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He ignored the snorts and splutters his comment caused and sipped his coffee. Across at another table, he could see Big Red and his cohorts looking their way, question marks all over their faces.
    The aroma of steaming coffee overlaid the stench of unwashed bodies, sweat-soaked wool, and spluttering kerosene lanterns. Hjelmer cradled the cup between his hands. If he could tune out the rumble of conversation and the shouts, both obscene and otherwise, perhaps he could envision Penny. But when images of the auburn curls of the Jezebel, Mary Ruth Strand, her sea-green eyes, and her laughing lips replaced Penny’s Norwegian blondness, he shook his head.
    “Come on, let’s go see about the laundry,” Leif said, clapping him on the shoulder.
    Hjelmer rose willingly. Thoughts of Mary Ruth had gotten him in trouble in the first place. Amid the suggestive comments of the other laborers, they left the cook car.
    “Go get yours and I’ll meet you back here.”
    They returned in a few minutes, each with a bundle tucked under his arm.
    “Glad I could oblige you with such sport in there.” Hjelmer stuck his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders against the wind whistling down his neck. Each night turned colder earlier than the last. At this rate winter would soon be on them.
    “Ja, you gave those men some good laughs.” Leif looked over at his friend. “You . . . you do know about the washerwomen, don’t you?”
    Hjelmer raised an eyebrow. “Know about the washerwomen? Is there something I should know? Tell me.” At the look of consternation on Leif’s square-jawed face, he thought, Let’s see how he likes the shoe pinching the other foot.
    “Well . . . ah . . . you see . . . ah . . . the women . . .”
    “Ja, I know, they are women.”
    “The women, they . . . ah . . .”
    “Spit it out, man.” Hjelmer could barely keep a straight face, but he knew Leif could see his expression in the brilliant moonlight, so he covered a cough with his hand.
    “The . . . the ladies are not of the best reputation. They sell . . . you can get . . .”
    Hjelmer couldn’t stand it any longer. He hooted at his friend’s discomfort. “Say no more, my friend. I used to work on the fishing boats from Norway—remember, I told you about my Onkel Hamre? I’m not some young boy fresh off the farm.”
    Leif punched him in the shoulder. Up ahead they could see dark shadows moving around in the tents lit by lanterns burning inside. They knocked on the first tent that had a “wash” sign on the side and waited.
    “Coming,” a musical voice answered. The head that peeped through the opening did not belong to a woman who’d been used hard and left. A kerchief barely covered springy dark curls, and her smile caught and held a bit of moonlight. “Now, how can I help you fellas?”
    Hjelmer held out his bundle. “You do wash?”
    “I do. Don’t let my age fool you. I can scrub with the best of them and still come out on top.” She thrust out a hand. “I’m Katja. Leave your bundle tonight and pick it up tomorrow. Or I can deliver it if you need.”
    “No, no. That’s all right. I’ll pick it up.” Thoughts of the remarks he’d get if she showed up looking for him warmed Hjelmer’s cheeks. He handed her his bundle and touched the brim of his fedora. “Mange takk.” The look in her eyes stayed with him all the way back to camp.

Mid-September 1884
    S olveig is coming, Solveig is coming,” Kaaren Knutson danced around her kitchen as much as her enormous girth would allow. The words could be set to any music she wanted. As she sang, she spread the crazy quilt over the sheets covering a newly filled corn-husk mattress. The ropes strung on the bed frame that held the mattress creaked when she knelt to tuck the quilt in at the bottom. She’d thought of using straw for filling, but it packed down so, and she liked the smell of corn. At the rate Ingeborg brought in geese from the flocks that honked their way south, they would