Sixteen Brides (2 page)

She looked toward the tracks. Where were the dozens of women Mr. Drake talked about? What if the sisters decided they wouldn’t have her today? What if they united the others against her and spoke to Mr. Drake and talked him into canceling her membership in the Society?
Laws o’massey
, what if she had to go
back
? Back to Basil’s parents’ home here in St. Louis. Back to— With a little shudder, Caroline stood up. When all else failed, thinking about Basil’s father would give her the determination she needed for this day and a hundred more like it. It had cost her everything when she ran off and married a Yankee. Those women had no idea. Had any of
them
spent their widowhood listening to a rattling doorknob and the mutterings of their very own father-in-law begging them to move a trunk away from the door? Using her parasol as a walking stick, Caroline stood back up. She had as much right as anyone to homestead land. Abraham Lincoln himself had said so, may the good Lord rest his soul.

A gangly blond-haired boy just now coming out of the diner looked Caroline’s way, nodded, and tipped his cap. She smiled at him. He blushed and hurried to where a woman dressed in a black traveling suit waited just inside the door. The woman glared at Caroline, said something to the boy, and literally pulled him toward the tracks and the group of women waiting near Track Number 2.
Oh dear.
She’d apparently just offended another member of the Society, and this time she hadn’t even opened her mouth.

All right. The only way to do this was to . . . just go and do it and never mind the rest of them. With one last glance toward the street, Caroline headed for the tracks.

“You goin’ west, too?”

Caroline looked back toward the owner of the gravelly voice. She couldn’t possibly be old enough to file on a homestead, could she? Mr. Drake said you had to be twenty-one. This girl didn’t look a day past eighteen. Surely she wasn’t widowed, either—but then, being a
widow
wasn’t exactly a requirement for joining the Society. Some of the ladies at her meeting had appeared to be more interested in finding husbands than homesteads. Maybe that was the case with this girl.

Caroline didn’t know hair that color existed in nature. It reminded her of the scarlet crepe myrtle growing around the gazebo at home in Tennessee. And that dress. It was a bad enough shade of yellow now. It would have been an absolute horror before it faded. Women with hair that shade of red should
never
wear that yellow. Especially if they had ivory skin. It made them look ill.

The girl coughed into the handkerchief she held balled up in one palm. “Sorry,” she said and coughed again before extending a hand in greeting. “I’m Sally. Sally Grant. No relation to the general by that name. Although I got his autograph at the Sanitary Fair when I was little and he said my eyes reminded him of his daughter—” She rattled on as Caroline introduced herself and shook hands, but then the girl broke off abruptly. “Sorry,” she said. “I tend to talk too much when I’m nervous.” She pointed toward the group of women waiting outside. “You with them?
Us,
I guess I should say.”

Caroline nodded.

“You as scared as I am?”

When the young woman coughed again, Caroline wondered if Sally Grant’s pale complexion was more a result of ill health than anything else. How frightening it would be to have committed to something like this trip west and then be threatened with illness. That would be worse than a dozen attacks of nerves.

The girl misinterpreted Caroline’s silence. “I can see you’re a real lady,” she said, motioning to Caroline’s dark gold traveling suit and parasol even as she made a vain attempt to smooth the front of her wrinkled calico dress. She gave a little shrug. “You don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to. I was just tryin’ to be friendly.” And with that, she brushed past Caroline and headed for the tracks.

“Wait!” When the girl turned back, Caroline hurried to catch up. “I’m sorry. I seem to have been rendered speechless this mornin’, but it’s got nothin’ to do with you.” Her voice wavered. “I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just that—just that I’m—”

“—scared?” Sally Grant’s smile revealed a missing front tooth.

Caroline shook her head. “No, ma’am. I’m not scared. I’m terrified.” Only it sounded more like
ah’m not scairt, ah’m ter-ah-fide.
She glanced away, hating the knowledge that she was blushing, trying to cogitate on how she would handle it if Sally Grant—frayed dress, missing tooth and all—was a certain kind of Yankee.

“Memphis or Nashville?” Sally asked, eyeing Caroline closely.

Caroline stiffened. What did that matter? She was just as deserving as any other member of the Emigration Society. She’d sacrificed her way of life and her own family to marry Basil, and he’d died for the Union just as surely as if he’d been shot in battle. And hadn’t she herself done her duty, too, nursing him faithfully until the day his body followed where his spirit had already flown? Caroline didn’t even try to sound less southern as she drawled, “What’s it mattuh? Ah’m the widda of Private Basil Richard Jamison of the Ninth Missourah Volunteers.”

Sally’s blue eyes stayed friendly. She nodded. “That so? Well, it don’t really matter whether it’s Memphis or Nashville. I was just wonderin’.”

“Ah—ah see.” Caroline cleared her throat. She nodded toward the waiting group of women. “
You
know any of ’em?”

Sally shook her head. “Naw. I only went to the one meetin’ and they wasn’t much for chitchat seeing as how I’m . . .” She bit her lower lip. Her bony shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Seeing as how I’m me. And divorced. And I told ’em so.” She tilted her head and eyed Caroline carefully. “What about you?”

“Me? Oh no—like I told you—my husband was—”

“No,” Sally interrupted, “not are you divorced. I heard what you said about all that.” She frowned as she pointed toward the tracks. “Seems like Mr. Drake said there’d be more of us. Do you know any of ’em?”

Caroline shook her head. “Those four off to the side were at the meetin’ when I joined. But I don’t recognize any of the others.” She shrugged. “A-course they weren’t much for chitchattin’ with me. Least not after I opened my mouth and let the Tennessee out.”

The girl grinned. “What d’ya say you ’n’ me stick together for the ride out?”

Caroline had never met anyone as forthcoming as Sally Grant. Her dress was frayed and her thin hands and bony shoulders were evidence she probably hadn’t been eating very well of late. There was a good chance that everything Sally Grant owned was inside the worn carpetbag clutched in her hands. And Caroline liked her. “If y’all don’t mind travelin’ with a southern gal, ah think that’d be fine.”

“Way-el,” Sally teased, mimicking the accent, “not only do ah not mind . . . ah’d be on-uhed.” And with that, she looped a thin arm through Caroline’s.

A gaggle of ladies, one boy, and a man who seemed to be shepherding them all made their way toward the train sitting on Track Number 2. As she watched them climb aboard, Hettie Gates wondered where they were headed—and why. At the sound of footsteps she whirled around, her heart racing.
Calm down.
Another half dozen chattering ladies scurried through the station and followed the group boarding the train. Hettie watched them for a moment, wondering if those four always dressed alike. They were obviously sisters . . . maybe one pair of twins. But for them
all
—well. It was just odd. Glancing back toward the street, Hettie adjusted the veil attached to her hat and went to the ticket window.

“And how may I help you, ma’am?” The agent nodded toward the train. “Assuming, of course, that you aren’t one of Mr. Drake’s ladies. If you are, he’s already purchased your ticket.”

“I . . . I beg your pardon?”

“You aren’t with the land agent who’s been collecting ladies for Nebraska?”

Hettie frowned. “Nebraska?”

The agent removed his spectacles and wiped them with a cloth as he said, “Well, I’m glad to hear it.” He shook his head. “If you ask me, Mr. Hamilton Drake’s got something else in mind besides helping women get their own homesteads.”

Hettie peered at him. “C-can they do that? Homestead, I mean . . . without a man?”

“Well, now,” the agent said as he settled his glasses back on his nose, “that’s just the thing, isn’t it? How on earth could they? Can a woman plow? Can a woman grow crops? Can a woman defend herself?” The ticket agent shook his head again. “It wasn’t but three years ago the Cheyenne derailed a handcar out that way and—” He broke off. Clucked his tongue. “I don’t know what this world is coming to when women begin to think they can just step into a man’s world like it was nothing. But I beg your pardon for my sermonizing, ma’am. What can I do for
you
this fine day?”

Hettie glanced at the train and then back at the agent. “California,” she blurted out. California was as good a place as any, wasn’t it? Or Denver. Denver might be far enough. She could stop in and visit Aunt Cora. No—that wouldn’t be wise. Aunt Cora was a lovely woman, but she never had been able to keep a confidence.

“That’s it right there,” the ticket agent said, and pointed at the same train the group of ladies had just boarded. He peered at Hettie over pince-nez glasses. “One way or round trip?”

“I . . . I don’t know about the return trip. The date, I mean. I might be gone a long—”

“One way, then,” the man said. “That’ll be six dollars.”

Hettie counted out her money. Six greenbacks. Only two left. That was all right. She’d get a job washing dishes. Maybe cleaning houses. Something. A whistle blew.

Snatching the ticket, she grabbed her carpetbag from where she’d set it at her feet and ran for the train. It started to move. When she tossed the bag up, it landed with a thud just outside the door to the ladies’ car. Grasping the railing, she hauled herself aboard. As the train picked up speed, she struggled to catch her breath. Finally, she climbed the three steps to the car door. Just as she opened it and stepped through, the train lurched. If the stern-faced-looking woman in the seat on the left hadn’t ducked, she would have gotten Hettie’s elbow in her ear. “E-excuse me,” she gasped, and dropped into the empty seat on her right across from a petite elderly woman and a near-giantess. She’d barely regained her composure when the elderly woman spoke up.

“Well. So now we are sixteen.”

“S-sixteen?”

The woman nodded. “Yes. I agree. Disappointing. Mr. Drake reserved the entire car.” She gestured toward the empty benches at the back, then smiled. “But I don’t suppose anyone will complain about having an entire double berth to themselves when it comes time to pull down the shades and go to sleep tonight.”

Hettie glanced across the aisle. The woman she’d almost hit in the head had turned her back to them and was rummaging in a bag on the bench between her and a blond-haired boy looking out the window. The bench facing them was empty. As the train picked up speed, Hettie smoothed her frizzy blond hair and adjusted her hat.

The old woman smiled. “Zita Romano.” She nodded at the woman seated beside her. “And my daughter, Ella.” She hesitated, obviously waiting for Hettie to introduce herself.

“I’m Hettie. Hettie Ga—” She broke off. Didn’t the Bible say something about shaking the dust off your feet and not looking back? She cleared her throat as she pushed her spectacles up on her nose. “Please call me Hettie.” If they didn’t care about last names, so much the better. It would give her time to think of a new one.

CHAPTER
TWO

The Lord is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart;
and saveth such as be of a contrite spirit.

PSALM 34:18

A
preacher had once told Matthew Ransom that demons were meant to be cast out of a man’s life never to return and that the power of the blood of Jesus could do it. Matthew allowed that the preacher might be mostly right, but then, the preacher didn’t know the particulars. And in his own mind, he, Matthew Ransom of the First Nebraska, deserved the presence of demons. Whatever it might take to atone for and banish them completely, Matthew thought it had to be more than the death of one Jewish man some eighteen hundred and seventy-odd years ago.

Death was the thing that had earned Matthew the demons’ presence in the first place, and failing at banishing them, he’d learned to live with them as best he could. Usually they stayed in the far reaches of the life he’d built in Nebraska, which brought more peace than he felt he deserved. Once in a while, though, they sallied forth and stayed a night or two. When that happened, buried memories became nightmares, and whispers crescendoed until Matthew woke soaked with sweat, his face streaming tears, his heart pounding, his eyes open as his mind stared into the past. And this was one of those times.

The girl he’d brought to the dugout a few days ago had to be awake, but she would be afraid to move. Likely he’d let out at least one of those God-awful rebel yells while the battle raged in his nightmare. Hopefully he hadn’t called any names she would recognize. If he’d shouted names, the girl would likely be standing over him demanding explanations. She was getting old enough to recognize a few of those names. That was a new worry.

Matthew cast an eye toward what looked like a bundle of furs near the hearth. “Linney,” he croaked. “Linney, you awake? I had a bad dream, but you don’t need to be afraid.”

The bundle shifted slightly, and for a brief moment a flash of ivory against the buffalo robe signaled the presence of the girl huddled there. She was awake, but she was either too frightened—or too angry that he’d frightened her again—to roll over and engage in conversation.

“All right,” Matthew said. He cleared his throat. “It must have been a bad one, I guess.” Reaching for his deerskin breeches, he pulled them up and over his narrow hips, feeling his way to the arranging of things before he threw back his own buffalo robe and stood. He shivered. “What d’ya think your old pa should wear today, Linney? The blue shirt . . . or the blue one?” He forced a soft laugh but the joke fell flat, and so he pulled on the only shirt he owned without further comment, waiting until he had it buttoned before crossing to where a battered kettle sat on the board resting atop two pegs he’d hammered into the dugout wall to construct a kitchen shelf.

“I’ll get water. I understand you aren’t talking to me right now, but I know you’re awake. You willing to grind the coffee?” He watched the mound of buffalo robe and furs, wondering what he would do if the promise of coffee didn’t work, relieved when first a hand and then a head of tangled auburn hair appeared. The girl sat up. As far as Matthew Ransom was concerned, his daughter was as beautiful wrapped in buffalo and coyote—her shoulders encased in a faded flannel nightgown—as any queen swathed in jewels and sable. His heart flip-flopped when she looked at him with her great, sad eyes. “I’m sorry I yelled,” he said. “You know I’d help it if I could.”

The girl sighed. Her chin trembled and finally Matthew got his first glimpse of the only thing that had ever proven a surefire way to send the demons back where they belonged. When Linea Delight Ransom’s azure blue eyes lighted on him, demons fled. Pure and simple. If he could have bottled the way that girl made him feel in the morning to sell as a patent medicine, he would be a wealthy man.

“I just hate it,” Linney said.

“I said I was sorry.” Sometimes he felt like a schoolboy being sent to the corner for misbehaving.

Linney looked up at him then, tears glistening in her eyes as she said, “What I
hate,
Pa, is whatever it is that makes you have those dreams. I hate that it happened to
you
. To
my
pa. And I hate that it still hurts you . . . almost as much as you hurt over Ma’s dying.”

Matthew reached for the coffeepot lest she see how very near to tears he was himself, how grateful for her gentle love and the way it threatened to break open the burnt-out lump of coal that was his heart. For all God’s failure to answer most of Matthew’s prayers, at least he had done this. He had let Linney believe it was the war that caused the nightmares.

Clearing his throat, Matthew said, “I expect most of the boys that marched with me have similar dreams from time to time.” He forced a smile. “Having you come for visits helps more than anything. But it’s past time when I promised to have you back at Martha’s. She’ll be needing you to help her serve supper to Drake’s carload of ladies when they arrive.”
Women.
What on earth would possess a bunch of widows to climb on a train and follow a stranger west to meet and
marry
strangers Matthew could not imagine.
The Ladies Emigration Society
Drake called it. Matthew wondered what the women would think if they knew some had taken to calling it
The Ladies Desperation Society.

“I wish you’d stay in town until the dance Friday,” Linney said. She tilted her head and smiled. “You might
like
it, you know. Martha says you used to like to dance. She said you and Ma—” She broke off.

Matthew swallowed. And nodded. “We did like to dance,” he agreed. “Your ma was a sight to behold. Most graceful thing I ever saw.” He hesitated, then decided to ignore the pain it would cause him to talk about Katie and give their daughter a gift only he could give. And so he forced a smile, hoping it wasn’t a grimace. “Did I ever tell you about the first time I saw your ma?”

The girl’s expression transformed itself into something like the look Matthew had seen on the faces of soldiers standing in line for rations. Hungry. Half-starved. Eager. Her obvious need helped him ease past the pain and dust off the memory.
Make it shine, you sorry excuse for a father. Give her something to treasure.

“Well,” Matthew said, and he sat down next to her, right at the corner of the pelt that protected her against the chill of the spring morning. “The first time I saw your ma she was waltzing with a tall, square-jawed cadet, and I was instantly jealous of that man’s hand pressed against the narrowest waist I’d ever seen. Her dress shimmered like a golden sunrise. And it made her eyes look even more blue than the azure sky.” He paused, remembering the moment and realizing that he was taking joy in that memory.
Joy.
It was an odd feeling.

“And then what, Pa?”

Matthew looked across at his daughter, and it was like looking into Katie’s eyes all over again. The pain returned. A more familiar emotion. An emotion he could embrace. He cleared his throat. “Well, she saw me. I don’t know why she saw
me
in that crowded place. There were plenty of more handsome men—”

“Hunh-unh,” Linney disagreed. “You were the handsomest. I just know it.”

Matthew chuckled. She wanted a fairy tale. He would give her one. “Well . . . I wasn’t the ugliest, anyway.” He winked. “Nor was I the tallest. That cadet she was dancing with had me by inches.”
Always did. Always won the girls, too. Except for Katie. At least for a while.
Bitterness rolled in as Matthew contemplated the other cadet and Katie. Together. He caught himself clenching his hands. Took a deep breath. “So I crossed that dance floor. When I got close enough I was almost afraid to speak. I thought your ma might just evaporate . . . like she really
was
a dream. But she didn’t.” He forced a smile. “And when I tapped that tall cadet on the shoulder, your ma smiled at me. Like she was glad I broke in. It was bad manners to do that, but I couldn’t help myself.”

“What did the other cadet do? Did he
fight
you?”

Matthew shook his head. “Nope. He bowed out.”

“And then what?”

“Well . . . then . . . she never danced with anybody else the whole night. Waltz after waltz belonged to me.”

Linney clasped her hands with joy. “Oh, Pa . . .” and then the magic was gone. Her eyes filled with tears and she threw her arms around his neck. “I wish she didn’t die. I wish—”

Whatever she was saying was lost to emotion. Matthew closed his eyes and held her and hardened his heart against memory lest he cry, too. When next he spoke, he was in control again. “So do I. And I know about your other wishes, too, and I’m trying. I really am. A couple more good trapping seasons and I’ll give you a proper home again.”

Linney let go and sat back, brushing the tears off her cheeks with the back of her hand. She gazed around the dugout. “I wouldn’t mind living here,” she said. “I could make it homey.”

“I know you could,” Matthew agreed. “But
I’d
mind your living here. I promised myself I’d do right by you. And I will.” He stood up. “Now get your duds on while I see to things outside. We’ll have us a nice breakfast before we get back on the trail toward Plum Grove.”

He’d pulled the door open when Linney called out. “Can we stop at ho—” She swallowed the last sound of the word
home
and replaced it with another question. “Can we stop by Ma’s grave?”

Matthew kept his gaze on the horizon. “If you want.”

“Maybe you could show me where the violets are blooming. The ones you said she liked so much.”

If Linney knew how the thought of Katie picking wildflowers seared through him, she’d likely never mention violets again. But she didn’t know. She was just a sweet girl longing to move home and wishing her ma was still alive. Matthew nodded and stepped outside.

As he headed for the spring where he’d get water to make coffee, he wondered anew how he was going to tell Linney he’d sold the homestead. The new owner would be coming into Plum Grove sometime this week. Linney probably wouldn’t see the sale as anything but horrible when, in reality, it was progress, at least for Matthew. He’d faced the fact that he would never be able to live in Katie’s house again, and was taking steps to move toward creating a new future for himself and their daughter. But Linney wouldn’t see it that way. She’d likely be hurt and angry.

Maybe Martha Haywood would help her understand.
Martha
. If ever there was a living, breathing angel on this earth, it was her. Matthew shuddered to think what would have happened to Linney without that good woman agreeing to take the baby and “give Matthew some time.” He often wondered if Martha would still have said yes had she known that “some time” would turn into years. Had she known she’d end up doing the better part of raising Katie’s only living child. Something told Matthew it wouldn’t have mattered. Every time he screamed at heaven that he just didn’t believe there was anyone up there listening, anyone who cared, it was as if something whispered
Martha Haywood
back to him as proof he was wrong
.

His coffeepot filled, Matthew returned to the dugout. As he opened the door, the aroma of ham frying made his mouth water. Linney was standing at the stove, her back to the door. When she turned toward him, something in the way she held the meat fork reminded him of Katie. His heart lurched. And the demons danced.

Ruth Dow looked up from her book to where Jackson lay sprawled across the empty seat opposite them, his rolled-up jacket for a pillow. He’d been reading the book he’d purchased at Union Station, but now he was staring at her with sad brown eyes. “Do you think Aunt Margaret will ever come and visit?” he asked.

“Did she say anything about visiting when you said good-bye this morning?”

Jackson sat up. With a shake of his head he closed the book and laid it next to him. “No, but—” He shrugged. “It might be nice if she did someday.”

Ruth waved him over to sit beside her and, looping her arm through his, said, “Once we’re settled in our own home I’ll write.” She forced a chuckle. “After all, they say that ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder.’ ”

Of course, unless absence was a force for miracle working, the chances the two sisters would ever so much as speak again were slim. But fourteen-year-old Jackson didn’t need to know that.

“If she won’t come to Nebraska, can I go back to St. Louis sometime and visit?”

“Good heavens, Jackson. We’re barely out of the city. It’s a bit early to be planning a visit, don’t you think?”

“I don’t see why we had to leave in the first place.”

“I told you why. Margaret and Theo needed the room, and it’s time we made our own way in the world.”
And while your father’s legacy is rich in character, he left us destitute.
Ruth pointed at the book he’d left on the bench. “Is it good?”

Jackson shrugged. “You wouldn’t like it.”

Ruth reached over and picked it up.
Texan Joe, or Life on the Prairie.
A dime novel. Not exactly the kind of reading material a general’s son should—