What a wonderful party it had been! She’d danced with Papa three times, Dean Muller twice, and once each with more than a dozen townsmen. She’d sipped glasses of fruity punch, feasted on boiled shrimp and miniature artichoke and mushroom quiches, and sang “Auld Lang Syne” at midnight with her arms around Mama’s and Papa’s waists. The weight of worry she’d assumed on Christmas Day had slowly melted as the evening progressed, and she found herself wanting to hum for the first time in a week. But humming would have to wait until morning.
Her nightgown did little to protect her from the chill in the room, and she shivered as she turned from the wardrobe. Eagerness to climb beneath the heavy layer of quilts tempted her to scamper around the end of the bed and dive in. But she shouldn’t disturb Dinah. So, staying on her toes to make as little noise as possible, she placed her feet cautiously on the floor and prayed the boards wouldn’t announce her progress.
Hugging herself for warmth, she lengthened her stride as much as her nightgown would allow. And her foot descended on something sharp. Stifling a yelp, she jerked away from whatever had pierced her tender sole. The quick movement toppled her balance, and she plopped onto the edge of the mattress.
With a cry of alarm, Dinah bolted into a sitting position. Her pale face searched the dark room. “Who … who’s there?”
Holding her throbbing foot in her hands, Ruthie aimed an apologetic look in Dinah’s direction. She whispered, “It’s just me, Dinah. I’m sorry I woke you. But something …” She slipped to her knees and felt around on the carpet with her open palm. After only a few seconds of searching, she located the offending object. Pinching it between her fingers, she held it toward the faint band of moonlight filtering through the lace curtains. Dinah’s ring. It must have fallen off her finger while she slept. Ruthie frowned as a puzzling question entered her mind. How had the ring fallen clear on Ruthie’s side of the bed?
She straightened and held the ring to Dinah. “You must have dropped this.”
Dinah clutched the quilts to her chin and made no effort to retrieve the ring.
Ruthie bounced it, shivering. “Take it so I can get into bed. My toes are freezing!”
Dinah flopped onto her side, facing away from Ruthie. “I don’t want it.”
Ruthie drew back, so startled she forgot to shiver. “You don’t want it? But it’s your promise ring!” She grabbed Dinah’s shoulder and forced her onto her back. She stared into Dinah’s face. Although the room was shrouded in the darkest gray, she noted thin lines trailing down Dinah’s cheeks. Alarm bells rang in the back of her mind. “Why have you been crying?”
Dinah grunted and strained against Ruthie’s hand. “It doesn’t matter. I threw the ring across the room. I don’t w-want it anymore.” But the longing in her voice belied her words.
Ruthie eased onto the mattress and knelt beside Dinah. “But why not? You were so happy when Mr. Ackerman gave it to you.” Recalling how jealous she’d been, Ruthie experienced a sharp pang of remorse. Had her envious reaction influenced Dinah not to wear the ring?
“I said it doesn’t matter.”
At Dinah’s harsh tone, Ruthie withdrew her hand from her shoulder, but she had to know if she had inadvertently created a rift between Dinah and Mr. Ackerman. Holding her voice to a whisper, she said, “Dinah, did—”
Dinah came up from the mattress, her face drawing so close she nearly bumped noses with Ruthie. “Can’t you ever stop talking? Go to bed and leave me alone!”
Ruthie scrambled under the covers, too stunned to do otherwise. She curled in a ball and tugged the quilt to her ear, holding herself as still as possible while her heart pounded. What might Dinah do next? Her behavior was so irrational, so unexpected. Maybe she should sleep in Minnie’s vacated room.
For long seconds Dinah stayed sitting up, and Ruthie sensed her angry glare fixed on the back of her head. Finally the mattress bounced, the springs whanged, and the quilts jerked into place. Silence fell. An uncomfortable, tense silence that kept Ruthie from relaxing. Several minutes passed before she realized she still held the topaz ring in her fist. The prongs poked the flesh of her palm, but she lay very still and didn’t release her grip.
Dinah
Strong fingers held her wrists in an iron grip. A heavy body pinned her to the mattress. Hot breath whisked over her face as lips—hard, insistent, punishing—pursued her mouth. Frantic, Dinah writhed against her pillow, shifting her head this way and that way while emitting little animalistic grunts of terror. Help me, help me, her thoughts begged. Oh, please, someone save me!
The doorknob turned. Hinges squeaked. She fought to turn her gaze to the door where her rescuer was now entering. A tall, broad-shouldered man stepped into the room. Shadows hid his face from view, but she recognized him. Joy and relief exploded through her breast. Amos! Amos, help me! Dinah panted, her chest heaving, her body bucking in terror-filled jolts while she waited for him to storm to the bed and fling the defiler away.
But he came slowly. The heavy line of shadows eased downward as he advanced, revealing his face, inch by agonizing inch. Brow etched with lines of fury. Eyes glittering with indignation. Lips set in a grim line of condemnation. After what seemed an eternity, he finally reached the edge of the bed.
Dinah held one hand toward him, everything within her yearning for him to take hold, to pull her to safety. He leaned down, his fists rising. And he hissed through clenched teeth, “Dinah … what have you done?”
Sobs racked her body as Amos, his face set in a stony glare of disgust, turned and stalked away. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Oh, please forgive me. I’m so sorry!”
Someone shook her shoulder, and a voice filled with concern and worry carried over her cries. “Dinah, wake up! You’re dreaming, Dinah. You’re only dreaming.”
A dream? A tiny spark of hope flickered in her heart. Maybe … maybe it wasn’t real. But then words swooped through the fog to attack her memory.
“Only one, Amos.”
“The number doesn’t matter.”
“Let me—”
“You are a harlot?”
“Only one, Amos.”
“The man who purchased you might be willing to use something that bears stains from another’s use, but I cannot.”
Ruthie, her voice kind, strong, and comforting, repeatedly murmured, “You’re all right, Dinah. It was only a dream.”
She shook her head, resisting Ruthie’s assurance. It wasn’t a dream. It was real. Amos knew her dark secret. He knew. He knew. Coiling on the sweat-damp sheet, she convulsed with throat-drying, gut-wrenching sobs of anguish. But not for herself. For Amos. For the pain she’d caused him.
That day on the porch, when he’d frightened her and then asked her forgiveness, she saw his tenderness. Over the months she’d witnessed his acts of kindness, benefited from his patient understanding, reveled in his sweet attention. He offered her all things good, and she repaid him by exposing the ugliest, dirtiest, most shameful piece of herself. She deserved his disdain and anger, but knowing she deserved it didn’t make it any easier to receive.
Behind her, Ruthie continued to rub her shoulder and offer soothing words. Dinah wanted to thank her, but if she spoke, Ruthie might ask questions. In her quivering, weakened state, she might accidentally answer. And then Ruthie would know, too. Having disappointed Amos was already too much. She couldn’t look into Ruthie’s face and see shock and revulsion.
With several shuddering breaths, she fought to bring her crying under control. “I …” Her raw throat resisted speech. Dinah swallowed and tried again. “I’m fine now. Go back to sleep.”
Ruthie’s hand closed over Dinah’s shoulder and squeezed. Gently. Encouragingly. “Are you sure you don’t want to tell me about your nightmare? It might help.” Ruthie’s voice quavered, as if she, too, battled against tears.
Dinah crunched her sore eyes tight. Ruthie’s kindness, especially considering how Dinah had treated her earlier, was like salt in a wound. “Please, Ruthie, just …�
� She couldn’t finish.
Ruthie’s hand slipped away. A heavy sigh whisked past Dinah’s ear. The bed bounced slightly. And then Ruthie began to speak. To pray.
“Dear God, please take away Dinah’s nightmares and let her sleep. Give her good dreams instead. Thank You. Amen.”
A few minutes later, Ruthie’s deep, even breathing spoke of peaceful rest. Although Dinah lay very still with her eyes closed, she didn’t allow herself to slip into sleep. She wouldn’t trust Ruthie’s prayer. She’d trusted Amos, and he turned from her. If God knew what caused her nightmares—and according to Ruthie’s father, God knew everything—He wouldn’t help her, either.
Dinah
When Dinah glanced in the mirror on the first morning of 1884, she gasped in horror. Purple smudges—dark as bruises—underlined her red-rimmed eyes. In contrast, her face was stark white. Colorless. Lifeless. She touched her pale cheek with her trembling fingertips just to ascertain it really was her reflection peering back from the looking glass. The touch confirmed the haunted image was no apparition. Such a change a night of tears and sorrow had wrought.
She turned from the dismal sight and hurriedly dressed in her uniform. Apparently she’d finally fallen asleep because Ruthie was gone, and she hadn’t even heard the girl leave. Part of Dinah wanted to crawl back under the covers and hide—was the businessman from Chicago still in the hotel?—but with Amos’s departure from her life, she needed to hold on to her job. She didn’t dare miss a day of work.
As she plodded downstairs on wooden legs, she wondered if Mr. Irwin had already hired a server to replace Minnie. Another girl hadn’t taken over Minnie’s room yet, but one might be en route. As soon as the manager arrived, she would ask if the server position was still available. And if so, she would ask to fill it. No anticipation stirred within her at the thought of becoming one of Mr. Harvey’s servers. After the blissful contemplation of a life with Amos Ackerman, Dinah realized nothing else appealed.
But if she won the position as server, as she’d originally intended, she would be financially secure. And she’d finally have the respect denied her for her entire life. That is, if the Chicago businessman hadn’t told anyone else about what she’d done before coming to Kansas.
Her pulse sped, and she hurried as quickly as her stiff limbs would allow to the check-in counter. Feigning a nonchalance she didn’t feel, she pasted a quavery smile on her face and addressed the morning clerk. “Is … is the guest in room fourteen planning a lengthy stay?”
“Fourteen, fourteen …” The clerk turned the registry book on its revolving stand and peered at the open page half-filled with signatures. He tapped one name with his finger. “Ah, yes, Mr. Sanger.”
Sanger … She finally knew his name. Chills broke out across her frame. She chafed her arms with open palms as the clerk continued.
“He leaves on this morning’s train for Denver, but he’s already arranged to stay with us again on his return trip at the end of the month.” His brows rose, and he sent Dinah an apologetic look. “I wish I’d thought to tell you about his arrival sooner, Dinah—I forgot you were originally from Chicago. You and he might have enjoyed a chat yesterday evening. Were your families acquainted?”
Dinah shook her head and backed away from the counter, needing to distance herself from the man’s bold signature in the registry. “No. Our families weren’t acquainted.”
He shrugged and then whirled the registry so it faced the entry doors again. “Well, since you hail from the same community, you might enjoy talking about the sights of the city with him. Shall I tell him you’re employed here so he can make arrangements to visit with you when he returns?”
“No!” Dinah didn’t realize she’d yelled the word until the man’s eyebrows rose and he drew back. She forced a light laugh, which sounded more like a strangled sob, and spoke calmly. “There’s no need to bother him by mentioning me. I’m sure a busy man like M-Mr. Sanger prefers his solitude when he travels. I’d better go have my breakfast so I can get to work.” She turned and fled before he could ask any other questions.
Amos
On Thursday, Amos prepared the eggs for transport to town. With winter’s shorter days and sometimes cloudy skies, the chickens had slowed their laying. The Leghorns could be a bit finicky, only gifting him with eggs when the sun shone. A lesser number of eggs meant receiving less money for his chilly walk to town, but could he let the eggs sit and spoil in the barn? Of course not. So, grumbling under his breath, he nestled the creamy orbs between thick layers of straw to keep them from freezing.
He knew why he was so reluctant to deliver the eggs today. In the previous weeks there had been fewer eggs, too, but he’d headed to town with an eager bounce in his step. Because going to town meant seeing Dinah. Today, however, there was no promise of time with Dinah, no anticipation of a letter, no joy waiting at the end of the trek. He sighed and hung his head.
Samson and Gideon sat at his feet and whined up at him, as if sensing his melancholy. He took the time to give them each a scratch under the chin, but he didn’t speak to them as he usually did. A lump of sadness filled the back of his throat, and talking took too much energy. With another heavy sigh, he caught the handle of his wagon and set out at a trudging gait.
He’d waited until early afternoon, when the sun was high and had burned away the dark chill of morning. Even so, the air was cold, and he shivered. Automatically his hand lifted to pat his pocket, and he gave a start when he found the pocket empty. He shook his head. He would not be taking envelopes of folded pages all covered in words intended for Dinah to town anymore. Yesterday he’d thrown away the pretty stationery paper. The temptation to sit and write had tugged at him one too many times, so tossing the paper into his fireplace eliminated the means to pen words to her.
But the urge remained in his chest. How long before the habit died and he would chuckle at Samson and Gideon romping together or see a hawk circling in the sky or watch the moon slip above the empty tree branches without murmuring, “I should write to Dinah about that”? He sent an accusing glance skyward. “You put her in my thoughts and heart, God, and it’s caused nothing but heartache. So take her out now, do You hear me?”
His belligerent tone when addressing the Almighty would shock his mother and rile his father, but Amos chose not to hide his disdain. He’d repeatedly asked God not to let his affections for Dinah grow if they weren’t meant to be together, and God had callously sent him down a pathway to destruction. So God would just have to get used to Amos’s antagonism. He would foster it until all thoughts of Dinah had been stripped from his head.
He stopped at the houses of each of his usual customers, but he didn’t take the time to exchange cheerful chatter as had become his custom. When one woman expressed concern about his stoic countenance, he gave the excuse that it was too cold to visit. His conscience stung because he’d lied. Cold had never frozen his tongue before. Losing Dinah had crushed the joy out of him. No joy within made for a sorry existence.
When he’d finished delivering the eggs, he headed to the grocer to purchase a few food items. Instead of passing the Clifton, which was the shorter route, he rattled the wagon two blocks out of the way to avoid the hotel. But when he left the store, by habit his feet carried him in the direction of the hotel. Not until he spotted the gardens, now brown and shriveled in the height of winter, did he realize what he’d done.
Immediately the desire to see her, talk to her, regain the friendship they’d created struck like a gale force. He stood with aching chest and galloping pulse, staring at the chair where they had left notes for each other. Caught up in the past, he began moving toward the porch. At the base of the stairs, his hand released the handle of his wagon, and he hitched his way up one, two, three steps, then crossed the boards to the painted wicker chair. It seemed as barren as the unadorned landscape with its floral cushion gone.
How many letters had he left beneath the cushion? A dozen? More? He’d lost count. He only knew he’d pou
red himself out on the pages, sharing pieces of himself with the girl he hoped would become his bride. All that time he spent writing and dreaming and praying now mocked him with its uselessness. Releasing a low moan of frustration, he turned to go, but his gaze caught sight of a small, square, folded paper pinned to the porch beneath one of the chair’s legs. His heart lurched.
Glancing right and left, he searched for prying eyes. Then, in an awkward movement, he bent over and yanked the paper free. His hands shaking, he worked to unfold the weather-dampened sheet. The layers wanted to stick together, and he tore one corner, but eventually he peeled it apart and found a simple message: “Dear Mr. Ackerman, I beg your forgiveness. I truly hope we can be friends again someday. Sincerely, Dinah.”
Forgive her? He crumpled the note into a wad and groaned. He should. Jesus Himself instructed His followers to forgive seventy times seven. He’d forgiven his father for rejecting him, his brothers for disdaining him, his schoolmates for taunting him. Would he be able to forgive Dinah someday when the pain wasn’t so raw? when time had erased the affection he held for her? Maybe he’d eventually find the ability to forgive her. But he’d never forget. And with the knowledge of her indecency always in the back of his mind, they could never be friends. Not again.
“Mr. Ackerman?”
The soft female voice came from behind Amos. His heart gave a leap—Dinah? He immediately squelched the hopeful reaction. She would have called him Amos. He looked over his shoulder and found Miss Mead standing a few feet away, her head tipped to the side as she gazed unsmilingly at him. Her green eyes held compassion, and Amos found himself wanting to lose himself in the kindness she silently offered.
She held the handle of a stiff-bristled broom in both gloved hands, and she twisted her wrists as if trying to ignite a spark in the length of unpainted wood. A nervous gesture. “Did you come to see Dinah?”
Through the Deep Waters Page 28
