An Untamed Land Read online

  Books by Lauraine Snelling

  Golden Filly Collection One*

  Golden Filly Collection Two*

  High Hurdles Collection One*

  High Hurdles Collection Two*

  SECRET REFUGE

  Daughter of Twin Oaks

  DAKOTAH TREASURES

  Ruby • Pearl

  Opal • Amethyst

  DAUGHTERS OF BLESSING

  A Promise for Ellie • Sophie’s Dilemma

  A Touch of Grace • Rebecca’s Reward

  HOME TO BLESSING

  A Measure of Mercy • No Distance Too Far

  A Heart for Home

  RED RIVER OF THE NORTH

  An Untamed Land • A New Day Rising

  A Land to Call Home • The Reapers’ Song

  Tender Mercies • Blessing in Disguise

  RETURN TO RED RIVER

  A Dream to Follow • Believing the Dream

  More Than a Dream

  WILD WEST WIND

  Valley of Dreams

  *5 books in each volume

  Winner of the 1997 Angel Award

  An Untamed Land

  Copyright ©1996

  Lauraine Snelling

  Cover design by Jennifer Parker

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.

  www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2011

  ISBN 978-1-4412-0318-2

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  Dedication

  The men and women who left Norway to forge a new life in America were pioneers of deep courage and fortitude. Leaving behind everything they treasured, they faced innumerable hardships as they settled across the territories of the West. To those forefathers whose fearless valor tamed the harsh new land, I dedicate this book with gratitude and admiration. Since my heritage is Norwegian, I tell my ancestors’ story—a story of all those who ventured from their homelands to pursue their dreams in another country.

  I give my love and appreciation to those pioneers who shaped us all.

  LAURAINE SNELLING is an award-winning author of over 60 books, fiction and nonfiction, for adults and young adults. Her books have sold over 2 million copies. Besides writing books and articles, she teaches at writers’ conferences across the country. She and her husband, Wayne, have two grown sons and make their home in California.

  Acknowledgments

  Writing a book of this scope would be impossible without the assistance of many people: those who have compiled their own research, those who write their own family stories and histories, and all those who have a love of history and are willing to share it. I cannot list them all, but they are a part of this series, nonetheless.

  I spent many hours in universities, historical societies, libraries, churches, and book stores researching the setting for this series—the Red River Valley. In addition, I spoke with numerous individuals in order to gain a better understanding of the people and conditions of this time in history. The books on farming and the history of the Red River farmers by Dr. Hiram Drache of Moorhead, Minnesota, were not only informational but interesting reading as well. He is a delightful person and a veritable fount of information. John Bye and his staff at North Dakota State University in Fargo, Sharon Horerson at Concordia Lutheran in Moorhead, and Sandy Slater, along with her assistant Dean Yates, at the University of North Dakota in Grand Forks all provided me with valuable material from the universities’ regional study programs and from the collections of family histories. The textbook, The History of North Dakota, by Elwyne B. Robinson, made reading history delightful. Dan A. Aird guided us on a tour of Bonanzaville in Fargo that transported us back to the early days of this country. Robert J. Lommel at Stearns County Historical Society and Mark Peihl at Clay County added their colorful input, along with Frank Schiller, who loves to show off the collection at Minto, North Dakota, where the Walsh County Historical Museum is located.

  Shirley L. Richter of the Fargo/Moorhead Convention and Visitors Bureau sent me packets of information, as did Sandy Dobmeier in Grand Forks. Thanks to the tourism magazine of North Dakota, we spent two days at the Fort Ransom Sodbuster Day, which was a reenactment of early history. What fun we had, and what wonderful people we met. Theresa Johnson and her family demonstrated soap making, cooking in a spider in a fire pit, period dress, and shared all the books and information they’ve collected to make the reenactment accurate. John drove the most gorgeous team of mules, and he, along with other farmers, hitched up three across to show me what it took to pull that early machinery. Thanks to all you people for your love of old-time farming practices and your willingness to answer my myriad of questions. Mr. Carter of Carter Farms in Park Rapids, Minnesota, raised and trained a team of Ayrshire steers to pull his farm wagon. Talk about a huge, beautiful team of oxen! Ardenwood Farms in Newark, California, also conduct old-time farming days, and I was quickly reminded of the reason denim overalls were worn. Wheat spears easily poke through cotton knit shorts and tank tops, with itching success.

  So many others added their bits of information. My uncle Gilbert, at ninety-five, remembers it all, if I can think of the right questions to prime his pump. Rod McIntosh of Colfax, Washington, explains well the finer points of plowing and other general farming tasks.

  Friends and family help any writer keep sane and on track, and mine are no exception. Thanks to Pat Rushford and Ruby MacDonald for their critiquing skills and their abiding friendship. Thanks to my husband, Wayne, who is growing as a researcher while I continue to grow as a writer. All things work better when we are part of a good team.

  No book would ever make it to print without editorial expertise. Sharon Madison not only read and reread the manuscript, she cheered me on when the going got tough, and when I was running out of pages and time. Sharon Asmus has an eye for detail that is amazing and the patience of a saint. My thanks to all the Bethany House Publishers staff who put this book together when I finally got it finished.

  Prologue

  Norway 1877

  Gustaf Bjorklund waited patiently in his chair at the head of the oval oak table for the members of his family to take their seats so the discussion could begin. He stroked his gray beard with fingers coarsened and cracked by years of heavy labor in the frigid Norwegian winter air. One curling strand caught in an open crack and he felt the small twinge of pain.

  However, that pain was minute compared to the heavy pain burdening his heart. But he would show neither.

  “Far, you have blood running down your finger.” Roald, the second-eldest son, reached for a bit of cloth and handed it to his father.

  “Uff da, what shall I do with you?” Bridget, Gustaf’s wife of thirty-five years, pressed her finger against the cut until it ceased to bleed. “You haven’t been using the goose grease, have you?”

  With a quick frown that failed to penetrate Bridget’s armor of concern, Gustaf retrieved his hand from her grasp. “Enough,” he said.

  From under bushy eyebrows, liberally sprinkled with gray, he slowly stared at each one seated around the table. Years before, when the children were young, they had quailed from such a look and ran quickly to do his
bidding. Now, nearly all of them grown, they let their father wait as they finished their animated discussions and settled expectantly into their chairs, their mood of excitement irrepressible.

  Were they so enamored with the adventures of going to the new land that they were all ready to leave Norway this very night? Gustaf shook his head at the thought. If and when they together made the decision, it would be months, possibly even years, before the needed money could be gathered. That would be part of the discussion he expected would continue for some months yet. As if they hadn’t talked and argued and discussed over and over the move already—no thanks to the letters his younger brother sent home from Amerika. Perhaps he should have burned them when he had the opportunity, but what with the zealots for emigration canvassing the entire country, what chance did he have of keeping his family together here in the hills of Valdres?

  Finally, silence fell upon the room, an expectant silence broken only by the snapping of the fire in the round, ceramic stove in the corner. Its windows glowed a cherry red from the heat of the fire crackling within.

  Gustaf stared up at the carved shelf that followed the walls around the entire room and held his family’s heirlooms of kettle and plate. He’d built that shelf with his own hands during the cold nights of a winter long past, just as he had built every piece of oak and birch furniture in the house: the tables and chairs, the spinning wheel that sang in the corner, the dry-well sink, the open-fronted cupboards in the kitchen. He had taken great pleasure in putting his own stamp of craftmanship on this house and making it truly their home.

  “We are ready.” Johann, oldest by two years and heir of the Bjorklund farm, touched his father’s hand to get his attention. It wasn’t like Far to be off in his thoughts like this. Johann shot a questioning look to his younger brother Roald.

  Roald barely dipped his head, but the message was clear. Let them begin.

  Gustaf flashed his eldest a look that left no doubt he was back in charge. “It is good of you to come together this day. I know you have all been talking much about the possibility of moving to the Dakota Territory of the United States of Amerika.” With one finger he traced the outline of the newspaper article centered in front of him on the oilcloth table covering. Beside it lay their prized copy of an Amerika book, the cover faded and bruised by the many who’d pored over its pages. The pause lengthened. “You must all understand it is not my wish for any of you to go. Would that we could all stay here in this country we love, that there were land available and work that you might make a good living like we did in days long gone.”

  Had he failed them? Was it his fault that wages paid today would scarcely feed one man, let alone a family? In this year of 1877 everything had become so costly: the food they could not produce themselves, little though that was, new tools, a cow to replace the one they’d had to butcher when she was so old she would no longer breed. When he looked up he saw that everyone was sitting with their gazes fixed on his face. Where had he been? Oh, my God, my God. Is it your will my fine strong sons will cross the sea, and I will never see their faces again this side of eternity?

  He squared his broad shoulders and took in a deep breath of air redolent with the precious cinnamon Bridget had used in the römmegrot, a flour and cream pudding, she’d made as a special treat. “Let us get on with this.” His voice gained strength with every word. “Would that I could give each of you a portion of this farm, but that is not to be. Our ten acres will not support five families, as you well know.”

  “And in Dakota Territory, land is free for the taking.” Roald’s deep baritone rang with conviction. “I will go first and make a way for the others.”

  By his side, Roald’s wife, Anna, tried to keep her gaze on her hands, but disobediently, both her eyes and her lips smiled up at him. She hugged Thorliff, their twenty-month-old son, closer to her breast, breathing in the sleepy sweet scent of him. They would do this for their children. All of this for their children. By the time they sailed for Amerika, Roald would have two fine sons to train up as his helpers. She guarded that secret deep within her, pushing away the traitorous possibility that the new seed growing within her might be a girl. Roald needed sons.

  Gustaf nodded, a small movement of the head that took all his willpower to perform. “Ja, that is the best way. Now then . . .” His deep blue eyes gazed around the table, meeting the eyes of each of his children, never leaving one for the next until he had searched their intent through the window of each soul. Was it inevitable that they all wanted to leave Norway so badly? Would their hearts never yearn for home? “The money—it will cost a king’s ransom to send Roald and his family to the new land.”

  Halfway down the table, nineteen-year-old Carl cleared his throat. “Far, I’ve been thinking I should go along. Two can work better than one, as you’ve always taught us.”

  “Ach.” The cutoff sigh that sobbed of pain and sorrow escaped from Bridget. Gustaf turned to his wife and watched as she quickly smothered a second sigh with her hand, knowing the thought of losing yet another son to Amerika pained her deeply.

  Looking back at Carl, he asked, “You’d turn a man’s wisdom against him, then?” With the sharp retort, Gustaf disguised the surge of pride he felt in his fine strong sons. They had listened to him through the years. He knew that by the way they often quoted him.

  “Only when necessary.” Carl’s quick answer, along with a cheeky grin, brought warm smiles from the others gathered around the table.

  “Then we’ll need to save the price of another ticket,” Roald said, nodding to his brother.

  “More like two,” Carl quickly added. “I would marry Kaaren Hjelmson before we leave.”

  Amidst smiles of approval and a slight gasp from Bridget, Gustaf remained silent. He looked at Carl’s clasped hands upon the table in front of him, hands like his father’s that could shape a piece of wood into whatever he asked of it. This third son of his was gifted with many talents.

  “And you can support a wife already?” Gustaf asked as he leaned back in his chair. “I understood you didn’t want to farm.”

  “That was when there was no possibility of land. I don’t want to work myself into a grave for someone else.”

  A murmur of agreement flashed around the table.

  Gustaf felt it like an arrow piercing his side. Was this what his father had felt when brother Thorliff insisted on emigrating? They’d never seen him again and only received one letter from him before a friend wrote to say Thorliff had been killed in a logging accident in the north woods of a place called Minnesota. The new land everyone claimed to be so welcoming of immigrants had already extracted its own severe price.

  Gustaf dug in his vest pocket and removed his favorite pipe. Even though he’d been rationing his scant store of tobacco, tonight was surely one of those times when a good smoke was needed. He cradled the familiar piece in his hand, drawing a measure of comfort from it before he tapped, tamped, and lit it, sending rings of gray smoke spiraling toward the ceiling. When it was drawing to his satisfaction, he leaned forward.

  “I’m sure you have a plan in mind.” He directed the comment to Roald.

  “Yes, sir, with your permission.” At his father’s nod, Roald took a piece of paper from his shirt pocket and unfolded it. “In fact, I have several plans so we can decide what will work out best for all.”

  “We can decide? Wouldn’t it be better to lay those plans of yours before the good Lord and let Him choose the best path?” Gustaf watched his son bite back a retort. Roald had never been one to ask for or expect divine guidance. Where did I fail him? Gustaf shook his head. Enough of that. Look ahead. Looking back never did anyone any good.

  Gustaf wasn’t surprised that Roald chose to ignore his father’s question and instead continued as if he had not spoken.

  “I say that I should go work on Onkel Hamre’s fishing boat as soon as I can leave my work here,” Roald said, laying out the first step of his plan.

  “I’ll go with you,” Carl spo
ke up. “Onkel has begged us both to come and help him for the last couple of years.”

  “It is dangerous work,” Roald reminded him.

  “More so for you than me?”

  Roald took in a deep breath and returned to his list. “Anna can either return to live with her parents, or stay here. That way we won’t be paying rent on our house.”

  “And we can sell our furniture and put that money toward the tickets.” Anna flashed a smile that showed she agreed wholeheartedly with her husband.

  “Anna, if you stay here and help Mor, I can find a position in the city and send the money home,” Augusta, the eldest daughter, added.

  The discussion continued far into the night as everyone suggested possible ways they could help the emigrants prepare for their journey to Amerika.

  As Bridget refilled coffee cups around the table, she relocked the door to her heavy heart. Her children would go to Amerika, and she would grieve a long, long time. Yes, they would write letters home. And yes, this was for the best. For them. Already she could feel the wrenching.

  Ingeborg Bjorklund shifted on the hard bench and fingered the tattered newspaper article in the pocket of her reticule. She lifted her face to the offshore wind that brought a fresh breeze to nostrils filled too long with only salt-scented air.

  They had safely crossed the great Atlantic Ocean. In spite of several cruel, unrelenting storms at sea and a ship that moaned its desire to join comrades now crushed in the ocean depths, they could smell the robust fragrance of land, even though they couldn’t yet see it. Seagulls screeched around the sides of the ship, harbingers of the new life that waited for them. Bonanzaland, some called it.

  She didn’t have to reread the article. In the last months Ingeborg had read it so many times that she had every word memorized. Paul Hjelm Hanson, a Norwegian-American journalist from Minnesota, had sent his articles to newspapers all over Norway, writing of rich, flat land that lay empty, pleading for the bite of the plow. “New Canaan,” as he called it, had land free for the claiming, land that promised untold wealth and farmsteads for their children. It was the promise of land that fed their dream and pulled them from the security of Norway in that year of our Lord, 1880. And Ingeborg had promised herself that once they left the shores of Norway, she would not look back. There would be no regrets, only dreams of the new life that lay ahead. Together with Carl and Kaaren, she and Roald would build a good life in a new land. God had made possible this journey to Amerika, and God would be with them here, just as He had been with them all along the way.