Blessing in Disguise (15 page)

“I’ll take the first watch.” Kane moved the chair closer to the bed.

“Call me.”

“I will.” Kane stayed beside her, changing the cloths when they heated up, spooning liquid into her mouth whenever he could get her to take it.

Sometime later Morning Dove appeared at his side. “My turn. You sleep.”

“I don’t know. . . .”

“Go.”

When he woke in the early hours of the still-dark morning, she was no better, but then she was no worse either. She slept on. At Morning Dove’s insistence that she could handle the sick woman and Lone Pine’s admonition that they needed to bring in the cattle, Kane rode out with his hands and spent the day in the saddle rounding up strays.

Roundup was something he’d hoped Augusta would enjoy too. The filly would have carried her mistress over the hills and down into the washes and valleys with a surefootedness born of growing up half wild. As usual, some of the cattle carried either no brand or a brand of one of the neighboring ranches. They brought them all in anyway, finishing the last miles in the wash of moonlight that gilded the ranch and tipped the horns of the cattle with silver.

“She ’bout the same.” Morning Dove answered Kane’s question before he could ask.

He washed up, then took over the chair by the bed. Augusta seemed to be wasting away before his very eyes. Her cheeks and eyes were sunken, leaving bones white against alabaster skin. When he took her hand, the fingers clenched his, hot and burning. He disengaged his hands and dipped the heated cloths in cool water to lay them across her body again.

Like this he had cared for his mother those long years ago. He felt the years slip away, and he was again fourteen, too old to be a boy and not yet a man. And his mother lay dying. His father had never returned from the war.

Morning Dove broke his reverie. “You go eat. I care for her.” She gave him a gentle push toward the door. “Then you sleep, and I watch.”

Good thing he could eat without thinking because his mind refused to stay in the present. While it had taken months for his mother to cough her life away, the final days went swiftly. Was this to be his reward for seeking a wife? Watching another woman die? What kind of God would allow that to happen?

“Father God.” He buried his face in his hands, his knees planted on the rug beside the bed. “I believed you brought her to me, and now she is so sick. Please, I beg of you, come with your healing power and burn out the disease.” He could hear her coughing. All those days, weeks, and hours he had heard his mother coughing as she lay dying. The memory matched the sound from the other room. “Please, Jesus, be merciful to me, to her. I beg of you, be merciful.” He pulled his Bible from the shelf above the bed and began reading, searching for the promises that spoke of God’s healing power.
“And with his stripes we are healed,” “Ask, and it shall be given you,” and “Lo, I am with you alway.”

He fell back on his knees. “I believe, Lord. Help thou my unbelief.” He listened to the coughing, hearing Morning Dove murmur as she cared for the sick woman. Fear tasted like the most bitter of dregs. “Lord, you said ‘fear not,’ yet I am consumed by fear. Please forgive me.”

He knew he slept when he awoke with a cramp in his thigh from kneeling so long. With a groan he pushed himself to his feet, glancing out the window as he tiptoed back into the other room. Must be the dark before the dawn, it was so pitch black outside. Not even starlight to brighten the darkness.

“How is she?” He stared at the pale face of the woman in the bed, no longer flushed with the fever. Was that good or bad?

“Better, for now anyway. You go back to sleep.”

“I’d rather be here. You go on.” He took the chair that Morning Dove vacated and, leaning his arms on the bed, watched Augusta breathe. Yes, she was better. He could both see and hear it. Maybe it hadn’t gone into pneumonia after all. Or the influenza that took so many lives, or the wasting disease of his mother. But then, maybe God had just worked another miracle.

He smoothed her hair back from the broad forehead and laid his fingers against her cheek. How could he possibly care so much so quickly? The thought of burying her up on the hill with his mother and father ripped his heart like the sharpest of knives. Was joy to come with the morning?

Chapter 12

St. Paul
September 4

Where in the world could Augusta have gone?

Hjelmer stared around the bustling train station in St. Paul wishing he were anywhere but here. The high-domed ceiling and marble floors and walls echoed with the cries of babies, boarding announcements, and hawkers calling their wares. The constant screech of unoiled train wheels made his ears hurt, even though he was used to the ring of the blacksmith’s hammer.

He wanted to clap his hands over his ears. Instead, he walked over to the wall that posted the train schedules and looked to see when the trains arrived from Chicago. After jotting down arrival times, he checked the date his sister should have arrived in St. Paul and headed for the ticket booths.

“Where to?” the man asked, barely looking up.

“I have some questions.”

The man behind Hjelmer cleared his throat.

“Make it quick. These people need to catch their trains.”

“Who would I ask about a missing passenger?”

The agent nodded to the right. “That office right over there.”

“The one marked private?”

“That’s the one. Next?”

Hjelmer frowned at the man’s abruptness, and when the man behind him stepped forward, bumping him in the passing, Hjelmer shot him an indignant look. “Excuse me.” He dragged the words out to show his disgust and made his way to the door indicated.

“How can I help you?” asked an older woman with wire-rimmed glasses perched on the end of her nose.

“I hope you can. You see, my sister is missing.”

“Oh, my goodness. Please sit right down there, and I’ll see if Mr. Franklin can see you. How long has she been missing?”

“Four days.” It felt like forever.

Within minutes Hjelmer was ushered into the next office and began answering a barrage of questions. When he’d finished telling his story, the lodge-pole man with piercing eyes clasped his hands on his desk and leaned slightly forward.

“You’re sure she got as far as here?”

“Ja, her trunk came to Blessing, and it had been stamped through here.”

“Good. We know that much at least.”

“Here are the arrival times from Chicago.” Hjelmer laid his notes on the desk.

Franklin nodded and, pulling out a drawer, extracted some papers. “Here are the full schedules. We can see when she came in and what other trains were leaving about the same time as the St. Paul and Pacific left for Grand Forks. Somehow she must have gotten on the wrong train. Or . . .”

Hjelmer didn’t want to think about the possibilities of the
or
.

“We can check with the guards to see if any of them saw anything suspicious, though they would usually report that to me.”

Hjelmer looked at the grids on the paper, knowing that Franklin could decipher them much faster than he. “What I don’t see is how she could have gotten on the wrong train. Every time I’ve ridden one, and that’s been plenty lately, the conductor checks my ticket as to the destination. If she was on the wrong train, wouldn’t he put her off at the next station and send her back here?”

“You’d think so, but sometimes crazy things happen. And when one can’t speak English . . .” Franklin stopped and shook his head. “You wouldn’t believe the stories I could tell you. Shame the immigrants aren’t required to learn English before they come here. You should have told her.”

At that point Hjelmer could have cheerfully strangled his sister. “Oh, I told her, and so did the others, but you don’t know my sister.”

“Ah.” Franklin bent to studying his schedules. The silence lengthened, but Hjelmer kept himself from shifting on the chair so as not to distract this first man who’d offered to help. “All right. Far as I can figure, if she asked for the train to Blessing or Grand Forks, the two other trains waiting in the same area would have been one going south, ending in Ipswich, South Dakota, or the Northern Pacific heading for Fargo and parts west. End of the line there is Seattle in Washington Territory. She could have gotten on either one of those and gotten off at any stop along the way. If she lost her ticket or ran out of money or . . .” He paused, then leaned forward again. “I surely do hope you are a praying man, Mr. Bjorklund, because if the good Lord ain’t watching out for her, you got a mighty big heap of trouble.”

“Please, don’t remind me.” Hjelmer rubbed the end of his chin with one forefinger. “Any suggestion on how I should proceed?”

“Well, you could notify the police and turn in a missing persons report. You got a picture of her, by any chance?” When Hjelmer shook his head, Franklin continued. “Stick around here a couple of days, and you should be able to ask all the conductors, ticket agents, and baggage handlers if any of them might have seen her. Anything distinctive about her other than her speaking only Norwegian?”

“She is tall—five nine or ten—and she has blue eyes the color of mine. A family trait.”

“Heavy? Slender? Hair color?”

“Blond hair usually worn in a bun. Not really slender but not fat either, you know.” How did one describe a sister he hadn’t seen for so long? What if she had cut her hair?

Franklin was writing as fast as Hjelmer was talking. “Okay. Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll post this description in the sign-in area to see if we can trigger any memories, and I’ll give you a list of the men working that day. Then, if you want, you can wait down there by those trains and ask your questions when the trains arrive and leave.” He stood and extended his hand. “You’re not the first person to come looking for a lost person, and I’m sure you won’t be the last. Good luck, Mr. Bjorklund. And please, let me know what you find out.”

That evening after hours of questioning, Hjelmer sent a telegram to his mother.

No luck yet Stop Keep praying Stop Hjelmer

Chapter 13

Blessing
September 5

“I’ve written an answer to their letter. You know, the one about teaching the little deaf girl.” Kaaren crossed the cucumber patch with swift strides.

“And?” Ingeborg dropped another handful of cucumbers in her basket and stood, stretching the kinks out with her fists rubbing the small of her back.

“Hi, Tante Kaaren.” Astrid plunked her pickings in the pail beside her, her sunbonnet hanging down her back by its strings. With nimble fingers she searched the leaves for more of the right size. “Sammy’s sleeping.” She nodded to the blanket lying in the shade, a toddler sprawled in the middle.

“Thank you, Astrid, for watching him for me.” Kaaren handed the letter to Ingeborg. “See for yourself.”

Ingeborg took the letter from the envelope and pushed her sunbonnet off with the back of her grimy hand. “I’ll get it dirty.”

“No matter.” Kaaren looked around. “Where are the girls and Trygve?”

“Scrubbing cucumbers with Mrs. Rasmussen. I sent them to the well house where it was cooler.” Ingeborg read between comments. When finished, she smiled at her sister-in-law. “My land, your soddy is going to start a new life. Have you thought of a name for your school yet?” She reread a portion of the letter. “ ‘I will inform you as to when we will be taking students, and you can bring Margaret Louise to us.’ ”

“I’m thinking that we should call it the Blessing School for the Deaf. This will indeed be a blessing for those who come. As you can see, Margaret Louise is ten years old. She’ll fit right into the regular school after some intensive help.” Kaaren nibbled her bottom lip. “But how can I call it a school when I have only one pupil?”

“Oh, I have me a feeling that God will send all you can handle to your door.” Ingeborg tapped the envelope on her forefinger. “You thought of sending a copy of the book you used to this girl’s folks?”

“That’s a good idea.” Kaaren took the letter back and put it in her bag. “Let me get an apron on, and I’ll set the vinegar water to boiling. You have the crocks all washed out?”

“And lined up in the cellar. We can fill them there.”

“Good. Penny sure was grateful for the butter and eggs and cheese. She asked if the boys had been hunting lately, hoping we would smoke geese again like last year. She says she can sell all we can supply.”

“Have they heard anything about Augusta?”

Kaaren shook her head. “Not a word. It’s like she disappeared in the smoke. I just wish there was more we could do to find her.” She shook her head again. “Poor Bridget.” A sigh accompanied the headshake. “Oh, she wondered if you had cheese for her too. I left her eggs and butter.”

“Soft but not cured.” Ingeborg bent back to her picking as Kaaren headed for the house. If only she could wear pants again. These skirts were always in the way. And what she wouldn’t give to go hunting herself. While the deer were nowhere near as plentiful as they used to be, the ducks and geese still half darkened the sky as they migrated south. They should be able to hang twenty or thirty at a time in the smokehouse. Good thing they would have extra down for more feather beds now with the new family here and Kaaren’s coming boarders.

“All done, Ma.” Astrid could barely hoist her bucket, she’d filled it so full.

“Good girl.” Ingeborg dropped the last of the cukes in her full basket and, picking up both basket and bucket, headed for the well house. “Thank you for picking so many.” She glanced at the rows of bending dill, heads heavy with seeds. What they didn’t need for the crocks, she’d hang to dry, both to use in the winter and to save for seed next year. The carrots she had kept over the winter and replanted for seed looked about ready to pick too.

She glanced up. Sure enough, the sun was straight up. Time for dinner, and it wasn’t on the table yet. With the men gone, she seemed to get a bit lax. “Let’s get these in to the others, and you can set the table for me.”