Secrets of My Heart

by Tracie Peterson

  “But with a refund you could easily purchase replacements. I fail to understand why you must have them from my husband’s stock.”

  “Look for a map. He should have had one—maybe several. He’s probably got the goods hidden near the river somewhere.”

  “But why? It’s perfectly legal to sell whiskey and firearms.”

  “Not to the Indians, it ain’t.” Hanson tightened his hold. “Understand?”

  “No.” Nancy shook her head. “Why would any decent man sell either one to the Indians? It’s only been three years since Little Bighorn and the death of all those soldiers. Why would you want Indians to have whiskey or guns?”

  Hanson laughed and pushed her back toward the door. “That’s something you should have asked your husband. What I want is for you to find his hiding place and do it quickly. There’s bound to be something written down somewhere. You just need to find it. Oh, and leave the lawyers out of it. They don’t need to know.”

  “I won’t be pushed around, Mr. Hanson. I am taking this matter to the authorities first thing in the morning.”

  He shook his head and gave her a leering smile. “I don’t think so, Mrs. Pritchard. If you go to them, I’ll make sure they have all the evidence they need to put the blame solely on you and your husband.”

  “Me? I had nothing to do with it.”

  “Maybe not, but I can sound pretty convincing. It wouldn’t be all that hard to tie you and him to the whiskey and guns.”

  Nancy could hardly breathe. “I don’t know anything about any of this. You couldn’t offer evidence against me because there isn’t any.”

  “Well, it’s easy enough to make up. I guess you’d better figure it out, and quick.” He turned and sauntered down the porch steps as if nothing were amiss. “We had a good thing going, your husband and I, and I don’t intend to start over. You find those caches and get in touch.”

  Nancy shook so hard she had trouble gripping the doorknob. How dare he treat her in such a manner, and with Seth just steps away. Apparently Hanson wasn’t afraid of anyone or anything, and that was enough to make him a definite threat.

  But while that was troubling, Nancy could hardly fathom the information he’d just shared. Albert had been selling whiskey and guns to the Indians. Why? He hated people of color—maybe Indians most of all. Why would he sell them anything, much less weapons?

  Chapter 8

  Seth pored over the ledgers and paperwork that Nancy had furnished from her husband’s offices. The collection of ledgers she’d found in his safe were written in a type of code, but after a few hours of playing with the letters and numbers, Seth was able to figure it out. This was an accounting of rifles and liquor bought and sold. There was no information related to whom Pritchard had sold the goods, but it was at least proof of their existence. Given there were five books, Seth believed there were probably five separate caches of goods. Perhaps not big warehouses as they had previously thought, but instead maybe nothing bigger than a hidden shack or even someone’s attic. Maybe Pritchard’s attic. Seth would have to ask Nancy if she’d been up there to look around.

  He leaned back in his leather chair and frowned as he considered the time. Ten thirty. He hadn’t really expected Hanson to show up, but there had been that lingering hope that he might. Seth didn’t know much about Hanson, but he intended to. He wanted to know the company the man kept and what he did for a living. It was clear he was involved in supplying the Indians with illegal arms and drink, and that Pritchard had supplied him. There was no doubt others were involved. Hanson was a nobody, and there were still those strange IOUs that lacked the name of the lender. They totaled a considerable amount, so no doubt someone would be seeking payback. Hanson didn’t have that kind of money, so there had to be another person, if not several, who were moneyed and capable of financing this plot, and that was why Seth was here.

  Months ago, Seth had been approached by the government back east to help them with an ongoing problem. The Oregon Indians were for the most part peaceful, but from time to time there were problems and uprisings. Not even two years earlier, when the Nez Perce were to have been moved from the Wallowa Valley in northeastern Oregon, it turned into an all-out war between the Indians and whites. Chief Joseph had surrendered his people eventually, but that didn’t end the hostilities. There would forever be a battle between the white man and his Indian neighbor. These days, most of the skirmishes were minor and generally the result of too much alcohol, but the government wanted it to end. They wanted to quell any further concerns once and for all. The country was rapidly moving toward a new century, and there was no room for such attitudes in the modern world.

  Seth rubbed the bridge of his nose where the spark of a headache was brewing. But for a handful of troublemakers, they could have peace. Most Indians had been rounded up and put on reservations, but that wasn’t enough for those white men who found coexistence impossible. It wasn’t enough to force the Indians off their own land and onto small reservations—often nowhere near their original homeland. These men wanted to see an end to the Indian race altogether. They had no desire to live in peace.

  Their protests had been loud and clear. The men who sought the demise of the Indians pointed to Little Bighorn and the Red River battles. They argued that the Indians refused to be civilized and would forever fight against the white man. And people listened. People were easily frightened when bombarded with detailed descriptions of battles and mutilations. Entire lectures were given back east about women and children being killed in their sleep by the heathen savage.

  Hate-filled men loved to stir up hate. Worse still, some of those men saw nothing wrong with pushing things to a conclusion that suited their needs, especially if a profit could be had. They would pretend to be a friend to the Indian, all while supplying them with whiskey and beer. Once they had a firm influence over the men of the tribe, these false friends would start talking about injustice and how the Indians should rise up to force the whites to yield their land. Then guns came into the picture. It was a natural progression. Once the Indians were armed and started making demands, it brought down the army to quell them, and the next thing they knew, they were being relocated to an even smaller reservation in an even more remote location. Seth had heard more than one of the white men responsible declare that it was like taking candy from babies and resulted in reservation land returning to proper white ownership.

  When the removal of the Indians had first started, they were to have been given all the land west of the Mississippi, but little by little that land was whittled down. What had once been large, spacious reservations with plenty of resources were now reduced to insignificant acreage with poor soil and very little game. The Indians were supposed to assimilate and imitate the white man in their clothes and speech. They were no longer to be Nez Perce, Modoc, Cayuse, or Tillamook. Instead they were told to cut their hair in the white man’s fashion, speak the white man’s language, and forget their cultural heritage.

  “You look rather distressed.”

  Seth opened his eyes to find John Lincoln standing in the open doorway of his office. “I’m troubled.”

  “Hanson ever show up?”

  “No. I didn’t figure he would.” Seth stood. “Still, it’s enough to know he’s involved. It’s more than I had a week ago. Not only that, but now I have no doubt that Nancy was in no way involved with her husband’s affairs.”

  “I was sure she wasn’t,” John said, smiling. “I’ve known her from church all these years, and I’ve never heard her speak against the Indians or any other people.”

  Seth nodded. “Still, I had to learn it for myself. A lot of folks pretend to feel one way but really feel another. When Hanson said what he did, however, I heard the fear in her voice. I know she’s confused by all of this.”

  “Are you going to tell her about your investigation?” John asked, his eyebrows raising just a bit. “Tell her you overheard what Hanson said to her that night?”

  “I can’t. Not
yet.” Seth shook his head. “I can’t risk it.”

  Nancy looked at the trunks and crates she had stacked in the corner of her bedroom. They were all that was left of Albert, save the store. She was determined to figure out what he had been up to. He had lived a life she knew nothing about—perhaps had even died because of it. She remembered Mrs. Mortenson mentioning the possibility of murder. If Albert had been involved in selling guns to the Indians, perhaps someone had murdered him. How terrible that would be.

  “Poor man,” she whispered to the room.

  This thought made her feel even guiltier. How could a person live with someone for eight years and not know them any better than she did Albert? How could her husband have been involved in the illegal sale of arms and liquor to the Indians? Many times she’d shared articles from the newspaper on the problems created by the Indians getting ahold of liquor, and he knew Uncle Adam and Aunt Mercy worked on a reservation to help the Indians. She had often commented on their work and the letters they had sent. He’d even met them once when they came to Portland.

  Nancy had been afraid when the Nez Perce War broke out. Afraid for her aunt and uncle, as well as for herself. What if the other tribes decided the Nez Perce had the right idea and rose up in rebellion? Could they hope to escape unharmed?

  Albert had thought her fears unmerited. He’d reminded her of the army posts and the large number of soldiers who would fight on their behalf. He had also declared he would fight to the death to protect her and their property.

  A shiver went up her spine. She knew Albert had hated the Indians. He hated anyone who wasn’t white. He’d applauded the efforts of those communities who gathered up the Chinese, blacks, Mexicans, and any other people of color and ran them out of town. Like Gerome, he felt America belonged solely to white people and that if the others wanted to remain, they would do so as subservient slaves.

  How could she not have known he was so bigoted and ugly when she married him? But she had seen Albert only as a way to depart her home, where painful memories of her brother’s death and the restrictive, religious nature of her parents sent her looking for an escape. Sadly, that escape hadn’t brought any real peace of mind or happiness.

  She sighed and brought one of the trunks to her bed. She opened it and sifted through the contents. It was mostly clothing. She would donate it to the church’s collection for the poor. A smile came to her lips. Perhaps a poor black or Indian man would benefit.

  She went through the next trunk and found more clothes as well as a few articles of a personal nature: Albert’s shaving mug and brush, his razor and hairbrush. She held the brush and touched the strands of sandy-colored hair.

  “Oh, Albert. What did you do?”

  She’d never really considered him to be a bad man. The truth was, most white men felt as he did toward people of color. White men were convinced they were superior in every way. Better educated. Better prepared for life. And given they had done little to help the newly freed slaves or the Indians trapped on reservations, perhaps they were. Still, that wasn’t the fault of those who’d been ignored and pushed aside.

  Aunt Mercy had once told Nancy how eager the Indian children were to learn to read English, but not at the price of forgetting their own language. They longed to know more about the white man’s ways, but in the hopes of helping their people, not for the purpose of forgetting their ancestry.

  Another truth Nancy had learned was that not all Indians wanted war. Aunt Mercy and Uncle Adam had spoken numerous times about the desires of the Indian people. Most just wanted to be allowed to roam as they once had or to return to the land of their birth. They didn’t want war with the white settlers. In fact, they wanted nothing to do with white people. Albert had done nothing more than shrug when Nancy had shared this information. He refused to discuss it, choosing instead to disregard such thoughts and the people involved.

  Nancy sorted through the rest of Albert’s things, finally coming to a crate of books she’d taken from his nightstand. He had loved to read before going to bed. She looked over the titles. Most were histories, save one. She hadn’t realized this one was different until she opened it and began leafing through the pages.

  It was a journal with a royal blue cover, filled with drawings of the river and its different trouble spots. Albert had meticulously drawn out the shoreline and any obstacles, and numbers noted the water’s depth and the current’s speed. At the top of each sketch was listed the latitude and longitude and the river’s name. Most of the drawings were of the Willamette or Columbia and dated years before she’d even met Albert.

  She came to the end of the drawings and found blank pages for the last quarter of the book. She was ready to set it aside when she saw that at the very end there was another set of drawings. These were similar to the others, depicting shorelines and obstacles, but they contained no longitude or latitude. No date or river name.

  Nancy felt the hair on her arms rise. Was this what Hanson had been talking about? Were these maps to Albert’s secret store of weapons? She turned the page and found another drawing and then another. There were a half dozen in total. She studied them for some time. Each showed specific details regarding the river and the landscape. One even noted a rocky ravine and a waterfall. There were also several numbers marked on the shoreline, but she had no idea what they meant.

  The second drawing held her attention the longest. There was something familiar about it. She turned it first one way and then another. It reminded her of the river’s shoreline in an area where she and Albert used to picnic in the early days of their marriage. The outings had always been spontaneous. Albert would suggest out of the blue that they go for a picnic. He would tell her to pack a lunch and then spirit her away using the buggy. They would drive along the river for several miles to the south. She was almost certain she could find it again.

  Nancy had always been encouraged by those outings. She felt certain with each occasion that Albert was changing for the better—that he was learning to enjoy her company. But each time, as she began to set up their picnic, Albert would excuse himself, telling Nancy to stay while he explored to make sure the area was safe. She had offered to go with him, but he had laughed it off, telling her he wouldn’t be long. Perhaps he was scouting out a place for his secret cache. Perhaps he already had the cache and was checking on his supplies.

  She looked at Albert’s things now deposited in piles around her room. David would be there to see to the horse soon, and she’d ask him to load it all up and take it to the pastor’s house. Maybe she could also ask him to take her for a drive.

  Nancy shook her head. She couldn’t tell anyone about this just yet. She needed to know what Albert had been involved in, but she didn’t want to help Hanson get the guns and cause problems on the reservation. He might be watching her even now.

  She thought of Seth. She could tell him what she’d found—what Hanson had threatened. Seth knew her. He wouldn’t believe that she’d taken part in the illegal sales.

  Or would he?

  She hugged the river journal to her chest. “What should I do?” She glanced heavenward. If she prayed for guidance, would God even answer? He hadn’t answered before, all those years ago. He hadn’t been there when her little brother had died.

  Her heart hardened. No, she wouldn’t pray. She wouldn’t be disappointed again by a God who didn’t care.

  Chapter 9

  Sister and I will return promptly at four,” Bedelia Clifton announced. She buttoned a lightweight coat over her spindly frame. “We will be sorting clothes for the poor at the Methodist church until then if you need us.”

  “Very good. I hope you have a grand time of it.” Nancy finished clearing the luncheon dishes from the table, stacking them on the tray she’d just retrieved from Mrs. Weaver’s room.

  “Oh, we will,” Bedelia assured her. “We always sing hymns of praise and take turns reading Scripture. It’s a blessing to the soul.”

  Nancy nodded. “I’ll be doing laundry to
day—delicates—so if you have anything you’d like me to take care of, please see that it’s in the basket.”

  “Oh dear, no. Sister and I are quite capable of handling our private articles.” Bedelia shook her head. “I’ve always been uncomfortable doing it any other way.”

  Nancy stacked the last of the silverware on the tray. “That’s fine. Everyone has their preference.”

  “Sister, I cannot find the mate to my yellow glove. I have one.” Cornelia Clifton held it up as proof. “But the other has simply disappeared.”

  “You are always losing your things. How many times have I told you that if you pin each pair of gloves together, this wouldn’t happen? It’s such a simple means of management and perfect for when it’s time to launder them. Goodness, how will you ever manage without me? Come, let us go to our room and search out the missing glove.”

  Nancy smiled as Bedelia led her sister back upstairs. They were such a funny pair. Bedelia believed herself to have the answer for everything, and Cornelia quite willingly allowed her sister to order her about and begrudge her a simple mistake. Nancy couldn’t imagine her younger sister, Meg, allowing such treatment.

  She took the tray of dishes to the sink and began washing up. It wasn’t long until she heard Bedelia berating Cornelia as they made their way downstairs once again.

  “You only have one pair of yellow gloves, sister. Remember this. Gloves do not materialize out of thin air, and if you need to buy another pair, we will have to plan for that. Our budget is quite firm. When we return home, we will simply have to search again.”

  “Perhaps I won’t need yellow gloves in the future,” Cornelia replied in a hesitant voice.

  “Not need yellow gloves?” Bedelia gave a huff. “That will indeed be the day.”