The Journey of Josephine Cain

by Nancy Moser

“My daughter.” He looked at Hudson. “You know my Josephine.”

  “Yes, sir. I had the pleasure.”

  “It appears her fiancé, Mr. Simmons, has found himself an assignment taking photographs out here. And she is coming with him.”

  Hudson’s mind stuck on the word fiancé. They’d become engaged? To the general he said, “I’m happy for you, sir. I can only imagine how you’ve missed her.”

  “Not going home for Christmas . . . that was hard on me, and on my family. You didn’t go home either, did you, Maguire?”

  “No, sir. My brother and I decided to stay here and keep earning our nest egg.”

  “Nest egg?” he asked with a smile. “So you have a sweetheart back home?”

  He hesitated, then hesitated some more when he realized he’d hesitated. “Yes, sir. Sarah Ann.”

  “I’m sure she misses you greatly.”

  “Hopefully, sir.”

  The general’s eyebrows rose.

  “I haven’t heard from her since before Christmas.”

  He stroked his beard. “Letters can be slow in coming. You know that.”

  “I know that.”

  Then the general nodded toward the telegraph. “Wire her right now. Tell her you love her. Tell her . . . whatever you want to tell her.”

  The idea that Sarah Ann could receive a note from him on this very day was almost too much to fathom. But the bigger question was whether she would welcome it.

  “You’re not going to even try?” The way the general looked over his reading spectacles was a challenge.

  “No, sir. I mean, yes, sir. It is worth a try.”

  The general called out to the operator, “Frank, send Mr. Maguire’s message.”

  “Yes, General.”

  He shooed Hudson away. “Go tell your girl you love her, and by the time you’re through, I’ll be ready to listen to your report about the supplies.”

  Hudson took his time crossing the room. He’d never had a chance like this. He didn’t know exactly what to say.

  Frank looked up at him, pad and pencil in hand. “Where’s it going to? And to whom?”

  “Allegheny City, Pennsylvania. To Sarah Ann Daugherty.”

  “Keep it short. That’s the key.”

  Short. Short was good.

  His first inclination was to send: I love you. But somehow, those intimate words sent across the country, over some wire-whatnot . . . it just didn’t seem right.

  And you aren’t sure the words are true, either.

  “Come on, man,” Frank said. “I have work to do.”

  “Just write, ‘I miss you. Hudson.’”

  “That certainly is short.”

  “Too short? Because I—”

  But Frank had already tapped out the message. “All done.”

  Yes then. All done.

  Hudson helped himself to the mashed potatoes, then handed the bowl across the table to Raleigh. He wasn’t sure he should say anything to his brother, because if he did, he’d get teased, yet if he didn’t—

  Suddenly, he heard himself saying, “She’s coming.”

  Raleigh’s helping was twice the size of Hudson’s. He passed the bowl to the next boarder. “Who’s coming?”

  Hudson regretted starting this, but he couldn’t stop now. “You’ll never guess.”

  “Pass the gravy.” Raleigh poured two ladles full on the moat of his potatoes, and another over his meat. Only then did he look at Hudson. “Surely not Sarah Ann.”

  Surely not.

  “Josephine Cain. The general’s—”

  “I know who she is.” He took a bite of potatoes, breaking the levee, allowing the gravy loose. “Why is this any business of yours?”

  “It isn’t. I was just—”

  Raleigh pointed his fork at him. “You’re just getting yourself into a heap of trouble.”

  “What trouble? I was stating a fact, a bit of news.”

  “Yeah, she’s some bit-of-news, all right. A five-foot-nothing, perky, freckle-faced bit-of-news.”

  Hudson wasn’t sure how to respond. To get defensive would just egg his brother on. “I simply enjoyed talking to her.”

  Raleigh leaned close across the table. “Are you sure that’s all you did?”

  “Are you accusing me of being disloyal to Sarah Ann?”

  Raleigh backed off. “I’m just saying. You told me about showing her the sunset. Sounds romantic, that’s all.”

  It was romantic.

  “I think she could be a convert to the West.”

  “Is that your goal? Converting her to liking . . .” He swung his fork around the cramped dining room. “The grand life of the Wild West?”

  “There’s more to the West than what we’ve had to endure this winter.” It was Hudson’s turn to point his fork, and he pointed it toward the western point of the compass. “There is something grand about what’s out there, beyond here.”

  Raleigh went back to his roast, dragging a piece through the potatoes. “The trouble is, neither you or me know if beyond here is better than here. You’re thinking it’s heaven, but it could be hell.”

  It could be. “The thing that intrigues me the most is that we’re getting a chance to find that heaven.”

  “Even if you have to travel through hell to get there?”

  It was complicated. This life wasn’t easy. Heading through the Wyoming Territory, water would be scarce, the terrain a challenge, and the days interminably long. The months ahead were totally unknown, with only one guarantee: the work was going to be grueling, as bridges and tunnels would have to be built. Yet Hudson felt a spark in his stomach, as though something was burning there, just waiting for the right time to fire up.

  “Now you’re not so sure about that heaven, are you?” his brother asked.

  “I am sure. Just because I can’t articulate it—”

  “Ar-tic-u-late.” Raleigh laughed. “I’m guaranteeing that no one in this entire town can ar-tic-u-late much of anything.” He turned to the room. “Right, men?”

  Grumbles all around. No one was listening.

  Was anyone feeling what he felt? Or were they just going through the motions, doing the work, waiting for a paycheck so they could blow it at a saloon or Miss Mandy’s?

  Some words came to him. “‘Let us run with patience the race that is set before us.’”

  Raleigh dug a piece of meat out of his teeth. “Race? Yeah, there is a race between the two railroads. But is it our race, Hud? Or are we merely pawns in someone else’s chess game?”

  There had to be more to it than that. He felt it deep inside.

  He also felt that somehow Josephine Cain was part of it. Not romantically—she was coming out here with her fiancé—but somehow she was the key to . . . to . . .

  The heaven that lay ahead?

  It did no good to speculate. God’s ways were unfathomable. And talking about any of this to Raleigh or anyone else was not the way to go.

  But that didn’t mean he would stop thinking about it.

  Cousin Frieda stood before Josephine, her hands on her hips. “Did you ever consider asking me if I wanted to go? Did you, girl?”

  Josephine didn’t have time for this. She’d asked Dowd to bring her trunk down from the attic and was already busy packing. “When Mother first said I couldn’t go, I had to think of something. And so I reminded her that you would be going with me. And it worked, because she agreed.”

  “She agreed, she agreed,” Frieda said, pacing back and forth. “I don’t want to go west again. I don’t want to sleep in a tent and worry about Indians and wild animals and, and . . . and whatever other dangers they have out there now. You used me to get your way.”

  Josephine stopped folding her nightgowns. Frieda was right. “Yes, I did. And I apologize.”

  Frieda stopped her pacing and took the nightgowns from her, refolding them her way. “At least you admit it.”

  Josephine ran a hand along her back. “It’s just that with Lewis going, and Papa saying ye
s, I couldn’t not go.”

  Frieda’s face softened. “You couldn’t not go. But . . .”

  “But what?”

  She looked at Josephine, then away. “I was just wondering if there was someone else involved in your desire to go west.”

  Her stomach clenched. “Someone else?”

  “Don’t act coy with me.”

  Josephine was about to deny everything, but just as Frieda knew her, she knew Frieda would never give up until she admitted it.

  “If you are talking about Hudson Maguire, then—”

  Frieda touched the tip of her nose. “He’s the one.”

  She busied herself by going through her jewelry box. There would certainly be no need for much jewelry except for a few ear bobs. “I admit it will be nice to see Mr. Maguire—if he is still there. Papa has written that worker turnover is a huge problem.”

  “Oh, he’ll be there,” Frieda said.

  Really? “How do you know?”

  She shrugged, then said, “’Tis the way God does things.”

  “What has God got to do with this?”

  “The Almighty is very adept at getting people to the right place at the right time.”

  It was an intriguing thought. “But Mr. Maguire is not the right people. He is simply a man I met in Nebraska.”

  “Who showed you the sunset.”

  “A sunset. He showed me a sunset.” But she mentally corrected herself. There was no denying it was the sunset. “And I am engaged. I am planning my wedding. To Lewis.”

  “Planning a wedding is not the same as being married.”

  No, it wasn’t. But Josephine defended herself. “I thought you liked Lewis. I thought you wanted us to marry.”

  Frieda took the bracelet Lewis had given her out of the jewelry box and pressed it into Josephine’s hand.

  “Of course. I was planning to bring this.”

  Frieda sighed. “I do like Lewis, and I do approve of your upcoming marriage. Yet underneath this plump body and wrinkled face, I’m also a romantic at heart. I saw Hudson Maguire looking at you, and I saw you looking at him, and . . . well . . .”

  Josephine wanted to hear more. How had Hudson looked at her? “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Deny it all you want, but a spark flashed between you two. A big one.”

  I know. I felt it.

  “I didn’t think any more about it because you came home and he stayed out there. Some sparks die. But others . . .”

  “Others?”

  “Smolder, ready to flame again if circumstances allow.”

  Circumstances like my going out west again.

  “Enough of such talk,” Josephine said. “I am engaged to a wonderful man, a budding artist. Besides, Papa and Mother approve of the match. And they would never approve of Mr. Maguire, an Irish spiker from who-knows-where.”

  “Pennsylvania. You told me he was from Pennsylvania. And you’re Irish too.”

  The memories of Hudson rushed back.

  “Enough talk. We have packing to do.”

  Luckily, Josephine was adept at doing two things at once.

  Mother did not come to the train station, suffering another bout of avoidance of all things that took effort. Or were her episodes of illness caused by the need for attention, or simply boredom? Josephine supposed it was a little of each.

  And so once again, Josephine, Lewis, and Frieda left Washington with no one to see them off.

  They watched as the porter loaded their trunks. “It’s thrilling to visit Nebraska just weeks after its statehood.”

  “I doubt much has changed,” Lewis said, slipping their tickets in the inner pocket of his coat. “And if passing through Nebraska isn’t wild enough, we shall be slipping into Colorado before we end up in Wyoming. Neither of those are states yet.”

  “I am not looking for anything wild,” she said, “just interesting.”

  “You may get both.” He took her arm. “Come now. Let’s board. We have a long journey ahead of us.”

  “But since we have done it before, it should be easier this second time.”

  He shook his head and checked the number of the car before entering. “Should be, but probably won’t be. The first time we had General Dodge and all the others taking care of things for us. This time we’re on our own.”

  She squeezed his arm. “You will take care of us and keep us safe, won’t you?”

  “I’ll do my best.” He looked for Frieda. “Mrs. Schultz? You first.”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Frieda said. With one step to go, she turned back to them. “Do you think they’ll have those delicious teacakes aboard like last time?”

  “I don’t think so,” Josephine said.

  “We’re on our own,” Lewis repeated.

  He did not sound confident.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Eating was always a production. This trip was not like the one on the meridian train at all, with wonderful railcars fitted out with a chef and a dining car. Traveling west this time meant meals had to be found in the depots—quickly. With the mass of passengers disembarking for food and the sanitary facilities, one had to move fast, choose with little consideration to appetite, and eat almost without chewing.

  In Chicago the lines were monumental, forcing them to take their food with them and eat on the way back to the train. Josephine ate a sandwich as they walked. The crumbs rained down on her skirt. “I am making a mess,” she said.

  “We could wait until we get back to the car,” Lewis said.

  “Too late now,” Frieda said. “Besides, I’m famished.”

  So was Josephine. “Though a ham sandwich is my last choice. Isn’t this the third one we’ve had this trip?”

  “Fourth,” Lewis said.

  “Does no one have any creativity at these food stops?”

  Frieda agreed. “If I had a café in such a place, I’d make my mother-in-law’s recipes of bratwurst, schnitzel, sauerbraten, sauerkraut, dumplings, and Bratkartoffeln.”

  “Which is?”

  “Fried potatoes with bacon.” She finished the last of her sandwich. “And Springerle biscuits. I still have her mold.”

  “You are making me hungry while I’m eating,” Josephine said. A dollop of mustard fell from her sandwich onto her skirt. She stopped walking. “Where is my handkerchief?”

  As she managed the rest of her sandwich in order to get into her reticule, a man ran past and grabbed it away from her. “Stop!” she yelled. “Stop him! He stole my bag!”

  She glanced at Lewis, but he just stood there. “Do something!”

  Again he hesitated.

  What is wrong with you?

  “Come on!” she said to Frieda.

  Because the crowd was so dense, the man hadn’t been able to go far. And because they were women, the two of them carved a path. “Let us through! He stole my bag!”

  Finally a man grabbed the thief and held him until Josephine caught up.

  She was out of breath. “Thank you,” she said, taking hold of the reticule.

  But the thief wouldn’t let go, and when she tugged harder, he broke free.

  Until Frieda tripped him, making him fall. And then . . . she sat on him.

  Josephine rushed forward with the man who’d first caught the thief, and snatched her reticule back. But before she let him up, she poked the tip of her parasol into his back. “How dare you steal from me!”

  A police officer appeared. “Good work,” he said to Josephine, his eyes wide with surprise.

  “Mrs. Schultz was the heroine.”

  Frieda smoothed her skirt. Her hat was askew. “I couldn’t let him get away. The ingrate.”

  As the officer took the thief away, the crowd applauded, and Frieda took a bow. Josephine was so proud of her. Of both of them. She thanked the first stranger who’d helped just as the train whistle blew, announcing its departure.

  They hurried to their car, only to find Lewis standing outside, looking for them.

&n
bsp; Waiting for them.

  “Where were you?” he asked.

  “Capturing a criminal. Where were you?”

  “I . . .”

  She pushed past him, up and into the car.

  “There he is! There’s Papa!”

  Josephine waved out the window of the train and was thrilled when Papa waved back. And smiled. Oh, how she had missed that smile.

  The farther they’d traveled west, the fewer passengers remained on the train, allowing Josephine to be the first to disembark. Papa didn’t even let her feet hit the ground before he put his hands around her waist and lifted her off the step. Then he wrapped her in an embrace. “My darling daughter. I am so glad to see you!”

  Josephine let the tears come. Happy tears were always welcome. To hold him, to smell the musky scent that was his alone, to feel his whiskers against her cheek . . . In spite of all the aggravation she had experienced on the trip, being here in his arms was worth everything.

  He spread her arms wide, looking her over. “You have not changed a whit. Still the pretty girl with the flashing eyes.”

  She took offense. “But I have changed, Papa. I’m not a girl anymore. I am a grown woman, an engaged woman.” For the first time, she thought about Lewis. He stood with Frieda nearby.

  “Lewis,” Papa said, extending his hand. “How good to see you. Thank you for bringing my daughter safely to my side.”

  To his credit, Lewis looked to the ground. Would he mention how brave Josephine and Frieda had been in Chicago? How they had taken care of the thief while he’d idly stood by?

  “I’m glad to be here, sir. I’m looking forward to getting started with my photography.”

  Photography? He mentioned photographs and not their remarkable feat?

  Papa tipped his hat toward Frieda. “Nice to see you again, Frieda. These two lovebirds give you any trouble on the trip?”

  “I kept them in line.”

  “Then let’s get your luggage and I’ll show you where you are going to stay.”

  Josephine took Papa’s arm and walked away with Frieda close behind.

  She assumed Lewis followed.

  Josephine and Frieda were staying in Papa’s personal railcar that sat alone on a siding. The four of them entered the car from a back platform and saw that it was outfitted with furniture like a parlor. “This is where you’ll stay,” Papa said. He looked at Lewis. “I am afraid you will have to stay in the bunkhouse in town, with the men. There is a boardinghouse and hotel, but they are full at present. I hope that’s all right.”