No Distance Too Far Read online

  Ingeborg raised her hand. “I want to thank you all for helping make Emmy’s quilt. She loves it. That and her doll go with her everywhere.”

  “Ellie made her the doll, right?”

  “She did. Perhaps dolls for little girls would be a good thing to make for the wagon.”

  “Do Indian children play with dolls?”

  “Isn’t that the way every culture passes on how to care for their children?”

  “I don’t know. Just asking.”

  “Well, if anyone feels like making rag dolls, go right ahead. You know, I was thinking. What if we asked the schoolchildren if they would like to be involved in this project?”

  Silence fell while they considered the new idea.

  “Okay, let’s take our places, and we can talk about such things among ourselves,” Ingeborg said. “Kaaren, are you planning on reading to us today?”

  “If you want.”

  “Ja, we want,” Mrs. Geddick said.

  Ingeborg felt like someone was staring daggers into her back. She didn’t bother to turn around. This time Hildegunn could not blame her. Other than for the fact her daughter was the one who sent the request.

  As the work got underway, she chose the first shift on the sewing machine. This way she would not get badgered into an argument. Uff da, she scolded herself. You are not feeling very Christian, and here there wasn’t even an argument. What had happened to change the hard feelings from last month?

  She turned around when a chair scraped back. Hildegunn stood and fetched a box from the side of the room. “I have to say that I don’t approve our being coerced into helping those Indians so far away when there are those closer to home that need help too, but here are two quilts that I finished at home so we can start filling the barrels.” She laid them across two chairs. “My Benny helped me choose the colors.”

  Coerced. The word made her want to jump up and scream in Hildegunn’s face. But she brought two quilts. This makes no sense whatsoever.

  Kaaren leaned over her shoulder. “Prayer in action, dear sister. We just saw a miracle happen.”

  “But isn’t there something about giving with a joyful spirit?” she whispered back.

  “True, but praise in everything tops that, I think, at least in this case.”

  And to think I wasted good sleeping hours stewing about this meeting.Father in heaven, I stand, or rather sit, in awe. My Benny, she’ d said.Was that part of the transformation? Whatever it was, God had done it. A miracle indeed. Now if He would work another and bring Astrid home.

  6

  Dear Mr. Landsverk,

  I owe you the most abject of apologies. Today in the mail I received a large envelope from the hospital in Chicago. It contained two letters you had written to me that somehow had gone astray in the mailing process. I felt hurt that you had not lived up to your word to write to me, and therefore I did not write to you either. It wasn’t your fault, and I should not have jumped to conclusions.

  Joshua felt like jumping himself. He had finally heard from Astrid. He continued reading.

  So please accept my plea for forgiveness and forgive me.

  Another act of forgiveness. Was this a lesson he had to keep learning over and over? His first rush of feeling was to continue being angry. But now that he was reading the letter for the second time, all he could find was gratitude—and indeed forgiveness. He reinforced the knowledge by repeating one of the verses he’d learned. “ ‘Forgive, and ye shall be forgiven.’ ” He said it once more for good measure. Maybe this was something he would have to repeat for the rest of his life. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad idea. He stared at the letter, the ink blurring on the page. So much had happened. How would he get it all sorted out?

  I am at a college in Athens, Georgia, enrolled in their four-month missionary school. I have applied for a two-year term of service, and we shall see if that is approved.

  Was it being Christian to pray that she not be approved? He grimaced. Good thing God could see the whole picture and would do the best for everyone. Where had he heard that? Most likely from Pastor Solberg. And to think he almost didn’t get off in Blessing when he returned from Iowa but had planned to continue on west until the train tracks ran out. Except he kept remembering Astrid.

  I didn’t make the final decision until the day before I was to leave Chicago, and I still struggle with the question of whether I did the right thing. I know it caught all of my family by surprise. It did me too. I will have time at home before I leave for Africa, if I am chosen to go, so we can talk then.

  That was his glimmer of hope. He counted off the months. March, April, May, June. She’d be home the end of June. If only he could have his house done by then. But as soon as they were able, he and Trygve would be heading south to dig wells and install windmills. No matter where he was, he’d be back to Blessing when Astrid was home. He had to be if he was to know God’s will for them. He read the second letter.

  Dear Mr. Landsverk,

  So I have to apologize again and commend you for your courage in returning to Iowa to speak with your father. Forgiving one another seems to be a difficulty for all of us at one time or another. Perhaps that is why Jesus told so many stories about it. I should have read both letters before I replied, but I was so compelled to write immediately that I didn’t, and then someone knocked on my door, as it was time for another appointment.

  I have now met all my instructors and all the people in the missionary program. This promises to be an interesting four months. Actually three months and three weeks now. And yes, I am counting the weeks until I get on the train to head west. I miss my family and Blessing so very much.

  Mr. Landsverk, are we good enough friends that I can write to you my heart and struggles?

  Sincerely,

  Dr. Astrid Bjorklund

  Joshua sighed and stared at the perfect penmanship. Did she do everything so perfectly? Maybe if he wrote more often, she would write more often, and they would indeed get to know each other better. He shook his head. Writing letters, putting ideas and thoughts on paper, was not easy for him. If only he had done so for his mother, that would have pleased her so much. The thought manacled his throat. He could never ask her to forgive him. It was too late. What if he’d not gone to Iowa? It might have been too late there too. He heaved a sigh that made him shake. Gratitude for the one and sorrow for the other. The light and the dark of it. Was all of life to be like that?

  Hearing the bell tinkle for supper, he folded the letter and laid both envelopes on the bedside table. Now he knew what he was going to do that evening. Work on that idea for the windmill self greaser and write to Astrid—or rather Dr. Bjorklund, in spite of the fact that she was Astrid to him and always had been. He hesitated at the thought. If they were to have a future together, he needed to understand her as a doctor too. Putting those thoughts aside, he headed for supper.

  The new man at the boardinghouse was standing in the arched entry to the dining room. Miss Christopherson had mentioned him last night, but he had eaten before Joshua came back.

  “Hello. I’m Joshua Landsverk.” He thrust out his hand.

  “Daniel Jeffers.”

  “Do you have a table?”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t realize they were assigned.”

  “They aren’t, but when one has been here for a time . . . well, we are all creatures of habit. You can join me if you’d like.” Joshua Landsverk, this is not like you. What is going on?

  “I’d be pleased. Conversation is always pleasant during a meal.”

  Joshua thought of all the years of silence at his father’s table. And how much he enjoyed a meal at the Bjorklunds’. Again, light and dark.

  Once they were seated, he asked, “What brings you to Blessing?”

  “It’s a long story, convoluted, with no ending in sight.”

  “Really?”

  “Did you know a man who bought the general store here, called himself Harlan Jeffers?”

  “No. When I lived here
before, Penny Bjorklund owned it, and when I returned, she had it back. I know there was some unpleasantness with the interim owner.”

  “The man purported to be Harlan Jeffers. Jeffers is my father’s and, of course, our family’s last name. My father disappeared on a trip west, so I came looking for him. I hoped and prayed the man I’d heard was here was my father. It wasn’t. That man had somehow appropriated my father’s name and took the money he had with him.”

  “So you caught him?”

  “No. He was encouraged to leave here by the good folks of Blessing and was gone before I came to town.”

  Miss Christopherson stopped at their table. “Good evening, gentlemen. I’m glad to see you have met. Supper tonight is baked chicken with mashed potatoes and gravy. How will that suit you?”

  “Are there choices?” Mr. Jeffers asked.

  “Yes. You take it, or I could look for some leftovers from dinner for you.” She smiled.

  “Chicken sounds fine. It smells wonderful.”

  “Mrs. Sam is the cook here, and this boardinghouse is known all up and down the railroad as the place to get a good meal.” Joshua looked up at Miss Christopherson. “I’ll have the chicken too.”

  She nodded and glanced back at Jeffers. “Mr. Landsverk usually has coffee. Is that all right with you?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  When she moved on to the next table, Jeffers watched her. “They are fortunate to have such a good staff here.” He turned back to Joshua. “Do you want to hear more?”

  “I do.”

  “When I learned of the havoc the imposter Jeffers had wreaked here in Blessing, I was more determined than ever to clear my father’s name. And to find him, or at least a trace of him. So I took the train back East, stopping in every town the train stopped at and asking the same questions. Did a man named Harlan Jeffers stop here during the fall of last year? I’d go to the saloons, the sheriff’s office, the banks, any public place. When I left, I always made sure everyone had my address just in case.”

  Miss Christopherson set their plates before them, and Lily Mae filled their coffee cups. “Anything else, gentlemen?”

  “Thank you. This looks delicious,” Mr. Jeffers said.

  Joshua was intrigued. What a story this was. “Did you ever find a trace?”

  Mr. Jeffers shook his head. “I went back home for the winter and to set my father’s affairs in order, assuming that since he had never contacted us, he was dead. He would never willingly treat my mother like that—not let us know where he was, I mean—let alone his business associates.”

  “What did your father do?”

  “He worked for a farming machinery company and invented things on the side. He’d received some encouragement on improvements to a seeder and was checking on a list of possible partners.”

  “And he just disappeared?” Joshua cut his chicken and took a bite. “Was he sick at all?”

  “No, at least not that we knew of. He was forty-seven years old. They say I look just like him. He had just been paid for a good sale and said he would be heading for home after another two stops.”

  “From where?”

  “He didn’t say. And I didn’t think to ask. Two years ago the telephone was such a new device that I always marveled I could even be talking that many miles apart.”

  “So you’ve talked with the people he saw last?”

  “Yes, in Alexandria and Fargo. After that I’m not sure if he headed north or continued west. When I heard of a man in Blessing with the name of Jeffers, I came on up here. And now I am back.”

  “Why did you come back?”

  “I liked the people here. They made me feel welcome, and I . . .” He paused. “I feel like I owe them something. Crazy, I know. But that phony Jeffers tarnished my family’s name here. My mother has gone to live with my sister and her husband, and I don’t want to live in that big old house alone. So on one hand I’m searching for information on my father, and I guess on the other . . . well, I liked it here. ’Bout time I settled down, as my mother reminds me. Besides, Thorliff and Haakan Bjorklund purchased a set of my father’s blueprints. I need to know if they were able to make a prototype of the seeder and how well it worked, if they did.”

  “Now that part I do understand.” Interesting that no one had mentioned that. He shrugged inwardly. Must have happened when I was gone from here.

  “What about you?”

  Joshua told him his story, another tale of someone coming back to Blessing. “This is becoming a real boom town with all the building going on.”

  Miss Christopherson approached the table. “Would you care for more supper, or are you ready for your dessert now?”

  Joshua smiled at her. “It’s apple pie, right?”

  “Yes, sir, dried-apple pie.” She smiled back. “Your favorite.”

  “Pie for me.”

  “Me too. The meal was delicious,” Mr. Jeffers said.

  She took their plates and returned to the kitchen.

  “I’m thinking I can move the business to Blessing that my father and I were putting together,” Jeffers said. “The railroad is right here, lots of farms, and North Dakota farmers are real progressive thinkers.” He propped his elbows on the table. “So what is it you do, Mr. Landsverk?”

  “I dig wells and erect windmills over them. Or just put up the windmill if the well is dug deep enough. Hjelmer Bjorklund goes out and gets the orders, and then our crew comes along and does the job. I bought a lot here in town and plan to put up a Sears and Roebuck house come spring.”

  “There’s a lot of new houses and new businesses here since my first visit.”

  “There’s talk of building a hospital. People here all work together. It’s an amazing thing. A good thing.”

  “I’ll be talking with Thorliff Bjorklund in the morning. He said he might run an article about my father in his newspaper and perhaps can search for information this way.”

  “Like a missing person story.” Joshua inhaled the fragrance from the warm apple pie set before him and took a bite. “Thank you, Miss Christopherson. Delicious.”

  “I’ll tell Mrs. Sam.”

  Jeffers took a bite. “Tell her thank-you from me too.”

  They finished their pie and coffee, talking about things in general, and then headed out the arched doorway. Joshua bade him good-night and returned to his room. This was a great story to write to Astrid about. A mystery in their own backyard. Although she probably knew about the first part, but not what happened when Daniel Jeffers left.

  Joshua stacked the drawings he’d been working on for the windmill. He was about ready to take some of the iron pieces and see about constructing a full-sized one to make sure it worked. He and Mr. Sam had been discussing how to build it for weeks and now was the time to do it.

  Sitting down with a fresh sheet of paper, he started writing again, this time with a pen.

  Dear Dr. Bjorklund,

  I had the most amazing conversation over supper tonight. Remember a man by the name of Jeffers who came to town looking for his father because he’d heard the man who bought Penny’s store was named Jeffers?

  He continued writing the story until the end, filling two sheets of paper.

  Isn’t this an interesting mystery? I think we should make up a Wanted poster of Harlan Jeffers and put it up in towns all around. Be nice if we had a photograph of him.

  He laid his pen down and stretched his arms above his head. He’d not done this much writing at one time since he graduated from school. Farmers didn’t need to write a lot, especially if they were the hands and feet and not the brains of the outfit. He stared out the window. Moonlight was casting shadows on the snow, which was melting fairly quickly.

  He’d checked his lot, but the ground was still frozen with ten, twelve inches of snow and drifts. He’d not measured down in the cellar. There would be standing water down there pretty soon.

  Returning to his letter, he continued.

  Thank you for writing to me, and
you are forgiven. I was thinking that maybe in your letter back to me, you could tell me about something that you like. I’ll tell you one. We had Mrs. Sam’s dried-apple pie for supper. That woman makes the best pies anywhere. My mother baked good pies too, especially her rhubarb cream pie, the first every spring.

  He started to tell her about his trip back home and then decided not to. He needed to think on it some more first.

  I hope you are enjoying your classes and the warmer weather. The snow looks to be melting here, but Hjelmer reminded me that many blizzards have hit during March so not to get my hopes up.

  Your friend,

  Joshua Landsverk

  THE NEXT MORNING after breakfast, he walked over to Hjelmer’s house, and the crew took his sleigh out to Lars’s machine shed, where they were building the house on wheels for the well-drilling crew. A door at either end of the mobile house allowed for ventilation for the hot summer months, and shelves and cupboards lined one end, along with a small stove that vented through the slightly pitched roof. On one long side were two long narrow doors on hinges that lifted up, screens on the inside. Brackets and braces lined the outer walls for carrying long pipes and the blades. Now they were building the boxes to attach underneath for the tools.

  Hooks for hammocks were drilled into the two-by-fours for strength. Most of the lumber would be hauled in one wagon or shipped directly, depending on the location.

  “I think we should call our company Blessing Well Drillers and Windmills,” Hjelmer said, standing back to study their handiwork. “We’ll paint that right on the side.”

  “Pretty long for a name,” Haakan answered. “What about Blessing Wells or Blessing Drillers? When someone asks you can always explain.”

  “True. Maybe we should just say Bjorklund Enterprises.” Hjelmer stroked his chin and repeated the name.

  “Sounds pretty highfalutin.” Haakan sighted down one of the boards to see how straight it was.

  “Highfalutin means what?” Trygve asked the question Joshua was thinking.

  “A fancy term for fancy.”