by Karey White
“You’ll forgive me for arguing, Mr. Houston, but I truly doubt that. I’ve not seen my sweet colleen in half a year.” It felt even longer than that. “To say I miss her falls terribly short of the mark.”
Mr. Houston unlocked the door at the top of the exterior stairs and let Patrick in. “You said you weren’t married yet but intend to marry when she arrives. Did I understand correctly?”
“Yes, sir.” Patrick took a quick look around the small room. The accommodations were far finer than he was accustomed to but too small and plain for a new bride. He’d have to find something better before the wedding.
“Is something wrong, Patrick?”
“Not at all, sir. I was only thinking I ought to claim a homestead before marrying. This isn’t—”
“—what a man wishes to offer the woman who has claimed his heart.” Mr. Houston obviously understood. “Perhaps you should wait to send for her until you’re more settled.”
Patrick shook his head. He knew perfectly well that wouldn’t work. “Word will reach her that I’m no longer working for the railroad. She’ll be required to leave her boarding house.”
“Ah.” Mr. Houston’s brow pulled in thought. “Join my family for dinner,” he offered. “My wife will likely have the entire dilemma solved before the second course.”
The invitation surprised Patrick. “You don’t even know me.”
Mr. Houston waved that off. “I don’t imagine you’ll make off with the silver when I’m the one paying your salary.”
“I’d not make off with it even if you weren’t,” Patrick assured him. “My da and ma raised me better than that.”
“I would wager they did.” Mr. Houston gave a quick nod. “I’ll come by in about an hour and fetch you over to the house.”
“I’m appreciative, Mr. Houston. Please thank your wife on my behalf.”
“I certainly will.”
Patrick stood in his new rooms for a long moment after Mr. Houston’s departure, trying to wrap his mind around all that had changed in one afternoon. No longer would he toil at the backbreaking job of laying track, praying he didn’t injure his hands beyond using, or lose his life in an accident as so many others had. It appeared that he now had stable work in a town where he could settle down. He was one step closer to having Shannon in his life again.
But what have you to offer her, then? A room too tiny for two? Where’ll she lay her head at night? If this job doesn’t prove steady, how will you get on?
He shook off the worry. He’d worked long and hard, saving and scrimping, waiting for the right opportunity. This was that chance. It was what he’d wanted all along.
But was it still what she longed for? He treasured the letters they’d sent to each other, though neither of them had ever sent words. He drew her pictures of the things he’d seen that he thought she would enjoy. She sent back images cut from discarded newspapers or advertisements, pasted together to form a picture of her life without him. They’d concocted the plan as a means of communicating without needing someone else to write out or read aloud their words. It was meant to be a bit of privacy during their difficult separation.
However, six months with no words between them left him wondering how she felt and what she was thinking. What if their time apart had lessened her feelings for him? What if she no longer loved him as she once had, or simply didn’t love him enough to take a chance on this new life?
He peered out his window at the town below. Twas a typical Western railroad town; Patrick had seen more than his share of them over the past months. It had gone up in a flurry of activity and was growing by leaps and bounds, saloons and houses of ill repute going up long before any churches or other respectable establishments. Rail workers had spent many of their leisure days here gambling and drinking and carrying on. Many didn’t come back to the crew, choosing instead to settle down and try their hands at other occupations.
As planned, Patrick took his evening meal with the Houstons. The family was every bit as friendly as Mr. Houston. Patrick recognized their youngest, the very boy he’d drawn a picture of weeks ago, while watching the lad play in a field with other children. Their home was finely furnished, declaring them a family of means. Patrick listened as Mr. Houston told their history. He’d been in the newspaper business all his life, being the son of a newspaper man. Realizing the uncivilized West would need news, he’d taken a chance, uprooted his family, and left Cleveland for the ever-expanding railroad. He’d found in Sidney a town exactly like what he’d envisioned.
“Once you’ve learned to write, we’ll see if you’ve a knack for reporting as well as drawing,” Mr. Houston said. “I’ll work you hard, let me warn you.”
“I’ve never feared hard work, sir. I certainly don’t now.”
Mrs. Houston’s plump face smiled across the table at him. “He has a talent for knowing people’s hearts, Mr. O’Malley. If he finds you trustworthy, one can be certain that you are.”
“And does a fledgling newspaper truly need someone to make sketches? I can’t imagine what I could contribute, or that I’d be worthy of the salary I’ve been offered.” Patrick feared this would prove a foolish endeavor, one he’d regret giving up the steady pay of the railroad for.
“I have bigger plans than simple news sketches.” Mr. Houston’s eyes sparkled with a contagious excitement. “Now and then, I’d like to feature a drawing of your choice in the paper, a full quarter page. I have a feeling the papers featuring those bits of art will sell better than all the rest, and that we’ll find your prints hung in houses all along the rail line. If we accumulate enough, I’d like to see them printed and bound as a collection to sell at the train depot to passengers making the trek westward. I think we’d even find interest along the line as far back as Omaha or Council Bluffs. I wouldn’t be surprised if those back East would be intrigued by drawings of the untamed West.”
“Do you honestly think anyone’d buy my doodles?” Patrick wanted to believe it, to hope that he had a skill that would give him work and money to live on.
“I’m certain of it,” Mr. Houston answered. “You have talent, O’Malley. And I have a nose for business. I think we’ll make a fine team.”
Perhaps given enough time, he’d be in a position to support Shannon— not simply put food on the table and a roof over her head, but give her a few fine things. He may even convince her he wasn’t such a bad catch. He only needed time.
A plan formulated on the instant. He couldn’t marry her until he was certain he could support her, but she couldn’t stay in Omaha after her landlady insisted she move out of the boarding house. So he would send for her, but he would first find a position for her there in Sidney. She’d have money to live on. He’d arrange a place for her to stay. That would give him time to deserve her and give her the freedom she needed to break things off between them if she’d changed her mind.
Please let that not be the case. I couldn’t bear it if I’ve lost her affection.
Chapter Three
Sidney. Shannon silently repeated the name of her new hometown as the train made its way West.
Her heart warmed with the knowledge that Patrick had laid the very tracks that were bringing her to him. Twas as if he’d done so for no reason other than to make certain they would be together again. After the fortnight she’d just past, that knowledge was more welcome than ever.
Shannon never wanted another fortnight like the one she’d just endured. Word had come that she had to vacate her room at the boarding house, but with no accompanying explanation. She hadn’t known if Patrick had found other work, or if he’d been injured or fired, or— her heart still thudded in her chest at the thought— killed. She’d wept as she packed her meager belongings. The other women offered empty reassurances, all of them knowing death was a constant and very real possibility for all of their loved ones.
She’d secured a room elsewhere in an area she’d felt less than safe, but there’d been nowhere else to go. For days, her heart had ached and
broken as her mind imagined every horrible possibility. She’d wept as she worked, wept as she’d lain in bed at night. She hadn’t the strength to even look at Patrick’s drawings. The sight of them had only cracked her heart more fully and deeply.
A week to the day after Shannon’s eviction, Mary Macgillis found her as she’d left one of the homes she cleaned. A telegram had arrived at last. Patrick was well and whole. The relief of that knowledge made the rest of his message hard to concentrate on. Mary had needed to read the telegram more than once.
Patrick was alive, and he had sent for her at last. She needed but a few days to make the preparations for her journey westward. She was finally closing the miles that separated them.
She sat on the back most bench of the passenger car, where she could have a bit of privacy. All of her precious drawings were kept bundled and safe in her traveling case except for one. The flower Patrick had drawn for her sat unfolded on her lap. She wanted to see one in all its splendor, to know if the colors she’d imagined were correct, if its leaves were as fuzzy as they appeared. How she hoped they grew near Sidney so she could pick a few to keep in their home. Perhaps they could even be planted.
The conductor came through the car. Shannon stopped him as he passed. “How much longer until we reach Sidney?”
“It’s our next stop,” he answered. “Perhaps another fifteen minutes.”
“Thank you,” she told him, then offered another thank you to heaven. She’d be with her love in only fifteen more minutes.
She carefully folded her flower drawing and watched eagerly out the window for the first glimpse of the town. For long moments, she saw nothing but the unending expanse of openness she’d grown accustomed to during her journey. Six torturous months she’d longed for Patrick. Why must these last few minutes pull out so long?
Quite suddenly, there it was. A sprawling town, almost haphazard in its design, popping up out of nowhere. Shannon’s heart leapt clear to her throat, racing and pounding as the train slowed its forward movement and pulled to a stop at the station.
She was there. At last, she was there. She jumped to her feet, clutching her drawing as she moved swiftly up the aisle and out of the car. A brisk wind met her as she stepped onto the platform. She clutched her bonnet to her head with one hand, holding fast to the flower sketch with the other. Her eyes searched for her dear Patrick.
The platform bustled with activity, mostly working men unloading and hauling away supplies. A few passengers, like herself, had arrived and either made their way into town on their own or were greeted by loved ones. The porter set Shannon’s traveling trunk on the platform beside her.
Where are you, my love?
The platform emptied. She alone stood as the train pulled away. Worries and reassurances pushed one another in and out of her frenzied thoughts. Had she misunderstood her destination? Had the telegram she’d sent gone astray or conveyed the wrong time or date?
She opened her trunk and set Patrick’s drawing inside, closing the lid against the unrelenting wind. She tightened the knot holding her bonnet on her head. Regardless of the reason she’d not been met at the station as expected, she wasn’t of a mind to simply stand there being battered by the elements. Shannon dragged her trunk to a bench pressed up against a wall of the depot. She would wait for him there. Her Patrick would come, she simply needed to be patient.
Time passed as she sat there, though she couldn’t say if it was a few minutes or an hour. Those working at the train station took little notice of her. No one seemed to be looking about for an unclaimed passenger. The telegram Mary had read said Patrick had a job working for a newspaper. If worse came to worst, she could ask around for the newspaper office and hope to find him there.
“Shannon Ryan?”
Hearing her name spoken by an unfamiliar voice in a town where she’d never before set foot was more than startling. She glanced up warily.
“Are you Shannon Ryan?” a plump woman in a fine purple dress asked.
“That I am.”
She smiled on the instant. “I am sorry to arrive so very late. My neighbor agreed to keep an eye on the children, but she was running behind schedule, so I couldn’t leave as soon as I’d intended to.”
“Begging your pardon, but I’ve no idea who you are.”
“Oh, dear. I did leave off that bit of information, didn’t I?” Did the woman never stop smiling? “Being late flusters me so terribly. I’m Madeline Houston. My husband owns the newspaper.”
“The one my Patrick works for?”
“Yes, exactly.” She pulled a bit of paper from the pocket of her very stylish jacket. “He sent me with this so that I would recognize you.”
Shannon took the paper and found a sketch of her own self looking back at her. Warmth rushed to her cheeks as a smile touched her lips. “He has a fine talent, does he not?”
“Oh, yes. We are all simply amazed at how fine his drawings are.”
She looked up once more, pressing the drawing to her heart. “But why did he not come fetch me himself? We’ve not seen one another in half a year. I thought he would— Surely he’s missed me enough to—”
Mrs. Houston’s expression filled with empathy. “The heartless old badger he works for has him slaving away up at the newspaper office without even a few minutes to himself to come see you.”
“And that ‘heartless old badger’ is your husband, I believe you said.”
A hint of mischief sparkled in Mrs. Houston’s eyes. “Indeed. And he will get an earful about it tonight; I promise you that.”
Shannon breathed a sigh of relief. She hadn’t been forgotten or abandoned. Patrick would have come if he’d been able to. And he’d seen to it she’d not been left completely alone. She studied the sketch, running her finger lightly along the lines he’d drawn. His memory of her hadn’t faded even with the passage of six months.
“The two of you are having dinner with us tonight,” Mrs. Houston said. “We had best be on our way. I need to finish meal preparations and set out dishes and such.”
Shannon took up her trunk once more and followed Mrs. Houston out into the wind. “I hope you’ll allow me to help. I hate feeling like a burden.”
“If you’re offering, I am accepting.” She smiled as they climbed into a buggy behind the depot. Mrs. Houston flicked the reins and set the horse at a trot. “The men won’t be home for another hour at least. That will be plenty of time to have dinner ready and still allow you to freshen up a bit if you’d like.”
“I would like that very much. As much as I’d hoped to see Patrick here at the station, there is something to be said for greeting him wearing a clean dress and with my hair combed.”
Mrs. Houston nodded. “And your nerves will have a chance to settle.”
Shannon smiled and let her shoulders droop. “Am I so obvious as all that?”
“Oh, my dear girl. Any woman would be nervous at seeing her sweetheart for the first time after so many months.” She spared Shannon a quick glance before returning her eyes to the road. “A bit of rest and a moment’s peace will do you a world of good.”
Though Mrs. Houston was attentive and the Houston children sweet, Shannon found she only grew more unsettled as the day wore on. She was no help at all in the kitchen. Her feet took her repeatedly to the front windows, gazing out at the street.
The oldest of the Houston children, Hannah, who was somewhere near eight years old, dropped onto the sofa in the front parlor and sighed quite dramatically. “It is so romantic. Mr. Patrick said he sent you letters all these months.”
“That he did.” Still no sign of him on the street out front.
“And you sent letters back,” Hannah pressed.
“I did, indeed.”
“And now you’ll be together again, forever and ever.” Another deep, emotive sigh. “It’s the most romantic thing in the whole, whole world.”
It was rather romantic now that Shannon really thought on it. She was so ridiculously nervous, she’d not ta
ken even a moment to reflect on the loveliness of a reunion after so many months apart.
“Do you think Mr. Patrick will kiss you?” Hannah asked.
Without hesitation, Shannon answered, “He’d better.”
Hannah giggled, pulling a laugh from Shannon as well. She stepped from the window and sat beside the girl. “What punishment shall we devise for Mr. Patrick if he neglects to greet me properly?”
“We could put a snake in his bed.”
Shannon grinned. “I’ve a feeling I ought to be a little afraid of someone who thinks of such a treacherous thing so quickly.”
“Papa says I’m devious,” Hannah declared proudly. “He says he hopes my little brother is a good influence on me, since Gerald never gives anyone a lick of trouble.”
The littlest Houston was something of an angel. “Well, I for one think most girls could do with just a touch of deviousness.”
Hannah grinned, revealing a couple of missing teeth alongside those not quite fully in. “I like you, Miss Ryan.”
“That is likely because I’ve a bit of devilment in me as well. It used to land me in ever so much trouble when I worked at the factory in Boston.”
“Well, you’re out West now.” Hannah lowered her voice to a secretive whisper. “We can get away with all kinds of things here, and there aren’t any stuffy old aunts or grandmothers to tell us to behave.”
Shannon matched her tone and volume. “I am very pleased to hear that.”
Hannah rubbed her hands together, clearly already making plans for some shared bits of mischief. The sound of men’s voices floated inside from the front walk. Shannon’s heart returned to its earlier place in her throat.
“Does that sound like your father, dear?” she asked Hannah.
“That’s him. And he’ll have Mr. Patrick with him.”
My sweet Patrick. Shannon stood up, feeling her knees quake beneath her. The door opened.
