Dakota Dream (4 page)

“That sounds good.” The yawn nearly cracked Nora’s jaw. “Thank you, again.” She pushed herself to her feet. “When all this is over, we’ll have to start on English lessons for you.” She patted a hand over the next yawn. “Good night. Sweet dreams.”

Clara was too tired to even picture the curly haired man, let alone dream.

Nora had just pulled the pan of cornbread from the oven the next afternoon when they heard the dog barking.

Clara parted the starched white curtains to see out the window better. “It’s Reverend Moen.”

“And Ingeborg?”

“No, by himself.” Nora opened the door. “Come in, come in. You’re just in time for hot cornbread and coffee.”

“Thank you.” He turned and shook hands with Carl, who had come from the springhouse. “And thank you for the side of pork.” The two men shook hands. “We are truly grateful.”

After the flurries of greetings, everyone gathered around the table. Clara cut the cornbread and, after placing the golden squares in bowls, drizzled maple syrup over the tops and passed the treat around the table.

By the time they’d poured the second cups of coffee, most of the news had been shared. Reverend Moen cleared his throat. “While I appreciate the coffee and the visit, I really had a special purpose in coming out here today.” He stopped and looked directly at Clara across the table. “We have an older woman in our congregation who is in need of help . . . Mrs. Gudrun Norgaard. Her husband died last winter and lately she hasn’t been very well herself. She really needs someone to live with her all the time.” He paused.

Clara could hear the kettle hissing on the stove.

“I thought of you, Clara. Would you be willing to move into town and help take care of Mrs. Norgaard?”

“Does she speak Norwegian?” Clara’s voice squeaked on the last word. Reverend Moen smiled and nodded. “Yes, and English and even some German. Her husband used to be the banker in town and, besides having an abundance of guests, they traveled.”

“What will Clara be doing?” Nora asked. When she looked up from studying her coffee cup, the sheen of tears hovered in her eyes.

“She’ll be companion, maid, and sometimes help the cook, who is also the housekeeper. Mrs. Norgaard has spent much of her time in bed lately, but the doctor feels someone young and lively will help her regain her strength.” Reverend Moen smiled again at Clara. “I think our God provided the perfect person in you.”

“But . . . but—” Clara clamped her lips together.
God, why?
she pleaded within her heart and mind
. This isn’t what I thought You planned for me. I’m supposed to be getting married and . . . and.
She sent pleading looks to Nora, then Carl, and finally to Reverend Moen.

“How soon do you need to know her decision?” Nora sat up straight in her chair.

“Mrs. Norgaard needs someone immediately since Mrs. Hanson, the cook, has to go home to care for her mother for a time. That was one reason I thought of Clara. I . . . we . . . were hoping you could return to town with me. I’m sure Carl would bring the remainder of your things when they come to church on Sunday.”

“Yes, of course.” Carl nodded as he spoke. “Nora, you would help her to get ready?”

Just a minute,
Clara wanted to pound her fist on the table and make the dishes rattle.
You’re deciding my life. I want to make my own decisions.
She bit off the thoughts before they could become full-blown words.

Reverend Moen leaned his elbows on the table and tented his fingertips. The silence in the room was broken only by the mewing of the cat at the door to go out.

Clara knew what an animal in the circus must feel like with everyone staring at it. She scrubbed the front of her teeth with the tip of her tongue.

“I don’t want Auntie Clara to leave. I needs her here with me.” Kaaren slipped from her mother’s lap and ran around the table to cling to Clara’s skirt.

Clara bent over and laid her cheek on the little girl’s head. “I won’t be very far away and I’m sure Mrs. Norgaard would love to have you come visit.” Clara felt her stomach drop down around her knees. The decision was made. She’d just said so. She gave Kaaren an extra hug and, planting her hands on the table, pushed herself to her feet. “I’ll be ready whenever you need me to be.”

“It’s not like you’ll be across the ocean or some such,” Nora reminded them both as she helped Clara gather her things and pack them in the well-worn carpetbag.

“I know.” Clara removed her gray Sunday dress from the nail on the wall.

“And maybe by living in town, your young man will find you more easily.”

And maybe not
, Clara thought as she looked around the room for anything she’d forgotten.

“Just think, you’ll be closer to Ingeborg. Why, you could run over to see her anytime you’d like.”

Clara hefted the bag and marched out the door. Why did she feel like the red caboose being towed along by the steaming engine whether it wanted to or not? She shook her head at the thought. She had made the final decision—hadn’t she?

After one more neck-wrenching hug from Kaaren, Clara allowed Reverend Moen to assist her into his buggy. She waved good-bye as he guided the horse in a circle to turn the buggy around and trot out the lane. When her heart wanted to send a plea heavenward, she stopped it. Right now she didn’t want to talk with Him. Miffed was the word that came to mind. Could one be miffed at God? She resolutely closed her ears to the sound of her mother’s admonishing voice.

Clara could feel Reverend Moen watching her in between guiding the trotting horse. She let herself relax against the back of the seat as he began whistling. When she recognized the tune, she sneaked a peak at the man beside her. Yes, the courage of “Onward Christian Soldiers” was what she needed right now.

“Why are you worried?” His voice was gentle, like the sun warming her shoulders.

“I . . . I’ve never cared for someone who is sick before. Or who lives in a grand house.” She took in a deep breath and let it out in a sigh.

“You’ll do just fine or I wouldn’t have asked.”

Clara fingered the corner of her picture through the fabric of her bag. Did she dare ask him if he’d remembered who the picture reminded him of? If he’d remembered, wouldn’t he have told her? And anyway, if the man hadn’t come forward by now, did she really want to know him?

Clara rubbed the spot between her eyebrows where frown lines showed. Her mother said lines like that showed one didn’t trust God with everything. But it’s hard to trust when things aren’t going the way you thought they should. Clara continued listening to the arguing and questioning in her mind.

The raucous call of a crow from a willow by the creek caught her attention. He didn’t sound too happy with his life right now, either. He flew off, black wings glistening in the sun.

Up ahead, Clara could see the outskirts of Soldahl. The lonely whistle from the westbound train floated back on the breeze. Smoke from the engine smudged the faded blue sky. Clara shivered as the late afternoon breeze warned them of the coming frost. Would she be lonely and cold like the crow and the train?

Reverend Moen turned his horse into the lane of a two-story square house surrounded by pillared porches. A leaf from one of the two sentinel elm trees floated down as he pulled the animal to a halt amid a rustling of leaves already hiding the ground.

Clara stared at the windows, all curtained or draped. The place was big, like a palace, and beautiful with its white paint and dark shutters. But it certainly needed a bit of life; everything seemed so quiet.

“You ready?” Reverend Moen broke her concentration. “You know, if you really are unhappy here after trying it for a time, we’ll find someone else.”

Clara nodded. She took in a deep breath and let it out, while stretching her mouth into a smile. She clamped her teeth to stop the quiver in her chin. She squared her shoulders after Reverend Moen helped her alight. Maybe that way she’d feel more like one of those soldiers he’d been whistling about.

The woman who met them at the door must have been born smiling. “Come in, come in.” She held open the dark oak door set with fancy cut glass. “I’m Mrs. Hanson and I know you’re Clara. Reverend Moen, she’s all you said she would be. You just come right on in here and . . .”

Clara felt like she’d been swamped by a wave of words and was being washed out to sea. At the same time, she caught her breath at the richness of the dark woods on the floor and walls, the carved stairs curving off to the left, and the fire crackling and snapping in the fireplace. A real fire, with wood, not the glow of coal.

“I thought a fire would make all of us feel better, so now you just sit down and make yourselves comfortable. Mrs. Norgaard, bless her heart, is taking a nap, she sleeps so poorly at night you know, and she told me to make you feel right to home. Now I have the coffee almost ready and after Reverend Moen brings the rest of your things in, we’ll just have a bite.”

Clara nodded and did just what she was told. She didn’t have to worry about what to say because the woman never took a breath. She felt a bubble of laughter rising like warm yeast down about her middle. All her worry and fears of the housekeeper’s not liking her, all gone to waste.

And after she met Mrs. Norgaard, Clara’s remaining fears took off like the crow they’d seen on the drive in. Even propped by pillows, the frail woman lay dwarfed by the carved, four-poster bed. A lace-trimmed cap covered yellowed gray hair and her eyes mirrored the sorrow she’d lived. The smile that nearly appeared flitted away before it could dimple the sunken cheeks.

“Thank you for coming so quickly.”

Clara had to bend close to hear the words. “You are welcome. I hope that I can be of help to you.”

“Mrs. Hanson has to leave in the morning, so she’ll show you where everything is.”

Clara nodded.

Reverend Moen stepped up to the side of the bed. “I must be going now. I’ll stop by tomorrow or Ingeborg will.”

“Thank you.” She sank back against her pillows as if the brief exchange had been too much.

Clara followed the reverend out the door. “Is she really so sick?”

“At heart. And when the heart is heavy, the body gets too tired to continue. She feels she has nothing left to live for and that she’d rather join her husband in heaven.”

“But . . . but, how can I help her?”

“Ask our heavenly Father, He’ll tell you.” Reverend Moen settled his hat back on his head. “Bless you.” And with that he shut the door behind himself and went whistling down the walk.

The tune stayed in her mind. But who said she wanted to be a soldier anyway?

Clara trailed her fingers up the splendidly polished banister as she climbed the stairs. Her room was just across the hall from Mrs. Norgaard’s, and she paused at the door before turning back to check on her new charge. She tapped lightly and entered the dim room.

The first thing I’d like to do,
she thought,
is open those draperies and let the sun shine in. And get her sitting up in the chair in front of the window so she can watch the glorious leaves drifting down.
Did they have squirrels in North Dakota? Surely they must.

“Is there anything I can get for you?” she asked gently.

“No, no thank you.”

Clara waited by the bed. The silence matched the dimness of hue.

“You can go settle into your room. I’d like to sleep again.”

Clara struggled with the faint order. She’d been hired to care for this poor sick woman.
God, what do You want me to do? How can I help her the best?
She waited, hoping against hope that God wouldn’t mess this one up like He had her marrying the young man in the picture.

Instead of God’s voice, she heard her mother’s. “A merry heart doeth good like a medicine.” Clara knew it was a quote from somewhere in the Scriptures, probably Proverbs. How was that supposed to help her?

“I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.” Well, so much for that one, Psalm 121. The last hills she’d seen were just out of New York. Her mind’s eye flitted to the mountains of Norway, the glistening peaks, and the granite faces. The wind singing through the pine trees. Now, those were hills worthy of lifting up one’s eyes.

“Are you still here?” The faint voice was painted in querulous tones now.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What are you doing?”

“Praying, I think.”

“Well, pray then that I may go home soon.”

Clara thought of the hills and the strength they always gave her. “No, I think not.” She turned around and strode to the tall windows, draped in a dusky rose velvet. With determined hands she pushed back the heavy lengths of fabric and then the sheer cream panels, tying both back with the cords at the sides. After checking the latches, she bent over and pulled up the sash.

“What are you doing? Young woman, ah . . .”

“The name is Clara, Clara Johanson, and I’m letting in what little is left of today’s sun and fresh air.”

“I . . . I’ll freeze. It’s November, you know.” The voice sounded stronger already.

“Now, why don’t I help you over here so you can see out? And while you sit in the chair here, I’ll straighten your bed and—”

“No, this is the height of foolishness. I’m ringing for Mrs. Hanson and she’ll tell you what I can and cannot do.” Mrs. Norgaard leaned over and pulled on a cord beside her bed.

“Good, then she’ll help me help you.” Clara closed the window again and strode back to the bed. “Why don’t we have her bring a tray with coffee and cookies on it at the same time. How do we go about telling her what we want?”

Mrs. Norgaard flopped back against her pillows, her hand pressed to her chest. “We want?” The words ended on a squeak.

“Mrs. Norgaard!” Mrs. Hanson stopped in the doorway. She stared from the windows to Clara and then to the woman in the bed. A smile started, immediately hidden by the clenching of her lips. Her eyes refused to match her mouth and, instead, danced with delight.

“We’d like coffee and maybe something sweet, if you have it.” Clara clamped her hands together. Was she understanding Mrs. Hanson right? “But if you could help me move Mrs. Norgaard to the chair first?” She nodded at the dainty upholstered chair by the low table. “We’ll turn the chairs so we can watch the trees and the sunset.” Clara suited her actions to her words.

“That sounds wonderful.” Mrs. Hanson bent over the bed. “Up we go, my dear.”

“But, but, I . . . I—” Mrs. Norgaard found herself ensconced in the chair with a blanket over her knees and a shawl around her shoulders before she could so much as fluster.

“A tray will be right up.” Mrs. Hanson left the room with a wink to Clara.

“I am so grateful you speak Norwegian,” Clara said as she straightened the blanket and tucked it around Mrs. Norgaard’s feet. “Now, is there anything I can get for you before I make up the bed?”

The little woman shook her head, her chin set at a pugnacious angle. The lace on her cap fluttered in the motion.

Lord, I sure hope I’m doing the right thing,
Clara thought as she pulled off the covers and stripped off the sheets. Only the sounds of her actions rustled the silence of the room. The thought of Reverend Moen’s whistling made her smile. What would happen if she began whistling? She knew how. Even though well-brought-up young ladies did not whistle. She sighed. Whistling was out for now.

But the tune wasn’t. Her mind fit the words with the melody. “Onward Christian soldiers, marching as to war . . .” Was this really a war going on here? She shook her head. No, only a skirmish—and she knew who the winner would be.

“Where do you keep the clean sheets?”

“In the linen closet. You’ll find it on your left in the hall.” Mrs. Norgaard shifted in her chair. “Before you do that, could you please bring me that footstool? If it would be no trouble.”