Aven glanced back to see she was being followed. From a fair distance, she’d give him that. But it still had her eyeing the man with every few trees they passed until the orchard opened up into a vast yard. Thick, twisted branches giving way to sheds and outbuildings. Two of the structures were massive, a distant one was charred, and around many sat stacks upon stacks of wooden crates and more metal buckets than she’d ever seen in one farmyard.
Her companion stopped and folded his arms over his chest. Hesitantly, Aven continued up the path the same moment a second man emerged from the house. Though as tall as the first, this one’s strength was wiry. His hair was a few shades lighter but just as long, judging by the way it was pulled back and bound. Heavy boots stomped down the steps.
Another Norgaard? She glanced around for a sight of the children—but saw nary a toy about, and the clothing pinned to the line was by no means pint-sized. Aven regarded the stranger on the porch and resisted the urge to touch her mother’s delicate chain around her neck, as she often did when nervous.
“Hello, sir.” She stepped closer and extended a hand, which seemed very small when wrapped in his own. “I’m Aven. I was married to Benn.” That seemed odd to blurt out, but she didn’t know how many of these introductions were to take place.
“Ah.” He studied her a moment. “A pleasure to finally meet you, ma’am.” He cleared his throat and gave his name. Jorgan.
She knew that name from Aunt Dorothe’s many letters. But Jorgan was to be a wee lad. And this man was no such thing. Aven scrutinized him. Dorothe had certainly not portrayed the sons as men. Before she could make sense of that, another one stepped from the house. Though the third brother’s charms had been described in great detail, his great-aunt’s praises didn’t do justice for who could only be a very grown-up Haakon. The young man’s brilliant blue eyes took her in, and though he was clean shaven, his brawn dashed any lingering notion of the Norgaard offspring being children. Even as panic rose, Jorgan spoke.
“And this is Haakon. He’s the youngest.”
Pear in hand, Haakon cut a slice and used the flat of the knife to raise it to his mouth. Nothing but mischief in that striking face. “We’ve been wonderin’ if you’d show up.”
Aven swallowed hard. How had she been so mistaken? She searched her memory of Dorothe’s letters. Time and again the Norgaard males had been depicted as anything but adults. Boys, Dorothe had called them. Going on to hint at their adventures and mischief, their rowdy ways and their need to be guided. Even chastised. Most often in Haakon’s case. The same Haakon who was smiling down at Aven as if he hadn’t seen the inside of a woodshed for a good long while.
Hands now trembling, Aven clutched them together, and her attempt at a fervent response came out a mere whisper. “Pleasure to meet you, sirs. You are the . . . the brothers? The sons?”
Sons of whom, she couldn’t remember. Dorothe wrote little of the boys’ deceased parents. Yet dashed was the image of three children needing Aven to help care for them. Mother them. Aye, Aunt Dorothe had been misleading indeed. Growing stronger was the need to speak with the woman and make some sense of this.
“Yes’m. I’m the oldest,” Jorgan said. “Best just to call us by our first names or you’ll be sayin’ ‘Mr. Norgaard’ an awful lot. It seems you met Thor. He’s in the middle.” He pointed past Aven to where the dark-haired man still stood a few paces back. The one who looked strong as an ox and who had yet to take his focus off of her.
Thorald. As was written in the letters. Amid pen and paper, it seemed he held a tender spot in his great-aunt’s heart, but not for a hundred quid would Aven have put the name and person together. “Aye,” she said hesitantly. “We’ve . . . met.”
Jorgan smirked. “Sorry. Thor, he don’t talk much.”
So she’d learned.
Jorgan glanced past her, then around as if searching for words. “Did you walk here from the train station?”
“Aye.” And her aching feet were recalling every mile from town.
“I’m sorry we weren’t there to fetch you. And I’m sorry about Benn.”
“Thank you,” Aven said softly. She lowered her luggage to the ground, unsure of what to say in this instance. Her husband—their cousin—gone. And now she was here in America.
The dog sniffed at her shoes, and Haakon snapped his fingers. “Grete!”
The dog retreated to his side.
Aven looked around. With three men near, she was more than ready to see another woman. “Might you tell me where I can find Aunt Dorothe?”
Jorgan glanced at the brother beside him before rubbing the back of his neck, then it was to her he spoke, eyes drawn up beneath troubled brows. “You didn’t get my letter, I take it.”
She shook her head.
He cupped his opposite arm just above the elbow. “She’s . . . I’m afraid Dorothe’s . . . gone. Two months now.”
“Where did she go?” Aven’s skin flushed. Mourning dress feeling much too heavy and tight.
“To—to heaven.”
“Most likely.” Haakon slipped another slice of pear in his mouth.
Aven’s stomach dipped. Head rushing with a light heat that made the earth tip on its side. “She’s . . . deceased?”
Jorgan ducked his head sympathetically. “I’m sorry to have to tell you like this. I wrote you soon as it happened, thinking I might be able to reach you.” He studied her from her windblown hair to her scuffed shoes. “I can see I was too late.”
She needed to sit down but there was nothing other than the dirt, and that she lowered herself to, caring for neither dress nor stockings. Suddenly feeling very small, she blinked up at the clear, blue sky that was a blatant reminder of just how far she was from Norway. Even Ireland. She was here in Virginia. A place called Blackbird Mountain. And there was no Aunt Dorothe.
Though the woman wasn’t family by blood and though their letters had formed but a modest friendship, Benn’s great-aunt had become all Aven had left of family.
“What do I do?” she whispered to herself.
The man—Jorgan—moved beside her. He knelt in the dirt, touching work-roughened fingers to the ground between them. “Miss?”
Aven drew in a shaky breath and looked up at his face. “What do I do?” she asked again.
“You . . . you just put your arm on mine.” He moved to help her. “Come inside. Miss Ida, our housekeeper, will get you something to eat.”
Jorgan led her up a few steps, then across a wide porch. Brows tipped up in confusion, the youngest brother held the door open. Jorgan led her into the kitchen where he pulled out a chair at the table and helped her into it. From the pantry stepped a woman with skin as dark as cinnamon sticks. With a gentle smile, the woman brought Aven a cup of coffee and a slice of spiced bread. Aven touched neither. Instead, she clasped her hands between her knees to keep them from shaking.
She vaguely heard the woman speak. “She’s mighty pale.”
Then Haakon’s voice. “She’s Irish.”
Aven sat without moving.
“I mean to say she’s taking a turn, Haakon. ’Bout to faint.” The cool knuckles of the woman’s hand pressed to the side of Aven’s temple, and Aven nearly closed her eyes.
Jorgan spoke in a hushed tone. “She didn’t know of Dorothe’s passing.”
With the scrape of a chair, he sat. The woman handed him a cup of coffee. From the corner of her eye, Aven saw Thor leave.
“Are you alright?” Jorgan asked gently.
She nodded, but even the simple motion felt untrue. Despair stung her throat, parching it more than the walk up this mountain. She turned the tin cup in her hand, the sight of the steamy brew tightening her stomach.
“You’re still welcome here,” Jorgan said, sounding sincere.
“But we don’t have anywhere to put her,” Haakon countered, none too quietly.
Aven glanced around. Dusk was settling. “Would there . . . would there be other family around?”
“No, ma’am.” Haakon’s blue eyes—stunning as they were—lessened in charm as they skimmed the length of her. “Just us.”