Sixty-One-Year-Old Norwegian Housekeeper Fights a Fanatical Frontier Sect and a $4,000 Land Sabotage Scheme to Save a Mute Motherless Boy in Winter 1880 Minnesota
I carefully folded the stack of documents, tucking them inside my apron pocket. Einar watched me from the bed, his small face etched with worry. I pointed to the papers, then to his coat, trying to communicate.
He understood. He reached for his worn wool coat, pulling it on without a word. I slipped the folded bundle into the inner pocket, making sure it was hidden.
“Våkn opp,” I whispered, a Norwegian phrase for ‘wake up’ or ‘be alert.’ “Woods. Ingrid.”
He blinked, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. He knew Ingrid. She was Lars’s sister, a fierce woman who had left the colony years ago after a bitter fight with Malachi.
I eased the attic door shut, careful not to make a sound. Malachi’s presence still felt heavy in the air, a phantom chill.
Downstairs, the kitchen was dark and cold. Lars was slumped at the table, his head in his hands. He didn’t stir as Einar and I slipped past him.
“Stay,” I mouthed to Einar, pointing to the woodshed behind the cabin. “Wait.”
He nodded, a silent promise. The boy was stronger than he looked, carrying a secret weight beyond his years. I watched him disappear into the blizzard’s white swirl, a small shadow against the churning snow.
Outside, the wind howled like a banshee, tearing at my simple shawl. My fingers, numb with cold, fumbled with the latch on the woodshed door.
Inside, the smell of pine and damp earth filled the air. Ingrid Solberg stood by a stack of split logs, pulling a heavy canvas bag from behind them. Her face, usually stern, softened when she saw Einar.
“Astrid,” she said, her voice low and urgent, devoid of any small talk. “Did you find anything?”
Einar, without prompting, reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the thick bundle of papers. He handed them to Ingrid, his movements practiced and quick.
She unfurled them, her eyes scanning the official stamps and dates. Her brow furrowed. “Tobias Haug,” she muttered, her finger tapping the notary stamp. “I knew it.”
“He stamped two different values for the same land,” I explained, my voice barely audible over the wind whistling through the cracks. “And the tithing liens are inflated, double what Malachi says.”
Ingrid’s lips thinned into a grim line. “Malachi uses Haug for every illegal real estate transfer in three counties. I’ve been tracking them from St. Paul. This isn’t the first homestead he’s tried to steal this way.”
She held up a paper. “This one, the one that claims structural damage? It’s a fraud. I have sworn affidavits from two other families who had their land claims devalued by Haug, only for Malachi’s sect to buy them at public auction for pennies on the dollar.”
“He wants to foreclose,” I stated, the words tasting bitter.
“Exactly,” Ingrid confirmed, her eyes sharp. “He’ll force an auction on these bogus liens, and then he’ll claim the land for the Covenant.”
She tucked the documents into her bag. “I’ll ride through the night. The county court is two days’ ride, but if I push, I can make it by late tomorrow, maybe get an injunction.” She paused, her gaze steady. “But I need you to hold this cabin until sunrise, Astrid. Keep Lars and Einar safe. Malachi won’t let this go easily.”
The weight of her words settled on me. Hold the cabin against Malachi’s men, through the biting Minnesota night. It felt like an impossible task. But what choice did I have? Einar’s quiet, trusting face looked up at me.
“I will,” I said, my voice firm despite the tremor in my hands. “Go.”
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