“It was my fault,” she whispered as Blake gave her a farewell embrace at the house. “If he hadn’t come to say goodbye to me, he would have been safe at home.”
“You didn’t start this trouble,” Blake said. “You didn’t start the fire or pull the trigger. Alvar would never blame you. He would thank you for loving him. And he would want you to have a happy life. Do that for his memory.”
“I’ll try.” She hugged him fiercely before she climbed into the buggy with her parents, her tearstained face raised to the sunlight.
Blake stood with Hanna and the baby and watched the buggy disappear around the first curve in the road. “She’ll be all right,” Hanna said. “She’s strong.”
You’re the strong one. Blake didn’t voice the thought. He knew his wife wouldn’t want praise at a time like this. Alvar’s death had broken her inside, but she was determined to keep her composure for him, for her baby, and for her family.
Now that Kirstin had departed, they would drive the wagon, with Alvar’s body wrapped in sheets, to the undertaker in town and continue to the Anderson farm, where Hanna and Little Joe would keep her mother company while Blake and Lars dug the grave. The next day they would hold a simple burial service with the family and any friends who’d heard the news and chosen to come.
Earlier that morning, before dawn, an exhausted Blake had made the long ride to carry word of their son’s death to Lars and Inga. They had taken the news of his loss like the stoic people they were, but Blake could imagine the depth of their grief.
Like Kristin, it was natural for him to blame himself. If he hadn’t hired Alvar to work at the mill, this tragedy would never have happened. But the chain of events that had led to the death of a promising young man was something no one could have predicted.
“We will bury him on our own land,” Lars had said. “I will dig the grave today. As long as my son lies here, we will never leave.”
“Wait for me to come and help you dig,” Blake had replied. “Alvar was my brother.”
“But what will we do about the men who did this terrible thing?”
“We will find a way to make them pay,” Blake had promised, even though all he could see ahead was a chain of bloody reprisals. He may have gotten rid of Doyle’s secret go-between, but the conflict would no longer be about money or even about Doyle. It would be about vengeance heaped upon vengeance, and he felt powerless to stop it.
Only the Calders had the manpower and influence to prevent a bloodbath, and Blake had already asked for their help and been refused twice. He knew better than to ask a third time. All he could do was protect the things that were his and the people he loved.
Now, with the team hitched to the wagon, he laid a canvas tarpaulin over Alvar’s sheet-swathed body, helped Hanna and his son onto the wagon seat, climbed into the driver’s place, and started down the hill.
At the bottom, they passed the lumber mill. Blake hadn’t taken time for a thorough inspection, but even from the road, he could see that, except for the biggest logs and the metal parts of the saw assembly, the place was a total loss. At least he’d had the foresight to buy insurance; but even so, the mill wouldn’t be operational until midsummer.
In any case, the mill would have to wait. Right now, other concerns were more important.
The day was bright and clear, the fields and pastures green from the spring rains. Wildflowers, in shades of yellow, violet, and white, dotted the rangeland. Cattle and horses grazed on the fresh grass.
Blake glanced at Hanna. She sat quietly beside him with Little Joe asleep in her arms.
“Are you all right?” he asked her.
“I will be in time. But I’m worried about my family and all that’s to come. Losing Alvar . . .” Her voice caught as her throat jerked. “Losing Alvar could be only the beginning.”
“I’ll do everything I can to protect them—and you, and Little Joe,” he said. “You’re a strong woman, like your mother, Hanna. As long as you’re with me, we can be strong together.”
* * *
Hanna and her mother sat at the table in the Andersons’ tar paper shack. They were alone. Axel and Gerda had gone to visit friends who lived nearby. From the grass-covered knoll at the rear of the property came the sound of shovels as Lars and Blake dug the grave that, after tomorrow, would hold Alvar’s casket.
Inga held the baby on her lap, her fingers playing with his dark curls. Her face showed the ravages of a mother’s grief, but when she spoke her manner was composed.
“Thank you for bringing this little one. Seeing him helps remind me of how life goes on from one generation to the next.”
“It reminds me, too, Mama,” Hanna said. “But I’ll never stop missing Alvar. He was like our angel, the best part of our family.”
Inga gave her a sad smile. “He was my firstborn. When I held him for the first time and looked into his eyes, I had the feeling that God had sent me one of his angels, and that I might not be allowed to keep him long. I forgot about that as he grew up—he was never sick. But I remembered it when Blake came and told us he was gone.
“Sometimes I think, oh, if he hadn’t met that girl, he would still be here—but no, I think it was fated. I think maybe God missed him and wanted him back.”
“Kristin is a good girl, Mama. She loved Alvar and he loved her. She made him happier than I ever saw him in his life.”
“Then I suppose I can be glad that he knew love in his life. And you, kära, are you happy with that husband of yours?”
Hanna nodded. “I am so happy. Blake is so good to me, and now we have Little Joe. I count my blessings every day.”
“And what about the other one? The brother?”
“He left. He is out of our lives. And so is his mother. She wanted nothing to do with me or the baby.”
“Then all is as it was meant to be.”
“But I worry about you and Papa and the young ones,” Hanna said. “What will you do without Alvar, especially with so many terrible things happening?”
“We will do as we’ve always done, and as you must do—the best we can. And we will love the people we have while they are with us, knowing that every day is precious. Come here, kära.” Inga reached out, encircled Hanna and the baby with her arms, and held them close. “In this sad life, love is the only thing worth keeping.”
* * *
Alvar was laid to rest the next day, atop a grassy knoll where wild violets grew and rabbits had their dens. Attending the burial were Blake and Hanna, Joe and Sarah, the Anderson family, and a handful of neighbors who’d brought food to the house.
There was no clergyman to offer a religious service, but Blake had been asked to say a few words. Standing beside the open grave, he glanced around the circle of faces—Lars, fighting tears, Inga, lips pressed tight, her arms around her younger children, Sarah and Joe, looking somber, and Hanna, clasping her baby as tears trickled down her face. He began to speak.
“Alvar was the kind of man I’d want my son to become. He was intelligent, curious, respectful, and not afraid of hard work. And he always put others ahead of himself. He died trying to protect my family’s property—a senseless, tragic death. We’re all better people for having known Alvar. My sister loved him. My wife loved him. And I loved him like a brother . . .” Blake’s voice broke as he stepped back from the grave.