Believing the Dream
Believing
the Dream
Books by
Lauraine Snelling
Golden Fill Collection One *
Golden Filly Collection Two *
Secret Refuge (3 in 1 )
DAKOTA 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 Reaper’s Song
Tender Mercies
Blessing in Disguise
RETURN TO RED RIVER
A Dream to Follow • Believing the Dream
More Than a Dream
* 5 books in each volume
LAURAINE
SNELLING
Believing
the Dream
Believing the Dream
Copyright © 2002
Lauraine Snelling
Cover by Dan Thornberg, Design Source Creative Services
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
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN 978–0-7642–0828–7
The Library of Congress has cataloged the original edition as follows:
Snelling, Lauraine.
Believing the dream / by Lauraine Snelling.
p. cm. — (Return to Red River ; 2)
ISBN 0–7642–2318–6 (pbk.)
1. College students—Fiction. 2. Journalists—Fiction. 3. Young men—Fiction.
I. Title.
PS3569.N39 B45 2002
813'.54—dc21
2002002574
DEDICATION
Believing the dream is dedicated
to all my readers who want to know
what happens next with the Bjorklunds.
So do I.
Thank you for the opportunity to find out.
Blessed to be blessings,
all of us.
LAURAINE SNELLING is an award-winning author of over 60 books, fiction and nonfiction for adults and young adults. Her books have sold over two million copies. Besides writing books and articles, she teaches at writers’ conferences across the country. She and her husband, Wayne, have two grown sons, a bassett named Chewy, and a cockatiel watch bird named Bidley. They make their home in California.
Bjorklund Family Tree
CONTENTS
BJORKLUND FAMILY TREE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER ONE
Northfield, Minnesota
November 1893
Perhaps today there’d be a letter from home—from Anji.
Thorliff Bjorklund stared out at the snow-blanketed yard behind the office of the Northfield News. Yesterday the mud matched his mood, and today, well, how could anyone feel like burnt oatmeal when the world sported a new coat of white? He turned back to his room, made the bed, and grabbed his books off the desk. If he didn’t hurry, they’d be late for school, and the teachers at St. Olaf College did not approve of tardiness.
With the red muffler around his neck that his little sister, Astrid, had knit for him, gloves knit by Bestemor Bridget, and a black wool coat sewn by his mother, he was a walking testimony to the love of the folks back home. He squinted his eyes against the sparkling world, eyes of such an intense shade of blue that many people who knew referred to them as “Bjorklund” eyes. So why didn’t they write?
His breath formed white clouds in front of him as his long legs made short distance of the blocks to the Rogerses’ house, home of his employer and benefactor, his wife, Annabelle, and his daughter, Elizabeth, Thorliff ’s constant sparring partner. If he said black, she said red. His jaw squared at the thought, and he shook his head. Women, how do you understand them? Anji, how do I understand you? One minute he wanted to write and pour out his love for her, the next he swore never to write again—not after the telegram he’d received from her.
More than a month had passed since she told him not to come home. She didn’t want or need his help caring for her injured father.
He rang the doorbell, stamping his feet to remove the snow.
“Good morning, Thorliff. You’re late.” Elizabeth Rogers, her wavy hair bundled tight in a crocheted snood, beckoned him inside. “You can eat your breakfast on the way. Father has gone to harness the horse to the sleigh.” Her gray eyes snapped with challenge, and a smile had yet to call the dimple in her right cheek out from hiding.
“Snow too deep for you?” He knew the barb would hit home.
“If you had to wear wool skirts and layers of petticoats, you wouldn’t ask such a silly question.” Her laughter said she knew the darkening red of his face was due to her offhand comment of her unmentionables. She led the way back to the kitchen, where Cook handed Thorliff a cup of steaming coffee.
“God dag.”
“Mange takk.” Thorliff had removed his gloves on the way down the hall and now cupped both hands around the hot mug. “This feels as good as it tastes.” Only with Cook did he ever speak Norwegian now, and that rarely. While there were classes at school still conducted in Norwegian, they had to do with the language, history, or literature of Norway. All else was taught in English.
“I made you a packet to go.” Tall and spare as the words she used, Cook handed him a cloth-wrapped package. “There’s enough there for your dinner too.”
At a shout from outside, Thorliff took a couple quick sips from his coffee cup and handed it back to her. “Takk.”
He held the door for Elizabeth and followed her out, flicking a wave to Cook as he closed it. The cold bit his nose as soon as he stepped off the porch.
“Good morning, Thorliff. I hope that cantankerous furnace kept you warm last night.” Phillip Rogers, his straight nose and high cheeks already red with cold, finished tucking the wool robe around his daughter’s legs. “Coldest we’ve had this year, and along with all this snow, I thought you two could use a ride up the hill this morning.” He climbed into the f
ront seat of the sleigh, tucking his heavy wool greatcoat over his legs.
“Thank you, sir. I added coal to the furnace before I left and set the damper on half. The water was frozen in my pitcher this morning.”
The horse snorted, sending out a white cloud, and picked up a high-stepping trot that set the harness bells jingling.
The sound only reminded Thorliff of home. This morning everything reminded him of home, and here he thought he’d gotten over that. When they hit the grade going up to Manitou Heights and the college, the horse dug in, slowing to a walk so as not to slip.
“Good thing I had him shod last week. Put the winter calks on his shoes.” Phillip turned to smile at his riders. “You two sure are quiet this morning.”
“I have a philosophy recitation first period.” Elizabeth spoke from her nest in the rear seat. “I feel that if I don’t hold my head just right, all that I memorized will drain right out.”
Phillip laughed. “That’s my girl.” He turned to Thorliff. “And you, son, what about you?”
Thorliff half shrugged. Confessing that all his thoughts since rising had to do with home seemed extremely inappropriate. After all, the last thing he wanted to do was offend his host and employer. “I have an idea for a story for the paper.”
“Good, what’s that?”
“What if you ran a contest for a Christmas story, the winner or top three or some such being published Christmas week? I thought maybe you could have different divisions, according to age, you know.” He sent Mr. Rogers a sideways glance, hoping for some sign of approbation. When he received a nod, he continued. “I thought perhaps you could ask some teachers from Carleton and St. Olaf to be the judges.”
“And would there be prizes?”
“Isn’t being published enough?” Thorliff thought back to his first acceptance letter and to the excitement he’d felt the last couple of years after sending off stories. How he’d run all the way to the Baards’ farm to tell Anji. He jerked himself back to a sleigh in Minnesota, leaving thoughts of the summer fields of home in Blessing, North Dakota, behind.
Phillip nodded. “Maybe so, maybe so.”
“I checked the back issues. You’ve never done anything like this.”
“Got to hand it to you, young man, you are indeed thorough. That’s most important in a newspaperman.”
“Thank you, sir.” Thorliff dredged up a mite of courage. “I . . . I could write up an article regarding the contest.” While writing for the paper was a dream for the future, he’d not expressed a desire to do so immediately. Perhaps Mr. Rogers didn’t see him as capable of that. Perhaps he was being too forward. Why hadn’t he just kept his idea to himself to use in his own paper someday?
Sleigh and harness bells jingled. The horse snorted as he reached the crest of the hill.
Why didn’t I keep my mouth shut? Showing off, or what? Thorliff swallowed a sigh.
“I think that’s a fine idea.” The voice from the backseat caught him totally by surprise. “So are you going to do it, Father?”
“Of course.” Phillip glanced over his shoulder. “I said I would.”
“No, you said that Mr. Bjorklund was thorough, which is fine and good, but you didn’t answer his question.”
Thorliff clapped his jaw shut. Elizabeth said all that . . . for him? Would wonders never cease? And Mr. Rogers said “of course,” like, like . . . Thorliff felt like leaping from the sleigh and bounding through the snow, bounding over those tall elm trees that bordered the street and perhaps even a building or two.
“Oh, well”—Phillip turned to Thorliff—“can you have the article ready for typesetting tomorrow? We’ll run it on the front page.”
“Ah, of course.”
“We’ll do a thirty-point title, and unless something momentous happens to bump it to the second page, take six to eight inches. That way you can cover all the rules.”
“Ah, rules. Yes, sir.” Thorliff gathered his things and stepped from the sleigh with a nod. “Thank you for the ride.”
“Elizabeth is good with rules. She’ll help you.”
“Yes, sir.” He turned to assist her, but she waved him off.
Elizabeth threw back the robe and stepped from the sleigh. “Good thing my recitation is in my first class this morning.” She retrieved her satchel of books. “Remember to contact Mrs. James regarding that ad. I wasn’t able to reach her. And remind her she has to pay for the last one.”
Phillip Rogers made some kind of noise, and the look he sent his daughter brought forth a peal of laughter. He touched the brim of his black Homburg, clucked the horse forward, and headed back down the hill.
As he did every school morning, Thorliff looked up to the imposing tower atop the mansard roof of the college. The entire red brick building, affectionately called Old Main, resembled a European fortress or castle, but in his mind the tower pointed to God himself.
“Mr. Bjorklund, would you please stay after class?” Mr. Ingermanson, who taught freshman English, stopped at Thorliff ’s desk as he handed back the papers he’d graded.
Thorliff fell off the dream ledge he’d been enjoying and nodded. Now what? Had his paper been so terrible? He wanted to tuck it into his bag but forced himself to look at it instead. Not good but not terrible either. He thought back to the glowing comments Pastor Solberg used to write on his papers. Life sure was different here. He had yet to receive a glowing comment on anything in any of his subjects. He took notes through the lecture and waited until the others had filed out. Benjamin, the young man who sat behind him who’d become his friend, gave him a commiserating look as he passed by. Thorliff shrugged, then rose to stand in front of the teacher’s desk.
“Sir?”
“Ah yes. It has come to my attention that you are from North Dakota.”
“Yes, sir. From Blessing, a small town near Grafton.”
“Are you by any chance related to the family that makes the cheese?”
“Yes, that’s my family. My mother started the business.” Thorliff felt his shoulders relax as a sigh of relief escaped.
“Good, good. I have a favor to ask.” Mr. Ingermanson, receding dark hair combed straight off his brow, leaned back in his chair. At Thorliff ’s nod he continued. “Will you be going home for the Christmas holidays?”
“Yes, sir.” Unless Anji sends another message to the contrary, then I may never go home again.
“Fine. I know this sounds strange, but could you bring back a wheel of cheddar cheese?”
Thorliff nodded, at the same time wondering how he would carry it on the train.
“My family just loves that cheese, and it would make a marvelous Christmas present, albeit a bit late.” He smiled. “I will pay you whatever the cost.”
“I will write and ask Mor to keep one aside. Christmas season pretty much cleans out the cheese house.”
“Thank you, young man, I do appreciate that.”
“You are welcome. Is there anything else?”
“Yes, one thing. Your answer to question five presented a very interesting thought line. You think for yourself and present your views clearly and persuasively. A fine thing in one of your age. You are dismissed.”
“Thank you, sir.” Thorliff barely resisted clicking his heels together once outside the door. A compliment. He’d finally received a compliment on something he’d written. And wouldn’t Mor laugh about the cheese order.
He ate his dinner in the study room along with others who brought their own meals instead of eating in the dining hall.
“So.” Benjamin sat down next to him and opened a packet of sandwiches. “What did Inger the Terrible want with you?” Benjamin was as dark as Thorliff was fair, with woolly caterpillar eyebrows above deep-set hazel eyes. His hooked nose reminded Thorliff of one of the workhorses at home, but the smile that made grooves in Benjamin’s cheeks was totally irresistible.
“He wanted me to bring back cheese from home. My mor makes the best cheese in the country.”
“She sh
ips to Minnesota?”
“Our cheese goes all over the country. And it’s possible our wheat was ground into flour for your bread.”
“How big did you say your farm is?” Benjamin started on his second half of sandwich, the first disappearing in three bites. “Half of North Dakota?”
“No, it’s just that most of our wheat goes to flour mills in Minnesota.” Thorliff laid down his roast beef and cheese sandwich and popped one of the molasses cookies into his mouth. “If they’d pay decent prices for the wheat, the farmers would be able to keep producing.”
“I heard they’re having a bad drought again on the prairies.”
“Yes, they’ve had hardly any rain this fall, so the snow had better be deep.” Thorliff returned to his sandwich, then pushed back his chair. “You want a cup of coffee?”
“Sure.” Benjamin held out his mug.
Thorliff took the two cups up to the large gray graniteware pot that simmered on the stove and filled them both. When he returned another student had joined them.
“Mail’s in if you are interested.”
Thorliff set his cup down. “I’ll be right back.”
“Hey, Thorliff, pick mine up too, will you?” Benjamin raised his voice to be heard over the hubbub.
Thorliff waved one hand to signify he’d heard and joined the ranks of students checking their mailboxes in the dark oak-paneled hall. When he twirled the handle of box 316 and opened the little door, he could see two envelopes. Anji—could one be from Anji? He withdrew them both and checked the handwriting, cutting off the sigh before it took wings. One from his mor and the other from Pastor Solberg. At least he’d heard from home. Two weeks without a letter seemed like half a year. But why nothing from Anji? Sorrow seeded resentment, and resentment sprouted instantly into anger. And to think she had promised to write him every week. If that’s all the stronger her word—He cut off the thoughts and checked the glass on Benjamin’s box. Nothing.
“Sorry, your box was empty.” Thorliff took his place at the table and wolfed down the rest of his sandwich.