by Kris Tualla
“He’s having a hard time,” Dagny said.
Reid picked up his pack and rifle. “It’s only been four months. I imagine it still pains him.”
Dagny nodded and took his arm giving it a tight squeeze. “Come upstairs and we’ll get you settled in.”
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
Martin Hansen stood eye-to-eye with Reid, joy splitting his face in halves. “I cannot believe you are finally here, son. Standing right in front of me. After all these years!”
Martin’s receding hair held more silver than any other color. He wore a pair of magnifying spectacles perched on the end of his nose. His grip was strong, however, and his voice displayed the vigor of a younger man. Reid realized with a shock that his father’s sixty-first birthday was the next day.
“Consider me a birthday gift,” he teased. “Because I don’t have another to give you, Pappa.”
Martin clapped him on the shoulders. “I couldn’t ask for a better gift. It’s so good to have you home.”
Home. Reid expected that word to fill him with peace, not the roiling discomfort that stirred his chest. He would need to think more about that.
Supper was chaotic. Reid’s sister Karan joined them with her unruly brood of three—her husband Arthur was on guard duty. Tobias, Reid’s youngest brother, brought a sweet young woman named Caroline to the gathering and declared that she might soon become a permanent part of their future family occasions.
“We are waiting for her father to return from Williamsburg to ask permission,” he explained. Caroline blushed and smiled.
Liv, the one born after Reid, had her two sons aged thirteen and eleven in tow. Their interest in Onkel Reidar’s war experiences clearly had her on edge.
“Where is Alex?” Reid asked her.
“New York. He’s due to come home any day,” she said. The set of her mouth and the dart of her eyes displayed her unspoken concern.
“I just came through there. It’s quiet now, I’m certain he’s fine,” he assured her.
“End this quickly, Colonel Hansen. I’ve risked a husband. I’ll not risk my sons,” she grumbled.
Reid put up his hands. “That is no longer up to me.”
“Have you left the army, son?” Martin asked.
“Yes I have, Pappa,” he replied.
“What will you do?” Dagny asked. “Will you stay in Boston?”
Reid hesitated. “I haven’t decided yet.”
“Where would you go?” Tobias asked.
Reid shrugged. “I haven’t the faintest idea. I’m completely at loose ends right now.”
His revelation prompted a round of suggestions from his siblings—most of them impossible. One or two held merit, but only if they held any of Reid’s interest. Olav sat quietly at the end of the table, seeming to have nothing to say.
Reid watched his brother and saw the clear signs of a man who held no hope. It was like looking in a mirror.
Granted, all Reid was missing was his heart. His bodily parts, though scarred, were all still attached and functioning. And even though Reid had no expectation of future entanglements, he was otherwise whole.
Olav clearly needed a good woman. There were plenty of war widows who would take a one-armed man over no man at all. He wondered if Olav had made any attempts.
Those who loved once knew love was possible. Reid chuckled inwardly at this ironic trail of thought. I’ll never love again, but you, brother, should apply yourself diligently to the possibility.
Reid looked around the crowded, noisy supper table at his mother, his father, two of his sisters, two of his brothers, and five assorted children.
He never felt so lonely in his entire life.
*****
Reid sat in the kitchen sipping tea heavily fortified with brandy. He should have been exhausted, but the disquiet which plagued him from the moment he walked into Boston was now stealing his rest.
He didn’t understand why this place, his home since his birth, had ceased to be a refuge. It wasn’t as if he had left behind some unresolved relationship. Nor had any trauma befallen him here—other than the advent of war. Reid had always thought of Boston as where he belonged.
Tonight he was not so assured.
Footsteps on the wooden staircase announced that he would soon have a visitor. The easy creak on the steps told Reid it was not his father. He stood and procured a second cup, then poured water in the tea to steep.
He was glad that his mother was awake. He loved and respected his father, but at times when he was troubled he found his mother’s presence soothing. She was a shrewd woman and he admired her quiet strength.
When his mother appeared in the doorway, he held up the brandy bottle in question.
“Just a little,” she said with a crooked smile.
Reid obliged her before reclaiming his seat.
Dagny sat next to him, tucking her robe around her legs. “Can you not sleep?”
Reid shook his head. “No. And I don’t know why.”
Dagny picked up her cup and stirred it absently. “When were you injured?”
“September second,” he said.
“How did it happen?” Her voice was soft and she didn’t look at him.
So many times in his life she had asked him questions in this same manner. Her calm expression, displaying neither assumptions nor judgment, encouraged confidences. Reid gave his mother a sideways glance.
“Why do women always want to talk to me in the middle of the night?” He chuckled before realizing with horror what he had just confessed.
“Talking in the dark, when no one else is around, feels very safe,” Dagny replied, apparently missing what he just revealed. “Was it a bad injury?”
“A British sympathizer exploded a stockpile of guns and ammunition in Philadelphia,” Reid began. “I was close enough to the blast to stumble backward and fall. I hit my head—hard. My eyes were burned. And I had a chunk of metal in my thigh which left a six-inch scar.”
Dagny leaned closer and peered into his eyes. “You said you were recovered?”
“Yes, Mamma. Your little boy is worse for wear, but overall I’m fine,” he teased.
Dagny gave him a chastising slap on the knee. “Just wait until you have children, Reid. Then you’ll understand how it feels.”
Reid twisted his lips. “That may never happen.”
“Why do you say that?” Her voice was soft again.
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “I’m just so disoriented by being here, I suppose nothing makes sense to me right now.”
Dagny sipped her tea, now that it was ready. She stared into the fire and didn’t say anything.
Reid finished his tea and refilled his cup with straight brandy. “Why do you think that is, Mamma? Why do I feel like a stranger in my own home?”
“Because it’s not your own home,” she whispered.
Reid stared at her. “I don’t understand.”
Dagny faced him again. “When you left, Reid, you were still a young man. You hadn’t yet found your path.”
“Are you saying I’m an old man now?” he bristled.
She smiled. “No. I’m saying that you are in your prime now. This is the time for you to establish yourself, your home, and your place in this world.”
“How do I do that when all I’ve known for the last nine years is war?” he asked, desperate for the answer.
Dagny laid her hand on his arm. “What women talk to you in the middle of the night?”
Of a sudden, Reid understood how his own shifts in conversation had knocked Kirsten off balance. Now he realized where that habit originated. He also realized that nothing snuck past his mother.
Reid sighed. “Her name was Kirsten. After I was injured I was taken to her parents’ home to recover.”
“How long were you there?”
“Three weeks.”
“And she visited you in the night?” Dagny probed.
Reid grinned, in spite of himself. “It wasn’t like that. My
eyes were bandaged and I was laid out. I couldn’t even stand up.”
Dagny held out her cup; Reid poured her a dollop of brandy.
“She was disquieted as well,” she observed.
“She was,” he admitted.
“How did things end between you?” Dagny looked toward the floor and sipped her brandy.
“The first time, her parents made it clear that I wasn’t an acceptable choice for her.” Reid mentally kicked himself for adding the designation first time. There was no way his mother would let that pass.
She didn’t. “When was the second time?”
“There was a court-martial for the man who set off the explosion. I returned to Philadelphia to testify,” Reid said, adding, “I was there for two weeks that time. I resigned from the army after the man was hung. And then I came here.”
Dagny looked into his eyes, her expression kind. “What happened, son?”
Reid’s throat thickened in a very unmanly way. “She refused me,” he managed.
Dagny leaned back in her seat and sipped from her cup. Reid couldn’t explain why, but having said the words aloud seemed to ease his pain a little.
“Do you love her?” his mother murmured.
Reid wanted to say no. “Yes, Mamma. I do.”
“Then you have two choices, Reid. Only two,” she offered. “The first is to go back to her and convince her to change her mind. Make her love you.”
“She already loves me. She just doesn’t want to marry me,” he admitted.
“Explain that,” Dagny prodded.
Reid didn’t want to betray Kirsten’s confidence. Even if he never saw her again and she never knew about it, he was determined to protect her.
He settled on, “She had a bad experience and she doesn’t trust men. She intends to remain unmarried for her lifetime.”
“Even though she is in love with you?” Dagny asked, clearly puzzled.
Reid lifted one shoulder. “I could not sway her, Mamma. I did try. Hard.”
Dagny sighed softly and shook her head. “Then your only other choice is to forget her.”
Reid pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. “I’m trying. But she haunts my every waking thought and half my sleeping ones.”
“You need some occupation, son. What will you do?”
His hands fell to his lap. “What is there to do?”
“Pappa doesn’t have enough business to hire you, I’m afraid. Tobias has been working there all along, and now Olav…” She let the sentence die.
“I don’t want to burden Pappa,” Reid assured her. “I suppose I’ll start looking for a position tomorrow.”
Dagny stood and Reid followed her example. He set his cup down and wrapped his arms around his mother. She hugged him back and they stood, unmoving, for a long time.
“I love you, Mamma,” he said.
“You’ll find your way, son,” she said against his shoulder. “You are too much like me not to.”
March 19, 1782
Nine days. Nine long, fruitless days, pacing the streets and docks of Boston. Nine days searching for just one position that Reid could see spending six days a week working at without wishing he had died in the explosion. Or setting another one to accomplish the deed.
Reid was tired. Not in his body as much as in his character. The way things ended with Kirsten, coupled with the attempt to find a decent way to support himself now that he was done with the army, exhausted what little emotional strength he held in reserve. He learned one thing from the bustle and busyness of Boston, however.
He ached for peace and quiet and a new beginning away from war and strife. Simple as that.
Reid snorted. Not so simple.
He had money, now. Enough to get something started. The problem was he had no idea what that something was.
The door to his father’s architectural office opened and a stylishly dressed couple walked out. Reid smiled to himself—hopefully his father had been contracted to design their house. He stepped aside to allow them passage before he strode inside with more energy than he felt.
“Hello, Pappa,” he said. “Did you sell them plans for a mansion?”
“Two,” Martin said without looking up. “One on top of the other.”
Reid laughed. “May I take you to lunch?”
Martin looked up. “Is the day not treating you well?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not.”
His father grinned. “I hate when you say that.”
“I know,” Reid countered. You aren’t the only one. “I’m hoping you’ll become angry enough to jump out of that chair and chase me into Roberson’s Tavern.”
Martin’s gaze fell back to his notes. “I’ll be done in a minute.”
Twenty minutes later, Reid faced his father over a bowl of fish chowder. “I don’t believe Boston is the right place for me anymore,” he confessed.
“I’m not surprised,” Martin admitted. “I have never seen you so restless.”
Reid pinned his father with his stare. “When you decided to leave Norway, what was the pivotal reason?”
Martin set his spoon down. “I wanted to follow my passion for building. Norway wasn’t the place to do that.”
“Was there anything else?” Reid asked.
“There was a family situation,” Martin said carefully.
Reid gave him an expectant look.
“My grandfather made my father promise to make me the next Hansen heir, bypassing your Uncle Gustav.” Martin complied. “I didn’t want to usurp my brother.”
“Oh…” Reid frowned. “You never told me that.”
“You never asked.” Martin picked up his spoon again. “So why are you asking now?”
“I am at loose ends,” Reid admitted. “I’m not Colonel Hansen anymore.”
“Who are you?” his father asked.
Reid’s shoulders slumped. “I’m not certain.”
“Let me ask you this, son. What is your passion?”
Kirsten. Reid stared at his chowder bowl, silent. He needed to find a different place to lay his heart. Someplace far enough away to forget her.
“Reid?” Martin prompted.
“I want peace and quiet. Land. My own home,” he blurted. “But I have no means to procure them.”
A shadow passed through Martin’s expression. “Have you finished your soup? I need to make a stop at the post office on the way back.”
“Yes.” Reid pushed his bowl away, his appetite eaten by his foul mood. He stood and paid for the meal from his carefully parsed funds.
Father and son donned their cloaks and stepped into the cold drizzle of an early spring day. They didn’t converse as they made their way along the streets toward the post office. Inside the brick building, Reid followed Martin to a board with multiple notices tacked on it and pamphlets spread on a counter in front of it.
Martin began to peruse the leaflets, obviously in search of something. Reid waited patiently, lost in his own melancholy.
“Ah—here it is!” Martin waved a printed sheet over his head. “Take a look.”
March 1, 1782
Five Hundred Acre Land Grants in the Missouri Territory
Available for White Men aged Eighteen to Thirty-Eight.
Must apply at the Saint Louis Land Grant Office in Person.
Reid read the notice twice. “They are giving land away?”
“So it says.” Martin looked him in the eye. “Interested?”
Was he? Reasons not to go abounded. The distance, for one. If he arrived too late to claim a parcel, he would have spent time and money for nothing. The fact that he would be living in the wilderness by himself for another.
Of course, he could hunt. Skin the animals and either use or sell the pelts. He could certainly build himself a cabin before winter. Maybe take seeds with him and plant a small garden.
His heart began to pound. He could do this. He could go to Missouri, claim the land, and set up his own kingdom. Be sovereign over his own property, as
he had mentioned to—never mind. Perhaps somewhere along the way, he would find a new passion.
One could always hope.
Reid nodded soberly. “This is what I need to do, Pappa. I need to start a new life as Reidar Hansen, far away from war and unhappy memories.”
Martin suddenly looked older. A little sad—as if the inevitable happened and he was already prepared. He threw an arm around Reid’s shoulders.
“I believe you’re right, son,” he said. “But let me be the one to tell your mother.”
Part Three
SOVEREIGNTY
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
May 14, 1782
St. Louis
Missouri Territory
Reid tied his pair of draft horses to the railing and, dusting himself off, climbed the wooden steps and opened the door of the St. Louis Land Grant Office.
“Is this where I apply for the land?” he asked the clerk behind a desk.
The thin, balding man looked up. “It is.”
“Is there land still available?” Reid prodded.
The man nodded. “There is.”
Reid glanced around the room. Flattened maps littered the one large table, and rolled ones filled a bank of cubbyholes. There was no posted indication as to what his next action should be.
He faced the man again. “Will you give me five hundred acres please?”
The clerk lifted a sheet of printed paper from a neat stack, retrieved a quill pen, sharpened the point, and looked up at Reid. “Name?”
“Reidar Magnus Hansen,” Reid answered and spelled out his names.
“Wife?”
“No.”
“Children?”
“No.”
“Born?”
“Boston. Seventeen-fifty.”
“Age today?”
“Thirty-two.”
The clerk squinted at the paper. “Raise your right hand.”
Reid did so.
“Do you swear that you will occupy and settle the land you receive, are of sound mental and physical condition, upstanding in character, and will behave in a lawful and upright manner for as long as the land is in your possession?”
