Robin Lee Hatcher - [Coming to America 02] (3 page)

“Is there anything particular you would like me to do before supper is ready?”

“No.”

“Very well.” She turned to go.

“Miss Linberg?”

She looked back at him.
“Ja?”

“Thanks for comin’ to help us.”

Her smile was tender, and it softened the sharp angles of her face.
“Ingen orsak.”
Apparently remembering herself, she repeated the words in English. “You are welcome, Mr. Bridger.” Then she walked out of the barn with the same long, sure steps that had carried her into it.

Wednesday, December 1, 1897

Uppsala, Iowa

My dear Beth,

I received your letter of one month ago and was delighted with your joyous news, as were my parents and sisters. I pray you will have an easy confinement.

I write to you with some surprising news of my own. I am not living at the parsonage at present. I have taken employment in the home of a dairy farmer, caring for his widowed mother, who is ill, and his young nieces, who lost their parents in an accident nearly two years ago. I had not had the opportunity to meet Mr. Bridger before this morning as he and his family do not attend Pappa’s church.

While you came to America knowing you would be a teacher in Montana, I have never imagined that I should be employed in any capacity other than as Pappa’s assistant. The decision to take employment surprised everyone, including me. I am certain my sisters never expected me to leave home, even in a temporary manner.

My employer seems an unhappy man, though I suppose that is not surprising, given the hardship the family has endured. Yet that he loves his mother and his nieces is evident. I feel he has a great capacity for kindness within him.

Hattie Bridger, his mother, is quite easy to like. I knew this the moment I met her. Although she does not say so, I suspect she suffers great pain for she moves with care and uncertain steps. But mostly it is weariness and worry I see in her face.

Not that anyone wouldn’t be wearied by her two granddaughters. Martha, who is nearly six, is a darling
child, inquisitive and bright beyond her years. I think her mamma’s absence has left an emptiness in her heart that is hard to fill. I shall do my best to do so as long as I am able. Suzanne, who will celebrate her fourth birthday in January, is like all children her age. Active and imaginative. This I have already learned in just one day with the family. I think I shall have my hands full with little Suzanne, but I also think I shall grow to love her and her sister in no time at all.

I have begun work on your baby’s quilt. I hope to have it finished soon so you might receive it before the birth. I think you shall be pleased with it, for I have tried to tell the story of how you came to America, met Mr. Steele, and learned to love him. I have used not only what you told me on board the ship but your letters from Montana to create the quilt.

I think of you and our friend Mary so often, remembering the weeks we were together with great fondness.

You may write to me in care of the Bridger Farm, General Delivery, Uppsala, Iowa.

Affectionately, Inga Linberg

I
nga awakened to the sound of creaking boards. At first she thought it was only the never-ending wind continuing to assault the house. Then, as she grew more alert, she realized it was footsteps on the stairs she had heard.

“Äsch!”
she muttered as she tossed aside the thick covering of blankets and sat up. How could she have overslept her first morning here? What would Dirk Bridger think of her?

Rising from the bed, she smacked her shin against a chair. She winced and swallowed a groan. To make matters worse, the bedroom was icy cold. Gooseflesh puckered on her arms and legs, and her teeth began to chatter before she could even light the lamp.

She made hasty work of her morning ablutions, dressing quickly and brushing her hair into a simple bun at the nape. Then, still shivering from the cold, she left her bedroom and hurried down the stairs.

A lamp burned brightly in the kitchen, and its light spilled into the hall, serving as a beacon for Inga. When she reached the doorway, she paused and looked about the room. Much to her relief and delight, blessed warmth emanated from the wood stove on the far wall. A pot gurgled and boiled on top of the stove, and already the enticing scent of brewing coffee was filling the room.

Her employer, with his back toward her, bent down and shoved another piece of wood into the fire. Afterward, he closed the black iron door, straightened, and turned. Stubble darkened his jaw and chin, his hair was mussed, and sleepiness lingered in his brown eyes. But none of it lessened his dark good looks.

All of this Inga realized in the instant before he noticed her standing there.

Dirk cocked an eyebrow. “You’re an early riser, I see, Miss Linberg.”

“Only reluctantly, Mr. Bridger,” she answered honestly. She entered the kitchen and stepped over to the stove. “I am sorry not to have your breakfast ready.”

He stifled a yawn, then grunted and said, “Too early to eat. It’s coffee I want at this time of day, and I can fix that myself.” He jerked his head toward the speckled blue pot on the stove. “Always do.”

Inga felt a sudden shyness as she looked into his eyes, realizing how close she was standing to him in her quest for warmth from the fire. Her heart did a funny little dance in her chest, and her mouth felt as dry as cotton.

“You’ll get used to how we do things around here quick enough, I reckon. Just ask Ma if you got questions.” He glanced once again at the coffee pot, which continued to rattle and shake as the water boiled inside.

Released from his gaze, Inga took a step backward, trying to still her racing pulse. She was surprised and more than a little unnerved by the way she reacted whenever she was near Dirk Bridger. One would think she was a silly schoolgirl instead of a mature woman of twenty-two years.

Dirk looked over his shoulder. “Join me?” he asked, lifting the pot with a towel around the handle.

She nodded.
“Ja. Tack.”
She gave her head a small shake, trying to clear her thoughts, then repeated in English, “Thank you.”

Dirk filled two mugs with coffee and carried them both to the table. “Sit here,” he said as he pulled out a chair. “It’s closest to the stove. You’ll be warm in no time.”

She forced a smile, feeling awkward that he had guessed her discomfort.

“House is always plenty cold when I first get up.” He walked around the table. “But cows don’t wait to be milked, no matter the weather.” He pulled out his own chair and sat down.

Inga did the same. Then she wrapped her hands around the mug and stared at the steam rising from the dark liquid within. Her sense of awkwardness increased as silence filled the room. She couldn’t think of a time when she’d been alone like this with a man—except her pappa, of course. It seemed somehow…intimate, the two of them seated at the kitchen table when the sun had yet to rise.

“Ma’s mighty grateful to have you here,” Dirk said, breaking the silence. “So am I.”

She felt a tiny skip in her heart. “I hope I will be of help to you all.”

“Already have been. Ma looked more rested at supper last night than I’ve seen her in a long spell.” He took a sip of coffee, then added, “You’re a good cook, too.”

“Thank you.” She lowered her gaze to the center of the table, feeling that wretched shyness again, along with a flush of pleasure.

Outside, the wind whistled around the corners of the house. Here in the kitchen, there was only the friendly sound of a crackling fire in the stove.

Inga lifted her gaze just enough to look at Dirk’s hands. Strong hands. Work-worn and callused. The hands of a man who labored long hours to provide for his family. Hands that could cradle little Suzanne with tenderness as he carried her, sleeping, to her bed as Inga had seen Dirk do last night.

She had a sudden vision of those same hands touching her arm. She could almost feel the warmth of them, pressed against the cotton fabric of her sleeve.

What might it be like…

She closed her eyes and took another drink of the strong, dark brew. What fanciful thoughts! And Pappa had always called her the sensible one. Surely, if her father knew what she was thinking, he would no longer believe she had any sense at all.

“Well…” Dirk set down his mug, scooted the chair back from the table, then stood. “Better see to the milkin’ ’fore it gets any later.”

Inga glanced up, her heart quickening as she looked him full in the face again. “You will want breakfast when you return, Mr. Bridger.
Ja?”

“Yes, ma’am. I sure will.” Then without another word, he turned on his heel and headed out of the kitchen.

“Poor Inga,” Gunda said as she smoothed the quilt her sister had made. “She will be miserable, being away from home. Pappa should have sent me to work for Mr. Bridger.”

“You?” Thea straightened from making her own bed and stared at Gunda. “Pappa would never be so foolish.”

“And why
not
me?”

“Because, Gunda, you flirt with every male over the age of fifteen. That is why.”

“I do not!”

Thea laughed. “Of course you do. Ask anyone.”

“And
you
don’t?” Gunda plopped herself down on the edge of her bed. “Besides, no one could have blamed me if I flirted a little with
Herr
Bridger. He really is
so
handsome.”

“Perhaps.” Thea turned toward the window, staring out at the lead gray skies. In her mind, she imagined Karl, saw his sun-gold hair and icy blue eyes and pale, close-trimmed beard. No one would ever be as handsome as Karl Gustav. She knew she would feel that way until her dying day. But Karl was in Sweden and Thea was in America, and nothing had ever seemed as hopeless in her seventeen years as her love for Karl.

“You’re wishing you’d run off with Karl, aren’t you?”

Thea glanced over her shoulder.
“Ja.”
She whispered the reply, as if afraid her father would hear.

“Karl promised he would come.”

“Of course he will come. But it will take him so long to save enough for the passage. It could be years.” It was all so unfair. Why hadn’t her pappa understood?

Gunda ran a brush over her hair. “At least Karl loves you. It could be worse.”

“Ja,
it could be worse. I could be an old maid like Inga.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she couldn’t help laughing at the ridiculous nature of the statement. She was the prettiest of all the Linberg sisters. She could have had her pick of any of the young men in Jönköping or in Uppsala.

“Shame on you, Thea. That was a very unkind thing to say.”

Thea harrumphed as she lay down on her sister’s just-made bed, her hands cupped behind her head. “Perhaps, but it is true, and you and I both know it.”

Gunda nodded. As much as they loved their oldest sister, they both knew there had never been a boy in Jönköping who had asked to pay calls on her. All the boys and young men had come to see the younger Linberg sisters, never Inga.

“It’s because Inga has never shown any interest in marriage,” Gunda offered in her sister’s defense. “She’s too involved in helping Pappa with his work and acting like a second mother to the rest of us. Besides, she wouldn’t know how to catch a man.” After a moment’s pause, she grinned. “Now if it were me working for
Herr
Bridger, I would have myself a husband in no time.”

Thea thought about chiding her sister but, instead, got up and returned to the window. What would be the point, after all? There was little danger of Gunda making a fool of herself over Dirk Bridger. The man’s farm was a long way from Uppsala, and since he didn’t attend Pappa’s church, their paths weren’t likely to cross any time soon. Being the silly coquette she was, Gunda would forget him as soon as she was around some other eligible male.

If only Thea could as easily quit thinking about Karl. Perhaps then she wouldn’t feel this constant ache in her chest or this overwhelming sadness that made it such an effort to smile. If only Pappa had let her marry Karl and stay in Sweden. But Pappa had said she was too young to marry and that Karl, only seventeen at the time, could not provide for her, being the youngest of six sons with nothing to inherit.

“If he loves you as he says,” Pappa had said the night she and Karl had gone to him, asking for his permission to marry, “he will find a way to come to America. True love is not diminished by distance.”

That had been almost a year ago. It seemed even longer, and Thea felt eons older. She believed Pappa had thought she would forget Karl, but she hadn’t. She would never forget Karl. She would die first. Like Shakespeare’s Juliet, she would die before she would forget her Romeo, her Karl.

It was all so terribly tragic and romantic.

By the time Dirk had finished with the milking, he’d cursed every cow in the barn, several of the cats who made their home in the loft—and who constantly pestered him for a squirt of milk—and one old plow horse that the girls called Chief. Chief, who had done nothing wrong in particular that morning, was included for good measure.

A bitter wind slammed into Dirk as he stepped out of the barn, a bucket of milk in each hand. He leaned into it and headed toward the back door, feeling tired already even though the day had just begun. He purposely didn’t look at the house. He knew if he did he would see at least a dozen things that needed repairs. Like the shutter at his mother’s bedroom window that had a loose hinge or the porch banister that needed to be replaced or…

He muttered an oath—the sort his mother had washed his mouth out with soap for when he was a boy. Come to think of it, if she’d heard what he’d said, she’d probably threaten to do it again.

When he opened the door into the kitchen, laughter spilled through it, along with warmth from the fire and the tempting odors of fried eggs and sausage. He lifted his gaze as he kicked the toe of one boot against the step, knocking off straw and mud. His glance took in both of his nieces and his mother, seated around the table, and Inga Linberg standing near the stove, dishing breakfast onto a large platter.

“Here’s Dirk,” Hattie said, still smiling from whatever had caused them all to laugh moments before. There were patches of color on her cheeks, and her eyes twinkled with merriment.

Dirk hadn’t seen her looking like this in more than a year.

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him, then set the buckets of milk on the nearby counter. “Hope you haven’t been waitin’ on me.”

“Nej,”
Inga replied. “Your breakfast is only now ready. Come and eat while it is hot.”

Dirk nodded. “I’ll wash up.”

“Inga was tellin’ us about her trip to America,” his mother said. “I can’t imagine goin’ so far from home, myself.”

He shoved his hands into a pail of sudsy water in the sink, thinking,
I can.

“Pappa says there’s much of our seagoing ancestors in me.” Inga set the platter in the center of the kitchen table. “I thought the voyage was wonderful, but my mother and sisters suffered from seasickness, especially when there were storms.”

Dirk grabbed a towel and dried his hands. “I’ve never seen the ocean myself, but I’ve been to the Rocky Mountains.” He turned. “If you haven’t seen ’em, you can’t imagine ’em. Air so thin at the top a man can’t scarcely breathe. Trees like nothin’ in Iowa. Streams so fresh and cold they’ll make your teeth chatter.”

“You’ll go back some day, son,” Hattie said softly. All remnants of her smile vanished, and her gaze filled with sorrow.

“Doesn’t matter, Ma.” He pulled out his chair from the table and sat down. “I’ve been there once.”

He wished he’d kept his mouth shut. It didn’t serve any purpose, thinking about his brief time out West, except to make him want what he couldn’t have and make his ma feel responsible for it. He would have thought, after two years, he’d be used to being here in Iowa, that he would’ve accepted his lot in life. The world was full of people who never made it more than a few miles in any direction from the place where they were born. He’d at least done more than that. He ought to be thankful for it.

“Mr. Bridger?”

He looked at Inga. “Yeah?”

“Perhaps this afternoon you would be kind enough to show me around the farm.”

“Sure. Whenever you want.”

After Hattie said the blessing, the Bridger family and their new housekeeper ate in relative peace for about ten minutes. Dirk got to hear about the immigration depot on Ellis Island and about Inga’s first impression of New York City. Despite himself, he was interested in hearing it, even though listening made him yearn for the same type of experiences.

Then Suzanne spilled her milk and immediately began to cry. Quickly, Inga sopped up the liquid with a towel while crooning words of reassurance to the girl. As if jealous of the attention her younger sister was receiving, Martha knocked her plate on the floor, splattering eggs and sausage everywhere. Her face turned red, and her eyes filled with tears as she bit her lower lip. Suzanne’s wails increased in volume.

Dirk wolfed down his last few bites, then mumbled, “I’d better get back to the chores,” and rushed out of the house into the cold, preferring the frigid conditions outside to the current indoor chaos.