Through Rushing Water

by Catherine Richmond

  Her heart galloped but her horse plodded. Why could she not have a mount like the dapple gray Arabian trotting toward them? The dog behind the mare growled at Goldie. The young rider, resplendent in a crimson habit, whistled and brought the dog to heel. She executed a tight turn away from them, picked up speed, and sailed over a fence. The dog followed.

  “Oh. That was Grace, one of my favorite students.”

  “She has a pet coyote? Now that’s a curiosity.”

  “She has a gift with animals. Yes, my students are interesting, and so are the teachers. But they are not you. I miss your thoughts, your way of looking at life, your understanding of our Christian walk.”

  “You’ll make more friends.”

  “But none challenge me like you.”

  “Are you saying you don’t like your job?” he asked. “Because I’m sure Charlotte could find you a one-room schoolhouse somewhere in Iowa.”

  Perhaps he was angrier than she thought. But no, he held his shoulders in a relaxed manner.

  “I must apologize,” Sophia said. “When I said you would make a good diplomat, I meant it as a compliment to the most talented man I know. I never meant to disparage your gifts as a carpenter or to imply that you are not skilled as a builder of homes.”

  “That’s why I’m bringing you here.” He turned the corner and dismounted, looping the reins through a fence of iron made to look like rail.

  She hitched Traveler and hurried to catch up. “Will, it truly does not matter to me what you build, what sort of work you do.”

  “It matters to me.” He paused, his hand on the gate, then started up the brick walk. Goldie raced ahead, investigating a newly planted elm.

  As many proposals as she had suffered through, Sophia ought to be able to offer one with a modicum of grace. “After this past year,” she stammered, “I would venture to say I know you quite well. Well enough to—”

  She stopped. Where was he leading her?

  Sophia looked up and her breath caught. A two-and-a-half-story mansion with a tower presided over the street. Cream trim and a gray slate roof complamented the handsome dark-red brick. Paired columns supported a deep porch in the front and a porte cochère on the side. “Whose house is this?”

  “Andrew and Caroline Poppleton’s.”

  She gasped again. Perhaps she did not know Will. “You built this?”

  “In the six weeks since I’ve been back? No. I’m doing the finish work with my crew. The family moves in next week.”

  A gangly boy raced from the carriage house, clicked his heels, and bowed.

  Will made the introductions. “I’m hoping to find out why he was wandering around Omaha alone, where his family is.”

  “Guten Tag,” Sophia ventured.

  Armin burst forth with a long, chattering explanation.

  “He speaks a Frisian dialect.” Sophia shook her head. “Perhaps the German Catholic church might have a parishioner who could interpret.”

  Will unlocked the enormous door with etched glass windows and carvings that mirrored the angles of the porch, then held it open for her.

  Sophia stepped into the vestibule. The air smelled of fresh-cut wood tinged with the biting odor of varnish. Armin pointed out all the features with the enthusiasm of a patent medicine peddler. Diagonal strips of walnut flooring, polished to a glassy shine, led the eye to a magnificent stairway. It angled upward, graced by a carved newel post and rail. Paired balusters on each step echoed the paired columns outside. A stained glass window of a garden scene lit the soaring space with sparkles of color. “It is beautiful!”

  “I’ll get the air moving.” Will stepped into the drawing room and opened a window. It glided up silently, without any effort on Will’s part, and stayed up. A gentle breeze brushed the chandelier with a faint tinkle of crystals.

  Armin tugged on Sophia’s elbow, directing her attention to the carvings embellishing the bay window, the moldings decorating the tall ceiling, the elegant marble mantel. A second smaller chandelier hung in the corner, at head-height. “This is unusual.”

  “Mrs. Poppleton has a Steinway grand piano.”

  The design came together. “How perfect for all manner of entertaining: dances, musicales, weddings—” Oh dear. She truly did have marriage on her mind.

  “The wallpaper crew comes tomorrow.”

  “Wallpaper will distract from the beauty of the woodwork. It is not necessary with plaster this perfect.”

  The corner of Will’s mouth curved upward. “I’ll tell Mario you give him a passing grade.”

  Armin slid open the pocket doors to the dining room.

  “And covering these floors with carpet would be an insult, to say the least.”

  The dining room boasted another chandelier hung from a raised inlay ceiling, the chair rail Will and Mrs. Poppleton had discussed, and—Sophia stepped on the buzzer in the middle of the floor.

  “Mrs. Poppleton liked your idea.” Will’s boots, shiny and new, echoed on the herringbone pattern of the floor, picking up the pace. Armin toured her through a library lined with bookshelves, a window seat, and shutters, then a butler’s pantry with floor-to-ceiling cabinets. The kitchen had more cupboards than Sophia had ever seen, plus an icebox, an enormous stove with warming oven, a sink, and a pantry.

  Will nodded at the back stairway. “Upstairs, four bedrooms, a bathroom with hot and cold running water, and a maid’s room.”

  “What is this?” An alcove in the hall might hold a treasured sculpture, except for the wires sprouting from its shelf.

  “It’s for a new invention the Poppletons saw in Philadelphia at the Centennial Exhibition. A telephone. Sends voices over wires. He’ll be able to talk to his office downtown without leaving the house.”

  “Without having to use a telegraph operator or Morse code? I would like to try such an invention.”

  “I’m not sure when A. J. will be able to buy one, but he wanted a place for it in his house.” Will closed the window, then locked the door behind them.

  Armin executed another bow, then returned to the carriage house.

  “Will, your workmanship is exquisite. I can see how you must have been so insulted. Please accept my apology.”

  “Sure.”

  If he accepted her apology, why would he not look at her?

  Goldie met them at the front porch and led them to the horses.

  “You are an excellent craftsman. I have never seen such quality. Not even in palaces of St. Petersburg or Paris.”

  “Thanks.” He turned the horse south.

  “Are you still angry?”

  “No.”

  “Then where are we going?” And why was he so reserved?

  Goldie led them to a street by the railroad depot. A row of identical workers’ cottages, each a story and a half, marched parallel to the tracks. “Did you build these too?”

  “The lots here cost less.” Will dismounted in front of one still under construction. The porch railings and uprights were of standard squared lumber. The house awaited a final coat of paint.

  “Will and Goldie!” A stocky man toddled over from the house across the street. A thick bandage wrapped his right hand. “Is no-work day, no?”

  “Just showing off.” Will introduced her to Gino Vanetti, the man who did the stained glass window at the Poppletons’.

  “Magnificent,” Sophia told him. “It reminded me of the churches in Europe.”

  “I make for church in Italy. Work years and years. No money. No house. But I come here, work for Will one year”—he raised a thick finger; the other arm made a grand gesture—“and I get house, all mine! Is miracle!”

  “With the profit from Poppletons’, we build these.” Will’s nod encompassed the block. “We keep them affordable by cutting back on trim, using pine for the floors, having apprentices do some of the work.”

  “Come. See.” Mr. Vanetti ushered her into a large room well lit by windows. The plaster here was as smooth as the Poppletons’ but unadorned. The kitche
n contained a small stove, open shelves, and a sink with a pump.

  “Will think of everything.” Mr. Vanetti opened the back door with a flourish. A row of conifers along the back fence would grow and muffle the sound of the locomotives.

  “The enclosed stairway saves heat.” Mr. Vanetti led her up to two bedrooms, each with a window for ventilation and light, then ushered her out the front where Goldie waited.

  Sophia thanked the craftsman for the tour, then turned to Will. “You economized by simplifying design and reducing the scale, but kept the quality. This is what you could have built for the Poncas, if you had been provided with the appropriate materials.”

  “And tools.”

  “You use your gift to bless others. It is wonderful,” Sophia told him as he helped her onto the horse again. “It is a worthy calling, providing houses and jobs for people. It is your ministry.”

  “No, not a ministry. It’s what I do.” He stood beside her stirrup and stared past the row of houses, down the hill to the river. “I can build anything from a cottage to a mansion, plain to fancy.” He was not boasting so much as stating the facts. He turned toward her and scraped the muck from her boot with his thumbnail. “So, if you ever stop wandering the world, I’d like to build one for you.”

  Sophia’s heart sounded a hollow thud, like a Ponca drum. He would build a house for her? Not for them, together? Would he disregard her proposal as she had spurned his?

  But he had showed her what mattered: that he, too, worked for God. He did not write letters or hold salons, but in his own way he made a difference.

  “Where—” She stopped, pulled a deeper breath into her lungs, then pushed out one of her questions. “Where are you living now?”

  The dog barked, lifting her front paws off the ground.

  “All right. We’ll show you.”

  He turned west, toward Brownell Hall, and drew up by a charming cottage, slightly larger than the last one. Sky blue, trimmed in royal blue and gold, it glowed in the summer sun. A well-established maple tree in the front yard showed this was no new construction.

  Goldie opened the gate with her nose. This time, instead of waiting on the porch when Will opened the door, she rushed inside. The view through the bay window showed a tidy parlor. A Bible lay open on a pie-crust table.

  Will’s Bible. Will’s house.

  “How long–—”

  “Depends on what you want,” he interrupted.

  “What I want is . . .”

  If he said no, she would lose her best friend.

  Sophia removed her gloves and reached for him. After a moment, his warm hands enveloped hers. His pulse hammered strong against her fingertips. She took a breath. “I want . . . to stop wandering and live with you, to make a home with you. As my husband. Here in Omaha. Or wherever you may go.” And suddenly she knew the right words, the best words, God’s words.

  “Will, I love you.”

  He finally met her gaze. He said not a word, but in the hot flame of his eyes, in the warmth of his smile, he revealed his love. Then, as a man who valued action over words, he leaned forward and kissed her.

  And, as a man who showed masterful expertise in the use of his tools, he kissed quite well indeed.

  EPILOGUE

  March 29, 1879

  A buggy rattled up the driveway, the horse at a dangerous trot. “Whoa!” Will yelled. “Armin, get this rig turned around! Schnell! Mrs. Abbott, where’s my wife?”

  Whatever could be wrong? Sophia picked up Nicholas—the toddler was of an age requiring constant supervision—and hurried down the steps. The little boy’s ringlets, so like his father’s, tickled her chin.

  Will paused at the bottom of the stairs, his color high. His gaze met hers, igniting the glow of desire within her. But her wants would have to wait for whatever had him climbing the steps two at a time.

  He met her at the landing. Nicholas yelled, “Dada!” and launched himself from her arms. Will caught the baby, but he did not engage in their usual jiggling play.

  “Sophia!” he gasped. “Indians. Fort Omaha. Brought in by the army.”

  Excitement exploded through her like fireworks. “Anyone we know?”

  “Let’s go find out.” Will pulled her through the house, pausing only to pass Nicholas off to Mrs. Abbott, over the child’s very vocal objection. Sophia followed him out the door to the carriage.

  “If I change into my riding habit—”

  “Not in your condition.” He lifted her into the carriage.

  “May I go with you?” the German boy asked from his place at their gelding’s nose.

  Sophia unfolded the lap robe. “As I recall, you have an essay on the American War of Independence to write.”

  “Another time.” Will joined her on the seat and snapped the reins. They raced north, dodging emigrant trains, farm wagons, and the snarl of traffic that clogged Omaha streets these days.

  “How long has it been?” Sophia clung to the arm rail with one hand, her husband’s leg with the other, and braced her feet against the dashboard.

  “Twenty-two months.” As usual, he could best her in mathematics. “Not a word. No news. Nothing. Could be someone else. Cheyenne from Fort Robinson, maybe.”

  She had not had time to put on a hat, and now the wind pulled her hair from its pins. She dared not let go to repair it. Perhaps, at this speed, no one would recognize them. Not that it mattered; the name of Willoughby Dunn earned enough respect in Omaha to weather any breach of etiquette.

  “Tepees.” The gate stood open. Will did not slow for the turn into the fort. The buggy rose up on one wheel, then thudded down with a bump.

  Sophia squinted. Indians, yes. But who—

  Will braked in front of the work site for General Crook’s house. “I’ll help you down,” he told Sophia. “Don’t jump.”

  She tossed off the lap robe and scanned the encampment for a familiar face. Before Will could set her on the ground, they were surrounded. Standing Bear and his wife, Susette Primeau. Yellow Horse. Long Runner. Cries for War. Walks in the Mud. Everyone conversing in Ponca.

  “Will!” Brown Eagle grabbed her husband. Mary embraced her.

  Sophia stood on tiptoe to see past the adults. “Where—”

  “Miss Makinoff! Mr. Dunn!”

  Marguerite. Joseph. Frank. Susette.

  Sophia hugged her students, feeling bones beneath their clothes. Unlike Harrison and Tilly’s three, none of these children had grown an inch. All had lost weight. And where—

  A tiny body wiggled between Joseph and Frank. A tiny body with big brown eyes and an even bigger smile. Rosalie! And little Micahel!

  They were alive! All of them were alive!

  “It’s Mrs. Dunn now,” Will told them as the children pulled them toward their campfire.

  “Without horses or family you figured how to marry.” Brown Eagle grinned. Gray streaked his hair and deep wrinkles lined his face. He looked ten years older. Mary had lost several teeth.

  Then the sad story poured out: the deaths of White Buffalo Girl, Prairie Flower, and seven others on the march south. Starvation, unending misery, and more death in Indian Territory. Then Bear Shield died. In an attempt to save those remaining, Standing Bear had led twenty-five of his people toward home. Soldiers caught them at the Omaha tribe’s reservation and brought them as prisoners to Fort Omaha.

  “How can I help?” Sophia wiped her tears and surveyed the camp. “I should have brought food.”

  “The army is feeding us.” Brown Eagle’s Mary nodded at the pot simmering over the fire.

  “I could collect clothes.”

  “The Omaha people—” A cough interrupted Susette’s words. “—gave us clothes.”

  “Perhaps I could bring a doctor.”

  “The post physician is tending our sick.”

  Will covered Sophia’s hand. “We’ll keep praying.” Then, sensing her exhaustion, he stood. “We’d better get going before it’s dark.”

  With more hugs and pro
mises to return again tomorrow, they walked out of the camp.

  Sophia leaned into him as they walked. “I have cried myself dry.”

  Will wrapped his arm around her. “I’ll drive slowly. You can nap on the ride home.”

  “Quel mélange!” She let out a bone-deep breath. “I am grateful for those who survived, grieving for those who did not, and angry with the Indian Office. To God, I can only ask why.”

  “Only?” The corner of his mouth twitched. He knew her better than that.

  “No. I want to know what He wants me to do. Should I write more letters? Send a telegram to the president? Should I—”

  “Just you?”

  She flashed him a smile. “We. What should we do?”

  They approached the buggy. In the shadows of the general’s house, a man in civilian clothes pushed himself to standing. Sophia reached for her pistol.

  “I surrender.” He raised his arms and stepped into the sunset’s last beam.

  “General Crook. Thank the Lord it is you.” Sophia’s heart returned to a normal pace, and she stepped forward to shake his hand. “We departed in such a hurry, I left my pistol behind.”

  “Being shot wouldn’t be the worst thing that’s happened today.” He nodded toward the encampment. “Washington says I’ve got to haul them back to Indian Territory. What am I going to do?”

  “Would you like a ride home, sir?” Will asked. The general was living near the church until his house was finished. They squeezed into the buggy and headed out. A mile down the road, Will almost dropped the reins. “Hey, I know who—”

  At the same time, Sophia said, “I have an idea.”

  “Tom Tibbles,” Will said as Sophia nodded.

  “From the newspaper?” General Crook studied the night sky, then straightened. “Drop me off at the Herald’s office. And keep praying. Both of you.”

  May 12, 1879

  The lawyers had argued for days, using every six-dollar word in the dictionary. Then the judge let Standing Bear speak. In minutes the chief blew off the sawdust of confusion and made history.