Faith of the Heart

by Jewell Tweedt

  “I’ll teach you to laugh at the sheriff of Omaha,” Maxwell said with a wide grin. She answered by pushing him further into the ankle-deep water, slipping as she fell atop him, blushing furiously. Maxwell simply smiled wider, patiently waiting for Claire to untangle herself. She was so enamored by his twinkling eyes that she forgot where she was, that the whole town could spot them in a moment, and for a second she was sure he was going to kiss her. The moment passed and Claire lifted herself, horrified to have been caught in such a position.

  “What a sight I must be.” Claire tucked a long strand of hair behind her ear.

  “You are indeed quite a sight, Miss Secord.” Claire blushed harder, taking in his meaning, and he helped her ashore. “We ought to be more careful. You never know who might be out on a fine Sunday afternoon such as this one.” His eyes sparkled as he handed Claire the picnic blanket and pointed to a tree “ Go behind that elm and try to dry off a bit then I’ll take you home.”

  Claire nodded and headed for the tree, shivering.

  It’s just being wet, she told herself. That’s all. It’s just from being in that cold water.

  But she wasn’t so sure.

  CHAPTER SIX Baltimore, Maryland, April 1868

  Glistening cobblestones, slick with rain, presented a challenge to the slight young man who limped down the lane. Leaning heavily on his cane, the gaunt man concentrated on making his way to the newspaper office where he was employed as a columnist. After hanging up his coat, he gratefully sat down at his wooden desk and began writing his weekly editorial for the Baltimore Sun.

  One result of the war was that there were significant advances made in the field of medicine and psychiatry. The writer thought it important his readers be made aware of these findings. The morning passed by as light rain continued to fall. Head bent over his writing, the man barely noticed.

  At precisely 12 o’clock, the columnist rose from his desk, slid into his overcoat, and headed to a nearby café for his noon meal. The precipitation had slowed to a drizzle and the Chesapeake Bay shone gray and choppy against the cloud-covered sky.

  Martin’s Eating Establishment was bright, cheerful, and full of hungry patrons. The man made his way to the end of the lunch counter and claimed the last empty seat. Climbing onto the tall stool, his face bore a grimace as pain shot through his bad leg. He reached for the half- heart pendant at his neck and rubbed it absent-mindedly.

  Darn this weather, it always pains me, he thought as he glanced around for a menu. Maybe I should head out west. People say the drier climate is good for what ails you and I, for one, am sick of this place and all the horrific memories.

  Once again he felt his heart pound furiously at the unfairness, the injustice of it all. Why did I have to go and fight for a cause I didn’t believe in; for people I didn’t know or care about? What did slavery have to do with me! Nothing! I should have run before I was injured. I could have gone to England or Canada or…

  Gradually his rage subsided and his heart beat slower. Looking down at his hands he noticed they were no longer shaking. He took a couple of calming breaths.

  I’m alright. Nobody noticed. I’m fine, I’m in Baltimore and I’m fine.

  Mrs. Martin came bustling over to take his lunch order. “Now Cal, what’ll it be today? I’ve got lovely fresh fish and potatoes. Will that suit you?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Omaha, Nebraska, April 1868

  Claire was sweeping off the store’s front porch and thinking about last night’s dreams. They’d been a strange concoction of her old life in Gettysburg and her new life on the frontier. Images of Caleb were mixed in with visions of Sheriff Maxwell at the river’s edge. But the river of her dreams was wide and gray, as if it were an ocean and not the muddy Missouri. When would she ever get over her fiancé’s death? Why did he keep coming to her in dreams? It was as though the past just wouldn’t stay in the past. The sheriff might turn out to be someone special. Already Claire was making friends in addition to keeping her home and store. Why couldn’t she just live in the present?

  She was roused out of her musings by an approaching customer. Gratefully she put away her broom and troubling thoughts to wait on the man wanting a dime’s worth of tobacco for his pipe.

  The next few days went by quickly. Omaha was a gathering spot for wagon trains heading west and each day brought more pioneers into town. The travelers knew they only had a few short months to travel across the country before cold weather set in. At an agonizingly slow pace of ten to twenty miles per day, each hour was precious. As soon as conditions permitted, trains formed and began snaking their way across the open plains toward the Rockies and beyond.

  The Mormons had camped north of Omaha twenty years earlier; the town had marked the halfway point as the settlers headed west, seeking a home where they could freely practice their new religion. Their trail was still visible as wagon wheel ruts leading out of the area. The terribly cold winter of 1849 had seen many of the religious pioneers perish and they were buried in an area that came to be known as Winter’s Quarters.

  The Mormons’ route meshed with the Oregon/California Trail and Claire waited upon many of these travelers as they purchased goods they’d need for the long journey. Many of the womenfolk realized that Claire’s cheerful store was the last one they’d see for months or even years. She’d often glance up to see the ladies wistfully running their fingers through the beautiful bolts of calico and muslin or eying delicate china cups, knowing such items would not survive the trip. Even more often Claire would see young children staring longingly at the bright glass jars of penny candy. Many a surprised traveler would open their purchases on the trail to find small gifts of licorice or peppermints. Claire had a sweet tooth herself and got a lot of pleasure imagining the delighted squeals of children seeing the candies tucked among the flour and rice. She hoped in some small way the sweets would make the arduous trip a bit more manageable.

  One far corner of her store was set up as a post office and the travelers would drop off letters that were heading east. Claire took the responsibility of postal matron quite seriously and handled these letters with special care. She remembered waiting for news from Caleb and knew that for some folks these letters might be the last time they heard from their kin. Newspapers and letters arrived from the east as well, and she was always quick to notify a customer when they had received a precious letter or parcel. She sometimes even hand-delivered mail when she’d closed the store at day’s end. For the most part the personal service and caring was making her a welcome part of the community. There were a few men, grizzled old cowboys or farmers, who wouldn’t do business with her. They’d been used to Richard’s easy- going ways. He hadn’t minded when they spit their tobacco juice on the floor or tracked mud. The store was just too clean and tidy, too feminine for their liking. What did females, especially a little slip of a girl like Miss Secord, know about running a business? One of these days somebody was gonna just stroll in there and rob her blind.

  When it was time for Claire to place her first order, she carefully checked and rechecked her lists to make sure she ordered the right mix of merchandise for the town and supplies for the folks traveling through it. She developed a habit of writing down what sold well and what didn’t, which was helping her gain a good grasp of the quantities she needed.

  An added bonus was that orders could arrive in days instead of months since she didn’t have to rely on mule trains. The railroad, so attractive to those migrating west, was wonderful for transporting goods as well as passengers. Beef was sent east and manufactured goods arrived on return trains. The frontier wasn’t nearly as remote and barren as she had thought it would be. In way it was a comfort, but the raw town still provided plenty of excitement. A single lady had to be careful, especially a young, female business owner. Most men believed the adage that a woman’s place was in the home, with a mess of kids hanging on to her skirts, so she did get some disapproving looks as she worked in her store or strode through to
wn. She tried to ignore the looks, or at least be exceedingly proper and polite, but there were a few people who were just unfriendly. She and Connie enjoyed several conversations about the role of women being more than just wives and mothers. Those were important, but they weren’t the only roles a female could have. Connie, more out-spoken than she, had even blasted a cowboy one day when he tried to tell her that a man must be the owner of Rose’s. No woman could have known how to fry his steak the right way. The girls shared a good laugh after that incident. Some day Claire would hire some male help, mostly to do the heavy lifting and loading into wagons, but for now she couldn’t afford it. So far she had managed to avoid any real trouble. She wasn’t aware that the sheriff and deputy were making extra rounds past Weikert-Secord’s in the hopes of discouraging any foul play and that there was talk in the saloons and back alleys of that “little gal” over in the mercantile all by herself.

  One warm afternoon in late May, Claire locked her front door and hung a neat sign stating she’d be back shortly. It was high time to visit the bank, perhaps make a deposit, and see about the mortgage. She had been putting it off for some time.

  Strolling down the street, Claire tried to put on an expression of nonchalance. Buried deep in her skirt pocket was the leather bag of savings from her teacher’s salary in Gettysburg and a cloth bag of store earnings. In her left pocket her fingers curled around the handle of her Colt. It was the middle of the day, but this was a frontier town and she was a woman. No one knew of her skill with the weapon and she hoped she’d never have to show it. It was all fine and dandy to shoot at bottles, but she’d never had to fire at a person. Secretly she feared she’d not be able to.

  She rounded the corner and entered the First National Bank. After asking to see the bank manager, she was shown to his back office. Jeremy J. Dawson was a middle-aged rotund man, his red hair receding far back from his forehead. Pale blue eyes hid behind round spectacles.

  “Miss Secord, what a pleasure, a genuine pleasure to meet you,” the banker pumped Claire’s hand in an enthusiastic greeting. Claire suppressed a grimace, trying not to wipe the perspiration from his sausage fingers off on her skirt. She decided it was best to get right down to business. The less time spent in the presence of this man, the better.

  “Mr. Dawson, I am here to open a personal account for myself and a business account for my store,” she said in her firmest voice. Claire had learned to assert herself as a schoolteacher and knew she’d have to do so now in order to be taken seriously as a business owner and the manager of her finances. Inwardly, her stomach was doing little flip flops.

  Willing herself to be calm, Claire continued, “As sole proprietor of Weikert-Secord’s Fine Mercantile, it is my intention to become a leading citizen of Omaha. Opening a bank account is a necessary first step.”

  Mr. Dawson smiled jovially again, nodding as though he understood her situation perfectly. “Why, indeed, indeed Miss Secord. But I am obligated to inform you that a business account and a loan already exist for the mercantile.”

  Claire faltered at this new information, startled. “A loan? She asked, her voice sounding faint. “What do you mean a loan?”

  Dawson scowled, a practiced banker’s frown, preparing to relay unfortunate information to an unsuspecting customer.

  “My dear, your aunt and uncle were decent folk, kind and generous, but they were lacking in, shall we say, business savvy? They were careless in their bookkeeping and accounts receivable. That is to say, they often brushed aside a debt when a customer could not pay. Many a time I tried to warn them that their kindness would lead to troubles, but they always said the Lord would provide.” Dawson sneered in disgust. It was obvious that he didn’t believe a word—the bank would provide and everyone else was slave to the system.

  He continued, “The Lord may provide, but loans must be repaid and mortgage payments come due.”

  Claire gathered her thoughts, trying to regroup, and regain control of the situation. “Mr. Dawson, what are you telling me? That I’m in debt? That I owe on a loan and a mortgage for the mercantile?” She stuttered out the questions, hands wringing nervously in her lap, afraid of the answer she knew was coming.

  “That’s exactly what I am saying. I thought it only proper to give you time to grieve for your relations and to get on your feet with the business before burdening you wih this news. As you can imagine, I was exceptionally glad to see you come in my door today. You saved me the unfortunate business of paying to a call to collect. Now we can discuss your situation in private.” Mr. Dawson leaned back in his chair and mopped his brow before reaching into a drawer to withdraw a sheath of papers.

  “This is the loan, for the purchasing of goods and the mortgage amount on the building that you work and reside in.” He slid the papers across the shiny oak desk.

  Claire hesitated and then grabbed up the documents. She paled and her heart sank as she quickly scanned the papers.

  Dear sweet Gin and Richard, what have you done, she thought disparagingly. Oh my heavens!

  Her mind began to race. All that merchandise she’d found in the storage area, here was the loan for that; the little rooms she now thought of as home and her beloved little store, reduced on paper to stark black numbers. Claire didn’t have near the funds to pay off the loan, and she had never been faced with a similar situation. Cared for by her parents, Caleb, and the Buckleys, never once had she been in debt. Even her life savings and the earnings from the store would only cover a small portion of the amount she was now responsible for.

  The banker sat back in his chair, his arms folded over his ample midsection. His beady eyes were searching Claire’s face as she struggled to hide her emotions from him. She could feel him staring at her and she inwardly cringed as she realized he was expecting her to cave at any moment, crying and sobbing in womanly frustration.

  He cleared his voice loudly, breaking the silence. “Now Miss Secord, I know that this is a shock to your delicate system, but we can take care of this problem today. There is some collateral in the business and the bank is willing to forego the mortgage and the loan in exchange for the title of the establishment.”

  Claire caught a steel glimmer in his eye.

  Why, that dirty son-of-a-gun! He wants my store. He thinks he’s got some helpless little girl here and he’s going to steal my store. He doesn’t know who he’s dealing with! Sign over my store! I should say not!

  She composed herself and replied as sweetly as she could muster, “Mr. Dawson, this is all such a surprise that my head is spinning. Might I just take these papers home and look them over this evening? It is such a big decision and I just don’t know what to do.” She batted her eyelashes at him and he swallowed the bait.

  “Of course, little lady, of course. I’ll just swing by tomorrow and we’ll take this problem off your hands. Why, I can even recommend a boarding house for you to move into. That is, until you decide you want to head back east.”

  Claire forced herself to smile at the loathsome man, backing out the door as quickly as she could.

  “Until tomorrow, dear,” he called after her, but she was already gone.

  Grumbling to herself, Claire stomped down the street clutching the papers.

  That stuck-up, pompous miser! No one’s taking my store and my home from me. There’s got to be a way around this. Turning the corner, Claire bumped into someone very solid, sending her grasping to right her footing. She found purchase on a shirt of sturdy course fabric. She quickly pulled her hands away.

  “Oh excuse me!” She looked up into the twinkling eyes of Sheriff Maxwell.

  Maxwell quickly took in her serious expression. “Well, now. That doesn’t look like the smiling Miss Secord I usually run into. Something bothering you today?”

  Claire swallowed hard and tried to smile reassuringly. Right now the last thing she wanted to do was talk to another man. She didn’t want anyone, not even the attractive sheriff, to know about her encounter at the bank. “I’m fine. Just
a little preoccupied, I guess. Excuse me, please, Sheriff. I really have to get back to the mercantile.”

  He looked at her questioningly, “Why sure, Miss Secord, I understand. I’ll be ’round to see you later. I wanted to talk to you ‘bout somethin’.”

  She agreed to meet with him later, wondering what he might want, but more concerned about the immediate problem. She hurried on, leaving the sheriff standing on the boardwalk with a puzzled look on his face.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Baltimore, Maryland, May 1868

  As dusk deepened at the Baltimore seaport, Cal tidied up his desk, blew out the whale oil lamp, and started back to his boarding house. His slight limp was more pronounced when he was weary and tonight his head throbbed. After a quiet dinner in his room, Cal laid down on his narrow bed. Some days it was all he could do just to put his time in at the paper, days when all he wanted to do was sleep. Other days sleep came at a terrible price. For years now, Cal had nightmares of horrific days in battle, nightmares of being left for dead, nightmares of Claire calling out to him, all a product of being a part of the so-called Civil War—the most un-civil war ever fought.

  “Claire! Claire!” Cal awoke screaming, drenched in sweat and his limbs tangled in the bedsheets. It was early morning and he had slept fitfully through the night, still fully clothed.