I am not going—not now—not ever.” She stalked to the bed and sat on the edge to pull off her pants and boots. “I will use the oxen in the morning, so you can have the horses.” The heaviness settled down around her shoulders like one of the stacks of hay out by the sod barn.

The next morning, she had already turned over many furrows before she saw the wagon leave for the Baards’, and she only came in from the field to exchange the oxen for the horses when they returned. She never spoke of it again, nor did Kaaren.

After dinner one noon, Kaaren sat down at the table with Ingeborg. Andrew was down for an afternoon nap, and Thorliff had gone fishing. “Fish will taste mighty good for supper tonight.”

Ingeborg made no response but continued eating the baked beans and bread as though she hadn’t eaten for a week.

“You think you might take some time to go hunting? We are running low on meat, and I need to start the drying now to get enough to last the winter.”

“What’s wrong with the pork in the smokehouse?”

“Nothing. This would just give us more variety.” Kaaren sipped her coffee. “When could you go?”

When Ingeborg didn’t answer, Kaaren leaned forward. “There’s something else.”

“Ja?” The sound of the fork scraping the plate sounded loud.

“We need a well.”

“What’s wrong with the river?”

Kaaren sighed. “You know that having a well would make everything easier. Carrying water for the chickens, and—I thought if we had it in before the harvest starts we could handle the threshing crew better when they come.”

“So, instead of hunting, I should start to dig the well. Do you have a place in mind?”

“You can’t do that too.” Kaaren thumped her mug on the table.

“Who do you think will do it, the good trolls?”

Ingeborg saw Kaaren flinch at the venom in her voice, but she didn’t bend.

“Joseph and his boys will help us. They already said they would.”

“You asked them for help?”

“They volunteered. They said that having the well has made a big difference for them. Agnes said she’d bring dinner over, and—”

“Do what you will,” Ingeborg cut in. “It looks like you have it all planned out already.” Ingeborg stalked out the door without another word.

Ingeborg worked in the north section of Carl’s homestead the day the Baards dug the well. She knew that if she didn’t get more of that land broken, they might not prove up the homestead. Besides, she planned on forty acres of wheat for next year’s planting. The sun beat down, and the black flies plagued both her and the horses. At least now they had fly guards attached to the bridles and tails to swish across their bodies. Sweat poured down Ingeborg as she struggled to keep the plowshare at the right angle to cut evenly and turn the dense sod over so the grass would die. She was busting the acreage they’d hayed not too long before. Already the grass was coming back, green shoots among the dry stems.

She had left the oxen out in the pasture by Carl’s soddy so she wouldn’t have to interrupt the well-diggers. That way, when she brought the team back in the early afternoon, she could change the share and yoke up again quickly. Thorliff would be over in a minute to take Belle and Bob down for a drink.

She led the oxen under the suspended yoke. Since the wooden bar was too heavy for her to lift over the two oxen necks, she’d devised a pulley, rigged over two posts, from which she could raise and lower the yoke. She’d been pleased with the arrangement. This way she didn’t have to wake Kaaren or Thorliff in the early hours when she began work.

“Easy, Red,” she ordered the darker red-and-white steer. “I know the flies are bad, but once we’re moving, it’ll be better.”

“So, you talk to the animals but not to your friends.”

Ingeborg whirled around to find Agnes standing like an avenging angel not three yards away. Ingeborg’s heart pounded like a hammer on an anvil. “What are you doing, sneaking up on me like that?”

“I didn’t sneak, I walked firm as you please. Don’t you go sidetracking me now. I come to say my piece, and that I’m going to do.” Agnes stepped closer. “Ingeborg, are you all right?”

“Course I am.” Ingeborg adjusted the neck hoop on Red. She refused to ask why. If you let Agnes take off, your ear would go with her.

“Cause you look like you’re working yourself right into the ground. Dirty and skinny, so sunburned you got skin like tanned leather. And that man’s hat don’t do nothing much to protect you from the sun.” Her tone softened. “Don’t you think we know what you’re doing?”

Ingeborg walked around the team and adjusted the other hoop. Without a glance at the woman watching her, she began attaching the doubletree to the yoke. She could feel Agnes staring at her, could feel the woman’s thoughts boring into her brain.

“I got work to do.”

“Am I stopping you?”

“No, yes . . .” Ingeborg threw up her hands. “What is it?” She spun around and glared at Agnes.

“Taking a day or two out and helping with the well or at least enjoying the company of your friends won’t make a whole heap of difference for next year’s crops. But killing yourself from overwork before you’re thirty would mean those two little boys wouldn’t have no mor neither. Bad enough their far is gone.” Agnes stepped forward.
“For the love of God, Ingeborg . . .”

“God is not love.” Like the hiss of a snake, the words whipped across the grass separating them.

Agnes stepped back, one hand raised to deflect the attack. “Oh, my friend, He is so much more than that. Turn and let Him carry your sorrow. The load is far too heavy for you.”

Ingeborg threw the last pin into place, picked up the reins, and looped them around her neck, leaving her hands free to grip the plow handles. “Gee-up,” she called, and the team plodded off on command, leaving Agnes standing on the prairie with tears streaming down her face.

“Lord, forgive her, she doesn’t really know what she’s doing,” Agnes prayed brokenly.

Ingeborg didn’t ask Agnes to repeat what she had said. She was afraid she knew what it was.
Go ahead, waste your time praying if you want. I did and look what happened.
She blocked out any further thoughts and concentrated on returning to the field and getting the plowshare angled just right for the first bite of the furrow. Her stomach growled. “Uff da, I got so flustered, I forgot to eat.” The white ox with red spots flicked his ears. Together the oxen leaned into the yoke and dragged the plow and frustrated woman behind them.

It took all of Ingeborg’s willpower to not look back at Agnes. One day, when she had time, she would have to call on her. And just as she refused to look back, so also she ignored the voice that had somewhat dimmed in recent months. Her mother had always said that next to family, friends were one of God’s greatest gifts. But then her mother had said many things that Ingeborg no longer believed.