She opened her eyes. “Didn’t you see? Dirk finished them both.”
“He did?” Inga glanced toward the back door.
It was then that Dirk came inside, stomping his feet to shake off the snow from his boots before he stepped onto the clean floor. A tiny smile curved the corners of Inga’s mouth as she watched him.
Hattie looked from their new housekeeper to her son, then back again. Could it be? she wondered. Was it possible?
“It’s startin’ to snow again.” Dirk removed his hat, then shrugged out of his coat. “My guess is we’re in for a long winter.”
“All winters’re long,” Hattie replied, her gaze continuing to shift between the two young people.
Inga set her sewing aside and rose from her chair. “Let me get you something hot to drink, Mr. Bridger.”
There had been a time when Hattie was more than eager to do anything to make her husband, Joseph, comfortable after a hard day’s work. Was it possible those were the same feelings Inga had for Joseph’s son? Or was she merely showing him the same concern she showed for everyone in the Bridger family?
If Dirk were to know the love of a woman, perhaps then his heart would find peace. Hattie knew he continued to long for other things, for the life he’d wanted since he was a boy. He did his duty for his family because that’s the sort of man he was. But if love should find him…
“It is black. The way you like it.” Inga held the steaming mug of hot coffee out toward Dirk.
Hattie was right. Inga had fallen in love with her son. But it was also plain to see, as Dirk took the mug from Inga’s hands, that he hadn’t discovered it yet.
Don’t be blind, Son, she wanted to say to him. Look at the happiness that’s starin’ you right in the face.
He walked into the living room, crossing to where Hattie was sitting. He leaned down and kissed her forehead. “I’m turnin’ in, Ma. You need anything?”
“No, son. I’m fine.”
“Well, good night then.”
“Good night.”
He headed for the stairs, then as an afterthought, glanced back and said, “Good night, Miss Linberg.”
“Godnatt, Mr. Bridger.”
Hattie’s time was short. She had accepted it. She didn’t know how many days on this earth had been allotted to her, but she knew there weren’t many of them left.
Lord, I’d sure count it a blessing if I could go to my rest believin’ Dirk’s gonna be happy. The kinda happiness that only comes from lovin’ and bein’ loved in a good marriage. I reckon if you do your part and I do mine, we just might see it happen for my boy.
“Amen,” she whispered, then smiled to herself.
It was going to be okay. She had a feeling it was all going to be okay now that Inga Linberg was here.
Six
Snow continued to fall off and on for several days, and when at last the series of storms passed, shortly after noon on the third day, the dark clouds drifted away, revealing a startling blue sky overhead. Icy crystals reflected the rays of the distant winter sun, turning the landscape into a sparkling wonderland that was almost blinding in its brilliance.
“But why can’t we make another snowman?” Martha demanded as she turned from the window.
“Because it is freezing outside,” Inga replied while rinsing a kettle in the sink. “The snow is so cold it will not pack.”
“Can’t we go out to the barn and see what Uncle Dirk is doin’, then? Maybe he’ll take us for a sleigh ride.”
“Your uncle is busy with his chores.”
Martha plopped onto a kitchen chair. “He’s always busy. He’s never got time to play with me and Suzanne.”
Inga’s gaze went to the window. “Your uncle has to work hard, Martha, in order to provide for all of you. And, remember, he did take the time on Sunday to help with our snowmen.” She glanced back at the child. “While Suzanne is napping, why don’t you help me with some Saint Lucia’s Day preparations? It is less than a week away, and I have done nothing.”
“Who’s Saint Lucia?”
For a moment, Inga was silent, surprised by the question. She’d never known anyone who didn’t celebrate Saint Lucia’s Day. Then she realized it would be the perfect diversion for the children.
“In Sweden, it is the day the yule celebrations begin.” She joined Martha at the table while drying her hands on a towel. She sat on a chair opposite the girl. “Lucia was a Christian maiden who was martyred during the time of the Roman emperor Diocletian. Do you know what martyred means?”
Martha shook her head.
“It means she died for her faith, for the things she believed in. In honor of Saint Lucia and her day, the eldest daughter of the house dresses up as the Lucia bride. Wearing a flowing gown of white, she places a wreath of greenery with lighted candles on her head, and then she visits all the bedrooms of the family, serving coffee and Lucia buns and cakes.”
“I don’t have a white dress.”
“Then we must make you one. This is a great honor.”
“Were you the Lucia bride?”
Inga smiled. “Ja, ever since I was your age. I always felt pretty on that morning,” she added softly, remembering.
“Will I look as pretty as you?”
She was warmed by the words. “Oh, Martha, you will be much prettier than I.” She rose from her chair. “Come. I am certain I have some white fabric we can use.” She took the child by the hand and drew her out of the kitchen.
As they climbed the stairs, Inga made a mental note to thank her mamma again for bringing the large trunk—full of Inga’s fabric, clothes, books, and keepsakes—to the Bridger farm last Sunday. When Inga left the parsonage, she had packed in such haste, she hadn’t given thought to many of the things she might need or want during her stay. But her mamma had.
When they entered Inga’s bedroom, she led Martha to the battered old trunk, and together they knelt on the floor in front of it. The hinges creaked softly as Inga opened the top. It didn’t take her long to find what she was looking for.
“Here it is.” She pulled out a length of white organdy. “This will make a lovely dress for you.”
“You’d make a dress for me outta this? But it’s so fine!”
Inga was about to reply when her heart skipped a beat and the back of her neck began to tingle. She turned her head, somehow knowing she would find Dirk standing in the doorway, watching them.
The sight of Inga, kneeling beside the open trunk, wearing a yellow gown—the shade of just-churned butter—touched Dirk’s heart in an unexpected way. Bright winter sunlight streamed through the bedroom window, forming a halo around Inga’s pale hair. It caressed her porcelain-smooth cheeks and emphasized the length of her swanlike neck. He felt frozen in place, captivated, unable to look away, not wanting to even if he could.
“Uncle Dirk, look!” Martha exclaimed when she saw him. “Miss Inga’s gonna make me a Saint Lucia’s dress. I’m gonna be a bride!”
He glanced at the girl. “A bride?” His gaze shifted from his niece to Inga. With the sunlight gilding her, she looked like a bride herself.
She blushed, as she often did when speaking to him. “It is a Swedish custom, Mr. Bridger. The celebration of Saint Lucia’s Day. I hope you do not mind.”
“Nah. I don’t mind.”
She rose, and he was again mindful of the gracefulness with which she carried herself. He thought of her sisters, how very different she was from them. He remembered thinking, only a week ago, that they were all so gay, so sparkling and pretty, and she was not. But he’d been mistaken. Inga Linberg’s loveliness was of a different kind, that was all. Maybe it was the goodness of her heart. From the moment she’d come here, she’d shown nothing but affection and kindness toward his nieces and his mother. And toward him, too, for that matter.
Funny, he’d always hankered after brunettes with big brown eyes. Tiny and curvaceous girls who flirted and laughed. Young women full of sass. Just like Clara Keene, the widow he’d worked for in
Kentucky, and Pearl, the little barmaid in Montana.
Inga was none of those things. Inga was—
“Was there something you needed, Mr. Bridger?” she asked as the silence stretched between them.
He was surprised by the direction his thoughts had taken. Right now, he couldn’t remember why he’d come upstairs. “No. Nothing.” He turned and headed down the stairs.
“Mr. Bridger?”
He stopped on the bottom step and glanced behind him.
“May I speak to you a moment?”
Since he could see no way of avoiding it, he shrugged. “Sure.”
She started down the steps toward him, moving with a certain elegance.
He swallowed hard.
Speaking in a soft voice as she drew near, she said, “It is about Christmas, Mr. Bridger.”
“Christmas?”
“Ja. I was wondering…well…I needed to know what your family’s customs are.”
His own sense of failure slammed into him. “Can’t say as we have any,” he answered gruffly.
She stared at him with wide eyes, the look both questioning and tender.
“There’s no money for presents for the girls.”
“Oh. But—”
“Look, maybe we oughta skip Christmas this year.”
“Skip Christmas?”
He couldn’t stand to look into her eyes a minute longer. Couldn’t bear to see his deficiencies mirrored there. He turned his back toward her.
“Mr. Bridger, there are many ways to celebrate this blessed season.” Her admonition was gentle, yet it only served to stir up more anger and bitterness in his heart.
“What’s to celebrate?” he demanded.
“Why, the birth of our Lord, of course.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Look, from what I’ve seen, God doesn’t care what we’re doing down here. If he did—”
She placed her hand on his arm, causing him to face her again. “But you are wrong, Mr. Bridger. He cares very much.”
“Then why’s Ma dyin’ before her time?” He shrugged off her hand. “Look, you go on believin’ if that’s what you want. You and Ma both. Just don’t expect me to.”
Softly, “What caused you to lose your faith?”
He headed for the door. “Maybe I never had any.”
“How very sad.”
He grabbed his coat off the rack. “Do whatever you want about Christmas, Miss Linberg. Makes no difference to me.” Then he stomped outside without waiting to hear her reply.
Dirk plowed his way through the snow to the barn, allowing his anger to grow and multiply. What did he have to celebrate? he silently demanded again. Why was he supposed to be glad when he was unable to do the simplest things for his family? And if God had wanted his thanks, then he should have let John and Margaret live. He shouldn’t be taking his ma before her time. If God cared so much, he wouldn’t have punished Dirk by bringing him to this dairy farm where all he could do was fail.
He slammed closed the barn door behind him, then kicked at an empty milk pail.
Cows and horses raised their heads and stared at him with accusing eyes.
He sank onto a workbench, his anger dissipating. The bitterness, however, lingered in his soul as his future stretched grimly before him, failure after failure after failure.
Throughout the day, Inga recalled the expression on Dirk’s face before he’d turned and walked out of the house. She’d wanted to comfort him, to find a way to reassure him, to make him understand that all was not as bleak as he thought. She wondered why he couldn’t see how much he was loved by his nieces, and because of their love, how very rich he truly was. She prayed she might find a way to help him discover the truth.
Certainly she wasn’t going to allow this family to miss Christmas simply because money was in short supply. So in the afternoon, she and the girls began work on gifts for their grandmother and their uncle. They worked upstairs in Inga’s room, the door closed for privacy, both of the children having sworn to keep what they were doing a secret. Suzanne was given the task of stringing together a collection of old beads and buttons for a necklace for Grandma Hattie. Martha chose the more difficult task of making a new cap for Uncle Dirk.
As for the girls themselves, Inga decided to make them each a doll from a pattern Bernadotte Linberg had used for her daughters. Inga had nearly everything she would need in her trunk, except for the yarn. She would have to go into town for that. And there were a few items she needed from the general store for their Christmas dinner.
It wasn’t until evening, after both the children were in bed and Hattie had retired for the night, that Inga found the courage to again bring up the matter of Christmas with Dirk.
He was seated at the kitchen table, account books and logbooks spread out before him. His forehead was creased in concentration, and he rubbed the furrows with the fingertips of his right hand as he stared at the columns of numbers entered in the books.
“Mr. Bridger? May I trouble you for a moment?”
His frown deepened as he turned to look at her.
She wanted to tell him she loved him, and her heart thumped crazily in her chest because of it.
“What is it, Miss Linberg?”
“I…it’s about Christmas.”
He sighed. “I thought we finished this discussion. I told you to do whatever you wanted.”
“Ja.” She drew closer to the table, feeling her heart quicken even more in response to his nearness. “I was hoping you might be able to kill a goose for Christmas dinner. I have nearly everything else. Your mamma has told me you enjoy sweet potatoes, and these we have in the cellar. I will need only a few items from the general store, but I promise the expense will not be great.”
“So you want me to take you into town?”
“That is not necessary. I am able to drive myself, if you would not mind me doing so.” She sat down on one of the chairs, purposely not looking at him. “Unless, of course, you would want to go with me,” she added, thinking she sounded a trifle breathless.
He didn’t reply.
After what seemed a long silence, she glanced up to find him staring at her.
“You’re a persistent woman, Miss Linberg.”
“Ja, I have been told so, Mr. Bridger.”
His voice dropped to a near whisper. “I reckon it’s to be Ma’s last Christmas.”
“Ja.”
“She’d probably like a tree. I didn’t bother with one last year.”
“I could make decorations for it.”
His smile was filled with sadness. “Thanks, Miss Linberg.”
“It is not so much.” She longed to touch his cheek, to feel the stubble of his dark beard beneath her fingertips, to wipe away those creases in his forehead.
“You’re wrong. It’s a great deal.”
“You carry much on your shoulders. I am happy to help where I am able.”
Dirk leaned back in his chair, holding her gaze with his own a moment longer before asking, “Why aren’t you married, Inga?”
Her heart skipped a beat at the sound of her given name falling from his lips. “Because I have never been asked,” she answered honestly. Heat rushed to her cheeks. “I expect my calling is to help Pappa in his church work.”
“A pity. You’re a right good cook, and I’ve never seen this place look so clean. You’d probably make some man a good wife.”
He had described nothing more than a housekeeper, and yet she was pleased by what praise he had given. She wanted to say that she would make him a good wife. Instead, she asked a question of her own. “Why have you never married?”
“Never wanted to.” His eyes took on a faraway look. “There were other things I wanted more.”
“Tell me,” she encouraged gently—and was surprised when he did.
“I used to read a lot when I was a boy. John always teased me about it, sayin’ I’d ruin my eyes, but I didn’t pay him any mind. My favorite books were about other countries, different cultu
res. Like China and India and Africa. My dad thought it was a waste of time, fillin’ my head with things I didn’t need to know, makin’ myself want things I wasn’t ever going to have, but I kept right on readin’ and dreamin’, just the same. I was determined to go to all those places I’d read about.” The thoughtful expression vanished, turning to one of resignation. “But my dad took sick and I had to stay on and work the farm for him. We lived in Ohio then. Raised corn mostly. Some wheat, too. After Dad died, Ma sold the farm and came here to live with John and Margaret. As for me, I was gonna work my way around the world.” He gave a humorless laugh. “You can see where I ended up, though. Guess Dad was right. Dreams are a waste of time.”
Dirk Bridger was in every way a man. He was tall and muscular. His shoulders were broad. His face had been creased by hard work and worry. His eyes held wisdom that only time could dispense. And yet, as he’d spoken, Inga had caught a glimpse of the boy he had once been. She’d felt his disillusionment, understood what he had lost, wished she could give it back to him.
Her heart nearly broke in two as she said, “Nej, Mr. Bridger. Dreams are not a waste. They should be nurtured. God wants us to dream, I think.”
“Do you?”
“Ja.”
“What makes you so sure there even is a God, Miss Linberg?” Somewhat sarcastically, he added, “Other than because your pa’s a preacher and you’re expected to, that is.”
“That is easy,” she answered with assurance. “Because I can hear my Lord’s voice in the wind and see his love all around me.” She laid her hand over her heart. “It begins in here, a person’s faith in Christ.” She touched her right temple. “Not in here.” She paused, then said, “That is how I know, Mr. Bridger.”
He stared at her again, and she was so afraid he would see how much she loved him that she rose from her chair and turned her back. She walked to the sink, where she pretended to wipe crumbs off the counter. She heard the scrape of chair legs against the floor, knew that he stood.
“Do you have dreams for the future, Miss Linberg? Beyond helpin’ your pa, I mean.”
“I did not use to,” she answered, immediately wishing she hadn’t.
“But you do now?”
Robin Lee Hatcher - [Coming to America 02] Page 7
