by Stephen Bly
The train rolled back on the main track and picked up speed. Train yards and one-room, unpainted houses paraded by the window.
Whole families crowd in those tiny shacks. I trust they are happy.
She mused about that a bit, then snatched a glimpse back inside the coach. The man with the full black beard and watermelon shaped dog slumped his chin on his chest in deep sleep. The six young ladies behind him now giggled and visited as if at a tea party. Her gaze returned to the window.
A happy family. I wonder if they all understand the riches of that? It’s taken me twenty-nine years to discover the value. Philip always made me happy. That’s what I remember most. Laughing. Racing to the river. Trying to count all the stars in the sky. I don’t believe I have ever seen Philip angry. Always such an incurable dreamer with a miracle waiting around every corner.
One of the card players yelled “rotten luck” and then stepped out on the platform to smoke a cigar. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine Philip. Then a blast of wind from the open door raised her skirt. She shoved her ankle length navy and gray dress back down as her face turned warm.
“Well, I swear,” Francine said. “I could see your . . . eh, never mind.”
Catherine scooted across the aisle and plopped down next to Race Hillyard. “As for you, quit smirking at me.”
He pulled his hat off his eyes. “I’m not smirking.”
“I wasn’t talking to you.” Catherine brushed down the front of her dress. “I was conversing with Mr. Walker.”
~~ Chapter Two ~~
Catherine hugged her chest. She tried to take a deep breath but her dress felt tight. She pressed against her heart as she watched the square shouldered man in the impeccable three piece suit saunter toward the train platform.
Relax, Catherine. Just another minute or two. Oh, Philip, I had no idea you grew so tall. You stood shorter than me when you left, as did all the boys. But now . . . sun tanned face . . . strong arms . . . confident swagger. Brown eyes that tease and tempt. Why, oh why didn’t I come out here and marry you sooner? Think of all the days we’ve missed being together . . . not to mention all the nights.
Her face warmed with that thought. She entwined her gloved fingers and squeezed her hands tight. When the approaching man tugged off his hat, thick, wavy dark hair drooped across his forehead.
I can’t believe you’ve waited all these years for me. The women of California will be insanely jealous. But some things are just meant to be. “My spirit hath rejoiced in God my Saviour. For he hath regarded the low estate of his handmaiden: for, behold, from henceforth all generations shall call me blessed.” Forgive me, Lord, but I feel as honored as Mary right now. Everything in the past is melting away. The hurts and the pains and the sorrows will soon be gone. This is why I was put on earth.
The tall man stopped in front of the train platform to chat with several men. The topic caused a burst of laughter and chatter.
Philip, don’t stall . . . come over here. I want . . . well, I want us together, that’s what I want. What is he talking about to those men?
Catherine leaned forward and strained to hear.
“George might like them more plump, but I say she’s about as perfect a sight of womanly comeliness as I ever cast my eyes on.”
“The lips are what attracted me . . . full, yet slightly pouting. Can you imagine what a kiss would be like? Worth a winter’s wages.”
A deep hoot seemed to escape from a dungeon somewhere. “I think Luke has fallen in love.”
“For the third time this month.”
Voices overlapped as Catherine tried to distinguish the words.
“Come on, boys, look at her.” The voice was younger, higher pitched, excited. “Those eyebrows give her away. I say you can tell a lot about a woman by a study her eyebrows.”
“And I say there are more important things to look at. Just a tad more plumpness in places wouldn’t hurt.”
‘More plumpness’? I beg your pardon. I have to work every day of my life to make sure ‘more plumpness’ does not overtake me. Philip, don’t let them talk about me like that.
The rattle and joust of the railroad car lifted her chin off her chest, but she didn’t open her eyes.
Oh, posh. The train. I am still on the train. Dear sweet Philip, here I am dreaming of you again. I haven’t seen you in seventeen years, yet I think about you while I’m awake and dream about you in my sleep. How I wish this train ride over. I know what you would say. You’d remind me that you came west in a wagon and it took almost four months. That’s progress, but I do wish you had held me in those strong arms before I woke up. Were those men really talking about me?
“An up-turned nose like that is seldom seen in a girl over twelve.”
I do not have an upturned nose. It’s small . . . rather dainty for a tall woman. I suppose it might seem upturned when I have a fit of pride, but . . . .
“You have to admit that’s beautiful hair.”
“Yep, we all agree.”
You’d be even more impressed if you could see it combed down . . . wait . . . what?
Catherine heard a collective sigh from the men in the seat across the aisle.
The angry card players? I’m not dreaming this part. They’re talking about me. The nerve. Don’t they realize how vulgar and ill-mannered it is to speak like that? I should open my eyes and give them my potent Catherine glare. Some say my glower would melt stones.
“Luke, suppose you did get to talk to her. What would you say?” one with a bass voice chided.
Catherine kept her eyes closed tight.
“I’d say, ‘excuse me, ma’am, do you have any plans for this afternoon?’ And she’d say, ‘Why, no sir, I don’t.’ Then I’d say, ‘Why don’t we go find a parson and get married?’”
This is really going too far.
“You decide all of that at one glance?”
“One glance? I’ve been studying her for quite a while.”
This is mortifying. If I had a blanket, I’d pull it over my head.
“We could tell you weren’t contemplatin’ your cards.” The words hammered down like a judge’s verdict.
In the back of the car, a dog barked. Catherine thought of the watermelon shaped canine.
I should have brought a dog with me. A large one with sharp teeth.
“I say she looks like a queen. She could be royalty, you know.”
“Or she could be a floor scrubber.”
“Look at those graceful hands. Are those cleaning lady hands?”
“I’ll grant you that one, but you can’t marry her, so let’s play poker.”
Yes, by all means, play your card game or I must say something to end this silly conversation. Why doesn’t Race Hillyard speak up? And why in the world do I expect him to care about my honor? He’s probably enjoying this conversation.
The rustle of shuffled cards ceased. “Where did we go wrong? I thought we educated Luke better than that.”
“Maybe we should dunk him in the stock tank next time we stop. Just to cool him down.”
Yes, that’s a wonderful idea.
“Here, Adam . . . Eve wants you to have an apple. These are pretty good.”
With the crunch of a crisp bite, Catherine licked her lips.
“Let’s get back to the game.”
“It doesn’t hurt for a man to get his blood racin’ a little.”
At the speed your blood races you’ll circle the earth in minutes.
“Luke, put away the French postcards. It’s your turn to deal.”
French post cards?
Catherine opened her left eye to peek at the four men in the opposite aisle. The crate they used for a card table now boasted a half-dozen red apples. The youngest of the four with curly blond beard, shoved a handful of postcards into his vest pocket.
They were ogling risqué French post-cards? How awkward. How vain of me. How could I have imagined they discussed me? What if I had scolded them? I don’t want to think about t
hat. I will never assume any man is talking about me again. I am too tall, slump shouldered, and have the figure of a picket in a fence. That’s what Mr. Curtis Tweed told me when I was fifteen. I should have believed him. Oh, I do hope dear Philip isn’t disappointed when he sees me after all these years. I tried to explain what I look like now.
Catherine opened both eyes, brushed down the cuffs of her dress and stared at the saddle. “Well, Mr. Walker, I took a short nap. I trust you got some rest.”
She glanced at Race. His face hid under his hat. “Does Mr. Hillyard always snore like this? Sometime worse? And he talks in his sleep? He describes unknown women? Oh, dear. What a distraction.”
She felt a tap on her shoulder. “Is he asleep?” The soft, sweet voice belonged to Francine.
Catherine turned to the massive woman behind her. “I believe so. He is so drawn looking.”
Francine rocked wide-eyed toddlers in each arm. “That’s the way all the men looked when they came home from the war. Fatigued and wore out. It didn’t matter their age, or which side of the battle they fought. Every man seemed drained.”
Catherine rubbed her temples and closed her eyes again. She envisioned rows and rows of weary men in tattered uniforms. “The whole country was exhausted.”
“You’re right, honey.” Francine licked her lips as if applying rouge with her tongue. “If you don’t mind me asking, where did you spend the war?”
Catherine leaned back and stretched her arms. “My sister and I attended a girls school near Boston for the entire conflict.”
“No foolin’? You surprise me. I guessed that was a Virginia lilt to your voice. I never figured you for a Yankee.”
Catherine shot a glance at the men across the aisle. Angry expressions replaced the earlier chides. None of them looked at her. “Good guess. I suppose even several years of teaching school in New England doesn’t hide my dialect. I’m a southern girl from Virginia. Our parents sent my sister and me to my aunt’s in New England. Daddy thought that safer for us. He really didn’t think the war would amount to much, or last as long as it did.”
“Sisters can be a pleasure or a pain, or both. I’ve got a sister a few years younger than me. She lives out in Canon City, Colorado.” Francine tucked the sleeping toddlers into blankets on the seat next to her. “Is your sis older or younger?”
“She’s younger . . . by six minutes.” Catherine felt her heart throb faster when she thought of her and Catelynn’s last conversation.
Francine clapped her hands. “Twins?”
“Yes. Identical in looks . . .” An image of tall ten-year-olds with white Easter dresses and waist length brown hair flashed through her mind. “But quite different in everything else.”
“I always wondered what it would be like to have an identical twin. Can you imagine two of me?” Francine held up her massive hands. “Shoot, I’m big enough to make two of me right now. Where does your sis live?”
“Catelynn’s been in New York a few years. She’s an actress.”
“Now, ain’t that something? A very tall actress, no doubt.”
“Yes, it does limit her roles.”
Francine examined her fingernails as if looking for a clue to a mystery. “How did she get in the acting business? Did she have to study a lot?”
“She took classes, but she’s always been rather expressive and emotional.”
“I thought about being a ballet dancer,” Francine announced.
Catherine clamped her mouth tight.
“When I was younger. Say, are your folks still in Virginia?”
Catherine rubbed the corner of her eyes. “No . . . killed in the war . . . Daddy at the warehouse when the Army of Virginia set fire to it . . . Mamma at home, in a Union artillery bombardment. Our rural area became a stage for three major battles. It was devastating.”
Francine placed a soft, warm hand on Catherine’s cheek. “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry to have brought up sad memories. My brother, Tiny, was killed at Vicksburg. And Daddy died on Missionary Ridge. That’s where we lost the war, you know.”
Catherine patted Francine’s hand. “Sometimes it seems like we lost more than a war.”
“I know what you mean, sweetie.” Francine pulled a linen handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped off her little boy’s chin. “You have any kin left in Virginia?”
“Just a few cousins. I’m not even sure. Most lost their homes and had to move. I have no idea where they live now.”
Francine’s eyes glazed into a vacant stare.
Catherine admired clumps of tall sunflowers along the railroad tracks.
After a long pause, Francine said, “I spent most of the war driving an ambulance. I’ve always been good with a team of mules and the boys needed to fight. So I drove the wagon and helped with the stretchers.”
“That must have been grueling . . . and depressing.”
“I still have nightmares,” Francine admitted. “We only had room for so many in the wagon. The doctors ordered us to pick up just those that looked like they could survive with medical attention. That meant we had to leave many a dying man crying for help out on the battlefield.”
“Oh, Francine . . . how awful.”
“The docs helped us deal with it. Told us to consider if we weren’t there, no one would survive. Couldn’t save everyone.”
“But what horrible memories.”
Francine, you have beautiful hair and such a sweet face . . . if you were slim, the angry poker players would whisper about you.
“Sometimes they drive me melancholy.” Francine curled the tuff of blonde hair that drooped next to her jade green earrings. “Say, what part of northern Virginia were you from? Up near the Maryland border by any chance?”
“Yes, our place was near Blackwater Crossing.” Catherine stared at the back of her ringless fingers.
“You didn’t know her, did you?”
“Who?”
“That Goodwin woman.”
The shock of hearing that name stiffened Catherine’s back and straightened her slumping shoulders. “Goodwin woman?”
“Yes, the southern lady that got cheated out of her estate by some unscrupulous Yankee attorney. She pulled out a pistol and shot him dead on the spot. I think she was from up that way.”
“Shot him dead?”
“Pumped six shots into his black heart, so I hear.” Francine leaned closer. Catherine smelled peppermint. “She’s a hero in my book. All of us Mississippi gals wish we had the nerve to do the same.”
“I think you have the story a little wrong.”
“You know her?”
“Eh . . . we grew up in the same town.” Catherine rubbed the back of her neck and felt a roll of dirt. “Her attorney hailed from Richmond, not the north. After years of having the case tied up in the reconstruction courts, she discovered her lawyer took a bribe and released her family property to be used as a Union Cemetery. She lost her temper, plucked a Colt .44 revolver with a snubby little three-and-one-half-inch barrel off his desk . . . just to threaten him. He panicked and grabbed her arm. When the gun tumbled to the floor, it discharged. The bullet entered and exited his left calf and lodged in a wood carving of Christopher Columbus. Just a minor wound for the lawyer. But he pressed attempted murder charges against her, to force her to flee the county and never come back.”
“No, that’s not the way it happened,” Francine corrected. “That’s the Yankee version, honey. They don’t want to admit that a southern lady is spunky enough to shoot the rascal dead. I heard about it from Leonie Mapson. Her cousin’s husband’s brother used to buy drill bits from Mr. Goodwin himself. So you know it’s got to be true. If I ever meet that Goodwin woman, I’d like to give her a big hug. She let them know we might have lost the war, but we will not be trampled down by thieves and swindlers.”
Catherine slumped in the seat and tried not to notice Race Hillyard’s legs propped up on the bench seat next to his saddle. The box houses of Omaha gave way to corn fields, dairies and neatly groom
ed gardens as the train rattled west.
Catherine pondered Francine’s account.
That is why I had to move to California. The war changed things forever. I need to start over. How do fabrications like that get started? I suppose it’s what they want to hear. Lord, I can’t believe I’m crammed into a stuffy coach car and the lady behind me mentions that incident.
A smile eased across her face.
At least I have my Philip. My precious, loyal Philip waits for me. You have no idea, my sweet, what it means to have your security to run to. Paradise Springs sounds more and more like heaven on earth.
Dust fogged through several open windows, but a cider aroma wafted over the car.
She turned back to Francine. “Don’t those apples look grand?”
“They bought them off the conductor when he came through.”
“I missed him?” Catherine scowled. “I need to talk about upgrading my ticket.”
“He’ll be back.” The black haired little girl giggled as she was shoved over Catherine’s shoulder. “Honey, hold Nancy for me. I need to take Preston to the privy to clean him up.”
The squirming, barefoot girl in the flour sack pale green dress bounced in Catherine’s lap. “How old is she?”
Francine stood and overfilled the aisle. “She’s almost three but small for her age. Takes after my Farley. He’s only 5’4”. Don’t let her get down and run around.”
Catherine peered into the girl’s wide brown eyes and swept back the thick black hair draped down to her shoulders. “Hi, Nancy. My name is Catherine.”
“I’m hungry.”
“We’ll be stopping for a meal break in a while. The brochure said that we stop for tasty meals every four hours and I think Nancy is a very nice name.”
She curled her lips and wailed. “I’m hungry.”
The four men across the center aisle shouted about a fifth king in the deck. The one with short, curly blond hair sticking out from under his hat threw his cards on the crate, then yanked out his revolver. The hum and chatter in the train car tapered to silence.
“I say we take our ante back and find a new deck,” he shouted.
The mustached man in the gray suit jumped up. “Luke, are you calling me a cheat?”
