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

  Inga had had enough. “Listen to all of you,” she said as she rose from her bed. “Gunda is right. You are like a gaggle of geese, clucking and waving your feathers. And you, too, Gunda. Have none of you ever seen a handsome man before? With Mamma out paying calls, did any of you remember Pappa would need someone to serve coffee to his guest?”

  Gunda and Astrid jumped to their feet, simultaneously saying, “I will do it.”

  “No.” Inga headed for the door. “You would only embarrass Pappa. You would spend all your time staring at his visitor instead of minding your duty. I will see to it.”

  There was no further argument. Inga hadn’t expected there would be. After all, everyone knew it was her responsibility to act as Pappa’s hostess in the absence of their mamma. Everyone knew Inga, the oldest and most levelheaded sister, would always live at home, helping their pappa in his Christian work. It had long been understood by the entire family that she would never marry.

  As she descended the narrow staircase, Inga tried to ignore the sudden tightness in her chest. She knew she should gracefully accept her destiny. She was his right hand, Pappa would say. He would be lost without her. She was more sensible than any of her flighty, flirtatious sisters, he often added, and her intelligence should not be wasted. When Pappa said such things, it made Inga ashamed of the secret fears she harbored in her heart: a fear that nothing exciting or unexpected would ever happen to her and a fear that she was unlovable as a woman.

  Such fears made her feel guilty, for they were so contrary to the faith she professed. So she pretended they didn’t exist. She pretended to be happy and content with who and what she was.

  Still, when she looked at Thea or Gunda or Astrid or Kirsten—all of them golden girls, bubbling over with feminine charm, petite, and oh-so-pretty—Inga couldn’t help wondering why she had been born so plain, so tall, so thin. She couldn’t help wondering what it might have been like to giggle and whisper and flirt, to fuss with her hair and her clothes, to have a young man—like Thea’s Karl—try to steal a kiss and proclaim her too pretty to resist.

  “Now who is being the goose?” she scolded herself.

  And then she stepped into the parlor doorway and saw him, the stranger visiting her father. In that instant before Pappa knew she was there, Inga realized Kirsten had been right. Dirk Bridger was undoubtedly a most handsome man, and her longing to be different became almost tangible.

  Perhaps she made a sound, for he looked up. His eyes were dark brown, the darkest brown eyes she had ever seen. The color of Mamma’s strong coffee.

  “Ah, here is Inga,” Pappa said. “Inga is my eldest daughter.”

  She knew she shouldn’t stare. She was acting as silly as Kirsten. But she seemed unable to wrest her gaze from him.

  Dirk Bridger stood, and once again, her heart skittered. He was tall, so tall she had to look up at him to maintain eye contact. She couldn’t remember the last time that had happened.

  Pappa continued, “This is Mr. Bridger. He has come to us for help.”

  “Help?” she echoed inanely.

  Dirk Bridger nodded. “I need a woman to stay at our farm and tend to two little girls and my mother.”

  “Your mother is ill?” She wondered whether he had a wife.

  “Yes.”

  She wished to comfort him, this stranger. Instead, she asked, “How old are your daughters, Mr. Bridger?”

  “They aren’t my daughters. They’re my nieces. Their folks’re dead.”

  Impulsively, Inga turned toward her father and said, “Perhaps I should go with Mr. Bridger.”

  There was a flicker of surprise on the pastor’s face. Then he began stroking his beard, and Inga knew he was giving her suggestion serious consideration. She didn’t know why, but she wanted desperately for her father to agree.

  “I can’t pay much, Miss Linberg,” Dirk said. “You should know that up front. And the work’ll be hard.”

  She kept her gaze on her father as she replied, “I am sure whatever you pay would be fair, Mr. Bridger, and I am not afraid of hard work. I am much stronger than I look.”

  “You probably need to talk this over with your pa before you decide for sure.”

  She heard Dirk take a couple of steps toward the doorway. “Pappa?” she asked hurriedly.

  “Ja.” Her father nodded. “You could be a help to the Bridgers, I think.”

  Inga felt a warm pleasure flood through her. She told herself it was because she was doing a good work for someone in need. But she had helped others in the past and never felt this same elation. Perhaps it would be better not to know why she felt this way.

  She turned toward her new employer. “It will only take me a short while to pack my things, Mr. Bridger. Would you like a cup of coffee while you wait? It might brace you for the cold trip back to your farm.”

  Looking a little surprised, he answered, “Yeah, I guess I wouldn’t mind somethin’ hot before we head out.”

  “I will see to it, then.”

  Dirk stared at the doorway through which Inga Linberg had disappeared. He wasn’t sure how it had happened, but it seemed he’d hired himself a housekeeper.

  The pastor cleared his throat. “Inga will take good care of your mother and nieces, Mr. Bridger.”

  Dirk turned around. “I wasn’t expectin’ to find someone this quick.”

  “It is surely God’s will that brought you here. There is no other woman in my congregation more suitable for this duty than Inga. She is accomplished at running a household. You will find her quite sensible in all her decisions. She will do all she can for you and your family.”

  “We still didn’t talk money.”

  Olaf shook his head. “When your mother is well, then you may pay Inga what you can. My daughter is not doing this for the wages she will earn. It is no more than her Christian duty to help a neighbor in need.”

  Great. Just what he needed. A bona fide saint living in his house. Maybe he’d made a mistake, coming here for help.

  The rattle of china drew his gaze back to the doorway. A moment later, another Linberg daughter appeared, carrying a tray with cups, saucers, and a delicate china pot, steam drifting up from its spout. Dirk guessed this girl was slightly older than the one who had opened the door for him upon his arrival. Her hair was the same shade of gold, her eyes the same dark blue, her skin porcelain smooth.

  “Inga told me to serve coffee, Pappa,” she said as she slipped past Dirk, casting a sideways glance at him through thick golden lashes.

  “Thank you, Astrid. Just set the tray on the table.”

  Before Dirk could move, another blond beauty stepped into the room, this one carrying a basket of sweet breads. She blushed as her eyes met with his, then she dropped her gaze to the floor and hurried forward.

  “Ah, Gunda, how thoughtful. Mr. Bridger, come have your coffee and something to eat. You have a long journey back to your farm.”

  Dirk had just sat down as instructed when two more sisters appeared.

  “Is it true, Pappa?” the girl who had let him into the house asked. “Is Inga really going away?”

  “It is true, Kirsten,” the pastor replied. “But not so very far we won’t be able to see her on Sundays. Mr. Bridger, allow me to introduce you to my other daughters, who, it seems, are plagued by curiosity to the point of forgetting their manners.”

  Dirk again rose from the sofa, thinking that he’d never been in the same room with so many lovely females. Not even in that saloon in Montana. And these were unmistakably sisters, from the color of their hair and eyes to their petite and very feminine figures.

  “This is Thea,” Olaf Linberg continued, pausing after each name, “Gunda, Astrid, and Kirsten. My dears, say hello to Mr. Bridger.”

  They did so in unison. “Goddag.”

  “Pleased to meet all of you,” he replied with a nod and a smile.

  “May I pour your coffee?” Astrid reached for the china pot.

  Gunda held up the basket. “And some bread, H
err Bridger?”

  He opened his mouth to answer but was once again interrupted, this time by the return of Inga.

  “I am ready, Pappa.”

  Dirk was immediately struck by how different she was from her younger sisters. Where their hair was golden blond, hers was as pale as wheat at harvest time. Where their eyes were dark blue, hers were the light blue of a robin’s eggs. Where they were small and shapely, she was tall and reedlike. They were all sparkling smiles and innocent flirtation. Inga was…

  Inga was not.

  And something in the way she was watching Dirk told him she knew what he was thinking.

  He cleared his throat as he turned toward the pastor. “We’d best be on our way, sir. I’ve got plenty of chores waiting back at the farm.”

  “Of course.” Olaf rose and walked to where Inga stood near the door. He put his hands on her shoulders. “We will miss you, dotter.”

  “And I will miss you, Pappa,” she whispered. “Give Mamma my love. I will see you all on Sundays.”

  Her father kissed her cheek. Then he turned to look at Dirk. “Mr. Bridger, I am entrusting Inga to you. I expect you will not abuse that trust.”

  Dirk understood the man’s meaning. He could have told him he had no interest in taking any liberties with his daughter. Not with any of them. Not even the ones who had cast flirtatious glances in his direction. And certainly not the one who was coming with him because she deemed it her duty.

  “I’ll see she comes to no harm, Reverend Linberg,” he answered.

  In her heart, Inga heard what Dirk Bridger hadn’t said as clearly as what he had. As always, she schooled her expression not to reveal her hurt. To do so would change nothing. It would not make her pretty or sure of herself.

  She moved her gaze to her sisters. “Good-bye.”

  “Godspeed, Inga,” Gunda said softly, offering an encouraging smile.

  Inga gave each of her sisters a hug, then picked up her portmanteau and valise and said, “I am ready, Mr. Bridger.”

  A few minutes later, they were seated in his wagon and driving away from the parsonage. Inga stared at the road ahead of them, her hands tucked into the muffler her mother had made two winters ago.

  She wondered again what had possessed her to volunteer to go with this man. She had never been the impulsive sort like her sisters. Perhaps she’d done it because, just as she’d feared on the day they’d arrived in America, her life had settled into a familiar routine, and this was her chance to alter it a bit. She wondered if that was a good thing.

  “Tell me about your nieces, Mr. Bridger?” she inquired softly.

  “Martha’s five. Suzanne’s three. They’re good girls. Won’t cause you more trouble than most young’uns, I reckon.”

  “How did their parents die?”

  His frown deepened. Bitterness darkened his eyes, and his shoulders seemed burdened by the weight of the world. “John, my brother, and Margaret were comin’ back from Chicago. They were crossin’ a river on a ferry when it capsized in a storm. The river was runnin’ high from all the rain. Most folks on board were lost.”

  What about you, Mr. Bridger? Were you lost, too?

  He glanced at her, as if he’d heard her silent question, and his eyes somehow answered her. Yes, they seemed to say, he’d been lost, too.

  There were more questions she wanted to ask, but she sensed he didn’t want her questions, and discretion won over curiosity.

  Lapsing into silence, she stared across the farmland. Iowa was not like Sweden. Her native land was a country of lush emerald forests and clear, cold lakes. Iowa was a prairie, sometimes flat, sometimes rolling. While the river valley to the west was heavily wooded, here there were only the trees that farmers had planted for windbreaks. Most of the ground was under cultivation, trees giving way to crops.

  Still, despite the differences, she had grown fond of this new land and its people. Uppsala, Iowa—and much of the rest of the county—had been settled by Swedes who were hungry for land of their own. They had immigrated to America, worked hard, and prospered. Those in town had thriving businesses. They had built their church and brought a minister to Uppsala to shepherd them. They had remembered the traditions of their native land, but had made themselves a part of their new country as well.

  There were others, of course. Like Dirk Bridger. He wasn’t from Sweden nor did he or his family attend the Prärieblomman Lutheran Church as did nearly everyone else in this part of the county. And because of that, Inga could have gone her entire life without ever making his acquaintance.

  Surreptitiously, she glanced his way again, studying his profile. He was, indeed, as handsome as she’d first thought him. He had a farmer’s face, the skin darkened by sun and wind. She guessed he was close to his thirtieth year. The corners of his eyes and mouth were crinkled with lines that long days and many worries—not age—had etched there. His thick hair, neatly trimmed, was dark brown, like his eyes. His clean-shaven jaw suggested determination and a strength of character that appealed to her.

  Somewhere, deep in her heart, she believed she would have regretted not knowing him. She didn’t understand why, and she chose not to analyze the feeling but simply to acknowledge that it was true.

  His head turned and their eyes met, their gazes held. Then one of his eyebrows rose slightly, and he asked, “Why did you do this, Miss Linberg? Come to work for me, I mean.”

  “I do not know, Mr. Bridger. Your mother is very ill. Ja?”

  His expression hardened. “Yeah.”

  “Then we must pray she will get well soon.”

  “Yeah,” he said as he looked forward again. “Right.”

  The impulse to reach out, touch his arm, assure him prayers could make a difference was nearly irresistible.

  As if to keep her from giving into her instincts, he said, “Your English is good, Miss Linberg. You been in America long?”

  “Only eight months. But Pappa always believed in education for his daughters. I learned English when I was but five years old, as did all my sisters.”

  Dirk nodded, as if considering what she was saying, but Inga suspected his thoughts had drifted away before she’d even opened her mouth. He didn’t ask any more questions, and she didn’t offer any more information.

  Instead, they continued the journey in silence.

  Two

  Hattie Bridger saw the wagon while it was still some distance down the road. It was none too soon, she thought.

  Martha did her best to look after Suzanne, but there was little that could control the rambunctious three-year-old when she was in one of her moods. Today had been one of those days, and Hattie was exhausted.

  When she realized her son was not alone in the wagon, she sagged onto a nearby chair and uttered a soft, “Thank the good Lord. He’s found someone.”

  “It’s Uncle Dirk!” Martha exclaimed.

  Suzanne ran over to the window. “Unca Dirk! Unca Dirk!” she echoed as she hopped up and down, then raced for the front door.

  “Suzanne!” Hattie cried, but the child was already outside before she could rise from the chair. “Martha, get your sister. Quick! And put your coat on,” she added hastily as she brushed aside the window curtain to see where the littlest one had gone.

  Suzanne’s chubby legs carried her like lightning right toward the big workhorses pulling the wagon. It was amazing how fast she could move into the path of danger. Hattie’s heart caught in her throat.

  Thankfully, Dirk saw Suzanne and drew back on the reins. Then he shouted something at the child that caused her to stop in her tracks. The next moment, Martha caught up with her, grabbed hold of one of Suzanne’s long braids, and yanked her out of the wagon’s way. Even with the door closed, Hattie could hear Suzanne’s sharp wails of protest.

  Oh, mercy. This was not a very good beginning. The children were acting like a couple of hooligans.

  But instead of demanding Dirk take her straight back to town, the woman climbed down from the wagon seat and walked towa
rd Martha and the screaming Suzanne. She was wearing a heavy coat and her head was wrapped in a thick knit scarf, hiding much of her face from view. Hattie couldn’t tell how old she was, but she walked with a long, easy stride. When she reached the girls, she knelt down so that she was at eye level with them. After a moment, Martha nodded, then glanced over her shoulder toward the house. Suzanne never stopped shrieking her rage.

  Rising from the chair, Hattie grabbed her coat from the rack and threw it over her shoulders, then opened the door and stepped out onto the front porch. With one hand, she shaded her eyes against the sun and winter wind.

  “Please, child,” she whispered. “Please be good just long enough for her t’get to know you.”

  Miraculously, Suzanne quieted, and a moment later, the woman took hold of the youngster’s hand and started toward the house, Martha leading the way. When she was close enough for Hattie to see her face, the young woman—for Hattie could see now that she was young—offered a shy smile.

  “Goddag.”

  “Hello.”

  “I am Inga Linberg.” She tipped her head to one side. “And this must be Suzanne?”

  “Sure is,” Hattie answered, then asked a question of her own. “You the pastor’s daughter?”

  “Ja, his eldest. I hope you do not mind. I gave the young ones a sweet. I thought it might make our first meeting easier.”

  Hattie could see now that both children had something in their mouths and were rolling the candies with their tongues like cows chewing their cuds. “Don’t mind at all. I was wonderin’ what shut Suzanne up so quick-like. She’s been into mischief all day.”

  “I have four younger sisters. I know how they can be.”

  “Ah.” Hattie nodded. “Come inside ’fore we catch our death, and we’ll get to know one another. I take it you’ve come to stay with us a spell.”

  “Ja, if you want me to stay.”

  She chuckled dryly. “Oh, we want you all right.”

  Hattie didn’t say so, but right now she’d be tempted to let the devil himself into her house if it meant she could get a bit of rest.