An Untamed Land (38 page)

“My new sheep followed Lamb. Even down the trail to water. Sure wish I had a dog like Mr. Wald.”

“Ja, we will have to think about either a dog to herd the cattle or fences to keep them from wandering too far. Hobbles work fine for a small number like we have now, but soon . . .” Roald paused as dreams lit up his eyes. “But not until next spring. We have hay
enough for our stock now but not for many new ones.”

Besides, no money to buy more
. Ingeborg kept the thoughts to herself. But if Roald saw a cow or other stock when he went to St. Andrew for winter supplies, he would buy it. What happened to that man who vowed he wouldn’t go into debt?

The next afternoon Ingeborg and Carl set out for the woods. He showed her where the game trails ran and where he had shot many of his deer. A tumble of brush made a good hiding spot, and after they made themselves comfortable behind a log, he reminded her where to shoot.

“Aim just in front of the deer, for they will bound forward at the noise. Head shots are the best because you damage less meat, but a chest shot is easier in the beginning.”

Ingeborg nodded.

“Take your time. Most people get too excited and miss the shot.”

Ingeborg propped the rifle on the log exactly as he had shown her.

Quiet settled around them, but for the whine of the mosquitoes. When the forest noises started up around them again, Ingeborg felt a sense of peace, of time standing still like the hush before dawn. Two squirrels chattered above in the larger of the oak trees. Sparrows flitted in the brush around them, chirping their news and finding seeds and bugs.

Three deer appeared in the edge of her vision, a doe with her young and a four-prong buck. They tripped noiselessly down the trail, their big ears tracking for any unusual noises.

Ingeborg raised the rifle to her shoulder without a sound, each motion slow and deliberate. She sighted down the long barrel until the buck’s head lined up in the two Vs. She tracked just ahead of him. He stopped and looked around.

She took a deep breath, let it all out, and squeezed the trigger.

The buck leaped in the air and dropped to the ground.

“What a shot!” Carl jumped to his feet and over the log, drawing his knife as he went.

Ingeborg used the rifle as a prop and got to her feet, shaking as though she had the palsy. She had killed a deer—on her first shot. Joy made her want to leap. Her eyes filled with tears. The buck had walked so proud and beautiful and free.

She forced herself to walk over to the fallen animal where Carl waited for her.

“You want to slit the throat as soon as possible so the animal can
bleed.” He looked up for her nod. “I know you know these things, but it never hurts to have a reminder. Where’s your rifle?” When she pointed to the log, he shook his head. “Always bring it with you in case you only stunned him. He could get up and kill you or seriously injure you. Those horns are wicked.”

The pride she felt vanished like smoke caught on the wind. She should have known better than this.

Taking his knife, she knelt beside the fallen animal. They would have food and another hide to tan for either a cover or clothing. She should be grateful. She cut the jugular with one swipe and turned away to get the gun.

By the time they had the deer gutted and were heading back to the homestead, darkness hid the ruts, and vines and branches slapped her in the face. Why was she so weary? It was as if her strength had drained out with the blood of the deer. While Carl could sling the deer over his shoulder, how would she drag a carcass back to camp? Did she really want to become the hunter for the family?

The awe on Thorliff’s face made her smile again.

“I only heard one shot.” Kaaren looked at her, her mouth half open.

“Ingeborg only needed one shot.” Carl tied the back legs to the tripod they had fashioned for dressing game. He looked toward his brother, who was drinking coffee by the fire and hadn’t yet said a word. “She didn’t waste any shells, you know.” He waited a moment for an answer that didn’t come, then set about skinning the deer.

After finishing his supper, Roald returned to the forge where he had spent many evenings pounding out plowshares. But that night when they had collapsed into their bed, he rolled over and put his arm around Ingeborg. “That was good,” he whispered in her ear, his breath tickling the hair around it.

Ingeborg felt as though he’d given her the moon and stars. “Mange takk.”

The days ran into weeks, with the Bjorklunds hurrying to prepare for winter. Ingeborg went out hunting nearly every day, and Thorliff’s snares kept the stewpot bubbling with rabbit. He stretched out the rabbit skins so he could tan them, imitating the continuing work of Kaaren and Ingeborg with the deer hides. All the animals
fattened on the rich prairie grass, even after the late frost.

The day Joseph Baard rode over and asked if they could raise his soddy the following day gave them all a sense of relief. “I got the beam cut and all. Ivar and Margaret Weirholtz from just north of me are coming too. We should have a regular party together.”

“Ja, that is good. You want we should bring the sod cutter and both teams?” Roald tipped his hat back. A line marked his brow like all the others, separating the tanned skin from the white.

Ingeborg left off slicing strips of venison from the haunch. “I’d better get more bread made, then. Kaaren, there should be enough fat on that buck to make piecrust. I remember Mr. Baard here is partial to your plum pie.”

“Don’t want you to go to no trouble, now.” Joseph nodded his thanks when she refilled his coffee cup. “Agnes has been cooking the last two days, too.”

As he rode off, Ingeborg and Kaaren couldn’t stop smiling even if they had wanted to. Other women to talk with, and a new neighbor to meet. Such excitement.

The day of the soddy raising became the high point of the fall. While everyone worked hard, laughter made the load lighter, good food and plenty of it refueled their energy, and when the sun sank, Ivar Weirholtz brought out his fiddle.

Ingeborg hadn’t danced since the previous fall when the neighbors at home got together to celebrate a good harvest and listen to tales of the new land from one who had returned. Then the group had been larger, but the spirit here felt the same.

They danced the hambo, the masurka, the reinlender, and pols. All ages together, they shuffled, spun, skipped, and clapped, some with partners, more often without. The children paired with adults and with each other. Everyone danced, even Gunny in the arms of her father.

“We have to start them young,” Kaaren teased back when Joseph made a remark. “We do not have that many times to play here on the prairie.”

“There will be more when we have a school to meet in and a church to worship in,” Roald promised. “The southwest corner of Bjorklund land is waiting for the buildings.”

Ingeborg sent him a special smile. Here was another of those surprises he enjoyed springing on her. He was determined to build a community here for his family and others. So easy it was to forget
the dreams when they lived in the present moments of backbreaking toil.

When Roald took her in his arms for the vals, Ingeborg looked up at his strong face, moisture glistening in the firelight. Would he mind if she said “I love you”? She kept the words in her heart but returned the steady pressure on her hand and sent him the message with her eyes.

After they returned home that night and finished the evening chores, it was a long time before they fell asleep.

Several weeks later, Ingeborg realized she was late with her monthly. She hugged the secret to herself, unwilling to mention it in case she was wrong. When she started throwing up in the morning, Kaaren guessed immediately.

“Have you told Roald yet?” she asked one morning when Ingeborg returned from her retching bout behind the soddy. Ingeborg shook her head. “You’d better soon, or your pale face will give you away.”

“I want to be certain.”

Kaaren raised an eyebrow.

“I know, but what if I. . . ?”

Kaaren raised a hand, shaking her head at the same time. “That was not your fault, Inge. Accidents happen.”

But in spite of the joy that swelled her heart that a baby was on its way, Ingeborg couldn’t shake the gnawing fear that clenched her stomach.

After she told Roald, he only said, “When?”

“In June,” she replied, but she could tell by the light in his eyes he was pleased.

“June is a good month for babies.” He nodded once more and raised a warm, calloused hand to touch her cheek. “A very good month.”

When the temperatures dropped to freezing several nights in a row, the men took time off from the field work and hauled stones from the river to build the fireplace. Rock by rock, the soddy grew darker. They fashioned a mantel above the firebox and continued up to the eaves with the chimney sprouting above. After the mud and rocks had time to dry, Carl laid a fire and brought in a stick from the campfire to light the wood.

Would it draw? They all stood in the soddy, watching the flames lick the kindling. The smoke drifted straight up.

“That is good.” Roald let out a held breath, as did the others.

Thorliff hunkered down in front of the raised hearth and stared at the flames. He looked back around the room. “This fire is friendly. See, it makes colored pictures on the walls.”

Ingeborg followed his pointing finger. It did indeed. Maybe dark walls were good for something, reflecting dancing red-and-gold flames.

The day they set the door, though, Ingeborg felt as if she’d been sent to prison. The soddy walls seemed to close around her, stealing the light and air she needed to live. She took the gun and headed for the woods. They’d dried the last of the venison; it was time for another deer.

She’d about reached the woods when a familiar figure stepped from the trees.

“Metis! How are you?” Ingeborg felt as though the sun had just come out after a long rain.

The old woman nodded, her face wreathed in a smile to match Ingeborg’s. “You well?”

“Ja. Welcome home.” Out of the corner of her eye, Ingeborg saw a gray shadow disappear back into the woods. Wolf was back too. But this time, she ignored the twinge of fear. Wolf would never hurt a friend of Metis. The old woman had assured her younger friend of that before she left on her trek last summer.

“You want to go hunting with me?”

“Your man let you shoot?”

“Ja, but Carl taught me to hunt,” Ingeborg said, holding up the new rifle she carried.

“Ah.” Metis held out the dead rabbit she gripped by the ears. “This yours.” She nodded over her shoulder. “In snare.”

“Thorliff has been so busy helping set the door, he hasn’t checked his lines yet. Can you use it?”

A nod.

“Then, you take it. Thorliff has been keeping us well supplied.” A chill wind tugged at Ingeborg’s coat. “I’d better get going. I am glad you are back.”

“Yes. Good to be home.”

What will she do for a home?
Ingeborg thought as she strode south along the tree line. Last year Metis had lived in a cave in the
riverbank. Would she want to build something more permanent again? Would Roald let her?

She returned to the soddy empty-handed and chilled clear through. “I saw some large hoof marks on one of the trails farther south,” she told Carl when he sat down for supper.

“Elk. We sure could use a couple of elk hides for the winter. I’ve heard that with the hair left on they are almost as warm as buffalo robes.”

“Perhaps you could hunt for elk while I take the team and drive into St. Andrew for supplies,” Roald interjected. “We could have snow any day from the look of the sky tonight. I think we have put this trip off as long as we dare.”

“Good.” Carl turned to Kaaren. “You make up a list of what we need and make sure you include coffee.” He winked at her. They’d been out for over three weeks. Roasted and ground wheat just didn’t take the place of coffee.

Both men left in the morning after doing the chores, which included bringing in an extra load of wood. The fireplace devoured wood like the steam engine of a train.