Suddenly, her hands stilled and she straightened, her gaze taking Tucker in, from his dusty boots to his face, settling on the preacher’s hat he held in his hand. Tears flooded her eyes as she stood and dropped her knitting on the chair.
His father’s eyes popped open. A glare hardened his sallow features, his face ashen and his eyes sunken. “What are you doin’ here?”
Tucker lifted his shoulders and let them drop.
“I asked him to come.” Tucker had never before witnessed the strength in his mother’s voice and the set of her jaw.
“I told you no.”
“I need my son.” She rushed to embrace Tucker, snagging the curtain and nearly ripping it from its frame. Tucker caught her as she stumbled, and she wrapped her arms around his neck.
“Well, I don’t need him here. I don’t want him here.” His father’s voice escalated. A series of deep, gurgling coughs rent the stale air and resonated in Tucker’s core.
Something had to be done to stop the spasms. Tucker released his mother and rushed to the bedside, reaching for his father, but he was met with a flailing hand, slapping his arm away even in the throes of a coughing fit.
God, help us. His father did need him here, even if he would never admit it.
The nun he’d seen in the hallway scuttled in. “Mr. Raines, it sounds as though you could use another steam treatment before we send you home this afternoon.” She tucked a stray feather of white hair under her headpiece, and looked at Tucker over the top of her wire-rimmed spectacles. “This might be a good time for you and Mrs. Raines to help yourself to a cup of coffee in the kitchen.”
Tucker nodded, comforted by the warm sensitivity he heard in the nun’s soft brogue. He took his mother’s elbow and guided her out of the room.
The long table in the sisters’ dining room sat empty. Tucker set two full coffee cups at one end and pulled out a chair for his mother. The strength he’d seen in her moments earlier seemed to have evaporated.
He knew the feeling. He sat beside her. Thirsty, he lifted the cup of hot brew to his lips. Never mind that the coffee was bitter, as long as the liquid coated his insides with warmth.
“I’m sorry.” His mother sniffled. Her shoulders hunched more than he remembered. “I shouldn’t have asked you to come, but I didn’t know what else to do.”
He set down his cup and squeezed her hand. “You did the right thing, Mother.” He hoped he was right, but the fact that his mere presence had stirred his father into a coughing fit didn’t bode well.
“He can’t help himself. He just hasn’t been right since …” Her face twisted into a frown and she wrapped her hands around the steaming cup in front of her. “How is Willow?”
Tucker glanced up at the crucifix that hung on the wall at the other end of the long plank table and breathed in the reminder. What Christ did on the cross was enough, regardless of how he felt. “She was about the same when I saw her last Wednesday.”
Her elbows on the table, his mother put her face in her hands and began to weep.
Tucker pulled a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and handed it to her. “I asked them to send the reports to me here.”
Shuddering, she blotted her face. “You’ll stay?”
“For as long as I’m needed.”
Footsteps drew their attention to the doorway and the man who approached them. Tucker stood.
His mother wiped her eyes and straightened. “Tucker, this is Dr. Morgan Cutshaw. He’s tending to your father.”
“Doctor.” Tucker shook hands with him, noting the doctor was a couple of inches shorter than he was. Like Sam. “I’m Tucker Raines.”
Dr. Cutshaw pulled out a chair and sat on the other side of Tucker’s mother.
“Can we take him home?” The strength had returned to his mother’s voice.
“Yes. Sister Coleman is seeing to the paperwork now.” He looked at Tucker, then at Mrs. Raines. “The results of my consults came back.”
“It’s tuberculosis, isn’t it?” she asked.
“Yes ma’am. Active tuberculosis disease.” Dr. Cutshaw’s voice was tender, full of compassion. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Raines, but there’s really nothing more we can do for him here.”
Tucker enfolded his mother’s quaking hand in his. “Did you tell my father?”
The doctor nodded. “I just spoke with him.”
“How did he take it?”
His mother wiped a tear from her cheek. “He likely took the news like a man who thought he was invincible.”
Another nod from the doctor.
“Thank you.” Tucker tightened his grip on his mother’s hand. “There has to be something we can do.”
“I’ve telephoned the Glockner Sanitorium down in Colorado Springs. The doctors there specialize in caring for tuberculosis patients.”
Caring for. Tucker didn’t know if his mother had detected the specific wording, but he had. Tuberculosis at this stage had no cure, no proven treatment. If his father stayed here, he would only worsen and his mother would grow all the more frail watching him diminish and suffer.
Tucker didn’t wish that on either of them. They’d been through enough. He couldn’t stand by and do nothing. At the sanitorium his father would receive the care he needed and his mother would be close enough to see him, but also have her sister, Aunt Rosemary, who lived in Colorado Springs, for support.
Dr. Cutshaw shifted his attention to Tucker’s mother. “They can have a room ready for him in about a week—next Monday.”
“Will he be up to traveling by then?” She slipped her hands around her coffee cup again.
“If he has good rest in the meantime, he should be able to tolerate the train ride.”
“What do you think, Tucker?”
Was that why she’d summoned him, to make the decisions? He looked at Dr. Cutshaw.
“We’ve drained the fluid off his lungs. The bleeding has stopped for now. But I can’t say for how long.”
Tucker met his mother’s fragile gaze. “We need to do what’s best for Father. And for you. I believe that’s the sanitorium.”
She nodded.
Dr. Cutshaw stood. “I’ll call them back and reserve a space for him.”
As Tucker watched the doctor leave, he wondered how he would pay for his father’s care. He’d taken a sabbatical from preaching to come here, and his father had only one ice wagon for deliveries. How was that even enough to put food on their table, let alone pay Otis and cover the cost of Willow’s care?
Three hours later, Tucker carried a tea tray into his father’s sparsely furnished bedroom in his parents’ cabin. Lemons would be hard-pressed to match the sourness in his father’s expression. He sat propped up in bed on a nest of pillows, his eyes narrowed.
“You can stay,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Thank you.” Tucker set the tray over his father’s lap and spooned honey into the cup.
“For your mother’s sake.”
Tucker nodded. “The doctor said peppermint tea with honey will help keep your throat calm.”
“You’ll sleep in the barn.”
Tucker clanged the spoon against the edge of the cup.
Honour thy father.
Apparently, his father believed he should pay penance, even though no amount of atonement would bring Sam back.
Or Willow.
Swallowing his frustration with a bitter bite of regret, Tucker turned and walked out of the room.
THREE
Colorado Springs, Colorado
28 September 1896
he shrill call of the train’s whistle sent a fresh pulse of adrenaline into Ida’s aching legs. Tightening her grip on her reticule and satchel, she rushed out the depot door of the Midland Terminal Railroad and across the platform to board the train in Colorado Springs.
“Last call.” The conductor hung from the grab bar of the rear passenger car. “All aboard!”
The engineer released the brakes, adding a deafening whooshing sound to her
pounding heartbeat. Steam belched from beneath the car, blowing her duster and dampening her dress.
Ida grabbed the railing and propelled herself up the steps as the train began moving. Inside the car, the conductor motioned her toward the back of the train and a seat at the window—the only one available in the car. Holding her bags out in front of her with one hand, Ida reached with her other to grasp the back of each seat as she passed to brace herself against the rocking motion of the train.
When she arrived at the second-to-last row, she couldn’t help letting out an audible gasp. A portly man slouched in the aisle seat, his eyes shut and his double chin propped against his chest. His rumpled shirt and tousled gray hair spoke to a serious neglect of personal hygiene.
Although he was a far cry from her preference for a seatmate, she saw no choice in the matter. Ida nestled her satchel on the pipe-framed shelf above the seats and laid her coat on top. The young couple sitting across from the man and the only empty seat were huddled together.
“Pardon me,” Ida said.
They tucked their legs, allowing her passage to her window seat. As she passed, the tang of whiskey soured her stomach. The man reeked of it—which explained his capacity to sleep in this jostling conveyance.
Ida squeezed into the small space beside the man and held her reticule in her lap. How would she bear the next two hours? Hopefully he would disembark at an earlier stop.
She’d planned to arrive at the train platform early that morning for the last leg of her trip from Maine to Cripple Creek. She’d even spent the night at a hotel within walking distance of the depot to assure her timeliness. But who would have expected that the rains last night would have formed ponds in the roadway disguised as mere puddles? She’d headed straight for the washroom at the depot to change into dry clothing, not a task she could tend to quickly when soaked clear through her petticoat.
Ida’s head began to ache, and she pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to assuage it. She drew in a deep breath she hoped would cleanse her of the frustration. She was aboard now and seated. And although she found the seat lacking on many levels, it had to be more comfortable than the baggage car—her only other option. Besides, her sisters waited for her on the other end. This would be a mere tick on the clock in comparison to the near week’s worth of traveling to get to this point. She could do this.
If she kept herself occupied. Fortunately, she’d come prepared to do just that. Ida pulled out the envelope wedged against the inside edge of her reticule. Vivian had slipped the mysterious packet into Ida’s hand before she boarded the train in Portland and told her to save the surprise for an especially tedious stretch. This was it.
Ida opened the flap and removed a colorful, folded page obviously taken from a magazine. Unfurling the telltale newspaper-sized sheet, she recognized it as part of an issue of Harper’s Bazar. Vivian, the fashion connoisseur in the family, occasionally picked up a copy of the magazine.
Ida studied the sheet, which only held advertisements for Pears Soap and soiree fashions. Was Vivian implying she needed a more efficient soap or fresh fashions for her new life as a businesswoman? No, such subtlety was not one of her little sister’s traits.
She flipped the page over and found the answer. The surprise had nothing to do with advertisements and fashions and everything to do with the first article: “Women Out West” by Kat Sinclair Cutshaw.
Ida’s mouth dropped open. Drawing encouragement from her sister’s accomplishment, she began to read.
Kat had written about her introduction to the West, filling in a few of the blanks left in the two letters she’d sent home. And she quoted Hattie Adams, the landlady at the boardinghouse where Kat and Nell stayed before their double wedding. “Strength and wisdom are not the same thing. And a wise woman knows her limits.”
The quote swirled through Ida’s thoughts like the autumn wind stirring leaves outside the train window. Strength would most certainly be required to accomplish what she intended. Bradley Ditmer had proven few men took women in business seriously.
Brushing her fingers over her lips, she still felt the sour remnants of his stolen kiss. Now that she’d had miles and miles of time to think, it was possible the experience could be a blessing in disguise. The actual business world, and in a booming mining town no less, was sure to be all the more challenging, and she’d best be on guard. She needed to be both wise and strong.
The thought had barely formed when the train began to descend a steep hill. As the cars caught up to each other and banged their hitches together, her inebriated neighbor jerked himself upright and blinked, then leaned back, shutting his eyes again. In the process, he encroached on her already cramped space.
Ida shifted closer to the window. Fresh air and solid ground couldn’t claim her soon enough. A week’s worth of breathing in the acrid stench of burning coal presented enough of a challenge to her senses. The past several minutes, body odor and alcohol had mixed with it to create a repulsive combination.
The man’s snores and snorts provided an offbeat to the clickety-clack of the train wheels and the staccato huffing of the locomotive. But the man’s snores or smell wasn’t what troubled her most. The narrowing of her small space had her teeth clenched and her blood about to boil. She returned the magazine page to the envelope and began fanning herself with it.
She needed to keep her mind occupied. Her future in business was sure to do the trick.
Twisting the latch on her reticule, she opened it and pulled out the wire from Mollie O’Bryan, then stuffed the Harper’s Bazar packet back into its proper place.
Ida unfolded the note she’d received at Aunt Alma’s home in Portland the day before she’d boarded the train. The Cripple Creek businesswoman’s message instantly redirected her attention.
Received your telegram stop
Could use competent help stop
You look good on paper stop
We can talk stop
My office Wednesday thirty September stop
Three pm stop
She wouldn’t have looked so good on paper if Mr. Alan Merton, her former boss, had his way. But she did, thanks to some fast talking and the director’s concern she would spread “her exaggerations” about the guest lecturer and cause “undue harm” to the school. While their compromise wasn’t fully fair to her, she had found it acceptable. He had awarded her the certificate as if she’d completed the last two weeks of the course and written a letter of recommendation based upon her attendance record and work up until the day Mr. Ditmer tried to have his way with her.
As the train snaked around a mountain, Ida’s neighbor slumped against her shoulder, fanning the flames of her headache. The wire in her hand fluttered to the floor.
“Sir.” Ida raised her arm, pushing against his.
The man only snuffled, his hibernation undisturbed.
She’d paid for a whole seat. This was unacceptable. Bracing herself against the window with one hand, she shoved him, letting his arm fall to his lap. “Mister!”
The man jerked and flailed his arms, and then stared at her, his wide eyes looking like a map with a route penciled in red. “Huh?” He pointed his unsteady finger at her. “You, madam, are one pushy broad.”
Ida huffed. “Pushy? You haven’t seen pushy yet.” She paused, taking in a breath of stale air. “You, sir, are—”
“Changing seats.”
The understated male voice quieted Ida, and she looked up. A dark figure had appeared in the aisle. Surely a brawny angel had come to her rescue, as she hadn’t heard anyone approaching.
The gentleman laid one hand on the drunk’s shoulder. With the other, he pushed back the bowler on his head and smiled. “Ma’am.”
She raised her chin. “You’re relocating this man?”
He nodded, his hazel eyes full of understanding and compassion.
“Thank you.” Not that she needed to be rescued, exactly, but she’d endured quite enough distress this day and gladly welcomed the man’s
help—though she kept a careful watch for any strings attached to his consideration.
Her incorrigible neighbor gazed at the other man, blinking as if he could send a message by Morse code. “You, sir, need to strike a deal and calm these waters.”
“I’ll see about that, Baxter. But first, I’m moving you to a window seat with less turbulence. Where you’ll be able to sleep undisturbed.” Her knight in a pinstripe suit grinned at her, and then helped the man he’d referred to as Baxter to his feet and guided him up the aisle, away from her.
Already, the ache in her head began to subside. Ida glanced at the floor where the telegram lay. She extended her leg and drew the paper back with the toe of her boot. She’d bent forward to retrieve Miss O’Bryan’s message when she heard her new hero returning to the seat beside her.
“I would have gotten that for you,” he said.
“You’ve already done more than your fair share of good deeds by relieving me of that man.”
“Happy to help, ma’am. Colin Wagner at your service.” He removed his bowler. “And you’ll be happy to know I’m not a leaner. Nor do I drool.”
A smile came despite her. “I’m glad to hear that, Mr. Wagner.” She held his gaze, searching his eyes for any hint of ulterior motive in his kindness or in his humor.
“And you are?” he asked.
“I’m Ida Sinclair.”
“Pleased to meet you, Miss Sinclair.” He returned his hat to his head.
“You know that man?” She looked toward the seat where Baxter was now collapsed against the window.
“We’re both from Cripple Creek. I’m a legal counselor there. What brings you to Colorado, Miss Sinclair?”
“I’ve recently completed course work in a business college.” She tucked the telegram into her reticule. “I have an employment interview with a businesswoman in Cripple Creek—Miss Mollie O’Bryan.”
“Miss O’Bryan is one of my steady clients.” Mr. Wagner rubbed his smooth chin. “You certainly possess the poise and spunk Miss Mollie would admire.”
“Thank you.”
“I doubt you’ll need it, but I’d be happy to put in a good word for you. That is, if you’d like me to.”
Mona Hodgson Page 3
