Daughters of Northern Shores

by Joanne Bischof

  THIRTY-FIVE

  HAAKON HAD DECIDED LONG BEFORE THIS MOMENT—long before he rose, feeling like death warmed over—that if one of his men were to not make it this night, it needed to be him. There was just no other outcome that was fair or right. Haakon himself was the one who had shipwrecked upon this farm—boards warped, jagged, and utterly raw. He was the one who had lured their enemies here once and for all, and he was the one who had the least to lose. He had no family.

  Not the way the others did. Not Al or Orville, who had wives, nor Jorgan or Thor, who also had children. And not Peter, who was a beacon of hope and strength for his ma and sisters. Even for Cora, Tess, and Georgie.

  But as Haakon and Thor made their way down the stairs, Haakon feared that fate and he weren’t going to see eye to eye. Maybe it was the calm in the air . . . the call of birdsong. The way the wind moved gently in the trees in the yard.

  Or maybe it was because when he heard footsteps in the underbrush, he knew it wouldn’t be so clean a draw as for him to be facing their final foe. Instead, he saw Peter running nearer. Al was right on his trail, soaked in sweat and looking nigh unto passing out.

  The young Sorrel called out that Orville had been hit. That he was down and wounded something fierce, but that Jorgan had been with him, keeping him alive. And there in that moment, Haakon was filled with fear. A fear that told him this had been too easy. Not the fight itself, but the fact that every life he valued in this place was still pulsing.

  That’s when he heard the firing of a gun. Haakon dropped the same instant the others did, pulling Thor down with him behind the porch railing. Three more shots pummeled the porch. All Haakon could think of was Thor needing to live. Peter and Al needing to live. But when he unfolded and stumbled to his feet, it was Peter who had skidded to a halt in the dirt. So quick that the young man almost fell as he turned and ran in the direction of the gunman. Haakon shouted for him to stop, tearing after him with a force that nearly buckled his knees, but what kept him from stumbling was the sight of a red-haired man trying to cram another round into the firearm aimed at Peter and Al. With Peter running toward him, the man dropped the unreadied pistol and brandished a knife.

  Peter pulled his blade with the same speed and crashed into the man, sending him flying into the base of a tree. They flipped over one another, and in a motion that Haakon had dreaded since this all began, the man swiped his blade across Peter’s middle just as Peter’s knife sank into his chest.

  Haakon was trying to run but he was falling. He was falling, and it was black, and it was cold, and it should have been him at that tree and not Peter.

  Both men crumbled, and Haakon caught himself, fighting for his feet. He reached them and rammed the man aside even as he saw that the life was leaving Red Sorrel. Thor heaved him farther back, and there was a knowing in Thor’s face that had him shoving the man down with a great and terrible force.

  “Peter!” All Haakon could think about was finding something to staunch the flow of blood from Peter’s abdomen. He had no shirt to rip off, but Al was already done with his own. Cora’s son wadded up the flannel and pressed it to Peter’s middle where blood had already soaked his own shirt. Peter was trying to speak, but nothing was coming.

  Haakon gripped the back of Peter’s neck, easing him down as Peter sank lower against the tree. “Look at me,” Haakon demanded, and when Peter did, he added, “You just breathe.” Haakon inhaled slowly to try and guide him along, and to his relief, Peter drew in a breath. The young man nodded as though avowing to stay calm.

  Peter’s hands came around Al’s own to help staunch the flow, but his fingers could do nothing more than tremble. Deep crimson streaked Peter’s wrist, and all hope drained from Haakon—funneling right out of him and onto the ground that was being soaked by Peter’s very life. Though Al’s skin was a glossy brown, his hands were darkened further with what could only be too much blood.

  Having kept guard against Harlan’s brother, Thor came around and knelt behind Peter’s head. The red-haired man was still as death. Thor eased Peter’s head away from the tree roots and against his lap.

  Shaking with shock, Peter coughed. Blood tinted the inside of his lips. He grimaced, as though sheer will were keeping him conscious. Haakon sucked in a breath. Peter lowered his hand to his side, and the tremor of it shook against Haakon’s knee. Haakon gripped it, holding with every assurance he could offer . . . But what was he giving?

  “We need a doctor.” The words fell from Haakon’s lips, so distant it might have been someone else. “Someone go for a doctor!”

  Thor gave Haakon a silent appeal to drop the notion. Al eased up the bloodied cloth to show the width of Peter’s wound. The severity.

  Haakon nearly turned away, not because he couldn’t handle the sight but because he didn’t want Peter to see the last glint of hope drain from his face. As it was, it had already drained from Peter’s own. The man’s skin was the faintest of whites, lips tinting blue. His eyes were still open, though not as alert.

  Reaching over, Haakon used his other hand to grip Peter’s shoulder and spoke to Thor through a haze of despair. “What do we do?”

  Thor’s face was grave as he cradled Peter’s head in his lap.

  Still applying pressure, Al shifted closer to Peter, who had his focus tilted toward his uncle. With slow movements, Peter turned his head back to Haakon. Gripping Peter’s hand tighter, Haakon gave as firm a squeeze as he could manage so that Peter would feel it through what had to be a growing numbness. He moved closer and bent forward for his face to be square to Peter’s own. So near that Haakon felt the faintest traces of breath.

  “You hang on, you hear? It’s gonna be fine.” He didn’t know why he was saying this, and while he wasn’t about to offer up false assurance, he was going to extend every comfort he could think of until Peter made it to a place of lasting peace. “We’re right here, and your ma and sisters are safe. They’re right safe.”

  Peter’s darkening lips quivered.

  Leaning back on his heels, Thor sucked in a breath. He tipped his face toward the sky, and though his beard was thick, it didn’t hide the fact that his chin was trembling beneath it.

  Haakon squeezed Peter’s hand all the firmer. It was growing weaker, and he didn’t want it to go limp. “You’re doin’ right fine . . .” He could barely whisper through the clench of his throat. Tears were coming now, and Haakon swiped them against his upper arm.

  Peter’s mouth worked in the faintest of breaths, whispering for Al.

  Al leaned nearer, and Peter’s eyes searched through what might have been a void. Still applying pressure to Peter’s wound, Al spoke. “I’m right here.”

  Blinking quickly, Peter seemed to still be searching for him. The hand in Haakon’s was going slack. Al leaned closer and, letting go of the bloodied cloth, gripped the top of Peter’s head. “I’m right here. Ain’t goin’ nowhere.” He put his hold back into place though it wouldn’t do for long.

  With Al looking near to collapsing, Haakon moved to help. Thor stopped him and motioned to Peter’s hand still gripped in Haakon’s own. Thor kept Peter’s head in his lap and, reaching around, took over the compression. Hands freed, Al shifted lower to Peter, who was trying to speak. The very man that Peter had once pistol whipped tilted his head to the side and with tears in his eyes bent to listen. What would he hear? For so long Peter had stalked behind Al in what had seemed like only hate, and in the seasons since Peter had been making amends for that. Peter’s mouth moved so faintly that Haakon couldn’t hear it, but whatever was said made Al’s face go slack.

  Thor lowered his gaze from Peter’s mouth in what could only be a gentle and silent knowing for what he’d read there. Thor bowed his head.

  Straightening, Al looked down at the young man and nodded quickly. “I’ll be sure to tell her. I promise.”

  The hand in Haakon’s own was cold. Haakon tried to chafe warmth into it. Although it would do little good, he didn’t mean for Peter to die without h
aving done everything he could for him.

  When Peter tried to say more, Al leaned nearer again. After a few moments, his attention lifted to Haakon. “I think he’s askin’ after his pa.”

  How forthright should he be? Haakon looked to Thor, who gave a small shake of his head.

  Nodding, Haakon leaned nearer. “All is well, Peter. They won’t be around to hurt anyone ever again. All is well.”

  Peter tilted his head back and gave a weak nod. Between ragged inhales, he managed the faintest of words not meant for any of them to answer for. The softest whispering of Tess’s name. Peter heaved for another breath as a single tear slid down the side of his face and into the dirt.

  His skin was as ice now. Grief welled up in a way Haakon didn’t know how to contain. How could he bring this man comfort? Haakon had never lived so well by faith, but because of those around him, it was rooted in the furthest reaches of his memory. He meant to do better by that now. And for Peter . . . “Our Father who art in heaven. Hallowed be thy name.”

  Peter’s eyes searched for him as though following the voice—the promise—in a haze of darkness.

  “Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done. On earth as it is in heaven.”

  Peter blew out a slow sigh. His face eased in what seemed more peace than pain now.

  “Give us this day . . . our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses . . . as we—” Face skewing in agony, Haakon couldn’t speak anymore.

  “As we forgive those who trespass against us,” Al said, his voice soft then growing stronger as though he knew Peter was fading fast. “Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.”

  The hand in Haakon’s was still now.

  Al’s voice tremored with sorrow. “For thine is the kingdom . . . and the power . . . and the glory forever. Amen.”

  The lines of Peter’s face had softened, and his eyes were closed. On the other side of him, Al lowered his face to his knees, draping both arms over his head, and folding his body in as if to keep it from coming apart with grief. His shoulders shook. Thor gripped the earth beneath his hands as though trying to pull courage into a body that was drowning.

  Haakon heaved for a breath amid those same waters.

  Peter wouldn’t be standing anymore in the orchards lit by the sun. He wouldn’t be making jokes that were funnier than everyone wanted to admit, and he wouldn’t be smiling over at Tess as if she were his most cherished friend in all the world.

  Bowing his head, Thor let out a sob. Haakon looked to his brother and the tears pooling in his eyes, and when he peered back down at Peter, he saw that their friend was gone.

  THIRTY-SIX

  JUNE 5, 1895

  WHITETOP MOUNTAIN, VIRGINIA

  CRADLING A BASKET FILLED WITH SPRING GREENS, Aven stepped from the Kennedys’ garden and latched the willow gate. She towed up the hem of her skirt and started toward the water pump. Behind her, Cora and Ida knelt in the soft soil, tending the small herb plot—all hands eagerly aiding the Kennedys for their kindness and care. With many mouths to feed and as many beds to make up each night, all were eager to pitch in. ’Twas busyness that settled hearts eager for word from the men.

  Having waited four years for Tate’s return from sea, no one understood so well as his new bride. Wren had scarcely stopped doting on Tusie, and as it was the babe lay nestled in the crook of Wren’s arm as she drizzled water onto porch flowers from a tin can. Combined with little Georgie’s fervent help, Aven had cradled her daughter only for feedings and slumber during their four days here.

  Across the meadowland, Sigurd and Bjørn stood beneath a lofty hemlock, peering up where Tate straddled a thick branch as he lashed a rope into place. Having promised them a swing, he had nearly completed the task. After knotting the rope well, the man climbed down, hefted up the youngest Norgaard lad, and brought him closer to test its strength with a mighty tug. When Tate had finished, Bjørn clapped pudgy hands, then reached over to try and pilfer Tate’s spectacles. The man chuckled, tossed the lad into the air, and Bjørn let out a belly laugh.

  “Methinks we have a thievin’ pirate in the making!” Tate rumbled in a playful brogue.

  Sigurd hopped up and down and began a recitation on what he’d learned of pirates from his uncle Haakon.

  Setting the basket beside the pump, Aven lifted and lowered the handle. The first trickle of water had just poured from the spout when she noticed a wagon in the distance. Straightening, she shielded her eyes. With sunset not far off, the yellow glow lit the wagon from behind, making silhouette of both horses and driver impossible to distinguish until Aven saw that reining in a team of grays was a lean man whose black floppy hat shielded a face only a few shades lighter.

  The driver lifted a hand in greeting. “Evenin’, Miss Aven.”

  “Al!”

  He touched the brim of his hat, the gesture so solemn that Aven’s heart plummeted. “What has happened?” As the words fell from her lips, others gathered around.

  Al surveyed them all before looking back to Aven. “Thor’s well, Miss Aven. And his brothers.”

  Relief for those safe waterfalled down—lit by the sun that Thor was among them—yet with others unaccounted for, the lingering silence crashed upon rocks of worry.

  Al glanced to Sibby and spoke as he climbed down. “Orville’s taken a bullet. It was quite a landing, but he’ll mend. He’s askin’ after you and is eager for you to be by his side.” He came around and gripped one of the grays by the bridle, eyes down. “But I have to tell you that Peter . . .” Al’s voice broke on the name. “Peter . . . He didn’t . . .”

  Sibby’s quick intake of breath was so sudden that Tess glanced from Sibby to Al in shock. When all Al could do was shake his head, Peter’s sister bent over, falling to her knees. Fay rushed to her side. Even as Al cast a look of utmost despair to Sibby’s hunched form, he reached for his own sister, who was still standing in stunned silence. When Al pulled her closer against him, Tess moved as though wood being forced to bend to winds rushing in.

  Tugging off his hat, Al pressed it to his chest and spoke in words that were soft and low. Tess shook her head. Taking a step back, she shook her head again. Another breath had her knees buckling. Al was swift to steady her, pulling her in to rest against him. Tess buried her face in her brother’s chest, and the wrenching of her tears sent a huddle of birds flying from the rooftop.

  Aven knew that cry from when she’d lived beside Norway’s raging seas. ’Twas the cry of a love lost.

  Peter was gone.

  Agony coursing through her every limb, Aven laid the basket aside and followed Cora over. They helped Tess into the house where she huddled down on the bed. Aven hurried back to the doorway to check for Sibby just as the young woman sank against the side of the tree where the swing now hung. Fay sat with her, stroking her hair as Sibby leaned down to rest her head on Fay’s lap. Sibby’s cries were the same wrenching pleas as those coming from the bed.

  And here beneath this roof, two hearts surrounded Tess’s own—both of whom had once stood beside a beloved’s grave and mourned. ’Twas a crossing-over that Aven wouldn’t wish on any woman, and yet Tess was upon its murky waters in the worst of ways. Her own aching over Peter spilling down, Aven could scarcely stem tears, but for Tess she rallied best she could, knowing that she would mourn the sweet man in the days to come when the loss of him found itself in every corner of the farm and in so many traces of her memory.

  While it was surely much longer, it seemed only minutes later when Wren brought a hungry Tusie in to nurse. Aven tended her daughter, then Wren took the slumbering baby back to watch over. Tate saddled his horse and left soon after to escort Sibby to the train station, where she was determined to be at Orville’s side come the morrow and no doubt to comfort her mother and sisters with the news that, by Al’s explanation, Jorgan had already delivered.

  As dusk crept in, and with Cora’s wise leading, Aven gave Tess the gentle administrations that Farfar Øberg had once given her. A smoothing o
f her hair. A hand to squeeze when it was needed. Soft murmurs of comfort or a listening ear when the only sound worthy of that moment was the cry of the brokenhearted who needed to know why.

  Laced through it all was every prayer Aven could spirit toward heaven and, of equal importance, being a source of strength for Cora, who was not only bearing her own grief but trying to hold that of her daughter’s as well.

  In the hours that followed Al’s news, the smallest things became surreal. The light streaming in through the window. The way it shined on the table setting that was still set for the noon meal. The way Tess’s hand rested on the quilt where the same golden warmth streamed across it. When her tears were spilled from the first wave of devastation, Tess traced her finger along an eight-point star of creamy calico, pausing only to wipe her eyes as new tears fell.

  Aven knew that from this moment onward, grief would come in currents, swelling around Tess, Sibby, and Peter’s mother in the weeks and months and even years to come. It would rush in, forcing its way where it was least invited, and yet it would do a washing that only grief could do. One that cleansed away a fragile sort of rest so that what remained was the courage to seek joy and peace in the arms of the Lord amid a storm. ’Twas a time Aven well remembered, and ’twas a current that still swirled around her at times, even to this day.

  Leaning against Aven now, Tess curled her hand around a damp kerchief and let out a shuddering sigh. Aven thought afresh to what Al had assured Tess of but hours ago.

  Peter had loved her.

  Aven’s own tears brimming, she bent just enough to kiss the top of Tess’s curls. “Peter will be missed,” she whispered against that sweet head of ebony hair. “He will be so dearly missed.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  JUNE 7, 1895

  BLACKBIRD MOUNTAIN, VIRGINIA

  THOR STOOD AT THE FAR END OF THE BALDWIN GROVE, and while a compost pile was a strange place to come apart from chores, that was Peter’s shovel still leaning against the farm wagon, and those were his boot tracks in the dirt surrounding it. Thor gripped the sideboard of the wagon and drew in as steady a breath as he could manage.