Northern Lights Trilogy (35 page)

April had been an exhausting month. Blisters upon blisters swelled on Soren’s hands even though he wrapped them in rags. Thirty acres had been cleared by fire, rocks had been stacked into neat piles at the corners of their property, and the land plowed. Tomorrow Soren would begin working the soil down with the disc and drag behind the oxen, while Kaatje followed behind with a sack of grain, broadcasting the seed.

When all the clearing and planting was finished, it would be time to begin the process of putting up hay. By fall they would have ten head of cattle, according to Soren’s plans, and needed as much of the rich prairie grass as they could put up to feed them through the winter.

Despite this backbreaking, agonizing work, Soren still had the energy to pace after dinner. Most nights, he would take a lantern out to the barn, bring out their weary oxen, and plow until he could not stand. Tonight, however, Soren paced back and forth in their small
house, too weary to plow, too agitated to sit. His steps made the floorboards creak, making it difficult for Kaatje to concentrate on her
hardunger
. She looked up from her needlework to watch him, until he caught her gaze.

Tears threatened. It was happening again, just like in Bergen. Kaatje knew the signs: boredom, agitation, restlessness. Soren gradually would become short with her, pacing their home like a lion at the Bergen zoo.

“What?” he asked, obviously itching for an argument.

“Nothing.” She returned to her needlework. Christina rustled in her cradle then settled down again. Beside Kaatje, a fire crackled in the stove, sending out a comforting heat, for the spring evenings were cool. Still Soren paced.

Kaatje was fearful, wondering who his next conquest would be. Claire Marquardt? She hoped not, for it might kill Fred to find out. Or maybe Fred was like Kaatje, so used to his spouse’s indiscretions that it almost felt routine, this pattern of straying and remorse and forgiveness.

“I have to leave, Kaatje.”

Her eyes flew up to meet his. “Wh-what?”

“I have to leave. I’ve been thinking. It is the only way. The railroads are paying so well that if I go and work for them for a few months, we’ll have enough to
really
make our way at this.”

“What are you talking about? We have enough seed, don’t we?”

“Yes, but as I figure it, only for about forty acres.”

“But you have only cleared thirty. One man can’t be expected to do more than that.”

He walked over and knelt beside her. “You are thinking small,
elske
. I want to be big, a grand farmer, not some two-bit immigrant. I want to show Old Lady Engvold that I’m not as foolish as the previous homesteaders. I want to pay off the oxen and buy you a matched span of geldings to pull a new carriage. I want to tear this cold house down and build you a snug log home. To do that I need
better equipment and money to hire out some work. And I’ve been thinking—with the contacts I could make on the railroad, I could find a better deal on our cattle.”

Kaatje felt as if the air had been driven from her. “Just what have you been told you could earn?”

“A good bit. Enough to hire out some work and put away some money for next year’s crop. As I figure it, we could plant sixty acres next year and buy a cradle and scythe to cut hay. No more sickle. Who knows? Maybe I could even convince others to go in on a threshing machine. We would save so much if we didn’t have to hire it out. Lots of farmers about these parts do it, Kaatje. It is the way they make it.”

Rage built in Kaatje’s chest, and when she stood, she was shaking. “We are finally home, Soren. Together. Alone. And you cannot stand it!”

“I never said such a thing!”

“You intend to leave me all summer?”

Soren was on his feet now, scowling at her. “It would not be all summer—”

“How long?”

“Just until July. I will be home for harvest.”

“Well, that’s a relief !” Kaatje said, tossing up her hands. She wondered at the tone of sarcasm in her voice. “I was worried you would leave that to me and Christina.” Soren’s face grew darker, but Kaatje could not curb her anger. “How do I know this is not a ruse?”

“A ruse?” Soren asked in a low voice.

“An excuse to find some other woman. How do I know you’ll return?”

Soren’s face grew red as the fury took over, “I intend to go and earn money so I can make a better life for you and my child, and what do I get? Not the respect and love and gratitude that I expect,” he spat out, “but blind accusations and disrespect! Everything I have done,” he said, shaking a finger at her, “I have done for you.”

“Including Laila? And all the others? How about Claire Marquardt?” The words were out before she could stop them. Suddenly she felt empty, yet relieved of her burden.

Soren raised his hand, threatening to hit her, and Kaatje cowered. His own motion, and her reaction, seemed to anger him more. Without saying another word, he turned on his heel and left the house.

It was with some relief that Tora received a second letter from Storm Enterprises at the end of April. She reread the return address, repeating Trent Storm’s name over and over. His writing was masculine, strong but clear, and Tora envisioned him as a savior from her desperate circumstances. Her baby, Jessica, for once was utterly at peace as she napped in the old pram. Tora ignored the maternal pride that swelled in her heart at caring for her own flesh and blood, concentrating on the fact that the child and the boys held her from what she wanted, truly wanted. She frowned down at the three of them.

Lars was on her hip, and Knut was teasing him, pinching his toes until he shrieked. She batted Knut’s hands away. “Stop it,” she told him firmly then looked up at the postmistress, Judy Gimball. Her hands had shaken as she accepted the letter from the nosy woman, who always looked at Tora as if she wore a scarlet
A
on her breast. Along with all the other townspeople. She was sick of Camden, sick of them. Tora quickly turned to leave.

Unable to walk all the way home and not know what Mr. Storm had to say, she stopped in front of the mercantile and sat on the front stair. “Go choose a candy for yourself and for Lars,” she directed Knut, and with a whoop, he went dashing into the store. She opened the letter, which was written on fine stationery, giving the envelope to Lars to distract him, and wiped the perspiration from her forehead.

She scanned the salutations, whispering aloud the important parts. “Sorry to hear about your delay … unfortunately had to fill the position with another … good news is that there is another
available … May. Report to my offices no later than the twentieth of May.” She looked up from the letter, staring blankly at the horses and buggies that passed before her. What day was it? How long had she to get there? Her heart leaped at the thought that it might already be too late.

Knut came to the door. “To-ra,” he whined, wanting her to come in and pay for his chosen treats.

“In a minute, Knut,” she said in irritation over her shoulder. She scanned a well-to-do couple coming up the boardwalk and rose. “Excuse me, sir, may I ask the date?”

He looked at her with some disdain. “It is the twenty-ninth of April, young lady.”

Tora smiled broadly. “The twenty-ninth! Thank you!” She turned toward Knut, and he smiled in shy surprise at her own rare grin. “Let’s buy you that candy!” she said, taking his hand. “Today we will buy a whole pound!” she enthused.

They left the store minutes later, the boys enthralled with the candy, and Tora left alone to her dreams and aspirations. She remembered Karl’s glowing words about Minnesota and the city of Saint Paul, and visualizing Duluth as much the same, she began to chart her escape. The boys could be left to their father’s care, and Jessica could be weaned. But what to do with her?

As they passed the shipyard, thoughts of Soren and their times together on board the ship leaped to her mind. Yes. That was it. Would it not be sweet justice? After all, it was only fair that he live up to his responsibility in all this, she decided, looking down at Jessica. Kaatje was a good woman. She would raise Jessica well. And North Dakota wasn’t far from Minnesota.

That settled it. She would deliver Soren’s child into Kaatje’s arms, along with the truth. Oh, he might try to deny it, but what could he do? If they refused the child, she would leave her on the porch, and as a good Christian, Kaatje would have no choice but to pick her up and raise her as their own. She’d only be a couple months younger
than Kaatje’s own child, Tora mused. And as the girl grew, there would be telltale signs of who her true father was. Already she favored the man, with tiny blond curls and a familiar set to her chin.

Tora felt like skipping. Yes, she would make her way to the Janssens’ farm, deposit Jessica with her father, then leave for her new life.

“Thank you for the candy,” Knut said, coming up beside her and taking her hand. Tora felt the levity of the moment slide into melancholy as she considered Knut, Lars, and her daughter. There were times when she enjoyed her life, when she relished the peace of it.

But she steeled herself against it, determined to move on to the world in which she belonged.

Society.

K
aatje watched as the buggy in the distance approached, kicking up a trail of dust that drifted across the green fields of spring wheat. Soren had been gone a month, working on the Northern Pacific Railroad, but was to return for harvest. Could this be him already? It was really too early to expect him, but still Kaatje found the courage to hope. Indeed, she battled against the fear that he was never returning, that she and Christina were truly on their own.

As the coach drew closer, however, Kaatje could see the figure of a woman. Why, it looked like Tora Anders! She smiled. Even though she did not care for the young woman, it would be good to see any of the Anders family. She missed Elsa so! But what on earth could bring Tora to North Dakota? Her heart sank. Perhaps Elsa was ill.

Tora pulled up in front of the house, calling out to the horse with a soft “whoa.” She was dressed in a new riding suit of dark blue, and she flashed a smile as she stepped down, brushed the dust off herself, and walked toward Kaatje. Stunned, Kaatje opened her arms to the girl.

“Tora Anders, what on earth are you doing here?” she asked.

“I secured a job,” Tora said simply, proudly. “Or I should say that I
expect
to secure a job. And there’s someone I want you to meet.” She turned back to the coach. “Is Soren not home?” she asked over her shoulder.

“No. He is away working on the Northern Pacific, trying to earn some more capital for the farm.”

“Oh, that’s a pity,” Tora said as she reached into a large basket on the seat—no, it was a bassinet, Kaatje recognized—and pulled out an infant that was perhaps six weeks old.

“Oh! Tora! Congratulations! I had not heard that you had married! How could Elsa not have told me? I just got a letter from her last week.” She reached for the child, cradling her in her arms with soft coos. “Why, she must only be a few months behind my own Christina.” The child was gorgeous, perfectly formed, with soft blond curls peeking out beneath her frilled bonnet.

“I am not married.”

Kaatje glanced at Tora quickly, searching for something to say. “The father …” she began lamely.

Tora met her gaze unwaveringly, waiting.

Kaatje frowned. Before she could stop herself, her thoughts went from Kristoffer to others who could be the babe’s father. No. No, no, no! She glanced away from Tora’s sapphire eyes to the surrounding fields. It was a beautiful early May day, with deep blue skies that met the fields of green. But her mind was not on the weather. She dared to look at Tora again, and she knew. Soren. The
Herald
. Her heart felt like stone, thudding away in a rib cage of steel.

“Her name is Jessica. She belongs here with you and Soren,” Tora said matter-of-factly. “I simply am not prepared to be a mother. You were born to be nothing else,” she added, her tone neutral. “Now I must be off. The four-forty leaves in an hour, and I must have this coach back.” She broke off her businesslike monologue, came over to Kaatje—who felt like one of the stunned birds that occasionally hit her shanty window—and bent to kiss the child’s forehead. “Please
take good care of Jessie,” she said with a brief crack in her voice. Eyes bright with tears, she turned on her heel and walked away.