An Untamed Heart Page 6
But I don’t want to spend the rest of my life running a business that cannot capture my dreams at all. Hiking in the mountains was not a lifelong ambition. He kept hoping he would outgrow that desire, as his father had suggested rather forcibly. But he kept hearing the mountains calling to him.
Nils stopped in front of the mirror. He looked haggard, as if he’d been out shouting Skol! with Hans and other drinkers, not only one night too many but for weeks. The disgusting part was that he’d been studying till the wee hours, not partying. Though he realized he would have a hard time convincing his father of that, should he happen to see his son in this degree of dishevelment.
Heaving another sigh and at the same time castigating himself for sighing, he snagged his wool coat off the peg and shrugged into it. Book in hand, he trudged down the stairs, clapped his hat on his head, and stepped out into the downpour. If any weather was conducive to staying inside, this was it.
He arrived at the classroom to find a closed door with a note on it: Class Canceled. He slammed his fist against the wall, wishing it were his head instead. All this for naught.
“Oh, for . . .”
The expletive behind him made Nils turn to see who else was willing to say out loud what he’d been thinking. He wagged his head and started back toward the stairs. The other student—what was his name?—walked beside him.
“You interested in the pub on the corner?”
Nils started to say no but changed his mind. “I’ll buy.” He knew the answer was curt but better that than stony silence. Or perhaps not. He turned to say he was sorry, but the other man held up his hand.
“No need. You want to buy, fine, but only the first one.”
They both paused in the doorway. The rain had not let up. Hats back on heads, they hugged the wall as much as they could on the two-block walk and ducked into the pub, shaking huge drops off their hats and coats. Hanging them on the pegs along the wall, they crossed to the stools at the bar, ignoring the booths and tables by unspoken agreement.
Nils raised a finger and nodded to the man by his side, who also nodded. Two beers slid across the slick surface to be stopped by grateful hands.
“I should have ordered something hot.” Nils set the half empty tankard back down, careful to place it in the wet ring. He stared at the cup, waiting for a sense of relief. When none arrived, he shivered and hoisted the drink again.
The barkeep pushed two more down the counter.
His father’s voice beat in his ears. “Lazy, my son is lazy . . . doesn’t live up to his word . . . wastes his time. You are lazy! When will you grow into the man I thought you were becoming? So much talent and you don’t use it!”
The second beer went down, but the voice didn’t stop.
“Are you all right?” The voice penetrated the fog that seemed to be rising.
Nils blinked. No, the fog was not in the room, it writhed within. “Ja, of course.” He pushed the tankard across the bar. Glancing at the man beside him, he raised his eyebrows and asked if he wanted more too.
He shrugged. “Not finished with this one yet. Perhaps you should slow down.”
Should. Another of those words drumming in his head in his father’s voice.
“You should study. You should make an effort. You should want to run the company. You should graduate. You should graduate with honors.
“You should not run away to the mountains. You should assume responsibilities. You should make your mother proud of you.
“We are deeply disappointed in you. Lazy!”
Nils gritted his teeth. Tearing this man limb from limb would not help. His fists clenched. The third beer appeared in front of him. He turned to look at his friend.
“You said something?”
“I said you should slow down.” He wore a worried look.
When Nils shook his head, the mirror behind the bar rippled. He closed his eyes and opened them again. Clear. Should. Should. Should.
“Mind your own business.” Picking up the tankard, he drank, but more slowly. A right to the jaw should shut him up. Nils sucked in a deep breath and let it out. Violence was not his way. Where had the fist thought come from? He’d not struck anyone since his boxing class, when he knocked his opponent out and resolved never to strike anyone again. Never!
He threw some money on the counter and heaved himself to his feet. Was his head whirling or did the room really tilt? Only slightly but . . . He grabbed hat and coat off the pegs and shrugged into them.
“Wait, let me go with you.”
“No! I’m fine.”
The wind-driven rain slashed at his face. Ducking his head, he stepped into the cobblestone street. Ignoring the voice behind him, he started across. A shout! A screaming horse. Falling. Crashing.
“Nils, wake up. Nils.”
What was his sister doing at the tavern? He blinked but didn’t try to open his eyes again when pain slashed through his head at any effort. Where was he? Maybe he was dying. Why would he be dying? Maybe that was the answer to all his suffering.
“Just move your finger if you hear me.”
Move a finger. He could do that. He ordered his right forefinger to move, and it did. That was good news.
“Excellent.”
The voice lilted gently on his ears. Amalia. He felt a soft hand slip under his. Warm. Was he cold? He didn’t think so. He could feel blankets over him. He tapped again, twice.
“You are in your bed, in your lodgings. The doctor has been here.”
Doctor? What happened? But when he tried to talk, not only his head screeched, but the air was tight. Tight? Was he having trouble breathing? Why? He tapped his finger again, flinching at the pain stabbing behind his eyes. Why? He had moved his forehead. Oh.
“The doctor was here. You have a head injury and some broken ribs. Thankfully, that is all.”
“How?” The one word took a superhuman effort. Could she hear or had he imagined he spoke?
“You were knocked clear by the rearing horse, or you would have been run over by a four-in-hand. And the coach would have run over you too. That is why I say thank you, God, for saving my brother.”
“Far?” Did that guttural voice really belong to him?
“I’ve not told him yet.”
Yet. His father and mother would have to be told. Perhaps he was better off dead. She said something else, but he was fading and not able to understand.
“Mr. Aarvidson.” A male voice this time. An unknown male voice.
“Mr. Aarvidson, this is Dr. Jorge. If you can hear me . . .”
Nils raised a finger. When he tried to blink, it worked. Pain but not as severe.
“You are at your home near the campus. It has been eighteen hours since your accident. You have two broken ribs and a nasty cut on the back of your head, leaving you with a concussion. Both injuries are extremely painful, but not life threatening, unless complications set in. So breathe gently and don’t try to talk right now.”
Nils raised the finger to earn a Good from the doctor.
“Miss Aarvidson has returned to your father’s house but will be back later this morning. I assured her that Nurse Daggen would see you through the night, and she has. She will clean you up some and make you presentable if your father and mother learn of this and come to see you.”
A nurse. Eighteen hours. Surely someone would inform his father. After all, the accident happened on a major street in Oslo. Right in front of the tavern. Far would know his son had been drinking. Again. Not living up to his potential. Again. And here he dreamed of the mountains. He would be lucky not to be moved to his parents’ home, where they could watch over him. Stand guard would be more like it.
“How bad?” Two words. Progress.
“You’ll be in bed for a day or two. The pain and dizziness will keep you there. As that passes, you will want to move around. I recommend staying in for two weeks. You will find reading impossible. Concussions are like that. I stitched up the scalp wound. That will heal quickly.”
“I have taped your chest to make you a bit more comfortable. Ribs take time to heal, but you can move around as much as you can tolerate the pain. Coughing is hard, but you need to cough or pneumonia could set in. That is our biggest fear, so the sooner you can sit up and stand the better.”
Pneumonia. Infection. Not exactly inspiring thoughts.
“Takk.”
“You are welcome.” The doctor listened to his lungs and patted his hand. “The nurse says your sister is here. I will speak with her and leave you. I believe Nurse Daggen should stay with you for at least a few days and nights. If you have questions, I will return tomorrow morning.”
Nils listened as the doctor crossed the room and exited at the door. Footsteps of doom or footsteps of hope? He drifted away again while waiting for Amalia to come. The land of darkness was much easier than the pain of being awake.
Sometime later, or was it only the blink of an eye . . . His eyes did that of their own accord. Blinked open. Dim light through the drapes, separated just enough to . . . to . . . He blinked again and the ceiling came into focus.
“You are awake,” Amalia said.
He started to nod, thought the better of it, and blinked twice.
“Good. Nurse Daggen is bringing some chicken broth. You know that is Mother’s panacea for everything.”
“Mor?”
“Yes, I had to tell them. They’ve been here for the last two hours.”
Waiting. His father did not wait well. He heard the door open and flinched, but the footsteps were not the strides of his father.
“Here you go, young man. Your sister insists on feeding you, so I will put another pillow under your head. That will hurt, but the pain shouldn’t be as severe as yesterday. I’ll be quick.”
Either she was a liar or she’d never been in his situation. Gritting his teeth did not help. Screaming might have, but only a slight groan acknowledged her actions. He was now halfway sitting but still lying down. Like the rest of him—in a neither-nor world.
“There. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
Definitely a liar, erring on the cheerful side.
“We’re going to wash your face and comb your hair. We will be careful, I promise.” Her accent sounded more Swedish than Norwegian. We? Was someone else assisting her?
Round of face, round of body, with a determined smile that boded ill for her patient. He closed his eyes again, the easier to imagine her away.
“You want to look as good as possible for Far and Mor.” Amalia understood. Amalia had always understood. It was a shame she was a woman and could not run the business. She loved the world of business and finance. She should be the one in college, not he. He’d thought that for the last several years, ever since his grooming for the role began.
Between his tight jaw and Amalia’s cheerful persistence, they managed to get some of the soup into his mouth, improving with practice. By the time the nurse finished his grooming, he vowed to never associate with a nurse again in any capacity whatsoever, no matter what.
“Would you like me to shave you?”
Over my dead body, but when he shook his head in the barest motion, pain slammed him again. A cough burst forth, no matter how he tried to stifle it.
“You must cough!”
Had he ever contemplated murder before?
He coughed enough to relieve the pressure and collapsed against the pillows.
“I’ll let you rest a bit, and then before your far and mor come in, we’ll get you sitting a bit higher with more pillows.”
Was that a threat or a promise? Without a decision, he promptly fell down the black well again.
“Welcome back.” His mother’s voice cleared the fog from his brain. He opened his eyes to see her smiling at him, perfectly coiffed and dressed as modishly as always.
“Takk.” He let his gaze travel the room and the closed door.
“Your father had to return to the office for a meeting. He said he’ll come back tonight.”
A reprieve. Now, that was something for which to be thankful. “Amalia?”
“She had an appointment. She should be back any time.” She took his hand between her own. “You gave us quite a fright.”
“Sorry.” She had no idea how sorry.
“We want you to come home, where you can be cared for.”
He refrained from shaking his head, but the look he gave her must have sufficed.
“I know you don’t want to do that, but . . .” She paused. “Your father is insisting.”
And if RA Aarvidson insisted the world was to stop, it probably would. A stubbornness that he’d only recognized recently, perhaps because he was pushed to the limit, prompted him to a soft answer. “His insisting will do no good this time. I will stay here. I have a good nurse, and Hans will come in to help tomorrow.” A white lie perhaps, but he was certain that would happen as soon as he sent a message. Surely Amalia would take care of that.
Sonja Aarvidson clicked her tongue in a tsking sound. One he knew well. She had always done what RA ordered.
“I’m sorry, Mor, but I cannot do that. I must be near the college so that I can employ a tutor to read to me and help me prepare for the end of the term. Far and I have struck a bargain, and I will not go back on my word. No matter what he orders. I know this will be difficult for you, but this accident cannot stop me.” He hoped he sounded firm. Nothing could stand in the way of his last summer in the mountains. Nothing. “You do not have to be the bearer of the bad tidings. When he comes, I will tell him. I think you would be wise to return home before he arrives.”
“But you are wounded. Badly wounded.”
“Not so badly that I cannot make decisions for myself.” If only he could be sitting in a chair before his father strode in the door. Dressed would be even better. Was that possible? If only Hans were here. Nurse Daggen would have to help him. After all, who was the boss here?
He sighed. He might want to assume the reins of power, but it would be the pushy nurse who called the shots. And his father. Even his mother. Come to think of it, Amalia had been ordering him about too. Nils Aarvidson, feckless ne’er-do-well.
7
VALDRES, NORWAY
Ingeborg caught herself humming. If she wasn’t careful, she might slip into whistling, but since Mor insisted that girls weren’t allowed to whistle, she’d save that for the seter. Here it was the third week of May, and they were finally packing to head up the mountains. The delays had been one thing after another. Weather, a sick cow, more weather. She’d begun to think they would never leave. And then Katrina asked why they couldn’t wait a couple more weeks so they would not miss her wedding. That would make a big difference in the amount of time they had to spend up there.
Two more days. Not that Ingeborg was overly eager or anything. In two days there would be a line of teams and wagons with the chickens in crates and the hogs in a box-like wagon, with the older boys and children herding the sheep and cows.
“I would rather ride on a wagon,” Gunlaug had muttered more than once.
Ingeborg laughed. “If we all ride in the wagons, who will herd the livestock?” She closed her eyes. What she’d prefer doing was riding one of the horses. Riding, they would arrive more quickly and could start the cleaning. But riding would not happen, not on a horse or in a wagon. Feet and legs were made for walking, or so Mor often reminded them.
Two more days until they left, if all went well. Two wagons loaded with wood had already left and should be back again by evening. They’d stack the firewood when they got there.
Up to the seter. Up to the seter. Freedom at the seter. She kept the words to herself. If Mor had ever loved the seter, the daughter had yet to hear of it. Other people told stories of their times up in the mountains. Mor never had. Ingeborg stopped for a moment to think on that. Should she ask point-blank if Mor spent summers up at a seter? Probably not today, since the others who were staying at the homepla
ce were stitching like their lives depended on finishing the linens for the chest and the dress for the bride. After all, June was just around the corner.
“Ingeborg!” Mor calling.
“Out here packing the wagon.”
“Come here.”
With a shrug and a sigh of disgust, she did as told. The dim house made her blink after the brightness outside. “Do you need something?”
“I have decided that Berta needs to remain here. With Katrina leaving, I will need help with the garden and putting food by. Hjelmer is going with you and Mari. Besides, Katrina wants Berta to be in her wedding party.”
Since when? But Ingeborg swallowed the words. “Does Berta know this?”
“She will do as she is told. I have hinted at it.”
“Does Far know?”
“He agrees.” Mor held her stitching up to the window. “Ah, good, one more done.”
I’m sure he does. If she argued now, however, it might delay their leaving. She held her peace. Poor Berta. Sacrificed on the altar of Katrina’s wedding. Please, Lord God, keep me from ever falling in love. Look what a mess it can make for other people. Katrina and Oscar seemed oblivious to the problems, both of them working toward their new life together. And since Katrina was a good girl and never questioned, Mor granted her every wish. Sometimes Ingeborg wished she could take lessons from her sister.
Well, this bad girl has plenty to do too. “I wish Katrina every happiness.”
“I know you do. Some little sacrifices are a good thing to build character.”
Ignoring the barb, Ingeborg went back out to packing foodstuffs into three wooden boxes, already in place on the wagon bed. The cleaning supplies had been jammed into another box. The bedding was airing on the clothesline, the sheets and pillows folded and ready. She stopped to stare at her handiwork. Something was missing.
“Ingeborg, I’m sorry.” Berta carried the box of cheese and butter molds out to the wagon. “I would rather go, but I do so hate to miss Katrina’s wedding. She needs at least one of her sisters there.” Her eyes grew dreamy. “And besides, I might get ideas for my own wedding.”