A Land to Call Home

by Lauraine Snelling

  With those words ringing in her ears, Ingeborg let him assist her up to the seat and slapped the horses’ reins. Solveig had better be ready.

  “But I don’t want to go.” Solveig turned back again at the door, sending a pleading look to Kaaren. “You need help with the babies.”

  “You know Penny is coming to help me.” Kaaren tucked an oven-heated rock into a sack. “This will keep your feet warm.” With that, she threw her heavy wool shawl around her shoulders and pushed her sister out the door. Solveig drew her muffler over the side of her face and across her mouth, effectively hiding the scar.

  “See you tonight.” Ingeborg clucked the horses forward and waved to Kaaren.

  Solveig didn’t say a word until after the sun was well up.

  Ingeborg gave up trying to talk with her, wondering if this hadn’t been a bad idea after all. Thorliff and Baptiste had clamored to go. She should have let them come and left this unhappy soul at home.

  The ford at the Little Salt River was frozen solid just as Ingeborg expected. With the water so low in the fall, it didn’t take too many days of real cold to cover the sluggish river. The river looked more like a good-sized creek at this time of year.

  The horses stepped out tentatively, but when the ice held, they trotted on across. Bob only slipped once and that did nothing more than kick Ingeborg’s heart into a fast tempo. She glanced at her companion to see Solveig clutching the edge of the seat with both hands.

  “The Red won’t be frozen yet, so young MacKenzie will have the ferry running. His far owns the Mercantile. You’ll like the missus. She’s the one gave me that slip of geranium growing in my window.”

  “Do they sell dress goods at the Mercantile?”

  Ingeborg clutched at the reins, causing the horses to toss their heads and set the bells to ringing even more. Solveig had actually asked a question. “Why yes, and about anything else anyone needs. They bring their supplies in on the paddle-wheeler, you know, the one we traveled home on.”

  “That seems like years ago.” Solveig shifted her injured leg.

  “Ja, it does.”

  By the time they reached St. Andrew, Solveig was looking around with interest and commenting on the things she saw. Ingeborg figured that a definite improvement. Perhaps there was hope for the young woman sitting beside her after all.

  What Solveig didn’t yet understand was that as soon as the word got out there was a woman of marrying age at the Bjorklund farm, suitors, however suitable or not, would come calling. Had she thought to give George Carlson, manager of the Bonanza farm, an unexpected advantage? She shook her head at the absurdity of the idea. But the scar wasn’t nearly so noticeable now as Solveig thought, since time and the concoction applied by Metiz had done their healing work. Solveig was still a beautiful young woman.

  MacKenzie’s son pulled the ferry, really a large raft, across the Red by way of the rope that lay on the bottom of the river until needed. The paddle-wheeler had stopped running for the winter several weeks before. The slow moving, mud-colored river flowed low like the Little Salt.

  “Why do they call this the Red River?” Solveig relaxed again once the sleigh reached the Minnesota shore. The horses dug their feet in to pull the sleigh up the sloping bank. While wheels might have done better here, the mud allowed the runners to slip fairly easily.

  “I wondered the same thing. Someone told me it’s because the river looks red when the sun hits it just right. The silt in it causes that, I guess.”

  Solveig gave her a raised eyebrow look.

  Ingeborg smiled. “That’s what I thought too.”

  When they arrived at the Bonanza farm, Mrs. Carlson, mother of the manager, George, came to the door as soon as the dogs heralded a welcome. “Why, Mrs. Bjorklund, how wonderful to see you. I was afraid our supplier was done for the winter.” She beckoned with her hand. “Come in, come in. One of the hands will unload and take care of the horses for you. Surely you have time for something to eat, a cup of coffee, at least.”

  “It’s good to see you too.” Ingeborg swung down from the wooden seat, stamping her feet to get the blood flowing before she tried walking on them. In spite of the elk robe that covered their legs, her feet had gone somewhat numb. She came around the rig to help Solveig down. “Be careful. Your feet may be asleep.”

  “If not frozen off.”

  Ingeborg looked up in time to see a smile flit across Solveig’s face. She was joking! Solveig was joking. The smile brought back memories of the laughing young girl she’d known in Nordland. Thanks be to God. “No, I can see them. They’re still attached to the bottoms of your legs.”

  Another smile. This one stayed long enough that Ingeborg could see the scar disappear in the smile lines so seldom used of late. Actually, the scar made the dimple that lurked there more obvious. She handed Solveig the crutch when she stood on solid ground, and together they made their way up the walk to the back door of the two-story square house, hugged by a wide porch on three sides. Solveig negotiated the four steps with ease.

  “Mrs. Carlson, I’d like you to meet Kaaren’s younger sister, Solveig. She came to us from Norway a month or so ago.”

  “My land, child, whatever happened to your leg?” Mrs. Carlson spoke Norwegian, albeit not well.

  Solveig sucked in a deep breath. “I was hurt in a terrible train wreck east of Chicago. Many people died, so I am lucky to be alive.” She gestured to her leg. “It is healing. Soon I’ll be walking without my crutch.”

  Thanks be to thee, oh, heavenly Father. Ingeborg wanted to shout the praise from the top of the porch. Instead she removed her coat and gloves, knowing Mrs. Carlson would take them to be hung up. Solveig watched her and did the same.

  “You just go right on in the kitchen there. That’s the warmest room in the house. I made a pot of soup this morning, and we will have a bowl of that. George should be in from the machine shed any minute now.” The guests turned to the sunny room where geraniums bloomed on the windowsills and the fragrance of something baking beckoned all to make themselves to home. A white cat snoozed on the braided rug by the polished wood range, yawning and showing its pink tongue as the visitors entered. A canary chirped from a cage beside the window.

  Solveig looked at Ingeborg with wide eyes. If only she could see the rest of the house, thought Ingeborg.

  “Sit down, sit down.” Mrs. Carlson, her black bombazine gown rustling with every motion, quickly set two more places at the round oak table, which was covered with a pansy embroidered tablecloth. The napkins wore matching pansies in one corner.

  Someday. Ingeborg renewed the promise to herself every time she came to this farm. Someday I will have a kitchen like this, a house like this. Someday.

  Boots being kicked against the stoop announced George’s arrival. A smile split his tanned face and brightened the golden flecks in his hazel eyes.

  “Mrs. Bjorklund, how good to see you.” He hung his brown wool jacket on the oak coat-tree by the door, setting his muffler and hat on top. “We didn’t think you would be coming again until spring.” He crossed the kitchen to rub his hands in the heat above the stove. “And who is your assistant this time?”

  Ingeborg introduced them, watching George’s face. Sure enough, his smile broadened when he dipped his head in greeting. She was glad to see he suffered no pangs from Haakan marrying her out of the blue like he did. George had shown interest in her and had asked to come calling as a suitor.

  “And how is your sister-in-law?” he asked of Ingeborg.

  “She is the proud mother of twin girls born a little over a month ago.” Ingeborg filled them in on the news of the settlement growing across the river. All the while Mrs. Carlson continued bringing food to the table. The kettle of soup, a plate of sliced bread, sliced cheese, pickles, jam, and honey. The coffeepot took up residence on a hot pad near her elbow. When she finally took her place, George bowed his head and said the grace.

  Soon with everything passed around the table, they all fell to, the talk
ing lagging for a few minutes at first. Fluffy dumplings floated in the chicken soup, probably made from one of the Bjorklund chickens. Ingeborg savored every bite. Mrs. Carlson was a marvelous cook.

  When they got ready to leave, the older woman asked for the total she owed them and went to another room for her pocketbook.

  “I hope you will come again.” George held Solveig’s hand slightly longer than necessary.

  “Perhaps you can join us for a barn dance to celebrate our new barn.” Ingeborg swiftly figured out a date. “Saturday after next.” She hoped Haakan would agree. He’d already said a celebration was in order.

  “Do you want me to bring my fiddle?”

  “I didn’t know you played. Bring it if you like, but you needn’t feel you must. If your mother would like to come, bring her too.” As the words spilled from her mouth, Ingeborg wondered where she would house these people. They were used to much finer than the soddy.

  “Thank you for the invitation. I will come for sure, and Mother . . . I don’t know. She doesn’t like long rides in the winter.”

  “Which reminds me, this all depends upon the weather, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  Mrs. Carlson returned with the cash for Ingeborg. “There now. I will look forward to your return in the spring. When all our hands come back to work, we depend upon your produce to feed them.”

  Once on the road home, Solveig sat silently, her feet warm now on the hot bricks Mrs. Carlson had insisted they accept.

  Ingeborg ached to ask her what she was thinking but refrained at the expense of several tooth marks in her tongue.

  The sun was sinking toward the west when they were finally loaded with goods from the Mercantile, including a potbellied stove for the shop in the barn—Ingeborg’s gift to the men. The harness and bells jingled as the horses picked up the pace, knowing they were homeward bound.

  Protected in her pocket was the most important packet—three letters from Norway and one from Fargo. Though she had asked, there had been none for Penny. Hjelmer still hadn’t answered, and neither had any of the railroad companies Kaaren had written to. That was no surprise, since the letters hadn’t been gone that long. But Hjelmer. Where was Hjelmer? What had happened to him? Penny wouldn’t wait forever, would she? The letter from her friend Mrs. Johnson at the Headquarters Hotel in Fargo would tell the tale.

  I’m going with you.” Katja, the young washerwoman, tossed her bundle up into the open freight car.

  “No, you’re not.” Hjelmer looked around to see who else besides himself and Leif were in the dark freight car. They had just swung aboard themselves.

  “In case you haven’t noticed, this is a free country. I can go where I want, just like you.” She hoisted herself up into the open door and got to her feet. Ignoring Leif’s stunned look, she turned her attention and her ire to Hjelmer. “You were going to leave without a word, weren’t you?”

  Hjelmer glared down at her, feeling like an idiot for being caught out in so transparent a web. “I ain’t made you no promises.”

  “I know that. And I ain’t making you none either. But they’re closing up the camp, and I thought I might as well leave with the earlier ones than the later. Which don’t make no nevermind. You could at least have come to say good-bye.” She stamped her foot, setting her multicolored skirt in a swirl. The draft from the open door added to the motion, showing more than a glimpse of her calf.

  Katja ignored the wind and her skirt, her entire attention focused on the man-boy in front of her. “And I thought we was friends.”

  “We . . . we are . . . were.” Hjelmer hated himself for stammering. He sent a pleading look to Leif, only to receive a shrugged shoulder response.

  “Then why not take me with you? You two are friends and you stay together.”

  Hjelmer stared at her. She knew the difference, of course she did. Didn’t she? Had he been reading her signals all wrong? He rubbed his hands over his head, knocking his hat back on the floor. When he stooped to pick it up, he noticed a broad smile of white teeth from the far corner. Sam’s face was too dark to see.

  Great, now they had an audience. After all this time he’d tried to keep his friendship with the young woman a secret. Keeping a secret in a railroad camp was like pushing a water-soaked rope uphill against an avalanche.

  With a jerk the train started forward, iron wheels shrieking against the track.

  She clutched the front of his jacket for balance. “I won’t be in yer way, I promise.”

  Hjelmer shook his head and shrugged at the same time. “Suit yourself.” He pulled away, picking up his pack and carrying it back to the end of the boxcar. Then he and Leif pulled the doors closed, cutting off all light except the rays coming in from a few places where boards were missing.

  The four of them sat close together for warmth, making desultory comments as the morning passed. Hjelmer leaned his head back against the car wall and let his mind wander. At least he knew where he was going, and that he had work when he got there. The big boss on the job had come to him several days before, just as they were putting their tools away for the day.

  “You want a job for the winter?” he asked, standing close so his voice didn’t carry.

  “Ja, I do.” Hjelmer tucked his pigskin gloves in the ties of his leather apron.

  “We need some good men at the roundhouse in St. Paul. The pay isn’t quite as good as out here on the line, but it’s better than average. You ask for John Reggincamp when you get there and tell him I sent you.”

  “Can Leif come too?” The words surprised Hjelmer as much as the boss.

  The big man squinted and ran his tongue over his lower lip. Finally he nodded. “He works hard, and there’s no shortage of locomotives to repair. There should be a place for him too. But I want you back here in the spring. I’ll let you know when.”

  Hjelmer nodded in response. “Thank you.”

  Leif let out a whoop when Hjelmer told him the news. “Thankee, my friend. I owe you for that.”

  “You owe me already.” The two jostled each other on the way to the meal car.

  “No, you owe me. Remember the night I saved your bacon with Big Red? That’s worth lots of paybacks.”

  Hjelmer brought his mind back to the frigid railcar. They should have hoisted a barrel in here to build a fire in. He untied his quilt from his bundle and wrapped it around himself, then lifted the edge to let Katja, whose teeth were clattering in the cold, crawl under it too.

  “Didn’t you bring a blanket?”

  She shook her head. “I was in too much of a hurry.”

  Warming each other, they fell into an uneasy sleep. The train stopped in Fargo before heading farther east. Leif jumped down and promised to bring back some food for all of them.

  “How far you going, Sam?” Hjelmer asked.

  “St. Paul, like you. Thought to go on home, but dey need money more’n dey need me.”

  Home. Is the Red River Valley my home now? Is Penny still waiting? He thought of heading north before he continued east, but what if the job disappeared because he didn’t get there right away? He would write to her as soon as he had a place to live, that’s what he’d do.

  Pleased with that decision, he fell to the bread and cheese Leif brought back. Bellies full and the train again in forward motion, the four of them shared their blankets and took advantage of the chance for some extra sleep.

  Once in St. Paul, the four pooled their resources to rent a small house not far from the roundhouse. With no furniture other than a cookstove, the men took over the main room and gave Katja the bedroom. Since they’d arrived on a Friday night, the men headed out on Saturday morning for the roundhouse to find Reggincamp.

  “I will find us a table at least,” Katja promised.

  “Or some lumber so we can build one. And we need either coal or wood.”

  “We need everything.”

  “Ja, well, we will make do.”

  When they got home again, after being told to st
art work on Monday, the fragrance of simmering stew met them at the door. A kettle bubbled on the stove, now hot from coal chunks like those in the box beside it. One upturned box made a table, and three smaller ones served as makeshift chairs.

  “How?” Hjelmer and Leif exchanged puzzled glances.

  “I found the coal along the tracks and the boxes in a heap. There are more boxes there if you want. The kettle I bought for a nickel from a peddler and the meat and vegetables came from . . . well, you don’t want to know where they came from.” Katja gave the stew a stir with a scrubbed stick. “You want to eat first or go out and look for more? I heard there’s some real fine houses up on the hill. Those folks usually throw good stuff away. You just got to be there at the right time.”

  Sam chuckled. “She be right.” His soft southern accent rounded out the words.

  “You could carve us some spoons, Hjelmer. I seen your animals and birds. You are some good with a knife.” She fetched four tin cans she’d scrubbed clean and poured the stew into them. “Take your places.” She set a loaf of bread in the middle of the table. “That’ll have to do for spoons for now.”

  When Hjelmer smiled at her and shook his head, she grinned back, giving her an impish look. “Told you I wouldn’t be no burden. Katja carries her own weight in this world.”

  On his scouting trips that day and the next, Hjelmer found himself thinking of the places he passed where he knew men played cards. He could be in there, warm and comfortable, making real money instead of searching the city for things they could use. His cold fingers itched to feel the crisp cards, to finger the ones he would keep and the ones to discard. He forced his mind back to the hunt. He’d sworn off gambling. Remember that, he ordered sternly.

  The evenings were spent turning their finds into useful tools. They tore apart more boxes, carefully saving the nails to be pounded straight again. When Leif produced a hammer head he’d picked up in the camp out west, Hjelmer fashioned a handle for it. They nailed some boards over one window that had no glass and used others to make a chair. What was left they stacked in the corner to be used later. One box became their food store and another the kitchen counter and cupboard. Keeping things cold wasn’t a problem; keeping themselves warm proved more difficult. They needed bedding desperately. If a real cold spell hit the area, they could all be frozen by morning. Roughing it in the camp was luxury compared to this. At least there they’d had plenty of hot food and heat.