Dakota Dream (12 page)

Slowly and quietly, so as not to bother anyone, Clara unwound her muffler and removed her coat. Was that a frown on Dag’s broad brow? He concentrated so hard, not wanting to waste a moment now that he’d rediscovered the joy of learning. Her fingers itched to smooth the frown away.

Clara stared at her fingertips. What were they thinking of? She shifted her gaze to the man on the far side of the table. Sensing her attention, he raised his head. A smile broke forth that lighted his eyes and showed the gleam of his teeth.

Clara felt her heart clench in her chest. When it started beating again, the warmth spread clear out to the tips of her fingers and toes.

“Clara, you’re home.” He bounded to his feet and with him came all the others to welcome her back. When he took her hand in his, she felt a jolt clear up to her shoulder.

The memories kept her awake once she finally found her bed. They were friends, good friends, she and Dag. There was no problem with that—was there? But what if what she felt was more than one would feel for a good friend—a male, good friend, a handsome male, good friend?

But what about the man in the picture?
a small voice niggled at the back of her mind. Aren’t you supposed to marry him—whoever he is? Wherever he is?

Dag strode home that night, his hands locked behind his back, shoulders hunched. He could still feel the jolt like lightning that coursed up his arm. What was he thinking of? No woman, especially not an angel like Clara, would want to love him. Love, there could be no love in his life. Only worthy men found love, and he, Dag, was the most unworthy of all.

You must not see her again,
he ordered himself. But the thought of no more lessons, no more sightings of her smiling face, no more Clara beat him downward like a load of steel on his back. He couldn’t do it.

You must!
The inexorable voice pounded his brain and heart.

Warn chinook winds melted the snow and, with the kiss of the sun, green blades popped up almost overnight. Clara strolled down the street on her way to the post office and then to the general store. Two men on horseback raised their hats in greeting as they passed her.

Clara felt punched in the stomach. One of them, the one mounted on the striking palomino, was the curly haired man in her picture. She spun around to get a second look and saw him glance back over his shoulder at the same time. It was him. Absolutely.

Forgetting the errands, she picked up her skirt and, once out of sight of the main street, raced toward the house. She stopped to unpin her hat that was flopping in a most decidedly unladylike manner and took off again. When she reached the porch, she clung to the white pillar.

Whew!
She patted her pounding chest and tried to catch her breath. What she needed was a race or two up the mountains with her brothers.

“Clara, are you all right? What is wrong?” Mrs. Norgaard crossed the porch and stood in front of the panting girl.

“I’m fine. But . . . but—” Clara sucked in a deep breath and forced herself to stand still. “I saw him!”

“Who?”

“The man in my picture. He just came riding into town. He’s here! Right here in Soldahl.”

“Oh, no.” Mrs. Norgaard paled and clutched her cane with both hands.

“He’s already married,” said Mrs. Norgaard.

“But he can’t be. He sent me a ticket to come here, and his picture. Why would he do that if he were already married?” Clara found it difficult to breathe around the boulder sitting on her chest.

“I don’t know.”

“You know him then?”

Mrs. Norgaard nodded.

Clara swallowed. “You knew who it was when I showed you my picture?”

The old woman nodded again.

“And you didn’t tell me.”

“No, child. I knew he was no good, and since nothing came of it, I hoped he would never return.” Mrs. Norgaard turned back toward the door. “Come, let us sit and talk about this thing.”

Clara looked up at the sky. Yes, the sun was still shining. Then why did everything seem so dark?

“Nothing has changed, you understand.” Mrs. Norgaard continued when they were sitting knee to knee on the couch.

“But it has!”

“No. Now think about this. When you didn’t know who he was—”

“I still don’t,” Clara interrupted.

The older woman ignored her. “When you didn’t know who he was, you went right on building a good life for yourself here.”

“But I’m not married. I came to America expecting to be married.”

“Yes, but think of your life in the last several months. Would you not have all that’s gone on? You have good friends, you speak English well, you can read the language, you have literally helped keep people alive or brought them back from near death.”

“No. Yes. I don’t know. Does it have to be one or the other?” Clara fought back the tears that threatened to blind her. Here she’d been so excited and now all was ashes. “I thought maybe he was coming for me.”

Mrs. Norgaard shook her head, clucking her tongue in sympathy.

“At least tell me his name, if you know it.”

Mrs. Norgaard paused. She lowered her gaze to their clasped hands. “His name is Jude.”

“Jude. Jude! As in Judas?” Clara threw herself against the back of the couch. “If that isn’t poetic justice. Now I really understand what betrayal means.” She looked up to catch a look of consternation cross Mrs. Norgaard’s seamed face. “I think I’ll go up to my room for a while. Don’t call me if a certain young cowboy comes calling.”

As she fell across her bed, she let the tears come. All of a sudden her life seemed in pieces when but a short while ago she was glorying in the signs of spring. Betrayed! She’d been betrayed. But what was the purpose behind all this? After all, a ticket from Norway to North Dakota cost a great deal of money.

As her brain functioned again, the tears dried up. Now she vacillated between anger at a man who would do such a thing—to a person he didn’t even know—and curiosity. Why? She got up and, sitting down at the dressing table, began brushing her hair. The soothing action always made her think better.

She took out the picture and the stained letter and tried to read the letter again but to no avail. Even knowing the man’s name, the faded script made no sense. She studied the smiling mouth and laughing eyes. How could one who looked so . . . so . . . charming, the only word she could come up with, do such a terrible thing?

After washing her face, she made her way back downstairs. She still hadn’t finished the errands. Maybe she’d stop by the blacksmith’s and talk to Dag for a bit. He always made her feel better.

Clara walked the way to the blacksmith’s first. As she drew closer, she heard two men laughing, but neither laugh belonged to Dag or Will. The ring of hammer on metal continued unabated.

Hesitant to interrupt if Dag were conducting business, Clara paused outside the door.

“So ya picked the bitty gal from Norway up at the station like I tol’ ya.”

“Jude, what are you talking about?” Dag’s voice held more than a note of exasperation. He spoke in English.

“Wal, looky here. My brother done learned to talk like ever’body else whilst I was gone.”

Metal whanged on metal.

“So, did she think you was gonna marry her? Only the picture I sent didn’t match what she see’d?”

Clara felt her eyes widen. She clamped her teeth on her lip to keep from crying out.

“You are not making any sense. I took Miss Johanson out to the Detschman farm like you asked and that was the end of it.”

“But I sent’er a letter, with my picture. Only I signed yer name.”

“She’da thought you was to marry her.” The second man spoke up for the first time.

Clara listened to the two men laughing hysterically and thumping each other on the back. She could feel Dag’s pain, emanating from the building like the tolling of the bell when a fire broke out.

“Jude, just get out of town.” His voice sounded flat, beaten.

“You low-down, rotten excuse for a human being.” Clara flew around the corner like a banty hen defending her brood from a low-flying chicken hawk. “Anyone who would do such a cruel and spiteful thing to another—least of all his brother. Why you ought to be horsewhipped.” She stood toe to toe with the tall man and shook her fist in his face. “You think you’re so smart. You don’t know what it is to be a man. Even the lizards know more about human decency than you do.”

Jude backed away, flapping at her with his hands.

Clara met him, stride for stride. “Dag Weinlander is one of the finest men in the country. And you have the nerve to make fun of him. Why he’s worth ten of you. Twenty or forty!”

“Lady, enough. Back away before—”

“Before you what? You take to beating women, too? And children, I suppose. I pity your poor wife. God bless her to put up with the likes of you.” She backed him all the way to his horse, which also shied away from the barrage of verbiage.

Jude and his cohort swung aboard their mounts and hightailed it out of there. Jude looked over his shoulder as they fled, as if afraid she might pursue them farther.

“Thank God I didn’t marry him!” Clara stamped her foot and dusted her hands together, as if good riddance to bad rubbish. As the dust settled, the enormity of what she had done began to seep into her consciousness.

She turned around to find Dag watching her, the old spirit of unworthiness beating him into the dust.

“That’s the way! Miss Johanson, you done good.” Will leaped forward to grab her hand.

“Will!” The tone of Dag’s voice stopped the youth short. He turned, caught the nod, and, after giving Clara a hint of smile for encouragement, left for the recesses of the livery.

Clara watched the lad go and wished she could do the same. What must Dag think of her? She left off memorizing the shoe and looked up to catch the sorrow in her friend’s face.

“Clara, how could you . . . ?”

“How could I what?” She felt the force flow through her again. He believed what his conniving brother had said. After all these months, the old Dag was just waiting to be beaten again—by his brother. “Dag Weinlander, I’m amazed at you! Don’t you know what a fine man you are? Everyone in town says so. Mrs. Norgaard thinks of you almost like a son. God made you to walk tall like the man you are. He doesn’t make mistakes. God loves you and—” She bit off the words. She put a hand to her mouth. She’d almost said, “And so do I.”

“And . . . and He wants you to be happy.” She stared up at the face above her, drowning in the eyes of mountain lake blue. Eyes that had once clothed her in warmth but were now rimmed with frost. What had she done?

Clara turned heel and strode swiftly down the street before the tears she fought could win the battle.

Go after her, man!
screamed the voice in his head. But Dag stood, as if rooted to the spot like a century-old pine tree. What could he say? What could he do?

Clara, she was magnificent. He rubbed the inside of his cheek with the tip of his tongue. Never had he seen his brother back down and run off like that. Why, he’d been almost afraid to get in the way in case she turned on him. A chuckle tickled his ribs.

He picked up his hammer from beside the smoldering forge, but instead of cranking the blower to heat the coals, he slipped the sledge into its assigned slot on the workbench and sank down on an upturned bucket.

Why didn’t he let Jude have it? Why couldn’t he think of a thing to say? He scrubbed at his scalp as if to drive the ideas either into his brain or drag them out.

Jude hurt Clara!
The thought flared forth in a burst of pure, red rage. His brother tried to make a fool out of the woman he loved. Dag ground his teeth together. Where could he find him? He rose to his feet and began pacing back and forth. What would Jude do? Go home to their mother? Dag shook his head.

Hide out? He nodded. One fist slammed into the palm of the other hand. The rhythm beat with each stride. Where would the dirty dog hide? Step, slap. Would Clara ever speak to him again? Step! Slap! What difference did it make? Who was he that she should care?

He leaned against the support post, barely restraining himself from pounding his head against the wood.
Dolt. Dag the Dolt.
He heard again the jeering voice from his youth. One tear squeezed past the power of his will and trickled down into his perfectly trimmed beard.

When Clara returned to the big house, she dropped the mail on the hall table and dragged herself up the stairs. Without speaking to anyone, she staggered into her bedroom and slumped on the bed.

Dag, her best friend, would probably never speak to her again. And his brother—oh, she could wring his neck with her bare hands, just like butchering a mean, tough old rooster. But Dag—how could she stay in the same town and not see him? Not talk to him? Not study with him, laugh with him, see the world through his magnificent eyes? Not tend the sick or visit the well?

Her hand over her eyes blotted out the sun streaming in the windows.

When Mrs. Hanson knocked on the door, Clara sent her away with a mumbled excuse. What kind of a woman was she to scream at a total stranger like that? But he—Jude—what a perfect name for him—the betrayer—he had laughed at Dag. Tried to make a fool of him. Treated him like pond scum.

She bit her lip so hard she could taste the blood.

“God, Father, what am I to do?” The tears trickled down the sides of her face and watered her hair.

This must be how a bucket feels coming up from the well,
she thought, as she pulled herself hand over hand toward the light. A rapping penetrated her fog. And repeated.

She forced open her eyes. The afternoon sun had dimmed to dusk. The thumping she now recognized as Mrs. Norgaard tapping on the door.

“Clara, dear, let me come in. I know you are in there.” She tapped again.

Clara pushed herself up on her elbows. Had she locked the door in her anger? She shook her head. Waves sloshed from side to side within her skull. She groaned and flopped back down.

“Clara, please.”

“Come in, it’s not locked.” She covered her eyes with one arm to still the pounding in her head. She must look a sight. She could barely open her eyes, they were so swollen.

Mrs. Norgaard pushed open the door and swept across the carpet. After studying the form crumpled on the bed, she sat down on the edge. “Is it really as bad as all this?” Her voice floated like dust motes on a warm and caring sunbeam.

Clara nodded. She clamped her fingers against pounding temples.

“I’ve taken the liberty of asking Mrs. Hanson to make you some sassafras tea. When she comes, I want you to drink it all. Better than laudanum to ease a headache.” She sat there, not moving.

Clara lay there, listening to her own breathing and the blood pounding clear to her fingertips.

Even Mrs. Hanson was quiet, tiptoeing in and keeping her voluminous comments to herself. She set the tray down, light as a whisper and, after propping Clara against pillows stacked and fluffed behind her, left the room.

“Here.” Mrs. Norgaard handed Clara the cup as soon as the young woman opened her eyes.

Clara took a sip and made a face.

“Drink it, its good for you.” Clara obeyed, her thoughts and feelings in too much of a muddle to resist.

When the pain lines furrowing Clara’s forehead relaxed, Mrs. Norgaard settled herself in a chair she’d pulled over to the bed.

“Now, my dear, I can’t help you unless I know what terrible thing has transpired.”

“I’m so ashamed.” A sob turned into a hiccup.

“What could you have done to make you so ashamed?”

Clara waited, wishing the woman would disappear on one hand and that she were a mind reader on the other. Then she wouldn’t have to tell the entire miserable tale.

“There I was, screaming like a fishwife, right out where all the town could hear.”

Bit by bit, Mrs. Norgaard dragged the story from her sorrowing friend.

“And so, Dag will probably never speak to me again,” Clara finished the tale on another sigh.

A tap sounded at the door. Upon Mrs. Norgaard’s “Yes?” Mrs. Hanson stuck her head in. “There’s a young man down here who wants to talk with Clara.”

“See, I knew Dag has more sense than you give him credit for.”

“No, I don’t want to see him. Tell him I’m ill.”

“You don’t look so good, that’s true.” Mrs. Hanson withdrew her head and they could hear her thumping down the stairs. Silence settled back in the room.

“You have to see him again.”

“I know. But not like this.” Clara listened to the silence again. By now, peace had begun its gentle attack on her strident emotions.

“You know what I think?”

“No, what?”

“I think I see God’s hand in all of this and He has a marvelous plan still to be worked out. But not all tonight.” The older woman rose from her chair. “Would you care for a bit of soup or toast?” When Clara shook her head, Mrs. Norgaard just nodded. “All right then, let’s get you into bed. Like the Psalm says, ‘Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.’ And we want that morning to come soon.”

Even after being tucked in and kissed on the forehead, Clara felt sure she’d never cut off the voices in her head long enough to sleep. But the next thing she knew, the rising sun tinted the curtains creamy gold.

The first thing she thought of was Jude on his fancy palomino, hightailing it out of town. She had to admit, it was funny. Like when the horse kept jumping around. She must have been something when even that big dumb, four-footed beast was scared of her. Anything that would carry Jude around had to be dumb.