Robin Lee Hatcher - [Coming to America 02] Read online

  Patterns of Love

  By Robin Lee Hatcher

  Coming to America Series

  Book One: Dear Lady

  Book Two: Patterns of Love

  Book Three: In His Arms

  Book Four: Promised to Me

  Patterns

  of Love

  Robin Lee Hatcher

  Book 2

  ZONDERVAN

  Patterns of Love

  Copyright © 2001 by Robin Lee Hatcher

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Zondervan.

  ePub Edition JULY 2009 ISBN: 978-0-310-83266-9

  Requests for information should be addressed to:

  Zondervan, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530

  * * *

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Hatcher, Robin Lee.

  Patterns of Love / Robin Lee Hatcher.

  p. cm.-(Coming to America)

  ISBN: 0-310-23105-1

  1. Swedish Americans—Fiction. 2. Children of clergy - Fiction. 3. Rural families—Fiction. 4. Housekeepers—Fiction. 5. Farm life—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3558.A73574 P38 2001

  813′.54—dc21 00-043649

  CIP

  * * *

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Interior design by Todd Sprague

  Printed in the United States of America

  * * *

  05 06 07 08 09 / DC/ 15 14 13 12 11 10 9 8

  To those who came from far away to make America their home.

  Especially in memory of my great-grandparents,

  Andro T. and Selma Josephine Johnson,

  who immigrated from Sweden in 1868 and settled in Iowa,

  where nine of their thirteen children were born

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Half Title Page

  Other Books By

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Preface

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Epilogue

  Preview

  Acknowledgments

  About the Publisher

  Share Your Thoughts

  Preface

  To my readers:

  Patterns of Love was written in 1997 for the general romance market and was published in 1998. Since then, God has called me into a deeper walk of faith, as well as calling me to use the talents he entrusted to me in a new and better way—writing novels that share my hope in Christ.

  I was delighted when Zondervan expressed interest in revising and reissuing my Coming to America series, because I’m fond of these stories. While you will not find the faith message as overt in these books as you will find in the novels that I’ve written specifically for Christian publishing houses, I believe you will find the stories entertaining and uplifting.

  One of my goals as a writer is to make my characters true to life, with all the faults and foibles that real people have. Unbelievers and Christians alike make mistakes, make foolish choices, fall into sin. I don’t know any perfect Christians, and so I don’t write about them. What I always hope to share is that we have Someone to call upon Who is perfect, Someone Who can take who we are and what we do and turn it into good when we trust in Him.

  In His grip,

  Robin Lee Hatcher

  Prologue

  Ellis Island, New York Harbor, April 1897

  * * *

  Jostled by the other immigrants disembarking from the ferry, Inga Linberg hurried down the gangway. There were some advantages to being tall, she thought as she looked over the heads of others, her gaze locked on solid ground. It seemed months rather than weeks since the steamship had left Southampton, even longer since she and her family had bade farewell to Göteborg, Sweden, and she wondered what it would feel like to stand on something that wasn’t rolling beneath her feet.

  She glanced over her shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of her parents or sisters, but they had been swallowed up by the crowd. That she’d become separated from them was her own fault, of course. She’d wanted to get a better look at the federal immigration depot and had worked her way to the railing to stare at the building and watch while immigrants from other ferries were unloaded and ushered inside.

  “Form a line! Form a line!” an official yelled in English. Another shouted the same in Swedish. Others yelled the command in a variety of languages.

  Inga glanced at her bodice, making sure the numbered card that had been pinned there before she’d left the RMS Teutonic had not been lost in the rush to shore. The number matched Inga to the steamship’s manifest. Without it, her processing through immigration could be held up for hours, perhaps even days.

  “Saints be praised! Sure and I was afraid we wouldn’t find you again.”

  Inga turned to find her shipboard friends, Mary Malone and Beth Wellington, standing behind her. “Ja. I am here. How are you feeling?”

  “Tired.” Mary touched the round swell of her stomach, as if to reassure the unborn child within.

  “You remember what I told you?” Inga asked softly, so as not to be overheard.

  Mary nodded. “I remember. They’ll not hear it from me that I’m yet to be married. And ‘tis married I am in me heart, so ‘twon’t be a lie. Seamus would never have come to America without me had he known about the babe.” She touched Inga’s arm. “We may become separated inside and not see each other again. ‘Tis thanks I owe for all the help you’ve been to us. I’ll have you know it.”

  Beth smiled sadly. “Mary’s right. Without your help and advice, we would have been frightfully ignorant about so many things. You have become the dearest of friends, Inga. I shall miss you a great deal. Remember, we all promised to write to one another as soon as we’re settled.”

  The line started moving forward. “I will not forget,” Inga promised quickly, her throat tight with emotion.

  In all of Inga’s life, she had never had any truly close friends. Not like Beth and Mary. But the three of them had become inseparable, almost from the moment they’d met in Southampton. Inga was going to miss them more than she dared admit, even to herself.

  “Check your belongings in the baggage room,” a man yelled as she entered the depot. “Check your parcels here, the
n proceed up the stairs.”

  After leaving her bags where she was told, Inga glanced behind her, only to discover Mary’s prediction had proven true. Her friends had disappeared into the sea of immigrants filling the vast room. She wondered if she would ever have an opportunity to hug them and say a proper farewell before they went their separate ways.

  But she hadn’t time to allow feelings of melancholy to overtake her. This was her first day in America. Even the examination process of Ellis Island, which everyone seemed to dread, wouldn’t spoil it for her. She was determined to savor every moment of this great adventure until the Linbergs reached their new home in Iowa. She suspected that once they were living in the parsonage in Uppsala, the adventure would end, and her life as the pastor’s eldest and most dutiful daughter would return to the same familiar routine she had known in Sweden.

  What else could possibly await her?

  One

  Uppsala, Iowa, December 1897

  * * *

  Dirk Bridger drew the wool collar up around his ears, but the wind was bitter cold and his coat was too thin. He slapped the reins against the horses’ rumps, hoping to hurry the ancient animals along, even though he knew the gesture was useless. Sunset and Robber had no more speed to give. They were worn out and used up, like far too many things on the Bridger dairy farm.

  He frowned, remembering how his ma had used similar words about herself yesterday. “I’m no spring chicken, Dirk,” she’d said. “I’m wore out. But if I could just get me some rest, I’d be right as rain in no time.”

  Only Dr. Swenson didn’t seem to think so. He thought Hattie Bridger’s illness was much more serious than that.

  And so Dirk had decided to put pride behind him and seek some much-needed help.

  “You go see that Reverend Linberg,” Ma had told him this morning. “He’ll know who we can hire to mind the girls.”

  But who would want to work for what little Dirk could afford to pay? And what would happen if he couldn’t find someone willing to help out? His ma was ailing-perhaps dying, if the doctor knew what he was talking about—and Dirk couldn’t take care of Ma, his orphaned nieces, and the farm all by himself.

  An icy wind buffeted him from behind. He closed his eyes and, for just a moment, allowed himself to remember those last few weeks he’d spent out West. Summer. Hot and dusty. Cowboys with fast horses and shiny guns strapped to their thighs.

  He gave his head a shake and returned his gaze to the road before him. Daydreams were for young boys and men with no responsibilities. They weren’t for him. Not anymore. Not for a long time.

  The Prärieblomman Lutheran Church came into view, its tall white steeple piercing the cloudless blue of the sky. Beside the church was the two-story parsonage where the Linbergs lived. Dirk hadn’t met the minister or his family, even though they’d arrived in Uppsala last May. The Bridger dairy farm was more than an hour’s ride outside of Uppsala, and Dirk limited his trips into town to once or twice a month. As for Sundays, Dirk Bridger hadn’t darkened the door of a church—any church—in many years.

  He didn’t figure God had missed him.

  Dirk drew back on the reins, stopping the team in front of the clapboard parsonage. He dropped the lap robe onto the floor of the wagon, then hopped to the ground. With a few long strides, he crossed the yard and climbed the steps to the porch. Quickly, he rapped his glove-covered knuckles against the door.

  Within moments, the door opened, revealing a pretty teenage girl with golden hair and dark blue eyes.

  “Hello. Is the pastor in?”

  She smiled shyly. “Ja. Come in, please.”

  Dirk whipped off his wool cap as he stepped into the warmth of the house. The girl motioned toward the parlor, and he followed her into the room.

  “I will get Pappa,” she said, a flush coloring her cheeks.

  Dirk waited until she’d disappeared before allowing his gaze to roam. Although sparsely furnished, the room had a warm, welcoming feel to it. Lace doilies covered a small round table; a lamp sat on top of it. A colorful quilt was draped over the back of the couch, another over the arm of a chair. Framed photographs lined the mantel, women with hair worn tight to their heads, their mouths set in grim lines, men with long mustaches and half smiles.

  “Those are members of our family in Sweden,” a man said from behind Dirk. His voice was heavily accented with the singsong rhythm peculiar to the Swedes.

  Dirk turned.

  “I am Olaf Linberg.” The pastor held out his hand. “Welcome to our home.”

  “I’m Dirk Bridger,” he said, relieved the man obviously spoke and understood English. “I run a dairy farm west of here.”

  Dirk guessed the pastor was about sixty years old. His hair and long beard were completely white, but his stance was unbent and his face only slightly lined. When they shook hands, he discovered the pastor’s grip was firm.

  “I believe I know the farm, Mr. Bridger. Sven Gerhard is your neighbor.” Olaf released Dirk’s hand and motioned toward the sofa. “Please, sit down.”

  As he accepted the pastor’s invitation, Dirk sought the right words to say next. It wasn’t easy, asking for help. He’d been taking care of his own for most of his life.

  Olaf’s smile was both kind and patient. “Whatever has brought you here, young man, I will do my best to be of service.”

  “I feel a bit strange coming to you, the Bridgers not being members of your church and all. My ma’s a Methodist.”

  “Believers in Christ are all members of God’s family.” The pastor chuckled softly. “Even Methodists.”

  Dirk shrugged. Then he raked the fingers of one hand through his hair and said, “Reverend, I guess there’s nothin’ else for me to do but come right out with it. I need to hire a woman to take care of my ailin’ ma and watch after my nieces while I work the farm.”

  “You are not married, Mr. Bridger?”

  “No. The dairy used to belong to my brother, John. He and his wife, Margaret, died nigh on two years ago now. That’s when I came here to run the place while Ma took care of John’s little girls. But now she’s sick, and the doctor says she’s got to stay in bed if she’s gonna get well. We thought you might know of someone who’d be willing to work for us. I can’t pay much. We barely get by as it is.”

  Olaf Linberg steepled his hands in front of his chin. “I see.”

  “Whoever we find’s got to be willin’ to live in. The house is fair-sized, and she’d have a room of her own. Wouldn’t have to share with the girls or Ma. We’d need her to cook and clean, as well as mindin’ to Ma and the little ones. It’s not gonna be an easy job.” He looked down at his hands, now clasped together, his forearms resting on his thighs. “It was Ma’s idea I come to see you, Reverend Linberg. She figured you’d know most everyone around Uppsala, most of ‘em goin’ to your church and all.”

  “How old are your nieces, Mr. Bridger?”

  “Martha’s five. Suzanne’s three.”

  The pastor shook his head. “So young to have lost their parents.”

  “Yeah.”

  Olaf rose from his chair and strode to the window where he gazed out at the lead gray sky. “I have five daughters of my own.” After a few moments of silence, he glanced over his shoulder. “Your nieces are fortunate they have you to care for them.”

  Dirk felt a stab of guilt. He was fond of Martha and Suzanne in his own way, but there were times he resented them, too. Sometimes he was even angry at John and Margaret for dying. As if they’d had any choice in the matter. But Dirk had wanted other things for his life than to be stuck on a farm in Iowa, milking cows and mucking manure, and he couldn’t seem to rid himself of the bitterness. From the time he’d learned to read, he’d been planning and plotting to see the world, to sail the seven seas, to go to the Orient and Africa and South America. Shoot, if it weren’t for his family and the farm, he could’ve been part of the rush to the Klondike goldfields. Maybe he’d have already struck it rich if he weren’t stuck here, rai
sing his orphaned nieces.

  Drawing a deep breath while suppressing those dark emotions, he stood. “There’s one more thing, Reverend. Ma and I don’t know but a few words of Swedish. Whoever we find has to understand English.”

  Olaf nodded. “I encourage all members of my congregation to speak English, Mr. Bridger. Language will not be a problem in finding someone to work for you.”

  “He is the most handsome man I have ever seen,” fourteen-year-old Kirsten repeated for the fourth time. “When I opened the door and saw him, I forgot to breathe.” She flopped backward on the bed, her arms spread out at her sides as she stared up at the ceiling. “Dirk Bridger.” She said his name on a sigh. “Have you ever heard such a wonderful name?”

  “Is Pappa still with him?” sixteen-year-old Gunda asked.

  “Ja, I think so.”

  Thea, seventeen and the prettiest of all the Linberg sisters, shook her head. “He could not possibly be more handsome than Karl.” Immediately, her eyes filled with tears and her expression turned forlorn. “I should have refused to leave Jönköping. I should have told Pappa I would not go.”

  Inga laid a comforting hand on her sister’s shoulder. “I am sure Karl will find a way to come to America, Thea,” she whispered. “You will see.”

  “Of course he will,” Thea said with a sniff. “He loves me.”

  Ignoring Thea, fifteen-year-old Astrid asked Kirsten, “Are you certain you overheard his name right? Are you certain he has never been to Pappa’s church?”

  Seated on the end of the bed, Gunda nudged Kirsten’s foot. “Why did you not talk to him before you went for Pappa? What a goose you are.”