Read Online Believing the Dream by Lauraine Snelling - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lauraine Snelling
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and took her unhappy offspring to the necessary.
An arrow of sorrow pierced Thorliff’s heart. That could have been him and Anji in a couple of years if she hadn’t cut him out of her life like she had.
Unbidden, thoughts of Anji took over his mind. Graduation, her speaking so movingly, their first kiss, holding her hand, walking through the fields, laughter, the times they had danced together before he knew her to be more than a good friend.
Was college worth giving her up? Not that he’d given her up at all. She was the one who refused to let him help. She was the one who said not to come home. She was the one who failed to answer his letter.
Somehow, dredging up any anger was beyond him. He would be seeing her soon. Surely they would be able to talk again, to iron out their misunderstandings.
He forced himself to return to his history of the early church, not the most inspiring reading for one whose mind had a tendency to fly across the miles to home. When the train finally chugged into the station, he nearly leaped up the steps.
Never had the miles passed so slowly. Gray clouds hung low over the white-sheeted prairie, heralding an earlier than usual dusk. As they left the lights of town behind, the houses grew farther apart. Those he saw already had lamps lit, and all had smoke rising from chimneys. Surely many of the families were doing their last minute Christmas baking, the houses redolent with cinnamon, cardamom, and cloves. Mor would have apple cider simmering on the back of the stove, perhaps a roast in the oven, fresh bread on the counter.
His mouth watered at the thoughts. He should have asked his family to leave his skis at the boardinghouse in Blessing. Why do I always have such good ideas so long past the time to make them happen? He shook his head and continued to stare out the window.
“Hey, aren’t you young Bjorklund?” The conductor stopped beside his seat.
“Ja.” Thorliff kept his finger in the book to mark his place as he glanced up at the blue-clad man.
“I thought so. Henry Aarsgard, he married your grandmother, right?”
Thorliff nodded again.
“That Henry, he sure thinks the world of all of you. No more than if he was truly your own kin. You went away to school, to college, right?”
The man needed no more than an occasional nod to keep on talking.
“Does my heart good to see my old friend so happy.”
“Do you see him often?” Thorliff wished he had his pencil and paper out. Somehow he sensed there was a story here—he just wasn’t sure what it was yet.
“Your grandmother, she’s about the best cook anywhere. Why, just the other day she sent a basket of cookies and breads and such for those of us who knew Henry. Even had some of that Bjorklund cheese in it. Your mor makes that, right?”
Another nod.
“That Henry, he is some lucky fellow.” The conductor glanced up in response to someone’s call. “Coming.” He raised one hand in acknowledgment, then turned back to Thorliff. “You give Henry my best now, you hear?”
“I will.”
“And a blessed Yule to you and all of yours.”
“And you.” As the man took two steps along the aisle, Thorliff called him back. “Sir, I don’t know your name.”
“Just tell him Sig. He’ll know.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Sig, I will.”
As the train steamed north, Thorliff put away his book so he could identify every place and look for changes. One farm looked deserted. Was that the family Mor had written about that gave up and went back East somewhere? Or did they go back to Norway? He couldn’t remember. Either way, one of the Bjorklunds had most likely bought up his land. There’d be more fields to work come spring.
With the river frozen over, most likely his father had started cutting ice and hauling it to the ice house. Since there were no more trees to cut within hauling distance, the sawmill no longer ran in the winter. He knew that he’d missed the trek over to Minnesota to cut the Christmas tree. He shook
An arrow of sorrow pierced Thorliff’s heart. That could have been him and Anji in a couple of years if she hadn’t cut him out of her life like she had.
Unbidden, thoughts of Anji took over his mind. Graduation, her speaking so movingly, their first kiss, holding her hand, walking through the fields, laughter, the times they had danced together before he knew her to be more than a good friend.
Was college worth giving her up? Not that he’d given her up at all. She was the one who refused to let him help. She was the one who said not to come home. She was the one who failed to answer his letter.
Somehow, dredging up any anger was beyond him. He would be seeing her soon. Surely they would be able to talk again, to iron out their misunderstandings.
He forced himself to return to his history of the early church, not the most inspiring reading for one whose mind had a tendency to fly across the miles to home. When the train finally chugged into the station, he nearly leaped up the steps.
Never had the miles passed so slowly. Gray clouds hung low over the white-sheeted prairie, heralding an earlier than usual dusk. As they left the lights of town behind, the houses grew farther apart. Those he saw already had lamps lit, and all had smoke rising from chimneys. Surely many of the families were doing their last minute Christmas baking, the houses redolent with cinnamon, cardamom, and cloves. Mor would have apple cider simmering on the back of the stove, perhaps a roast in the oven, fresh bread on the counter.
His mouth watered at the thoughts. He should have asked his family to leave his skis at the boardinghouse in Blessing. Why do I always have such good ideas so long past the time to make them happen? He shook his head and continued to stare out the window.
“Hey, aren’t you young Bjorklund?” The conductor stopped beside his seat.
“Ja.” Thorliff kept his finger in the book to mark his place as he glanced up at the blue-clad man.
“I thought so. Henry Aarsgard, he married your grandmother, right?”
Thorliff nodded again.
“That Henry, he sure thinks the world of all of you. No more than if he was truly your own kin. You went away to school, to college, right?”
The man needed no more than an occasional nod to keep on talking.
“Does my heart good to see my old friend so happy.”
“Do you see him often?” Thorliff wished he had his pencil and paper out. Somehow he sensed there was a story here—he just wasn’t sure what it was yet.
“Your grandmother, she’s about the best cook anywhere. Why, just the other day she sent a basket of cookies and breads and such for those of us who knew Henry. Even had some of that Bjorklund cheese in it. Your mor makes that, right?”
Another nod.
“That Henry, he is some lucky fellow.” The conductor glanced up in response to someone’s call. “Coming.” He raised one hand in acknowledgment, then turned back to Thorliff. “You give Henry my best now, you hear?”
“I will.”
“And a blessed Yule to you and all of yours.”
“And you.” As the man took two steps along the aisle, Thorliff called him back. “Sir, I don’t know your name.”
“Just tell him Sig. He’ll know.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Sig, I will.”
As the train steamed north, Thorliff put away his book so he could identify every place and look for changes. One farm looked deserted. Was that the family Mor had written about that gave up and went back East somewhere? Or did they go back to Norway? He couldn’t remember. Either way, one of the Bjorklunds had most likely bought up his land. There’d be more fields to work come spring.
With the river frozen over, most likely his father had started cutting ice and hauling it to the ice house. Since there were no more trees to cut within hauling distance, the sawmill no longer ran in the winter. He knew that he’d missed the trek over to Minnesota to cut the Christmas tree. He shook
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