Omaha, Nebraska, April 1868
After escorting Omaha’s newest resident to her new house, Tom Maxwell headed back to his office. He helped himself to a cup of strong black coffee and settled into his hard-backed chair. He flung his long lanky legs onto the beat-up desk and gathered up the pile of wanted posters. His mind kept drifting back to Claire.
What a shock she’s had today. First she finds her aunt is dead, and now she’s got sole responsibility for that store too. Oh well. She’s an easterner. She’ll probably get on the first train home. Too bad. She’s a real looker.
At 26, Tom Maxwell was a looker himself. Standing six foot four in his stocking feet, lean yet muscular, with curly black hair and mustache, Tom had his share of female admirers. Trouble was, he didn’t go for the simpering, prissy girls around town. He was looking for someone with smarts, backbone, and spirit. Wouldn’t hurt if that gal had some curves and a nice smile. Green eyes might be nice, too.
His own eyes drifted shut.
Six Years Earlier
Zing! A sniper’s bullet whizzed by Tom Maxwell’s head as he stooped to aid a fallen soldier. Picking up the youngster he gently hoisted him on to his shoulder and zig-zagged a route back to the field hospital as bullets zipped around him.
“Dr. Douglas”, he gasped, “I’ve got a man hit here! Doc, can you help him? It’s Private Sully, he’s…he’s from my hometown of Springfield, Missouri. I promised his ma I’d take care of him. Doc?” Tom gently laid the unconscious youngster on the bloody operating table. He averted his eyes from the sight of Sully’s shattered arm.
The exhausted doctor nodded and picked up a scalpel. “Now get out of my way, you’re blocking my light.”
Captain Maxwell started backing out of the tent, concern deeply etched in his face. “Let me know Doc…”
“Yeah, right,” he barked. Seeing the captain’s stricken face he softened. “Alright Captain, come back in a few hours. We’ll see if your friend pulls through.”
“Thanks, Doc I really appreciate…” but the doctor had already turned and bent over the boy.
Tom wiped a tear from his face and turned back to the battlefield. Fighting had ceased and weary men were headed back to camp assisting the wounded and checking their weapons. It had been a long hard fight, but the town of Vicksburg had finally surrendered.
Tom was assigned to General Ulysses S. Grant’s staff. For three days his troops had been situated on a bluff high above Vicksburg, Mississippi. It was vital to the Union Army that they take control of the town and the Mississippi River it sat next to. Whoever controlled the river controlled Texas, Louisiana and Arkansas. Now they did and that meant hardship for the Confederacy. It could be a turning point of the war.
Tom wandered back to his tent and found his canteen. He took a long, swallow of the tepid water and collapsed on his cot. He slung his arm over his face and thought back to the day he and Sully joined up to fight the rebels. Two long years had passed since he and a group of fellows had marched briskly out of Springfield, Missouri while a brass band played and pretty girls blew kisses. Now, most of those boys were dead. Only by the grace of God had he been spared. His thoughts turned to Sully and he prayed fervently that God might spare him, too.
***
Slam! Tom was brought back to the present as his eager young deputy rushed in. “Sheriff we got us a brawl at the High Times Saloon. Some cowboys are bustin’ up the place!” The deputy seemed hardly able to contain his excitement.
Tom leapt up and grabbed his revolver. “Alright Percy, let’s go.”
Percy Simonson, a stocky blond 23 year-old made of muscle and courage, doubled-stepped to keep up with his long-legged boss. The deputy had no problem holding his own and had been an invaluable sidekick to the sheriff for the past three years. He was a mite high strung, but he could be counted on. Together the two lawmen made a good team.
Slipping into the saloon, they quickly assessed the situation. Three filthy cowboys were banging on the poker table with their pistols, threatening to shoot the local card shark. Maxwell quietly cocked his pistol.
“Gentlemen,” he spoke clearly, “I’ve had about all I’m gonna take. This is my town and you won’t be staying.”
The tallest and dirtiest of the trio slowly turned and snarled at the sheriff. “Lawman, what you plan to do about it? The way I count yore outnumbered.” His cohorts began to snicker. Maxwell calmly fired the cards right out of his hands, the shot ringing in the now-silent room. Tom silently stared at the startled men, pistol still raised, smoking and pointed in their direction. Without another word, the cowboy slowly stood up and backed out of the saloon. His friends followed quickly behind, much to the amusement of the bar patrons. A loud clatter of hooves announced their rapid departure from town. Maxwell shrugged and addressed the crowd, “Alright folks, the show is over. That is unless some other fool wants to try his luck.” Shaking their heads, the drinkers turned back to their beer. Sniggers ran around the barroom and soon the quiet had dissolved again into the raucous laughter and tinny piano music that was the norm.
Percy flashed a quick grin at his boss, “Dang, it sure is a hoot working with you.” Maxwell smiled back, a stern look in his eyes as he addressed his friend and cohort.
“That may be, deputy. It sure is a shame though that those ranchers got their hands so full they can’t keep track of their men. These cowboys get to havin’ too much time on their hands with not enough to do, then I gotta spend my time makin’ sure they find somethin’ useful to do and don’t get somebody hurt in the process. Got enough to do myself as it is. Simonson, just remember that if you take out the guy in charge the rest of the gang will usually crumble. These bums aren’t part of a pack because they’re bright, ya know.” Percy chuckled at the familiar lecture and nodded in agreement. “I’ll be sure to remember that boss.”
The sheriff and deputy strolled out of the High Times and headed in opposite directions to do their nightly rounds. Omaha was a bustling town so the two lawmen always had their hands full. Businesses were springing up along the newly surveyed Dodge and Farnam Streets. Houses were being constructed in the beautiful Happy Hollow area just west of downtown. Proud homeowners boasted of two-story homes with as many as four or five rooms. Churches and schools were evidence of families settling down. Omaha was growing and Tom was proud to be a part of its success.
***
Feeling a bit better after a good, long cry, Claire stood up and looked around.
Spying the washstand and pitcher, she poured water into the flowered basin and dabbed at her face and hands with a nearby linen towel. The compact kitchen held a table and two chairs, a stove, a few cupboards and shelves, and a wooden food box.
Bright red geraniums flourished on the windowsill and cheery red plaid curtains matched a cloth on the table. With a sigh of pleasure, Claire noticed a china teapot on a shelf.
That’s what will perk me up. A nice cup of tea. She suddenly realized that she was very hungry. She’d not had breakfast and the clock on the wall showed she had missed lunch as well.
First things first. She had to find the necessary. Stepping out into the backyard she spied the small building discreetly hidden behind a tall elm. As she walked back to the kitchen door she noticed the tiny shoots of a newly planted garden. Lettuce, mint, and onions had just begun to sprout. She remembered with a catch in her throat that her uncle had loved to garden. She vowed to make his garden thrive and add new plants as the season progressed. Besides, she no longer lived in the Buckley household, where the comfort of having her meals provided was part of her board. She was going to have to learn to cook, otherwise she’d quickly tire of the few things she could prepare.
Claire filled the kettle from the well and set it on the stove. A few minutes’ search produced matches. In no time the fire was burning merrily and the kettle began humming. A canister above the stove was nearly full of tea leaves and soon Claire held a fragrant cup of her favorite brew in her hands. The stove warmed up the ro
om nicely and Claire began to relax a bit. The rumble of her stomach reminded her she still needed to eat something, so she began prying through the cupboards and came up with a half loaf of bread and a jar of strawberry preserves.
Well, I won’t go hungry anyway. Then she laughed at the absurdity of her thought. You fool, you own a store. It’ll have plenty of foodstuffs.
Claire enjoyed her simple meal and decided to take a look at the rest of her living quarters and her new store. Dusk was beginning to fall, so she lit a whale oil lamp and moved through a doorway into the adjoining room. The parlor held a horsehair sofa and chairs. Two large ferns sat in decorative pots and kindling was neatly stacked in the fireplace. Claire lit the fire and noticed a sturdy door on the far wall. Testing it, she found it to be locked and decided it must be the passageway to the store.
I’ll go into the mercantile later. First I want to find the bedroom and put my belongings away, she thought.
The small bedroom was much plainer than the other rooms. It held an iron bedstead with an old worn spread, and a tall, badly scratched bureau. Aunt Ginny’s few dresses hung on wooden pegs mounted on the wall. Claire lifted a gray calico from its peg and sank onto the bed. She gathered up the worn dress and held it to her breast. She breathed deeply and caught Ginny’s scent of lemon balm and a hint of dried perspiration.
Oh, Aunt Ginny, I miss you already.
For a moment or two she was caught in the memory of Ginny taking her to a tea parlor when Claire was a young girl in Pennsylvania. She’d felt so grown up and important to be having tea and cookies with her mother and aunt. That was a long time ago in another place, and now her parents and aunt and uncle were all gone. Claire had been an only child and now she was alone again.
Even her fiancè had left her. She knew it wasn’t really his fault; that awful war had left millions of broken-hearted mothers, wives, and sweethearts. But still, she couldn’t help feeling lonely. Here she was in a new town on the frontier of America and she barely knew a soul. She was truly alone. She had no family and no friends.
Once again Claire lifted her head, straightened her shoulders and decided to make the best of her new situation. Ginny had said she needed her, and that hadn’t changed. What she didn’t know was how much Claire had needed Ginny and a chance at a new life. Well. She’d been given that chance and she was going to make the best of it. She’d make Ginny and Richard proud, she’d keep that store going, and maybe she’d even find a home and a little happiness in the bargain.
Claire returned to the kitchen and lugged her belongings back to the bedroom. She removed her Colt pistol from her skirt pocket and hid it under the cornhusk mattress before carefully placing her two hatboxes upon the bureau. Opening her trunk, she stared down at the precious possessions that were not only her memories of family members now gone, but also of the home she had left for this chance on the prairie. On top was her needlework, several packets of pins, needles, and couple of pairs of scissors. She’d learned long ago that the comfort of crewel work or knitting and embroidery could soothe her soul, pass a long evening and provide decorative items for a home. Finally, she’d have a home where she could display her creations. Claire had a flair for designing patterns and employing vivid colors that turned table runners, pillows, and the like into works of art. Fortunately, she’d packed a few of her pieces into her bag to make the rooms feel more homey.
Putting those aside, she then removed a nightshirt, several undergarments and her two other dresses, an ivy green calico and a black damask. Unwilling to remove Gin’s clothing from the wall quite yet, she spread her dresses on the bed.
I’ll clean out Gin‘s things later, she vowed. Next from the bag came her good shoes and warm cape.
I’ve heard Nebraska winters are harsh. I’ll really need this come winter.
Finally, from the bottom of the trunk she gently pulled out her mother’s beautiful old quilt. Carefully unfolding it she retrieved the two silver candlesticks that had been handed down to her and two small but heavy leather pouches. One held the ammunition for her pistol and the other held her life savings. Claire had tutored the Buckley boys for three years and managed to squirrel away a tidy sum. No one knew she’d saved the money and no one was going to find out. Looking around for a safe place to hide the money, she spied a small drawer in the bureau.
Well, that’ll have to do for now. Tomorrow I’ll put it in a better place. Tomorrow, tomorrow I’ll pay my respects at Ginny and Richard’s graves and have a look at my store. MY store. Oh my goodness.
Fighting exhaustion, Claire went into the sitting room, banked the fire, and returned back to the bedroom. She pushed aside her dresses, removed her shoes, and lay down upon the bed. Within seconds she was asleep.
CHAPTER THREE
A New Day
Omaha, Nebraska, April 1868
“Cockadoodle do! Cockadoodle do!” With a start, Claire awoke to bright sunshine and the noise of a boisterous rooster. She stretched and peered at the bare window. Frowning, she decided it needed polishing and pretty curtains.
In fact this entire little room needs some attention. If I’m going to live here¼.live here! I don’t know if I can do this, I’ve never had my own home before, let alone run a general store.
Yesterday’s memories came rushing back. The long train ride, the death of her aunt, Sheriff Maxwell’s kindness. Sheriff Maxwell—an unexpected warmth flooded her cheeks.
If all the men in Omaha look like the sheriff, why, this could be an interesting place. Surprised at her own thoughts Claire pushed them away and climbed off the bed.
She stripped off her wrinkled navy dress and washed herself with water from the bedside pitcher and bowl. Grimacing at her reflection in the mirror, she unpinned her unruly hair and brushed it thoroughly. The repetitive strokes untangled her locks and restored their shine. The morning sunlight gleamed on the waist-long mass, revealing burnished red highlights. Claire deftly plaited the length into a single braid down her back. It was a relief to not pin the heavy hair at her neck. The sheer weight of it sometimes gave her a headache.
That done, she stepped into her ivy green dress and slowly fastened the row of tiny jade buttons. Carefully, she tucked her gold necklace inside of the bodice. The pendant was one half of a heart. The other half hung on a chain around Caleb’s neck. Or, at least, it used to. On their last evening together Claire had presented the necklace to her fiancè. They’d both sworn to wear their chains until they and their hearts could be reunited. But the war had dragged on and Caleb had never returned.
Claire thought about the battles that had torn the nation apart. The Civil War was supposed to last only a few months. Men had joyfully joined up, anxious to whip the enemy and be home for Christmas. Ninety day enlistments turned into six months, then two years, and finally three. Heavy casualties on both sides meant longer commitments for the north and the south. Brothers were killing brothers, uncles were killing nephews, and there were even instances reported of fathers killing sons. Northern soldiers, commonly known as Billy Yanks, and southerners or Johnny Rebs, were both fighting for what they truly believed in. President Abraham Lincoln desperately wanted to keep the union together and free the slaves. His Union Army was larger, better equipped, and expected to win the war. But for the smaller and scrappier Confederate Army, the fierce commitment to maintain their homes, families, and way of life gave them an edge. For many that also included the right to own slaves. Truth was, though, that very few southerners actually owned slaves. Plantation owners held the majority of slaves. No one else could afford them.
The war that was supposed to be quick dragged along for four terrible years. Hundreds of thousands of men died from their battle wounds. Even more died due to lack of nutrition, sanitation, and resulting diseases like dysentery, consumption, typhoid fever, and scurvy. Thousands were simply gone. Whether they’d been blown to bits from cannon fire or died in terrible prisons, it wasn’t known. They just didn’t come home and Claire’s Caleb was one of them
.
For months after Lee’s surrender at Appomattox Court House, Claire had gone to the train station to look for Caleb Davidson. She would dutifully scan the faces of the weary soldiers as they’d depart from the rail cars. She checked at the local sheriff’s office and poured over newspaper lists of soldiers hospitalized or dead. Caleb never surfaced. His parents had no word of him either, and after months of searching and waiting, Claire gave up. She didn’t want to; her heart told her he was alive, but her head told her she was foolish. The odds of him surviving were practically non-existent. Claire simply decided she’d have to live without him, even with a broken heart. So each day she would teach her two students and in the evenings she’d prepare the next day’s lessons or work on her stitching. Three years had passed lonely and quietly, but Gin’s letter had changed everything. It was turning out to be an extraordinary diversion.
Properly attired, Claire decided it was high time to find the cemetery, visit the family plots and then, if she was up to it, check out the mercantile. After all, she had a responsibility to her aunt and uncle and to herself. She no longer had her teacher’s salary to depend on; she needed to make a go of this store. The only way to accomplish that was to jump in and try it. She knew that the best way to master something was to actually do it, so she was anxious to get to work. But first she needed to take care of her rumbling tummy. Breakfast was in order.
She decided to treat herself and go out for a hearty meal. It would fortify her for the day ahead. Ham, eggs, and coffee sounded good after her meager supper of jam and bread. Carefully locking the back door behind her, Claire took in the beautiful April morning. A slight breeze moved through the yard and the scent of warming earth wafted around her. Birds were singing nearby and the leaves were beginning to form on the oaks and elms lining the pathway to the main street. A short walk brought Claire to Rose’s Café, where the irresistible aroma of freshly brewed coffee was luring customers into the bright blue doorway. A cheerful placard mounted in the spotless window announced the morning specials and Claire could hear laughter and china chinking as she stepped over the threshold into a room of happy patrons.
Faith of the Heart Page 2
