Mission of Hope

by Allie Pleiter

  Now, it seemed, Nora had a secret of her own.

  Ma stood in the doorway, staring holes in Quinn’s back as he finished shaving outside and splashed the last of the morning’s water on his numb face. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice?” she barked finally.

  Every muscle in Quinn’s body ached beyond reason. He’d spent the afternoon sinking the second post into the ground, made a pretense at a few hours’ sleep after dinner, then slipped off to make a few deliveries. He’d managed only three of the five requests before time and fatigue had caught up with him, forcing him back to bed if he stood any chance at making it through the day’s paid labor ahead of him.

  Heroes need better wages, Lord. Quinn prayed as he willed strength and reason to seep into his brain from the coffee cup he currently held. He needed to be three separate people in order to keep all this up.

  “Notice what?” He didn’t look at her, but he didn’t even need the mirror’s reflection to tell him his evasion wouldn’t succeed.

  Ma spun on her heels and turned back into the shack. “Notice what? he says,” she addressed the empty shelter loudly enough for him to hear. “As if fooling his ma comes easy to him now. It’s come to that, has it?” Quinn wasn’t quite sure who she was conversing with, but it was clear that he shouldn’t answer that question at the moment. He followed her inside, only to have her turn on him with angry eyes. “Who is it you’re keeping all kinds of hours with, Quinn? Out half the night, carousing with the likes of Heaven knows who? There’s nothing but drinking and gambling happens that time of night. I’m no fool.” The look of disappointment in her eyes fell to the pit of his stomach like a dozen rocks. “You had such sense before, son. Where’s it gone?”

  She thought he spent his nights drinking. While it had never occurred to him she’d come to such a conclusion, once he thought about it there wasn’t a single good reason she shouldn’t suspect the worst of his midnight disappearances. Many a good man had let the stress and grief of the disaster lead him straight to the bottle. His own da had tripped along that path—to his own eventual end—years before with nowhere near the desperation that gripped the city lately. “No, Ma,” he said, not having another excuse but not being able to bear the look in her eye.

  She looked as if the loss of another of her men to the bottle would be her undoing. “Don’t make it worse by lying,” she said quietly. Her knuckles were white around the spoon she held.

  Quinn took an enormous, burning gulp of coffee and looked her squarely in the eye. “I’m not drinking, Ma. I promise. I couldn’t. Not with Da…”

  One hand flew up to stop his words, as if even his name caused her pain. She turned away, shaking her head. Her disbelief stung him worse than the bullet graze he still nursed on his left side. In all his eagerness for secretive heroics, he’d never considered it would cost him Ma’s trust to be the Midnight Messenger. Still, it had to be that way. Telling her where he really was would only place her in danger if things ever went wrong. But he couldn’t bear her thinking he was slipping down to his father’s ugly end at the bottom of a bottle. He had to tell her something, and quick. Blurting out the first thing that came to his mind—mostly because it never left his mind—he offered a sheepish grin and said, “You’d like her, Ma.”

  Ma went still, staring at him. “A woman?” she said suspiciously.

  Well now, he hadn’t thought through the details. What woman of decent character would keep the hours he’d been keeping? No woman of decent character. He could practically see his ma come to the base conclusion that his “woman” was no “lady.” “No, Ma, not that, either.”

  Ma’s hand went to her heart. “You’re not giving me much hope to go on.” She got a straight-to-business look on her face and sat down on her chair, placing her teacup carefully on one knee. “How about we try this again, and with the truth.”

  There wasn’t another way. At least not one that he could see at the moment. “The truth is, Ma, that I can’t say. That’s the whole of it and the best I can give you. But I can tell you that it’s not drink. But you can’t know more than that, and I’ve my reasons.”

  “What kind of reasons would make a son lie to his mother?”

  “I’ve not lied to you, Ma. And I’ll make a promise to do my best never to lie to you. But that means you’ll not get answers to some questions. At least not now.” If he made enemies as the Messenger—which he most surely would—anything she knew would put her at risk.

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “What in Heaven’s name are you up to, lad?”

  “You can’t know, Ma, and it’s as simple as that.” He felt ancient this morning, and it had nothing to do with lack of sleep. “But you can know that I doubt I can do it well on an empty stomach.”

  Ma addressed the empty room again. “All secrets, but I’m to feed him breakfast. What’s happening to the world, I ask you?”

  “It’s getting a little bit better day by day, Ma. And that’s the truth of it.” He reached out and gave her a hug, noticing how small she felt in his embrace. It felt odd to think of her as old, nearly impossible to think of her as frail, but the months had taken their toll on her much more than they had on him.

  She opened the little tomato box that had become their pantry, pulling out a hunk of cheese he’d managed to procure the previous afternoon. “Is there really someone,” she asked with careful words, “or were you throwing up smoke to your own ma?”

  Quinn polished off the last of his coffee. “There is, and there isn’t.”

  His mother cut the last of their bread into two thick slices. “What kind of answer is that to a simple question?”

  “I suppose Reverend Bauers would say some simple questions don’t have simple answers.”

  She only heaved an enormous, burdened sigh as she handed him the bread and cheese. “I suppose I can only pray for you. God Himself only knows what to make of the likes of this.”

  With a sad smile of his own, Quinn thought his mother was absolutely right.

  Quinn slowly squeezed his finger and felt the gun’s kick as it released its bullet.

  Square into the straw target Simon had set up a good distance away. Quinn turned out to be an excellent shot. Within a week of training, Quinn already bested most of the regular infantry and half of the officers. While it surprised him that such a dark skill came to him so readily, he couldn’t ignore the admiration and respect fellow infantrymen gave him when he shot as well as he did. He understood how the Wild West got so wild now—and why Ma had been so against him owning one. Guns gave very attractive power on very short notice.

  Major Simon took off his hat and squinted down the line at the hit target. “I ought to enlist you,” he said with a dark look. “This minute.”

  Quinn shook off the tired ache in his neck, aimed and fired. A hole burst dead center on the second target. It rarely took him a second shot.

  Simon shook his head. “You’re wasted on the swords, Freeman. The pistol is your weapon by far.”

  It was the first compliment Simon had paid him in days. Things had been tense between them since the major’s oh-so-well-received dinner with the Longstreets—but the tension had mostly been on Quinn’s part. From what he could see, Simon was oblivious. Part of him knew the circumstances held immovable obstacles between him and Nora.

  Another part of him refused to accept it. It was as if he and Nora were cut from the same cloth, but neither one seemed suited for their present circumstances. She was bolder than society cared to allow young women, and he craved more than what society cared to allow men lacking a formal education. It seemed unjust that neither of them be able to reach toward the middle ground they somehow seemed to share. He was not at all bothered by her boldness—something men like Simon probably considered unfortunate. He’d heard Simon speak of young, bold recruits as “loose cannons” or “liabilities.” Quinn, on the other hand, was fond of Nora’s boldness almost as much as he was fond of her eyes. No one should tamp down Nora’s boldness any more than
they should change her eye color. It was how God had made her.

  “I’m not sure how you did it, but word is out,” the major said once they returned inside, handing Quinn a cloth to clean the pistol. “People are talking about a mysterious ‘Midnight Messenger.’ Very dramatic name, by the way.”

  Quinn had “signed” one or two of the deliveries as the “Midnight Messenger.” It was important that folks in Dolores Park knew someone was out there on their side. He’d done it as an act of reassurance more than any ploy for fame. “I wasn’t shooting for drama. Just something people could remember.”

  “Oh, they’re aware of you, all right.” The major looked as if he didn’t think that was such a good idea. “Now that you’ve got an identity, I’d venture people will be out looking for you. And not everyone will want to shake your hand, if you catch my meaning. I suppose the mask isn’t such a bad idea after all.” Simon nodded toward the ordinary-looking rucksack Quinn used. Inside were the costume and weapons of—now—the Midnight Messenger. Major Simon kept the bag inside a locked chest in a closet near his office, setting them alongside the supplies on delivery nights.

  With Reverend Bauers’s help, Quinn had fashioned a fabric version of the Bandit’s mask—a sort of dark bandanna skullcap with a two-holed flap that folded down over the eyes to tie behind his head. It covered Quinn’s visibly blond hair, hid his ears and brow, and worked just as well under a hat as without. Quinn could almost feel himself transforming when he put it on. Still, these people needed so much more than what he’d been able to give them. “These provisions aren’t enough,” he informed the major. “I’m going to need more.”

  “Don’t overextend yourself, Freeman.”

  Quinn didn’t care for his I-know-better tone. “I think I know how much I can do. I don’t need you setting limits on me. If you can provide it, I’ll find a way to deliver it.”

  “And your cocky attitude will fast find a way to get you killed. You’re exhausted, Quinn. You won’t be any good to me dead.”

  Any good to “me”? When had this become about Simon? “I’ll admit I’m tired, but I’m not one of your liabilities. If I need rest, I’ll get it. If you’re so intent on my backing things down a bit, give me some extra provisions to take to Grace House. I’ll let the reverend be the hero for the evening, feeding folks who need to be fed. A good meal’s hard to come by, with cooking fires being outlawed and all.”

  Quinn pushed out an exasperated breath. Even he had to admit the last remark was an underhanded blow. Everyone hated the army’s banning of open flame—necessary as it was to ensure public safety. It wasn’t Simon’s fault people couldn’t cook for themselves. Maybe he really was too tired if he let the major’s superior attitude get under his skin like that.

  Simon looked annoyed, but didn’t rise to Quinn’s challenge. “I just took a delivery of some bacon, beans and even a little sugar. And because its kitchen is intact, Grace House can have flour for baking. I’ll throw in three extra sacks. Bauers can feed extra mouths and keep everyone occupied for a day or so. Will that convince you to slow down?”

  Quinn was smart enough not to let his temper get in the way of a good solution. He’d never admit it to Simon’s face, but the prospect of a night off was sorely tempting. And although his cot called to him, Quinn knew exactly where—and with whom—he wanted to spend his newfound free time.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Nora stood in the living room later that afternoon watching glances bounce back and forth between her parents and Reverend Bauers. The reverend had just come to the house—under “major’s orders”—to ask Nora to help with a last-minute army distribution of foodstuffs and supplies.

  “I know Nora wants to help, but I need to be cautious about when and where she lends a hand, even at the request of Major Simon.” Nora hoped her father wouldn’t force her to decline such a perfectly good reason to visit Dolores Park.

  “It is a testament to you that your daughter is so willing to be of assistance. She’ll be back for supper, madam.” Reverend Bauers folded his hands seriously across his chest. “You have my word. She’ll only go to the very edge of the park, and she’ll be escorted by Major Simon himself at all times.”

  Mama acquiesced first. “Please tell the major he is most welcome to stay for dinner when he brings Nora back.”

  They pulled up to the park edge to find Major Simon smiling on the back of a large wagon mounded with a variety of clothing, blankets, building supplies and tins of various food. “How delightful to have your help, Miss Longstreet. It is a great pleasure to see you again. If you would be so kind as to sit behind this table and make a list of each family as they receive their goods? Just names please, as Sergeant Miller here will take note of the particular items over at the cart.” He handed her a ledger and pencil.

  She settled herself behind the table, and as the major attended to the other officer, Nora discreetly swept her eye around the gathering crowd. No Quinn. Not even after an hour’s worth of listing names. It was foolish to expect him to find her every time she set foot near the park. She was chastising herself for giving in to such disappointment when Reverend Bauers came up to the table.

  “Miss Longstreet,” he said, “you’ll be pleased to know I’ve persuaded the major to accept your mother’s kind offer of dinner. I wonder if I could persuade you to offer me a moment of your time to help with the posts?”

  “Please, Reverend, tell me whatever it is you need.” Nora stood up and the reverend tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. They had walked the half a block to the post when Bauers stopped and whispered into her ear. “What I need, my dear, is to get him what he needs.”

  Nora pulled back. “What who needs?”

  Suddenly, Nora heard a voice from behind her other shoulder. “I need to see you.” It was Quinn’s voice, right behind her.

  She moved to spin around and face him, but the reverend held tight to her arm. “Quinn, can we at least attempt to be careful?”

  Nora’s eyes flew wide and her spine stiffened as she realized that Quinn had actually put the Reverend Bauers up to this meeting. “Quinn?” Nora fairly gasped.

  “Mr. Freeman,” corrected the elder minister.

  “Quinn is just fine.” Nora could hear the smile in Quinn’s voice even if she couldn’t turn to see it. “I had to see you.” She heard him shift his weight and groan. “Reverend, give me a minute?”

  The minister tightened his grip on Nora’s arm. “Within eyeshot of the major? Certainly not.” His voice was stern but Nora could clearly see the twinkle in his eye. “Nora, would you be so kind as to write down a dozen or so of these requests as I point them out to you? It should only take…” he inclined his head in Quinn’s direction “…two minutes at the most.”

  “Five.”

  Nora was so flustered by the “conspiracy” and Quinn’s nearby voice that it took her a moment to grasp the chalk and slate Reverend Bauers produced from his coat pocket. “Certainly. I had…very much…wanted to come back here and see…the posts.” It was like trying to have six conversations at once. “Papa is so very cautious now.”

  “As well he should be,” the reverend chimed in, at which Quinn produced an exasperated groan from somewhere just off her left shoulder.

  “I need to see you.”

  Nora looked at the minister. How could she possibly answer such a question with a reverend inches away? As if hearing her thoughts, Reverend Bauers found something fascinating in the sky to look at and began to whistle softly.

  “I…I don’t know. I don’t know how.”

  “I’ll just talk to your father. Explain what’s…”

  “No,” Nora countered. “He’d never listen. Not yet.”

  She heard him blow out an exasperated breath behind her. “I’d make him understand.”

  His determination made her heart pound. “Perhaps you could, in time. But not yet.” The memory of Papa’s scowl darkened her words.

  “Your window is on the south side, ri
ght?”

  Nora startled. “On my house? Aunt Julia’s house?”

  “Does it have a balcony?”

  “Have you been reading Romeo and Juliet?” the clergyman asked in an exasperated tone.

  Nora swallowed a laugh. The vision of Quinn Freeman scaling Aunt Julia’s rose trellis made her want to giggle and sigh at the same time. “That’s not wise.”

  “To say the least,” Reverend Bauers said. He pointed out a message from the post asking for a hymnal and socks. “A meeting at Grace House is wisest. I told you that, Quinn. See here, Nora, there are three requests for dolls like the one you gave Edwina. I don’t think the Ladies Aid society would see fit to provide those, but perhaps if Grace House supplied the materials you could make more.”

  “I told him,” Quinn said. “Edwina was so happy.”

  “Her grandfather came to services at Grace House the following weekend. I gather he’s not darkened the door of a church in ten years.”

  Quinn’s voice was low and close. “You did that, Nora.”

  Nora’s satisfaction ran so deep she could almost soak in God’s smile coming down on her from Heaven. “That’s wonderful,” she whispered, having to work hard to concentrate as she wrote down the three other names. “Of course I’ll make more.”

  “If you bring them to Grace House, I can meet you there.” The urgency in Quinn’s voice made the back of Nora’s neck tingle.

  “I could be there Tuesday,” Nora replied. Tuesday seemed like a million years from now.

  “Tuesday.” Quinn’s single word seemed to echo her own frustration. Nora closed her eyes, feeling his gaze burn into her, sense his presence in the air just behind her, hear his breath. Her hand moved to grasp the locket around her neck.