Northern Lights Trilogy

by Lisa Tawn Bergren

  I Broken Cisterns

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  II All Who Are Thirsty

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  III Springs of Living Water

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Epilogue

  prologue

  June 1886

  Tora Anders strolled down the wooden sidewalk of Helena, Montana, with purpose. She walked everywhere with purpose these days, but today was special. Trent Storm was in town again. And he had invited her out for supper. She needed to get back to her fine Queen Anne style home—the pride of Helena—to bathe and change. Tonight would be different; she was sure of it. Tonight Trent would propose at last. Hadn’t she waited four years for this day?

  She nodded at two towering cowboys who dipped their heads appreciatively, touching fingertips to hat brims, and then at two women she did not know. Tora had been in Helena for a little over a year. Having built her last roadhouses for Storm Enterprises in the vicinity, she decided it was time to make some semblance of a home for herself. And in the process, she hoped to entice Trent west by her blatant refusal to return east.

  This hard, energetic place was rife with trouble as well as opportunity, and it fit Tora to a tee. She loved the gently sloping mountains in the distance, the rolling hills that gave way to plains. Montana was Tora Anders territory if she had ever seen it. Surely Trent would fall in love with it just as he had fallen in love with her. In the distance she heard the train whistle, and she quickened her step. She doubted that Trent would come early. It was more likely that he would take care of some business and visit Helena’s Storm Roadhouse—one of the finest restaurants Tora had set up for him—before coming to call.

  There was little to fear from his examination of the roadhouse. Tora had become a difficult perfectionist of a boss. She made frequent impromptu inspections of the facilities and was meticulous about every detail. If a table was not set with pristine linens or the utensils were not placed just so, she was known to take hold of the cloth and pull the whole table setting to the floor, even firing the manager on the spot. Consequently the roadhouses she had begun for Trent—sixteen over the last four years along the tracks of the Northern Pacific—had the best reputation of them all. She smiled, feeling smug for a moment. With any luck at all, Trent had heard the critics’ reports just as she had. At twenty-two years of age, Tora Anders was already a force to contend with. And her fame as the “Storm Roadhouse Maven” was rivaling her sister Elsa Ramstad’s fame as the “Heroine of the Horn.”

  She laughed under her breath, thinking of her father and what he would have thought had he read the American papers. Had he lived. The old bird probably would have been scandalized, she thought. He never really did embrace what America was all about: freedom and opportunity. Certainly his two younger daughters, Elsa and Tora, had not turned out as they had been raised to be. Carina, the eldest, was the only one to do as their parents had planned; only she stayed at home in Bergen, Norway, married a Bergenser, Garth Ramstad, and raised children.

  Tora frowned as she thought of her own daughter, Jessie, then banished the memory from her mind. It had been a long time since she had allowed herself to think of the child, and she quickly decided it would be a long time before she thought of her again. It was a tad more pleasant to think of her sister Elsa’s son, Kristian, who had to be about two or three by now. Perhaps there was another one on the way. It was difficult to know, since she had not corresponded with Elsa for over four years and had only found out about her nephew by reading Elsa’s popular column in the New York Times.

  She turned off the sidewalk, onto an intricately laid brick pathway, and walked through the ornate iron gate in front of her home. Walking up the steps, she peeled off her white lace gloves and pulled at the wide ribbon that held her French straw hat on her head. It was warm for June, but the heat felt right somehow.

  Her maidservant, Sasha—one of three in the huge house—opened the door as if she had been waiting for her. This pleased Tora to no end. “Good afternoon, Sasha,” she said primly, stepping through the massive doorway. The tall ceilings and thick mahogany paneling kept the place darker and thus cooler than out-of-doors. Tora handed Sasha her gloves and hat. “I trust you completed your task of oiling the staircase woodwork today?”

  “Yes, Miss Anders,” Sasha said with a deferential curtsey. She was short in stature, had drab brown hair, and spoke with a slight Russian accent. In a town full of Chinese and Irish, it had been difficult to find the right servants, Tora mused. But Sasha was one of the best. An excellent maid, and none of Tora’s gentlemen callers would look her way twice. Perfect.

  “I did the paneling in the dining room as well,” the maid added hastily as Tora walked to the staircase and peered closely at the hand-carved balustrade, looking for traces of dust. But Sasha had done an impeccable job. All the way up the grand, sweeping staircase—which Tora hoped to descend soon in a fine French wedding gown—there was not one speck of dust to be found.

  “Good,” she muttered, heading at once to the dining room. Tora loved this room. After the heavy, dark paneling of the foyer and hallway, entering the dining room was like entering dawn. Everything was different. The panels were outlined in white-painted wood, their interiors covered in coordinating velvet that was padded from behind. Tora likened eating in the room to dining on a massive bed fit for a queen, and the guests she entertained around the enormous, ostentatious table often agreed.

  Absentmindedly, Tora walked around the perimeter of the room, thinking of the many admirers who had sat at the table, gazing at her longingly. In the West, women were scarce, and women of quality and wealth were treasured like gold from the mountains. Men came to the Montana territory to farm the rich soil, help lay the tracks, or mine the high hills in the distance. The capital bustled as people entered and exited daily for other parts of the territory, leaving their money in the townspeople’s hands as they went through. Yes, it was a fine place for a woman to make her way, and men far and wide admired her for her tenacity. Gentlemen came to call at all hours of the day, and her maidservants turned many away without an excuse.

  Because Tora’s heart belonged to one man: Trent Storm.

  He was the man who had made her the woman she was today.

  She was the woman who would make him a man of true power in the future.

  And it would all begin tonight.

  Trent Storm made his way through the throngs of people at the train station, not surprised that Tora was absent rather than there to greet him. It was not their pattern to have a cheerful reunion at the station. Instead, Tora would want him to come to her, in her corner, so to speak, giving her the advantage. She would be dressed to the hilt and smelling of her intoxicating cologne—a mix of jasmine from the Orient and vanilla—and smiling at him in that way that melted his heart. What he wouldn’t give to see her in a plain dress like the simple farm women around him! He yearned for the chance to slip his hands into her hair and release the pins, setting free those thick, chestnut waves to cascade down past her shoulders. They would frame her face and those incredible blue eyes, and it would take every bit of
his control not to kiss her …

  “Mr. Trent!” the porter said again, clearly irritated. “Your valise! You forgot this back there.”

  “Oh, thank you. I don’t know where my mind is,” he started lamely, fishing in his pocket for two bits for the man’s trouble. Of course he knew exactly where his mind was. And it was time to clear it. He had spent four years waiting for Tora Anders to be honest with him, to reveal the reason she had made up the story of her family’s death on the high Atlantic seas, and the reason for her lies since then. He couldn’t understand why she would hide a perfectly respectable past. His private detective had discovered that she had a mother and sister alive in Bergen, Norway, and another sister who was married to a prosperous sea captain named Ramstad. The “Heroine of the Horn” they called her. Trent often found himself spellbound by the stories she wrote for the Times and the exquisite drawings she included. Apparently Tora had come to America with Elsa; however, curiously her name was not on the Herald’s manifest. Was that the reason for her secrecy? he wondered for the thousandth time. Had she stowed away?

  For a brief time she had been the housekeeper for a shipmate of Ramstad’s, caring for his two sons. Then she had come to Minnesota and sought Trent’s employ. But why the duplicity? The questions drove him nearly mad.

  And as attracted as he was to Tora on the outside, he was disappointed with how she had degenerated on the inside. What were once guts and gumption now seemed greed and gall.

  All in all, his relationship with Tora had soured. And it was time to end it. Tonight. Tonight he would expose the truth he had held within for four long years and demand an explanation. If she was honest, he might give her a chance. But if she tried her old games with him, it was over. At forty-five, he was too old to live life in such a manner.

  “Trent!” Karl Martensen called, trying to shout above the din of the crowd. “Trent Storm! Storm!” Trent did not pause, obviously deep in thought. Karl dipped and turned through the throngs, hastening his steps across the platform to reach Trent. What was he doing here in the wilds of Montana? The answer came to Karl a moment later. Of course. The reputation of the roadhouse that Tora Anders had set up for Storm Enterprises last year was the talk of the line. Curiously, Tora had stopped here in Helena, electing to build a home and make some investments of her own. Trent had obviously rewarded her generously for work well done. Was there still something between the two of them?

  Karl could not imagine letting one’s heart wander so far as Tora Anders. Having grown up with her in Bergen, and seeing what she was capable of in America, he knew she was dangerous. Perhaps the affair had faded as so many others had for Tora. Perhaps Trent was the conquest of the past. Now, with some gold in the bank, Karl was sure she had set her sights higher than even Trent Storm would ever reach. What would appease that girl? Nothing, he answered himself sourly.

  “Trent! Trent Storm!” At last the man turned, his eyes searching the crowd for the one who had called his name. His hair had gone more gray at the sides but was still full and wavy on top. He was a distinguished gentleman through and through, Karl thought, admiring the cut of his clothes and the way Trent held himself. Everything was just right on the man, except … except for the slight slump of his shoulders. Was he aging? Weary from the trip? Karl doubted that. Trent owned one of the most extravagant of the Pullman railroad cars and traveled alone in it. It was as close to the lap of luxury through Dakota as one could find.

  “Martensen!” Trent smiled sincerely and stretched out his hand as soon as he spotted Karl.

  “Whew!” Karl said, shaking his hand heartily. “This town is certainly getting busy.”

  “Statehood’s in the wind,” Trent said, looking around as if he himself had discovered the place. “It’s a fine land with plenty of opportunity. Unfortunately we are not the only businessmen to have found her.”

  “Ah well, I think she’s big enough for all of us. Especially since we are two of the first. The gold’s pretty well tapped out, but there’s more to this land’s riches.”

  Trent smiled with him and then gestured toward a hired coach. “Need a ride? Where are you heading?”

  “Oh, I’m waiting here for the next train from the Washington Territory. Bradford Bresley’s due in on the four-forty.”

  “Bresley? Glad to know you’re still doing business with the man.”

  “Exclusively. When John Hall and I parted ways four years ago, it was a natural thing to develop a partnership with Brad.”

  “You are fortunate,” Trent said. “I always wished there had been a man I could trust as friend as well as partner.”

  “The railroads are a tough place to find such an animal,” Karl said with a laugh. “Say, are you in town for long? We should talk about a couple of things Brad and I have rolling.”

  “I’d be glad to. Staying at the Cosmopolitan Hotel for a couple of days, then it’s back to Minnesota. Look me up there tomorrow.”

  “I will.” Karl gestured as if he had just thought of something. “Oh, and are you going to see Tora Anders by chance?”

  Trent nodded once, his face inscrutable.

  “Give her my best, will you?”

  Trent stared him in the eye for a moment, then nodded once again. “Tomorrow, Martensen. And bring Bresley along with you. Let’s talk over dinner, shall we?”

  “Sounds fine.”

  Karl watched as Trent stepped into the cab and tapped on the coach’s roof, the driver setting off at once. Judging from the hard look in his eye, whatever business Trent had with Tora was apparently not of the heart. And as Brad would say, something was definitely rotten in Denmark.

  Elsa laughed as Kristian bent down and buried his face in a jasmine bush full of white, fragrant blossoms, sniffing theatrically. “Look, Mama,” he said. “I smell.”

  “Yes, you do,” she said with a giggle. Elsa picked up his squirming body and buried her face in his neck for a kiss. “You smell just like the flowers!”

  “Down, Mama! I want down!”

  “Kristian, we must hurry. Can you find your papa? He’s right up there, at the corner.” She knelt and pointed, hoping to distract the toddler from the intoxicating Hawaiian flora and fauna. She had just extracted him from a fissure in a rock, trying to get at a gecko lizard, and now he was entranced by the flowers! It would be impossible to get him all the way through town without carrying him, kicking and screaming.

  Elsa looked ahead at Peder, hoping he could help with Kristian. Her husband was gazing across the busy dirt road at the mercantile, his expression intent. Did he see someone he knew? As she watched, he took a step back, into the shadow of the porch above the sidewalk.

  “Go, Kristian! I’ll race you!” Elsa whispered. Kristian spotted Peder at last and took off in his direction. She smiled at his delighted giggle and followed along at a leisurely pace. Elsa winced as Kristian squeezed between two natives and shoved aside a little girl in his efforts, then smiled again as he reached his father, embracing the tall man’s leg. It was a glorious day to be in port at Honolulu, and she reveled in the chance to smell the fragrant flowers with her child and to gaze up at the green Koolau Mountains to the towering extinct volcano west of Koko Head at the point. What an exotic, idyllic place!

  The people in town were native Hawaiians, imported plantation workers from China and Polynesia, and merchants, plus a few trailing whalers. The whalers spent half of their year in the vicinity, harpooning their kill and taking the cargo home to Japan, America, or even Russia. Soon the last of them would be leaving for distant shores, as the migrating whales had done months before. It would be nice to visit the place during the quiet that the natives usually enjoyed. Elsa grinned at the thought of a lazy day on the beach, combing the sand with Kristian for sand dollars and seashells and cuddling with her husband in a hammock for a nap beneath the palms.

  Her smile faded as Peder grabbed up the child and looked for her anxiously. She reached him a moment later. “What? What is it?”

  Peder took a
step in front of her, as if posturing himself as protector, and nodded toward the mercantile. “There, just inside the window. Do you see that man?”

  Elsa studied his profile, slightly obscured by the reflection of the glass. He was in uniform, a British uniform, to judge by the color and stripes. He stepped closer to the glass and bent to pick up a jar from the front window display. Elsa gasped. She edged closer to Peder, unable to believe her eyes.

  Mason Dutton. The pirate who had threatened her life and nearly burned the Ramstads’ first ship to the waterline.

  A pirate, by anyone’s account. The horrible memories filled her mind.

  “But,” she mumbled softly, “he is in uniform!”

  “Come. I’m getting you out of here.” Peder took her arm firmly and led the way down the rough-hewn sidewalk toward the wharf.

  Elsa hazarded one more glance over her shoulder toward the mercantile.

  And Mason was staring right back at her.

  Mason Dutton let a slow smile crawl up his face as he watched Elsa Ramstad hurry away with her husband. It had been years, but as soon as he saw her, that moment he had first seen her in the West Indies came hurtling back to him. She was more beautiful now than that nymph he remembered, who had been swimming with the sailors of Peder Ramstad’s ship. He could still see her slim legs, kicking in the crystalline waters as her skirts billowed about her. Her full lips as she defiantly looked back at him.

  Mason had almost had her husband’s ship, as well as her. They were one of the few crews ever to fend off his forces in his years of piracy, and the knowledge burned within him. He was not one to take defeat easily; if he could have another opportunity to make the fair Elsa Ramstad his own, he would seize the challenge. There would be no greater satisfaction than seeing Peder Ramstad’s ship burn once and for all.