“He was not what you thought, then?” James’s eyes twinkled with mirth.
“No, he was a drunkard for one, and he blamed me for his daughter’s death even if children are prone to all kinds of sickness, and she was a very ill child.” I rolled my eyes, just a little.
James lit a cigar and turned up the light on the bed stand. “You couldn’t appease him, then?”
“No, he kept bringing it up—”
“But the sausage grinder, Bella—”
“It wasn’t really, it was the cleaver.” I could not help but add a tiny smile.
He chuckled softly beside me. “It made for a damn fine story, though. All the newspapers wrote about it.”
“I rather wish they hadn’t.” I sighed.
“Yes. It puts you in a sticky position.” He puffed on the cigar.
“I can’t pursue legal action, not under the circumstances. If I had Swanhild, though . . .” I turned over on my side and caressed his naked chest while he smoked. “I was careless, I know, and I’m paying the price.”
“You just have to be more clever about it.” His eyes narrowed to slits.
“I know.” But how clever can you be when you have just beaten your husband to death with a cleaver? “I got away with it, though.”
“Barely.”
“No one hangs a grieving widow.” I said it as if it were a fact.
“You keep taking comfort in that thought, but I’m not entirely convinced. Next time, you must have a hole ready out back. You should always have one ready and keep some quicklime around too, just in case.” He put out his cigar and lay back down, rolling over so he faced me. “A wholesome life is not for the likes of us; we have crossed too many bridges for that.”
“Had he only been—”
“Hush.” He placed a finger on my lips. “It doesn’t matter how he was or not; no husband could survive with you. You are far too lethal, Bella, my dear. It’s running in your blood.”
“I wasn’t always.” I took his hand and guided it away.
“No.” He smiled. “But you have a talent, and it’s important to hone one’s talents.”
“If I only get the girl—” I clenched my jaw.
“You will.” He sounded reassuringly calm beside me.
“No one can come after me then. Not if she is spoiled and content.” My hand curled into a fist upon the crocheted bedspread.
He laughed and rolled on top of me, burrowed in between my legs. “I think you should lay off the ‘accidents’ for a while.” He closed his hands around my wrists when he pushed himself inside me. “I will always help you, you know that; but another dead man on your kitchen floor just might be too hard to explain.”
* * *
—
James and I left Joe and Jennie to tend the farm and took rooms in Minneapolis while searching for Swanhild. We drove out to Gust Gunness’s place every day, parked the buggy nearby, and watched Gust’s daughters and sons playing on the porch. Swanhild was not with them, though. Only once did I think I glimpsed her: a pale face between the parted curtains in one of the windows upstairs.
“They are watching her every second,” James muttered. He was sitting beside me, toying with the whip. “What kind of life is that for a little girl, being locked up like that?”
“They’re expecting me.” I spoke without taking my eyes off the house.
“You took her once before,” he reminded me in a light voice.
“All within my right,” I sneered.
“Is the money really that important to you, or is it a matter of principle?” He sounded curious beside me.
“They crossed me.” I finally tore my gaze away, found the basket by our feet, and handed James a piece of ham. “I think they may have seen us here before. The children. The eldest girl keeps looking around, as if she expects someone.”
“Maybe they’ve been told to be on guard,” he mused.
“At least the weather is nice. It would be dreadful sitting out here in the rain.” I smiled a little, as it was a ridiculous thought.
“They cannot keep her locked up forever,” he assured me.
“Let’s patrol the roads again. Maybe they have taken her out the back door. They have to air her sometimes.” I rolled my eyes and took the whip from his grasp.
“Sooner or later, we’ll find her,” he said, but as it turned out, we did not. They treated that girl as if she were a princess, valuable beyond measure.
One day when we arrived, we could tell that something was different. The windows upstairs were wide open. The door to the porch stood open too, and the children ran in and out, chasing puppies.
“She’s gone,” said James. “They have moved her during the night.”
I rested my elbows on my knees and hid my face in my hands. “Are you sure?”
“Well, yes, the house is wide open now. Anyone can get in.”
“What do we do, then?” I looked up. James’s face had turned cold and smooth as stone as he looked upon the house. He did not much like it when a hunt was cut short.
“We make a new plan.” The stony expression was wiped from his features.
“Better do, and quickly. I have a farm to run. I don’t have time to sit around here.” I grabbed the reins and set us in motion. “So much trouble for one little girl,” I huffed, and then, when we had been going for a while: “I need another child—a boy. About three months from now. Can you do that?”
James laughed beside me. It was a dry, throaty sound. “The new Gunness heir, is it?”
“That, my dear friend, it is.” I smiled.
“I cannot guarantee Norwegian stock.”
“To hell with that, as long as it’s white.” I felt hope again—hope—blooming in my chest.
“You’ll be having a son, then?” His hand was on my back, warm and strong.
“Yes.” I smacked the whip. “It’s such a comfort to me in my time of grief that my husband left behind a living seed.”
“And Swanhild?” His voice was terse.
“To hell with her too—I don’t need her . . . Peter Gunness’s son is so much better.”
* * *
—
My condition soon became clear for everyone to see, and I was happy I had not thrown away the cushions. About three months later, one late night in May, James came back to La Porte with the child, a healthy baby boy about a month old. There was a woman in the carriage too—the boy’s mother, I presumed—there to keep him quiet and fed on the journey.
I took the child and gave James the money. “Tell her he will be well taken care of.”
“I don’t think she cares much. She’s taken with drink, that one.” He motioned to the carriage with his head.
“Nevertheless, I’m grateful to her.” And I truly was.
“Give her a bottle of whiskey, then, and she will never regret the trade.” His lips tilted up in a wicked smile, dripping with disdain.