Northern Lights Trilogy

by Lisa Tawn Bergren

  “What are you doing?” she cried, still smiling as he pulled her into his arms. Rain washed down her face, leaving huge droplets on her eyelashes.

  “I want this straight, Elsa Ramstad, right now,” he demanded, blinking water from his own lids. “I am only interested in you. In you. There are no other women. Are you still interested in me?”

  “I. I am.”

  “Only me?”

  She smiled. “Yes. Only you. It was foolish of me in there. I guess I am simply afraid. Afraid that this isn’t real and will disappear. That you’ll disappear. Afraid that what we’re….discovering won’t hold true.”

  He kissed her then, drawing her to him. He could feel her shivering, and he wanted to warm her with the heat that seared through his body. When he released her, he gazed into her eyes. “Elsa, what we’re discovering is true, and I aim to prove it to you every day for a long time to come. Now quit dancing with anyone but me, all right?”

  “All right, Karl. All right.”

  nineteen

  November 1888

  After Trent and Tora made their tearful good-byes and headed south the day after their nuptials to catch a luxury ship to Hawaii, everyone else settled into some semblance of a routine. Kaatje continued to see Soren, despite numerous silent protests from Elsa and Karl. She could read their disapproval in their faces, the way their eyes met when Soren was at the door. His true colors will come through eventually, Kaatje decided, if he has not changed. And if he had, perhaps there was a chance for them. In any case, she was in no rush to decide.

  She walked over to the mercantile the day before Thanksgiving, needing a freshly slaughtered bird, some yams, and cinnamon. The hills surrounding Juneau were mostly green now, the deciduous trees having dropped the last of their autumn leaves the week before. The smell of snow lingered in the air.

  Her heart skipped a beat at seeing Soren today, just as it always had at his handsome face. He had been promoted from loading supplies to assisting customers at the front, and Kaatje could see why. As she entered, he was climbing down the fifteen-foot ladder, a can of beans in hand. “Here you go, Mrs. Laninger.” He flashed her a grin that Kaatje was sure would sell fifteen more cans, if he asked her if they were needed. “Anything else, ma’am?”

  “No, no thank you, Mr. Janssen.”

  “Have a pleasant day and a wonderful Thanksgiving. I’ll just put those beans on your account.”

  Blushing a deep red and with a silly grin upon her face, Mrs. Laninger turned toward Kaatje and passed, not even noticing her.

  Kaatje shook her head. “We should have known long ago that you would be perfect for retail.”

  He flashed her a broader grin than he had given Mrs. Laninger. “Ah, my love, I hoped I would get to see you today. And yes, this is a good job for me. I like it, and the customers seem to like me. At least, most of them.”

  Kaatje knew that Elsa and the others came in from time to time and largely ignored Soren. “They have little reason to give you another chance. They all care for me and want to protect me from being hurt again. Now could I trouble you for a box of cinnamon?”

  “Certainly.” He turned and moved the ladder on rollers to another spot in the shelves, and took one step up to grab the metal box that had a picture of a cherubic Indian girl on the front. He jumped down and placed it on the counter. “Anything else?”

  “I do not suppose you have any fresh turkeys that are plucked.”

  “We do. They’re hanging in the meat locker. Shall I fetch you one?”

  “Please. I’m looking for one of about fifteen pounds.”

  He raised his eyebrows briefly. “Sounds like you’re feeding a crowd.”

  Kaatje swallowed hard and studied the grain of the counter’s wood. She wanted him to come. She had wanted to invite him for a long time. But James and Kadachan, Elsa, and Karl would not be pleased at the additional guest. “Do you have plans, Soren?”

  “Nei,” he mumbled in Norwegian.

  “Well then, I’d love to invite you, but you see, it’s…”

  “Awkward?”

  “Ja.” How easy it was to lapse back into their native tongue. It felt comforting, comfortable. She longed to have an entire conversation in Norwegian, sharing the intimacy with Soren again. He left her to fetch the turkey and returned to wrap it in brown paper.

  “I needed something else,” she said, racking her brain. Seeing Soren had apparently knocked it out of her head forever. His bright blue eyes sparkled and studied her in glimpses as he wrapped the turkey and tied it with string.

  “Here, I’ve made you a handle for it.”

  “Wonderful. Now what was that last item?”

  “Why, Mrs. Janssen. Are you simply pretending to forget in order to spend time with your husband? There is no need, Kitten,” he said more lowly and reached across the counter to stroke her cheek. “You only need ask.”

  “Soren,” she said in exasperation. “I really have forgotten.” Her cheek felt warm where he had touched her, and her heart had tripled its beat.

  “Okay then. Let’s see. You’re making what for supper?” “Turkey, potatoes, bread, beans—I already have mine—yams, yams! That’s it!”

  “Fresh or canned?”

  “Oh, fresh, if you have them. About twelve.”

  He left the storefront and disappeared into the back room. She wandered nervously about, eyeing fabric that she really wasn’t seeing. She was only seeing the snappy blue of his eyes in a calico, the wind-chapped red of his face in a muslin. Suddenly he was at her shoulder.

  “I was thinking this would look wonderful on you,” he said, picking up a rich bluish green velvet. “For a Christmas dress.”

  Her hand went to the soft pile, and a shiver went down her spine as Soren placed a hand on her left hip. They had not touched since the day he arrived in Juneau. She pretended not to notice. “Oh, I couldn’t. Maybe for the girls.”

  “No, for you. You deserve a new dress as much as the children.”

  “But, I really shouldn’t. It’s…how much?”

  He looked at the end of the bolt and told her.

  “Oh no, I could never spend that much.”

  “How many yards would you need for a gown?”

  Her eyes scanned the ceiling as she visualized a wonderful dress and tiny coat that she had admired in Godey’s Ladies Book. “For the dress I’d like to make, I’d need eight or nine yards. You see? It would be much too much to spend. An extravagance.”

  Soren didn’t push her any further. “Is there anything else, Kaatje?”

  “No. You’ll put these groceries on my monthly bill?”

  “Of course.” He went and retrieved her things. “Would you like me to carry them across for you?”

  “That’s not necessary. You’re alone here. I can manage.”

  “Very well. Have a nice night and a happy Thanksgiving if I do not see you.”

  There was a touch of sorrow in his voice that cut Kaatje to the core. “Listen, why don’t you join us tomorrow night? We can all be civil and make it a decent evening.”

  “Now, Kaatje, you said yourself you didn’t think it was wise. And James Walker and I—well, you saw what happened last time we were too near.”

  She felt her forehead furrow in consternation. That was true. Last time they met, James had struck him down in a rage. That kind of behavior would not do on a day of thanks. Especially with young, impressionable children about. She quickly decided on her course of action. “I will simply tell James that I have decided to invite you, the girls’ father, to join us for Thanksgiving. If he cannot abide by my decision, then he will have to find other plans.”

  “Oh, Kaatje, I don’t think—”

  “No, Soren. I have decided. We’ll see you tomorrow night at seven. The restaurant is open for a buffet supper from five to seven, then it’ll be just us.”

  James took the news that Kaatje had invited Soren with a face that he hoped remained stoic. It had only been a matter of time before Soren
got to her. It was his whole mission for residing in Juneau: to woo Kaatje back. And it looked as if she was moving in that direction.

  When the hotel manager had come to tell him there was a lady awaiting him in the lobby, his heart had thundered in his chest. Knowing few women but Kaatje and her family, he wondered what she wanted or needed. He had smoothed his hair down and straightened his tie, pulled on a vest and then his jacket before hurrying down the stairs.

  She was waiting in the parlor, pacing, clearly uneasy about something. “James, I uh. You see, I’ve made a decision.” His heart paused as he worried that she had made a decision to reunite with Soren, so he actually breathed a sigh of relief when she told him it was just for Thanksgiving. And it gave him the courage to bow out. She didn’t need him lingering around if she wanted Soren there, and besides, it would simply be too painful for James—to see the woman he loved sucked back in by the scoundrel.

  “I’ve been thinking that I ought to see some friends who also invited me,” he lied, trying to spare her the pain of this moment. “I’ve been so busy with my business,” watching Soren, he thought silently, “that I haven’t even had a chance to call upon them and share a meal. Since you’ve decided to have Soren over, I’ll just go do that.” He forced a smile. “You know how well your husband and I get along.”

  She gave him a troubled, but slightly relieved, look. “Well, if you’re sure. It probably would be best to keep you two separated. How about the day after tomorrow?” The thought brightened her expression. “Care to join us then for supper?”

  “Sure, sure, Kaatje,” James said, awkwardly reaching out to pat her on the shoulder. “That would be great.” He pulled his hand back, not trusting that it wouldn’t pull Kaatje to him as he had longed to do for months. She was someone else’s wife; her husband was alive and well and bent on winning her back. James’s ethics, his morals told him not to interfere, whatever his heart might say. “You have a happy Thanksgiving,” he went on when she still hesitated. Go, go on now! his heart screamed. I can’t stand it any longer! Go before I kiss you and never let you go again!

  “You have a blessed Thanksgiving as well, James.” He watched as she turned and walked out the door without looking back, and then he gripped the staircase rail, feeling ill.

  “Are you all right, Walker?” the hotel clerk called, pausing over his paperwork to study his frequent guest over his half-glasses.

  “Fine, fine,” James mumbled with a weak wave, turning and wearily walking back up to his room.

  When they sat down at last for supper, they were all thankful that they could have the excuse of full mouths, if nothing else, to cover up their lack of conversation. Never had a table been more silent in the Juneau Storm Roadhouse, Soren surmised, than theirs that evening. And yet it mattered little to him, so victorious was his heart that Kaatje had dared to invite him, as well as uninvite James Walker. She was close to giving him another chance. Close to welcoming him home, to her fine rooms upstairs. To her bed. He could feel it.

  He made up for the lack of conversation between the adults by talking animatedly with the children. He soon found out that Eve had a kitty and that Jessica was gifted with animals. Much as his own mother had been, he mused. He learned that Christina liked to bake bread, and the boys liked to eat it with a thick layer of sweet cream and butter. He carefully made note of their Christmas wish lists: Eve wanted a doll; Kristian, a wooden train set—complete with rails and a bridge; Christina, a silver brush and mirror set she had seen in the mercantile; and Jessica, a wagon. Even Charlie would get a gift from him—a model ship.

  He would gladly play Saint Nicholas this year, buying his way into their young hearts to win them over. He truly liked the children and was drawn to his girls. But he knew they sensed the adults’ reticence about him, and he needed a way to counteract it. The gifts would be just right. Kaatje had carefully kept the children away from him while she weighed her decision, but the girls had sneaked over to the mercantile one day, just to tell him that they always wanted a father and were glad he was near. He knew that the children would likely be his greatest ally, his most opportune avenue to winning Kaatje back. Because she wanted a family most of all.

  As always, there was a part of him that wanted it too. A house of their own, a roaring fire, a chance to tell the girls Norwegian folk tales his mother had told him as a child. Beyond the wealth that Kaatje was accumulating, he liked the prospect of having a hearth and home. And perhaps he could choose a new business, spend a little of Kaatje’s cash on it, something that would entail travel, so he would not tire again of that hearth and home. A little excursion now and then would be just the thing, giving him the best of both worlds.

  If she would just let go of her fears and give him one more chance. He was so close. At least Tora and Trent were gone, he mused, stuffing a moist piece of turkey into his mouth. They were difficult, those two. It increased his odds, having them depart on an extended honeymoon. With any luck, he’d have Kaatje and his ducks in a row by the time they returned, when it would be too late for them to protest. He knew Kaatje and her loyal heart; once she decided on him, it was done. He wiped his bread in the last remnants of gravy, then sat back in sated pleasure. “That was wonderful, Kaatje, Elsa, girls,” he said, nodding at each of them. “A fine, fine meal.”

  “Yes,” Karl echoed. “One of the best in a long while.”

  “As it should be,” Kaatje said, rising. “I will go and get the cream whipped for the pumpkin pie.”

  “Pie!” Kristian squealed, pinching his younger sister in his excitement.

  “Mama!” she complained.

  “You two—in fact, all of you children—help us clear the table. You, too, Charles. You can bring back dessert plates and forks.” They obediently rose as a group and followed the women out to the kitchen. When the door swung shut behind them, leaving Karl and Soren alone for a moment, Karl stared over at him.

  “You have something to say, Karl?” Soren asked, pleased by his own bored tone.

  “At least one thing. Watch your step.”

  “I’ve heard that before.”

  “I bet you have. It’s because everyone but you knows that Kaatje is a treasure. As I see it, you’re little better than a pirate.”

  “Did you work all day to come up with that?” Soren asked in disdain. “Surely you can do better.”

  The children came back through the doors, armed with small plates and forks, as well as coffee cups and saucers. Soren chanced one more comment. “You think you know me. You have no idea who I am.”

  “That’s what I fear,” Karl returned, never looking away.

  James watched them through the restaurant windows, even as the snow fell. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Kaatje was in greater danger than ever now that she was closer to giving in to Soren. And all he could do was stand guard and watch. He was like a soldier with no weapon, even kept from using his fists. All he could hope for was that his spirit, head, and heart would win someday over Soren. But how? And was it terrible for him to wish for such a thing?

  He was a man of God, a man who prided himself on his ethics. And here he was, pursuing a married woman. Not actively, of course, but with the diligence of a first love. Kaatje seemed that way to him; he had been married before, and to a special woman, but this time it was fresh, new again in a way he would’ve considered impossible. “I’m like a new-broke horse,” he muttered to himself. “Learning the ways of love all over again, after years away from it.”

  James wished he had never ventured giving his heart away again. It was much safer, and much less painful, to stay by himself or in the company of Kadachan. On the river, in the mountains, he had never felt this kind of fear, something that threatened to break him in two. Not the mother grizzly, nor a terrible lightning storm. Not the ice floes that nearly toppled their boat, nor the rapids that pulled men under and held them there until they had no more breath to hold. This, this thing he felt for Kaatje had been like climbing a mountain peak an
d gazing over a verdant, unexplored valley…a summer sun’s warmth on his chest. But now he was falling from that peak, the sun searing his skin.

  Shamed by the tears on his cheeks, he ducked around a corner and gazed up at the gray sky releasing fat snowflakes that hit his face and melted. “Lord, Lord,” he cried, “help me. Help me to make wise choices here. I fell in love with Kaatje, but is it better for me simply to leave? Am I getting in the way of a marriage you once blessed?”

  There was no answer to his heart, just the muffled silence of a late fall snowstorm.

  He turned and held his body away from the building with his forehead, the slight pain from the pressure expressing a tiny bit of what he felt inside. It was ripping him apart, this thing between him and Kaatje, or rather the thing that had only had the slightest first breath before a windstorm stole it away. It was like a faint memory, a hope against the odds. And now it was over.

  “It’s over, James,” he told himself. “It’s over. Get on with your life. You saw him there tonight. He’s made it. He’s made it in. The rest will be easy.”

  But as he turned to walk away with one last glance toward the Storm Roadhouse, the children laughing, the women serving pie, he could not leave.

  What was wrong here? Why could he not make a decision and stick with it? Everything in his upbringing, his morals, told him to remove himself, that a woman belonged with her husband, and that was that. But Soren Janssen had broken all the rules, leaving her for years with children—on a farm, of all places—to fend for themselves. He took up with another woman. And he showed up only when Kaatje had come through town, boasting of a reward and, therefore, showing she was a woman of some means. No, James just couldn’t leave it alone. He knew something was wrong, something more than just unrequited love.

  He continued to pace back and forth for hours, watching when Soren went home, and later Karl, until the front lights were turned down and the front door was locked up for the night. Still energized from the tips of his toes to the ends of his fingertips, he decided he had to find an outlet or he would never sleep. Next door, a man left his snug little house, letting the door slam shut behind him, and walked to the side where he chopped a log into kindling. After a few minutes, he returned inside without ever spying his silent watchman. Chopping wood. Suddenly, it sounded like the antidote this dying man needed.