Robin Lee Hatcher - [Coming to America 02] (2 page)

“We still didn’t talk money.”

Olaf shook his head. “When your mother is well, then you may pay Inga what you can. My daughter is not doing this for the wages she will earn. It is no more than her Christian duty to help a neighbor in need.”

Great. Just what he needed. A bona fide saint living in his house. Maybe he’d made a mistake, coming here for help.

The rattle of china drew his gaze back to the doorway. A moment later, another Linberg daughter appeared, carrying a tray with cups, saucers, and a delicate china pot, steam drifting up from its spout. Dirk guessed this girl was slightly older than the one who had opened the door for him upon his arrival. Her hair was the same shade of gold, her eyes the same dark blue, her skin porcelain smooth.

“Inga told me to serve coffee, Pappa,” she said as she slipped past Dirk, casting a sideways glance at him through thick golden lashes.

“Thank you, Astrid. Just set the tray on the table.”

Before Dirk could move, another blond beauty stepped into the room, this one carrying a basket of sweet breads. She blushed as her eyes met with his, then she dropped her gaze to the floor and hurried forward.

“Ah, Gunda, how thoughtful. Mr. Bridger, come have your coffee and something to eat. You have a long journey back to your farm.”

Dirk had just sat down as instructed when two more sisters appeared.

“Is it true, Pappa?” the girl who had let him into the house asked. “Is Inga really going away?”

“It is true, Kirsten,” the pastor replied. “But not so very far we won’t be able to see her on Sundays. Mr. Bridger, allow me to introduce you to my other daughters, who, it seems, are plagued by curiosity to the point of forgetting their manners.”

Dirk again rose from the sofa, thinking that he’d never been in the same room with so many lovely females. Not even in that saloon in Montana. And these were unmistakably sisters, from the color of their hair and eyes to their petite and very feminine figures.

“This is Thea,” Olaf Linberg continued, pausing after each name, “Gunda, Astrid, and Kirsten. My dears, say hello to Mr. Bridger.”

They did so in unison.
“Goddag.”

“Pleased to meet all of you,” he replied with a nod and a smile.

“May I pour your coffee?” Astrid reached for the china pot.

Gunda held up the basket. “And some bread,
Herr
Bridger?”

He opened his mouth to answer but was once again interrupted, this time by the return of Inga.

“I am ready, Pappa.”

Dirk was immediately struck by how different she was from her younger sisters. Where their hair was golden blond, hers was as pale as wheat at harvest time. Where their eyes were dark blue, hers were the light blue of a robin’s eggs. Where they were small and shapely, she was tall and reedlike. They were all sparkling smiles and innocent flirtation. Inga was…

Inga was not.

And something in the way she was watching Dirk told him she knew what he was thinking.

He cleared his throat as he turned toward the pastor. “We’d best be on our way, sir. I’ve got plenty of chores waiting back at the farm.”

“Of course.” Olaf rose and walked to where Inga stood near the door. He put his hands on her shoulders. “We will miss you,
dotter.”

“And I will miss you, Pappa,” she whispered. “Give Mamma my love. I will see you all on Sundays.”

Her father kissed her cheek. Then he turned to look at Dirk. “Mr. Bridger, I am entrusting Inga to you. I expect you will not abuse that trust.”

Dirk understood the man’s meaning. He could have told him he had no interest in taking any liberties with his daughter. Not with any of them. Not even the ones who had cast flirtatious glances in his direction. And certainly not the one who was coming with him because she deemed it her duty.

“I’ll see she comes to no harm, Reverend Linberg,” he answered.

In her heart, Inga heard what Dirk Bridger hadn’t said as clearly as what he had. As always, she schooled her expression not to reveal her hurt. To do so would change nothing. It would not make her pretty or sure of herself.

She moved her gaze to her sisters. “Good-bye.”

“Godspeed, Inga,” Gunda said softly, offering an encouraging smile.

Inga gave each of her sisters a hug, then picked up her portmanteau and valise and said, “I am ready, Mr. Bridger.”

A few minutes later, they were seated in his wagon and driving away from the parsonage. Inga stared at the road ahead of them, her hands tucked into the muffler her mother had made two winters ago.

She wondered again what had possessed her to volunteer to go with this man. She had never been the impulsive sort like her sisters. Perhaps she’d done it because, just as she’d feared on the day they’d arrived in America, her life had settled into a familiar routine, and this was her chance to alter it a bit. She wondered if that was a good thing.

“Tell me about your nieces, Mr. Bridger?” she inquired softly.

“Martha’s five. Suzanne’s three. They’re good girls. Won’t cause you more trouble than most young’uns, I reckon.”

“How did their parents die?”

His frown deepened. Bitterness darkened his eyes, and his shoulders seemed burdened by the weight of the world. “John,
my brother, and Margaret were comin’ back from Chicago. They were crossin’ a river on a ferry when it capsized in a storm. The river was runnin’ high from all the rain. Most folks on board were lost.”

What about you, Mr. Bridger? Were you lost, too?

He glanced at her, as if he’d heard her silent question, and his eyes somehow answered her. Yes, they seemed to say, he’d been lost, too.

There were more questions she wanted to ask, but she sensed he didn’t want her questions, and discretion won over curiosity.

Lapsing into silence, she stared across the farmland. Iowa was not like Sweden. Her native land was a country of lush emerald forests and clear, cold lakes. Iowa was a prairie, sometimes flat, sometimes rolling. While the river valley to the west was heavily wooded, here there were only the trees that farmers had planted for windbreaks. Most of the ground was under cultivation, trees giving way to crops.

Still, despite the differences, she had grown fond of this new land and its people. Uppsala, Iowa—and much of the rest of the county—had been settled by Swedes who were hungry for land of their own. They had immigrated to America, worked hard, and prospered. Those in town had thriving businesses. They had built their church and brought a minister to Uppsala to shepherd them. They had remembered the traditions of their native land, but had made themselves a part of their new country as well.

There were others, of course. Like Dirk Bridger. He wasn’t from Sweden nor did he or his family attend the Prärieblomman Lutheran Church as did nearly everyone else in this part of the county. And because of that, Inga could have gone her entire life without ever making his acquaintance.

Surreptitiously, she glanced his way again, studying his profile. He was, indeed, as handsome as she’d first thought him.
He had a farmer’s face, the skin darkened by sun and wind. She guessed he was close to his thirtieth year. The corners of his eyes and mouth were crinkled with lines that long days and many worries—not age—had etched there. His thick hair, neatly trimmed, was dark brown, like his eyes. His clean-shaven jaw suggested determination and a strength of character that appealed to her.

Somewhere, deep in her heart, she believed she would have regretted not knowing him. She didn’t understand why, and she chose not to analyze the feeling but simply to acknowledge that it was true.

His head turned and their eyes met, their gazes held. Then one of his eyebrows rose slightly, and he asked, “Why did you do this, Miss Linberg? Come to work for me, I mean.”

“I do not know, Mr. Bridger. Your mother is very ill.
Ja?”

His expression hardened. “Yeah.”

“Then we must pray she will get well soon.”

“Yeah,” he said as he looked forward again. “Right.”

The impulse to reach out, touch his arm, assure him prayers could make a difference was nearly irresistible.

As if to keep her from giving into her instincts, he said, “Your English is good, Miss Linberg. You been in America long?”

“Only eight months. But Pappa always believed in education for his daughters. I learned English when I was but five years old, as did all my sisters.”

Dirk nodded, as if considering what she was saying, but Inga suspected his thoughts had drifted away before she’d even opened her mouth. He didn’t ask any more questions, and she didn’t offer any more information.

Instead, they continued the journey in silence.

H
attie Bridger saw the wagon while it was still some distance down the road. It was none too soon, she thought.

Martha did her best to look after Suzanne, but there was little that could control the rambunctious three-year-old when she was in one of her moods. Today had been one of those days, and Hattie was exhausted.

When she realized her son was not alone in the wagon, she sagged onto a nearby chair and uttered a soft, “Thank the good Lord. He’s found someone.”

“It’s Uncle Dirk!” Martha exclaimed.

Suzanne ran over to the window. “Unca Dirk! Unca Dirk!” she echoed as she hopped up and down, then raced for the front door.

“Suzanne!” Hattie cried, but the child was already outside before she could rise from the chair. “Martha, get your sister. Quick! And put your coat on,” she added hastily as she brushed aside the window curtain to see where the littlest one had gone.

Suzanne’s chubby legs carried her like lightning right toward the big workhorses pulling the wagon. It was amazing how fast she could move into the path of danger. Hattie’s heart caught in her throat.

Thankfully, Dirk saw Suzanne and drew back on the reins. Then he shouted something at the child that caused her to stop
in her tracks. The next moment, Martha caught up with her, grabbed hold of one of Suzanne’s long braids, and yanked her out of the wagon’s way. Even with the door closed, Hattie could hear Suzanne’s sharp wails of protest.

Oh, mercy.
This was not a very good beginning. The children were acting like a couple of hooligans.

But instead of demanding Dirk take her straight back to town, the woman climbed down from the wagon seat and walked toward Martha and the screaming Suzanne. She was wearing a heavy coat and her head was wrapped in a thick knit scarf, hiding much of her face from view. Hattie couldn’t tell how old she was, but she walked with a long, easy stride. When she reached the girls, she knelt down so that she was at eye level with them. After a moment, Martha nodded, then glanced over her shoulder toward the house. Suzanne never stopped shrieking her rage.

Rising from the chair, Hattie grabbed her coat from the rack and threw it over her shoulders, then opened the door and stepped out onto the front porch. With one hand, she shaded her eyes against the sun and winter wind.

“Please, child,” she whispered. “Please be good just long enough for her t’get to know you.”

Miraculously, Suzanne quieted, and a moment later, the woman took hold of the youngster’s hand and started toward the house, Martha leading the way. When she was close enough for Hattie to see her face, the young woman—for Hattie could see now that she was young—offered a shy smile.

“Goddag.”

“Hello.”

“I am Inga Linberg.” She tipped her head to one side. “And this must be Suzanne?”

“Sure is,” Hattie answered, then asked a question of her own. “You the pastor’s daughter?”

“Ja,
his eldest. I hope you do not mind. I gave the young ones a sweet. I thought it might make our first meeting easier.”

Hattie could see now that both children had something in their mouths and were rolling the candies with their tongues like cows chewing their cuds. “Don’t mind at all. I was wonderin’ what shut Suzanne up so quick-like. She’s been into mischief all day.”

“I have four younger sisters. I know how they can be.”

“Ah.” Hattie nodded. “Come inside ’fore we catch our death, and we’ll get to know one another. I take it you’ve come to stay with us a spell.”

“Ja,
if you want me to stay.”

She chuckled dryly. “Oh, we want you all right.”

Hattie didn’t say so, but right now she’d be tempted to let the devil himself into her house if it meant she could get a bit of rest.

An hour later, with Hattie lying down for a nap and Suzanne doing the same, Inga stood in the large, airy kitchen with Martha. Despite the icy wind buffeting the Bridger house, this room seemed warm and friendly. It wasn’t just the fire burning in the stove. It had more to do with the white lace curtains framing the three windows and the yellow gingham tablecloth covering the table. She wondered if it was Hattie or her daughter-in-law who had made them.

“D’ya know how to cook?” Martha asked with a fair amount of skepticism, interrupting Inga’s musings.

“Ja.”
She smiled as she glanced down at the child. “My mamma taught me when I was no more than your age. You are five,
ja?”

“I’ll be six come January.”

“So old already? And what have you learned to cook? Maybe you make pancakes for your uncle and grandmamma.
Ja?”

Martha frowned, causing the freckles across the bridge of her nose to blend together. “Grandma doesn’t let me be ’round the stove. She says I might get burned.”

“But you can do other things. Come. Show me the root cellar. We do not want your uncle returning and finding nothing to eat.”

“Oh, he won’t be in for a long time yet. Lotsa chores t’do.” Martha opened the cellar door, then looked over her shoulder. “You ever lived on a farm?”

“Nej.”
Inga picked up the lamp on the table and followed after the girl. “We have always lived in town.”

“In Uppsala?”

They started down the steep steps into the cellar.

“Nej,”
Inga replied again. “I grew up in Sweden. We have been in America only a short while.”

“You like it here?”

“Ja,
very much.”

Martha stopped at the bottom of the stairs. “You gonna be Uncle Dirk’s wife?”

Dumbfounded, Inga couldn’t form a reply.

“Grandma says he needs one.”

Swallowing, she said, “I did not come to be your uncle’s wife. I am here to help care for your grandmamma and you and your sister.”

Martha seemed to forget her question as quickly as she’d asked it, but it lingered in Inga’s mind as she selected potatoes, onions, and carrots for their supper.

You gonna be Uncle Dirk’s wife?

What would it be like, she wondered, to be married? To spend every day of her life preparing meals in a bright kitchen like the one upstairs? To listen for a man’s footsteps as he returned from his chores, his broad shoulders wearied from his hard labors?

As she climbed the stairs, Martha in front of her, she thought of her shipboard friend, Beth Wellington. Only her name wasn’t Wellington any longer. Beth had a husband now. Beth had said she would never marry, but now she was Mrs. Steele, and in May, she would have a child of her own.

Perhaps
…

Nej,
Inga mentally chided herself before the wishful thought could even form. She shouldn’t hope for such a thing to happen to her. There was one enormous difference between Inga and her friend. Beth was beautiful. Extraordinarily so. She had been sought after in England. Aboard ship, she had drawn more than a few looks of interest. It was no wonder she’d married so soon after her arrival in Montana. What man wouldn’t want a woman like Beth?

Inga, in contrast, was not beautiful. Her face was no more than ordinary, and when compared to her pretty sisters or the exquisite Beth, she was rendered plain. She was also much too tall for most men’s liking. Pappa said she could be too headstrong and willful—not the most feminine of qualities—and her sisters said she was much too forthright and sensible for her own good. They told her she needed to learn to flatter and flirt.

She gave her head a small shake as she set the vegetables on the counter. This was unlike her, having such thoughts, and she didn’t much care for them. Long ago, she had learned to accept herself the way she was. She wasn’t going to start wishing for the moon now.

With more vigor than required, she primed the pump, then filled the sink with water. Glancing over her shoulder, she asked Martha, “Do you have a stool to stand on?”

“Yeah.” She pointed. “Over there.”

“If you bring it here, you could help me wash the vegetables.”

Martha immediately did so, carrying the small step stool over to the sink and setting it on the floor beside Inga. As she
stood on it, she looked up and said, “You’re real tall for a girl, ain’tcha?”

“Ja.”

“My ma was real purty. She had red hair just like mine and Suzanne’s.”

Inga paused and looked down at the child. “Do you remember your mamma?”

Martha nodded, then tears suddenly swam before her eyes as she shook her head. “Not really,” she whispered.

Inga’s heart squeezed painfully.

“I got a picture of her and Pa, but it don’t show that her hair’s red.” She sniffed. “I sure wish it did.”

“It must have been very beautiful,” Inga said as she lightly touched Martha’s hair, “if it was like yours.”

“You s’pose I’m awful ’cause I can’t remember her better than I do?”

Inga cupped Martha’s cheek with one hand and leaned toward her.
“Nej,
I do not think so. I believe such things are meant to fade so our hearts do not hurt so much. It is enough to remember that you loved your mamma and pappa.”

Unnoticed, Dirk watched from the dim hallway. He saw Inga tenderly caress Martha’s cheek and heard her comfort the child with words. He was grateful, for he never knew what to do or say in these situations. He always felt helpless. Too often he realized he was a miserable substitute for their father.

Inga gave Martha a peck on the cheek, then straightened and returned to her work. Martha quickly did the same, her tears forgotten, the look of sorrow erased from her face. It seemed this minister’s daughter knew something about children.

During the trip back to the farm, Dirk had silently questioned the wisdom of bringing her here. Inga didn’t look strong
enough to handle the work that would be required of her. But Ma seemed to have taken to her right off, and so had the children. He reckoned that was all that mattered.

“I wonder if…” Inga began as she turned toward the table. Her voice died when she saw Dirk standing in the shadows. “Oh…Mr. Bridger…I did not hear you.”

“Just came in to check on Ma.”

“She is asleep.”

“Yeah. I know. I already looked in.”

Inga touched his niece’s shoulder. “Martha and I are preparing supper.”

“So I see.”

For just a moment, he felt warm inside. Almost content. It was an odd, unexpected sensation, a foreign one.

A blush rose in Inga’s cheeks as he continued to stare at her. “Is there something you needed, Mr. Bridger?”

He gave his head a quick shake, and the feeling fled. “No.” He spun on his heel and strode down the hall.

Cold air slammed into him as he stepped outside. He shivered and hunched inside his coat.
Blast!
How he hated this weather! How he hated this farm! He wasn’t meant to be here, stuck in this life.

He stepped off the porch and headed toward the barn, running over the chores he still needed to finish before milking time. An endless list of chores, because no matter how much he got done, there would be other things added to the list tomorrow. And the next day. And the next. And the next…

Feelings of guilt returned. This farm had been his brother’s dream. Heaven only knew why. As far as Dirk was concerned, no man in his right mind would want to be a dairy farmer. But John had loved everything about this life. He’d put everything he had into it. He had planned on staying right here with Margaret and their daughters. He had wanted more children.
He’d hoped for a son—or perhaps several sons—who would work the farm with him and inherit it one day.

Now John was dead. There would be no sons, no more children. His life had ended while he was yet a young man, and his dreams had ended with him.

Inside the barn, Dirk sank onto a bale of straw, cursing softly. His dreams had ended, too, with John’s death, and it seemed the bitterness grew sharper with each passing month. And the bitterness only served to increase his guilt. After all, he was alive and his brother was dead. He would only have to stay until the girls were raised, then he could leave. John didn’t have any more chances.

But Suzanne wasn’t yet four. It could be another fourteen or fifteen years before he could leave Iowa. He would be in his forties by then. Who was he kidding? He’d be too old to start life over again. The world was changing with amazing swiftness. Things would be different in fifteen years. It would be the twentieth century by then!

He leaned forward and rested his forehead in his hands, his elbows braced on his thighs. He was a lousy son, a lousy brother, a lousy uncle. His ma was ailing, and his nieces needed love and attention, and all he could think about were the things he’d wanted, the places he’d counted on seeing—the Orient, the Swiss Alps, the jungles of darkest Africa—wherever the winds of chance might have blown him.

“Mr. Bridger?”

He straightened abruptly, surprised Inga had entered the barn without his hearing the door open.

“I brought you some coffee and a sandwich. I thought you might need something, since supper will be late.”

He wasn’t hungry, but he did recognize her thoughtfulness. “Thanks.” He rose to his feet and watched as she walked toward him, her movements fluid and willowy, like a tree swaying in a gentle breeze.

It had been a long time since he’d had the opportunity or the energy to notice the way a woman moved. It surprised him that he’d noticed Inga Linberg. His preference had always run toward dark-haired women with eyes to match. Fiery little things like the gal in Montana he’d been with the night before he received the telegram about John. Women with a thirst for life who didn’t want to tie a man down. Certainly not the saintly daughter of some minister.

He met Inga’s gaze as she stopped in front of him, and once again he suspected she knew exactly what he’d been thinking. He didn’t like the way that made him feel either. But then, it wasn’t his fault she’d been born tall and fair-haired, not to mention a minister’s daughter. And even if she were his type, he wouldn’t be interested. He didn’t want or need any more obligations or complications in his life.

“It is just cold beef, Mr. Bridger.” She handed him the tray, her gaze unwavering, her posture straight and her head held high and proud.

“Thanks.”