Through Rushing Water

by Catherine Richmond

  “Ever see so many white people?” Will asked Goldie as the Katie P docked. Swarms of folks clogged the shore, most rigged out to prospect in the Black Hills, but a fair share of German and Scandinavian farmers looking to homestead. Even a few women decorated the crowd.

  He hadn’t seen Sophia since their conversation on the porch when she’d shot him down as surely as she’d shot that Thanksgiving turkey. He offered up a quick prayer for her safety, wherever she ended up.

  Will stowed his spyglass in his knapsack, then eyed their luggage. It should all fit in one wagon. The Granvilles would drop him off for the southbound train, then continue on to the Yankton Sioux Agency, their next assignment. Sophia, he assumed, would be catching some eastbound run, to Chicago, then back to New York, or wherever she would go to break hearts and be a woman of influence.

  With an excess of yelling, pointing, and looking him bold in the face, the roustabouts got the baggage loaded into a dray.

  A sunburnt man stepped between him and the wagon. He waved a dollar in Will’s face and pointed at Goldie.

  “No. She’s not for sale.” What did Sophia say? “Nein. Nyet. Non.” No sense speaking Ponca; those who knew it were gone.

  The man flapped two bills then dug out a silver dollar.

  “No.” Will tightened his grip on the leash. Bad enough he’d lost Sophia. He had no intention of losing Goldie. Finally the man moved out of the way, cursing him in some harsh language.

  A stick carved with the word “Yankton,” misspelled, blocked his way. “Gentleman, you look famous carrying—oh, it’s you!”

  “Reynaud.” Will took in the man’s neat haircut and crisp clothes. “Business is doing well, I see.”

  “Very well! Want work? You cut wood, me sell, make money!”

  “Sorry. I’m off to Omaha.”

  “Meet you at the depot!” Henry called. Sophia’s and Nettie’s bonnets showed in the coach’s window.

  Will lifted Goldie into the back of the wagon, between the trunks, then hopped up beside her. She did a little dance, as if readying to jump off, so he pulled her close. “Ever been in a wagon before? This one seems sturdy enough. Hope the wagons carrying our friends are holding up.”

  He gave the dog a thorough scratching around her new collar. She leaned into him, then lay down for the ride. “Goldie, you’re good company. You never nag me about getting more schooling.”

  At the depot even more people clogged the platform beside the waiting train. Will sorted the load. Goldie, wary of the noise, wound her leash around his legs.

  “Hard-boiled egg? Sandwich?” a round-faced woman with a basket asked. “Cheese, ham, wurst?”

  Goldie seemed interested, so Will bought one of each. If only he could buy sandwiches for all their friends. He fired off a quick prayer that they had something to eat today.

  Henry towed a baggage man through the crowd and pointed. “Those two big trunks and the toolbox.”

  “And there’s our Goldie,” Nettie cooed, earning a good tail-wagging. “How’d she like her first boat ride?”

  “Fine.” Wait a minute. Where was—

  “I’m going to miss you.” Nettie grabbed Will in a fierce hug. “Please write, let us know how you’re getting on.”

  “I’ll miss you too. Thank you for—” Will grabbed Henry’s arm and nodded toward the baggage car. “Those trunks are Sophia’s.”

  “Yeah.” The hot sun had sweat running into the rev’s beard.

  “And the toolbox is mine.”

  “Uh-huh.” Henry handed him his pay envelope and ticket, the paper limp in the mugginess.

  “You’re putting my stuff and Sophia’s on the same train.” Will stuffed his money in his pocket and unwrapped the leash from his left leg.

  “Sophia’s already on board.”

  “But—” He shook the loop off his right ankle.

  The baggage man jerked his thumb toward the passenger car. “On with you. Dakota Southern don’t put on airs. People bring hens, goats, the whole barnyard. No one will mind a dog.”

  The train whistled and a conductor yelled. Goldie leaned into his legs.

  “Wait a minute. I’m going to Omaha.”

  The conductor shooed him like a chicken. “Then you’d best get yourself on board.”

  “This train’s for Omaha?”

  “Last one until tomorrow.” The conductor stepped up into the passenger car.

  “Sophia’s going to Omaha?” Will’s mind couldn’t wrap around the idea. Nebraska, after all, wasn’t exactly on the way to New York, Paris, or St. Petersburg.

  The engine released a cloud of steam. The train inched forward.

  Nettie pushed him toward the passenger car. “Will, go! Sophia’s going to be teaching at Brownell Hall. She’s going to Omaha.”

  Will grabbed Goldie and ran.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  As the Dakota Southern departed Yankton, Sophia turned the pages of her prayer book. Nettie had told her the tribe was in God’s hands; worrying indicated a lack of faith. But surely she should keep praying. Which would be an appropriate petition for the Poncas’ situation? The prayer for those traveling did not quite apply, and neither did the one for those at war. And, please, Lord, not the one for epidemics and death.

  Will would know how to pray for the Poncas. Where was he?

  She shifted in her seat as much as a lady was permitted and scanned the rows behind her. A soldier and two men in suits leered at her. No Will.

  Brownell Hall was in Omaha, Nettie had said. Sophia would have a chance to repair her friendship with Will. And . . . might there be something more?

  Across the aisle a rooster confined in a basket voiced his opinion on the journey. If people could bring chickens and goats into the passenger car, surely the conductor would have no objection to a quiet dog like Goldie. But if Will had not been made to ride with the baggage, where was he?

  The train rolled south through the wide valley of the Missouri River. On her left, Iowa farmers plowed and planted, bringing nearly every acre under cultivation. To her right, a scattering of Nebraska homesteaders worked to tame the grasslands. Infinite shades of green painted the landscape.

  Will had quoted the Bible passage about forgetting what was behind and looking forward. What might lie ahead? Was Omaha big enough to have a bookstore or library? A daily newspaper? Perhaps even the New York Times?

  What she really wanted was a good long soak in a hot bath.

  And to see Will again.

  Her prayer book offered nothing about accepting a proposal or selecting a husband. Sophia had failed to pray about Montgomery and she had been jilted. She had volunteered for missionary work without praying about it, and her lack of prayer may have cost the Poncas their homeland.

  And now she had accepted this job as the Lord’s provision, without truly consulting Him.

  Sophia closed her eyes. Oh Lord . . .

  How had Will prayed? Help me say to Will, not the right words or the best words, but Your words.

  “Next stop, Omaha!” called the conductor.

  Sophia blinked and shook her head. The rhythmic clatter and sway of the train, and weeks of insufficient sleep, had her dozing off. She awoke to grass-covered hills rippling toward the setting sun. A multistory building with two spires presided over a narrow outpost of civilization. Warehouses and steamboats lined the riverbanks.

  With a blast of the steam whistle, the train crossed the bridge and entered a barn-like depot. Sophia gathered her valise and disembarked into a fierce wind. She worked her way through a crowd of well-dressed and well-fed white people, who showed no compunction about pointing or looking her in the face. They yelled in English, German, and several other languages.

  At the baggage car she found Will directing the unloading of her trunks into a dray. She had not seen him since they had boarded the steamboat for Yankton. Goldie spotted her, strained at the leash, and gave a quick bark.

  Without looking at her, Will said, “This is my brother,
Harrison Dunn. Harrison, Miss Sophia Makinoff.”

  Sophia had expected a sawdust-covered carpenter like Will, but this man wore a tailored suit with a vest. A gold chain held his pocket watch in place, and a thick coating of Macassar oil did the same for his hair.

  “A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” she said. She offered her hand, and Harrison shook it.

  “Will’s told us so much about you. We’ll give you a ride.”

  Instead of handing her into the dray, he guided her to an emerald-green extension-top surrey with a matched set of bays, and assisted her into the rear seat. “And this is my dear wife, Matilda.”

  “Please call me Tilly.” A woman with full cheeks, a pointed nose, and green eyes clasped her hands. She wore a dress in a claret damask that reminded Sophia of a couch she had seen in a Paris hotel. The bow and flounce on the back of her skirt compelled her to sit sideways. “We’ve missed Will so. And of course I was eager to meet you.”

  Sophia’s stomach twisted into a knot. Was his family expecting a big announcement? “I shall be teaching at Brownell Hall.”

  “Wonderful. We’ll see you often.” The feathers on Tilly’s hat danced with excitement as she laid three publications in Sophia’s lap. “The most recent issues.”

  “Thank you ever so much. It has been impossible to keep up with the news.” Sophia looked down: Godey’s, Peterson’s, and Harper’s Bazaar.

  But . . . no New York Times?

  “When’s the last time you went shopping?”

  Purchasing a pistol from a drummer undoubtedly did not count as shopping in Tilly’s world. “A year ago, before I came out west.”

  “You’ll be teaching Omaha’s brightest young ladies from the best families.” She cast a worried glance at Sophia’s dress, then smiled and clapped her hands. “A wardrobe update is just what you need to boost your spirits. I’ll take you shopping tomorrow morning.”

  “You are too kind, but truly, I do not need anything.” How could she shop, how could she enjoy life, knowing her students and their families were being dragged across the continent against their will?

  “Don’t worry, dear. Brownell teachers may open accounts with any merchant in town.”

  “We got paid this morning when we came through Yankton.” Will stowed his toolbox and bag behind their seat.

  “About time,” Tilly huffed.

  “No place to spend money up there anyway.” He shrugged. “Sophia’s been wearing the same seven dresses all year. Five dark-blue, one black, one gray.”

  “I also have a riding habit.”

  Tilly patted her hand. “You poor dear.”

  Sophia shook her head. She was not the poor one. Seven dresses made her wealthy beyond measure, beyond what any Ponca woman owned.

  Then Will’s words penetrated her consciousness. He had noticed her attire?

  Well, she had noticed his as well. The same shirts and pants all year. And Nettie’s calicos, she recalled, had to have been from the 1860s. Still, compared to what the Poncas endured, her wardrobe was not a hardship.

  “Wearing sackcloth and ashes doesn’t do the Poncas any good,” Will said, as if he had read her mind. He tapped Sophia’s worn boot. “You need new shoes. And a raincoat.”

  “You need a raincoat too.” Sophia raised her voice a little. Did Tilly and Harrison know what a gem Will was? “Will gave his raincoat to one of the Ponca families, inspiring the rest of us to donate also. The weather was awful when they left: freezing rain, sleet.”

  Tilly choked. “You gave your raincoats to Indians? Don’t they wear buckskin?”

  “They did until the whites scared away all the game.” Will lifted Goldie to the floor of the front seat, then climbed on.

  Harrison joined him. “They should buy their own.”

  Will looked away. “If you had seven dollars to support your family for the year, you wouldn’t buy yourself a raincoat either.”

  “Oh, let’s not be sad.” Tilly fluttered her hands as if the events of the past year could be waved away like a pesky mosquito. “We’ll find another raincoat for you, Will. And some clothes that fit.

  You’ve lost weight.”

  “Not enough food to go around.”

  Will’s comment shocked his sister-in-law into silence for a moment. “So tell me about this dog.”

  “This is Goldie. She’s good with children.”

  Tilly leaned over the seat. Goldie returned her regard with a hopeful wag of her tail. “But we still have Buddy.”

  “Goldie’s mine,” Will said, putting his hand on her neck in a possessive way. “I still have a fence, don’t I?”

  Harrison nodded, then diverted the conversation into topics of business. While the men talked, Sophia had the opportunity to take a look at the town. Streets were laid out in a grid; she would not lose her way as she had in Paris. Few natural trees grew here, but the residents attempted to rectify the situation with plantings.

  Omaha appeared to be the embodiment of the battle between good and evil. A church on one corner, a saloon on the next. A row of tidy houses backed up to a gambling parlor. A street-corner preacher faced a streetwalker.

  “We’ve got a fire department and an alarm system using the telegraph lines.” Harrison pointed out the business district and new gasworks. A scattering of gaslights lit up downtown. But his claims of progress were undermined when they had to detour around a block eroded by an overly enthusiastic creek, and again when he abandoned the morass of a road and struck out across a vacant lot. He pointed out a meat packing plant, a hospital, and a grain elevator.

  They headed west on muddy streets, up the hill to a three-story building with a mansard roof and dormer windows. It gleamed with fresh paint, tan with dark-brown shutters and trim. A whitewashed fence surrounded the property. A dozen saplings gave evidence of further efforts to transform the prairie. Brownell Hall appeared well built and well maintained.

  Sophia prayed her Ponca students might have such an attractive school building in their new home.

  On the lawn several young ladies exercised with Indian clubs. Indian clubs? The Poncas did not use them.

  An older woman with a braided crown of gray hair descended the steps. “Welcome back to Omaha, Mr. Dunn,” she called to Will as he helped the driver unload the dray. “Leave those here. We hardly expect you to tote and carry for us. Mr. Sullivan is on his way.”

  The woman exited the gate and approached the rig as Harrison handed Sophia down. “Mr. and Mrs. Dunn, I see you’ve brought us a gift.”

  “Indeed we have. Mrs. Windsor, may I present Miss Sophia Makinoff. Miss Makinoff, this is Mrs. Windsor, the matron, head of house, lady principal . . . any new titles this week?”

  “It’s a small school.” The woman’s erect posture and raised chin dared anyone to question her authority. She narrowed her eyes, taking Sophia’s measure. “Welcome to Brownell Hall.”

  Tilly called from the surrey. “I’ll be by about ten tomorrow to take Sophia shopping.”

  “Certainly, Mrs. Dunn.”

  The matron took orders from Will’s sister-in-law?

  Mrs. Windsor steered Sophia through the gate. “You must be exhausted, Miss Makinoff. Let’s get you settled.”

  One moment. She had not thanked Harrison for the ride. Nor thanked Will for seeing her luggage safely to Omaha. Nor apologized. A sharp bark echoed from the surrey. And yes, she wanted to ask how Goldie had tolerated the journey.

  But Harrison’s rig had already rounded the corner. Sophia swallowed back the tears as a flock of girls, Brownell Hall’s students, flew down the steps and across the yard toward her.

  There was no reason to cry. Absolutely none.

  Omaha was a small town. Surely she would see Will again.

  Sometime.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Even though Will knew she’d be only a few blocks away, leaving Sophia hurt worse than he expected. He’d kept his distance the whole trip, out of sight, but close enough to keep her safe from Romeos and
pickpockets.

  And somehow he’d managed to fall in love even more. He liked how her hair twisted up under her hat. Curls worked themselves loose as the day went on, the way thoughts popped loose from her mouth. The inch of skin above her collar that seemed like just the right place to plant a kiss.

  He had it bad.

  Will braced on the footboard as they rolled downhill from the school. It was all he could do to keep from jumping out and running back to Sophia. Goldie leaned out, as if she might be thinking the same thing.

  Will put a restraining hand on her collar, and she rested her nose on Will’s knee. Her big brown eyes asked, “Why’d we leave her?” Will ruffled the fur behind her ears. We’ll see her again, don’t worry.

  If his heart could take it.

  “So?” Harrison raised an eyebrow.

  “She’s as pretty as you said.” Tilly leaned over the seat. “Did you propose yet?”

  “No.”

  Harrison stopped in front of Will’s one-and-a-half-story house. The picket fence had been replaced by wrought iron, its curves echoing the scrolls of the spoon carvings on the gables.

  “Good-looking fence.” Will climbed out and grabbed his knapsack. Goldie nosed around, exploring her new territory.

  “We’ve sold fourteen of them, with orders for another dozen or so.” Harrison handed him the key. “May as well leave your toolbox with me. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  “I stocked your kitchen with bread, coffee, and eggs. Enough for breakfast.”

  “Thanks.” Will helped his sister-in-law to the front seat. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

  Tilly tapped his nose. “What are you waiting for?”

  No use pretending. Will sighed and propped his leg on the surrey’s step. “Sophia’s a woman of the world. A woman of influence.”

  “How could she be worldly, as little as she thinks of clothes?”

  Will shook his head. “She’s lived in New York, Paris, St.

  Petersburg.”