Dakota Dream (9 page)

“All right. Out with it. This is a side of Clara I’ve never seen and I’m not sure I like it.” Mrs. Norgaard set her coffee cup down with a snap.

Clara sighed again, this time fully aware of what she was doing. But sighing seemed all she was capable of at the moment. She turned to face her employer. “I just want to say how much I’ve appreciated working for you and—”

“Clara, what are you saying? Are you going to leave me?” Mrs. Norgaard pushed away the bed tray and made as if to rise.

“Well, the letter from Mrs. Hanson. If she’s to come back . . .”

Mrs. Norgaard flopped back against her pillows and patted her chest with one hand. “Oh, my dear, is that all? Why, you silly goose. Did you think I would let you go just because Mrs. Hanson—oh, no, no, no. You have given me life again. I want you as long as you’ll stay. Please, come here to me.” She held out both hands.

When Clara took them, Mrs. Norgaard drew her young helper down on the bed. “Now, promise me if you are unhappy here, you will tell me.”

“But I’m not. I just thought—”

“And that when you have concerns that trouble you, you’ll bring them to me so we can work them out.”

Clara nodded. The lump in her throat made an answer impossible.

“Good. Now that we have that all taken care of, what shall I wear for my first trip down to the dining room? I must look my best if we are to have company.”

When the preparations were all complete, Clara threw on her coat, pinned her hat cockily over one eyebrow, and started out for the blacksmith shop. Her breath puffing out like miniature clouds delighted her as did the squirrel scolding her from the oak tree.

“I thought you’d be hibernating by now,” she scolded back. “Go wrap yourself in your bushy tail and stay warm.” She leaned over and scooped up a handful of snow, packed it, and fired it at the trunk of a tree, where it splatted perfectly.

I’m staying, I’m staying, thank You, God. Thank You, thank You.
“Praise God from whom all blessings flow . . .” Her clear soprano voice rose on the puffs of air and joined the crunch of her boots in an aria of praise.

“To carry her downstairs?” Dag looked at her like she was missing a spoke somewhere.

Clara nodded, determined to keep a straight face. “She can’t manage the stairs yet, but she so wants to be free from her bedroom for a change.” She carefully injected a note of pleading into the last words. It was the truth.

“And then back up.”

“After we eat.”

“Tell her I will come to carry her down and back up.” He slapped one hand into the other. “But no dinner.”

Clara nodded. “At twelve then?” She caught Dag’s nod as he walked off into the dimness of his shop. He had talked to her, at least. She allowed herself one skip on the way back home.

While Dag carried Mrs. Norgaard with a gentleness that belied his huge size, he refused to answer any of Clara’s questions or comments. And he didn’t stay to eat. The reverse process was no different.

“And tomorrow, Dag?” Mrs. Norgaard settled herself on the edge of the bed.

He nodded.

“Then I thank you. You have no idea what a treat this was. I think Clara’s determination to make me live again is paying off, don’t you?”

Dag nodded and set off as if that hound were on his heels again.

“I’m off now,” Clara said from the bedroom doorway that evening. “You sure you’ll be all right alone?”

“Perfectly. You just go and learn as much as you can.” Mrs. Norgaard settled her spectacles more firmly on her nose. “I’m just grateful I can enjoy reading again.” She waved her hand as if shooing away a fly. “Go on, go on.”

Clara danced up the stairs a couple of hours later. She was learning to talk English! She and about fifteen other people. And Ingeborg, what a teacher. Everyone had had such a good time, why the hours passed like . . . like a party. She wrapped her hands around her shoulders and squeezed, at the same time spinning in a circle.

“I take it you had a good time.” Mrs. Norgaard laid down her book and removed her gold-rimmed spectacles.

“Ja . . .
nei
. . . yes. Good evening.” The English words came haltingly but they came. “And we are to meet on Thursday, also.” Clara switched back to Norwegian, having used up her store of new words. “Oh, I am so happy.”

Wednesday and Thursday Dag appeared to do the carrying—but not eating.

On Friday, when Clara answered the door, she fought to keep the shock from showing on her face.

Dag had washed himself—and his clothes. Clara clamped her teeth together and made sure her cheeks spread in a smile. “Good morning.” She hesitated over the words but persevered, determined to use her new language.

Dag nodded and started toward the stairs.

“Ahhh.” The word for coat totally left her mind. She reverted to Norwegian.

Dag paused, one foot on the bottom stair. He turned to face her. “
Ja. Mange takk.
” He shrugged out of his black wool, thigh-length coat and handed it to her.

Clara hung it on the tree and stared up the stairs. Even his boots were polished. What she’d give to see the look on Mrs. Norgaard’s face! Clara ran up the stairs and down the hall. She burst into the bedroom just as Dag was leaning over to pick up his charge. His broad back hid the diminutive older woman from Clara’s sight, but when he turned around, Mrs. Norgaard just smiled like this was an everyday occurrence.

Clara stepped back and let them precede her down the hall. As they passed, Mrs. Norgaard winked at Clara, then continued her conversation with Dag. He even answered her question.

Clara leaned against the door frame and watched them disappear down the stairs. She clapped both hands to her cheeks and felt a shiver of pure delight course through her. She rolled her lips together, straightened her spine, and made her way downstairs.

Dag and Mrs. Norgaard visited in the sitting room while Clara quickly set another place at the table. After bringing in the bread she’d baked just that morning and the stew that had simmered for hours, she crossed the hall to announce the meal.

“No, I’ll walk,” Mrs. Norgaard insisted when Dag bent down to pick her up. “It’s just the stairs I can’t manage. Here, let me have your arm to lean on.”

Dinner passed with Clara and Mrs. Norgaard carrying the conversation, but Clara could feel Dag’s gaze on her from time to time. He answered when asked a direct question, but other than that, he ate in silence. Clara and Mrs. Norgaard made a point to discuss the English class taught by Ingeborg.

“We’ll have our coffee in the sitting room,” Mrs. Norgaard said after inserting her napkin back into the silver ring by her plate. Dag surreptitiously followed suit and leaped from his place to help her to her feet.

This became the pattern for the next three days until Saturday, when Mrs. Norgaard suggested Dag help her down the stairs, rather than carrying her.

“You’re sure?” He stared intently into her eyes.

“Clara’s been making me walk around my room morning, noon, and night. You’d think she took lessons from an army sergeant.”

“I’m just following doctor’s orders,” Clara defended herself.

“I know, my dear.” Mrs. Norgaard smiled at her. “But you must admit you take your duties seriously.”

Dag watched the byplay between the two women, aware as ever of the way they made him feel. Was this the way people really treated each other? He’d never heard or sensed a cross feeling between the two of them. Just a caring that flowed peaceful and smooth like the Red River on its summer journey. And they extended that warmth to him.
Him
. Dag Weinlander.
Why?
Sure, he had a strong back for carrying Mrs. Norgaard down the stairs, but she had always made him feel welcome. Why?

Soon she wouldn’t need him anymore. He thought of the gift he’d been carving for her in the evenings in front of the fireplace of his sod hut. Even that would help her need him less. The thought caused another pang in his chest. He kept his fingers from digging at the collar of his shirt.

Instead, he offered the old woman his arm, just like they did downstairs. She clutched his arm with both hands as she took the first step downward. He could feel her shaking. Another step. And another. When they reached the bottom, she gave a sigh of relief. His matched.

He swallowed and rubbed his mouth through the beard with one hand. Together, they marched directly into the dining room. After seating her, he sat down, refusing his body the privilege of slumping in the chair. Helping her downstairs was worse than shoeing ten cantankerous horses in a row.

She let him carry her back up. “We’ll see you tomorrow then. Dinner is at one, after Clara returns from church.”

He nodded. “Oh, and Dag, please bring Will with you. I’d like to become better acquainted with that lad.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Dag turned to leave. “And
mange takk
.”

“Dag, it is I who should be thanking you.”

“Umm.” Dag departed on that noncommittal reply.

That night he resanded the apple-wood cane he had fashioned from a gnarled branch and applied a last coat of varnish. The twisted wood gleamed in the firelight as Dag set it aside to dry one last time. Each succeeding coat of varnish had deepened the patina, bringing out the highlights of the grain.

“That’s beautiful,” Will said from his stool by the fire. “When ya gonna give it to her?”

“Tomorrow, when we go there for dinner.”

“We?”

“Ja.”

“Who’s gonna tend the livery?”

“Me. While you heat water and take a bath.”

“A bath! It’s the middle of the winter.”

“Ja, a bath.” Dag ignored his assistant’s fussing and put away his varnish and rag.

“I’d druther stay with the horses.” Will crammed his hands into his pockets.

“You can, after dinner.”

“What if someone needs a horse?”

“He can come back.”

Will muttered his way to bed.

Dag remained by the fire, lost for a time in his thoughts. When he realized how many of those thoughts centered around a certain golden-haired angel, he abruptly stood and headed for the cornhusk filled mattress he called bed.

“Dag, this is beautiful.” Mrs. Norgaard rubbed her hands down the satiny finish of the cane. “I knew you were a master with metal, but I had no idea you could create in wood, also.” She gripped the handle and, standing, leaned her weight on the cane. “And the perfect height.” She looked up at him with a smile crinkling the corners of her eyes. “Tired of carrying me around?”

Dag shook his head. “You’re sure it fits? I could make it shorter if you want.”

“No, this is perfect.” She thumped it on the floor. “Now, shall we join the others downstairs?”

Dinner passed swiftly with Will finding time to answer questions in spite of putting away a prodigious amount of roast beef, mashed potatoes, gravy, and green beans.

“I ain’t never had such a fine meal.” Will leaned back against his chair.

“We have apple pie. I’d be sorry if you were too full to join us.” Mrs. Norgaard smiled as she spoke.

“No’m. I’ll find room for that.”

Clara stood up to clear the table.

“I’ll help you, miss.” Will leaped to his feet. He grinned a cheeky grin. “That way I’ll have more room for pie.”

“Have you thought of joining the English class, Will?” Mrs. Norgaard asked when the coffee was poured and pie handed out.

“Nah. I can talk Norwegian, English, and some German. I don’t need no class.”

“But can you read English?”

“Pretty good. Pa made sure I went to school till I was eleven. Then we started west.” He took a last bite of the pie.

“Where are your folks now?” Clara asked.

“Dead.” Will scraped up every last bit of apple from his plate. Clara wished she’d bit her tongue before asking such a question. “Then Dag found me and asked if’n I wanted to help him as an apprentice.” He licked the tines of his fork.

Mrs. Norgaard motioned Clara to get the boy another piece of pie.

“I told Dag he should go—to that class, you know.” He grinned at Clara when she set another slab of dessert in front of him. “Winter’s a good time, not so busy. He could go.”

Dag felt warmth creeping up from his chest and making his collar even tighter. Kicking the boy from under the table was beginning to seem more and more like a good idea. He’d never seen him so loose-mouthed.

Will looked across at his employer. He grinned again. “Could.”

“We’d better get back in case someone needs a horse.” Dag accompanied his pronouncement with the shoving back of his chair.

“
Mange takk
for my cane,” said Mrs. Norgaard. She rose to her feet. “Perhaps just your arm today, helping me with the stairs.” As they made their way slowly upward, she added a thought. “See you tomorrow?”

Dag nodded. “Ja.” Was that gratitude for another day’s reprieve he felt welling up in his heart? How terrible to wish she weren’t getting better so quickly.
Just like a dolt like you,
he chastised himself with each upward step.

Mrs. Norgaard stopped three steps from the top. She put her hand to her heart and leaned against Dag’s strength while trying to catch her breath again. When Dag made to lift her, she stopped him. “No, I’ll make it. Just weaker than I thought.” A pant separated each word.

See what you did?
His inner tormentor continued.
You were in such a rush to get back to the barn, you . . .
Dag clenched his teeth.
Won’t you ever do things right?

“Good afternoon,” Clara practiced her English as she showed the men out. “See you at class Tuesday.” She shut the door before Dag could answer.

Clara scoured the kitchen and polished all the furniture on Monday morning while the bread was rising. Mrs. Hanson would be arriving on the four o’clock train and she didn’t want the housekeeper to find one thing not up to snuff. Ham and beans browned in the oven, sending a delicious aroma throughout the house.

Dag sniffed appreciatively when he walked up the newly swept walk. While the sun tried to shine, high gray clouds kept drifting across its warmth. A north wind nipped around the corner of the house and caused Dag to shiver. His hands were still cold from the scrubbing he’d given them in the horse trough. This cleaning up for dinner every day took some doing. He tucked a button back into its hole before ringing the bell. He’d have to buy some new clothes—and soon.

Clara answered the door while wiping her hands on her apron. “Good morning.” The English was coming easier since she’d been practicing. “Come in.”

Dag nodded and stepped inside, removing his coat as he did so and hanging it up himself. While his nose might be more accustomed to perfumes of horse, coke fire, and steel, he could recognize beeswax, lemon oil, and especially freshly baked bread with ham and beans. This, like every meal he’d enjoyed here, would be good—very good.

“See, I’m stronger every day, thanks to you and Clara,” Mrs. Norgaard stopped at the bottom of the stairs. She looked back up. “I didn’t think I would ever leave that room again, except to greet my Lord in heaven.”

Dag covered the small hand that lay on his arm with his large one. “I’m glad you decided to stay with us.”

“As I said, thanks to you and Clara.” She released his arm and set out with her back rigid but her weight partly supported by the apple-wood cane clasped in her right hand. “See how well this works? Thank you, my friend.”

Dinner indeed lived up to what his nose had promised him. He cleaned his plate and nodded when Clara offered to dish him up some more. “You are a good cook.”

His comment caught the women by surprise. He never offered anything except
“Mange takk”
unless spoken to first.

“Why, thank you,” Clara answered, heat blossoming in her cheeks. “I . . . I wanted everything perfect for when Mrs. Hanson comes back.”

Dag looked around at the gleaming furniture and his healthier friend and nodded. “It is.”

Clara felt like she’d been given a medal by the King of Norway. Her heart pitter-pattered in her throat—her very dry throat. She blinked against the surge of moisture that should have been in her throat but instead wanted to slip from her eyes. “Thank you” seemed such an ineffectual response to so great a gift but what else could she do?
“Mange takk,”
she replied.

“Take this to Will,” she said as she thrust a package into his hands on his way out the door. “And,” she gave him a saucy grin, “see you at class tomorrow night.”

Mrs. Hanson clapped a hand to her chest when she saw Mrs. Norgaard sitting in the parlor, her royal blue bombazine skirt topped with a white, lace-tucked shirtwaist. Her mother’s cameo glowed from its position pinned to the high collar.

“Well, I declare, what has been going on here while I was off caring for my ma?”

Clara giggled behind her. “We wanted to surprise you.”

“Lord love you, that you did.” She walked over and stood in front of Mrs. Norgaard. “How’d you get down here?”

“I walked.” She touched her cane and beamed at Clara. “With help, of course, but I shan’t need that much longer. Doctor’s prescription here in Clara has done its marvelous work.”

Mrs. Hanson sank down in a facing brown velvet chair. “Then you won’t be needing the likes of me no more.”

“Don’t be silly. Now you sound like Clara when I told her you were coming home. I need and want you both. So unless you have another idea, that will be the last time we’ll talk about such a matter.” She thumped her cane for emphasis.

Clara and Mrs. Hanson swapped grins.

Mrs. Norgaard looked from the cane to their happy faces and chuckled herself. “Never thought of a cane as part of a conversation before.”

In class that night, the students were practicing their greetings and farewells when the door opened and a big man walked in.

“Can I help you?” Ingeborg asked, then clapped her hands to her cheeks. “Dag Weinlander, is that really you?”

“Ja,” he replied, nodding his freshly barbered head and neatly trimmed beard. The wild mass of stringy hair now lay on the cutting floor. Thick sable hair waved back from a broad forehead and ended just above his collar. A wide mouth with smiling lips split the beard that just covered his chin.

Clara noticed every detail. The way his ears lay close to his head and the richness of the waving hair. But what caught her attention the most were his eyes. No longer shrouded by clumpy hair and shaggy brows, eyes the blue of high mountain lakes on a summer’s day stared back into hers.

She swallowed. She’d been attacked by dry throat again. “Hello, Dag,” she croaked.