A Deep Divide

by Kimberley Woodhouse

  Since his father’s men weren’t back yet, he looked forward to another morning of quiet. Sunday had been a wonderful day of rest for him. But the entire day, he hadn’t been able to stop rehashing every conversation he’d had with the fascinating Harvey Girl.

  Wanting to scold himself for his previous behavior, he shook his head and tried to put it behind him. Today was a new day.

  He stood next to the host with his hands clasped behind his back.

  “Would you like the same table, Mr. Watkins? Mr. Owens has reserved it especially for you.”

  “Oh?” Ray tipped his head to the right. “That’s very kind of him but not necessary.”

  “Your father telegrammed Mr. Owens himself and we would like to make sure you are comfortable and happy with everything El Tovar has to offer.” The man dipped his head a bit. “Let me go check on your table.”

  His father telegrammed? Again? “I assure you, everything has been more than comfortable. Magnificent, really. I’m completely content. No need to bestow additional attention or favor.” He held up a hand and hoped the host could pass on the message.

  Frustration began to bubble up inside him. His father needn’t demand extra services. Dad liked to make sure that everyone knew who he was and how much money he had. Wanted to be named among the wealthiest. And wanted people to fawn over him. It disgusted Ray.

  “Of course, sir.” The man walked into the dining room.

  Most of the time, he tried to ignore those particular flaws of his father, but there were times that they reared their ugly heads and it burned inside of Ray. How many times had he heard the spiel about Vanderbilt—the shipping and railroad tycoon—being a self-made millionaire? Or about Rockefeller and his Standard Oil Company, Carnegie and his steel, Astor and his real estate, and Morgan and his banking houses. His father wanted the same accolades and recognition for the Watkins name.

  Lord, help me with my attitude toward Dad. There are times I don’t even want to be known as a Watkins. Help me to show him that there’s more than money in this life. Before it’s too late.

  The last thought hit him in the gut. He’d been trying to get his dad to listen for years with no luck. His hope had been to earn his father’s ear by working hard and proving himself.

  But so far that hadn’t done any good.

  He shook off the negative thoughts as the host returned.

  “Let me show you to your table, Mr. Watkins.”

  “Thank you.” With a deep breath, he reminded himself to smile. Why did thoughts of his father always turn him into such a grouch? It needed to stop.

  “Here you are, sir.” The older man gave a slight almost-bow and walked away.

  Ray took his seat. Facing the window, he allowed his gaze to roam the landscape. Even in the rain, it was glorious. In fact, the water on the canyon made colors of the rainbow distinguish themselves in the rocky layers. If only a picture could capture it. He studied it, trying to memorize how the light and water changed the scene.

  “Good morning, Mr. Watkins.” Miss Edwards appeared beside him almost instantaneously. “I see you are enjoying the view.”

  “Good morning.” He turned so he could look at her. “Yes, I simply cannot get over how beautiful it is.”

  Her face appeared softer toward him today. Perhaps she was getting used to him. Now, if he could remind himself to act like a gentleman, maybe things would stay that way.

  “Coffee?” She held the carafe close to his cup, waiting for his answer.

  “Yes, please. And I believe I will have Chef’s omelet again. Please give him my compliments. Everything I’ve had has been delicious.”

  “I will do that.” Her eyes sparkled and then she walked away.

  It was all he needed to boost his spirits.

  He lifted his cup and took a sip of the coffee, savoring the strong, hearty blend. He knew Harvey had strict rules about the coffee served. It had to be made fresh so many times a day, and Ray had never had a bad cup at any Harvey establishment. This morning, it was the perfect addition to the view.

  He pulled out his notebook, tearing his gaze away from the window. Last night he’d made a list of things they could do that would be good research for the investors. Once his father’s men were back, they could tackle those. Hopefully, it would make Dad happy that he’d taken initiative on this project. There were so many ideas he had but wasn’t sure exactly what his father was looking for or which direction the investors would wish to take.

  He leaned back in his chair and watched the rain drizzle down. Lord, I need Your direction. I want to honor my father and help the business. But I long to make a difference. To do some good with all the blessings You’ve bestowed upon us. Guide my thoughts and my words.

  He leaned over the table and his cup, watching the curtains of rain pass over the canyon. To the west, a break in the clouds gave him hope for some sunshine today. And as the light streaked through, it lit up the rocky walls, making them shimmer and glow.

  “Here you go, Mr. Watkins. A piping-hot omelet.” Miss Edwards set his plate down and refilled his coffee with the carafe in her other hand. “I hope you enjoy it.” The smile she gave him was broader than he’d seen cross her face.

  That head waitress—what was her name? Anniston?—appeared at Miss Edwards’ side. “Emma Grace.” She cleared her throat. “Forgive me, Miss Edwards. I need to speak with you immediately.” The look on her face was stern and her skin ashen.

  “Excuse me.” Miss Edwards looked back at him, her smile gone.

  He gave her a nod. Now that he knew her name was Emma Grace, he realized it suited her perfectly. Hopefully she wasn’t in any kind of trouble. Miss Anniston was the head waitress, yes, but she hadn’t seemed harsh or unreasonable. What could the trouble be?

  He watched them cross the room and exit.

  Hmmm. He’d have to wait and see.

  The lovely scent of peppers and onions mixed with melted cheese and mushrooms wafted up to his nose. It made his stomach growl.

  Bowing his head, he offered up a prayer of thanksgiving and then picked up his fork.

  “Mr. Watkins?” The familiar voice brought Ray’s head up.

  “Good morning, Frank.” Ray reached out a hand in greeting. “Please, have a seat.”

  The assistant chef sat down, a frown on his face. “I’m afraid I need to share some unpleasant news with you.”

  “Go ahead.” He set his fork down and sat up a little straighter.

  “While I was in Williams yesterday running errands, I was contacted by the sheriff. The phone line has been busy here, so he couldn’t get through to you and asked if I could give you the message. I’m sorry to tell you this, but your companions are in the jail. Per the sheriff’s request, I’ve informed Mr. Owens, but out of respect for you, I thought we should keep it quiet.”

  He felt his eyes widen. “Jail? Whatever for?”

  “They were playing poker with some unsavory characters and things got out of hand. One of the men threatened to kill one of your men. There was a big fight. And when the sheriff investigated, he found a bunch of stolen goods in your men’s possession.”

  Ray’s breath left him in a great whoosh, and he leaned back against the chair. He’d had an inkling that the men weren’t aboveboard, but he couldn’t put his finger on why that thought had nagged at him. It hadn’t been his place. Or so he thought.

  Besides, he didn’t know them all that well. But didn’t Dad trust them? No matter now, he was the one here. That meant he’d have to clean up the mess. The question was, should he get his father’s input before or after he visited the men in jail?

  Emma Grace tread on Ruth’s heels through the rotunda to the office behind the clerk’s desk. Whatever Ruth had to say must be most serious indeed. Emma Grace gripped her fingers together and tried not to tie them into knots. But her stomach was already there. Had she done something wrong?

  What if he had found her? If he had . . . then she needed to run. Now. She’d promised herself when
she left Boston that she wouldn’t allow herself to be forced into marriage. Not for money. Not for any contract. Not ever. With a look over her shoulder, she tried to ascertain if anything or anyone was different.

  As she followed the head waitress into Mr. Owens’ office, she forced herself to breathe. In. Out. It wouldn’t do her any good if she lost her wits. Ruth closed the door behind her.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt you in the middle of breakfast, but this couldn’t be helped. Caroline will make sure that your customers are taken care of, just in case.” Ruth’s features had been set and firm up to this point. Now, Emma Grace could clearly see a bit of fear in her eyes.

  “All right.” Her heart picked up its beat.

  Ruth held out a slip of paper. “This came this morning to Mr. Owens. He’s quite protective of all of us and wanted me to speak to you immediately and privately.”

  Emma Grace took the paper and inhaled a deep breath. Holding it, she read.

  Unpleasant man questioning several Harvey establishments looking for Emma Grace McMurray.

  E. M. Whitaker—Frisco Line Harvey Newsstand

  “Emma Grace, you need to tell me. Is this you they’re looking for?” Ruth’s features softened into concern. “Or is it someone else? It scared me because I’ve never met another Emma Grace before . . . and . . . well, we just need to know.”

  “Do you know who E. M. Whitaker is?” She fisted her hands at her sides.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “But I do.” Mr. Owens stepped into the room. “And you didn’t answer the question.” His brow was furrowed as he closed the door once again.

  “Oh.” Emma Grace’s stomach dropped to her toes. This was it. She’d be fired and have nowhere to go. No friends in her corner. No family. Nothing except for the savings locked in her room. And that wouldn’t get her very far. Not without work.

  “Whitaker is a good friend of mine in Missouri. He keeps his ear to the ground and lets several of the managers know when something is amiss. Normally it’s business related, but this caught my attention right away.” Mr. Owens held out a hand for the telegram.

  As she handed it over, her hands shook.

  “Are you this Emma Grace?” His tone was flat.

  A knot formed in her throat, making it difficult to swallow, but she gulped past it. She looked back and forth between Ruth and her manager. One, a new friend with the tentative roots of trust beginning to take hold. The other, her boss. A man she’d hoped would be a great protector and wonderful manager. But would he send her off? Accuse her of wrongdoing?

  “It’s all right.” Ruth came toward her and put an arm around her shoulders. “Anything you say will be in the strictest confidence. We are here to help you, not condemn you.”

  The look on Mr. Owens’ face was hard to decipher. Did he feel the same way?

  “Answer the question, please.” Ruth squeezed her shoulder.

  “If Mr. Whitaker is a friend of yours, perhaps we could call him and get more information? I’ll gladly pay for the call.” She dropped her eyes to the floor.

  “I take that to mean that you are Miss McMurray?” Mr. Owens raised his eyebrows.

  She bit her lip, her thoughts racing. There was no other way. Lifting her chin, she looked the manager in the eye. “Yes. I am Emma Grace McMurray.”

  Ruth’s tiny gasp made Emma Grace look at her. Her friend’s eyes had widened, and her mouth made an O. Lying was not allowed by Harvey staff.

  The manager walked around his desk and sat down. “Let’s call Mr. Whitaker. I’m told we can reach Missouri now via phone lines, but I haven’t tried it yet.”

  As he spoke to the operator to get the call to the correct location, all Emma Grace could do was stand there and look at her hands. What had she done? Would her job be at risk? Harvey rules were strict. Deception wasn’t tolerated.

  The seconds ticked by in slow agony.

  “Everett?” A little pause. “It’s good to hear your voice, my friend.” Mr. Owens’ voice took on a different tone. Almost lively, jovial. “I received your telegram, yes. I need to ask you a couple questions.”

  More silence stretched as they waited for what Mr. Whitaker would say.

  “Do you know who the man was?”

  Ruth squeezed Emma Grace’s shoulders tighter.

  “Umm-hmm. I see.” Mr. Owens pursed his lips to the side. “No. I don’t think so.”

  The office clock chimed as the room hushed once more. Mr. Whitaker must be talking a good bit.

  A silent nod from their boss.

  Emma Grace wanted to hold her breath, wishing there was a way to know what the man in Missouri was saying.

  “Any idea where he is now?” Another nod. A humph. “All right then. Thank you.” Owens hung up the earpiece. He shifted his gaze to them and leaned back in his chair. “No one knows who the man is or why he’s looking for you. But a woman named Hazel in Kansas says that he told her it was a situation of life and death. Hazel lives close to the Harvey House and knows every bit of gossip around for miles.”

  “I remember Hazel.” Emma Grace’s words were soft. “I never spoke to her myself, but everyone knew who she was.”

  “If this is a situation of life and death, I think you need to tell us more. We need to know the truth, Miss Edwards—uh, I guess that’s what you want to be called?” He quirked an eyebrow at her.

  “Yes, please. Miss Edwards.” The sting of tears hit her eyes. This couldn’t be happening. “It’s a very long story, I’m afraid. And I know that there are tables that need my attention. Perhaps we could discuss this later?” Somehow she had to buy herself some time to come up with a way to tell the truth without telling the whole truth.

  “Your tables are in good hands, I assure you. Miss Anniston has it all taken care of.” The man scratched his forehead. “Look, I know this must be difficult for you. But you are not leaving this office until we get some answers.”

  7

  So, why does your employment card state that you are Emma Grace Edwards?” The manager’s voice was a bit softer now, but he hadn’t hesitated a moment before he began to interrogate her. “Are you in danger?”

  There was no escape. No way to get away from the questions. The time to tell the truth was here. But how could they understand? “I . . . My father was murdered.” It was the first time she’d said the words aloud to anyone. Her knees shook as if they couldn’t support her any longer.

  “Help me get her to a chair, Mr. Owens.” Ruth’s command made it sound like she was in charge of the whole place.

  “Of course.” He brought a chair over, and they eased Emma Grace down onto it.

  “That’s not a story you hear every day. Or live through, I guess.” Ruth knelt in front of her and whispered, “I thought you said the nightmares were because you’d been kidnapped, but that it was a long time ago. . . . There’s more? You didn’t tell me your father had been murdered.” The questions in her eyes made Emma Grace’s heart squeeze. Her friend stood back up. “Why don’t you start at the beginning?”

  Emma Grace took several deep breaths and looked them both in the eye. How could she be certain they would keep her secret? But did she really have a choice? She couldn’t lie her way out of this one.

  Lifting her chin, she closed her eyes for a brief moment. “May I ask that you both pledge to me that you will keep my confidence?”

  “Yes.” Ruth’s answer was quick.

  “Yes, of course. As long as it doesn’t put anyone else in danger.” Mr. Owens got up and pulled another chair up beside her and patted her arm.

  “I need to know what Mr. Whitaker knows about this man looking for me.”

  “Not much other than a description. He didn’t say why he was looking for you. And it sounded like the man knew for certain that you were a Harvey Girl—at least from Hazel’s perspective. Tell us your story, and then I promise, I will do whatever is in my power to help.” The manager leaned back in his chair.

  The manager’s promise didn’t m
ean a lot to her. Men she trusted had made promises to her when she was young. Not one of them had been honored. But a glance at Ruth’s concerned face gave Emma Grace the prodding she needed. She had nothing to lose at this point. Nothing and everything.

  “My father wasn’t the same after my mother died. He had always been a shrewd businessman—railroads. But after she passed, he changed. When I turned seventeen, he tried to convince me to marry one of his railroad associates. When I kept saying no, he put another plan into motion. The night I left, I found out he’d sold off contracts to men. Contracts in which they would gain a piece of the railroad if they married me in exchange for stock in their family’s businesses, land, or gold. And to further entice them, he put in the contracts that when Father died, we both would then inherit it all. I found out later he’d negotiated with six men. Six men who paid substantial amounts in stocks, real estate, and money. Six men who all thought they could marry the heiress. Me.” She hadn’t spoken of her former life in so long, it almost didn’t seem real anymore.

  “Oh dear.” Ruth just shook her head.

  “When I confronted my father, he laughed and told me that I had no choice in the matter. I chose to leave and not give Father the chance to force me into marriage. But three days after I left, I picked up a newspaper that said my father had been murdered and that I was missing. It crushed me. I hadn’t even said good-bye. Our last words to each other had been ugly.” She took a deep breath. “The paper mentioned that my fiancé—the man who was first in line—was desperate to find me and wanted to ensure I was safe. Not knowing where else to turn, I contacted a man who had doted on me like a grandfather.” She paused and bit her lip. It’d be best to not give his name. “He’d been our family solicitor for my mother’s father until my father fired him. He was the only man I trusted because I knew he didn’t agree with everything my father had done. Sadly, our solicitor informed me that even though all of the contracts couldn’t be legally binding, whichever one was dated the earliest could be used to force me into marriage and join two business empires.”