by Zina Abbott
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Otto’s Offer
LOCKETS & LACE
BOOK 3
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ZINA ABBOTT
Copyright © 2018 Robyn Echols writing as Zina Abbott
All rights reserved.
DEDICATION
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This book is dedicated to
The hard-working authors of the Sweet Americana Sweethearts blog who provide the world with sweet/clean historical romances about North Americans between 1820 and 1929.
I also wish to dedicate this book to Rosemary Smith.
She has worked with me as a proofreader in the past, but she has now passed on to her eternal reward.
Thank you, Rosemary.
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
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This book is part of a multi-author series sponsored by the authors who write for the Sweet Americana Sweethearts blog. My appreciation and thanks go to those other authors who helped develop the Lockets & Lace series of books.
A special thank you goes to
Linda Carroll-Bradd of Lustre Editing for proof reading this manuscript,
and to
Carpe Librum Book Design for the cover design.
DISCLAIMER
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All the characters described in this story are fictional. They are not based on any real persons, past or present. Any resemblance to real persons, living or deceased, is coincidental and unintended.
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ST. LOUIS, MISSOURI – NOVEMBER 1867
PROLOGUE
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After the keel boat tied up at one of the St. Louis docks, she picked up her small cloth bundle consisting of an extra dress, underclothing and her water container made of a pig’s stomach. She nodded farewell to the keelboat owner that had let her board his craft for a price she could almost manage. Although when she had first approached him about traveling down the river on his boat he had given her speculative looks—looks she recognized in men when they had sexual gratification on their minds—he had not propositioned her in exchange for a reduced fee. He had named his price and she had paid it. It had taken almost all of the money she had remaining from the small cache she had accumulated against her escape.
She pulled her wool knit shawl more tightly around her shoulders, grateful that she had not been forced to fend him or his helpers off.
Perhaps he had decided against it because he had not liked what he saw in her face.
Perhaps he was more decent than what she gave him credit for being.
Perhaps she had been lucky, for once.
The place where they docked was not one of the better wharfs used by bigger boats or those that had commanded a larger investment. It appeared to her to be a dock for the poorer boatmen who plied their trade up and down the Mississippi River. The buildings nearby looked to be just as worn down. She had no doubt the better citizens of St. Louis did not live or conduct business there. Although she probably possessed less—and her ragged clothes were less fitting than those worn by most around her—for her personal safety, she needed to leave the area quickly. She prayed no one would approach and cause her trouble or force her to go someplace she did not want to be.
She already left behind a place she did not want to be.
She had no idea how far she must walk, but she knew what she must search for. Her father—her beloved père—had told her what to do.
She fought back tears at the memory of her père, gone these nine years. She believed that was when he had died—at least a year after he left home on his trading trip. The only reason she knew of his passing was because his business partner had come to her mother months after it happened to tell her he was gone. All he had worked for was gone, too. That was what the business partner said, although the man appeared to have prospered from the journey. Even though the family had not possessed much, she had been happy until her père departed to travel the Missouri to its headwaters that last time.
However, before he left, he had singled her, his oldest daughter, out to spend a day with him at a town not far from where they lived but one they seldom visited. He took see the shops. Her hand held tightly in his, she had gawked at the unfamiliar sights as they walked or while he stopped to talk to other men he knew. Before they left for home, he took her to the Catholic church in the center of town.
She recalled what he had told her that day. “Genevieve, I go away soon. I have the opportunity to make more money for our family than we have seen in years. However, it will be a long trip with many dangers, so I wish to make myself right with God before I go.”
She had studied the church, so different in appearance from the one in the little village closer to their small cabin. “God is in this church? Not the one I go to with Ma?”
Her père had smiled and shrugged. “Perhaps God is in both churches, or perhaps he is in neither. Perhaps I will see Him where I go. Still, I will see the prêtre—the priest—first to settle up with God the way I was raised. Then I will teach you.”
She had watched him grow more serious than normal. “Although we were first married by a Methodist circuit rider, and in spite of your mère’s—mother’s—objections, the marriage between your mère and I is also recorded in this church. You were baptized here. I will ask the prêtre to show you before we leave.”
She remembered how surprised she had been at that claim. It was the first she had heard she had been baptized in any church, and certainly she never before had known she had any connection to this strange-appearing church.
“Perhaps, as your père, I should have done better at teaching you about God before instead of leaving it up to your mother and the church she chooses to go to. But, I am leaving soon, and I will teach you what I can now. You must not forget, Genevieve. Your mère and I will not always be with you.”
He had taken her by the hand, and they had walked up the three steps to the big double doors. Before they entered, he had stooped down and retied her bonnet in place. “You must always wear your head covered before you enter the church, Genevieve, even if it is only a handkerchief you put on your hair.” Yet, when they went inside, her father had removed his fur cap and tucked it under his belt.
He stopped by a bowl of water and dipped his fingers before making a motion with his hand. From there, he guided her to the front, dropped to one knee. Then he walked to a table off to one side where he lit a fresh candle. She had wondered at that. With sufficient light to see streaming through the windows—some with colored glass she found fascinating—the candles did not appear to be there to provide light to the church. Her mother would not have approved of the waste of good candles.
She stood off to one side while her father stepped into a small room. She had not heard the words he spoke, but she knew he carried on a conversation with another man. He called it confession. On their way home, her father explained it to her. Once she was prepared, she was to go to confession and tell the father all the sins she had committed since the last time she had been there.
Only, since she had never been there, the prêtre had never taught her so she could go in the little closet like her père. After her father’s words, she had struggled to remember every bad thing she had ever done in her short years.
At her father’s request, the priest had brought out the big registers for baptisms and marriages. After learning the dates from her father, he found both entries. She had not been able to read the Latin words, but by looking where the priest’s finger pointed, she had been able to make out the nam
es of her parents in the marriage register and her name in the baptism register.
After they left the church, her père had given her more assurances about the church, and why it was a great comfort to him as he prepared to embark on his grand trading venture. It had not been a comfort to her. His words frightened her and left her wishing more than ever that her father did not have to leave their family.
But, he did go. And her memories of her time in the church with her père had stayed with her because his departure was only two days after her trip to town with him. She did not know when he hugged her, along with the rest of her family, she was seeing him for the last time.
She wandered the streets of St. Louis for what seemed like hours. By judging the state of the buildings and clothing of the people on the streets, she did her best to find her way to better neighborhoods. Finally, it was she who appeared out of place—a waif clothed in rags among working people. Few paid her much mind. Those who did appeared displeased at seeing someone dressed as poorly as she was in their neighborhood. It was a different sort of disdain than the type exhibited by those who thought she was an easy mark—someone easily lured into a situation she felt determined to avoid.
She sucked in breath when one young man with disapproval written on his face approached without her noticing until he stood at her side.
“You don’t belong here.”
“Please. I’m new in St. Louis and don’t know my way around. Can you please tell me how to find a Catholic church?”
The young man frowned and pointed down a street at a right angle from the direction she had been walking. “French Quarter’s that way. Probably find one there.”
She clenched her arm across her stomach to quell the gurgling that announced her hunger. She had run out of the food she had brought with her two days prior. The keelboat captain had offered to share his food. After a quick look at the expression on his face, worried about what he might expect from her in exchange, she had shaken her head and softly declared she wasn’t hungry. He had made a point of eating within her line of sight, his gaze never leaving her form. She had turned away and endured it. In the end, he had grunted in disgust and threw three inches of the heel of a loaf of bread at her feet, as if tossing leftovers to a dog. She had nodded her thanks and claimed it. She was not too proud to accept the food, no matter how rudely offered.
However, she had finished that bread the previous evening and had eaten nothing that day. The waves of light-headedness, coupled with the pangs in her belly, warned her she needed to find food soon. Although it had been years since she had prayed, she prayed she would shortly find the church. So much rested on the promise her father had made to her all those years ago.
After another hour of walking once she reached what she suspected was the French Quarter, she finally saw a building that looked like it might be a Catholic church. It was much bigger, and far more ornate, than the strange church she recalled from ten years earlier. However, there was something about it that drew her.
She approached the doors and stepped inside. Just inside the door, it had similar features from what she remembered when she entered with her père all those years before. To feel assured her head was properly covered, she adjusted her fabric sunbonnet, the one she had used for working outside back home. She peeked farther into the sanctuary and saw windows of colored glass, a large carving of a crucified Christ on the far wall, and a table with lit candles. She felt confident she was in the right place.
She quietly walked towards the front and went down on one knee the way she recalled her père doing all those years before. However, she could not remember what he had done with his hands—he had moved them too quickly for her to follow.
“May I help you, my child?”
She jumped to her feet and spun towards the male voice that had addressed her. He did not have the same color robe as the prêtre she remembered, and he spoke English with an Irish accent instead of French, but she assumed that he must be the priest for this church. “Yes.”
“I’m Father O’Brien, my child. Did you come here for confession?”
Having been forced to grow up quickly, she had not considered herself a child for many years. Then a flicker of memory of the prêtre back home referring to her père as “my son,” even though her père was a grown man, put her at ease. He had used Father as the priest’s title. Perhaps it was part of the Catholic belief that their ministers felt like they were a parent to the people they taught.
Did she wish to have her confession heard? That was not why she had come, but perhaps that was the proper procedure for speaking with a priest. She recalled her père had put a coin in the box next to the table of candles. She could not remember if her père had told her the reason he bought a candle to light. However, she had no money to buy a candle. She didn’t know what else to do but move onto the next step. She nodded her head.
Father O’Brien gestured towards a closet about the same size as the one like her père entered all those years before. Inside, a wooden screen separated them. She felt disconcerted once she realized she could see Father O’Brien far easier than she wanted to. It meant he could also see her. She stared in front of her for several seconds before she spoke. “I don’t remember what to say.”
A lie, probably one she was expected to confess. She had never known what her père said inside the closet, if anything, before he talked about his sins.
The priest patiently guided her through the words. Finally she reached the point where she suspected she was expected to tell everything bad she had done since the last time she had confessed. Only she had never confessed. Her père, over ten years before, had only explained to her how it worked. How would she even start? How could she remember all her sins?
Then there were the things she had been told to do that she knew were wrong. No one had ever told her they were wrong—she had just felt it. They were probably sins. Some of those sins she had not wanted to be part of, but she had been unable to stop them from taking place. Others she had allowed to happen only because she knew she could live with it easier than what might have occurred if she had not committed those sins.
Where should she start?
She relied on the assurance her père had given her all those years before the day he had led her by the hand as they left the Catholic church back home.
She turned to face the Irish priest. Her voice choked with emotion as she forced out a whisper. “Father, I need help.”
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WEST OF ABILENE, KANSAS – LATE APRIL 1868
CHAPTER 1
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Otto Atwell dipped the bucket into the horse trough and then dumped the water over his head before shaking his hair like a dog that just stepped from the river onto the bank. He shivered and wished he had gone into the house and used the water in his pitcher which had to be warmer. Although he had worked enough that day to perspire so his shirt stuck to his back and his head itched, it was still March. In spite of the heat spell, the weather could turn and gift him and his neighbors with one last snowstorm for the season.
Otto shivered as the water sliding off his shoulder-length blonde locks dripped onto the back and yoke of his shirt. He knew he was overdue for a haircut. However, the way he saw it, when a man lived alone, taking pains with one’s grooming did not rate high on his list of priorities. He finished washing his hands and started towards the back door of his house with the intent of scaring up something for an early supper when movement on the lane leading to his home caught his eye. Stepping carefully to avoid losing his balance, he turned to see who was coming to his place.
Otto scratched the beard he had grown for winter—shaving was another grooming task he needed to take care of now warmer weather had arrived—as he watched two horses carrying men and what appeared to be full packs break into a lope. He smiled in welcome as he recognized the two riders—his father, Jefferson, and his youngest brother, Henry.
The
two pulled their horses back to a slow walk once they were within shouting distance of Otto.
It was his father who spoke first. “How you doing, Son? Brought you some help.”
“Just fine, especially now you’re here.” His father didn’t need to know his right hip where he had been injured by a Cheyenne musket ball almost three years earlier ached in complaint of the work Otto had performed on his homestead that day, or that between cleaning and moving his equipment in the barn and dealing with the pain that had been escalating the last several hours, he felt exhausted.
Otto also didn’t need to share his opinion that bringing Henry amounted to not much help for him. It would more than likely cause him additional work. However, he would never insult his brother unless the teen deliberately did something to deserve it. Henry meant well. Unfortunately, even though he was almost sixteen, he had relied all his life on his father and two older brothers carrying the load. He did not tend to take the initiative. Even when prompted regarding his chores, he often became easily distracted. Hopefully, his father only meant to leave Henry with him long enough to get his own winter wheat crop in before he came to collect his youngest. Hopefully that would happen before Henry drove Otto completely insane. Due to the weakness in his leg, Otto could not work as many hours in the day as most men, and he tended to take longer to get things done. He wondered how many days would be added to his wheat harvest with Henry there to “help.”
Otto’s next concern centered around what he would feed his guests that night. He had some leftovers from breakfast in his iron pot. His plan that morning had been to add water to reconstitute what he knew would be dried-out beans and heat them. That was fine for him, but he doubted his father and brother would find the meal acceptable, especially since he had run out of hardtack to go with the beans. He didn’t bake, so Otto kept a minimal supply of wheat flour and corn meal on hand.
