Vestige of Power

by Sara Blackard

“Mr. Remming, I’m honored that you would consider me for such an important position as this. If you will allow, I need to retire for the evening and pray God’s direction. I have a home and life in the Shining Mountains. I need to know if this is the direction God wishes me to take, not something my emotions are leading me to,” Joseph replied, staring at Victoria in contemplation.

  “I respect a man who seeks God’s wisdom in major decisions. How about we meet back here for dinner around noon tomorrow?” Mr. Remming said.

  “That would be fine by me.” Joseph stood and strode to Mr. Remming, extending his hand to shake it. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Remming.”

  “Likewise, and thank you, young man, for helping my Victoria. It’s a rare man who would go to the lengths you did to keep a stranger safe,” Mr. Remming said, clasping Joseph’s hand in both of his.

  “You’re welcome,” Joseph replied, turning to Victoria and taking her hand. “Miss Remming, I’m glad you are safe and unharmed. I look forward to visiting tomorrow.”

  As Joseph placed a kiss upon her hand, he looked into her expressive face. He knew he’d do anything to keep her safe and wouldn’t be able to leave to his mountains with the threat looming over her. Though God had brought him here, Joseph couldn’t discern what He willed, at least with those spring green eyes staring raptly at him with such hope.

  Chapter 6

  Joseph strode to the Remming residence with new purpose. All night he’d been on his knees in prayer on the hotel room floor, asking God to direct his path. When the thready strains of pink had pushed through the night sky, Joseph received his answer. Now he just had to convince Victoria and her father it remained the best option available.

  Joseph slowed as he approached the house, noticing a man leaning against a building reading a paper. The man lowered the paper, and Joseph recognized one of the men from the night before by the bruise spread across his face. Joseph turned away quickly and walked to the end of the block, counting the houses as he strode forward. He turned the corner and quickly headed down the street, tucking into the alley that went behind the houses. He scaled the fence to the Remming’s house when the gate proved locked, just like he scaled the mountains he crossed back home.

  Joseph knocked on the back door. A round woman with her hair pulled back tight and a messy apron over her gray dress answered. She cocked an eyebrow at Joseph, looking him up and down.

  “May I help you?” she asked.

  “Could you tell Mr. and Miss Remming that Joseph Thomas is here to speak with them,” Joseph asked, pulling his hat from his head.

  “Why in the world are you coming to the back door?” the cook asked, ushering him in.

  “Well, the front is being watched. I didn’t want anyone to know I’m here,” Joseph answered.

  The scents of whatever was cooking assaulted his nose with a cacophony of pleasant aromas he hadn’t experienced since his mother had died. His mouth salivated, and he hoped whatever the cook prepared would be served for dinner. His eyes bulged at the mound of cookies stacked upon the worktable in the center of the kitchen.

  “Go ahead, Mr. Thomas, take one for yourself. I’ve sent a maid to get George to see you to the parlor.” The cook pointed to the mound.

  Joseph grinned broadly at her and winked. “Thank you, ma’am. You, dear lady, are a lifesaver.”

  “Oh, get on with you now,” she said as she shooed him off, her face pinking in a blush.

  Joseph chuckled as he bit into the cookie. The soft treat melted into his mouth as the rich molasses and tangy ginger danced upon his tongue. Though he knew he should savor it, the cookie was gone in two more bites. He brushed his sugary fingers together as he met George in the hallway.

  “This way, sir,” George said stoically, ushering Joseph into the front of the house where a sitting room was located.

  Victoria lounged on a flowery couch, her feet propped up on an ottoman before her. Her mouth quirked in an amused smile as she read the book she held, one finger twirling in her chestnut hair. She was dressed in what could be called a simple dark pink dress, though it appeared more complicated than anything he’d ever seen his mother in, with its lace upon the sleeves and thick skirts that hid everything but the soles of her feet, even propped up. He imagined what Victoria would look like in a simple calico dress, sitting in his rocker beside the fire, an amused lift upon her lips as she read into the evening. His heart warmed at the thought.

  George cleared his throat. “Mr. Thomas is here, Miss Remming.”

  Victoria looked up and the amused smile turned into a radiant beam as she rose from the couch and approached. His heart boiled and threatened to explode like the geyser he’d seen when he’d traveled north above the Oregon Trail. The ridiculous bowtie lassoed around his neck cinched tighter the closer she came. He doubted any man could survive feeling hot and choked by the approach of a woman and suddenly understood the reason men escaped into the mountains.

  “Good morning, Mr. Thomas. Father sent a message that he’s running a bit behind schedule. Would you like a cup of coffee or tea while we wait?” Victoria asked, motioning for him to sit.

  Joseph questioned the sanity of staying within this stifling room, watching Victoria’s every move without either passing out from lack of air or blurting some inane declaration towards Victoria and whisking her off to the unknown with him. He needed air. He needed the open sky above him.

  “Actually, I’ve just come from the backyard and the temperature hasn’t risen too high yet today. Would you like to walk about the garden for a bit?” Joseph asked, desperately hoping for the space of the outdoors.

  Victoria’s eyebrows raised in question and her eyes beamed as she answered, “That sounds lovely.”

  As she led him out the door, Mrs. Leeter approached with a slight limp and a distraught look upon her face. Victoria grabbed Mrs. Leeter’s arm and threaded it through hers. “Come, Mrs. Leeter. We plan to take a turn about the garden. I’ll get you set up on the veranda with a nice glass of lemonade so you can rest.”

  “I happen to know your cook has a mound of delicious cookies waiting to be devoured,” Joseph piped in, knowing if the chaperone refused, Victoria would most likely change their plans to accommodate the older woman, who seemed still unhinged by the previous night’s encounter.

  “That sounds quite lovely,” Mrs. Leeter answered, her limp becoming more pronounced as she leaned upon Victoria.

  Joseph stifled a grin as he followed the ladies outside to a veranda attached to the back of the house. Once Mrs. Leeter was settled on a cozy chair with a magazine and the maid had been called to bring refreshments, Victoria led him out the door to the garden, her mouth turned up soft and inviting.

  “The roses are particularly lovely this year,” Victoria remarked as she turned to him on the cobblestone path.

  “Hmm,” Joseph grunted, his tongue tied by the beauty standing before him.

  “Come, let me show you,” she said as she chuckled and threaded her arm through his.

  Joseph questioned the intelligence of suggesting a walk around the garden. Without the furniture as a buffer and her small, delicate hand gently wrapped around his bicep, he wondered if the whole world would collapse on him. The heat of the day suddenly seemed twenty degrees warmer than a few minutes before, his frock coat stifling him. He wanted to escape to his Shining Mountains where the air remained crisp and clean and the mountains sang God’s glory. Yet, as Victoria’s hand tightened on his arm and she glanced up at him from under long chestnut lashes, her green eyes sparkling in delight, he knew he could never return alone again.

  Victoria’s breath hitched in her chest as Joseph’s muscle flexed beneath her hand. She flushed with heat and wondered why her bodice suddenly felt two sizes too tight. Was it the warm weather and humidity of the day or the man beside her that had her throat dry and her palms sweating? She could gulp an entire glass of lemonade and doubted it would cool her.

  Determined not to become some vapid ninny, Vict
oria cleared her throat. “Please tell me about out west, Mr. Thomas. I’ve read so many books and accounts of life out there and find it utterly fascinating.”

  Mr. Thomas looked at her with such joy on his face, she prayed he didn’t notice how slick with sweat her hands instantly became. She curled her toes in her shoes to focus her attention away from his handsome face with its strong lines, auburn beard, and blue eyes that penetrated deep into her soul and chased away intelligent thought. She thanked the good Lord she hadn’t succumbed to such ridiculousness throughout her years, like so many of her acquaintances. She couldn’t imagine how the women ever had a rational thought with how her own brains had turned to mush with just a smile and a touch from Mr. Thomas.

  “Whoever called them the Shining Mountains were right. They fairly sparkle with lakes glittering like jewels, birds serenading the forest and a million stars gracing the sky at night. The air is clean and light, not smoggy and heavy like the air here. I’ve never experienced air like you have here, so thick I could slice a piece off and put it in my pocket for later,” Mr. Thomas said as he shook his head in wonder. “The noise is hard for me here too. Back home it can be so silent you wonder if you’re the only one in the world or it can be so full of song and chatter from the critters roaming about and the wind dancing through the trees that you can hardly hear yourself think.” Mr. Thomas chuckled.

  “How did you end up there?” Victoria asked, fascinated by the man beside her, who talked of the earth with such poetry one minute and dispatched evil men with little exertion the next.

  “My father was a coureurs de bois, a woods runner who came out from New York City when he was young.” Mr. Thomas exhaled a laugh, shaking his head in disbelief, the love for his father evident in the soft smile upon his face. “He decided when he was fourteen that he was sick of the city and wanted the adventure of the West. He made his way out there, hitching up with others when he could. A French trapper took pity on him and took him under his wing, said my pa was a fighter worth saving. He spent the next fourteen years becoming a hiveranno, a free trapper known up and down the Rockies for his skill and bravery. Not a campfire was lit that didn’t include a story of Pa, whether it was true or not.”

  “I’d love to hear one.” Victoria couldn’t help that her smile grew as she thought of how Mr. Thomas’s love for his father shone in his eyes. The cord binding them closer and closer tightened. She felt the same consuming affection for her own father.

  Mr. Thomas obliged, looking out over the garden as he began. “Late one summer, he came upon a group of missionaries bent on setting up a trading post to minister to the natives in the wilds of the west. The group had hit hard times, their guide having died in an accident and the rest of the scouts were too green to get them over the mountains safely. Pa guided them into Flathead Post, then headed home with a new bride.”

  Victoria gasped, the surprise of the story bringing her joy. “How romantic!”

  “Yes, my pa and ma fell in love on that journey, despite the hardships. They returned to my pa’s cabin south of the White River. It wasn’t an easy life, but it seemed fulfilling. We often went to the Ute people to visit, my ma teaching them English and them teaching her about healing herbs and plants that could be foraged for food. I still visit the Utes several times a year, teaching them the white words and ways so as more settlers invade their homeland, they may be able to live like we have, as friends. I know most don’t care what becomes of the Indians, willing to push them into lands they’ve never been to when their homelands prove bountiful, but I want to give them a chance to work with the whites coming in by giving them the power of language.”

  Purpose roared loudly within Victoria’s heart; Mr. Thomas’s declaration a reflection of her own desire for others to learn. Victoria longed to see the Ute people, to learn from them and teach them in return. She knew the thought was silly, but it lodged itself there in her spirit. What a fantastic adventure that would be, just as fascinating as the Bedouins and on American soil to boot.

  “Are your parents still living there?” Victoria asked.

  “No, they’ve both passed on to our eternal reward some years ago,” Mr. Thomas said. “They were visiting the Utes when influenza spread through the people. They stayed and helped, but by the time they got sick, they were so exhausted, they didn’t make it. I was up north when it happened, taking our winter haul to the post. I know they’re up in heaven, singing and dancing with the angels, but I sure do miss them.”

  “I miss my mother still, as well. I can go weeks without thinking about her, then get hit with a memory. Now, though, the memories are mostly happy, some a little bittersweet. They aren’t crippling like they used to be, praise God.” Victoria sighed, leaning into Mr. Thomas a bit more as he placed his hand upon hers.

  “You said last night in your speech that you teach at the local orphanage. Do you go often?” Mr. Thomas asked, looking down at her as if her answer was important to him, his expression open and interested.

  “I’m not able to go as often as I’d like, but I go once a week,” Victoria answered, though her joy quickly fled with the remembrance of the letter she’d received this morning. “Though, the board of directors have informed me I’m no longer welcome.”

  Mr. Thomas pulled her to a stop, his forehead wrinkled in displeasure. “Why not?”

  “It appears my journalism ventures have come to the attention of the board, leaving them concerned for the children and the negative influence I’d have on them,” Victoria answered, quoting the words used in the letter that had ripped her heart from her chest.

  “If that isn’t the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Anyone who chats with you can see how kindhearted you are, not to mention how intelligent. What, they don’t want those orphans smart? They want them dumb as posts?” Mr. Thomas’s defense of her, the indignation clearly on his face, wrapped around her heart like a balm, soothing the rawness there.

  “I suppose it was inevitable. I’m just surprised how quickly it happened, but when George told me Mr. Snelling’s favorite errand boy delivered the message, it all made sense,” Victoria voice faltered, still not believing someone would be so hateful.

  “Smelling did this? I think I might just swing by the newspaper office and have a word with him,” Mr. Thomas said, the sharpness of his voice and the flex of his muscle beneath her hand sent a shiver up her spine, an arduous response to his protectiveness.

  Victoria grabbed his arm with both hands, causing him to turn towards her. “Father warned me when I insisted on pursuing journalism that there would be consequences if the truth came out. I knew society wouldn’t accept a woman journalist. I guess I was hopeful my insightful reports would overcome my need for skirts.”

  Mr. Thomas smiled sadly at her, running his hand down her arm to squeeze her hand. The motion ignited her insides to a blaze when she’d just succeeded in banking the coals. “Someday the work you did will matter more than your gender. Your articles ignited something in the people of this city, Victoria. Your expositions brought to light appalling situations and injustices and were written in a way that demanded action. You’re the avant courier, the scout, so to speak. Your words will linger on people’s minds, boring into their hearts, preparing the way for the change that is inevitable. I know they’ll linger in mine.”

  “You read my articles?” Victoria whispered, her throat tight with emotion.

  “Every one. Had the concierge scrounge them up for me.”

  Victoria’s breath hitched as she looked at the man before her. Not only did he quickly defend her, but he also made a point to find her articles and read them. She leaned closer, pulled to him by some invisible cord.

  A throat cleared, and George said, “Dinner is ready, miss.”

  Mr. Thomas smiled, his eyes twinkling with mirth as her cheeks began to warm. She willed her legs to move as he placed her hand back into the crook of his arm and walked towards the house. Glancing back at the spot where they’d stood among the ro
ses, she felt as if a part of her had been left behind, a youthfulness that spoke of naive dreams. Yet with his words of support and stories of hope, her heart felt full rather than lacking, a newness she couldn’t explain.

  Joseph sat in the parlor once again, full from the copious amounts of food he’d eaten. Instead of being sated, his spirit zinged within him, making him alert, ready for action. He thought back to the moment in the garden when it appeared Victoria would lean up and kiss him. His heart had raced like a herd of mustangs, like it did now from the memory. Her delight in hearing he’d read her articles had made him feel as if he’d conquered a pack of rabid wolves. He wondered how she’d react if he told her he’d tucked those articles safe into the bottom of his haversack?

  Mr. Remming cleared his throat where he sat in his armchair with his pipe. “George informed me that you spotted one of Victoria’s attackers lingering across the street.”

  “That’s correct. I circled around and entered from the alley,” Joseph answered as Victoria’s sharp gaze swung to him.

  Mr. Remming nodded his head solemnly, exhaling a deep breath as he placed his pipe on the table. “I’ve given this much thought, hours throughout the night, in fact. Victoria, I’ve come to the conclusion that you must leave. If you aren’t here, they can’t hurt you.”

  “Leave!” Victoria exclaimed as she exploded from the couch. “I can’t leave you, Father. Besides, where would I go? We have no family to speak of, and what would stop them from following me?”

  “You’ll go stay with Aunt Gertrude,” Mr. Remming declared.

  Victoria paced back and forth on the rug. “You must be joking. That old bat hates me. She’ll keep me locked in that stuffy old house of hers knitting socks out of the itchiest wool and drowning on that disgusting tea she insists on drinking all day long. Besides, everyone knows about your crazy, decrepit aunt with all the stories you tell. They would just come and get me there.”