Destiny - The Callahans #1 (20 page)

“Seems to me you’ve already done a night’s
work, D.O. And you’re still looking for more?”

“It’s not that. I just want you to know I’m
available if I can ever do anything for you.”

“I appreciate that, D.O.,” Tom replied. “But
what happened is no longer of any consequence. In fact, it’s a dead
issue. The young lady in question was married to someone else in
your beautiful temple a couple of weeks ago, and according to the
paper, she left on a trip to Yellowstone Park for her
honeymoon.”

“I see,” D.O. said. “And you say this young
lady was someone you knew before?”

“You haven’t had much sleep, D.O. Are you
sure you’re up to hearing a long story?”

“They’re the best kind,” he smiled.

A couple of hours later, as they made their
way back up the hill from walking Alice Thurston and her young
nephew home, D.O. McKay knew considerably more about Thomas
Callahan, and young Tom understood, or at least had heard, David’s
explanation about temple sealing and eternal marriage.

“So her concern,” Tom said, “if I understood
you right, may have been more for finding an eternal companion than
it was for which man to choose?”

“Perhaps some of each, but I can’t truly say,
Tom. Without even knowing the young woman, if she is a Mormon, I
know she would have been concerned about your differing
religions.”

“Seems to me there’s more to this, D.O., than
simply my not being a Mormon, and I suppose I’m angry over coming
so far for my dream when she never even really gave me a chance to
make my case. If it was just a matter of a difference in our
religions, why wasn’t she willing to wait until I could learn
something about it? She gave me a copy of your Book of Mormon, and
I’ve read about the brothers in the early chapters.”

“That’s good, Tom. I don’t know what to tell
you. Perhaps she just wasn’t the one. You said Sister Mary told you
the Lord had a purpose in sending you here. Do you believe
that?”

“I don’t know, D.O. I haven’t seen it so
far.”

“Well, perhaps He has yet to reveal it to
you, Tom, but be patient. The Lord seldom seems to work according
to our timetable. Well, I’d better be heading home now. It’s been a
long night, and I’ve got classes this morning. Can we carry on this
conversation at some later date?”

“Aye. Thanks, D.O. I’m glad we had the
opportunity to meet again.”

“Me, too, Tom. Take care, now,” he said,
turning to walk toward his house.

“I will, D.O. And don’t worry,” Tom called
after him, “I’ll look in on your friend, Thurston.”

“Thanks. I think Sister Thurston will
probably move in if the doctor lets her,” D.O. offered, as he waved
good-bye.

In the summer months, Friday night was a
popular dance night at Saltair. At the urging of Sister Mary, Tom
had agreed that getting involved in a social life would be the best
way to get over Katrina. “Besides,” Sister Mary had said, “who
knows? You might even meet a nice Catholic girl.”

Tom knew Sister Mary meant well, but he had
no interest in meeting any kind of girl just then. Though he seldom
went very long without thinking about Katrina and about what might
have been, he knew in his head that to continue pining over her was
useless. But he couldn’t get his heart to let go.

The dance pavilion was packed. Literally
thousands of people had crammed into each nook and cranny, and the
orchestra was pumping out the latest tunes. Tom made it through
“Sweet Rosie O’Grady” once again, with only a brief flit of memory
about the night Katie sang it on the
Antioch
.

When he went to the bar to order drinks, it
amused Tom that the majority ordered lemonade or one of the new
carbonated drinks. He too, ordered only soft drinks, which made him
wonder if people thought he was a Mormon.

Beer was sold at Saltair, but Tom didn’t
partake. That decision had been made on the train from Kansas City
to Denver, as Tom lay shivering in the cold night air, wondering
if, when he arrived in Denver, he would be arrested and hanged for
the murder of a man whose name he didn’t even know. Father
O’Leary’s warning was constantly in his mind during that lonely
ride, and Tom had surprised even himself when he decided that from
that moment forward he would consume no more alcohol. The memory of
his father’s abusive treatment of his mother, the image that had
been fixed in his mind of a faceless young man strapped into an
electric chair, and the recognition of his own loss of control
after drinking, had solidified that decision.

Tom had killed a man. That much was certain.
But what he hoped was that if he were arrested, he could somehow
convince the authorities that he had acted in self-defense.

On that lonely train ride across the prairie,
Tom had bargained with God—asking Him to help him escape arrest and
promising in return never to drink again.

The most surprising thing to Tom about his
commitment was the way he adhered to it. Not even Sister Mary was
aware of his promise, and there was no one who could berate Tom for
failing to live up to his private bargain with God. Yet he had,
from the day he made the pledge, honored it strictly. For an
Irishman to give up his pints was quite a thing, and it was an
evidence of how fearful Tom was of being apprehended and charged
with murder, to say nothing of how seriously he took the promise he
had made to God.

Had Tom been there with someone he cared
about, he might have found the resort at Saltair a remarkably
romantic place. The gigantic onion-domed structure sat on the
southern shore of the Great Salt Lake. The huge dance floor was
constructed of polished wood and the pavilion opened to the west,
affording an unobstructed, open-air view of the lake, Antelope
Island, and the glorious sunsets beyond.

But Tom found it difficult to generate much
enthusiasm. There was lively music and a big crowd, and as the
evening progressed, several young girls cast the same coy look at
Tom that he knew so well from his cavorting days in Ireland. The
fact that he didn’t have a beer in his hand, he guessed, rendered
him “safe” to the mostly Mormon girls in the hall. He danced with a
few and chatted superficially, but his heart wasn’t in it. At least
not yet.

Tom didn’t see Katrina immediately, as she
stood against a crowd of people, looking at him and smiling
uncertainly. When he finally became aware of her, it was her eyes
that he noticed first. Her hair, which she had pulled up on top of
her head, gave her an older, more sophisticated appearance.

When she saw that he had finally focused on
her, Katrina didn’t know what to say. They stood there for a
moment, looking at each other, before Katrina said, “Good evening,
Thomas.”

“Good evening,” he responded, then added
awkwardly, “You’ve changed your appearance, uh . . . Mrs.
Stromberg.”

“Oh, my hair,” she laughed, touching her head
with her finger tips. “It’s not quite so long.”

“But just as beautiful.”

Not knowing how to follow up the compliment,
Tom abruptly downed the rest of his drink and set the empty glass
on the counter. He looked again at Katrina, but she lowered her
eyes.

“Well,” he said, “I was just about to catch
the next train. If you’ll excuse me . . .”

“Thomas, it is nice to—”

“Katrina, I’ve been looking for you,” Harold
announced as he shouldered his way through the crowd. She turned to
greet her husband, who had his eyes fastened on Tom.

“Harold, this is Thomas Callahan. We met on
the ship coming from Europe,” Katrina offered.

Harold glanced quickly at Katrina, and back
again at Tom. Taking a firm hold of Katrina’s arm, Harold lectured,
“There are too many people here for you to go wandering off alone,
Katrina.”

Tom offered his hand, but Harold ignored the
gesture, while continuing to glare at the handsome Irishman.

“It was nice to meet you, Harold. Katrina,
all the best to you. Good evening,” he said, turning his back on
them and stepping away.

Tom was surprised when Harold grabbed him by
the shoulder and jerked him back around. Tom’s eyes went to
Katrina, rather than Harold.

“The next time you speak to her, you’ll
address her as ‘Mrs. Stromberg.’ Is that understood?” Harold spat
out. “In fact,” he added, “you’d best avoid either of us, Mr.
Callahan. I’ve heard all about you from Mr. Hansen, and neither
Katrina nor I wish to have any further contact with you.”

“Aye,” Tom said, turning once again to
leave.

Harold’s second jerk on Tom’s shoulder
brought fire to the Irishman’s eyes, and he was able to restrain
himself only because of Katrina’s presence. “Do you understand, Mr.
Callahan? There’s no place here for your kind.”

“And what kind would that be?” Tom asked,
smiling disarmingly and thereby confusing Harold.

“Irish riffraff. Peasants,” Harold
prodded.

“Aye,” Tom said, continuing to smile. “It was
nice to see you again, Katrina,” he said, looking into her eyes,
then turning once again to go.

Harold’s final mistake was pursuing Tom a
third time and trying once more to spin him around. “I told you not
to call her Katrina. Are you entirely stupid?”

“Aye,” Tom replied, landing a short, hard
punch to Harold’s mouth, knocking the man off his feet onto his
back on the dance floor. Some of the women who had been watching
screamed and turned away, and others in the crowd fell back into a
small circle, in the center of which Harold lay sprawled, his lips
bloodied. Katrina went quickly to Harold, bending to help him up
and glaring at Tom as she struggled to lift her husband.

“I’m sorry, Katrina,” Tom offered. “He didn’t
give me much choice.”

“Callahan,” Harold said, spitting blood,
“I’ll have the law on you for this.”

“Have a go, Stromberg,” Tom said, gesturing
with his arm at the large crowd that had watched what had gone on.
“There are plenty of witnesses to your, shall we say, provocation.
But if your Poppa’s so important, maybe he can protect his little
lad. That’s what your kind needs, isn’t it?” Tom looked again at
Katrina. Her face was white and she was trembling, and Tom suddenly
felt great pity for her. He had frightened her, he could see.

“I truly am sorry, Katrina. Please excuse
me,” he said, before making his way through the crowd.

“You’ve not heard the last of this,
Callahan,” Harold shouted after him.

“Harold, let’s just go. Quietly, please,”
Katrina pleaded.

“Taking his side, are you?” Harold
threatened.

“Harold, please,” Katrina voiced, embarrassed
beyond words to have been the center of such a public
spectacle.

Tom boarded the train back to Salt Lake, his
blood up and trying to calm his anger. Back in his room, the sound
of the boiler, long since accepted as part of the ambient noise in
his quarters, kept him awake for hours until the dawn.

The next morning, in the kitchen, hunched
over a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon prepared by Sister Jude
for her favorite customer, Tom sat silently eating as Sister Mary
greeted him on her early morning inspection of the hospital.

“Have a good evening, Thomas?”

He looked up and smiled thinly at her. “Not
so you’d notice, Sister. But I’ve had worse.”

29 May 1896

Dear Nana,

I saw Thomas this evening at Saltair.

I love him! God help me, Nana, I love him.

Jeg elske du,

Trina

“Top of the mornin’ to ya, Mr. Thurston,” Tom
said as he entered the hospital room.

A bright smile lit up Robert Thurston’s face.
“Good morning, Mr. Callahan.”

“Just on me way to some morning chores down
this wing, and thought I’d pop in to say hello. How are you
feeling?”

“Like a team of six horses drove over me, but
better than a couple of days ago,” he laughed. “But if it hadn’t
been for you and Brother McKay, I’m told it could have been much
worse. And, of course, Sister Mary.”

“Aye, Sister Mary would be due all the
praise, Mr. Thurston. I just drove the buggy, and maybe one of the
six horses,” he grinned.

Thurston laughed and nodded appreciatively.
“Have a seat, please. Brother McKay seems to think quite highly of
you, Mr. Callahan.”

“Really? I’ve never given him any cause. But
what say we dispense with the ‘Mister’ and you call me Tom? And
I’ll call you Robert, or is it Bob?”

“Robert’s fine. How long have you been in
Salt Lake, Tom?”

“Only about six months, I think. And not much
longer than that in America. I suppose you’re from here?”

“Guilty. I was born here.”

Tom judged Robert to be in his late twenties
or early thirties. “A member of what they call the ‘pioneer
families,’” Tom joked.

“You could say so, I guess. My grandfather
came out with one of the handcart companies.”

“That seems to be the badge of honor you need
to be a member of the establishment here.”

Robert turned his gaze out the window
momentarily. “I guess it might seem that way to someone new, but,”
he said, looking back toward Tom, “anyone is welcome in the
‘establishment,’ Tom. I’d be glad to show you how,” he smiled
again.

“Careful now, Robert, you’re in a Catholic
hospital at the moment, and we’re likely to convert you ‘piece by
piece,’” he teased, pointing toward Robert’s incision.

Thurston laughed out loud, wincing and
holding his abdomen. “That’s a novel approach to missionary
work.”

“Aye, but then there’s no going back.”

“I see your point, Tom. Well taken, I might
add. So what do you do here at the hospital?”

“General maintenance. Plus everything else
Sister Mary can think up.”

“Does that usually include a four a.m. house
call?”