by Nancy Moser
“That’s nice to hear.”
“It’s been special to experience all this with you. In fact, I can’t imagine experiencing it with anyone else.”
She touched his arm. “Thank you, Lewis. I agree.”
“So . . . I was thinking that perhaps tonight, during the fireworks, we could sit together, perhaps away from the rest? If that would be agreeable to you?”
Her smile offered him relief. “That would be very nice.” She looked to the west. The sun was just beginning to set. “Perhaps you’d like to . . .”
“Like to what?”
“Never mind.” She turned her back to the sunset and gave him a smile. “Until later then.”
He couldn’t wait.
As it grew dark and the fireworks were imminent, Josephine saw Lewis beckoning her toward a chair slightly apart from the others.
Frieda was on immediate alert. “Where are you going, Josephine? It’s dark.”
She suffered a sigh. “I am off to California to pan for gold.” Then she flashed Frieda an impatient look. “I am going to sit with Lewis to watch the fireworks display. Right over there, not twenty yards from your prying eyes.”
“Prying? You’re going to give me reason to pry?”
“Yes. So leave us alone.”
Frieda opened her mouth to say something, then closed it. What could she say? Josephine and Lewis had traveled hundreds of miles together, and he hadn’t even tried to kiss her.
Had she wanted him to kiss her?
Absolutely.
That wasn’t completely true. During the journey from Washington to Columbus, she had longed for a bit of romance from Lewis, yet since then . . .
Since Hudson Maguire . . .
Since saying good-bye to the latter, she had suffered a mental and emotional war. There was no doubt she was attracted to Hudson—what female wouldn’t be? He was a virile, striking, thoughtful man. But beyond the attraction, she had to be practical. It did her no good to think of him. He was heading west and she was heading east. They would never see each other again.
Adding a lock to that door were Papa’s comments when they had said good-bye. “I see you and Lewis are still close. Yes?”
“Do you want us to be close?”
“I am agreeable to it. If you are.”
With Papa supporting her courtship with Lewis . . . she had to think of the future. She would be twenty-one at the end of February. It was time to marry.
There was no time for silly daydreams about Hudson Maguire.
Frieda interrupted her memories. “After the fireworks, two men are going to read the bumps on our heads. They are phrenigists.”
Josephine had heard of such people and understood that most presented the readings with a good dose of humor. “Phrenologists.”
“That’s it. You should let them give you a reading.”
“No thank you.” She was confused enough. She didn’t need some stranger reading her cranial bumps.
Impatient from waiting for her, Lewis approached. He offered her his arm. “Shall we, Miss Cain?”
With one last look to Frieda—who gave her a final warning by raising a finger—Josephine let Lewis lead her to two chairs set apart from the others.
“There now,” he said as they settled in. Then he shivered. “These clear October nights are chilly. Are you warm enough? Would you like me to fetch a buffalo skin?”
The thought of sharing a buffalo skin seemed a bit scandalous. “I will be fine,” she said, and changed the subject. “Where are the fireworks going to—?”
As if in answer, there was a loud explosion to the south, near the Platte River. A spray of red stars lit the night. Then another. And another.
“I have seen fireworks displays, but never anything that felt so close. With the land so flat, I wonder what the Indians think of it. Are they afraid? Are they in awe? Are they—?”
Suddenly, Lewis’s lips were on hers. Soft lips. Insistent lips.
When he pulled away, she felt regret.
“I’ve been wanting to do that for weeks. I hope I didn’t offend.”
She took his hand. “I’m not offended. It was very nice.”
Amid the glow of a hundred sparkles, he said, “May I kiss you again?”
“You may.”
While kissing Lewis, the mental image of Mr. Maguire appeared, and the memory of nearly asking Lewis to go see the sunset with her. She had backed down from that invitation. Like it or not, logical or not, the sunsets would always belong to Hudson Maguire.
But for now . . .
She concentrated on Lewis.
PART TWO
Ideas must work through the brains and arms of men,
or they are no better than dreams.
—RALPH WALDO EMERSON
Chapter Eleven
Hudson leaned over the edge of the roof. “Hand it up, Raleigh.”
Raleigh handed Hudson a board for the roof of the general store, then immediately put his hands in his pockets, his shoulders up to his ears. “It’s freezing out here. Can’t we finish fixing the roof tomorrow?”
“Sure we could, if it didn’t look like a storm was coming, and if you’re willing to shovel the snow off Mrs. Reed’s sacks of flour. Of course then she won’t have flour to make the cinnamon bread you take every chance to buy. If you’re willing to sacrifice your bread supply then—”
“Fine, fine,” he said. “But hurry it up.”
Gladly. Although Hudson wouldn’t complain about his current duty in Raleigh’s earshot, he resented having to rebuild and repair buildings that were only a few months old. Faster, faster was the mantra of everyone in the new town of Cheyenne, Wyoming, and of everyone he’d met out west. The buildings were standing insults to every wind that blew through town.
When the ground had grown too cold to lay track, the settlement had burgeoned from a few hundred to over four thousand people, waiting out the winter. But those four thousand could dwindle to a handful as the railroad moved on. Nothing and no one was guaranteed to last.
Ever since the 100th Meridian excursionists returned home and started talking about their grand adventures, all sorts of easterners had come west. Their reasons were varied. Some prospective settlers wanted to buy lots and build houses and businesses. Lots selling for $150 a few months ago were now going for $2,500. But the God-fearing folks weren’t alone. Scam artists, drifters, people who didn’t fit in back east, and those running from something made up a good portion of the population.
It was hard to tell the good people from the bad. And no one was in charge. They’d tried to form a government, but the criminals had threatened the officials until they quit.
Hudson had assumed the army soldiers at Fort Russell, two miles north, would keep things under control, but they were there to protect the railroad from Indians, not to deal with civilian problems—which were many and varied. In fact, soldiers were told to stay away from the town for their own safety. There was something terribly wrong with that.
“Come on, Hudson,” Raleigh pleaded. “There’s a new game at the Grubstake I want to try.”
Hudson stopped his hammering and peered down at his brother. “If you’re wanting me to hurry, that’s not the way to do it. How much have you lost to those shysters?”
“Just a little. But the new game is called Mexican Monte, and the odds are supposed to be in the players’ favor.”
Was he really that dumb? “Gambling odds always favor the house. Always.”
Raleigh’s pout made him look ten years old. “You’re no fun.”
“Never claimed to be.”
“It’s not like I’m going to spend my money on the girls at Miss Mandy’s.” He looked longingly in the direction of the whorehouse that had sprung up alongside the saloons and gambling houses.
Hudson climbed down the ladder, the work finished. “Raleigh . . .”
With a dramatic sigh, his little brother turned his gaze away. “Everyone’s going—”
“Not everyone.�
��
“But it’s so close.”
Hudson nodded in the opposite direction. “That new church is just as close.”
Another sigh. “Why’s it so hard? Every sort of temptation is right here, and Mum and Da are a thousand miles away and . . . and no one’s watching.”
“Except God.”
“Yeah. I’ve thought about that.”
“Good for you.” Hudson felt for his little brother and all the men on the line. “But even I admit it is hard.”
Raleigh looked surprised. “You’re . . . tempted?”
“Don’t make me out to be a saint, because I’m far from it.”
“So you want to . . . ?” He tilted his head toward the temptations.
“True character is what you do when no one’s watching.”
Raleigh rocked his head back and forth. “And God’s always watching.” He moved the ladder from the edge of the roof to the ground by the wall. “But didn’t President Lincoln say that folks who have no vices have very few virtues?”
Hudson had to laugh. “So that’s why you’re wanting to try a few vices on for size?”
He shrugged. “Well . . .”
Hudson put a hand on the back of his brother’s neck and squeezed. “The vices are there so you can develop the virtues needed to avoid them. You shouldn’t purposely sin and then say, ‘Oops. I’m sorry.’ It’s supposed to be a struggle, one you conquer by tapping in to God’s strength and not giving in to your own weaknesses.”
“Oh.”
“Come back to our room. I’ll play you a game of double solitaire.”
“If only that were tempting.”
Josephine paused outside her mother’s bedroom door before knocking. Today was her twenty-first birthday, and she was not in a mood to listen to another complaint.
But to go out with Lewis and not check in with her mother would have caused worse repercussions.
So she knocked.
“Come in,” came Mother’s sickly voice—which Josephine had learned could be turned on and off at will.
Josephine didn’t mean to sweep into the room, but the intrinsic qualities of the nubbed silk of her gown created a distinct shwoosh sound.
Which caused Mother to open one eye. “Another new gown?”
“Not new. I’ve had it months.” A month. “Do you like the rust color? It’s called Havannah. Frieda says it brings out the copper in my hair.”
Mother gave the gown a good study and ignored the question about its color. “I don’t like this new fashion of trains. Dust-catchers, that’s what they are. And what are you going to do with all the lovely gowns you have?”
“I told you. Frieda and I are refashioning them. We’re attaching tapes to draw the front of each dress to the back in a drapery. Of course I have had to get new crinolines and petticoats to support the new silhouette, but the expense is not excessive.”
“Hmm.”
Lately, any expense was excessive to Mother. Josephine hadn’t asked about it, but she had noticed that Cook was serving meat less often, and the fires in the grates were kept ablaze for fewer hours in the day. “Papa is proud of our ingenuity about the dresses. And I asked him if it was all right to spend the money on the underthings and he assured me it was.”
“Of course he did.”
Josephine regretted bringing up her father. Since he hadn’t come home for Christmas, Mother had decided she was ill. Dr. Bennett had been called on multiple occasions, but he’d found no true cause. Yet the elixir he’d instructed Mother to take did help her sleep, which was of some benefit.
To Josephine at least.
And Aunt Bernice. For with Mother indisposed, Aunt Bernice had come out of hibernation and had joined a bridge club. The ladies took the card game quite seriously, but Mother drew the line at ever having them come to the house to play. Which meant Aunt was absent on many afternoons.
Which suited Josephine just fine.
And Lewis.
With the she-bears moved off to other lairs, the parlor was free for courting and put to good use by Lewis and Josephine, with only Frieda present. They had passed many an afternoon and evening there, and had even enjoyed an occasional rousing hand of three-person dominoes.
Though Frieda was lenient enough to let the couple have their private conversations, she never left the room. Which meant nothing untoward ever occurred—not that Josephine would have allowed such a thing anyway. But in spite of the limitations, their relationship had definitely blossomed.
Actually, Lewis seemed very content to stay at home, and he made a concerted effort to amuse her with his sketches, singing, and poetry reading. Yes, it would have been nice to go out, but who was she to complain about love poems? Especially when they led to talk of a future life together. And especially when the winter had been so fierce. Lewis was the one who’d had to brave the weather to come to her. He was a true gentleman.
“Where are you off to in such a dress?” Mother asked.
“As it is a special day, Lewis is taking me out to dinner with the Maddoxes.”
She waited to see if Mother would take the bait and offer her a birthday greeting.
“But you’re wearing long sleeves. A proper dinner dress shows the shoulders, the décolletage, and arms.”
“It’s the twenty-fifth of February,” she said, giving her mother another chance to remember. “I refuse to wear such a dress when it’s freezing outside.”
“Since when do you defy fashion?”
It was meant to disparage. “Since I am old enough to choose gowns that combine fashion and common sense.”
Mother pointed to the train. “A train is not sensible at all.”
Perhaps not. Josephine kissed her mother’s forehead. “Sleep well.” There was no need to add, “Don’t wait up,” as her mother valued her sleep more than Josephine’s well-being.
Or birthday.
Oh well. Hopefully Lewis would make up for it.
Tonight was the night.
Lewis stood on the stoop outside the Cain residence and patted the engagement ring in his pocket.
He’d wanted to propose at Christmas—with General Cain there to give his approval. But when the general had remained out west . . .
Actually, the main reason he hadn’t proposed then was for the lack of a ring. Josephine had made it very clear she would not accept any proposal without all the proper accoutrements. As the holidays passed, he could tell she was getting antsy and knew she wouldn’t wait for a proposal forever. Besides, he wanted to get on with it.
And so, he’d done what he had to do, and . . .
Tonight was the night.
Lewis handed his menu to the waiter after giving his order. He’d purposely chosen the least expensive items offered. But at the Willard, nothing was inexpensive.
Alas, Josephine had not chosen with cost in mind, and neither had Rachel or Clark Maddox. Lewis had wanted to have a dinner at the Cain home tonight, but the Maddoxes had invited them out, and as it was Josephine’s birthday, he’d agreed.
As if reading his mind, Josephine said, “I am so glad we went out tonight. It has been so long.” She looked around the Willard Room and sighed. “Papa often talked about taking me here a second time.”
“A second time?” How silly of him to think this would be a new experience for her.
She patted his hand. “I was very young during my previous visit. The Swedish Nightingale, Jenny Lind, was staying here and had some sort of reception in the hotel during her American tour. She sang a few songs. I don’t remember anything about the hotel, but I do remember sitting on Papa’s lap, and Miss Lind’s voice lulling me to sleep.”
“So you never returned?” Rachel asked.
She shook her head. “By the time I was old enough to care, the war was upon us.” She gave Lewis the most disarming smile. “Actually, I’m glad Papa never got around to it, so Lewis and I could experience it together.”
“Look at you two,” Rachel said. She tapped her husband’s arm
with her closed fan. “Perhaps we should leave and give them their privacy.”
“No, no,” Josephine said. “Mother would have a fit. She had to be convinced to let me go out to a restaurant at all and agreed only because you two are here.”
Rachel fluttered her fan. “You make me very relieved to be married, just so I could leave all that silly rigmarole behind. Aren’t you glad, Clark?”
“Immensely,” he said, though he seemed horribly bored by the whole thing.
Josephine looked around at the other diners and whispered to Lewis, “I am glad to be here, yet I’ve also enjoyed our times in the parlor, just us two.”
“And Frieda. And sometimes your aunt and mother.”
“Such are the rules,” she said with a pretty smile.
Lewis found the rules of etiquette daunting. And annoying. The sooner he could get her back to the house, the sooner he could propose, and the sooner his stomach would stop its awful churning.
The sooner the better.
Josephine led Lewis into the parlor. “It’s getting late. I’m not sure Frieda is even awake. Dowd has gone to fetch her, but you may have to leave.” She sat on one end of the sofa, looked up at him, and smiled. “I will say it was a wonderful evening. Dinner was delicious, and—”
“Josephine.” Unable to wait any longer, he slid onto the sofa and took her hand in his. “I care for you deeply. Would you do me the honor of being my wife?” He pulled the ring from the pocket of his jacket and held it for her to see.
In the flicker of the candlelight her eyes were as green as the ring’s emerald.
“Oh Lewis. Of course I will marry you,” she said.
He put the ring on her finger and was relieved it fit.
He ran his thumb across her knuckles. “Are you happy?”
“Completely,” she said.
She looked at the ring, turning it in the light. Her forehead furrowed for just a moment, and he worried she was disappointed.
“It—it was my grandmother’s.”
Her face softened. “Which makes it especially dear. It is very striking. You have exquisite taste.”
