The man pinched his chin and stared outward. Gordon almost chuckled. He’d finally gotten through. While Dinsmore was off balance, Gordon went in for the kill.
“I want to give them both immediate notice for discharge.” He yanked the prepared papers from his desk drawer and shoved them across the desk. “Will you sign?”
Dinsmore’s gaze dropped to the papers. For long seconds he sat motionless, staring. Then with an abrupt motion he rose, grabbing his hat and cane in one smooth sweep of his hand. “I need some time to contemplate the best course of action. Releasing workers without just cause goes against my conscience. Before I sign the discharge papers, I need to have a word with my … Moore.” He peered down at Gordon through narrowed eyes.
Gordon squirmed, feeling like a bug beneath a child’s magnifying glass.
“I’ll return before the end of the first shift. You’ll be waiting?”
Gordon nodded. What other choice did he have?
“Very well.” Dinsmore frowned. “I’ll gain an understanding of this situation, I can assure you.” He turned and strode from the room.
Gordon flopped into his chair. Just who was this Ollie Moore? And why did Dinsmore hold him in such high regard? There was something fishy about the boss’s interest in that cocky janitor. Could there be a triangle of troublemakers infiltrating Gordon’s domain? He thumped his desk twice and then cradled his aching fist. Perhaps Moore and Lang weren’t his only worries.
Oliver
Rubbing his eyes, Oliver tried to bring himself to full wakefulness. He’d been asleep maybe an hour—probably less—and had it not been Father at the door, he would have demanded to be left alone. But he couldn’t send his own father away. So he sat on the edge of his lumpy sofa in his nightshirt, bare feet planted wide on the faded carpet, and stifled a mighty yawn.
“I’m sorry to disturb your slumber.” Father’s voice held regret, but he sat ramrod straight on the single chair in the room rather than offering to leave so Oliver could sleep.
“It’s all right. I don’t imagine you’d visit unexpectedly if it weren’t important.” Now that Oliver was coming awake, worry nibbled at the back of his mind. “Is something wrong at home? Mother?”
“No, no, nothing like that.” He rose and paced the circumference of the room, seeming to examine every detail from the cracked plaster walls to the stained lace curtains hanging limp from their rods. He stopped and released a short huff. “How do you live here?”
Oliver coughed a short laugh. The apartment was quite different from his third-floor suite in his family’s yellow-brick home in Wichita. But how could he maintain his facade as a mere factory worker if he chose anything other than a simple abode? Although at first he’d found the dwelling dismal and unsatisfactory, he’d adjusted to it. Especially after seeing how the Holcomb children lived. “It isn’t so bad.”
Father shot him an odd look but didn’t argue. He crossed back to the chair and sat stiffly on its edge. “I was summoned to town by Hightower. His concerns about Miss Lang have not diminished. Instead, they’ve intensified.”
Oliver blew out a breath. “Father, haven’t my reports offered you any assurance that Miss Lang isn’t interested in filing a suit against us?” He’d deliberately painted Carrie in a favorable light. Why would Father believe Hightower over him?
“Your reports seemed to withhold certain details.”
Oliver leaned into the lumpy sofa back. My, but he was tired. “What details?”
“Your trysts with her in the janitor’s closet, for one.”
Oliver leaped to his feet. “I’ve had no trysts with Carrie!”
Father raised one eyebrow. “You deny meeting alone with her?”
He couldn’t deny meeting her alone. But he could deny the purpose. Their consultations were never of a personal nature. Heat exploded in his chest and expanded outward, setting his entire frame on fire as he faced a secret truth. When he’d been alone with Carrie in the private, quiet room, he’d desired to steal a kiss. The day he’d held her—to offer comfort—he’d relished the feel of her soft form resting lightly against him. She’d fit so neatly in his arms, as if she was meant to be there.
“Oliver?”
Oliver ran his hand over his disheveled hair. He sank back onto the sofa. “We did meet. Alone. But it wasn’t what Hightower thinks. Carrie isn’t that kind of girl.” He met his father’s steadfast gaze. “Carrie suspects—and I’m prone to agree, given some information I’ve uncovered—that Harmon Bratcher may have met with foul play. She’s only interested in either proving or disproving her theory. Nothing more.”
“Is she a relative of Bratcher’s?”
“No.”
“Then why her interest?”
Oliver swallowed. He’d made a promise to Carrie. Although he’d never kept anything from his father, he’d honor it. “I can’t tell you.”
“Why not?”
“I gave my word.”
Father paused, his brow furrowing. “But you’re certain she isn’t seeking to bring a suit against the factory?”
“Yes, sir.”
Father leaned back in the chair, pinched his chin between his thumb and fingers, and peered for several long minutes at Oliver. He remained still beneath his father’s intense perusal, although sitting there in his nightshirt with his hairy legs sticking out left him feeling much less than confident.
Finally Father gave a firm nod. “Very well, Oliver. If you believe this young woman’s intentions are honorable, I will trust your instincts.”
Oliver hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until his lungs emptied in a whoosh. “Thank you, Father.”
“But I do have another question.”
Oliver tipped his head, waiting.
“What are your intentions concerning Carrie Lang?”
Oliver
“In—” Oliver gulped. “Intentions?”
Father removed his jacket, tossed it over the arm of the chair, then propped his elbows on his knees. The sternness in his eyes faded, but his gently furrowed brow gave evidence of concern. Concern for his son. Oliver didn’t want to displease this man.
“You seem quite determined to defend the woman. Even protect her. You’re an honorable man, Oliver. I know this because I raised you to be an honorable man, and you’ve never once in all your growing-up years given me reason to hang my head in disgrace. But I’ll be honest with you. Right now I’m questioning whether I should sign the papers Gordon laid out for your discharge and take you back to Wichita with me.”
Oliver’s mouth dropped open. “He wishes to dismiss me?”
“You and Miss Lang.” Father shook his head as if puzzling over something. “Gordon’s a driven man and also a dependable man. I’ve watched him grow up, taking on more and more responsibility, eventually proving himself capable of handling the operation of the factory. He’s always done exactly as I’ve asked, and because I trust his judgment, I’ve never denied his requests. Maybe I shouldn’t deny this one.”
“But why? Carrie’s an excellent worker.” Even though she was there under false pretenses, she never shirked her duties. She performed as well as and perhaps even better than her coworkers. “And I complete my tasks as I’ve been instructed, always to the best of my ability.” Although, admittedly, his best efforts were often lacking.
“But you both broke one of Gordon’s most stringent rules by consorting with each other.” Father jabbed his finger at Oliver. “By your own admission you and Miss Lang have spent time together during work hours. He has grounds to discharge both of you.”
“But not without your signature.” Oliver stared at his father, hardly able to believe they were having this conversation.
Father fell into another long, thoughtful silence, during which Oliver wanted to crawl out of his skin. If he was released, he wouldn’t be able to assist Carrie in her investigation, and he wouldn’t be able to gather his own ideas for improvements once he took over. If he was let go, he’d have to slink home with his tail b
etween his legs. And he wouldn’t see Carrie again.
He couldn’t stay silent another second. “Father, you aren’t going to sign my discharge papers, are you?”
Slowly his father shifted his gaze until it met Oliver’s. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t.”
“I can give you several!” But then Oliver couldn’t form a coherent sentence. The thought of never seeing Carrie again rendered him unable to think, let alone speak.
Father nodded, his expression knowing. “You’ve fallen for the girl.”
Oliver sat, silent, unmoving. He couldn’t—he wouldn’t—deny it. Carrie’s selflessness, her compassion, and her simple beauty had spun a web around him. He was caught, and he had no desire to free himself. But Father would never approve a relationship with her. Father and Mother had plans for him—plans that didn’t include a woman whose parents had sold her into servitude. As pointless as it was to have fallen in love with her, he still wouldn’t deny his feelings. He owed Carrie at least that much.
“Yes. Yes, Father, I have grown to care deeply for Carrie Lang.”
“That’s reason enough to take you out of Sinclair and back to Wichita, where you belong.”
Oliver gathered his courage. “And if I choose not to go?” His words were said with the same respect he’d always shown his father. But even so, Father’s frown grew fierce.
“You would defy me?”
He’d never gone against his father’s instructions. Not even as a rowdy youth. To consider doing so now left him trembling inside. He wished he’d donned his shirt and trousers before having this talk. A man shouldn’t confront his father for the first time while dressed in a red-and-white-striped nightshirt. He sat up straight, hoping a formal bearing would detract from his very informal attire. “I don’t want to defy you, Father. But I came to Sinclair to complete a task. To ready myself for leadership in the factory. If I leave now, before I’ve finished what I set out to do, how can I have any respect for myself?”
He stood and crossed the short distance between the sofa and the chair. The carpet felt scratchy against his soles, and he fought the desire to fidget. He looked into his father’s mustached, lined face, and a feeling of love swept over him. If Father insisted, he’d return to Wichita. He couldn’t break his father’s heart by defying him. But how he hoped his father loved him enough to trust him.
“I’ll not do anything to bring disgrace on the Dinsmore name. I know who I am.” And he knew what his station required. He swallowed the lump of regret that threatened to choke him and continued. “Allow me to complete my purpose here. And allow me to assist Carrie in determining the truth about Bratcher’s death. The truth will only benefit us—all of us.” His voice dropped to a raspy whisper. “Allow me to stay.”
Caroline
Caroline’s alarm clock jangled. She rolled over and slapped at it, then blinked, surprised. Had she actually slept? For hours she’d tossed and turned in her bed, fighting the desire to go search for Letta, Lank, and Lesley. Only Noble’s firm, yet kind, instruction to leave the search to the authorities and take care of herself—“What good will you be to the children if you exhaust yourself to the point of illness?”—kept her from surrendering to temptation. Yet she’d been certain she’d never relax enough to fall asleep. To have slept soundly gave evidence of how badly she’d needed the rest.
She rolled out of bed, her stiff joints protesting, and visited the bathroom at the end of the hallway. In the midafternoon she never had to wait since the other boarding hotel residents were still at their jobs. Then she dressed and combed her hair into a simple twist. She didn’t need to be at the factory for several hours, which would allow time for her to walk around the city in the hope of catching sight of one of the Holcomb children.
Father, please let them be found! The prayer, offered so many times over the past two days, formed without effort and winged from her heart to the heavens.
She clattered down all three sets of stairs to the ground level and stepped, breathless, onto the sidewalk. A light drizzle fell—barely a mist—shrouding the city in a cloak of gray. Such a gloomy color. She preferred sunshine yellow. Especially when applied to the flecks in Ollie’s eyes. She gave a little start. She needed to think about the Holcomb children, not Ollie. Determinedly setting her feet in motion, she began moving toward the center of town.
Policemen regularly checked the Holcomb house, hoping to find that the children had returned home. But thus far they’d not witnessed anyone either coming or going. The children would be hungry, and Lank had successfully pilfered food in the past, so Caroline intended to visit each of the general stores selling food items and ask if a red-headed boy, or a pair of them, had been seen in the store.
The first two stores were crowded with Saturday shoppers, and the frazzled clerks couldn’t recall a red-headed boy coming in but wouldn’t swear there hadn’t been one. Caroline moved on to the third mercantile, a smaller store with fewer people filling the aisles. The woman proprietor took several minutes to talk with Caroline, asking and answering questions, but it soon became clear that neither Lank nor Lesley had been in the store.
Frustrated, Caroline stepped back outside to discover the gentle mist had turned into a light rain. With a sigh she pulled her shawl over her head and moved to the edge of the boardwalk, preparing to cross to the opposite side of the street. A fancy carriage approached from the left, and she paused, impatiently waiting for its beautiful pair of steel-gray horses to pass by so she could continue her errand.
From within the carriage’s covered section, a deep voice suddenly commanded, “Driver, stop!”
The driver pulled back on the reins, and the carriage came to a halt directly in Caroline’s pathway. Shaking her head in vexation, she started to pass behind it, but the voice came again, freezing her in place.
“Miss Lang?”
She edged to the carriage and looked over the side of the protective box. Mr. Fulton Dinsmore was perched on the leather seat. A silk top hat covered his hair, and a gleaming black cane stretched from his gloved hands to the toes of his polished boots. He looked every bit the aristocrat, and immediately she felt dowdy in her simple frock and woven shawl draped over her head like a little old woman.
She flipped back the shawl, settling it around her shoulders, and formed a polite reply. “Good afternoon, Mr. Dinsmore. How nice to see you again.” The first time she’d seen the man, something about him had seemed familiar, and now she understood why. His silver goatee and curled mustache had detracted from his eyes, but now she saw from whom Ollie had inherited his unique eye color. Gazing at Mr. Dinsmore’s face, she received a glimpse of how Ollie might look in another thirty years. Handsome. Distinguished. Unapproachable. The realization set her back a few inches.
Mr. Dinsmore leaned forward and peeked from beneath the fringed canopy. “The rain is increasingly strong. You’ll soon be soaked with no umbrella to block the moisture. Climb inside here. My driver will deliver you wherever you need to go.”
Caroline only needed to cross the street and travel the length of a block to reach the next store. She started to say so, but then she realized what a rare opportunity she was being offered. Would she ever again have a few minutes of uninterrupted time with the man whose employment log held a greater percentage of young workers than any other factory in Kansas? With a smile of appreciation, she said, “Thank you, sir. That’s very kind.”
He held out his hand, she took hold, and he hoisted her aboard. She settled onto the seat, smoothing her damp skirts as best she could. He gave her an imperious glance and said, “To where should I direct the driver?”
To lengthen her time with the man, she said, “The Troubadour Hotel on Third Street, please.”
His eyebrows rose momentarily. He tapped the driver and repeated her directions. The driver flicked the reins, and the carriage rolled forward. Mr. Dinsmore shifted into the corner of the seat and pinned her with an interested look. “Are you staying at the Troubadour?”
<
br /> Caroline stifled a laugh. He would be appalled if he saw her temporary dwelling. “No, sir. Some friends are staying there, and I plan to dine with them this evening.” Thanks to Noble and Annamarie’s teaching, she could communicate with grace. She sent up a silent prayer of gratitude for all they’d done for her as she waited for Mr. Dinsmore to reply.
“I see.” He tweaked one tip of his mustache with his kidskin-covered fingers. “On my last visit you expressed concern for some children whose father was ill. Mr. Hightower informed me the children are no longer spending their nights in the infirmary. May I presume their father has recovered and therefore you’ve been relieved of the burden of their care?”
Caroline’s heart twisted. She hardly viewed caring for the Holcomb children a burden. “I’m sad to report their father passed away.” She started to tell him the children were missing, but something held her tongue.
“Unfortunate …” Mr. Dinsmore pursed his lips briefly—a slight show of sympathy. “Have they been placed in an orphanage?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, if they need a means of providing for themselves, I’m sure Hightower can create openings for them at the factory. I’ll alert him to—”
Caroline’s chest grew tight. “That won’t be necessary, sir.” She added, belatedly, “But thank you.”
He gazed at her for several seconds. Then he cleared his throat. “How are you getting along at the factory? If I understand correctly, you’d not engaged in factory work prior to your arrival in Sinclair. Are you finding the work satisfactory?”
She wondered if he truly cared or if he was merely making small talk. But she decided to answer honestly. “I’m able to complete my tasks, as assigned, and the compensation is adequate.”
His lips twitched, and his eyes began to twinkle. She’d seen Ollie’s eyes spark in just that way, and she fought a smile, anticipating a teasing comment.
“Quite diplomatic, my dear, but I sense an undercurrent of disquietude.”
Echoes of Mercy: A Novel Page 27
