PROLOGUE
Ellis Island, New York Harbor, April 1897
Jostled by the other immigrants disembarking from the
ferry, Inga Linberg hurried down the gangway. There were
some advantages to being tall, she thought as she looked
over the heads of others, her gaze locked on solid ground.
It seemed months rather than weeks since the steamship had
left Southampton, even longer since she and her family had
bade farewell to Goteborg, Sweden, and she wondered what
it would feel like to stand on something that wasn't
rolling beneath her feet.
She looked over her shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of
her parents or sisters, but they had been swallowed up by
the crowd. That she'd become separated from them was her
own fault, of course. She'd wanted to get a better look at
the federal immigration depot and had worked her way to
the railing to stare at the building and watch while
immigrants from other ferries were unloaded and ushered
inside.
"Form a line! Form a line!" an official yelled in English.
Another shouted the same in Swedish. Others yelled the
command in a variety of languages.
Inga glanced at her bodice, making sure the numbered card
that had been pinned there before she'd left the RMS
Teutonic had not been lost in the rush to shore. The
number matched Inga to the steamship's manifest. Without
it, her processing through immigration could be held up
for hours, perhaps even days.
"Saints be praised! Sure and I was afraid we wouldn't find
you again."
Inga turned to find her shipboard friends, Mary Malone and
Beth Wellington, standing behind her. "Ja. I am here. How
are you feeling?"
"Tired." Mary touched the round swell of her stomach, as
if to reassure the unborn child within.
"You remember what I told you?" Inga asked softly, so as
not to be overheard.
Mary nodded. "I remember. They'll not hear it from me that
I'm yet to be married. And 'tis married I am in me heart,
so 'twon't be a lie. Seamus would never have come to
America without me had he known about the babe." She
touched Inga's arm. "We may become separated inside and
not see each other again. 'Tis thanks I owe you for all
the help you've been to us. I'll have you know it."
Beth smiled sadly. "Mary's right. Without your help and
advice, we would have been frightfully ignorant about so
many things. You have become the dearest of friends, Inga.
I shall miss you a great deal. Remember, we all promised
to write to one another as soon as we're settled."
The line started moving forward. "I will not forget," Inga
promised quickly, her throat tight with emotion.
In all of Inga's life, she had never had any truly close
friends. Not like Beth and Mary. But the three of them had
become inseparable, almost from the moment they'd met in
Southampton. Inga was going to miss them more than she
dared admit, even to herself.
"Check your belongings in the baggage room," a man yelled
as she entered the depot. "Check your parcels here, then
proceed up the stairs."
After leaving her bags where she was told, Inga glanced
behind her, only to discover Mary's prediction had proven
true. Her friends had disappeared into the sea of
immigrants filling the vast room. She wondered if she
would ever have an opportunity to hug them and say a
proper farewell before they went their separate ways.
But she hadn't time to allow feelings of melancholy to
overtake her. This was her first day in America. Even the
examination process of Ellis Island, which everyone else
seemed to dread, wouldn't spoil it for her. She was
determined to savor every moment of this great adventure
until the Linbergs reached their new home in Iowa. She
suspected that once they were living in the parsonage in
Uppsala, the adventure would end, and her life as the
pastor's eldest and most dutiful daughter would return to
the same familiar routine she had known in Sweden.
What else could possibly await her?
Chapter One
Uppsala, Iowa, December 1897
Dirk Bridger drew the wool collar up around his ears, but
the wind was bitter cold and his coat was too thin. He
slapped the reins against the horses' rumps, hoping to
hurry the ancient animals along, even though he knew the
gesture was useless. Sunset and Robber had no more speed
to give. They were worn out and used up, like far too many
things on the Bridger dairy farm.
He frowned, remembering how his ma had used similar words
about herself yesterday. "I'm no spring chicken, Dirk,"
she'd said. "I'm wore out. But if I could just get me some
rest, I'd be right as rain in no time."
Only Dr. Swenson didn't seem to think so. He thought
Hattie Bridger's illness was much more serious than that.
And so Dirk had decided to put pride behind him and seek
some much-needed help.
"You go see that Reverend Linberg," Ma had told him this
morning. "He'll know who we can hire to mind the girls."
But who would want to work for what little Dirk could
afford to pay? And what would happen if he couldn't find
someone willing to help out? His ma was ailing-perhaps
dying, if the doctor knew what he was talking about-and
Dirk couldn't take care of Ma, his orphaned nieces, and
the farm all by himself.
An icy wind buffeted him from behind. He closed his eyes
and, for just a moment, allowed himself to remember those
last few weeks he'd spent out West. Summer. Hot and dusty.
Saloons and pretty, scantily dressed barmaids. Cowboys
with fast horses and shiny guns strapped to their thighs.
He gave his head a shake and returned his gaze to the road
before him. Daydreams were for youngboys and men with no
responsibilities. They weren't for him.. Not anymore. Not
for a long time.
The Prarieblomman Lutheran Church came into view, its tall
white steeple piercing the cloudless blue of the sky.
Beside the church was the two-story parsonage where the
Linbergs lived. Dirk hadn't met the minister or his
family, even though they'd arrived in Uppsala last May.
The Bridger dairy farm was more than an hour's ride
outside of Uppsala, and Dirk limited his trips into town
to once or twice a month. As for Sundays, Dirk Bridger
hadn't darkened the door of a church — any church-in many
years.
He didn't figure God had missed him.
Dirk drew back on the reins, stopping the team in front of
the clapboard parsonage. He dropped the lap robe onto the
floor of the wagon, then hopped to the ground. With a few
long strides, he crossed the yard and climbed the steps to
the porch. Quickly, he rapped his glove-covered knuckles
against the door.
Within moments, the door opened, revealing a pretty
teenage girl with golden hair and dark blue eyes.
"Hello. Is the pastor in?"
She smiled shyly. "Ja. Come in, please."
Dirk whipped off his wool cap as he stepped into the
warmth of the house. The girl motioned toward the parlor,
and he followed her into the room.
"I will get Pappa," she said, a flush coloring her cheeks.
Dirk waited until she'd disappeared before allowing his
gaze to roam. Although sparsely furnished, the room had a
warm, welcoming feel to it. Lace doilies covered a small
round table, a lamp set on top of it. A colorful quilt was
draped over the back of the couch, another over the arm of
a chair. Framed photographs lined the mantel, women with
hair worn tight to their heads, their mouths set in grim
lines, men with long mustaches and half smiles.
"Those are members of our family in Sweden," a man said
from behind Dirk. His voice was heavily accented with the
singsong rhythm peculiar to the Swedes.
Dirk turned.
"I am Olaf Linberg." The pastor held out his
hand. "Welcome to our home."
"I'm Dirk Bridger," he said, relieved the man obviously
spoke and understood English. "I run a dairy farm west of
here."
Dirk guessed the pastor was about sixty years old. His
hair and long beard were completely white, but his stance
was unbent and his face only slightly lined. When they
shook hands, he discovered the pastor's grip was firm.
"I believe I know the farm, Mr. Bridger. Sven Gerhard is
your neighbor." Olaf released Dirk's hand and motioned
toward the sofa. "Please, sit down."
As he accepted the pastor's invitation, Dirk sought the
right words to say next. It wasn't easy, asking for help.
He'd been taking care of his own for most of his life.
Olaf's smile was both kind and patient. "Whatever has
brought you here, young man, I will do my best to be of
service."
"I feel a bit strange coming to you, the Bridgers not
being members of your church and all. My ma's a Methodist."
"We are all members of God's family." The pastor chuckled
softly. "Even Methodists."
Dirk shrugged. Then he raked the fingers of one hand
through his hair and said, "Reverend, I guess there's
nothin' else for me to do but come right out with it. I
need to hire a woman to take care of my ailin' ma and
watch after my nieces while I work the farm."
"You are not married, Mr. Bridger?"
"No. The dairy used to belong to my brother John. He and
his wife, Margaret, died nigh on two years ago now. That's
when I came here to run the place while Ma took care of
John's little girls. But now she's sick and the doctor
says she's got to stay in bed if she's gonna get well. We
thought you might know of someone who'd be willing to work
for us. I can't pay much. We barely get by as it is."
Copyright 2001 Robin Lee Hatcher