Robin Lee Hatcher - [Coming to America 02] (7 page)

“Do you?”

“Ja.”

“What makes you so sure there even is a God, Miss Linberg?” Somewhat sarcastically, he added, “Other than because your pa’s a preacher and you’re expected to, that is.”

“That is easy,” she answered with assurance. “Because I can hear my Lord’s voice in the wind and see his love all around
me.” She laid her hand over her heart. “It begins in here, a person’s faith in Christ.” She touched her right temple. “Not in here.” She paused, then said, “That is how I know, Mr. Bridger.”

He stared at her again, and she was so afraid he would see how much she loved him that she rose from her chair and turned her back. She walked to the sink, where she pretended to wipe crumbs off the counter. She heard the scrape of chair legs against the floor, knew that he stood.

“Do you have dreams for the future, Miss Linberg? Beyond helpin’ your pa, I mean.”

“I did not use to,” she answered, immediately wishing she hadn’t.

“But you do now?”

“Ja.”
Her voice fell to a whisper. “Very private ones.”

“I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to pry.”

Foolishly, she turned around. She met his dark gaze, felt all the familiar emotions looking at him always caused. “You need not apologize. You asked no more than I did myself. It was I who was prying, I fear, and I who must apologize.”

As had happened earlier in the day, Dirk found himself looking at Miss Inga Linberg and seeing her in a slightly different light than before. She wasn’t beautiful, and yet there were moments when she seemed beyond lovely. At times, she seemed uncertain, even shy, and then he would recognize she had a strength of character and a faith that were unshakable.

He wished she had told him what dreams she had for herself. He had a sudden desire to know her better, although he couldn’t explain the reason for it.

“So you will allow me to take the sleigh into Uppsala tomorrow?” she asked softly.

Stubborn was too mild a word for her, he thought, then laughed aloud. “Persistent
and
tenacious, aren’t you, Miss Linberg?”

She smiled.
“Ja,
when I need to be.”

“All right. I know when I’m whipped. I’ll take you. We’ll go right after the driver from the milk plant comes. He’s usually here by eleven on Thursdays, unless the snow slows him down.”

“The children and I will be ready when you are.”

There was a moment—with the two of them standing there in the kitchen, looking at one another, laughter still lingering in the air—when Dirk felt the heaviness lift from his shoulders, when his bitterness did not taste so acrid on his tongue.

Then Inga’s smile faded. “The hour is late. I had best retire.”

As she walked by him, he caught a whiff of her lemon verbena toilet water. The fragrance was like her, he thought. Fresh, subtle, clean, alive.

But once she was gone, his gaze fell on the table and his log and account books. Reality reasserted itself. If he was going to be spending money at the general store tomorrow, he’d better find out tonight where it was going to come from. That wasn’t going to be an easy task.

Inga was wrong about dreams. They were a waste of time.

W
hen John Bridger designed his dairy farm, he’d done it with an eye toward the future and modernization. He had studied and planned in order to make his operation successful in every way. He had looked for land close enough to a milk plant in Des Moines that processed raw milk into both condensed and pasteurized milk, then he had quickly become one of their most reliable suppliers. He’d built an airy, rectangular barn and put in a cement floor with stalls for the cows. A milk house was attached to the barn, with facilities for washing utensils as well as for packaging the milk for shipment to the plant. He’d bought the finest livestock he could find, choosing the Jersey over other breeds as the best for his type of operation. He’d fed his stock only high quality hay and silage, and he’d kept his cows free of disease by following the most modern practices known to dairymen.

Problem was, John’s methods took more time and were more costly besides. John had made the extra effort and gone to the extra expense because he’d loved this place. He’d loved the old house and the land it sat on. He’d loved the new barn and the scattered outbuildings. He’d loved the livestock—cows and pigs and horses and chickens. He’d loved growing crops to feed both family and animals. He’d probably even loved milking the stupid bovines morning and night.

Dirk didn’t doubt John would have continued to make this place a success, just as he’d planned, given the time to do so. But he’d died too soon. He’d invested everything he’d made back into the farm, and he’d had no money in reserve. He’d left only an outstanding mortgage at the bank in Des Moines.

Now it was Dirk who was expected to carry on in his brother’s behalf. He did his best to run the dairy exactly as John had intended, but it was never easy, and he was always aware of his failures. When a cow took sick, he knew it was his fault. When a calf died, he knew it was his fault. When milk production fell, he knew it was his fault.

As Dirk sat on the stool the next morning, milking cow number six out of thirteen—for that was how he counted them off each morning and evening—he thought about his brother’s goals for this farm. It occurred to him for the first time that John had been as big a dreamer, in his own way, as Dirk had been. Only John’s dreams had been of the sort that had made sense to their father. Often, while he was still alive, Joseph Bridger had wished aloud that his younger son were more like his elder.

Dirk pressed up closer to the side of the Jersey, trying to borrow some of her warmth as he tugged on her teats, squirting milk into the pail.

Yeah, his dad had probably been right. He should have been more like John. But who would have guessed Dirk would be forced to live John’s life instead of his own?

Get your head out of the clouds, Son,
he could still hear his dad saying.
Be more like your brother. Build something that will last.

“Something that will last,” Dirk muttered. “Like what?”

It wasn’t that he was afraid of hard work or that he minded getting by with little. He didn’t need much for himself. But when he saw his ma or his nieces needing things he couldn’t provide, it ate at him, taunted him:
failure, failure, failure.

If only he’d had a chance to prove himself anywhere else but here. If only…

A blast of cold air hit him, alerting him to the opening of the door.

“Mr. Bridger?” Inga called out.

“Over here, Miss Linberg.”

In a few moments, her face appeared above the top rail of the stall.
“Goddag.”
Her head was covered in a black shawl. Her cheeks were rosy from the cold.

“Mornin’.” He wondered what had brought her out to the barn so early, but he didn’t ask. He wasn’t feeling exactly charitable toward her this morning. It was her fault that he’d been thinking about John’s plans for this farm and about his own plans, too. She’d said dreams were good, and he’d found himself remembering all the unfulfilled ones he’d once entertained.

She cleared her throat. “Mr. Bridger, it occurred to me last night, after I went to bed, that I could be of more help to you than I have been. It is obvious you need help with the dairy as well as with the home. It is too much for one man. Even I can see that. But I am sure I could learn to milk the cows. Will you teach me?”

His hands had stilled in the midst of her speech. He thought of her dignified father and of her ladylike mother and of her four vivacious sisters, and he could not imagine them approving of Inga sitting in an icy cold barn in the middle of winter, milking cows.

“I came to help. Let me do it however I can.”

It was true. He could use a hand. If he had even a quarter fewer of the cows to milk, he could use that time for other chores. But…

“I am able to do this,” she continued quickly.

“You’re already workin’ mighty hard.”

“I would not allow my other duties to suffer.”

“I never thought you would.”

She opened the gate and stepped into the stall. “Then show me what I can do out here.”

There was a part of him that continued to resist. Having the woman who had been hired to be their housekeeper and a nurse for his mother milking the cows seemed to point out all the more clearly the ways he had failed. Yet there was another part of him that would welcome her presence, not just for the help she would be but for the company itself.

Seemingly out of the blue, he realized the hours he spent working in the barn were lonely ones. Maybe it was because he had too much time to let his mind wander. Whatever the reason, he wouldn’t object to a diversion or two.

“Mr. Bridger?”

He wasn’t fool enough to refuse the offer. If she wanted to milk cows, who was he to stop her? He rose from the stool and motioned for her to sit there. “Sure, Miss Linberg. If you want to learn, I’ll teach you how.”

Her smile was sweet as she moved into place.

“You’ll have to take off your gloves,” he said.

She did so.

“Now, scoot in close. That’s right.” He hunkered down beside her, then took hold of one of her hands. “Now, wrap your fingers around a teat like this. That’s right. Now, sort of squeeze and roll down at the same time. Firm but gentle-like. No, a little harder. Now, try and get a rhythm going with both your hands. Left and right. Left and right. There you go.”

Milk squirted into the pail.
Splash. Splash. Splash.

Inga laughed softly in delight. The sound drew Dirk’s gaze to her face.

Before sitting down, she had pushed the black shawl from her head. Now she rested her left cheek against the Jersey’s fawn-colored side. Loose strands of pale yellow hair feathered
near her right cheek and against her neck. He felt an unexpected urge to sweep the freed tresses away from her face, to feel for himself whether or not they were as silken as they looked.

As if sensing his gaze upon her, she looked up. Her smile instantly vanished, and he realized how sorry he was to see it go.

“You’ve got the hang of it now, Miss Linberg.” His voice sounded hoarse to his ears. He cleared his throat as he stood. “I’ll get busy with the next one. Holler if you got any questions.”

“I will,” she whispered in response.

It wasn’t until Dirk was out of the stall that Inga found herself able to breathe comfortably again. She’d thought she had experienced all the physical reactions his nearness could cause, but she’d been wrong. She had known breathlessness in his presence. She had been left dizzy and weak in the knees. She had felt her mind go blank more than once. But this time, when she’d met his gaze, there had been a nearly overwhelming urge to throw her arms around his neck and kiss him.

That he did not feel the same urge was more than apparent by his actions. It was obvious kissing her was the last thing on his mind.

She wished she had paid more attention to her sisters. Even Kirsten, at fourteen, would know how to make a man want to kiss her. Inga was pitifully ignorant of such things. Whether by chance or by her own design, she had never known a boy or a man she would want to kiss or to be kissed by. But she very much wanted Dirk’s kisses. She wanted to belong with him. She wanted him to want her.

Her vision became blurred by tears as she stared down into the milk pail.

More the fool I,
she scolded herself silently. Hadn’t Dirk told her he’d never wanted a wife? He had other plans for himself. Some women, her sisters probably amongst them, would know how to change a man’s mind, would know how to make a man
think
he wanted marriage even if he didn’t. But Inga didn’t know how. Nor was she sure she’d want to obtain a husband in such a manner. If Dirk didn’t want her of his own volition, then…

Glory!
What a fantasy she was weaving in her head! Two weeks ago, she hadn’t met Dirk Bridger or his family. Now here she was, daydreaming about becoming his wife.

Silly goose. That’s what she was. A silly goose. Sillier than her sisters, because at least they were pretty. Men were drawn to them like bees to buttercups. It often seemed to Inga that the other Linberg daughters had been born knowing how to dress in the manner men liked and how to walk so that men took notice and how to listen with a look of pure rapture that men found so appealing. All were talents Inga severely lacked, talents she’d never wanted until now.

She blinked away her tears, scolding herself once again. She had come to the barn to be of help to Dirk, not to flirt with him—which she didn’t even know how to do. She had best pay attention to the milking and forget the foolish path her thoughts were taking.

She began making a mental list of things she would buy at the general store when Dirk took her into town. She would ask him to stop at the parsonage. She was certain there were some extra decorations for the Christmas tree she could borrow from her mamma.

And perhaps, if she was lucky, she would find a moment when she could ask Thea what a woman could do to make a man want to kiss her. Perhaps she would ask Thea—but only if she found the courage to let these new feelings be known to anyone other than herself.

The proprietors of Dolk’s General Store, Bjorn and Sonja, and their strapping nineteen-year-old identical twin sons, Vilhelm and Valdemar, were a smiling, friendly, well-liked foursome, and their store was a popular gathering place for the citizens of Uppsala, Iowa. The inside of the store was crammed full of every imaginable item, from tooth powder to saw blades, from satin ribbons to plowshares.

When Inga ushered her two small charges into the general store early that afternoon, she was greeted by an exclamation of delight from Sonja Dolk. “Ah, Inga Linberg, how glad I am to see you!”

“Goddag, Fru
Dolk,” Inga replied, uncertain why the woman was showing such delight. It wasn’t as if she was an intimate friend.

The portly matron whisked through the aisles with surprising agility. “All these months you have lived in Uppsala, and I did not know about your quilts. Why was I never told? Why did you never show me?”

“My quilts?”

“I would like to sell them in the store. I will pay you quite handsomely for your efforts.”

Inga blinked. “I have never sold any of my quilts before.”

“But you should, Inga. You must.”

She didn’t know how to reply. Her quilts had always been something she did for enjoyment. She wasn’t sure she wanted to sell them. They were personal expressions, telling stories of things that had happened to her or to someone she cared about, each panel unique and special in some way. She enjoyed giving the quilts for gifts, but selling them seemed somehow a betrayal of the pleasure she received in the making of them.

“Please,” Sonja said, “do not refuse me out of hand. Give it some thought, at least.” Then, as if she’d forgotten the matter already, she looked at the children. “And these must be the Bridger girls.”

“Ja.”

Sonja Dolk leaned down. “Would you like a peppermint stick?”

“Yes!” Martha quickly replied.

“Come with me.” Sonja held out her hands to the children. “We will find you each a candy while Miss Linberg does her shopping.”

Martha glanced at Inga with a question in her eyes.

Inga smiled. “It is all right. You may go with Mrs. Dolk.”

She watched as the proprietress guided the girls toward the counter, then she turned and went in search of the yarn for the dolls she planned to make for Christmas. On her way down the aisle, her gaze fell on a shelf full of books for sale. She stopped, arrested by the sight. Her thoughts returned to last night, to the glimpse she’d had of a young boy who had loved to read about faraway places, the boy who had still known how to dream.

One by one, she picked up the books and looked through them. She didn’t know what she was searching for until she found it. A novel by Jules Verne,
Around the World in Eighty Days.
A Christmas present for Dirk. If she sold just one quilt, she would be able to afford this and more.

She would do it. She would offer some of her quilts for sale.

The front door opened, and she heard Dirk’s deep laughter mingled with that of another. The sound caused her heart to quicken. Holding the book against her chest, she turned to look as the two men entered the store.

“He’s a fine yearling, Hansen,” Dirk said, still grinning. “You did well.”

“I wouldn’t have without your advice,” Erik Hansen replied as he clapped Dirk on the back. “No one around Uppsala knows horses the way you do.”

Dirk shrugged off the plaudit, although it came from the wealthiest man in the county. “Glad I could help.”

“Perhaps you wouldn’t mind having a look at the mare I purchased?”

“Be glad to.” Dirk turned his head, sweeping his gaze around the large store until he spied his nieces, sitting on the back counter, each of them sucking on a peppermint stick. Then he looked again at Erik Hansen. “Seems like the girls have found what they wanted when they came inside. Listen, I’ll try to come out to your place some time next week. How will that be?”

“Good.”

Inga realized she’d completely forgotten her young charges, as well as her shopping, while she’d stood there, staring at Dirk. She dropped the novel into her basket. Why was it the mere sight of him could cause her to act so uncharacteristically absentminded? Why was it the sound of his laughter could make her lose her wits and the sight of his smile could make everything in her world come to a complete halt?