Northern Lights Trilogy

by Lisa Tawn Bergren

  Kaatje glared at him, angry tears in her eyes. Tears. What was a man supposed to do with tears? But she knew he was right. He could see it in her face. Her lovely face.

  Abruptly, he hunched down again, poking at the meat. If I am to make it over this river, Lord, he prayed silently, I cannot look at this woman as…as a woman. Help me, Lord. Help me keep my mind on higher thoughts.

  She left the fire then, and for an instant James worried that she might run into the forest, foolishly throwing herself at the mercy of a cougar this time. But he had come to know Kaatje well enough that he realized that she would not do such a thing, not after a day like this one. He let her go, half relieved at her departure, half bereft. He needed to let her come to her own conclusions, in her own time.

  The crunch of gravel behind him told him she was going to the river. He turned and watched her splash water on her face. Washing away tears that he caused, he wondered, grieved that he had caused her such pain. He did not intend to shame her more than necessary. But he did want her to do as he bid. Her life depended on it in country like this.

  James threw salt over the roast and felt his belly rumble again. Fifty feet away, Kadachan stretched the mother bear’s skin on a rack. They had decided to camp here for a time, allowing some of the butchered meat to begin curing into jerky and the hide to dry out a bit before again taking on the river. Kadachan would look for some edible roots to supplement their diet, and they all could rest.

  Later that evening he sat back against his pack with a quiet groan. How long had it been since he had felt such stirrings in his heart over a woman? His belly full, his eyelids heavy with sleep, he still could not keep himself from staring at Kaatje Janssen. Laying his bedroll next to James, Kadachan nudged him, gesturing toward Kaatje, teasing him. James kicked gravel at his friend, but Kadachan’s grin just grew larger.

  James closed his eyes, as if falling asleep, but though he was weary, he could not resist looking again at his female traveling companion. He glanced first at Kadachan, his eyes now closed, and then back to Kaatje. Her hair fell over her face, creating shadows that danced over soft skin in tandem with the fire’s waning flames. She was lovely. Not beautiful. But there was something about her quiet strength, in combination with her surprising softness, that made her lovely through and through.

  He sighed and closed his eyes again. It had been years since he had been taken with a woman. Ever since…Rachel. His wife of seven years had died in a deadly fire while he had been away, filing a claim on the land they had made their own on the plains of Minnesota. And when he had returned, she was gone, his beautiful, vibrant wife. Everything was gone. It was only days later that James had hopped a train west and, eventually, made his way to the mountains of Alaska, away from anyone who could ever tear his heart in two again.

  During the long winters, when the miners and trappers—Alaska “sourdoughs,” as the pioneers were dubbed—flocked to dance halls and saloons, James was careful to steer clear of female companionship. Years in the frontier made a man desperate for a woman. The feel of a smaller hand in his, the tender touch of a woman called to him. But he had held firm, been strong. Until now, until Kaatje.

  James grunted and rolled over. Last winter he had considered taking one of Kadachan’s sisters as a wife. Indian wives were easy to keep in Alaska. They weren’t demanding like their white counterparts. Their husbands often went to the wilderness or the mines to make their living. She could have stayed with her parents in the village, and since he regularly visited with Kadachan anyway, he could have had all the pleasures of home without any of the responsibilities. He had been drawn to the idea but, in the end, resisted it. Now looking at Kaatje—or rather, trying not to look at Kaatje—he realized he had declined the decision to marry the maiden because down deep, he wanted more. He wanted more of what he had had with Rachel, if he ever dared to have something like it again. He wanted love.

  But Kaatje Janssen was taken. And being good at what he did, James would probably help her find the idiot who had left her. “Take away these feelings, Father,” he beseeched his Lord in a barely audible whisper. “Take away my admiration for this woman who is depending upon me for all that’s good and truthful and honest. Make me your vessel, Father.”

  He sighed again, heavily, and then threw off his wool blanket and rose. As Kaatje had done earlier, he went to the river and splashed his face with water that made his hands reflexively clench from the cold. After waiting for his Lord to speak to him, to give him some reassurance and renewed resolution, but hearing no word to his heart, he went back to camp and threw another log on the fire. Purposefully, he did not look again at the woman beyond it.

  James picked up his stick and poked at the red-hot coals, glowing every time a wisp of wind stirred. He watched as sparks rose and floated into the sky until they disappeared, replaced by dancing stars that filled the velvet black carpet. “Lord, Lord,” James whispered, looking up at the multitude of stars that his God had created and wondering how the Creator could consider James Walker and his concerns at all.

  Tora stirred the coals in the potbellied stove, hoping to coax a little more heat out of it for the girls’ room. Even in May, it was frigidly cold at night. Her thoughts went to Kaatje and how cold she must be out by the river in the middle of the wilderness. She shivered again at the thought of it.

  “Will you brush my hair out, Auntie?” Christina asked. She was a lovely little girl of seven, already showing the promise of tomorrow’s womanhood. Tora nodded and took the horsehair brush from the girl’s hand, sitting down on the feather bed behind her. To her right, Christina’s younger sister, Jessica, slipped into her nightshift and pulled her long brown hair from the neckline, then hopped onto the bed beside them.

  Tora brushed out Christina’s long, dark blond hair, admiring the golden waves, and then turned to do the same for Jessica. Jessica’s was more unruly, holding a tight curl in its long, dark brown locks, the same color as Tora’s. As was their routine, they each got a hundred strokes and a kiss on the cheek before Tora tucked them in to hear their prayers, just as Kaatje had done every night before her departure the month before.

  “Do you think Mama is all right, Auntie?” Jess asked, her brow furrowed in concern. Sometimes it struck Tora odd that her own daughter called her “Auntie.” Yet it was exactly as it should be. Kaatje was a wonderful mother to the girl. She never wanted to interfere with the bond Jessica and Kaatje shared; Tora was content to remain a beloved aunt. She had given up any right to be called the girl’s mother when she left the babe at Kaatje’s seven years prior.

  “I think she is just fine, dear heart,” she said, tenderly stroking Jessica’s cheek. “She’ll be back come autumn, just as she promised.”

  “In time to make sure we get our schoolwork done,” Christina said with a giggle.

  “That’s right,” Tora said, feeling the unnaturally bright smile on her own face. She had to give them hope, each night, every night, until Kaatje returned. Tora tried to picture Kaatje’s homecoming. How good it would be to have her home again! But what if, by some miracle, she brought home Soren? What would it be like to see him again? There they’d be: Soren’s abandoned wife and children; his former lover; Trent Storm, her fiancé; and Soren—a man thought long dead. What confusion! The thought of it brought terror to her heart. It was not that she loved Soren; she had never loved him. Remembering the thoughtlessness of her act—her adultery—brought her sorrow. “As far as the east is from the west, so far hath he removed our transgressions from us,” Kaatje always reminded her. As far as the east is from the west, Tora repeated silently.

  “What if she finds Papa?” Jessica asked, voicing Tora’s own fears. “I mean, what if he comes home to live with us? Wouldn’t that be wonderful?” she asked wistfully. “I’ve always wanted a papa.”

  “I think Mama should just marry one of the men who’s asked her,” Christina said. “Frances Olman said her father said Mama’s legally divorced anyway.”

 
“Christina!”

  “What? It’s God’s plain truth. No sense running away from it.”

  Tora stifled a smile at the girl’s grown-up tone. “It might be the truth. But your mother lives by God’s laws, not man’s. She needs to know if your papa is alive or gone before she would consider marrying anyone else.”

  “If Papa loved her, why did he leave?” Jess asked.

  “I do not know. Perhaps something beyond his control kept him from coming back to her—to all of you.” Like his own pride or his wayward desires, she added silently. She pulled a nightcap onto each girl’s head. “Now let’s say our prayers.”

  Both girls obediently closed their eyes and folded their hands. “Thank you, Father, for thy holy grace and for putting us in this place,” Christina led.

  “And for thy holy Son, dearest Jesus,” Jessica followed. It was the same prayer every night, just as Kaatje had taught them.

  “Be with our mother, O God in heaven.”

  “And with us until we are reunited on earth.”

  Tora added, “Keep Kaatje safe and warm. Protect her from the dangers she faces, and prepare her for what is to come. We trust you, Father, with our lives and hers. Amen.”

  “Amen.”

  “Amen.”

  Trent watched as Tora came down the stairs and into the sitting room, admiring the woman who would someday be his bride. He felt it was time to address the matter again—he was tired of waiting to make their love official. He glanced toward Charlie, a boy of twelve, whom Karl Martensen had taken in. After his last voyage, he’d left Charlie with them, asking them to “teach him to be a gentleman on shore.” Trent had gladly accepted, happy to have yet another young person around. With three in the house now, the roadhouse teemed with life. His heart was full with all that God had given him; after all these years, he had some sense of a family, as ramshackle as it was. Kaatje’s girls looked up to him as a beloved uncle, just as they looked upon Tora as a beloved aunt. And Charlie, or “Charles,” as Trent had dubbed him, seemed content to stay with them for a while. Although he spoke often of returning to Karl and the sea.

  The boy was asleep in a chair across the room, apparently able to sleep wherever he was placed. Trent’s eyes went back to Tora as she sat down beside him on the sofa and slipped her hand into his. “I do not know what will become of all of us, Trent,” she said in little more than a whisper, looking over at Charles.

  “Pardon me?”

  “If he does return, if Soren returns, what will become of all of us? Look at us! What a wild family we’ve become. Our ties are strong, but could we bear his entrance again? It would be so.”

  “Complicated?”

  As she weaved her fingers through his, her deep blue eyes went to his, as if grateful that he’d understood her so well. “I am sorry, love, that you might have to endure it. You’ve already endured so much.”

  “Tora,” he said, pulling her next to him and placing his arm around her shoulders. “I love you and all you are now. What you once were doesn’t matter to me at all. And everything I might have to ‘endure’ is nothing against the payment I get in being with you.”

  “If he comes back, I’m liable to kill him myself,” Tora confessed. “Kaatje deserves so much more than him.”

  “I agree. But you never know how God can work in a man. Look what he brought us through. Look where we are, who we are. Could not even Soren be transformed?”

  Her face belied her emotions—she clearly did not believe Soren Janssen would ever change. “I know I should not doubt my God, my Savior. Especially after all he has done with me. But I simply cannot believe.…”

  “It is not you who has to believe. It is Soren.”

  “True. And if he doesn’t come back thoroughly changed, I’ll wring his neck before I let him hurt Kaatje again.”

  Trent laughed. Tora’s transformation had come full circle. She had completely given her heart to Christ, but being humbled by God did not mean she’d lost her spirited ways. She had regained some of her old temperament. He was happy to see it return, in tandem with her more mature faith. It made Tora all the better for him.

  “Let us speak of happier things. Kaatje will soon know the truth about her wayward husband and once home will settle into life here in Juneau. My sense is that you feel you have fulfilled your duty to her. Am I right?”

  “I still have the girls to look after.”

  “Of course. Until she returns. Then, finally then, is it our turn?” He looked at her earnestly, taking her hand in his. “I guess what I’m asking is this—Can we set a date for our wedding? When will you marry me, love?”

  Tora smiled at him, glanced over at Charles’s still-sleeping form, then gave him a soft, quiet kiss that promised much greater passion. “Can we set a date?” Trent whispered, inches from her face.

  “We can,” she whispered back. “It will take time to get the fabric that I want and have a dress made. I wish I had thought to ask Elsa to bring home a bunad from Norway!”

  “A bunad?”

  “A Norwegian wedding costume. There is one in our family home that three generations have worn. And I should have asked her to bring one for you, too! They have lovely white shirts and black vests and black knickers—”

  “Ahh. I’m sure we’ll find something else that will be suitable.”

  “Yes, I suppose so,” she said with a sigh. “I have seen some wonderful patterns. Elsa should return by August. And hopefully Kaatje by September. Can we marry at the end of October?”

  “That long?” Trent groaned. “Why not now? Surprise the whole lot of them when they return!”

  Her eyes begged him to understand. “We have waited this long, beloved. Can we not wait another five months to have the wedding of our dreams? It just would not be the same without Kaatje and Elsa.”

  “Five months,” he said, lowering his head to give her a mock stern look. “No more. I swear I will not wait longer than that, even for you. It’s more than any man should be asked to bear.”

  She smiled benignly, and gave him another quick kiss. “I will give you this, Mr. Storm. Let’s host a fine dinner party. Formally announce our engagement. It will distract the girls.”

  Trent returned her smile. “And give me a chance to test Charles on his manners.”

  Charlie stirred and grunted, opening his eyes. “I heard that.”

  “Charles!” Tora exclaimed. “How long have you been listening?”

  “Long enough to hear you two lovebirds plan my public execution in a formal tie,” he said, pantomiming a hanging.

  Trent laughed. “I think, dear boy, that you’ll somehow survive.”

  “I doubt that, sir,” Charlie said very seriously, already drifting back to sleep. “I doubt that.”

  two

  Bergen, 1888

  Elsa reached across the sofa to still her mother’s knitting. “Mother, will you not at least consider coming home with us?”

  Gratia put down her needles, and the soft auburn yarn fell to her lap. Her eyes were kind and loving, the skin around them so weathered and sagging that it threatened to impede her sight. If only Amund Anders were still alive! Loving a man had kept Elsa’s mother young. Elsa had seen the change in her. Gratia once took pride in her perfectly knitted sweaters; now she missed stitches, unraveling hours and hours of work after finally finding the mistake. There had been a slow unraveling of her health, too—it was painfully evident in the way she moved, so slowly, the way she would touch her chest and sigh when she thought no one was looking. How much longer would she live? Elsa longed to have her mother with her in her mother’s final days.

  “Come with me,” Elsa begged, kneeling beside her diminutive mother. “Think of how surprised Tora would be to see you. I’m certain she and Trent will soon marry. Would you not like to be there?”

  Gratia reached out to softly pinch Elsa’s chin. “If I were a decade younger, I would go with you, dearest. I would pay a great deal to see my youngest daughter again.”

&n
bsp; “You needn’t pay a thing! Come with us to America. To see our new home and your youngest child. I will bring you to Bergen myself when you wish to return.”

  Gratia focused on the mantel, but she wasn’t seeing it. She was looking further, as if into the future. “No, Elsa. This is my home. This is where I was born and where I shall die.”

  “Die? Don’t speak of such things! You have much for which to be thankful!”

  “Ah, yes. I have much for which to be thankful. But I do not have many years left in me. Ach, look what good I am!” She pointed to yet another mistake in her knitting and began unraveling the yarn.

  Pained, Elsa rose and left her mother, staring out at the fjord that met the mountains surrounding her birthplace. It had been harder than she expected to be home; memories of Peder, and the love forged there between them, assaulted her at every turn. Yet these months had also shown her that she was healing, getting beyond the constant pain. The memories made her more wistful than melancholy. Almost two years, my love, she said silently to the waters that had swallowed her husband on a stormy night at sea. Oh, how much you’ve missed, and how I’ve missed you!

  “Mormor, I want some hot chocolate,” Kristian said from the doorway.

  Gratia smiled at her four-year-old grandson and then quickly at Elsa.

  “Me, too!” Elsa’s one-and-a-half-year-old daughter, Eve, pulled her bedraggled blanket behind her as she traced every move Kristian made. They were adorable, her children. It pained her to think that their mormor would not be there to see them grow up. It had taken eight years to get home. How long, if ever, would it be until she made the journey again?

  She sighed and nodded her agreement. “One small mug of chocolate for you and then to bed! Tomorrow we sail for home, and I do not want droopy-doos for children.”