Hidden Trusts
Page 1
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Hidden Truths
Sequel to
Backwards to Oregon
By
Jae
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Hidden Truths
Lesbian Fiction: Historical Fiction
Sequel to Backwards to Oregon
Copyright © 2010 by Jae
All rights reserved.
eBook ISBN: 978-1-934889-72-5
Printed ISBN: 978-1-934889-73-2
Audio eBook ISBN: 978-1-934889-74-9
(Audio sold only at http://L-Book.com)
First Edition
eBook, Print, Audio Format
Published: April 2011
This book is Published by
L-Book ePublisher, LLC
La Quinta, Ca. USA
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Editor: Judy Underwood
Cover Design by Sheri
graphicartist2020@hotmail.com
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This work is copyrighted and is licensed only for use by the original purchaser and can be copied to the original purchaser's electronic device and its memory card for your personal use. Modifying or making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, without limit, including by email, CD, DVD, memory cards, file transfer, paper printout or any other method, constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Acknowledgments
Once again, I want to say thank you to my "creative staff." Without these women, this novel wouldn't be the same.
A very special thank-you to a very special woman — my beta reader Pam, who has accompanied me on the journey to Oregon and on my personal journey as a writer. She's the best "traveling companion" I could wish for.
Once again, thank you to my critique partners, Astrid and RJ, who were always willing to read several drafts of this novel. I appreciate your honesty and support.
A big thank-you to trekgrrl for again "throwing pebbles" and allowing me to see my writing and the story from a different point of view.
Thanks to Margot for helping me with the Dutch names and for recording the correct pronunciation. An "honorable mention" to her mother, who happens to have a nice name and a nice daughter — or rather two of both.
Thanks also to the people who took the time to test read this novel (in alphabetical order): Aim, Andi, Caren, Corinna, DK Hawk, Gail Robinson, Henriette, Jackson Leigh, Jean Alston, Jeanine Hoffman, Judy Currier, Kathi Isserman, Koda Graystone, Laurie Salzler, Levine Sommers, Marie Logan, Mary Buchanan, Nancy Pierce, Nicki, Nikki Grimes, Sabina, Speed, Tarsilla Moura, and Vicki Lolich.
Special thanks to Caren for taking the time to help me with my "telling" issues.
I'm also grateful to Mary for test reading the story with an eye on horse-related inaccuracies.
Thank you to Sheri for creating another beautiful cover and to Judy for copy-editing.
Dedication
For my grandmother, who taught me that love is thicker than blood.
And for the hundreds of readers who sent feedback e-mails after reading Backwards to Oregon and asked for a sequel.
Author's note
Very likely, the spotted horses of the Nez Perce were still referred to as "Palouse horses" in the 1860s. Over time, the name evolved into Palousey, Appalousey, Appaloosey, and finally Appaloosa. I'm using the term "Appaloosa" because most readers will be familiar with it.
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"We tell lies when we are afraid," said Morgenes. "Afraid of what we don't know, afraid of what others will think, afraid of what will be found out about us. But every time we tell a lie, the thing that we fear grows stronger. It is, in fact, a kind of magic — perhaps the strongest of all. Study that, if you wish to understand power, young Simon. Don't fill your head with nattering about spells and incantations. Understand how lies shape us, shape kingdoms."
"But that's not magic," Simon protested. "That doesn't do anything. Real magic lets you... I don't know. Fly. Make bags of gold out of a pile of turnips. Like in the stories."
"But the stories themselves are often lies, Simon. The bad ones are. Good stories will tell you that facing the lie is the worst terror of all."
Dr. Morgenes in 'To Green Angel Tower' by Tad Williams. Quoted with permission of the author.
Table of Content
Hidden Truths
Maps
Macauley Cotton Mill Boston, Massachusetts March 05, 1868
Train Station Boston, Massachusetts March 05, 1868
Post Office Cheyenne, Wyoming March 18, 1868
Hamilton Horse Ranch Baker Prairie, Oregon April 18, 1868
Stage Depot Baker Prairie, Oregon April 20, 1868
Hamilton Horse Ranch Baker Prairie, Oregon April 20, 1868
Hamilton Horse Ranch Baker Prairie, Oregon April 22, 1868
Hamilton Horse Ranch Baker Prairie, Oregon April 22, 1868
Big Laurel Hill, Oregon April 23, 1868
Baker Prairie, Oregon April 24, 1868
Hamilton Horse Ranch Baker Prairie, Oregon April 25, 1868
Indian Creek, Oregon April 27, 1868
Hamilton Horse Ranch Baker Prairie, Oregon April 28, 1868
The Dalles, Oregon May 02, 1868
Hamilton Horse Ranch Baker Prairie, Oregon May 04, 1868
Hamilton Horse Ranch Baker Prairie, Oregon May 06, 1868
Willow Creek, Oregon May 10, 1868
Hamilton Horse Ranch Baker Prairie, Oregon May 14, 1868
Fort Boise, Idaho May 20, 1868
Hamilton Horse Ranch Baker Prairie, Oregon May 21, 1868
Hamilton Horse Ranch Baker Prairie, Oregon May 21, 1868
Keeney Pass, Oregon May 24, 1868
Hamilton Horse Ranch Baker Prairie, Oregon May 31, 1868
Hamilton Horse Ranch Baker Prairie, Oregon June 05, 1868
The Dalles, Oregon June 09, 1868
Willamette Valley, Oregon June 21, 1868
Hamilton Horse Ranch Baker Prairie, Oregon June 21, 1868
Hamilton Horse Ranch Baker Prairie, Oregon June 22, 1868
Hamilton Horse Ranch Baker Prairie, Oregon June 22, 1868
Hamilton Horse Ranch Baker Prairie, Oregon June 22, 1868
Molalla River, Oregon June 22, 1868
Hamilton Horse Ranch Baker Prairie, Oregon June 22, 1868
Hamilton Horse Ranch Baker Prairie, Oregon June 24, 1868
Hamilton Horse Ranch Baker Prairie, Oregon June 25, 1868
Hamilton Horse Ranch Baker Prairie, Oregon June 26, 1868
Hamilton Horse Ranch Baker Prairie, Oregon June 26, 1868
Hamilton Horse Ranch Baker Prairie, Oregon June 26, 1868
Hamilton Horse Ranch Baker Prairie, Oregon June 26, 1868
Hamilton Horse Ranch Baker Prairie, Oregon June 26, 1868
Willamette Valley, Oregon June 27, 1868
Hamilton Horse Ranch Baker Prairie, Oregon July 04, 1868
Baker Prairie, Oregon July 12, 1868
Hamilton Horse Ranch Baker Prairie, Oregon Sept. 19, 1868
EPILOGUE Baker Prairie, Oregon April 27, 1871
About The Author
Other Titles By This Author
Back Cover Summary
Maps
Macauley Cotton Mill
Boston, Massachusetts
March 5, 1868
"RUN!" RIKA'S CRY startled two crows into taking flight. "They'll close the gates!" She gripped Jo's thin arm and dragged her over cobblestones slick with snow. Dawn hadn't yet broken through the clouds, but Rika knew they didn't have much time.
Jo gasped. Her breath condensed in the chilly air. "I can't." A coughing spell shook her slight frame and bent her in half. When she straightened, a streetlamp's yellow gaslight revealed angry blotches on Jo's otherwise pale cheeks. She gave Rika a smile. "Go on without me. I'll be there in a minute. Just need to catch my breath."
What she needs is to find new work, Rika thought. The stuffy, lint-filled weave room made even the healthiest women cough. But, like Rika, Jo didn't have much choice. With no husband and no family to take care of her, the cotton mill was her only means of support.
"No," Rika said. The first horsecar of the day clattered up the hill, and Rika raised her voice so Jo would hear her over the stamping of hooves. "I won't leave you here alone."
Another cough prevented Jo from answering.
Rika's throat constricted. She handed Jo a handkerchief and wished she could do more. But what? Maybe if she gave her this week's pay, Jo would agree to see a doctor.
"Come on." Rika took hold of Jo's arm. "If we're late..."
Just yesterday, an Irish girl had stumbled from Mr. Macauley's office, crying and pressing a ripped sleeve against her bleeding lip.
"That's for letting my looms sit idle after the five o'clock bell!" William Macauley had shouted after her.
No one said a word. No one dared to.
One arm still around Jo, Rika hurried along rows of elms that bent beneath the harsh wind.
They struggled across a small bridge. Rika sucked in a breath as the wind's icy fingertips drove a spray of water through her worn skirt. "Careful," Rika said. "Don't slip."
Finally, the flickering streetlamps revealed the mill's four-story brick building. The tall chimney already leaked sooty smoke into the dark sky, blotting out the stars.
The shrill ringing of a bell shattered the silence.
"Run!" Rika shouted.
A girl, no older than thirteen, pushed past them and hurried up the steps, probably on her way to the spinning room on the first floor.
The bell rang a second time, and they raced through the doors of the cotton mill. Beneath the soles of Rika's worn boots, the floor vibrated. Even the walls, though made of brick, seemed to quiver.
Darn! Rika dug her nails into her palm.
The overseer had already pulled a cord, setting the gigantic waterwheel in motion.
She slipped into the weave room, hoping to get her looms going before the foreman climbed onto his high stool and found her missing.
What's this? She squinted through the lint-filled air.
Jo's looms were already moving, the shuttles hissing back and forth. One of the women winked at Jo.
Lord bless them. They covered for us. Rika squeezed Jo's hand and hurried to her own workplace.
Her steps faltered when she saw her looms — three unmoving objects in a sea of bustling activity. Rika's smile waned. No one had set her looms in motion. No one had even noticed her missing.
No one but William Macauley.
He towered over Rika's looms, a golden pocket watch in his hand, and tapped the faceplate with a chubby finger. Thick lips blew cigar smoke into her face. "You are late, Miss..."
Rika struggled not to cough. "Aaldenberg," she said, knowing he never remembered the names of his employees. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Macauley. It won't happen again."
"Damn right, it won't." He snapped his watch shut. "I don't need lazy gals running my looms."
Rika trembled. Was he about to fire her?
Think! Say something! She pressed her palms together as if praying. "I swear I left the boarding house on time, but um... I had... um... female problems and had to visit the outhouse."
Rika held her breath. The lump in her stomach rose to her throat. It wasn't a lie, just a creative interpretation of what had happened. After all, a female had made her late.
Mr. Macauley's plump cheeks flushed, and he bit down on his cigar. He stabbed his finger at the rows of looms rattling and whirring around them. "Then how come all the other womenfolk started work right on time?"
Because they didn't care enough to stop and help Jo. Rika understood. She didn't want to lose her job any more than they did. But telling the truth would get Jo fired. Once, a girl had fainted in the weave room's humid heat. The overseer had told her, "We've got no place for a sickly girl," before putting her out on the streets.
Rika bowed her head. "It won't happen again, Mr. Macauley. I promise."
His cheeks still flushed, the old goat grunted but seemed to accept the apology.
Ha! Rika clamped her teeth onto her lower lip to hide a triumphant smile. She knew he wouldn't be eager to discuss the particulars of "female problems."
"I'll take the delay you caused out of your wages." Mr. Macauley puffed on his cigar and blew smoke into Rika's face. "I'm sure you agree one week without pay is fair."
One week? Rika coughed and bit the inside of her cheek. She would have to dig into her savings to pay for her room and board. How would she ever save enough to make it out of the mill if things continued like this? Worse, she wouldn't be able to give Jo money so she could finally see a doctor. She clenched her fist behind her back. For a moment, she thought about arguing, trying to offer him one day's wages, but she knew any protest would anger Mr. Macauley even more. "Of course," she mumbled, gaze lowered to the floor.
Mr. Macauley brushed lint off his cravat. "I'm warning you, girl. I'll have the overseer keep an eye on you. If you're late again," he stabbed his hand forward and cigar ash rained down on Rika, "you'll be out of a job." He pocketed his gold watch and strode into the whirl and hiss of the looms.
Rika pressed a hand to her stomach. Fear snuffed out her momentary relief. She'd avoided disaster this time, but how much longer would she be able to care for Jo and keep her job?
* * *
Hours later, Rika's ears were ringing. All around her, water-powered wheels and leather belts whirred and two hundred looms clattered as the harnesses lifted and lowered the warp threads. Her gaze flew left and right, following the paths of the shuttles. After each pass of the shuttle, a comblike bar hammered the woven threads into the cloth's web.
Darn! A broken thread!
Rika sprang into action.
She hit the lever. The loom shuddered to a halt. She reached into the machine, fished out the broken ends, and, without looking, tied a weaver's knot. It had taken her a long time to master the skill, and the Macauleys weren't generous enough to let the women learn the technique during work hours. Rika had practiced under Jo's tutelage by candlelight in their room, tying knots until her fingers bled.
She shook off the memory and jammed the lever back into place. The loom roared to life again. Rika glanced at her other two looms. Sweat ran down her face, and she dabbed at her forehead with her apron. Her damp bodice clung to her chest no matter how often she tugged it away from her overheated skin. Despite the cold outside, steam wafted through the weave room. It kept the cotton threads from drying out and ripping, so she didn't dare to open a window.
Rika took a deep breath and then coughed when she inhaled a lungful of floating lint. Dust and the lingering odor of sweat and oil burned her nose.
Other women placed new bobbins of yarn in the shuttles or started up stalled looms. They coughed too, adding to the deafening noise in the weave room.
Hours later, the bell rang, announcing the end of their workday.
Thank the Lord! Rika signaled for the cloth boy to gather the woven cloth and walked toward Jo, who still hurried from loom to loom. "Jo!" she shouted.
Her friend kept on working. After three years in the mill, the noise of the machines had affected Jo's hearing. Rika vowed to make it out before the same happened to her.
"Johanna Bruggeman!"
"Oh!" Finally, Jo noticed the ot
her women filing out of the room. A tired smile flitted over her face when she turned to Rika. "Let's get out of here. My feet are hurting something awful." Her slouched stance told Rika that more than just Jo's feet were hurting. Damp strands of normally white-blond hair, now darkened to the color of wheat, stuck to her thin face.