Maybe, too, she kept that cage locked in the hope that someone was waiting for her—or that she was waiting for him. Someone she had already dreamed of or imagined. Or perhaps known? As she watched Tor so intently, she found herself wondering, for the first time—was it him? They’d gone through the very trials of hell together. Had she been waiting for him, all this time, to catch up with her so they could be equals, not pupil and teacher?
“I am well. Still on the farm, still helping Mother,” he said with modest pride, and she had to smile at the way he called his mama “Mother”—like an adult would. A man who was respectful of, yet responsible for, her.
“Are you—have you—married?”
“No, not me. I don’t know, Mother teases me that I’ll turn into one of those bachelor farmers, the ones that nobody knows what to do with at Christmas or Thanksgiving. Maybe she’s right.” He grinned, but blushed, and Raina found that she was blushing, too. She wondered how long he was to be in Lincoln. She didn’t have classes for another week; she had time to get to know him again.
Oh, she knew him, knew him like the weather—the constancy of him, his bravery, his goodness. But she had no idea what made him laugh, what his favorite food was, if he still read books, if he liked girls with brown hair or blond, if he dreamed of someone to sit by the fire with him. And she had no idea if she was capable of sitting by the fire, out on the prairie, with him. Still, for the first time since she left home, she was picturing herself with a man beyond just a nice meal at a restaurant or a walk in the park or a picnic. For the first time, she allowed herself to wonder what it would feel like to be two instead of one.
For the first time—
“Tor?”
Anette had joined them, a spool of pink-and-white-checked ribbon in her hand. Raina had forgotten all about her.
“Oh, look, Anette—isn’t it good to see him?”
Anette didn’t speak; it appeared that she couldn’t. Raina was used to that, of course; Anette was still shy about calling attention to herself, still prone to silent watching instead of participating. What Raina wasn’t familiar with was the way the girl’s breast was heaving, the way her eyes were shining, the way she looked at Tor as if, as if—
As if she were home.
Anette gazed at Tor with wonder, and maybe she was seeing Fredrik—Raina well remembered how strong the resemblance was. But then she kept gazing at him, and a sweet blush crept into those dusky cheeks, and the girl actually leaned toward him, yearning—wanting.
And Tor was looking at her in the same way. As if he’d found something lost so long ago, he’d given up hope. Until now, when the hope fairly vibrated in him—he grinned at Anette unreservedly, no timidity there. He openly admired the woman she’d become—his eyes widened as he took her in. He shook his head. Raina thought he was about to whistle, but then caught himself just in time.
“Anette! I never would have recognized you!”
And then Anette did the most surprising thing she could have done—
Anette Pedersen twirled. Daintily, girlishly, she picked up her skirts and twirled. And Raina had to brush away a few surprising tears. All these years, she had never seen Anette be coquettish, be girlish—be joyful or light. But now a beatific glow radiated from her face. She stopped, letting her skirts swish about her flirtatiously, and she laughed at herself, then Tor laughed, too, and the two of them, together—
They looked perfect. Together.
Quietly did Raina lock that cage again, feel her heart settle down to its usual waiting perch. She allowed herself a moment of sadness.
She also allowed herself to imagine the future for them—Tor would take Anette back to the prairie, where she had always belonged. These two had shared so much loss, but loss binds people together just as tightly as happiness does. And the happiness would come. Anette would be a dutiful daughter to Mrs. Halvorsan and her very presence would be a welcome reminder that her son did not die in vain. There would be contented evenings sitting on the porch, watching the sun in its fiery glory descending behind fields rustling with hope, a songbird singing softly. There would be storms and floods, yes, of course. But there would also be love.