Separate Roads (15 page)

“Oh bother,” she said, tossing the rock aside. She inspected the cut and found it little more than a scratch. A minor irritation, much like Hezekiah Chittenden’s foolish son.

She decided to wait for a few minutes before trying to walk home. She would have to go in the same direction as Damon, and she had no desire to find him waiting for her around the next bend. Her thin-soled slippers were hardly suited for walking down stony dirt paths, but she had no choice. Her bruised feet would heal, but if she showed up at home after dark, Brenton would probably load her onto the next steamer out of Omaha and never give her another consideration.

“And he’d probably be right to do so,” she muttered aloud. “What a fool I’ve been.” It frustrated her to no end that Brenton should be so right about her susceptibility to danger.

A noise from behind caused the hair on her neck to prickle. There was a thick stand of cottonwoods and willows along the nearby riverbank, and these now left her unable to see what or who was making the approaching sounds.

She glanced around for some sort of cover but found nowhere to take refuge. The trees were down a steep bank, and aside from them, only open prairie surrounded her. She could see the outskirts of Omaha in the distance, but it was about a mile away. She would simply have to face whatever danger might now beset her and deal with it as best she could. Picking up the rock again, she clutched it in her hand and waited.

Thoughts of Indians, those fearsome marauders of newspaper legend and church social conversations, caused a tingle of fear to run up Jordana’s spine. Worse yet, what if the Wilson brothers had seen her leave town with Damon and had somehow followed them? Jordana hadn’t realized she was holding her breath until the sight of uniformed cavalrymen rounded the bend and came into sight. Letting her breath out in one loud exhale, she felt nearly faint from the fear she’d held inside.

Six men, all mounted on a variety of horses, were apparently coming back from their patrol along the riverbanks. As they drew closer, she couldn’t help but frown when her gaze met the amused expression of Captain O’Brian. Now she would never hear the end of it.

Ordering his men to continue on to Omaha, Rich stopped his horse and looked down at Jordana. “I must say, I was prepared for Indians or bushwhackers, but certainly not for unescorted young women.” There was a galling smirk on his face.

Jordana crossed her arms and glared at him. “I wasn’t expecting you either.”

“You gonna throw that at me?” he asked.

Jordana couldn’t imagine what he was talking about until she looked down at her hand and saw the rock. She gave it a toss, not at the captain but down the bank instead. “I thought you were Indians.”

“And you were going to take them on with that rock?”

She shrugged. “I hadn’t really thought it through.”

He chuckled, then caught sight of the scratch on her arm. “Are you hurt?” His voice held seemingly sincere concern. “What happened?” He climbed down from his horse and took hold of her arm.

“Don’t touch me!” She pulled away sharply. “I’m sick and tired of being manhandled.”

“Did someone accost you? Is that why you’re out here alone?” He refused to let go of her and instead waited for an answer.

“Oh, if you must know, I took a carriage ride with Damon Chittenden. He tried to take liberties with me, and I sent him away.”

O’Brian grinned. “You didn’t hit him over the back, did you?”

“No, but I wish I had,” Jordana declared.

“How’d you get this?” he nodded toward her wounded arm, raising it slightly.

“I jumped out of the carriage and nearly landed in a thornbush.” She tried again to jerk her arm away, but he held her fast.

“Tsk, tsk,” he said, waggling his gloved finger at her. “This needs to be cleaned.”

“I’ll take care of it at home.”

“I can take care of it right now.” He nudged her back with him to where his horse stood contentedly munching grass.

“I was tended by you once before and my wound only festered,” Jordana replied curtly. She stood still as he reached into his saddlebag and produced the dreaded blue bottle. “And that’s just the stuff that probably did it!” She grimaced, remembering the last time he’d cared for her.

He laughed. “No chance of that. This is a remedy that’s helped to keep the army in the field through thick and thin. There’s more alcohol in here than anything, so I know it couldn’t have caused your infection. Those thornbushes can cause blood poisoning if you don’t treat the cut immediately. Now, hold still so I can see if there are any pieces of thorn left in the cut.”

“I only scratched the skin,” she protested but did as he told her. “Honestly, I’ve just about had it with men. You’re all so bossy and difficult to live with.”

“Us?” O’Brian arched an eyebrow in disbelief as he finished inspecting her arm. “I’d say the shoe is clearly on the other foot. You women cause us no end of misery. Why, your brother is probably half-sick with worry.”

“He doesn’t even know I’m out here. And he doesn’t need to know I’m out here either,” she added quickly.

“I don’t see how I’d be doing you any favors to keep this from him. He should know that your Mr. Chittenden needs to be dealt with.”

“He’s not
my
Mr. Chittenden. Nevertheless, I’ll take care of dealing with him.”

Captain O’Brian poured liquid from the bottle over her scratch, and Jordana bit her lip to keep from crying out at the intense burning. “You need to soak this in hot vinegar water. Watch it for a couple of days, and if you see any red streaks coming up your arm, get to a doctor right away.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, giving him a mocking salute with her free hand. “You surely do enjoy ordering folks around.”

“Yup, that’s why I’m a captain instead of a private.”

She rolled her eyes as he let go of her arm and put the bottle back in his saddlebag. “I do appreciate your concern, Captain, but I’d better get back to town. My brother will have the rest of the army out here looking for me if I don’t get going.”

“I can’t let you go alone, and I suppose it would hardly be appropriate to have you ride double with me. You’re hardly dressed for riding,” he said, letting his gaze travel the full length of her.

“I can walk,” she declared, feeling uncomfortable under his scrutiny. She turned and continued down the path, mindless of the fact that he now followed, leading his mount along behind.

“So why are you so all-fired mad at men?” he asked. “Seems like just one man deserves your anger.”

“Mr. Chittenden is only part of the problem, I assure you. My brother started this whole thing by making unreasonable demands on me.”

“What’d he do? Ask you to fix supper?”

She stopped and looked up to give him what she hoped was a fierce expression of complete disgust. “No, he did not ask me to fix supper. He wants to send me away. He wants to go gallivanting off with the railroad and send me back to some prim-and-proper setting where I can’t get hurt.”

“What an irrational and unfeeling monster,” O’Brian declared in mock sympathy.

Jordana narrowed her eyes. “Yes, he is.”

She began walking again, angry at O’Brian’s inability to understand, angry at the throbbing of her arm, and angry that no one seemed interested in what she wanted. “I’m sick and tired of being controlled.”

At this, O’Brian laughed. It was not the reaction Jordana had hoped for. She again halted to glare at him. “And what is that all about?”

“As far as I can tell, Miss Baldwin, no man has been able to control you,” he said, refusing to be intimidated by her anger.

Jordana had had more than she could take. Surprising herself and O’Brian, she began to rant and rave. She accused him of insensitivity and lacking any ability to communicate with the female gender. She declared Damon Chittenden the biggest bore in the country, lacking social graces and any idea of what women were about. By the time she moved on to Brenton, Jordana suddenly realized she was yelling at the top of her lungs. It shocked her so much she fell silent and stared at Rich with a feeling of sheepish embarrassment.

“Feel better?” he asked softly.

She grinned in spite of herself. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

“Sometimes it helps to just get it all out by talking to a friend.”

“Men and women can’t be friends,” Jordana countered and once again began walking in the direction of the setting sun.

“I believe you are wrong on that account, Miss Baldwin,” Captain O’Brian said, following close beside her.

“I had a friendship with a man once before,” she said, thinking of G. W. Vanderbilt. “He would talk to me like I was an equal. Like I had a brain in my head. Then I thought I could be friends with Mr. Chittenden, and in both cases they ended up asking me to marry them, then getting mad when I refused. Women just can’t be friends with men. They always think our friendliness means something else.”

“I think it probably depends on the man, Miss Baldwin.”

She gave a bemused shake of her head. “Next thing, you’ll be telling me that we could be friends.”

“If you agree to stop knifing me and clubbing me, we probably could. I have no intentions of getting married or of making myself an unwelcome nuisance, so we could probably share an amicable friendship. Maybe even have an intelligent conversation, when time permitted.”

Jordana glanced up at him but kept walking. He wasn’t teasing her or putting her on. His expression was completely serious, and his eyes, blue as the summer sky, suggested an unspoken commitment to the words he’d just issued. She wanted to believe him. Surely a woman could be friends with a man and not cause him to go all crazy with passion and desire to marry. Then again, maybe this was just Captain O’Brian’s way of gaining her trust. Maybe he would turn out to be like all the rest. Sighing, she refused to answer or even comment. Instead, she just kept walking, her gaze fixed on town.

13

Church did little for Jordana’s attitude or spirit. She maintained a heavy heart, resenting her position in life, fearful that nothing could ever work to benefit her desires. She told herself she wasn’t mad at God. What sense would there be in that? God was clearly in control of all situations, she reminded herself, but He also expected her to be strong and obedient. That word—obedient—stuck in her throat like a piece of dry toast.

Obedience meant that she might have to yield her will to someone else—in this case, Brenton.

Monday morning dawned with the threat of rain and Caitlan’s breakfast-time announcement that she was moving into the Cavendish mansion. Brenton said nothing, and Caitlan gave Jordana a look that made it clear the matter was not up for discussion. But, Jordana being Jordana, she wasn’t phased by a mere stern gaze.

“You can’t go moving off like this,” she protested. “We’re a team. We must stick together and work together.”

“It’s for the best,” Caitlan insisted. “I can be savin’ me money, and when I’ve earned enough, I’ll make me own way to California.”

“This is all your fault!” Jordana accused Brenton. “If you men would stop thinking you had the right to order us women around, we wouldn’t have to suffer so.”

“Now, Jordana, please don’t be blamin’ yar brother,” Caitlan said, putting her hand out to touch Jordana’s shoulder. “’Tis not his fault. I’ve been thinkin’ on this for a long time. Ya know full well that Mrs. Cavendish preferred me to move in when I took on the job working for her. It’ll be better this way. I’ll not be causin’ anyone further worry.”

“Oh bother!” Jordana said, slamming down her fork. “If that’s the way you want things to be, fine.” She got up from the table and went to the door. “I’m going to the bank.”

The morning had progressed downhill from that point. First Damon had come to her desk with the biggest bouquet of roses Jordana had ever seen. Why, there had to be at least three dozen.

“I don’t want your peace offerings, Mr. Chittenden.”

“Please forgive me, Jordana. Being a good Christian woman, you can’t very well hold this against me. Not when I’m begging your forgiveness.”

Jordana looked him square in the eye. “And being a good Christian man, you shouldn’t have acted the way you did.”

He looked down at the floor most mournfully. “I know. I was just overcome. You are so beautiful, and your dress was so fetching, and your smile so warming.” He looked up at her with a sheepish grin. “And your hair was all wet.”